#decided to attempt at least some of the prompts in ms paint

[prettyplumb]

camptober day 1: dadvid idk if the dadvid is very strong in this one but i thought it was a cute idea! when i was little my parents would often carry my halloween candy for me LOL

[miraculousmarifan]

Felinette Month 2020 - Day 19: Fallen Angel

Happy @felinettenovember! Can you guys guess what prompts I spend more than one day writing? I almost decided to try drawing the akumatized Felix before remembering that I haven’t drawn in nearly 10 years (maybe I would be better off painting it?) and wasn’t really good at people before that point... So I did this instead!

Almost 1900 words and if requested, this could have a continuation for some resolution later this year or early next year and/or potentially a piece of art to try showing Felix as an akuma and/or the object that inspired his form

Felix was close to flipping tables. Marinette had to be an angel from above with how she was handling being bullied by this Lila girl. How was it that even after the school was notified that Lila supposedly had a disease that made her compulsively lie but wasn’t antisocial personality disorder (?), the teacher refused to step in and help one of her star pupils? He shouldn’t be surprised. This was the same teacher that condoned Chloe’s defacing of Marinette’s present to count as them working together on it, even though Marinette had put actual effort into it. This was the same teacher that tried to convince Marinette to be a doormat, in the name of “setting a good example,” as though that has truly changed people that benefit from wronging others.

What he really couldn’t understand was how her friends weren’t more cautious about the liar. She had temporarily gotten Marinette expelled by claiming that she had not only cheated on a mock test, but also stolen the liar’s necklace, AND pushing the witch down the stairs. The class didn’t believe that it sounded like Marinette and YET after Marinette is returned due to the supposed uncontrollable lying diagnosis, they don’t question Lila's integrity? He couldn’t quite fathom why they wouldn’t take the things she said with a grain of salt after that very public and obvious set of lies, especially about Marinette.

And yet, here he was. Standing outside the classroom, waiting for a phone call from his driver, when he overhears the liar whispering to a few girls from the class. Marinette had been gone for an appointment the last period of school and apparently that wasn’t enough for Lila. He heard Alya exclaim, “That doesn’t really sound like Marinette…” and then a sad reply along the lines of how she knew Marinette was friends with all them but she couldn’t believe Marinette said that to her and just wanted to understand why by asking their closest friends. So on so on. Even with her verbalized doubt, it was clear from the tone she used that Alya believed it possible that Marinette had something to Lila, even if it wasn’t as severe as the liar had made it out to be. Felix didn’t need to be any closer to smell the fake crap Lila was spreading. He was sure it would have smelled over a mile away.

Rose exclaimed how she couldn’t believe how much Marinette was starting to act like Chloe and how they really needed to shake Marinette out of this. Alya volunteered to talk to her about it and encouraged them not to do anything crazy before then. It was the first time Felix felt a decent amount of respect towards Alya. Apparently she is starting to learn not to jump immediately to conclusions when it comes to Lila and Marinette. Unfortunately their other friends hadn’t gotten that much insight from the previous incidents and believed that Lila wouldn’t possibly exaggerate or make up anything and cause drama unnecessarily. Alya told the group that she had texted the girl and was going to head over to their place to hang out later that night.

Alya left, muttering how it sounded too extreme to be what Marinette had actually said. Felix had to give it to her, even if she had too much faith in the Italian, it was nice to see she wouldn’t fully discount her friend without any true evidence. Unfortunately with Alya’s departure, the voice of reason had left these girls and they were left with a snake. Felix decided to move slightly closer, just to keep an ear out for danger.

“I don’t think having a talk with her is really going to change Marinette’s mind. I mean she already knows about my health conditions and she’d rather discriminate against me than admit that I’m just trying to be friends. I reached out in good faith, painting her a picture, and she destroyed it and told me we could never be friends. It was just shockingly mean! She’s so nice to you guys so I thought this would help, especially since we like so much of the same stuff! I can’t help it if Adrien rejected her for me!”

Felix wanted to gag at that reasoning again. Marinette had worked to move on from Adrien long ago and especially hard when he had started dating Kagami over a year ago. She even started having tea and snacks with his girlfriend at least once a month, since Kagami didn’t get out much and Marinette didn’t want her to feel left out. As far as Felix knew, Marinette had long since given up on Adrien and was more focused on her personal projects than on boys, something her friends should have known by now.

“We know it’s not your fault and she should realize that too!” Rose tried to cheer up Lila.

“It’s so hard to imagine her destroying someone else’s art when she preaches about how people shouldn’t touch other’s work! Plus she has to know how much that sucks, after Chloe ruined her present for Ms. Bustier a few years ago…” Alix sounded angry enough to act impulsively and it didn’t sit well with Felix.

“To me, it just doesn’t seem like talking to her is going to be enough for her to really think about her actions, but you guys know her the best!” Lila managed to get a small amount of wavering into her voice, to convey hesitant worry and unsuccessfully attempted optimism through her small shrug. Felix may have thought that some of her lies should be relatively easy to dismiss but he had to admit that sometimes she could be a good actress.

“If we left her a message along with doing something, she wouldn’t ignore it right? Especially if she knows that if she ever does something like that again, we won’t stay friends with her…” Alix suggested. Felix felt his stomach sink. This was going bad but he couldn’t just walk in there right? He waited a moment longer to hear them start planning how they were going to ruin Marinette’s personal art project that she had been working on during her study hall, as it was sitting in a drying area of the art room. He had enough information to go talk to Damocles about what he had heard.

After hearing Felix’s concerns and hearing his stern insistence that this was actually at risk of happening, not just girl’s venting, Damocles accompanied him to the art room to check into the security of the projects inside. By the time the pair arrived though, they were too late. Nobody was in the room anymore, however Marinette’s project was beyond repair. 

She had sculpted a human-like angel with arms raised with peace and joy captured remarkably on its face, an orb in its hands being presented to the sky like a holy gift. The wings had been formed into individual feathers and Marinette had just put the first layer of paint on it that day. The base color of the wings was a lovely shade of light pink, her dress had the first layer of white, the skin left a gray tone, with a small amount of darker gray and lighter gray added to certain areas to imitate how light would fall if emitted from the orb. The orb had a strange tone of light blue-green for the base. He had been enthusiastically anticipating her final painting work since she had finished the sculpting step.

Now the angel was missing a wing, the orb that had barely rested on the carved palms was separated from the hands, and the arms were no longer connected. He picked up the body of the statue gently before looking up at Damocles sadly.

“It’s too bad we didn’t get here sooner. I guess we will just have to check the school’s cameras to figure out who did this.” Damocles took a step towards the stand that the statue had previously been set on, picked up the note left on it, and read it out loud.

“‘This is for ruining Lila’s painting. You should’ve accepted her peace offering rather than blaming her for Adrien’s rejection and if you keep acting like this, you won’t have any more friends here.’--” he cleared his throat in displeased surprise, “-- I will need to take this note as evidence in this. Also, we should probably take some pictures of the damages before getting this cleaned up.”

Felix helped set the pieces of the statue on the table next to each other before the principal took out his cell phone and snapped a quick picture of that and of the note. Before the man could leave, Felix volunteered to clean up the classroom as he was sure Marinette would still want the pieces. He was also sure that Damocles would actually proceed with this investigation due to his involvement and firmness regarding the need to supply a punishment. While the punishment would not be sufficient, there would at least be some record of this incident.

Before sweeping up the tiny pieces that he didn’t expect her to care about, he sat down in a chair and held the body of the statue. His fingers ran over the one remaining wing despite the paint smearing on his skin, feeling the texture his classmate had managed for the feathers. It was an amazing work that would be difficult to replicate, if Marinette even decided it was worth doing again. Part of him hoped she would redo the remarkable piece. He felt anger bubbling just below the surface of his sadness, anger that the girls that were supposedly her friends would do this. Anger that their school was not secure for her. Anger that he wasn’t able to protect her, even having heard the plans. Grief over being too slow to protect her. Crushing sadness that she couldn’t trust her classmates, her supposed friends, to even ask her about a situation before trusting another’s words about her. Someone that had very publicly lied to get her suspended just the last school year. He was so busy with his thoughts and the statue that he missed the purple butterfly coming towards him until it settled into the statue.

“Hello Ange Déchu. I am Hawk Moth. The people around you pass judgement on the innocent and work on behalf of the wicked. It must be frustrating to watch them work to break the people you care about. I will give you the power to understand people’s intentions and apply your chosen consequences on them so you can protect the ones you love. In exchange you would give me Ladybug and Chat Noir’s miraculous.”

In this akumatized form, he could not only protect Marinette but also help her get revenge on the manipulative witch. She would be his queen, his direction, and she would be able to decide how she wanted to apply justice.

“Yes Hawk Moth. I will deal out Marinette’s justice and get the miraculous for you.” The akumatized Felix, called Fallen Angel, unfurled his black wings and pushed off the ground to fly to Marinette’s side. He would protect her first and foremost. Then they would deal with the witch and her flying monkeys however she saw fit.

[welllpthisishappening]

The Couples That We Know

Technically speaking, they’re not supposed to be dating. Each other, at least. 

For Killian Jones, there are plenty of reasons to like working at Pendragon Publishing. Good pay, vaguely acceptable benefits, not-that-bad coffee in the break room. But there are also some things he kind of, sort of...hates. Namely the way dating his co-worker is possibly against the rules, and how that means they can’t go to the annual holiday party. Together, at least. 

So, enlisting the help of their best friends only makes sense. Pretend to date other people, avoid any hint of suspicion, and drink all the wine Pendragon’s party-planning committee can offer them. Perfect plan, really. 

----

Rating: Still teen, still with some kissing Word Count: 6.1K AN: As promised, the onslaught of Christmas fic continues. This one somehow has secret dating and fake dating because I know no trope limits. Also it almost sort of follows the prompt @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt​​ sent in, which was "we’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years." Attempts to follow the prompt were almost made. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your Christmas jam. 

----

“You know, for this to work, you’ve got to actually stop staring at her. At least without quite so much palpable longing.” Opening his mouth, Killian has every intention of announcing how little he’s staring, but that would be a rather awful lie and it’s probably wrong to lie at Christmas. Or at least two and a half weeks before. Plus, Mary Margaret’s face makes even the thought of saying whatever he hadn’t entirely come up with impossible. 

“You going to give me detention?” “I’m seriously considering it.” He sighs. Dramatically. Nearly lets his chin slump towards his chest, which would add more than a fair share of melo to that aforementioned drama, and—“You think this is a dumb idea?” Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. 

Her lips practically disappear when she pushes them together that way, and Killian has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t make some sort of teacher-based quip again. He really cannot afford to get sent to detention. Metaphorical, or otherwise. 

“There’s no possible way for me to tell you, again, how dumb this idea is,” Mary Margaret says, and that might be the most scathing string of words he’s ever heard out of her. Telling Emma suddenly becomes something of a necessity, and that’s a problem. 

The crux of their problem, really. 

Eyes flitting up, Killian ignores the wholly out-of-character sound Mary Margaret lets out when his gaze darts across the room and lingers on hair that’s looking shinier than usual, as if it’s trying to distract him and overwhelm him, and both things happening simultaneously is almost too much for his brain to deal with. When he’s had two glasses of wine, already. 

It’s not the best wine, actually. Killian’s not surprised. Pendragon Publishing is not especially well known for its money-spending efforts, and the annual holiday party is no different. Funded by some half-hearted party committee, that is very likely controlled by just one person, that same person does not appear to have an eye for decorating. If the copious amount of mistletoe hanging everywhere is any indication. 

And the whole thing exists to drive Killian insane. Both the mistletoe, and the party. Or so he will argue. When Mary Margaret inevitably points out what a dumb idea this is, again. 

She’s totally going to say it again. 

“It’s going to work,” Killian mutters, but it sounds inherently unenthusiastic, and Mary Margaret’s eyes cannot widen anymore. They’ll fall out. Which will cause a scene, he imagines. 

And they’re trying to avoid that. 

Or, well—avoid breaking the rules, technically. They don’t want to do that. Because Pendragon might host shitty holiday parties, but it’s one of the most well-known agencies in the Tri-State area, and both Killian and Emma like their jobs. They like each other too. 

Deciding to date wasn’t really part of the plan. But she makes him smile, and he considers the ability to make her consistently laugh one of his better talents, and they’re really good at kissing each other. Which is something they’ve been doing for far longer than anyone realizes. Months, actually. With post-work dinners, and weekends spent together, and Killian has started to find it harder and harder to leave her apartment in the morning, because he keeps staying at her apartment all night, and not proclaiming several rather life-altering strings of words is becoming more and more difficult. 

Which brings them right back to the crux of the problem. Pendragon’s holiday party, and its presumably boxed wine, and dating other employees isn’t explicitly mentioned in the employee handbook, but it’s very likely frowned upon and showing up here together wasn’t a feasible option. No matter how much he wanted it to be. 

Showing with other people, though. That made sense. 

It made—sense adjacent. 

“Did I tell you that you look nice?” Tilting her head, Mary Margaret’s gaze turns appraising and she wasn’t particularly pleased about having to take her ring off. It hangs on a chain that’s only occasionally fallen over the front of her dress, and David thought the whole thing was hysterical. 

He sent “Mary Margaret 101” facts to Killian all week. 

“You don’t have to actually woo me,” Mary Margaret counters, but there’s a bit of color on her cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the heat in this rented loft. It’s very warm. 

“No woo’ing, just facts. Should that dress look familiar, though?” “Depends on how often you’re rummaging around the back corner of Emma’s closet.” “Not that often, but—” Mary Margaret nods before he can get the rest of the question out, smiling over the top of her glass. Filled nearly to the brim with wine that may actually be capable of eroding paint. It’s so bad. That’s probably not a metaphor for anything. 

“You’ve really got to stop staring, it makes you look like a crazy person,” she adds, and to prove how capable he is of following direction Killian’s does the exact opposite. Back towards his girlfriend, and there wasn’t really a ton of planning before they dove into the deep end of this totally legitimate, absolutely will not blow up in their face plan. 

Will’s arm is slung over Emma’s shoulders. “Can’t clench your jaw like that, either,” Mary Margaret mutters. Keeping the laugh out of her voice is seemingly impossible. 

And rolling his whole head is juvenile, but Killian’s starting to feel a little drunk. Without any of the fun benefits. His head hurts. “Should have come up with a list.” “I could if you want.” “I do not, no.” Mary Margaret’s smile is a hint more honest, that time. It really is a nice dress. “That’s what I figured,” she says, tugging on his tie familiarly. “But you look like you’re going to challenge your own best friend to a duel.” “Swords are a requirement for that, aren’t they?” “Alexander Hamilton.” “Excuse me?” “Dueled with pistols, so—” “—Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays?” Snickering, Mary Margaret bumps her hip with his and there are at least ten unopened texts from David on Killian’s phone. Demanding update for what he was regularly referring to The Great Idiot Romance of 2020 . Although, he never mentioned that in front of Emma. 

Who very likely would have won that duel, should it have occurred. 

“Alright,” Mary Margaret sighs, like she hasn’t already agreed to a whole night of this, “we should probably mingle, if we’re going to make this look legit.” “Say legit again, please.” She sticks her tongue out. 

“Not a very good argument, Ms. Blanchard,” he chuckles, shifting his hand to the small of her back and he supposes he should eat something. To sop up all the wine. Her expression doesn’t change. Might get more scowl-like, if anything. 

And there’s likely no reason for Emma’s neck to twist the way it does, except something else vaguely melodramatic that Killian cannot think about for the next four hours, but she does and he stands up a little straighter. Presumably, at least. Mary Margaret’s reproachful tongue click is very loud. 

But then Emma’s eyes are widening as well, and her lips are slightly twisted and Killian does a God awful job of winking at her. 

He swears he can hear laugh — across the whole loft. Four hours at this stupid thing, max. Then he’s going to make out with his girlfriend. For possibly four hours straight. Which he imagines is a record of some sort. 

“Food,” Mary Margaret declares, fingers back on his tie and she makes him eat four bacon-covered somethings before they leave the table. 

To mingle. As is required by polite society and Mary Margaret Blanchard soon-to-be Nolan, and Killian quickly loses track of the number of people they smile at and the few others they nod in the general direction of, and he really should have been better prepared soon-to-be to evolve into a problem. He’s not. And Aurora’s gasp catches him off guard.  

“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to her cheeks in the middle of a group of editors congregated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at least that’s kind of picturesque. “I didn’t know you were engaged, Killian!”

Every one of his muscles tenses. Freezes, making Killian’s ability to stay upright all the more impressive, and it’s nothing except instinct when his gaze practically flies towards Emma. 

Who immediately tugs her lips behind her teeth, Will’s eyes widening to a size that would be comical in any other situation. 

Mary Margaret’s jaw works — trying to find an excuse, or an explanation, but there’s not any of those things and Killian finds himself nodding again. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, “that’s, uh—we are totally engaged.”

“Selling it,” Mary Margaret murmurs through clenched teeth, and he considers it an exceptionally large miracle that he doesn’t point that out. She’s not doing a good job of playing her role now, either. 

Aurora doesn’t notice. Another miracle. ‘Tis the season, or whatever. “So,” she presses, “have you set a date or—” Strictly speaking, biology was never one of Killian’s better school subjects, but he’s starting to wonder just how much stress the muscles in his neck can continue to cope with, and he’s all too aware of how much he’s beginning to resemble a bobblehead.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re, uh—” Licking his lips doesn’t help their overall state, floundering under the expectant stare of half a dozen coworkers who are now heavily invested in a wholly fake relationship, and Mary Margaret’s hand threatens to crack several of his knuckles. When she laces her fingers through his. 

“Thinking next winter,” she says, sounding more honest than anything else they’ve told these people. “City’s basically all decorated for us, already, you know?”

Aurora does know, it seems. 

Her nod isn’t as erratic as Killian’s, is far more enthusiastic — complete with wide eyes that practically announce her interest, and the hammering of his heart against his ribcage makes it difficult to hear the footsteps that are moving towards them. 

Will looks far too entertained. 

Emma’s lips are still missing in action. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” Will drawls, and the duel is starting to sound very appealing, “sounds like congratulations are in order.” He’s going to kill him. Killian’s going to let go of Mary Margaret’s impressively tight grip, and he’s going to use both of his hands to strangle his best friend. Or at least ensure that he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he doesn’t continue talking. 

He will enjoy it. Thoroughly. 

Lifting her eyebrows when neither Mary Margaret nor Killian respond to this supposed stranger’s proclamation, Emma’s exhale is inappropriately loud. Rife with guilt, and an emotion Killian can’t quite name because being jealous of her best friend’s engagement to someone else is as absurd as anything they’ve done tonight, but it’s also kind of nice and— “Aurora, this is Will,” Emma introduces, and he’s actually got the gall to smirk in Killian’s direction. Before thrusting his hand forward, smiling a bit more good-naturedly at Aurora, who only looks slightly confused. 

That’s fair. 

All of this is flying off the rails, and Killian briefly considers how much of a scene it would cause if he barreled into the kitchen demanding better alcohol choices. It’s probably not worth it. 

“Nice to meet you,” Aurora says, like an actual human. With normal, human thought processes and presumably fewer holiday-based lies to deal with. “We were just talking about Killian and Mary Margaret’s wedding.”

Blood floods his mouth, and Killian’s only slightly worried about running out of tongue to bite before the night is over. Mary Margaret’s fingers somehow tighten even more, threatening the blood flow to his entire right hand, and Emma is very interested in the state of her shoes. 

“That’s absolutely what it sounded like,” Will grins, “when’s the happy day?” Glaring without making it obvious is actually difficult. Killian widens his eyes, but that only makes the width of Will’s mouth increase — like some literary cat, and Emma’s eyes keep closing for prolonged periods of time. Like at least several seconds. 

“Next winter,” Killian bites out, “we’re getting married next winter.” “Decided on a location, yet? Gotta get that stuff in early from what I’ve heard.” “Have you just?”

Will nods, shoulders shifting ever so slightly. Like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s not entirely working. 

Maybe they should apologize to Aurora. 

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Will says, “wedding industry’s cutthroat like that. Plan months in advance, and even then you might not get your first choice.” “That’s definitely true,” Aurora agrees, and maybe Killian will just topple over. Sit down on the floor and drink an entire box of wine, and he doesn’t think anyone else notices when Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “When Phillip and I got married, we went through a couple different venues before we found one that worked with our date.” “Sounds hectic,” Killian mumbles. Talking was a mistake. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, Emma’s gaze snapping up in unspoken warning, and he’s worried he’s using up his miracle supply. So as not to cry out at the overall force of Mary Margaret’s fingers. 

All five of which were apparently blessed with mutant-type strength. 

“Luckily we’ve got that covered,” she says, brightly and only a little disingenuous. 

Emma blinks. “Yeah?” “Yup. Did you know you can get a permit for a Central Park wedding for like fifteen bucks?” “Wow, that’s—that sounds really nice, actually.” “Depends on whether or not it snows, but—” Mary Margaret shrugs, and none of them are lying anymore. Well, at least not quite as blatantly as five seconds before. Will’s smile almost looks legitimate. 

“You’re thinking of an outdoor wedding?” Aurora asks. “In the winter?” Another shrug, hints of color rising on Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Early December, and we probably won’t be outside for very long. Mostly just the ceremony, and some of the pictures. There’s a certain kind of romanticism to the city in December, isn’t there?” Aurora doesn’t look overly convinced. Killian barely notices — is admittedly very preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face, and how it almost feels a little wistful and maybe just as romantic and not kissing her is somehow a victory and loss all at the same time. 

“You know,” Aurora says slowly, like she’s about to impart a crucial piece of information on them, “if we’re being honest, I am actually surprised this is happening.” One of Killian’s fingers flutters. Where it’s tangled with Mary Margaret’s, and Emma hasn’t blinked in years. Possibly longer. “Weddings? Or another wonderful event put on by Pendragon?”

“Bet they didn’t try and find this venue that far in advance,” Will mumbles. Emma closes her eyes. That’s like—half a blink, at least. 

Aurora shakes her head, still looking far more serious than the situation requires. “No, no, no, well...you and Emma are always together at work, aren’t you?”

Breathing is a challenge. 

Gritting his teeth less so, the overall tension in Killian’s jaw threatening to do permanent damage. Emma hasn’t opened her eyes yet. 

“We’re friends,” he reasons, and if he were actually engaged to Mary Margaret he’d be almost offended by this whole conversation. 

Lying likely robs him of any right to relationship-based offense, though. 

“Oh no, no, I know,” Aurora says, without sounding entirely honest, “and I’m sure it’ll be a gorgeous wedding. Just—if we had to guess, I think most people at Pendragon would have thought it’d be the two of you.” If nothing else, this night has provided a massive insight into all the facial expressions Mary Margaret is capable of making. At least half a dozen that Killian was previously unaware of, including the current one — a mix of disgust and appropriate scandal, and Killian resists the urge to point out that he and Emma probably couldn’t date, even if they wanted to, which they are, but that’s...that’s beside the point. 

Entirely. Like a different hemisphere from the point.

Aurora gives a tight-lipped smile.

“When did you and—” Will clicks his teeth, effectively redirecting the conversation. “—Phillip, was it?” Aurora hums. “Guessing you two didn’t get married in the winter, did you?” Whatever else she says gets lost in the buzz between Killian’s ears, the overall state of his heart continuing to threaten the structural integrity of his ribs, and Mary Margaret gives his hand several squeezes. To recapture his attention and whatever professionalism he’s barely clinging to, and she’d been right about romanticism. 

Of which he’s clearly bordering on hopeless at this point. 

Emma smiles. 

And Aurora excuses herself eventually — Phillip appearing like an unknowing brunette knight in conversational-armor, all four of them nearly exhaling in tandem. 

“So,” Will says, “scale of one to ten, how much did we suck at that?” “A forty-seven,” Mary Margaret replies, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder while he finally lets out the scoff that’s been bubbling in the center of his throat.

“Next winter, huh? For real?” She makes a noise that’s presumably some sort of agreement, and Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. “Thinking about it. If Scarlet will double check with Belle about taking pictures in front of the library.” “Public property,” he replies, “don’t have to double check.” “But can we go inside at some point?” Killian asks. 

“Wimping out about temperature already?” “Expressing concerns, like Aurora who is—” “—A wedding genius, apparently,” Emma mutters, and Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. She still hasn’t touched her wine. Eventually that will prove important. 

“Got a lot of opinions when it comes to other people’s plans, at least.”

“Eh,” Will argues, “did we give her much of a chance to delve into those opinions, or was Killian too busy making eyes at Emma?”

Continuing to open his mouth without actually saying any words is frustrating. For Killian. And the state of his heart, which cannot seem to find a rhythm anymore. Especially when Emma flushes, and threatens to stare a hole into the floor and of the two dresses she owns that are currently making the rounds at this party, the one she’s actually wearing is better. 

Probably because she’s wearing it. 

“I told you,” Mary Margaret grumbles, without any of her previous ability to chastise. She sounds almost amused. 

“Although,” Will adds, “Emma’s not doing much better, so—” Huffing out a breath only serves to flutter the few strands of hair that frame either side of Emma’s face, and that’s only vaguely messing with Killian’s perception of...reality, maybe. “Ok, you do not get to point out my own,” she leans closer, like that will help the volume of her next few words, “fake relationship shortcomings.” “Why not? It’s making all of this endlessly entertaining.” “I’m a better fake date than you,” Mary Margaret says. “You had to use your own wedding plans because you can’t take your ring off.” “That is nice!” People likely don’t turn the way Killian’s brain has already convinced him they do, but every one of Emma’s teeth is visible when she grits them like that and both of their potentially-obvious fake dates look properly ashamed. 

“Sorry,” Will grumbles, while Mary Margaret twists her heel and whispers, “no more wedding talk, I promise.” Emma laughs. That’s—surprising. And it’s not quite the laugh Killian’s also started claiming as his, but that feels almost possessive, and she’s definitely carrying less tension between her shoulders than he is. “I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “Should have thought about your outfit beforehand.” “Killian likes the dress,” Mary Margaret smiles. 

“Yeah, well Killian likes me, so…” Tugging Emma against his side, Will lets out another noise that will only garner them more attention, and people are starting to dance. The party fund could not afford a band. Or a DJ. Or anything more than what sounds like slightly muffled speakers and someone’s Spotify premium account. Killian hopes it’s premium, at least. 

Hearing ads in the middle of this instrumental Christmas music might be the last straw. For his sanity.  

“Well,” Will says, “if Mary Margaret’s going to start planning weddings, then I guess I do have to step my game up. C’mon, Em—let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”

“And what do we have, exactly?” “Impeccable rhythm, and the lingering knowledge of a Groupon dance class.” “Do people still use Groupon?” Emma challenges, and Killian loves her an absolutely ridiculous amount. For several thousand things, but at this very moment, it’s mostly how her voice causes Will’s eyes to bug again and his tongue to poke between his lips and maybe the whole night isn’t a total disaster. He should tell her he loves her. 

Sooner rather than later. 

“My girlfriend,” Will replies, “who will totally be able to sneak Mary Margaret and David into the New York Public Library to avoid frostbite and ensure very pretty pictures, presumably on that fancy staircase they’ve got.” “Nothing sets the tone for a winter wedding like some casual breaking and entering,” Killian says, barely containing his grunt when Mary Margaret’s foot shifts. On top of his. 

Emma rolls her eyes. 

They’re just playing the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas now. 

“We’d appreciate whatever rules Belle could break for us,” Mary Margaret promises, “and will not mention that she’s the only person still using Groupon. Like, in the world.”

Will’s tongue is going to dry out. “Get on my fake date level, almost-Nolan.” “Shout that louder, please,” Emma groans. “And does the staircase not have a name? Fancy staircase cannot possibly be the acceptable vernacular.” “Probably not, because no one actual uses the word vernacular in actual conversation. Now you’re just trying to show off.” “Sound suspiciously like you’re impressed with my vast vocabulary, Scarlet.”

“Product of your profession.” “Grand, I think,” Killian says, fully prepared for Emma’s slightly parted lips. He will argue he’s prepared, at least. One of his knees does threaten to buckle though, and Will’s current eye-roll rate cannot possibly be healthy. 

“The profession?”

“The staircase.”

“Oh. That’s pretty lame, actually. It doesn’t have like a—staircase sponsor?” “Not that I’m aware of, but the entrance hall is called Astor Hall.” “Similar to the place of the same name?” Will quips. “Or—” “—The guy from the Titanic?” Mary Margaret finishes. “Why do you know about this?”

Killian lifts one shoulder. The one not currently providing rest for Mary Margaret’s head. “I know everything, a good fake-girlfriend would know that.” “And a legitimate girlfriend would dispute that,” Emma says, “plus, the Astors own or have endowed like half of New York. This is not impressive knowledge, and don’t get Mary Margaret talking about Titanic, she’ll start waxing poetic about Leonardo DiCaprio.” “I do have a longstanding crush on Leonardo DiCaprio,” Mary Margaret admits. “If I start quoting things about a real party and point out that Kate Winslet was willing to dance, will that get you guys to move?” Will demands. “Because we’re starting to draw attention and that’s probably not going to help our quest.” “It’s a quest now?” Killian asks. 

“Way more dramatic that way, so yeah.” “Please don’t start quoting Titanic at me,” Emma requests, pulling on the front of Will’s jacket and it’s a testament to their dedication to this ridiculous plan, or quest, that he wore a jacket. No matter how bad a plan it might be. 

Or quest. Whatever, honestly. 

“Alright,” she continues, “show off the lessons, or I’ll make fun of you for the foreseeable future.” Will winks. Not well, but possibly better than Killian is capable of, and he’s going to blame the wine. “Prepare to be absolutely wowed, m’dear.”

Rolling her eyes doesn’t do anything to shift the smile off Emma’s face, although she does look at Killian before she moves and the jealousy clouding his overall sense of being is as antiquated as the music and as absurd as anything else. 

Impressive, considering their overall barometer for absurd. 

“When do you think Aurora got married?” Killian asks, rolling his head towards a sympathetic-looking Mary Margaret. “Spring? June? That’s cliché, right?” “June,” she echoes. “Probably required her dozen bridesmaids to help her hand-make table favors, too. Just to really drive the point home. You want something else to drink?” “Yes, obviously.” Narrowing her eyes slightly when she nods, makes it more difficult to look at her — but that might also have something to do with the amount of alcohol Killian’s already consumed, and he really does appreciate how often Mary Margaret keeps making him eat. Even when it appears everything on this catering menu comes with bacon. “Don’t do that, ok?” he asks, at least two of their allotted four party-hours later. 

She lifts her eyebrows. “Keep texting my fiancé?” “Maybe you are the worse fake date.” “Well, you’re speaking in tongues now, so—” Shrugging, Mary Margaret’s shoulder doesn’t collide with Killian’s, but he’s also starting to feel a little buzzed. And hating bacon. And possibly happiness. On principle. 

Will and Emma keep dancing. Which also keeps them from having to interact with anyone else, but his buzzed-mind doesn’t care, and this whole thing was mostly his idea and that’s starting to really annoy him. 

That might be his base setting at this point.

“Bacon,” Killian clarifies, “don’t allow the national obsession with bacon to affect your food decisions when you—” Footsteps move by them, curious eyes and he’s not a frog, so his blood cannot possibly run cold. Plus, it’s honestly way too warm in this room. “We,” he amends, somehow rushing over two letters, and Mary Margaret noticeably sags against his side. “What was that about this being a dumb idea?” “Ah, getting fired at Christmas-time sucks. How will you buy us all presents, then?” Laughing helps loosen the knot of emotion that’s been growing increasingly tight in Killian’s chest, and the ends of Mary Margaret’s lips quirk up when he kisses the top of her hair. “Bacon is vastly overrated, though,” she adds, “people are obsessed with it.” “It’s weird, right?” “Definitely. Should I apologize for getting you engaged against your will?” Kissing her hair again is easier than responding, because responding might force Killian to contend with a lot of life-type plans he’s only half concocted, and he really should tell Emma he loves her first. Like, more than he realized. 

Until he had to pretend he didn’t. 

“Nah, but you can explain it to David because I don’t want my story to get interrupted when he inevitably starts laughing.” “You wanna dance?” Smirking at her does not have the same effect it has on Emma. And that’s definitely a good thing, but Killian’s drifting towards melancholy and the music isn’t instrumental anymore. Michael Bublé is a Christmas requirement, though. 

He flips his wrist. 

“Sweep you off your feet, Miss Blanchard.” She’s closing in on Will for number of pointed, if not passably amused, eye rolls. Still, Mary Margaret’s hand lands in his, and Emma’s eyes definitely drift towards them — which is as bad as it is good, and Michael Bublé’s version Santa Baby might actually be the worst thing that’s happened to any of them. All night. 

“Not exactly the pinnacle of music, is it?” Killian mumbles, and Mary Margaret hasn’t stepped on his foot. Or pointed out how close they linger to Will and Emma, both of whom look as unenthused by the music choices. 

And maybe it’s because he keeps staring, or possibly because Will is not the asshole he likes to pretend to be, but Killian is not entirely prepared for his friend to spin his fake date closer, or mutter something about cutting in that makes Mary Margaret laugh and Emma’s jaw drop and she steps on his foot. 

It’s the best thing that’s happened to him. All night. 

“We are not good at this,” Emma says, but she doesn’t sound all that upset about it and the buzz between his ears lessens. Turns into something warm and hopeful, and she’s close enough that he can smell her shampoo. 

“Something to be said for effort though, right?” “I’m not sure we’re making much of an effort.”

Nosing at her hair proves her point, but Killian’s—an idiot, and willing to blame romance, and the holiday season, and all the wine. So much. Even more bacon. God, he hates bacon. “Scarlet’s not subtle. And you look incredible.” “Do those sentiments go together?” “No,” Killian answers, “but true all the same.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Twirling her away, only to bring her back just as quickly, Killian doesn’t try very hard to avoid the smirk. So, he’s kind of a glutton too. For punishment, and poorly-timed emotions, and there’s a rather obvious glint in Emma’s eyes that leaves him breathless. Plus, she sort of slams back into his chest. “God,” she grumbles, “lacking some grace, huh?” “Eh, we’ll get there.” “Will we just?” He only realizes what he’s said when he notices the way her voice drops — rasped between lips that are redder than usual, and difficult to hear over goddamn Michael Bublé, and he’s totally staring at her lips. Obviously, he’s sure. “Yeah,” Killian nods. “Guaranteed.”

Part of him worries. Suddenly, Immediately. Overwhelming—ly. But Emma doesn’t move, and they’re more swaying than dancing now, and Mary Margaret’s footsteps are rushed. In a dramatic, everything is blowing up sort of way. 

That sucks, admittedly. 

“What are you—” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret just shakes her head. Yanking on Killian’s sleeve, she threatens to rip the fabric and he’s never heard her use any of those words. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses. 

Killian tilts his head. “Be more specific.”

“Lance Sinqua is here. Is he supposed to be here? Why didn't either of you tell me he was going to be here?”

“He works in acquisitions, I think.” “I thought you knew everything,” Emma teases, and he has to bite the other side of his tongue. To stop from kissing her. 

Making out, more like. “I’ve had a lot of wine,” Killian reasons, “Should I be more concerned about why Sinqua being at his own holiday party is a problem?” Swatting at his side with both hands, Mary Margaret all but snarls. Emma looks appropriately surprised. “I know him,” Mary Margaret says, pausing between every word for emphasis. “And he has seen me.” What feels like the weight of several words and half a dozen ridiculous plans and/or quests fall into the pit of Killian’s stomach. Where they immediately crush a variety of internal organs. “Will’s distracting him now,” Mary Margaret explains, “but—he doesn’t know David personally, just that I’ve got a boyfriend—” “—Fiancé,” Emma corrects lightly, but the tone changes again and Killian’s never gone into shock before. He assumes it feels suspiciously like this. 

“I do not care; at all. Just—Killian, you’ve got to come. Now. Like right now.”

Nodding hurts his neck again, but Killian’s legs move on their own and his hand finds Mary Margaret’s and thinking about the look on Emma’s face isn’t healthy. Makes him want to stand on a table, or something equally absurd. Shout several things from several different rooftops, and he wonders if she’ll have to wear a red dress for the wedding. 

The real one, not whatever one he and Mary Margaret are going to lie about.

And to his credit, Will’s attempts to run distraction do look admirable. Moving hands and a nearly legitimate smile, while Lance nods in interest and continued conversation, and Killian squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. In what he hopes is solidarity. 

“Hey,” Will exhales, as soon as he sees them, “here he is.” Killian’s cheeks ache. “Present and accounted for. You must be Lance, Mary Margaret said you’re old friends.” “Ah, I don’t know about old,” Lance objects, “but certainly the rest of it. I didn’t know she’d be here, would have asked you guys for drinks before or something.”

There’s really no word for the sound Mary Margaret makes at that. Part squeak, and what sounds like an admission, but that says a lot more about Killian’s growing guilt and residual jealousy and—

“How long have you two been engaged?” 

Racking his brain, Killian’s had too much to drink for this. He’s dimly aware of Mary Margaret swaying closer to him, Will’s grimace all but broadcasting how unprepared they are for that particular question, but it also seems like he’s trying to tell Killian something. He does not understand. Fuck boxed wine, quite frankly. 

He opts for honesty. 

Sort of.

It worked for Mary Margaret, after all. 

Sort of. 

“We’ve, uh—” Killian starts, “—been engaged only a couple of weeks, but...we’ve been dating since March.”

Will’s shoulders droop. His eyes turn imploring, but he can’t actually say anything and Lance is, so it absolutely does not matter. “March?” he echoes. “Your friend said it was kind of a whirlwind romance. Got together in the summer.” His mouth does more than open. His jaw drops, nearly to his ankles and shoes that he actually got polished because this party isn’t super important, but Killian wanted to look nice on his fake date and Mary Margaret’s hand is the only reason he doesn’t fall over. 

“Ah,” Killian breathes, “right. That’s—yeah, that’s right.” Lance doesn’t look convinced, either. He should go talk to Aurora. Who keeps glancing at Emma, like she’s got like SONAR. Joke doesn’t even make sense. In Killian’s head. 

“We’ve been celebrating a bunch of different anniversaries,” Mary Margaret cuts in, speaking so quickly it’s as if that lie jumps out of her mouth, does cartwheels and then gets a four from the Russian judge for lack of proper execution. “Y'know...romance, and everything. He’s uh—Killian must be thinking of when we met.” Lance quirks an eyebrow. He might hate Lance. He definitely hates Lance. “You’ve only known each other since March.” “Oh my God,” Will mumbles, scratching behind his ear. And really, that’s not what does it. But it’s certainly a tipping point, or a metaphorical straw, and Killian nods once before he lifts Mary Margaret’s hand to his mouth, mumbles thanks against her knuckles and marches directly towards his actual girlfriend. 

Who is standing directly under the mistletoe. 

It’d be more impressive if she wasn’t, honestly. 

And the music doesn’t stop — although Killian can’t really hear it either, an arm finding Emma’s waist, and her hands landing flat against his chest and someone cheers. Will. It’s definitely Will. Heads turn towards them, surprise coloring more than a few of their co-workers faces, while others look...less so. 

Killian doesn’t bother dwelling on that. He’s got more important things to do. 

“I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you,” he says, Emma’s eyes getting brighter and her lips as distracting as ever. Several of the less-than-surprised faces aww. Audibly. Which doesn’t quite make sense, but he’s still not dwelling and—“Not admitting to dating you is driving me nuts.” “When is your lease up?” “What?” “Were those words confusing in that order?” Emma asks, infusing the question with false confidence that he can hear perfectly and she should have confidence in spades. At least when it comes to this. 

Maybe if they get to keep their jobs. 

“A little,” Killian concedes. “Are you—do you want me to move in with you?” “A ridiculous amount.”

“That’s admittedly not the best adjective I could have used.” “Eh, I won’t get particular with syntax.” “Stop showing off,” Will yells, “and kiss other directly on the mouth!”

There’s a general hum of agreement — even while Lance continues to look a little confused, and Aurora looks a little offended, both of which makes sense because they were fairly awful liars, and someone’s given Arthur a microphone. So the owner of Pendragon Publishing can tell them, “Literally everyone knew, you both suck at not making out in the break room.”

Heat wafts off Emma, climbs up Killian’s neck and takes root in both of his cheeks and Arthur is not done. 

“It’s not encouraged. Intra-office relationships, usually way more trouble than they’re worth, but, well—all you really need to do is sign some paperwork with HR and maybe find some other corners that are less obvious.” Nodding slowly only makes it more obvious the kind of strain all of Killian’s muscles are under, but he can’t come up with a feasible response to that and Emma’s fingers curl. Into his shirt, and he imagines that makes it easier — when she yanks him forward, lips slanting over his and she doesn’t have to push up the way she normally does. Still, Killian’s fairly certain he hears one of her heels pop out of her shoes, and if this is how it feels when a heart beats its way out of a person’s chest, it’s actually fairly comfortable. 

“I love you too,” Emma mumbles, against his mouth. So, the only reasonable response is to kiss her again. Several times over. 

And they do fill out paperwork, eventually — the story of the fake date fiasco, as David comes to call it, perfect fodder for Emma’s maid of honor speech, and proof positive of the inherent romanticism of the city at Christmas. 

[kandoesfanfics-writes]

83 but with all the batfam + Mari fluff?

“If you want me, come and get me, motherfuckers.” 

Ah, thank you. A feel good prompt at last!

—————————————————————————————————-

Bruce blinked slowly, trying to gauge exactly what emotion he should be feeling at the moment.

Clark was standing behind him in awe and slight terror, waiting to see how the big Bat was going to respond.

Diana looked absolutely delighted by the goings on of Bruce’s children.

The entire hallway was covered in little foam darts with sticky cups attached to the tips. Pink, purple, black, gold, red, blue, green, and grey foam darts painted the normally dull colors of the manor. They were attached to the pictures, the walls, the banisters, basically anything solid.

Throw pillows were tossed in every direction. Blankets were held up haphazardly, as if they were a hastily made shelter. Books were also scattered across the floor, along with some creatively taped together foam darts that looked like…throwing stars? While it didn’t look like anything was broken or damaged, the lack of Alfred greatly concerned Bruce.

He was positive the butler wouldn’t let the children get away with this. Alfred had taken care of this house since he was a boy, and Bruce knew that the children couldn’t overtake Alfred. Each child had their own sense of respect for Alfred, occasionally listening to him instead of Bruce. If Alfred had ordered them to stop, they would have ceased immediately.

Alfred didn’t call Bruce to tell him he was leaving either, so the man knew his ‘father’ had to be inside the house.

“Clark, take the eastside. Diana, you take the west side. I’ll try and see if I can’t locate Alfred. Keep on your toes, the kids have most likely set up traps,” Bruce said quietly.

Both nodded, though Clark seemed more serious than Diana. The Amazon’s blue eyes were sparkling with excitement and mirth as she broke away from the group. Clark was hesitant to leave Bruce, but one glare from the man sent him on his way.

Clark may be virtually indestructible, however, he knew his best friend well. He also knew his best friend’s children well. He knew damn well he was walking into a literal warzone with some of the fastest and most intelligent non-metas to ever take up a cape. He was now a potential target, and he wasn’t dumb enough to underestimate the Bats…especially not on their home turf.

——————

As it turned out, Clark was very right to worry.

How did he know?

There were now fifteen darts stuck to his head.

The man of steel had been walking down one of the many corridors when he felt something strike the back of his head. He had pulled off a dart, which was grey in color. He tried listening around him to hear if there were any footsteps approaching him, but when he closed his eyes to focus, a barrage of darts came out of nowhere.

He began to run, only to be yanked into a passageway by someone.

That someone swearing fervently once they saw him.

“Motherfucker! The girls’ got Clark, Dick! And he obviously didn’t fuckin’ see Babs because he’s completely unarmed! He’s fuckin’ useless!”

Clark’s eyes widened as he looked to the dark haired man speaking.

“Jason? One, watch your language. Two, what in the name of Ma’s apple pie is going on here?” he demanded, looking at Bruce’s second eldest son.

Jason gave him a grin with teeth, essentially telling the Blue Boy Scout to go fuck himself. Another set of footsteps caused Clark’s attention to snap to the newcomer, who he recognized immediately. Dick was holding a finger to his mouth with an intense glare on his face.

“Shut. Up! Do you want the girls to find us? Or worse?” he hissed lowly.

Clark looked bewildered between the two brothers as they began to make obscene hand gestures towards one another in annoyance. He still had no idea what was going on and was about to go find Bruce until Damian appeared.

“Training exercise,” he whispered. “Girls against boys. To participate, you had to go see Barbara for the comm and dart gun with your specified color. Since you did not, this means that you are not on our team and will be considered a casualty point instead of full points. However, since the girls got you first, that means if we shoot you, we don’t get any points. So you’re safe from at least us.”

Clark felt a headache beginning as he rubbed his right temple. The things these kids thought up when they were bored! Clearly Bruce hadn’t known about this, considering his confusion upon entering the manor. Did Alfred know what the kids were do—

He gasped as another dart hit him. This time the dart hit the back of his neck. He ripped it off to see it was a grey foam dart once again. He held it in his hand, rubbing the back of his neck. Clark wondered which of the girls would have chosen grey—

“Fuck, we’ve gotta move!” a fourth voice came, slightly panicked. “He found us! Abort, abort!”

Who found them?

Who was he?

Clark watched as Tim haphazardly shoved things into a bag, turning it into a makeshift shield. Jason began to swear violently as Damian responded that they couldn’t move from their position. The girls were lying in wait for them just around the corner. If they fled, they’d all be shot. Dick seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, taking cover behind one of the statues in the room. He went to speak until Jason covered his hand.

“I’ll go.”

“Jay—”

“I said, I’ll go. Just get ready to run,” Jason said, alarmingly grim.

Wasn’t this just a game—?

Jason sprinted out of the room, hollering as loudly as he could, “IF YOU WANT ME, COME AND GET ME, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

Clark watched as a spray of darts followed Jason’s path as he attempted to reach cover. Dick, Tim, and Damian darted down the opposite way, leaving Clark behind. The Kryptonian just stood there, confused and still being pelted with little foam darts. It wasn’t until he heard a jubilant voice that he actually began to move.

“Clark! Why aren’t you getting in on the action?” Diana asked him, with her own dart gun in hand.

“Diana? What are you—”

“The girls were a player down and invited me to join their team! I think this will be a brilliant exercise in teamwork, strategy, and stealth!”

Of course Diana would think this was fun.

And of course, Diana also took this opportunity to shoot him with her own red and blue darts.

Clark then wondered if Bruce was getting it just as bad as he was.

———————

Bruce, while having not been shot yet, was not having much luck either.

He had seen his boys race past him, but the trio hadn’t paused for a second. All three had had foam darts of the pink, purple, black, blue and red, and grey variety sticking to them, some falling off as they ran. Considering the fact that none of his children had stopped their mischief upon seeing him, he figured that either they didn’t see him…or they saw him and did not care.

His daughters, as well as his hopefully future daughter-in-law, also darted past him without a care. The girls were mostly covered in grey darts, but there were some red, blue, gold, and green ones attached to them. Diana was also trailing after the girls, however, she only had grey darts on her body. They paid him no mind, giggling and laughing as they raced past him.

Bruce was now irritated, and he continued to search for Alfred. It appeared the only sane person in this goddamn house would have to restore order. His kids had even roped sweet little Marinette into their tomfoolery, and it was up to Bruce to stop them before they got her hurt. Though, Alfred was probably the only one who could stop them now.

He went to walk back into the foyer, not having found Alfred in the kitchen or living room, when he felt something hit him between the eyes.

The next thing Bruce noticed was that his children had all frozen, staring at him with wide eyes.

Jason looked delighted, a wide grin on his face. Dick and Tim were horrified, mouths agape. Damian was laughing, as was Stephanie. Marinette’s grey eyes were wide, and she’d covered her mouth with her hands. Cass’s shoulders silently shook with mirth, and Diana had a shit eating grin on her face.

Clark had just appeared next to him sighing, a grey dart on his forehead.

“Got you too, huh?” he said with a sigh. “Okay kids, which one of you decided nailing me and Bruce on the forehead would be fun?”

“Oh, it wasn’t one of them,” a sing-song voice came. “By the way, both teams lost.”

This brought forth arguments from the Bat-siblings as Marinette wiggled her way to the front. The dark haired Parisian walked over to the speaker… a red-headed woman in a wheelchair.

“Who won then, Ms. Barbara?” Marinette asked, ever polite.

“Please, Marinette, call me Babs,” Barbara said with a smile. “And our surprise sniper won of course! By taking out both Bruce and Clark, he clenched the final victory.”

Marinette’s grey eyes lit up, and she laughed loudly.

“Congratulations, Alfred! Looks like we’ll be making dinner tonight,” she said with a grin.

Alfred stepped out from behind his hiding spot, smiling at the lot.

“Yes, yes, you will be. I trust Master Dick and you will keep them in line?” he said, handing Barbara his dart gun.

“Oui, Alfred!” Marinette chirped. “What would you like for dinner?”

“Surprise me, Miss Marinette. I’m sure you’ll pick something wonderful,” he replied.

Bruce watched with wide eyes as Alfred instructed the children to clean up. The kids left without a fuss. Marinette and Dick left the room last, discussing what they would be making for dinner. Alfred walked over to both Bruce and Clark. He snatched both darts off of their foreheads before smiling and saying, “Welcome home, Master Bruce. Master Clark, it’s good to see you. Miss Diana will join you once she’s done helping the children clean up.”

Clark looked down at his best friend before sighing.

The Waynes and company were… certainly something else.

[wheretfislou]

   no shade to the kg2 rpc but like, if i may, a list of things i never see from rpers  ( at least in just this community )   anymore that i wish would make a comeback bc i miss seeing these:

dash commentary

unprompted open starters

unprompted crack posts

random posts about just. rambling about hcs for ur muses just bc ur that excited about it and want to talk about them

ask memes that Don’t have to be prompts related to starters for an rp,,,,, like, i haven’t rbed a lot of them myself bc i was rlly shy and also didn’t have the energy to keep up doing those posts like-- expression memes,  “ send an emoji for me to badly draw your muse on ms paint ”   memes, thinking of hcs specifically between one person’s muse and your own, or even ask memes directed at the muns themselves to say what they think about other blogs or smth like that

literally just. evidence we’re hanging out on this site and having fun with managing rp blogs bc no offence but holy Fuck i’ve realized p much everyone in this rpc just feels so,,,,,, detached?  from their actual blogs that it feels rlly scary and like,, as if we don’t even want to be here 

   like. i feel like it’s my fault bc i distanced myself from my rp blogs for a vv long time thanks to stress and health issues and school. and then i treated it like a job and got stuck on the insane amount of replies that my brain decided i have to finish in a specific order. 

   and it’s been going on so long that i forgot what made rp blogs fun for me in the first place. and it’s been so long since i did any of these  “ fun ”   type of rp customs myself, plus the fact a lot of the people in the kg rpc are new to tumblr rp in general and then for some reason looked up to me to get started, that i feel like i wasn’t a good role model for you guys in that sense. 

   and i know it’s not my responsibility but i feel i never rlly was an example of the Full Rp Experience that made people like me fall in love with tumblr rp. and i feel like it wasn’t fair to the people who wanted to join in and instead got my halfassed one-reply-a-month attempts at managing my plethora of blogs that i wasn’t even capable of handling back then and still can’t. 

   i think at the time, i was even kind of aware of it too,,,, i think i wanted people to spread out and follow rpers Other than me so they could see what it was Actually supposed to be like bc i knew if it was just me, i wouldn’t be good enough of an example.

   i know that ofc not everyone loves rping like i do, and not everyone cares about meticulously taking care of their rp blog, or are as attached to the characters, or towards writing, or cares about making friends or memories or content that they wanna look back on over and over again in the future-- but it’s like. it’s for the person out there who’d maybe grow to feel the same way i do about this. the someone whose entire life would be different if they never got the chance to be introduced to and try this one thing. the same person i used to be, cause if i could help someone find a purpose and happiness and fun through rping just like i did, i think it’d be nice to be able to partake in even a small part of spreading something i adore to someone else who will end up valuing it as much as i do

[hawthornewhisperer]

Bellarke + parent-trapped (canonverse and maybe angst but a sweet ending?? if it’s not too late)

This is not canonverse and there’s no angst, but I hope you will accept this toothrotting fluff anyway.  Based loosely on a tumblr post I’m too lazy to find about warring teachers.

Clarke leaned her shoulder against the side of the bleachers and fought the urge to check the clock.  She knew what it would say— still just barely after 10pm, meaning she was stuck in the gym for at least another hour.  She had volunteered to chaperone prom mostly because she was a pushover when her students begged her to, but also because she figured there should be at least one openly queer adult there to intervene in case any of the parent chaperones got weird and judgy about a kid’s choices.  But so far, it was just terrible dancing and way more teenage hormones than anyone should have to deal with on their free time.

At least half the girls on the dance floor had kicked off their shoes, and if Clarke wasn’t quite so concerned about catching athlete’s foot she’d probably join them, because her calves were killing her.  Across the room Bellamy was mirroring her posture, leaning against a pillar with his stupidly big arms crossed across his stupidly big chest.

She really should be more mature about her dislike of him, but something about Mr. Blake reduced her to acting like one of their students.  Things could have gone very differently between them, but he had gone and picked a fight with her during their first all-faculty inservice and Clarke had a hard time backing down from anything, least of all a well-earned grudge.  He appeared to be made of the same stuff, and by now their animosity was legendary.

What had started as low-simmering hatred, surfacing as barbed comments during faculty meetings and sotto voce asides on the hallway, had recently boiled over into all out war.  A weird quirk of scheduling meant Clarke’s third period art class was virtually the same roster as Bellamy’s fourth period world history.  She overheard a couple of students whispering Mr. Blake told Mr. Miller that Ms. Griffin is annoying, and decided that if he was going to be so unprofessional as to say that shit in front of students, she would escalate things.

And that was how twenty-five teenagers had made their own Roman helmets and wore them to their next class under the strict condition they would refuse to acknowledge that they were wearing anything unusual.  Two days later her students spent the entire class period talking in pig-latin, which was both annoying and secretly a little hilarious because she knew he had probably wanted to get them to speak actual latin but figured that was too difficult to pull off in one day.

For the past month, their classes had been in an all out prank war.  Nothing was off limits— Clarke’s class turned his entire room into a life size chessboard (using washable paint, she wasn’t a monster); Bellamy’s refused to draw anything that wasn’t in Egyptian Middle Kingdom style even though they were doing an exercise on goddamn perspective.  Clarke got them to pair up and switch names for an entire class period; Bellamy walked into her class and handed back his goddamn tests like he owned the place.

It was, quite frankly, entirely out of hand.  The students loved it, of course, and the whole school seemed to be waiting to see what each of them would come up with next.  Clarke kept waiting for Principal Kane to step in, and even though he was technically her step-dad, she was a little worried he’d side with Bellamy anyway, since they seemed to have an easy, almost-father-son vibe.

Clarke shifted her weight and lost the battle with her willpower, checking the clock for the hundredth time in an hour.  Ten-fifteen; you can make it another forty-five minutes.  She turned back to the dance floor and noticed Madi Black making her way over, a mischievous look on her face.  Across the room Bellamy was talking to Jordan Green, brow furrowed.  “Having fun, Madi?” Clarke asked, dragging her gaze away from Bellamy’s obnoxiously handsome face.

“Loads,” Madi said.  “But remember when you said you owed me? That day when I helped you carry all your things in from your car?”

Clarke stood up straighter, because she did remember saying that, but it was the sort of off-hand comment you make as a thank you, not an actual contract written in blood.  “I do,” she said carefully.

“Well, I’m here to cash in,” Madi said, her grin almost dangerous.  “I have a favor to ask.”

“Which is?”

“Dance with Mr. Blake.”

“Wh— what?” Clarke spluttered.  On the other side of the gym, Bellamy seemed to be having the same disagreement with Jordan.  He was shaking his head, but Jordan looked determined.  “I don’t think that’s—”

“It’s just a dance, Ms. Griffin,” Madi wheedled.  “For me?  Come on, you promised.”

Clarke glared at her because she’d done nothing of the sort, but she knew she’d lost.  She was, as previously established, a complete pushover for her students.  She nervously straightened her bracelet as she walked towards Bellamy, and noticed he seemed to be fidgeting with his tie.  Students parted before them and they met awkwardly in the middle.  Bellamy held out his hand and she took it, a fleeting smile on both their faces.  As if on cue, the DJ switched from the pulsing beat of hip hop to something much slower.

“It seems we have an audience,” Bellamy said, clearing his throat.  He didn’t seem able to meet her gaze, which was fine with Clarke because she was having trouble hiding the blush crawling up her neck.  She really should have found a dress with a high collar or something, because this was...not ideal.

The entire junior and senior classes had stopped dancing to watch them, chaperones included.  “It seems we do,” she murmured.  She kept her gaze fixed just over his shoulder.  “How’d they get you?”

“Jordan handed in an extra credit project and said he’d rather have me do one activity of his choice at prom, within reason, instead of the points.  I thought he was going to make me do a Fortnite dance, quite frankly, and I wish I hadn’t spent so much damn time trying to learn one.  You?”

“Madi helped me carry my stuff in one day and I said I owed her.  Which in retrospect is feeling sort of like a set up.”

Bellamy huffed out a laugh.  He flexed his hand on her lower back and Clarke steadfastly ignored the pleasant shiver that ran up her spine.  “I think it’s safe to say this was planned.  Possibly for months.”

“It’s tough to say who’s more to blame for teaching them that; my strategic brilliance or your knack for subterfuge,” Clarke said, biting back an inexplicable grin.

Bellamy laughed again and her stomach did a little flip flop.  “I think we can both take credit for this.  Or maybe blame.  How long did it take you to make those life size chess pieces, by the way?”

“Way too long,” she admitted.  “Did you really spend an entire class period teaching them pig latin?”

“Two, actually.  The first was my attempt to teach them rudimentary latin, which went about as well as can be expected.”

She couldn’t stop the smile on her face now, and there were excited gasps from the crowd.  Even Kane was beaming.  “Truce?” she offered.

“That depends.  Did you or did you not tell them which car was mine so they could toilet paper it?”

Clarke winced, but they were both laughing now.  “I plead the fifth.  And it wasn’t toilet paper, it was washable paint.”

“I suppose this is where I admit there might be some toilet paper on your car, then,” he said, and oh no that smile no no no I’m screwed, she thought.  An entire year of fighting a stupid crush, destroyed in under three minutes.

“Okay, fair enough.  If—”  she broke off, keenly aware that they were literally dancing in a spotlight.

“If?” he prompted.

Oh what the hell.  “If you buy me pancakes after the dance is over.”

“Only if you pay for the car wash.”  The song ended.  Their students burst into a wild round of applause and wolf-whistles, and Clarke decided to throw caution to the wind.

The resulting noise when she kissed his cheek almost blew the roof off the gym.

[timelordthirteen]

Killing Time 16/?

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: Weaver and Belle attempt to get a start on the case, but feel like they're getting nowhere fast in a lot of ways.

Notes: This was supposed to be posted on Friday the 30th, but alas that didn't happen. Work sucked and I seem to have gotten my daughter's cold. Palmi's is a Korean BBQ place in Seattle (and other areas) in case anyone was wondering. This is where my random food cravings show up in fic. For the Writer's Month prompt #30: pining.

Warnings: Please see AO3 for complete warnings and tags.The only updated tags are for the smut.

[AO3]  Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15]

It was two in the afternoon when Belle and Weaver left the station.

They had collected the current case file, such as it was, and decided to head over to Belle’s office. Frustration was best handled by doing what they could to solve the case, or at least get it started. So far the whiteboard consisted of a picture of Eloise and a timeline that had more question marks than anything else. As far as anyone could tell, Eloise Gardner had managed to fly under the radar for her entire existence.

Belle glanced over at Weaver where he was sitting on the sofa, flipping through the brief preliminary report from the medical examiner. He was slouched down with the folder open and sitting on his legs, and she bit her lip. Just a short time ago, they’d fucked on that couch, right where he was sitting. She bit her lip and breathed slowly, trying not to think about how good it felt to have him inside her, and how it would have happened again if Rogers hadn’t called them when he did.

“What?”

She blinked and saw Weaver looking at her, one eyebrow raised. “Nothing,” she said, shrugging. “Just...we basically have nothing.”

“Less than.” He sighed and sat forward, closing the folder and dropping it on the coffee table. “This prelim report is everything we already know; she’s been dead at least six months or probably more, no obvious signs of trauma, gun shot or stab wounds.”

“And we don’t have any idea who Eloise even is.” He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his chin which had gotten scruffy with stubble from the last two days. “How does someone have no paper trail in this day and age?”

Belle shook her head, clicking the cap of the dry erase marker she was holding on and off. “Maybe she’s not from here. Maybe we need to expand our search. Oregon, California, Idaho? Check Social Security and IRS records, whatever we have to.”

“She might not even be from the states,” he added absently. “Canada?”

“True,” Belle said, frowning at the board. They’d been making assumptions, and it was possible that had painted them into a corner. “I could call Anna. She still works for that firm in Vancouver, and she might be able to search a few databases for us. Rogers could call his friend in the RCMP.”

He let out another heavy sigh. “Yeah.”

She pushed the cap back on the marker and set it in the tray under the board before crossing the room. “You okay?”

Weaver looked up as Belle dropped down on the sofa beside him. He nodded and gave her a small smile. “Yeah, just realized that I didn’t know what day it was for a second there.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Saturday, right?”

He nodded again, his lips curving slightly. “Be honest, you had to look at your phone to be sure.”

“Lately, yeah,” she admitted, running her hand through her hair. “S’all bleeding together.”

“Are you okay?”

She turned her head and looked at him. “Yeah, why?” He shrugged, his eyes meeting hers, and she swallowed. “I’m better now that we have something to figure out.”

“Something to focus on that’s not...”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Belle nodded, her lips pressed together in a tight smile. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

Weaver frowned. “For what?”

“For all the stuff that’s happened.” She sighed and picked at a fingernail with her thumb. “Between us.”

“Hey,” he said, softly, reaching over to take her hand. “Don’t -”

She shook her head again. “No. No, Ian, I meant it. I shouldn’t have -” She squeezed his hand and let it rest on her knee, but her eyes were fixed on the file folder on the table, and on the edge of the case label that was just a little bit crooked. “I didn’t mean for things to get so messy. Or to push you away - after. You were right that - that I keep doing that, that I have done that.”

“Belle...”

She sniffed and wiped her free hand over her cheek, surprised when it came away wet, and then rubbed it on her jeans. “I, um, I thought - I thought I was protecting myself.”

“You were,” he insisted. “You -”

“No.” She gave him a quick glance, her chest tightening when she saw the pain and concern in his features. “No, I was - I was hurting you. On purpose, maybe, I don’t know, but it was wrong. I was wrong to take advantage of you.”

“Hey.” He pulled his hand away from hers and raised his arm to put it around her shoulders. “It’s okay. You weren’t taking advantage of anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” she managed, her tears falling faster. “I was - I was going to text you that night. Thursday, I mean.”

That was the night Jack attacked her.

Weaver swallowed hard, and then blew out a breath. “Palmi’s?” She lifted her head and blinked at him. “Split a beef combo?”

“With kimchi stew?” Her eyebrows lifted and she started to smile. Her skin felt tight where tears had dried on her skin, and she rubbed at her eye. “You can have all the short ribs.”

His eyes narrowed for a second. “Deal.”

She giggled and sat up, stretching her arms. “I’m going to need to do some wash, or grab more clothes.”

Weaver pushed to his feet. “We can call in our order, swing by your place, and then pick it up before we head home?”

Belle bit her lip and nodded. He’d called his apartment home, which made sense for him. The funny thing was that was the first place that popped into her head at the mention of that word, home. It was an exposed brick wall and dark kitchen cabinets, a hundred year old wood floor and a zig zag of pipes on the ceiling.

She wasn’t sure that had anything to do with what had happened on Thursday.

After dinner, they settled on the sofa.

Belle sighed as she felt her body sink into the soft leather, and pulled up the throw blanket that lay at one end. They kept the conversation light after they left her office, both of them needing to disengage from the case and the events of the last few days.

“So, Tiana’s engaged?” Weaver said as he came around the end of the sofa with a beer bottle in his hand.

She let out a short laugh. “Yeah, to Drew.”

His eyes widened and he leaned forward to set the bottle down on the coffee table. “Drew the chef? I thought she dumped him ages ago?”

“The wannabe chef,” she corrected with a smirk. “I don’t know. They were off and on for the longest time, and then they were off-off.” She rolled her eyes and reached over, stealing a sip from his beer.

“Oi!” He snatched the bottle from her with a half-hearted glare. “Thief.”

She smiled at him. “Arrest me.”

The look he gave her was heated, and she felt a flush wash over her body. “Anyway,” she continued, fiddling with the fringe on the blanket as he turned on the TV. “They met at a restaurant opening a few months back, and now...”

Weaver shook his head. “She can do so much better.”

“She said that about you, you know.” Belle glanced sideways at him, her lips twitching.

“Yeah, well,” he replied, flipping through two more channels before pausing on a recap of the days football matches. “She was right.”

Belle’s foot nudged at his thigh, and he looked down at it before flicking his gaze up to meet her eyes. “Shut up,” she admonished, poking him with her toes a second time.

He tsked and shook his head slowly. “Theft and now assaulting a police officer. Racking up quite a rap sheet there, Ms. French.”

She giggled and shifted the way she was sitting, moving her feet to the other side so she could sit closer to him. He flipped a few more channels before stopping on a movie they’d both seen more times than they could count. It was already twenty minutes in, but it was safe, and she thought they both probably needed safe right now. The news was, well, the news. They lived with most of the nightly local headlines, and the national and global stuff had become too depressing.

Towards the end of the movie, Belle found her body leaning, drifting and heavy with fatigue, until her head was resting on Weaver’s shoulder. He braced for a second, and then relaxed, bringing his arm up around her to pull her against his side.

The more she kept saying she wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t keep taking advantage of him, the more she seemed to keep doing it.

“Is this okay?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the television.

“Yeah.”

His reply was soft, and then she felt the light pressure of his lips on the top of her head. She exhaled, resisting the urge to curl against him and watched as the movie came to its end, the camera pulling back on a view of the city as the credits began to scroll up the screen.

“I can’t keep staying here.”

Weaver shifted slightly. “Why not?”

She sighed and smiled sadly. “You know why...”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Where will you go then? Back to your apartment?”

She swallowed and sniffed. “I don’t think I can. I know Leroy will do a good job, but...”

“No one would blame you.” His arm tightened around her, squeezing her against him.

She pushed herself up, and his hand slipped down her shoulder. “My lease is up at the end of the year. I was thinking about looking for another place anyway.”

“You can stay here as long as you like,” he said, pulling back and twisting to sit sideways with his arm on the back of the sofa. “I can fix up the other room again, and sleep in there.”

Belle looked down at the blanket for a moment. The room would need a bit of work, and some furniture. The guest bed had been taken out as a start to the process of turning the room into a nursery. She wondered if he’d ever done anything with the paint they bought, a light, springy green called Sweet Honeydew. It would have worked for a boy or girl, she thought.

“Yeah.” She pulled the blanket off her lap before she stood up. “I’m, uh, I’m gonna go shower.”

“Okay...” came Weaver’s voice as she crossed the room. It sounded like he wanted to say something else, but she closed the bathroom door behind her before he could.

She turned on the water, pushing the dial halfway over to hot until steam started to fill the space, fogging up the glass. The heat felt good, almost blissful, and she let her head drop as the water pelted her neck and shoulders. A few tears fell, as they always did, and she wiped at her eyes before turning her face into the water. It was easier to let things out when she was shut away from the world. And from Ian.

He had been wonderful the past couple of days, but she still felt the pressure of expectations, of their history just as she had for all the weeks before. She couldn’t keep staying here, not much longer, not with Ian being so accommodating and...helpful. Her only option was nowhere, it seemed. She yawned as she turned to wash the shampoo out of her hair, working out the suds with her hands. It was going to be another early night for her, though she wondered if she’d be able to sleep all that well without Ian. At some point she would need to, anyway.

Belle finished up in the shower and slipped out in a towel, flashing Weaver an awkward smile as she hurried into the bedroom to retrieve something to wear to bed. After she changed, she came out of the room, squeezing her hair with the towel. Weaver was standing in the kitchen, and the television was turned back to the football recap. She glanced from the screen to him, and gave him a small smile when he shrugged.

“Tea?” he asked as he poured hot water into a mug.

“So late?” She lowered the towel.

He lowered the teabag, his mouth curved in a half smile. “It started raining and I just felt like something warm.”

She shook her head, her damp hair swinging and flicking little drops of water over the floor. “Thanks, but I think I’m just gonna go to bed.”

He picked up the mug and came around the island, cupping the warm ceramic in his palm. “You going to be okay?”

She wiped a drip of water off her forehead and shrugged. “At some point I’m going to have to be, right?”

She took the towel into the bathroom, dropping it in the hamper, and when she came out, Weaver was back on the sofa, his socked feet propped on the coffee table, sipping his tea. She bit her lip at the cozy picture he made, wanting so badly to just plop down beside him again until they both fell asleep. Instead, she pushed her hair back and moved to the bedroom door.

“Night.”

He looked up from his mug and gave her a soft, crooked smile. “Goodnight, Belle.”

An hour later, Weaver gave up and turned off the television.

He knew Belle was holding back, putting on a brave face so he wouldn’t worry about her so much. At least they had something to work on now, something to distract them from everything else that had happened. He wasn’t sure that was a good thing yet. They’d proven they could work well together, for the most part, but in the long run what he wanted and what Belle wanted could still be two different things.

Sighing, he pushed up off the sofa and took the remains of his tea, now long cold, into the kitchen before heading to the bathroom to shower. After, he put on clean underwear and a shirt, and spread the throw blanket out over the cushions. He straightened and dropped a pillow down at one end, his gaze drifting to the bedroom door. It wasn’t completely shut, just close enough to block out the light from the living room.

He eased the door open and looked inside. Belle was on her side, facing the nightstand. She looked to be sleeping soundly, but just in case he left the door open a little further. If she had another nightmare, he’d be able to hear her easier. He took a step, and she called out to him in a quiet voice.

“You can stay,” she said, rolling over. “If - if you want.”

His smile was flat. “I don’t think it’s up to me.”

“Yeah.” She tucked her hands under her chin, holding the sheet and blanket. “Sorry.”

“Belle...” He sighed, watching as she rubbed at her face with her covered hands, then shook his head as he turned to leave. “Night.”

“Please?”

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, waiting until she said his name, and then eased the door closed all the way. He went around to his side of the bed and climbed in, settling back against the pillow. A moment later, Belle inched closer, reaching for him and laying her arm over his chest.

“This okay?”

He breathed out and closed his eyes. It was always okay, no matter how much it hurt, or how confused everything got. “Yeah.”

Their breathing evened out, her chest pushing against his side at the same time he inhaled. The rain pattered lightly against the window, a soothing white noise as sleep overcame them.

[flauntpage]

The Ultimate Ranking of the Best Hockey Films Ever

Great hockey movies are hard to come by.

There's what first comes to mind: Slap Shot and Goon and Miracle. Though there's more bad than good: The Love Guru, MVP, or the boring-as-sin Sudden Death.

One thing that's fairly certain is that hockey movies tend to represent the experience of the wealthy white and male demographic, the one that also populates the sport itself.

The NHL says that "hockey is for everyone," and yet many believe that official motto to be one of the league's myths. Fines for on-ice gay slurs are pocket change for the privileged. Ice Girls' bodies are still exploited for a male audience. Social change within the hockey community is diminished yet commodified into sloganeering. And while the NHL was one of the first pro leagues to partner with the You Can Play project, many feel hockey's rate of change to be glacial. Commonplace hockey myths suggests NHL owners don't make much money off the game or that enforcers are necessary to police on-ice behaviour, exactly the kind of myths that are reinforced in hockey movies.

Some of the best hockey films are lesser known yet they question our assumptions about the game. Like the assumption that Russian players are "enigmatic" or that men are inherently better and more entertaining on the ice than women, or that hockey is a unifying force in communities or across a nation.

Should Slap Shot and Goon stand as the best of the best if they reinforce hockey's monoculture? Are Miracle and Youngblood and Mystery, Alaska just reselling the myths we've been buying?

Great hockey movies are out there. It's just time to reconsider the rankings.

1. RED ARMY (2014)

Gabe Polsky's Red Army does what few if any films have done: provide a real glimpse at the life of Soviet hockey players inside the Iron Curtain. It comes across as the most honest portrayal of the Soviet Union's relationship to hockey, and depicts how dramatically Russian-style hockey changed the sport.

The documentary succeeds as the best hockey film on this list because it weaves together sports and politics, it asks its audience to challenge their assumptions about certain hockey myths, and it expertly uses hockey footage and commentary to tell a compelling story.

Polsky, through intimate interviews with the famed Russian Five and goalie Vladislav Tretiak, captures such a personal account of the players that audiences feel they've learned something about the players of the historically tight-fisted Soviet organization. Whereas hockey myth-making has portrayed Russian players as robotic, or as self-interested divas, Red Army does well in illustrating the Russian Five and their goaltender as sympathetic individuals with six different points of view.

Vladislav Fetisov, the first Soviet player to play in the NHL, is a star in the film, and Polsky's dynamic with him on camera is a big part of what makes Fetisov's scenes work so well. The director asks Fetisov questions and often the player will not initially answer but only react with a facial expression—moments Polsky uses to splice in visuals and recordings to provide an answer to what Fetisov doesn't say. When he asks Fetisov about the Soviets' disappointing loss to the United States in the 1980 "Miracle On Ice," for instance, no words are necessary. The best moments are when it's "show" rather than "tell."

Red Army illustrates the conflicting approaches to coaching between Anatoly Tarasov and Viktor Tikhonov, the varied personal politics of the players, and it highlights the politics that drive hockey-related decisions in nation-building. Its use of historical footage and ability to tell a compelling, real-life story is unmatched in hockey films.

2. CANADA-RUSSIA '72 (2006)

The second-best hockey film is one in which Canadians are finally self-effacing about one of their greatest on- and off-ice triumphs embarrassments. In Canada-Russia '72, the CBC dramatization relives the famed Summit Series of 1972 when for the first time Canada's best professional hockey players took on the powerhouse Soviets.

Released in 2006, the three-hour film casts a critical eye on the resentful, obnoxious, and violent behaviour of the Canadian exhibition team that eked out a victory in the eight-game series. The historical event is understood by many Canadians as an affirmation of the country's dominance in hockey. But Canada-Russia '72 paints everyone from Alan Eagleson to Harry Sinden to Phil Esposito as petulant and crude in their pursuit of beating the surprising Soviets. What was supposed to be a walk in the park turned into a national identity crisis. But rather than portray the Canadian victory as a case of underdogs exhibiting perseverance—and free-market capitalism defeating communism—Team Canada is viewed here as the Apollo Creed to the Russians' Rocky. They win the contest but the victory feels empty.

"You know Ms. Fournier, the average Canadian might never forgive us if we lose this series," says head coach Harry Sinden to the fictional media relations character. "But the rest of you intellectuals? You'll never forgive us if we win, will ya?"

The hockey in the film is terrific to watch. Entire sequences are reproduced from documentary footage that seem natural rather than staged. Recognizable beats maintain a degree of tension regardless of the fact that we know the outcome. The audience is privy to a great deal of dramatized behind-the-scenes moments that provide new context.

In one of the film’s most effective (and probably exaggerated) examples of the Canadians' arrogance, a young Soviet boy offers Esposito a Lenin pin in exchange for his hockey stick. Esposito instead offers him a stick of gum. The boy says in Russian, which Esposito doesn't understand, "You cheap son of a bitch."

When Sinden gives his big speech in the dressing room ahead of Game 8—a moment typical of sports dramas, intended to rile the players and the audience—he says, "We win this game, we win the series. We vindicate ourselves and everything we stand for." That line might be heard as inspiring in a straight-forward sports drama. Instead, it sounds like what Canadians "stand for" in hockey is upholding the assumption that Canadians are the best at it.

Canada's victory celebration in the film is muted. It's more relief than national pride. As Canadians, we've been buying the line Sinden voiced, that we were vindicated by the win. But the film succeeds because it throws that myth in the trash.

3. NET WORTH (1995)

There is one scene in this film that stuck with me since 1995 despite only watching the CBC television miniseries the one time. Detroit Red Wings general manager Jack Adams is negotiating with Gordie Howe over the star's one-year contract. Howe's wife Colleen had just prompted her husband to ask for an extra $2,000 over last season rather than his usual ask of a $1,000 raise. Howe is manipulated by Adams and folds. Adams smiles and tosses the signed contract in the drawer.

Based on the book by David Cruise and Alison Griffiths, Net Worth describes the beginnings of the formation of the NHL Players' Association in the face of tyrannical owners who exploit the players and bust their attempt to form a union.

In one of the best scenes in the film, the Association's first lawyer spells out, one by one, the popular myths that the NHL sells—like Randy in Scream listing the rules of the horror genre. To all of them, the lawyer Milton Mound says, "Bull. Shit. When you sniff around a pile of money and the other side clams up, they are hiding something."

What's particularly memorable is the contrast between the PA's first leader, Ted Lindsay, and his Red Wings teammate Howe. Lindsay takes the first cautious steps toward achieving fairness with the league but Howe, the most recognizable hockey player across the US and Canada at the time, decides again and again not to use his influence to better the players' position. Howe's character effectively shows that NHL players themselves become indoctrinated by the myths of the game rather than demand the rights and the money they deserve. Hockey is for fun, after all. It's a boy's dream. At least that's what owners have been selling to everyone.

The film isn't afraid to make players and owners alike look bad in the eyes of the viewer. It challenges some of the great assumptions of the NHL, like the heroism of a star player or the father-knows-best style of management. Toronto Maple Leafs owner Conn Smythe is even represented as using racist language three times in the movie, the last of which the Jewish lawyer Mound responds with, "Smythe, it's hard to believe you fought against the Nazis."

Once you've seen Net Worth, you won't forget it.

4. INDIAN HORSE (2017)

No list of the best hockey films can be complete or accountable to the sport's troubled history without acknowledging its exclusionary and abusive nature. And no hockey film does this better than 2017's Indian Horse.

Situated within Canadian residential schools that abused and neglected Indigenous children, the film based on Richard Wagamese's book of the same name centres around the young boy Saul Indian Horse who is ripped from his family but attempts to lift himself out of the residential school life by teaching himself to play hockey.

"The rink became my escape," says Saul in narration. "The ice my obsession. The game my survival."

What the Canadian film does so well is illustrate how hockey has, since its inception, been a tool to help enforce white cultural dominance and nationhood. While Saul is eventually able to leave the school for a foster family, his new hockey team made up of fellow Indigenous players experiences the same kind of subjugation and violence at the hands of Canadians in the rinks and in the towns they visit. As the teachers at those schools tried to assimilate Indigenous children into Canadian culture, hockey players and coaches did the same on the ice—only "assimilate" is too kind a word for what took place.

Indian Horse's best hockey sequence is a montage in which Saul's Indigenous team defeats a local white team while Stompin' Tom Connor's song "Sudbury Saturday Night" plays on the film's soundtrack. Connor's music, most notably "The Hockey Song" which is ubiquitous in hockey and was recently inducted into the Canadian Song Writers' Hall of Fame, typically signifies to English Canada a sense of nationhood intended to unify people. Instead, the way the music is used signifies that neither the sport nor the country's identity can be appropriated by just one people. Saul and his teammates stake their own claim to the land and the game by playing skilled, virtuous hockey in the face of intolerance.

Indian Horse is not a story about a resilient "other" who succeeds despite the odds. Saul quits hockey despite pleas from his coach who appeals to Saul by pointing to the success of Indigenous NHLer Reggie Leach. The film reminds us the stories of the Saul Indian Horses are as important to see as the Reggie Leaches.

As Brett Pardy notes in his review, "This story makes it clear hockey is more often an extension of Canadian racism than a unifying force." This chapter of hockey's history, and Canada's, is as important as any other.

5. SLAP SHOT (1977)

The throne for best hockey movie has been Slap Shot's to lose for years, and yet it's trotted out again and again on best-of lists like it's a geriatric honouree at a Montreal Canadiens pregame ceremony. Its iconography and cultural impact is irrefutable but it's time to cede the throne to more inclusive films.

The movie's casual sexism and homophobia hits you like a brick when you watch now. Women are cast as wives and girlfriends only, portrayed as drunk hangers-on who complain while their partner lives out his extended childhood. One hockey wife is said to have slept with another woman and that prompts some players to wonder if that makes her husband gay. Paul Newman's character even exploits that information on the ice to manipulate the husband into giving up a goal against.

Women and their bodies are referred to with deplorable name-calling—and the thing is, that's kind of the point: to paint an accurate picture of men's pro hockey in the 1970s. Written by Nancy Dowd, whose brother played this level of hockey at the time, the film is a satire of commodified hockey culture and its spectacle of violence. And it gets major credit for that. But in revealing such naked truths about the game—like its casual intolerance—it reinforces to subsequent generations that hockey normalizes exclusionary behaviour. When Slap Shot has a chance in the end to say something progressive about women's roles in the story, it suggests that if only a hockey wife got a salon makeover, she'd forget her troubles.

But the film does have its transgressive points, allowing it to still survive among the top five. It's a sports movie about the economic malaise and widening rich-poor gap of the 70s, the resulting cultural frustration that leads to a blood thirst for violent entertainment, and makes a fairly bold statement with the Ned Braden striptease scene by criticizing the pandering to fans by the sport through the commodification of athletes and their bodies. The ambiguous ending, when the Chiefs win the championship while their jobs remain tenuous, even flips the standard sports drama narrative by questioning how we evaluate success and heroism.

But it's the fact that you can't watch Slap Shot without wincing or even turning off the film part way that pushes it down this list. Time is no friend of this film.

6. THE MIGHTY DUCKS (1992)

Despite The Mighty Ducks being pretty typical Disney fare, it was the hockey movie for a generation of young hockey fans who'd never seen The Bad News Bears. A championship game that didn't consummate with a fight but instead a skilled play. A coach who tells his player, "I believe in you, Charlie. Win or Lose."

The Mighty Ducks condemns the win-at-all-costs attitude of many hockey films while a team of lower-middle class kids beat the rich kids. It's one of the few to include non-white and non-male players on the featured team, and gives on- and off-ice screen time to just about every character.

The movie has a lot to do with classism in hockey, albeit in a sanitized way: The Ducks resent that their coach was once a (rich) Hawks player, one Duck calls his teammate and former Hawk Adam Banks a "cake-eater," and yet coach Bombay (Emilio Estevez) uses sponsorship dollars from his wealthy law firm to pay for necessary jerseys and equipment. In The Mighty Ducks, success in hockey still comes at the expense of your wallet.

It's a Disney-fied, contradictory mess but I'm still crying at that "I believe in you, Charlie" line.

7. THE ROCKET

Another film taking aim at Canada's national politics intersecting with hockey, The Rocket stands above the average hockey biopic by portraying Canadiens legend Maurice Richard as the tip of the Quebecois cultural spear during a time of division between French and English Canada.

Richard's personality in the film is an idealized portrait of French resistance in the face of English cultural dominance. The NHL referee who holds Richard's arms while a Boston Bruins player hits him with two free punches represents the English bias of NHL management who handcuff their French players. The Richard Riots—a politicized event often linked to Quebec's Quiet Revolution of the 1960s—bookend the film, couching the player's biography within the province's socio-political history.

When Canadiens coach Dick Irvin says to his team, "I need players who hate to lose," he's using a common sports maxim in reference to Richard. But those words could also describe how Richard embodies the attitudes of many Quebecers toward English rivals in politics and in the NHL.

The Rocket's sensitive approach to the story is seen too in the filming of the hockey scenes. The low-lighting of 1950s hockey arenas, the helmet-less players, and the cool colour tones give us a sense that Richard is alone in the cold of the rink.

Points go to any hockey movie that features a grown man crying in front of his teammates in a dressing room. The film hits the dramatic a little too heavily at times but is another in the genre that flips the standard sports drama finale by not concluding with the hero's team winning the ultimate game. This movie's about the NHL taking one step forward and two back.

8. THE GAME OF HER LIFE (1998)

Documenting the lead-up to the first women's Olympic ice hockey tournament in 1998, The Game of Her Life provides a rare and unique look at one of the most significant chapters in women's hockey history from the Canadian perspective.

Produced by the National Film Board and directed by Lyn Wright, the film charts Team Canada's ascent to its first Olympic Games and its disappointing loss to Team USA. These were the first Olympic matches between two of hockey's fiercest rivals, and the very real tension between the teams is set up well.

Among the best sequences is when coach Shannon Miller is meeting with players to tell them whether or not they made the team. Miller told me in an interview earlier this year that she relied on her experience as a police officer to prepare for the following day's roster cuts by recalling having to tell victim's families their relative had died. The elation and sorrow in that sequence is the heart of the documentary, and one of those roster cuts includes future Hall of Famer Angela James.

Though the documentary isn't beloved by all the Canadian players. Cassie Campbell, interviewed for the same story as Miller, told me she didn't appreciate the film's portrayal of her supposed modelling career (she took one class at age 16). "I was such a team player and yet I could feel the attention going to a small amount of us," said Campbell.

The rare glimpse into the women's game, the coverage of one of sport's most exciting rivalries, and the stark differences apparent between the men's and women's games makes The Game of Her Life a standout.

9. GOON (2011)

Another movie that may appear to rank too low on this list. But Goon, like Slap Shot, isn't standing the test of time well.

A fun story about a dim-witted Doug Glatt (Sean William Scott) who can't skate but can fight and protect the skilled players by intimidation, the independent Canadian film wants to sell the myth of the self-aware goon who violently avenges his teammates because the game is inevitably violent. It succeeds as fun and entertaining, as Doug is probably the nicest hockey player ever on screen, but its glorification of fighting and lack of attention toward the consequences of fighting just don't hold up, and it's only 2019.

The hockey scenes, though, are maybe the best in the industry—Liev Schreiber elevates everyone's game with his acting—and who doesn't shed a tear when Xavier Laflamme is set loose to score once Doug has punched out Schreiber's Ross Rhea? There's just too much cementing of boys hockey culture here, particularly with the casual homophobia. If you don't think the satire in Slap Shot helps normalize intolerance in the hockey dressing room, sit back and watch a group of actors riff on gay jokes for extended sequences while an implied gay character listens nearby.

Still, for a movie with questionable material, it has a lot of good writing and performances, and it's a satisfying experience where hockey fans get to interrogate their fandom and the role of violence in the sport.

10. MIRACLE

It's hard to fill out a roster of great hockey movies, and Miracle just makes the cut. There are better films, like Inside Out, that are hockey-adjacent. There are better films that few have seen, like Swift Current, which documents Sheldon Kennedy's experience of sexual abuse in junior hockey. And although Miracle has its charms, it embodies what's stale about hockey films.

Miracle is guilty of the most hockey movie clichés on this list. A group of underdog players beat the unbeatable team in improbable fashion. The players are bag-skated until they learn a valuable lesson. The coach dismisses the odds and relies on instincts and trust. The name on the front of the sweater is more important than the one on the back. A dressing-room speech inspires victory.

A great hockey film should do more than arouse national pride. It should relate to everyone in the audience, not just the high achievers and Type-A's. "This cannot be a team of common men," says Kurt Russell's Herb Brooks to the 1980 American Olympic team. "Because common men go nowhere. You have to be uncommon."

Canada-Russia '72 does everything well that this movie does but does it while questioning how history was recorded and how Canadians remember the events. Still, Miracle is among the best there is.

Honourable Mentions

The Sweater: This National Film Board short is a time capsule of 1950s French Canada, and in that context it's a staple in the hockey canon.

Swift Current: A hockey film only in part, the Canadian-made documentary on former NHLer Sheldon Kennedy charts his sexual abuse at the hands of the former junior hockey coach Graham James with startling detail. You won't be able to unsee this underside of hockey's history.

Inside Out: The Pixar-animated film touches briefly on the main character's relationship with hockey but it becomes a significant element to a beautiful story. If you need a good cry, sob heavily to this movie.

Blades and Brass: This 1967 NFB short combines NHL highlights with Tijuana Brass-style music. Why haven't you clicked through yet?

Goofy–Hockey Homicide: Almost 100 years ago, Disney thought hockey was a foaming-at-the-mouth celebration of violence, and the psychedelic approach of Hockey Homicide is truly a sight to see.

Dishonourable Mentions

Mystery, Alaska: A fun concept sullied by misogyny and an absolutely wretched Mike Myers Cameo.

Sudden Death: Some of you don't remember how boring this movie is and it shows. If you loved Die Hard, you're going to hate this.

Youngblood: A b-movie with a confused message about violence in hockey. Still, look for Keanu Reeves playing a French-Canadian goaltender.

The Love Guru: (I will not be sharing any thoughts about this alleged film, thank you for your understanding.)

Goon 2: The Last of the Enforcers: No thanks to the faux-Sportscenter panel of James Duthie and T.J. Miller. I've never fast-forwarded through a movie faster.

This article originally appeared on VICE Sports CA.

The Ultimate Ranking of the Best Hockey Films Ever published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[hopeishappinessff]

Chapter 64

**A/N: I’m not a fan of this chapter... just thought ya’ll should know that. But, enjoy!**

He explained everything to me. Everything that I wasn’t sure about and even everything that I was already well aware of… he clarified it all and I was extremely thankful for that.  There was a story behind this story, is what he told me… and it was more complicated than I could have ever imagined. It all started with his childhood, more specifically with his father, Clinton… the man that he absolutely loathed more than any one thing or person in this world. The man who abused his mother, attempted to abuse his one and only son, and even went as far as attempting to molest him. And that man harbored a secret that no one knew of and no one would have even guessed existed. He put on a façade for them… an act to prove that he was a feared man. He portrayed himself to be a man who allowed no one and nothing to stop him from getting what and where he wanted. Apparently, he wanted it all and he painted a picture of his perfect life that excluded one of his families… the family that included a son who struggled through life and barely made it to the age of nineteen with only the divine strength of his mother. Clinton was a selfish bastard, Chris explained, and it was surprising that he even took time from his precious schedule to care for at least one of his offspring… Trey. Trey was the son that existed about a year before Chris was even conceived. He was the son that Clinton consciously chose to bond with more than he ever would with little ole’ Chris. Because of his blatant love for one son and not the other, Clinton quickly began to neglect Chris’s entire existence and his boyhood.  He would come in late in the evenings, wreak havoc on the Brown household then make his way back to his beloved family on the other side of town. Ms. Joyce was well aware of his doing’s… she’d put two and two together and figured out that he was living an entirely different life outside of their home. She stayed complacent in that relationship though. She knew better than to act on her emotions after the discovery of his infidelities and feared triggering his deadly alter ego, Eze. As horrid as it sounds, I didn’t blame her for unwillingly allowing the abuse to continue… she did what she felt best to keep her kids protected and at that time, that was perhaps the smartest thing she could have done. She knew if she would have left abruptly and without a plan, Eze would have hunted her down and done more damage than just the abuse she endured behind the closed doors of their home. I asked Chris why he thought his dad resented him so much and he said it was simple… Eze couldn’t cope with the fact that at the tender age of eleven, Chris used the intelligence that he was blessed with to turn down the opportunity to become a pawn in his game. Sure, he was obviously young and naive at the time, but if he didn’t know anything else he knew that daddy’s job required scary weapons, lots of blood, drugs, and death and that all terrified him.  When he denied his dad’s offer, Eze became infuriated by the thought of his own son ‘disrespecting his command.’ And that was the night, Chris explained, that his dad got extremely inebriated and nearly took his innocence while they were alone in the house together. He never told me exactly how he managed to get himself out of that situation and I didn’t push for him to elaborate… I figured it was a sensitive topic for him and I didn’t want to pressure him into divulging more details than necessary.  He said that once Ms. Joyce uprooted them from Tappahannock and moved them all to Richmond, he was left tainted with the memories from his hometown. I’d always wondered why the very first time I met him, he seemed so… weird. He was far from a typical nine-year-old boy in my eyes and that was all thanks to what they’d left behind in Tappahannock.  It didn’t even feel like we’d been lying in my hospital bed for more than three hours, but we’d done just that and I was quite surprised none of the nurses came in to remind Chris that visitors hours were over. He was currently laid up under me, revealing some of his deepest memories just to satisfy my curiosity. I told him that he didn’t have to bring up anymore of those painful topics, but he insisted he was tired of keeping the truth from me and that I needed to know everything there was to know about him… whether it hurt him to tell me or not.  “I never thought that nigga would show face again and I was completely content with that,” He explained, “I ain’t want him around my mama or my sister, so when he decided to commit all his fucking time to that bitch ass nigga Trey and his mom, I really couldn’t have been happier. Then one day, he randomly popped the fuck up in my life. He somehow managed to get ahold of my contact information and he called me, asking if I was ready to commit to the life I was destined to live. I told him to fuck off, but I never told him that I was already knee deep in it… doing shit my way without his guidance. I mean, he was never there for me… ever. I knew what he wanted more than anything was the bank I was bringing in.”  “I’d made a name for myself at a young age. I was the up and coming young’in in the game and I knew what the fuck I was doing and I was doing it all on my own. I was most notorious for my temper and everybody in the city knew not to fuck with me ‘cause I ain’t tolerate shit, even at the age of sixteen. I kept my shit in order, I was never big headed about it and I always took my job very serious. I guess Eze realized Trey wasn't making moves as quick as me and that’s why he showed up smack in the middle of my prime.”  “So, the day he popped up at mama’s house, I was beyond fucking furious. He’d already tried to get at me the night we went out for New Year’s Eve, but I wasn’t having it then and I let him know quick that he needed to back the fuck off and leave me to mines. He wouldn’t listen though… the nigga was adamant as fuck. He wanted an in with me and that was that. He got bold then and that’s why I was so pissed that day. I specifically told him to stay the fuck away from my family and to have him defy me as a man and step foot on my mother’s property… that was disrespectful beyond reason.”  “After that day, I guess Eze has just had it out for me. He couldn’t cope with the fact that his youngest son was living a life he could only dream of and because I’d gained so much more respect from some of the most notorious niggas out here, oh… Eze wasn’t having that. Now, I’m not tryna jump the gun here, but I’m almost positive that old ass nigga and his dumb ass son had a whole lot to do with my accident. They knew if they could take me out, they could claim my territory and they would be set.”  Closing my eyes and resting the palm of my right hand against his chest, I noted that the pace of his heartbeat was much quicker than usual. I rubbed my hand in a circular motion against his chest to soothe him and tilted my head back, opening my eyes to look up at him.  “Chris,” I whispered, prompting him to snap out of his sudden daze and glance down at me, “Can I ask you something?” “Anything babe.” He murmured. “Kin… where did that come from?” With a sigh, he slithered the hand he had resting against my side down and clutched tightly at my waist “It came about because of my temper. When I was like fourteen or fifteen, this black ass African guy I was working for at the time told me I was the fiercest seller he’d ever had. I remember him having a strong ass accent and he told me he was from Durban, South Africa. He said that in the part of the country he was from, the men were all known to be strong and brave warriors who feared no one and nothing, so that’s where Akin, or Kin, came from. It means warrior, hero, brave man… everything that he said I was.”  I snuggled my face as close to his hardened chest as I could and smiled… whoever that man was, he was definitely a smart man. Chris was every bit of the warrior that man said he was, plus more. Besides his charm, personality, and handsomely good looks… his protective and masculine nature was what drew me to him. He was such a strong young man who took nothing from no one and always knew what he wanted and exactly how to get it.  I honestly believed Chris and I were the epitome of ‘opposites attract.’. He’d always been such a tough guy, never afraid to face whatever daunting tasks were thrown at him no matter how difficult, and he was always willing to do whatever it took to get to the top. I, on the other hand, was a timid and reserved girl throughout my childhood and early teenage years. I was always so afraid to live life to the fullest like Chris and I never really held myself to high standards. I’d always been calm by nature, while Chris was like a raging tornado… he was a bottle of anger who, when triggered just the right way, could easily be your worst nightmare.  So many people have told me that I seem to be the only person who has the ability to gain any sort of control over Chris when his temper flares, but I would always relate it back to our contradicting attitudes… if you take a person who’s as bold, angry, and tough as Chris and mesh them together with someone as quiet, reserved, and gentle as I… the outcome is exactly what Chris and I have created. I’ve come to realize that we have a love-hate relationship. Some days, I will honestly despise the very ground that he walks on, but at the end of the day I still, and will always, love him unconditionally.  With a sudden thought flashing through my mind, my face immediately contorted into a frown and I pushed away from Chris’s chest, groaning softly as I did. He turned his head to look at me and before he could reach out and stop me from moving away from him, I gripped the side rail of my bed and maneuvered myself into a comfortable upright position on my knees beside him.  Licking my dry lips and tilting my head to one side, I stared at him with a frown that only continued to deepen the longer I stared “I want you to be honest…” “About what?” He asked as he too sat up in an upright position.  “All the stuff Trey said… about you not loving me or caring about me… is it true?” I asked calmly, though my heart raced a mile a minute. He almost immediately froze in place and stared at me, which worried me because I hadn’t expected him to react that way. He sighed deeply and dropped his head with a chuckle, running a hand over his tired face “No, it’s not true. Nothing he said was true… never has been and never will be. Lemme explain something to you…” He said, leaning forward with his feet flat against the surface of the bed and his knees bent, allowing his elbows to rest against them “I love you Sy’Diyah… more than life itself. Before you, I’m confident I ain’t know nothing about love. It goes so deep with you that I almost don’t know how I was surviving before I met you. It’s hard to explain… and it don’t really even make much sense, but I just know I can’t live without you. I know I can’t. That nigga Trey may have been interested in you, liked you, whatever… but from the moment I met you, it’s like you were it and I knew you were it. Almost like how those wolves found love in that Twilight movie. I felt like I imprinted on you and I just can’t be with anyone else. Like I told you before, even when you weren’t mine… you were mine and I wasn’t gonna let anyone else have you.”  “But why would he say all those things Chris? Why would he lie about something like that?” I could feel my throat and chest tightening and I knew it was only a matter of time before the waterworks began.  “Because he knew that this was exactly what would happen… you would doubt me. He found some type of twisted humor in coming between me and you because he knew you meant the world to me. Everything he said to you was like a last-ditch effort to keep you away from me. I had already made it loud and clear who you were and how much you meant to me… I even made it clear to Gabby.” I shut my eyes for a moment and released a deep sigh. Though he’d explained to me before that he’d made it known to Gabby how he felt about me, it was still weird to hear.  “Listen Hope,” He started, swiping his tongue out over his plump pink lips as his eyes penetrated me, “I know we young and I know there are people who think we just naive and caught up in some type of puppy love and we just lusting over each other. People think we don’t know what love is and that we just infatuated with the thought of a relationship or whatever. But if I don’t know nothing else, I know how I feel about you. I knew from the moment I met you and I know right now, in this very moment, that I love you and care about you more than the air that I breathe. I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life… ever. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you were gonna be mine, no questions asked.” My focus remained on my twiddling thumbs as he professed his feelings for me and I couldn't control the smirk itching at my lips. Eventually I raised my gaze to meet his hazel eyed one in and I giggled softly. “You were just that confident that I would want to be with you, huh?” I muttered. He nodded quickly and returned the smile “Yep. I knew from the moment you damn near tripped over the steps on your aunt’s porch the very first time we met, when you caught me staring at you.” I couldn’t help but full out laugh as I thought back to the day we first met and the moment that I had indeed nearly fell flat on my face trying to stare right back at his handsome little face.  “But what I’m tryna say is, all that shit that nigga was talking… the bullshit lies he was throwing at you about me not caring about you… that was all his last attempt to salvage anything with you.” He explained with a sudden stone expression.  “His last attempt?” I repeated, searching for clarification. He cast his gaze off past my head and nodded with that same hard expression “Yeah… that jealous muhfucka almost took me out, but what shocked me was when I realized the bullet that hit me wasn’t even his. I almost went down without looking up to see who fired off at me, but I caught a glimpse… and it was Eze.” I held my breath and stared at him, waiting patiently for him to continue “I don’t know where he came from or how he even knew we were there, but he showed up and he was the last person I saw before I completely blacked out. I remember seeing him standing back behind Daynah in the shadows, but for some reason I guess I just thought I was imagining shit and didn’t even bother moving out the way when he raised his gun to me,” He paused for a moment and shook his head at the memory, “I was wearing my vest though, so I wasn’t concerned with him shooting me. He wasn’t aiming at me though… I swear it didn’t look like it. That nigga Trey was over by you and Jaylen ‘cause he tried to hop out the way after the shot was fired. The only thing I remember after that was everything going black, but I remember that I could still hear. I heard another gunshot, loud and clear… then a body hit the floor. When I finally opened my eyes, Trey was down and he wasn’t moving.” My gaze remained locked on my hands… I was too shocked to say anything. Chris didn’t bother to finish that half of the story and I didn’t wanna just assume he was saying that Eze shot Trey, but there was no other way around it and I didn't want to push him to tell me.  “But all that don’t even matter though. Wherever he is, dead, paralyzed, whatever… he’s not gonna fuck with you anymore, okay.” He assured me. I nodded as I took in the confidence lacing his words and crawled back over to him. He still had his feet planted flat on the surface of the bed with his legs parted, so I took the opportunity to move his arms away from his knees and I climbed right between his legs. I could see him smirking down at me as I gently pressed a hand against his chest, forcing him to lay back against the pillows so I could cuddle against him.  “And last but not least… please, please, please for the love of me… do not ever break up with me, whether it be because somebody threatened you to do it or just because you want to… just don’t. You would never understand what it felt like the day you walked in my house, told me that it was over, then walked out. You left with my heart in the palm of your hand that day and my soul floated right out the door behind you. I’ve never felt that type of pain in my life and I never, ever wanna feel it again.” He muttered as he slipped a hand through my wild hair and caressed my scalp. I smiled, snuggling my face as close as I could to his chest and tucked my hands beneath his shirt, resting them against his warm skin.  “I’m sorry,” I whispered as I massaged the tips of my fingers into his sides, “I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.” I could feel him puffing his chest out, pushing me forward a bit to get my attention. I tilted my head back and peered up at him as he gazed down at me lovingly “You know what I would call us?”  He continued to ease his fingers through my hair and I stared up at his perfectly chiseled face as I awaited his next statement “The black Romeo and Juliet. Only we gotta worry about everyone but our families tryna break us up.”  I stared at the handsome smirk on his face for a while then burst into a fit of giggles. I continued to laugh as I readjusted myself so that I was on my side, still lying on his chest with one hand beneath his shirt clutching at his side and the other directly over his heart.  “Well I love you, my Romeo.” I said. He chuckled softly and leaned forward to press his lips against my forehead “I love you too, Juliet.” 

[thebidetective]

I know it's not one of the couples you listed but would you write a Lena/Diana prompt? I like them much better than Kara/Diana.

Of course! I like their (potential) dynamic too, classy babes. This got a little longer than I intended, oh well!

Lorenzo moved quickly through the corridors of the museum, attempting to maintain a sense of calm. He’d been making his rounds through the exhibits when he saw her, Lena Luthor, wandering around alone. It was unacceptable, someone of her status should have been entertained by an escort, or at the very least announced so the staff could ensure the best possible experience for her. He figured she must be here on holiday, or a short business engagement and decided to stop by for the afternoon. Whatever the case, he was going to fix this.

He rounded the corner and stopped just outside the office to allow himself a moment to catch his breath. When his heartbeat calmed he rapped 3 times on the door, “Ms. Prince?”

“Hmm?”

Lorenzo let himself in, and was correct in assuming she’d been distracted. He found her standing by her desk staring at a new arrival, an oil painting he wasn’t familiar with.

“Ms. Prince, we have a bit of a situation, ah, I’m not quite sure how it happened actually, but we have a rather esteemed guest here today.”

Clearly still deep in thought, Diana replied, “Oh? Who is it, Lorenzo? I assume they’ve requested an escort.”

“No ma’am qu-”

Diana cut him off, and said in the sweetest voice, “Lorenzo, how many times do I have to tell you? Do not call me ma’am. Ms Prince is fine since you insist on being so formal, but never ma’am.”

“Uh, yes m- Ms. Prince, I forgot. As I was saying, it’s quite the opposite. Our guest is Ms. Lena Luthor, and she hasn’t requested anything at all, she’s just wandering around the exhibits on her own. In fact, I don’t even think anyone else has noticed her here.”

Diana turned now to face him, eyes shining with surprise, “Lena Luthor? From National City?”

“You know her? I suppose I should’ve known, what with the Luthor’s involvement in the art community.”

“No no, we’ve never actually met, though of course I know of her,” Diana covered the painting she’d been studying and adjusted her glasses before turning back to Lorenzo with a grin, “I’ve just been dying to meet her.”

After seeing Ms Luthor in the gallery Lorenzo was sure he knew exactly why Ms Prince was “dying” to meet her. He shot her an innocent smile, “Oh is that so? I’m sure she’ll be dying to meet you as well.”

Diana rolled her eyes as she let him lead her out of her office, “You really are the biggest gossip, Lorenzo. I simply meant that she seems…lovely.”

Lorenzo tried to hide his smirk, “Yes, lovely indeed.”

He walked with Diana until they found Ms Luthor in one of their sculpture exhibits.

Diana thanked him and turned back to where Lena was standing with her fingers intertwined behind her back, head tilted to the side as she gazed up at what happened to be one of Diana’s favorite pieces. Although, she thought Lena would make an exquisite sculpture herself, she certainly had the curves of a perfect subject.

She donned an air of professionalism as she approached Lena from the side, “An excellent choice, most people are drawn to Nike or Artemis, you have a keen eye, Ms Luthor.”

Lena turned her attention to the source of the accent she couldn’t place, and everything she’d ever learned about art abandoned her completely as she came face to face with the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. She wasn’t one to be easily flustered, yet now found herself at a loss for words. Even still, there was something familiar about her that Lena couldn’t place, she was certain she would’ve remembered if they had met before.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, I probably could have announced myself sooner, but you were so entranced I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Finally finding her voice, Lena laughed and tried for casual as she said, “No it’s alright, I just didn’t expect anyone to know I was here. I didn’t even think I’d have time to come by during this trip, but I couldn’t pass up a chance to spend a moment or two with her,” she motioned to the sculpture of the woman before her.

Diana found herself increasingly more interested in listening to Lena talk than looking at the art. Of course she knew of Lena Luthor, everyone did, she even thought they’d attended some of the same galas before. Though the things she knew about her did not add up to this surprisingly warm young woman. Diana forced her attention back to the sculpture for a moment, “Venus of Arles. She’s beautiful isn’t she?”

“Stunning, the detail there in the fabric never fails to take my breath away. I’ve visited the Louvre plenty of times since I was a child, and she’s the one that keeps drawing me back. Something about her hands I think, it’s such delicate work.” Lena realized then that she still had no idea who she was speaking to, “I assume you’re employed here at the museum? I apologize, i haven’t even asked your name.”

Diana laughed lightly, “No need for apologies, I am Diana Prince. I’ve been a curator here for several years now. In fact, I believe you and I have actually attended a gala or two. Were you there in Venice last year?”

Lena almost choked as she finally remembered when she had seen Diana before. It was at one of the annual galas hosted for a bunch of rich people interested in art, she’d only attended because she was intent on acquiring a Kandinsky for her personal collection. An evening full of ass kissing until she found who she needed to sweet talk to get her hands on the painting, she tried to block most of the night from her memory. However, there was one moment she would never forget. Lena had been standing at the bar waiting on a refill of her cocktail, when she felt eyes boring into her back. Expecting the unwanted stare of one of the old men she’d shamelessly sucked up to that evening, she straightened her back and turned to scan the room. She locked eyes with a woman on the opposite side of the crowd, she was wearing a gorgeous blue dress and sipping from a glass of red wine. Lena’s mind had gone blank as the woman grinned and tilted her glass in her direction like a toast. She was about to walk over to introduce herself, but then she blinked, and she’d disappeared.

Now, looking up at Diana she was certain, “It was you. I was at the bar, and I thought I felt someone staring at me, and…it was you.”

Diana smirked, “Yes it was, I apologize for staring, I couldn’t help but admire your dress. You have exquisite taste. I distinctly remember thinking you were the most beautiful woman in the room, especially as you conned all those men into giving you exactly what you wanted. It was a Kandinsky you were after, yes?”

Lena felt her cheeks warm at the compliment, but managed a smirk of her own as she said, “Oh you noticed that did you? And here I thought I was being sneaky.”

“I don’t know about sneaky, but it was impressive. I only know about the Kandinsky because I was there as a representative for the museum, and we were hosting the painting at the time. One of the men you spoke to actually came to me and asked if I could schedule a transfer, which of course I obliged.”

“You’re kidding,” Lena couldn’t believe Diana had been directly involved in her acquiring that painting, and they’d never even met, “well I suppose now I know what you were toasting that night. Although I would’ve liked to at least thank you before you disappeared in the blink of an eye.”

Diana laughed, “I fully intended on staying for a drink with you, but I was pulled away for a business call. Actually, that’s one reason why I came down here myself. I was hoping you would have time to join me for dinner this evening, if you’re up for it of course.”

Lena felt her stomach flip flop at the suggestion, but said, “Absolutely, I’m sure we have plenty to talk about.”

Diana smiled as she led Lena out of the museum, “Oh I’m certain we’ll come up with something.”

[thelastpilot]

The Monster in the Room- Chapter 8

It’s been awhile! So the journey restarts. I really hope people will give this story a shot again! I recommend skimming the end of chapter 7 again to rejog your memory

Kitsune

The Kitsune race are beings tied to and affected by the NeverNever as it is the spiritual realm, and inherently Kitsune are spirits by nature. In humanity, the form of kitsune is often referred to as ‘fox’ and more specifically the ‘red fox’. In the human realm there are many varieties of this mortal creature, and while varieties exist too among the Kitsune themselves their animal forms are seen most often with a red coat of fur. If a Kitsune lives beyond a hundred years, it becomes evident as a mark of power in their fur color, often changing to shades of white, silver, or gold; none of which are seen in Kitsunes younger than a century. The most obvious distinction between the creature ‘the fox’ and the animal form of the Kitsune is the number of tails, for while the animal has one tail the Kitsune can have anywhere from one to nine, depending on their age. A Kitsune is awarded their ninth tail on the day they reach a hundred years of age, as they have reached such age, wisdom, and power that they have transcended the ranks of those younger than them within their species.

Within the culture of the Kitsune these silver or gold coated foxes are revered as elders of great importance, and even within other cultures of creatures of magic it is not uncommon for these beings to be seen with great respect. The red coated Kitsune however are not viewed this way, as they can be any manner of age. Typically, the older and wiser a Kitsune becomes the more tails they are seen with. Their physical manifestations are influenced by their perception of reality since they are beings of spirit, so as they undergo hardships and achieved new understandings their physical form changes to reflect this. Upon the introduction of humanity to the realms at large the Kitsune were seen as one of the more accepting, and over time have developed human illusions as interchangeable as their animal forms. It is well known that the Kitsune possess powerful illusionary abilities, creating falsifications of people, places, or objects that they are almost entirely indiscernible from the real thing. In fact, should you not be highly trained in the dispelling of illusions it is extremely likely that you would be incapable of understanding that something was not truly there. You would be able to touch and feel the illusion as true as it were reality, and because of this many Kitsune use this ability instead of obtaining genuinely substantial things. The more Kitsune that participate in an illusion the grander and more elaborate it can be, and a Kitsune den that hosts an entire family of the spirits has been known to exist in a manufactured pocket of a realm, within which could exist an entire kingdom with its own weather and population created entirely by the Kitsune.

This grand ability is trained and harnessed in every young Kitsune, but supposedly it is only truly mastered upon reaching one hundred years of age. Deciding what ‘mastered’ means however is almost entirely dependent upon the leader of the family, as it changes between each elder asked. The power of illusion is not the only power they possess; however, it is by far the one they are greatest known for. They can also utilize elemental magic based on the element of their domains, as well as possession.

The Kitsune themselves are a relatively small population, existing primarily within the human realm and the FarLands, regardless of their connection to the NeverNever. When interacting with a Kitsune it is best to remember that almost the entirety of their culture is built upon respect, and to treat a Kitsune with kindness would result in positive and equal exchange, while disrespecting or wronging one would create a powerful enemy. An attempt upon their soul would mean immediate and irrefutable betrayal, and would likely enrage the whole of a family regardless of the individual’s standing within it.

A ‘soul’ of a Kitsune is a physical sphere, often worn around the neck as a charm while in human form or kept safely in their tails or teeth while manifested as a fox. Since they are beings of spirit, their soul is extremely precious to them, as losing it would cost them their life or at the very least control of it. It is crucial to know that an attempt upon their soul is a critical insult from which you cannot recover. So long as these powerful spirits are treated with respect the Kitsune are relatively safe. Many young ones have been reported to play tricks with their powers of illusion, and should often be regarded with care. To be frank, such behavior is evident in all creatures, though the Kitsune have received a more universal blame for it. They are often viewed with distrust because of their abilities, but as with all beings the worthiness of a creature is left up to the individual and the noble Kitsune is no exception.

 Nino stared at the page of his textbook, running his index finger over the embedded print of the last two sentences. While the rest of the book looked old and worn in, the last sentiment was added in by hand, seemingly somewhat recently. It made sense to him, to be completely honest the ‘academic text’ had been painting them in a somewhat bad light, dwelling on their illusions perhaps longer than necessary, even going so far as to straight up say they should be ‘regarded with care’ and branded ‘relatively safe’. That sucked.

His mind turned again to what it must say about him…

He let the text close without much thought, his mind turning over itself toxically as he started to drag his fingernail across its spine, cutting long lines into it as he stared at nothing.

It was probably littered with what he could see on some of the faces of his classmates. Distrust, danger. Approach with caution… regard with care.  Part of him wondered if it would paint him as cursed, or if it would write him like an animal. Or something else entirely.

What did this book say about all of them? What parts were true? And what parts were written in by hand, new information that might redeem them…

His fingernails dug deeper.

“Nino?”

 He jumped, Carter jolting too from his sudden movement though he himself had not picked up on his owner’s change in mood. Instead, it was Marinette who had noticed, as she seemed to do again and again. When he turned to look at her she was smiling gently.

“Do you have everything you need? Like paper and stuff? I have extras.”

Nino hesitated, snapped out of his thoughts so quickly that he wasn’t able to immediately reply, but after a moment he said “Uh, yeah. Yeah I’ve got stuff. Thanks.”

“Pens and your books too right? They’re all kind of… old fashioned, but the literature one is actually kind of interesting!” Marinette smiled at him, picking up her own copy of the book as she referenced it. The witch glanced down at it briefly, flipping through its pages as she badgered aimlessly. “There’s actually a Fae poet that is recorded in here, I can’t remember the name for the life of me but it’s really nice! It was my favorite to work through in the class, I’d like to know what you think of it! Let me just find it-,”

Nino blinked once, watching a little confused as she quickly sorted through the textbook. It was a little abrupt, but before even a few moments had passed he was suddenly being prompted to read through a series of poems. He wasn’t really a poem guy, but Marinette seemed excited about it, or at the very least intent. She insisted he pay it his full attention, and it was about halfway through the first poem that he realized she was doing that on purpose.

She was keeping him busy, forcing his thoughts to focus on something else. She was making a quick habit of that, monitoring his emotional state and engaging him or distracting him when she needed to. She had done it three or so times just since he was introduced to her, and while part of him briefly wondered if it was in her own best interest to keep him calm and together he came to the conclusion fairly quickly that it was for his own benefit.

She was being nice, and he scolded himself a little that he kept failing to give anyone the benefit of the doubt here. She didn’t need to be working an angle or treating him like a threat, maybe she was just a sweet person trying to help out someone who was clearly going through a hard time.

That was… cool of her.

He was still ‘reading’ the poem when he heard the door open again (honestly he wasn’t absorbing much of it, apparently the bouncy flowery prose of poetry did not change much from world to world, and remained about as uninteresting), and though the noise did catch his attention it was Carter that made him look away from the book, because quite abruptly the Shepherd was tense.

“Ah, Adrien!” Ms. Bustier’s voice called out, actually relieved he had made it to class but also a little put out at just how late he was. “It’s nice to know you intended on joining us today.”

“I’m sorry!” the boy immediately responded, actually sliding forward a little through the door as he quickly closed it behind him. His words were quick and slammed together, his rushed excuse giving Nino a chance to look at him.

Adrien was saying something like “I know you told me to be early today-,” but Nino tuned him out slightly, a bit thrown off by how… normal he looked. Well not normal, no one in here was normal, but human.

Lots of people had a humanoid appearance, everybody in class did though Chloe’s glamor gave him the impression that maybe hers was just for show like Ms. B’s had been, but he looked TOTALLY human. Even Marinette and Alya still looked a bit off, Marinette because of her clothing mostly and Alya because of… something. He couldn’t quite place it, something in the way she watched people and moved and looked at him. Everybody had a gimmick though, like how Max looked kind of evil what with his lab coat and Rose had a Glinda Goodwitch Necromancer sort of vibe, but Adrien just looked like… a dude.

He was about as tall as him he guessed, white, thin, blonde, and personable looking with a pretty cool outfit that was still normal and not out of place. He had a perfect glowing smile with perfectly even teeth, bright green eyes that were human as could be, two legs, no tail and not even a pair of cat ears to sell the image. Seriously if he hadn’t been told implicitly that this dude was supposed to be a cat something he wouldn’t have known.

Honestly he was a little disappointed. He had been preparing for a big anthropomorphic cat but… well it was probably easier for his sanity that that wasn’t the case. It was a little refreshing that his imagination had actually overshot for once.

He was about ready to maybe rationalize that this wasn’t the guy who was supposed to sit next to him, when he became aware again of Carter, if only because he was slowly scrabbling forward without actually raising his paws.

Nino looked down to see for sure but Carter was definitely moving forward, his eyes totally trained on the new guy whose back was currently towards their desk.

‘Cat.’ Carter confirmed, absolutely no hesitation in the statement whatsoever. ‘There he is. I got him Nino.’

“You do not,” Nino whispered harshly, ducking quickly to grab his dog by the collar. He ignored Alya’s sharp snicker behind him and focused on Carter, pulling him backwards and towards his left side. “I told you no, if you even move you’re in big trouble.”

‘Cat, cat,’ Carter repeated, looking back at Nino as if he wasn’t fully grasping the severity of the situation. But, to the dog’s credit, he had not barked, but it was clearly a great test of will.

“Carter,” Nino whispered seriously, rushing now that Adrien looked like he was about to come and sit down, “if you bark or sniff at him or harass him at all you will be a bad dog, do you understand? A Bad Dog.”

…That got him.

Carter gave the perfect dog equivalent of a gasp, his muzzle parting and his focus broken from the ‘cat’ completely. He looked genuinely upset.

‘I am not a bad dog!’ Carter growled, the first truly audible sound he had made though it was quiet. ‘I’m a good boy! I’m always a good boy!’

“Then prove it,” Nino whispered, but he was forced to look away and sat up quickly, Adrien now breaking his conversation with their teacher and turning around.

The boy turned to face him completely for the first time, their eyes meeting immediately since he was sitting where Adrien was accustomed to sitting alone. At first his expression seemed open, surprised he was there already but receptive to it, but then his focus slid down and locked on the large, rigid German Shepherd that was trained on him explicitly.

Adrien stopped, body tense and eyes widening somewhat when he noticed the dog. Internally Nino was swearing, his anxiety rocketing now that he knew everyone was looking at them. He was trying to figure out a game plan of what to do if either Adrien freaked out or if Carter broke away from him, but even as he planned things he felt his dog huff in defiant annoyance. After only a beat of the cat staring him down Carter turned, looking up at Nino once to check that he was seeing just how much he didn’t care about the cat as he settled facing the wall, nose in the air and back towards the class. Because he didn’t care about the cat at all, because he was a good boy. And the whole class started laughing.

Alya laughed the loudest, Chloe grumbling somewhere in annoyance at ‘whats so funny?’ and Marinette sighing in sudden relief. Nino sighed in relief as well, relaxing instantly and managing to take the laugh good naturedly. Honestly he was just sort of glad the only dog anyone thought might be a problem was Carter… and for the thousandth time since the loyal canine had found him he was grateful that he was there.

He probably owed him an apology for implying that in any way he could be less than a perfect dog.

People where still giggling over how Carter seemed intent on ignoring Adrien’s existence when the boy himself sat down, Nino looking over with an apologetic smile already prepared. Up close he still looked normal to him, but now that he was right there he could see what Carter was getting at. Even if he looked human this dude for whatever reason smelled like a cat.

“Uh, hey,” Adrien said simply, a little embarrassed to have been caught visibly reacting to a dog like that. It seemed especially insensitive considering the guy sitting next to him now… but actually the comparison was probably even less cool. Man he was botching this. “Um, I’m Adrien, you’re Nino right?”

Nino hesitated, surprised that he already knew his name but taking his hand when he extended it. “Yeah, nice to meet you. You know my name?”

“Ms. Bustier caught me in one of our last classes,” Adrien explained, trying his best to smile and really wanting to make a good impression, feeling like he had already kind of screwed up. “I had already known there was a new student from the principal but once she decided you were sitting next to me she wanted to ask me to help you out. She mentioned Carter too, that’s his name right?” Adrien checked, suddenly unsure and rubbing nervously at the back of his head as he laughed a little. “So I’d be ready, still caught me off guard though, I’m sorry about that...”

“Oh, no you’re good!” Nino assured him quickly, glancing once at Carter and seeing that he was still pointed dutifully at the wall, having angled himself to have Adrien fully towards his back now that he was sitting. “Um, I should be apologizing I didn’t know anyone might not uh… like dogs. He’s good though I promise, he won’t bother you.”

“He’s fine!” Adrien countered back, looking past Nino at the Shepherd facing the wall. He was aware of Alya still giggling behind him and tried to ignore her, already more than enough embarrassed about it.

“Wait so,” Nino paused, “Ms. B wanted to ask you to… help me?” He asked it hesitantly, curious but also wanting to divert attention away from his dog for a second. Mostly though he was caught on the idea that maybe Ms. B didn’t have as much faith in him as she said she did… he cut into the leather of his book again nervously.

Adrien’s expression looked, once again, caught out, and he hurried to clarify. “Yeah like, show you around and stuff! That’s all I meant. Like um, give you my notes and things and introduce you to other people in class. I was supposed to be here first thing to do that but… yeah sorry,” he grinned sheepishly. “I slept in.”

“Oh, that’s no problem, don’t worry about it. Honestly uh… meeting everyone at once might have been a little much anyways.” Nino’s smile was a little sour then and he looked down, focusing on the desk. He still had Marinette’s borrowed literature book open to one of the dumb poems, so after a moment he turned to return in, handing it back and adding, “I’m still sort of… adjusting.”

“You’re doing great though,” Marinette chimed in, taking the book as well as the opening to join the conversation. She said it genuinely, smiling at him sweetly until he smiled a little too. “Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do if I was in your shoes, but you’re still dealing with all this anyways.”

“Well… I don’t have too much of a choice,” Nino muttered, and he could see Adrien frowning out of the corner of his eye, but his attention as diverted by Alya now.

“Maybe not, but dealing with it the best you can is a choice, and not one everyone would make. Don’t sell yourself short, you’re barely getting started.”

Nino was stunned into silence, trying to respond but failing to. Alya watching him unflinchingly, once again forcing him to be the first to look away.

He didn’t find the words to answer her before Ms. Bustier called the class to attention, asked to turn back in his seat and absorb the weirdly jarring image of a Cervitaur dressed business casual calmly stepping towards the center of the room. In this space though she was not out of place, that’s what was jarring.

The clatter of her hooves was muffled by the carpeting, her stance and expression exactly indicative of her profession and ability to teach. He felt a weird and anxious emotion bubble in his chest as she folded her hands across her stomach, the weight of it settled just above the invisible seam of her two halves, his teacher calm and looking over her students. All of her students.

Which at that moment, and all foreseeable moments… included him.

“We have waited long enough then!” Ms. Bustier joked with a smile, shooting Adrien a stern but mostly playful look that had the boy ducking his head and laughing nervously. Her gaze flickered to Nino, her smile softening before continuing to address her newly completed class. “It’s about time we got started for the day. But first, I wanted to properly introduce our newest student.”

Oh… crap. Crap.

Nino’s heartrate doubled, instantly incredibly anxious, but before he could properly panic about having to stand up and introduce himself Ms. Bustier was doing it for him, and he sighed in relief.

“This is Nino Lahiffe, a few of you have met him already but he will be with us for the remainder of the school year. I ask that you all find the time to introduce yourself at some point throughout the day, but without any more stalling it’s time we started our lessons. I hope you all remember the start of your discussion yesterday with Mr. Damocles, because we will be continuing right where you left off. Can anyone tell me what that is?”

There was a small collection of voices as a few of the students rushed to beat out the others with the right answer. Nino didn’t really pay attention to what it was, knowing full well that he was going to be wildly lost with them starting in the middle of pretty much anything.

Just like that… class was starting. It had a weird feeling of finality to it, once again. Every step he took now it felt like there was never any way to take it back, living every second like it was all in was… incredibly draining, but what Alya had said seemed true in an intimidating way.

For better or for worse, he was just getting started.

[fairly-confused-authors-blog]

Echoing Music

Author: Mia

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader

Summary: Lucifer gathers Team Free Will and a few others to go caroling in memory of the reader.

Warnings: Angst, death, slight fluff

Word Count: 1,274

A/N: This was written for @cici0507‘s “Heaven vs. Hell” Challenge, where I got Hell for the prompt “Christmas Caroling”. This is my first ever fic for a challenge, so I hope it’s adequate.

“C’mon, Luci! It’s our first Christmas without having to worry about heaven, hell, or hunting. Just a couple of houses,” you pleaded with your boyfriend. He glanced at you and your hopeful expression, debating on agreeing.

After a few seconds that seemed like hours, he finally spoke. “Fine. But only a couple of houses.” His face had a painted look of annoyance, but the moment you cheered like a little kid and dashed to get your coat and book of Christmas carols, the smile broke across his lips.

Before you had come down from your shared room, he crossed the living room to look out of the window and admire the snow. The way it sparkled as it fell lightly, covering the ground and making the world glow in the moon’s light.

Now the sight of snow out of this window made him sick. He turned from the glass with a frown to face the Winchesters and their friend, Charlie. “When is your boyfriend angel going to get here? We need to get a move on.” Sam and Charlie have strained expressions, trying to hide the pity for the Devil. Dean is staring more with confusion.

“I don’t understand why we have to go. I get that you want to grieve, but-” Suddenly, he starts to choke on his own tongue, cutting him off. Sam and Charlie go to help him, but their attempts do nothing.

“You’re coming because I say you are.” As he releases Dean, the sound of wings flapping fill the room. Three more figures stand in the dim light of a single lightbulb. Lucifer hadn’t cared to replace the other lights, besides the one in the lamp by your bed. “Good. You’re here.”

“What? Not even a hello?” Gabe asked sarcastically as he popped a sucker into his mouth. Lucifer rolled his eyes and opened the front door, letting the harsh wind fill the room.

The wind whipped through your hair as you walked with your boyfriend down the street for the second year in a row. You held his hand happily, not caring about anything else. All that mattered right now was that the two of you were there, going to sing to your neighbors.

“Isn’t the moon just gorgeous?” you mumbled, looking at the sky as the ball of stone stayed still, not a cloud to block it out. The two of you stopped, just staring at the beauty of the night. After a few minutes without an answer, you look up at Lucifer. Your eyes meet his, their ice blue being illuminated by the moonlight.

When his lips met yours that night, it marked what you could only consider to be the best kiss of your entire life.

The moon is covered in clouds, only the light of porches and a little flashlight manned by Charlie. The seven of them walked up to the door of a quaint little house that bordered on being a cottage. Before he rung the bell, Lucifer turned to the group. “Ms. Derald is a sweet old lady, but she only enjoys ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ and ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’. Do you have your books?”

Sam and Dean nod along with Charlie and Crowley, who had to share. Gabriel and Cas knew the songs by heart, as did Lucifer. He gave a curt smile before turning to the door and raising his hand to press the button. Before he can do anything, however, the door swings open and Ms. Derald stands there with a smile on her face. “Hello, Luce. Glad to see you’re still... you know.”

He nods solemnly, before she looks behind him at his companions. “Oh! You brought friends! That’s wonderful!” Lucifer holds back tears before he smiles and motions for the group to get ready to sing.

"O Come, All Ye Faithful” came to a close between the two of you, leading Ms. Derald to clap cheerfully. She stepped onto the porch and into the cold, despite only having pink slippers to cover her feet and a sleeping robe for a coat. She hugged you tightly, chattering about your voice and your hair and anything else that came to mind.

You talked to her for a few more moments before convincing her to go inside and stay warm. Once her door is closed and locked, you turn back to Lucifer. “She seemed so glad to see us this year, didn’t she?” He had a small smirk planted on his face, and it stayed there when he answered.

“I think she sees you as a daughter. I mean, you’re always there if she needs anything. She can count on you no matter what, and you have driven her to the store-” You cut him off before he can continue pointing out your interactions with the woman who lived a couple of doors down.

“Yeah, yeah. I help her out a lot. Ever since I stopped hunting, I’ve needed to spend my time doing something. Why not help the neighbors?” You had abandoned hunting a couple of months after last Christmas, once you saw how stressed Lucifer was when you even got a call from the Winchesters. Sure, you had argued with him for awhile, but you both agreed eventually that as long as he stopped going on killing sprees, you wouldn’t hunt.

He still never kills a large mass of people at once, just the occasional nuisance. After all, you aren’t hunting in heaven. You’re going through all of those Christmas memories that never failed to make you smile when you were sad. For Lucifer on Earth, however, the memories only brought him down. He only felt pain as he thought about you, his missing puzzle piece.

Those couple of houses had turned into half of the neighborhood, but he didn’t care anymore. It was only when he was standing in the decrepit living room at about midnight and everyone had left that he let the tears fall. He found himself in your shared bedroom, collapsing onto the freshly made bed. He turned on your lamp so he could at least pretend you were next to him, either reading or sleeping after you had passed out from reading. It was all his fault.

“Why are you overreacting?!” you yelled at him. He whipped around, fire almost being visible in his eyes. “It was just one vamp nest, nothing I couldn’t handle with the Winchesters helping-”

“I thought we had an agreement, Y/N!” He was yelling too, but there was a hint of betrayal mixed with the anger. Storming up to you, the Devil grabbed your wrists and looked you in the eyes. “You aren’t supposed to be hunting.”

You jerk your arms away from him, anger fueling every action. “If you can’t let me be me, then I’m going to go out for awhile.” You grabbed your coat, sliding it on as you stomped into the brewing snowstorm. You were just going to go to the supermarket and get some salt and maybe some brownie mix. You were going to come back and apologize.

It didn’t take long for Lucifer to realize he went over the line. He realized that you were just helping your friends. Instead of flying to you, he decided to grab you your favorite flowers. You needed your space; he knew that. Once he had picked out the best bouquet, he went home and sat on the porch, waiting to apologize and make up. Then the two of you would go Christmas caroling for the fourth year in a row and have tea with Ms. Derald.

You never made it home.

[beautytipsfor]

The Saudi-Turkey struggle to control the narrative over missing journalist Jamal Khashoggi

The lurid details of Jamal Khashoggi’s alleged death revealed on Wednesday were perhaps the most shocking so far in a slow drip of revelations over the past two weeks. The saga surrounding the fate of Saudi Arabia’s best-known journalist has played out in claims and counterclaims published in the world’s media, as both Turkey and Riyadh struggle to control the narrative.  Since news of Mr Khashoggi’s disappearance broke, journalists have had to rely on carefully controlled releases of information from Turkey - a country which has in recent years muzzled its relative free press - and Saudi Arabia, which never enjoyed one to begin with. The singular fact that both countries can agree on is that Mr Khashoggi entered the Saudi consulate in Istanbul at 1.14pm on October 2, leaving his Turkish fiancee Hatice Cengiz waiting outside. Turkey gave Saudi Arabia a day to come up with an explanation, but Riyadh was not forthcoming. The kingdom claimed that the journalist met with officials at the consulate and left shortly after, saying they noted nothing out of the ordinary. Ms Cengiz, who stood by the exit for more than four hours before raising the alarm, said that was impossible. A security guard walks into the Saudi Arabian consulate in Istanbul, Turkey Credit: AP Saudi’s response appeared not to be satisfactory for Turkey either, which was under mounting pressure to investigate an alleged state-ordered assassination on its soil. Then, just before midnight that Friday and three days after Mr Khashoggi was last seen, Reuters news agency - quoting two unnamed Turkish police sources - claimed that the journalist had been killed inside the consulate. It was a bombshell allegation, particularly for his family - which had not yet been given any indication he might be dead. By doing so, Turkey indicated that it would not be dismissed so easily. The next day, Saudi’s consul-general invited Reuters for a tour of the consulate - the alleged murder scene - in an attempt to appear transparent. “We are worried about him,” Mohammad al-Otaibi told the camera as he opened various cabinets, telling the journalists “but look, he is not here.” Missing journalist Jamal Khashoggi's Turkish fiancee Hatice (L) and her friends wait in front of the Saudi Arabian consulate in Istanbul, Credit: AFP It was only after that the leaks to the press started coming thick and fast. CCTV footage of Mr Khashoggi, 60, entering the consulate was passed to the Washington Post, the US paper which had been publishing comment pieces by the dissident journalist. Anonymous Turkish sources introduced the theory that the murder was premeditated and the kingdom had assembled a “hit squad” of 15 assassins, which travelled from Riyadh to Istanbul the day of Mr Khashoggi’s consular visit. The flight manifestos of their flights between Riyadh and Istanbul were released, along with photographs of them arriving at Ataturk airport. Online sleuths managed to identify the men: at least nine worked for the Saudi security services, military or other government ministries. The CCTV image of Jamal Khashoggi entering the Saudi consulate in Istanbul Among those was Salah Muhammed al-Tubaigy, president of the Saudi Fellowship of Forensic Pathology who specialises in gathering DNA from crime scenes and dissecting bodies. He arrived in Istanbul early morning on October 2 and flew out again at 11pm the same day. He was joined by Maher Abdulaziz Mutreb, a diplomat assigned to the Saudi Embassy in London in 2007. Records show he travelled extensively with the crown prince on foreign trips. Images were also released of a convoy of black vans with diplomatic licence plates arriving shortly before 1pm and driving away at 3.08pm. Turkish sources implied that members of the squad carried out bits of the journalist’s body to the cars and drove them to the consul-general’s house a short distance away. All this pointed to a premeditated murder, not simply the case of an interrogation gone wrong. Around this time that Turkey made it be known that they had audio of the killing, which they claimed was from an Apple smartwatch he was wearing at the time. However, experts later said it was more likely to have come from a bugging device that Ankara did not want to admit to having placed in the consulate. US Secretary of State Mike Pompeo (L) meets with Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman in Riyadh, on October 16, 2018 Credit: AFP Perhaps the leak was intended to scare the kingdom into confessing. But Riyadh, which is not accustomed to being held to account, did not address the claims other than to call them “baseless”. Instead it attempted to undermine the reports by focusing on the source of information and the idea that Turkey does not have a neutral viewpoint, in part due to its ties with Saudi foe Qatar. US President Donald Trump, who has closely aligned himself with the bin Salman family, proposed the idea that the men were “rogue killers”, a semi-plausible alternative that could allow the kingdom’s rulers to distance themselves from the growing saga. While the theory may seem improbable to those who have been paying attention, it could still prove to be the only one to get the US and Saudi Arabia out of their tight spot. Neither country is looking for a high-level diplomatic confrontation and both have strong incentives to agree a version of events that absolves Crown Prince Mohammed. President Donald Trump places his hands on a glowing orb as he tours with other leaders the Global Center for Combating Extremist Ideology in Riyadh Credit: Reuters Adding a new element to the mix was the US pastor detained by Turkey on charges of espionage. The issue had threatened ties between the two countries, with Ankara refusing to release Pastor Andrew Brunson despite the threat of US sanctions. When he was somewhat unexpectedly released last Friday, it prompted speculation it had been done in return for US silence over the Khashoggi case. Recent developments, however, have made it increasingly difficult for the crown prince to deny involvement. Turkish police investigators - which were for two weeks denied permission from Saudi to search the consulate - were allowed in on Tuesday. While their findings are not yet known, President Recep Tayyip Erdogan revealed that investigators were looking at “toxic materials” and fresh paint on the walls.   On Wednesday, the recording of the killing was leaked to pro-government daily newspaper Yeni Safak, which decided not to publish the audio but instead detailed its graphic contents. Turkish forensic and investigation officers arrive at Saudi Consul's residence for a search Credit: AFP Mr Khashoggi is reportedly heard screaming as he has his fingers cut off one-by-one. Apparently there had been no attempt made to first interrogate him. As one of the men allegedly starts to dismember the body, he is said to put on earphones and is heard in the recording advising other members of the squad to do the same and listen to music.  At some point, Saudi’s consul-general enters the room and tells the men to leave or he will “get in trouble”. The latest reports are the most damning yet. It is unclear what either side’s next move will be.   Both have had to think about how the episode plays domestically and internationally. Turkey cannot afford to sever diplomatic relations with Saudi over the killing, but turning a blind eye to foreign countries carrying out assassinations on its soil would set a dangerous precedent. While at first the Turkish leaks appeared chaotic and at times contradictory, they have become much more consistent and on-message. “One can only imagine that the Turks' expectations of what Riyadh is going to do have changed,” H.A. Hellyer, a senior nonresident fellow with the Atlantic Council in London, told the New York Times. Turkish investigators were on Wednesday searching consul-general Mr Otaibi’s residence. Reporting has suggested that they are likely to find Mr Khashoggi’s severed head and dismembered body in its garden. That is, if reports are to be believed.

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Gangs behind, detention ahead: migrants face predicament at U.S….

TIJUANA, Mexico (Reuters) – After Willians Bonilla fled threats from a street gang in Honduras two years ago to seek asylum in the United States, he spent seven months in detention only to be deported back to his native land in Central America to face his attackers anew.

An aerial view of a camp where a caravan of migrants from Central America are expected to apply for asylum, in Tijuana, Mexico May 2, 2018. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

So Bonilla, a 26-year-old car painter, promptly headed back to the U.S. border, now with his wife and 2-year-old son. They crossed Guatemala to southern Mexico and then, in a ragtag caravan relentlessly criticized by U.S. President Donald Trump, trekked 2,000 miles north to Tijuana.

Mostly from Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala, caravan migrants like Bonilla face a predicament. Escaping gang violence, political turmoil and economic dysfunction, they seek a refuge in the United States, but with little certainty of a welcome, especially in the age of Trump.

Chances of being granted asylum are slim. Many could face long detentions and separation from families while awaiting court hearings that could end with deportation orders.

Bonilla had no desire now to fight for asylum, unwilling to again endure the hardships of U.S. detention and the tortuous wait for a trial before an immigration judge, only to be rejected and flown back to the lethal quagmire he had fled twice.

Instead, the family decided that his wife and child would apply for asylum, figuring they stood a better chance because of their vulnerability and the fact they have relatives already in the United States. Sharp and witty, with a dream of studying art that turned into a career of custom-painting cars, Bonilla said he struggled with his decision.

“She knows hardship,” said Bonilla, almost proudly, of his wife, who had lived in a restive part of Honduras, but even that might not blunt the shock when his family arrived in America. “They have no idea what they’re in for.”

Bonilla’s gaze darkened as recalled incarceration first in a Texas government-run facility, which he remembered as “okay,” and then in the private Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, Georgia, which he called “a cesspool.”

HARD-LINE STANCE

Trump has made his hard-line stance on immigration an integral part of his presidency and has advocated a wall along the U.S.-Mexican border to stem the flow of migrants.

Nevertheless, about 5,000 Hondurans, Guatemalans and Salvadorans were given interviews each month in 2017, the first step in claiming asylum, according to the most recent U.S. data.

At least 140 migrants of the caravan plan to apply for asylum. U.S. authorities have allowed in a few at a time since Monday, mostly women and children, through the San Ysidro port of entry into California, with much of the group camped near the crossing still waiting for entry.

When Bonilla made his 2016 asylum attempt, American border officials asked him if he was frightened to return home, a mandatory question for undocumented arrivals at U.S. ports of entry during the first few days of detention. He answered “yes.”

That “yes” triggered the asylum process, which entails an interview to assess an applicant’s “credible fear” and a court date for a ruling on asylum or deportation weeks, months or even years later.

Bonilla was transferred to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) custody, first in Texas and then in the Georgia detention center owned by CoreCivic Inc. “Ay! Ay!” he said, as he recalled the Georgia facility. He called the food barely edible. The guards, he said, were racist and tore up letters that detainees wrote, including one he had hoped to send to a state official regarding his case.

Responding to complaints at the facility, the Department of Homeland Security issued a report last year that backed up Bonilla’s account. It detailed questionable use of solitary confinement, delayed healthcare, broken and dirty bathrooms and moldy food.

“The issues identified by the December report were quickly and effectively remedied,” said CoreCivic spokesman Steve Owen said, adding that much of the facility’s leadership team eats the same meals as the detainees and that he was unaware of complaints of racism or instances of staff not delivering mail.

“U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement is committed to ensuring that those in our custody reside in safe, secure and humane environments and under appropriate conditions of confinement,” ICE spokeswoman Jennifer Elzea said.

In the end, a judge rejected Bonilla’s asylum claim and he was sent home, where he said the gang closed in again, this time attacking his wife.

Carrying photos to document the beatings she sustained, Bonilla’s wife and child may spend less time in custody thanks to rules limiting the duration that women and children can be held as well as a shortage of beds in detention centers.

CRISTOBAL’S JOURNEY

Another member of the caravan, Bonilla’s fellow Honduran Jose Cristobal said he also chose to remain in Mexico while common law partner Yolanda Hieron Meras and his 15-year-old son seek asylum.

Cristobal, a 48-year-old welder, said the family left home under the cover of darkness shortly after his son received two death threats from a gang, one in person, the second handwritten.

“They don’t give you more than two chances,” Cristobal said.

He pinched his nose hard to hold back the tears as he watched his partner and son disappear through the San Ysidro gate on Tuesday to make an asylum claim. Cristobal said he would try to join them sometime later in the United States legally but acknowledged the chances were low.

The journey from Honduras had been arduous. The family were robbed within minutes of arriving in Mexico through Guatemala, he said, losing their only valuable possessions: two telephones and all their cash.

Unwilling to seek police help for fear of deportation, Cristobal found work as a handyman until he struck his thumb with a hammer and the injury became infected.

The family stumbled upon the caravan in the southern Mexican city of Tapachula, Cristobal said. From there, on March 25, it began its month-long odyssey northward. They saw it as a way to reach the U.S. border safely, with sporadic offerings of transportation, food and shelter.

The caravan, which peaked at nearly 1,500 people in early April, had dwindled to a few hundred by the time it reached Tijuna, a vast logistical feat that had meant relying on loaned buses and walking for hours.

For one long leg of the journey Cristobal’s family had to leap aboard a freight train, dubbed “El Tren de La Muerte”, the train of death, because of the injuries suffered as migrants race to catch it, climb to the roof, and grip on for dear life as it rolls and pitches.

Making it to Tijuana seemed to them a near-miracle.

NUMEROUS REASONS

Dozens of caravan members described to Reuters fleeing appalling conditions that included sexual violence, political persecution, dysfunctional economies, and lethal threats to themselves or family members in neighborhoods with some of the world’s highest murder rates.

Migrants who fled the brutal Barrio 18 or MS-13 Mara gangs after refusing to join them or pay protection money said they continued to receive threats in Mexico. At least two said they had received messages that family members back home would be killed if they failed to send payment.

But once they reach the United States, they must run the gauntlet of an immigration system caught between assisting or criminalizing hundreds of thousands of Central Americans who have entered the United States in the past decade.

Asylum seekers must demonstrate fear of persecution because of their race, religion, nationality or membership in a particular social group. Criminal threats or violence alone are generally not considered sufficient reason for asylum.

The Trump administration has cited a more-than-tenfold rise in asylum claims compared to 2011, including growing numbers of families and children and a shift to more Central Americans as signs that people are fraudulently taking advantage of the system. Trump aims to change U.S. law to make it harder to claim asylum.

Some immigration lawyers said the unrelenting criminal violence in Central America should prompt the United States to reassess the asylum system.

“In a lot of ways, those countries look like war zones,” said Bree Bernwanger, an asylum attorney who works on Central American cases.

Jenna Gilbert, a lawyer at the Human Rights First advocacy group, said enduring the asylum process would be hard on anyone.

“It’s a different name, but let’s have no qualms about what it is,” Gilbert said. “It is jail.”

Reporting by Delphine Schrank; Additional reporting by Frank Jack Daniel in Mexico City; Editing by Daniel Flynn and Will Dunham

The post Gangs behind, detention ahead: migrants face predicament at U.S…. appeared first on World The News.

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Gangs behind, detention ahead: migrants face predicament at U.S….

TIJUANA, Mexico (Reuters) – After Willians Bonilla fled threats from a street gang in Honduras two years ago to seek asylum in the United States, he spent seven months in detention only to be deported back to his native land in Central America to face his attackers anew.

An aerial view of a camp where a caravan of migrants from Central America are expected to apply for asylum, in Tijuana, Mexico May 2, 2018. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

So Bonilla, a 26-year-old car painter, promptly headed back to the U.S. border, now with his wife and 2-year-old son. They crossed Guatemala to southern Mexico and then, in a ragtag caravan relentlessly criticized by U.S. President Donald Trump, trekked 2,000 miles north to Tijuana.

Mostly from Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala, caravan migrants like Bonilla face a predicament. Escaping gang violence, political turmoil and economic dysfunction, they seek a refuge in the United States, but with little certainty of a welcome, especially in the age of Trump.

Chances of being granted asylum are slim. Many could face long detentions and separation from families while awaiting court hearings that could end with deportation orders.

Bonilla had no desire now to fight for asylum, unwilling to again endure the hardships of U.S. detention and the tortuous wait for a trial before an immigration judge, only to be rejected and flown back to the lethal quagmire he had fled twice.

Instead, the family decided that his wife and child would apply for asylum, figuring they stood a better chance because of their vulnerability and the fact they have relatives already in the United States. Sharp and witty, with a dream of studying art that turned into a career of custom-painting cars, Bonilla said he struggled with his decision.

“She knows hardship,” said Bonilla, almost proudly, of his wife, who had lived in a restive part of Honduras, but even that might not blunt the shock when his family arrived in America. “They have no idea what they’re in for.”

Bonilla’s gaze darkened as recalled incarceration first in a Texas government-run facility, which he remembered as “okay,” and then in the private Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, Georgia, which he called “a cesspool.”

HARD-LINE STANCE

Trump has made his hard-line stance on immigration an integral part of his presidency and has advocated a wall along the U.S.-Mexican border to stem the flow of migrants.

Nevertheless, about 5,000 Hondurans, Guatemalans and Salvadorans were given interviews each month in 2017, the first step in claiming asylum, according to the most recent U.S. data.

At least 140 migrants of the caravan plan to apply for asylum. U.S. authorities have allowed in a few at a time since Monday, mostly women and children, through the San Ysidro port of entry into California, with much of the group camped near the crossing still waiting for entry.

When Bonilla made his 2016 asylum attempt, American border officials asked him if he was frightened to return home, a mandatory question for undocumented arrivals at U.S. ports of entry during the first few days of detention. He answered “yes.”

That “yes” triggered the asylum process, which entails an interview to assess an applicant’s “credible fear” and a court date for a ruling on asylum or deportation weeks, months or even years later.

Bonilla was transferred to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) custody, first in Texas and then in the Georgia detention center owned by CoreCivic Inc. “Ay! Ay!” he said, as he recalled the Georgia facility. He called the food barely edible. The guards, he said, were racist and tore up letters that detainees wrote, including one he had hoped to send to a state official regarding his case.

Responding to complaints at the facility, the Department of Homeland Security issued a report last year that backed up Bonilla’s account. It detailed questionable use of solitary confinement, delayed healthcare, broken and dirty bathrooms and moldy food.

“The issues identified by the December report were quickly and effectively remedied,” said CoreCivic spokesman Steve Owen said, adding that much of the facility’s leadership team eats the same meals as the detainees and that he was unaware of complaints of racism or instances of staff not delivering mail.

“U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement is committed to ensuring that those in our custody reside in safe, secure and humane environments and under appropriate conditions of confinement,” ICE spokeswoman Jennifer Elzea said.

In the end, a judge rejected Bonilla’s asylum claim and he was sent home, where he said the gang closed in again, this time attacking his wife.

Carrying photos to document the beatings she sustained, Bonilla’s wife and child may spend less time in custody thanks to rules limiting the duration that women and children can be held as well as a shortage of beds in detention centers.

CRISTOBAL’S JOURNEY

Another member of the caravan, Bonilla’s fellow Honduran Jose Cristobal said he also chose to remain in Mexico while common law partner Yolanda Hieron Meras and his 15-year-old son seek asylum.

Cristobal, a 48-year-old welder, said the family left home under the cover of darkness shortly after his son received two death threats from a gang, one in person, the second handwritten.

“They don’t give you more than two chances,” Cristobal said.

He pinched his nose hard to hold back the tears as he watched his partner and son disappear through the San Ysidro gate on Tuesday to make an asylum claim. Cristobal said he would try to join them sometime later in the United States legally but acknowledged the chances were low.

The journey from Honduras had been arduous. The family were robbed within minutes of arriving in Mexico through Guatemala, he said, losing their only valuable possessions: two telephones and all their cash.

Unwilling to seek police help for fear of deportation, Cristobal found work as a handyman until he struck his thumb with a hammer and the injury became infected.

The family stumbled upon the caravan in the southern Mexican city of Tapachula, Cristobal said. From there, on March 25, it began its month-long odyssey northward. They saw it as a way to reach the U.S. border safely, with sporadic offerings of transportation, food and shelter.

The caravan, which peaked at nearly 1,500 people in early April, had dwindled to a few hundred by the time it reached Tijuna, a vast logistical feat that had meant relying on loaned buses and walking for hours.

For one long leg of the journey Cristobal’s family had to leap aboard a freight train, dubbed “El Tren de La Muerte”, the train of death, because of the injuries suffered as migrants race to catch it, climb to the roof, and grip on for dear life as it rolls and pitches.

Making it to Tijuana seemed to them a near-miracle.

NUMEROUS REASONS

Dozens of caravan members described to Reuters fleeing appalling conditions that included sexual violence, political persecution, dysfunctional economies, and lethal threats to themselves or family members in neighborhoods with some of the world’s highest murder rates.

Migrants who fled the brutal Barrio 18 or MS-13 Mara gangs after refusing to join them or pay protection money said they continued to receive threats in Mexico. At least two said they had received messages that family members back home would be killed if they failed to send payment.

But once they reach the United States, they must run the gauntlet of an immigration system caught between assisting or criminalizing hundreds of thousands of Central Americans who have entered the United States in the past decade.

Asylum seekers must demonstrate fear of persecution because of their race, religion, nationality or membership in a particular social group. Criminal threats or violence alone are generally not considered sufficient reason for asylum.

The Trump administration has cited a more-than-tenfold rise in asylum claims compared to 2011, including growing numbers of families and children and a shift to more Central Americans as signs that people are fraudulently taking advantage of the system. Trump aims to change U.S. law to make it harder to claim asylum.

Some immigration lawyers said the unrelenting criminal violence in Central America should prompt the United States to reassess the asylum system.

“In a lot of ways, those countries look like war zones,” said Bree Bernwanger, an asylum attorney who works on Central American cases.

Jenna Gilbert, a lawyer at the Human Rights First advocacy group, said enduring the asylum process would be hard on anyone.

“It’s a different name, but let’s have no qualms about what it is,” Gilbert said. “It is jail.”

Reporting by Delphine Schrank; Additional reporting by Frank Jack Daniel in Mexico City; Editing by Daniel Flynn and Will Dunham

The post Gangs behind, detention ahead: migrants face predicament at U.S…. appeared first on World The News.

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[newestbalance]

Gangs behind, detention ahead: migrants face predicament at U.S….

TIJUANA, Mexico (Reuters) – After Willians Bonilla fled threats from a street gang in Honduras two years ago to seek asylum in the United States, he spent seven months in detention only to be deported back to his native land in Central America to face his attackers anew.

An aerial view of a camp where a caravan of migrants from Central America are expected to apply for asylum, in Tijuana, Mexico May 2, 2018. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

So Bonilla, a 26-year-old car painter, promptly headed back to the U.S. border, now with his wife and 2-year-old son. They crossed Guatemala to southern Mexico and then, in a ragtag caravan relentlessly criticized by U.S. President Donald Trump, trekked 2,000 miles north to Tijuana.

Mostly from Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala, caravan migrants like Bonilla face a predicament. Escaping gang violence, political turmoil and economic dysfunction, they seek a refuge in the United States, but with little certainty of a welcome, especially in the age of Trump.

Chances of being granted asylum are slim. Many could face long detentions and separation from families while awaiting court hearings that could end with deportation orders.

Bonilla had no desire now to fight for asylum, unwilling to again endure the hardships of U.S. detention and the tortuous wait for a trial before an immigration judge, only to be rejected and flown back to the lethal quagmire he had fled twice.

Instead, the family decided that his wife and child would apply for asylum, figuring they stood a better chance because of their vulnerability and the fact they have relatives already in the United States. Sharp and witty, with a dream of studying art that turned into a career of custom-painting cars, Bonilla said he struggled with his decision.

“She knows hardship,” said Bonilla, almost proudly, of his wife, who had lived in a restive part of Honduras, but even that might not blunt the shock when his family arrived in America. “They have no idea what they’re in for.”

Bonilla’s gaze darkened as recalled incarceration first in a Texas government-run facility, which he remembered as “okay,” and then in the private Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, Georgia, which he called “a cesspool.”

HARD-LINE STANCE

Trump has made his hard-line stance on immigration an integral part of his presidency and has advocated a wall along the U.S.-Mexican border to stem the flow of migrants.

Nevertheless, about 5,000 Hondurans, Guatemalans and Salvadorans were given interviews each month in 2017, the first step in claiming asylum, according to the most recent U.S. data.

At least 140 migrants of the caravan plan to apply for asylum. U.S. authorities have allowed in a few at a time since Monday, mostly women and children, through the San Ysidro port of entry into California, with much of the group camped near the crossing still waiting for entry.

When Bonilla made his 2016 asylum attempt, American border officials asked him if he was frightened to return home, a mandatory question for undocumented arrivals at U.S. ports of entry during the first few days of detention. He answered “yes.”

That “yes” triggered the asylum process, which entails an interview to assess an applicant’s “credible fear” and a court date for a ruling on asylum or deportation weeks, months or even years later.

Bonilla was transferred to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) custody, first in Texas and then in the Georgia detention center owned by CoreCivic Inc. “Ay! Ay!” he said, as he recalled the Georgia facility. He called the food barely edible. The guards, he said, were racist and tore up letters that detainees wrote, including one he had hoped to send to a state official regarding his case.

Responding to complaints at the facility, the Department of Homeland Security issued a report last year that backed up Bonilla’s account. It detailed questionable use of solitary confinement, delayed healthcare, broken and dirty bathrooms and moldy food.

“The issues identified by the December report were quickly and effectively remedied,” said CoreCivic spokesman Steve Owen said, adding that much of the facility’s leadership team eats the same meals as the detainees and that he was unaware of complaints of racism or instances of staff not delivering mail.

“U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement is committed to ensuring that those in our custody reside in safe, secure and humane environments and under appropriate conditions of confinement,” ICE spokeswoman Jennifer Elzea said.

In the end, a judge rejected Bonilla’s asylum claim and he was sent home, where he said the gang closed in again, this time attacking his wife.

Carrying photos to document the beatings she sustained, Bonilla’s wife and child may spend less time in custody thanks to rules limiting the duration that women and children can be held as well as a shortage of beds in detention centers.

CRISTOBAL’S JOURNEY

Another member of the caravan, Bonilla’s fellow Honduran Jose Cristobal said he also chose to remain in Mexico while common law partner Yolanda Hieron Meras and his 15-year-old son seek asylum.

Cristobal, a 48-year-old welder, said the family left home under the cover of darkness shortly after his son received two death threats from a gang, one in person, the second handwritten.

“They don’t give you more than two chances,” Cristobal said.

He pinched his nose hard to hold back the tears as he watched his partner and son disappear through the San Ysidro gate on Tuesday to make an asylum claim. Cristobal said he would try to join them sometime later in the United States legally but acknowledged the chances were low.

The journey from Honduras had been arduous. The family were robbed within minutes of arriving in Mexico through Guatemala, he said, losing their only valuable possessions: two telephones and all their cash.

Unwilling to seek police help for fear of deportation, Cristobal found work as a handyman until he struck his thumb with a hammer and the injury became infected.

The family stumbled upon the caravan in the southern Mexican city of Tapachula, Cristobal said. From there, on March 25, it began its month-long odyssey northward. They saw it as a way to reach the U.S. border safely, with sporadic offerings of transportation, food and shelter.

The caravan, which peaked at nearly 1,500 people in early April, had dwindled to a few hundred by the time it reached Tijuna, a vast logistical feat that had meant relying on loaned buses and walking for hours.

For one long leg of the journey Cristobal’s family had to leap aboard a freight train, dubbed “El Tren de La Muerte”, the train of death, because of the injuries suffered as migrants race to catch it, climb to the roof, and grip on for dear life as it rolls and pitches.

Making it to Tijuana seemed to them a near-miracle.

NUMEROUS REASONS

Dozens of caravan members described to Reuters fleeing appalling conditions that included sexual violence, political persecution, dysfunctional economies, and lethal threats to themselves or family members in neighborhoods with some of the world’s highest murder rates.

Migrants who fled the brutal Barrio 18 or MS-13 Mara gangs after refusing to join them or pay protection money said they continued to receive threats in Mexico. At least two said they had received messages that family members back home would be killed if they failed to send payment.

But once they reach the United States, they must run the gauntlet of an immigration system caught between assisting or criminalizing hundreds of thousands of Central Americans who have entered the United States in the past decade.

Asylum seekers must demonstrate fear of persecution because of their race, religion, nationality or membership in a particular social group. Criminal threats or violence alone are generally not considered sufficient reason for asylum.

The Trump administration has cited a more-than-tenfold rise in asylum claims compared to 2011, including growing numbers of families and children and a shift to more Central Americans as signs that people are fraudulently taking advantage of the system. Trump aims to change U.S. law to make it harder to claim asylum.

Some immigration lawyers said the unrelenting criminal violence in Central America should prompt the United States to reassess the asylum system.

“In a lot of ways, those countries look like war zones,” said Bree Bernwanger, an asylum attorney who works on Central American cases.

Jenna Gilbert, a lawyer at the Human Rights First advocacy group, said enduring the asylum process would be hard on anyone.

“It’s a different name, but let’s have no qualms about what it is,” Gilbert said. “It is jail.”

Reporting by Delphine Schrank; Additional reporting by Frank Jack Daniel in Mexico City; Editing by Daniel Flynn and Will Dunham

The post Gangs behind, detention ahead: migrants face predicament at U.S…. appeared first on World The News.

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