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thewickedmerman · 3 years

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My Redesigns of The Specialists

Well, since I finished with the Winx Club girls and The Trix, I figured it was time to do my redesigns of The Specialists. However, not all of them are going to be just powerless fighters. I felt it would be more fun to make their team be made up of fighters, fairies, and sorcerers. Plus, they get to have their own transformations too. The fighters get transformations similar to the Power Rangers/superheroes (Because it makes no sense for there to be an emergency and they just rush off to change clothes, which is an INSANELY dangerous time waster), the fairies will have transformations similar to the Winx Club themselves, and the sorcerers will have transformations similar to the ones from Miraculous Ladybug (Honestly, I don't know what to think for the sorcerers). Why? Because it's so much more fun that way.

Sky

Well, I got the most BORING of the boys out of the way, so that's something. For his design I used Eric's body from The Little Mermaid, the face of Derek from The Swan Princess (Or at least from a specific poster), used his second hairstyle from the show because it suits him better and look less like a surfer dude, and I used the uniforms The Specialists get in the later seasons because it's BADASS. Plus, considering that Eraklyon is related to geology, it makes sense to have some armor that looks like stones. I did change the shade of blue to match his signature color, which is sky blue (I mean, it's in his name). He is the prince of Eraklyon and the son of a sorcerer and a fairy, but they still loved him despite that he had no magic. However, that made them even more protective of him since he was a child and there was a threat of him being kidnapped and held for ransom by Yoshinoya. So Sky's best friend/squire, Brandon (Who is a fairy and has magic to protect himself and Sky) was to switch places with Sky for public appearances and in school, so that no one would know who Sky really is. The only ones who knew the truth were the royal family, the castle staff, members of the royal court, and Diaspro & her parents (Who Sky was betrothed to since they were babies). Despite having no powers, Sky refused to be helpless and studied fighting hand-to-hand combat and weaponry. Sky is a boring character but could be good if put in the right hands. Give him flaws, have him held more accountable for his actions, none of the bullshit conflict that happens with him and Bloom from seasons 4-8.

Brandon

For his design, I used the face of Edward from Enchanted, the nose of Rameses from The Prince of Egypt, the eyes of Joseph from Joseph: King of Dreams, and the body of Bolin from The Legend of Korra. I've always questioned what race Brandon was supposed to be coded as because he seemed pretty ambiguous. Was he just white but with a tan? Was he Middle Eastern? Was he Filipino? Was he Hispanic or Latino? I saw someone say he was Middle Eastern and pointed out some areas in the Middle East where they have lighter tan complexions, dark brown hair, and similar features to him. So I thought for some representation, I would go with the Middle Eastern coded option. I made him a little darker than he was in the original show by giving him Flora's skin color from the original show (Since I gave her a darker skin-tone in my redesign of her), sharper eyes, and more Middle Eastern looking nose. I didn't want to use Aladdin's nose because the noses of Aladdin and Jasmine were a little too exaggerated the same way that the noses in Lilo and Stitch were too exaggerated (Polynesians don't have potato noses). I also wanted to show some body diversity by giving him a plus-sized body. NO, Bolin's body isn't fat but it's very much plus-sized. Brandon was a fat little boy growing up because he was just built differently. However, as he got older and started training, he bulked up. He's still plus-sized but is also muscular. You're probably wondering why I decided to make Brandon a fairy. I don't know but it just works. He is the fairy of geodes! I got that idea from Diaspro's fairy form and powers. They come from Eraklyon, so the magic in that world must be related to geology. So he's basically an Earthbender lol. But his powers are rooted on rocks, stones, gems, ect. so it's no wonder his body is so solid like a rock. I also modeled his wings after Diaspro's, which I noticed are solid instead of transparent like other fairy wings. I figured that must be part of the geology themed powers. As for his costume, I based it on one of the background fairies that were seen during the destruction of Bloom's home planet, Sparx. It just looked like it suited him. He and Sky have been friends since they were little and he is Sky's squire. He's the son of one of the palace guards. Since Sky was in danger of being abducted since he was a little kid, Brandon was made to pretend he was the prince for Sky's protection. Brandon's parents were dead against it, but the king demanded it. However, it was ultimately Brandon who decided to do it, even if his parents disapproved of putting their son in danger. You may ask, how would people believe that two white parents had a brown son? No idea! I guess they just said he was naturally tan lol.

Riven

For Riven's design, I gave him the face/head of Proteus from Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas, the body of Shang from Mulan, and the eyes of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. For his outfit, I didn't want to just give him the same outfit as Sky but with a different color because I wanted more individuality. So I gave him the outfits that were worn by Nex and Thoren (Sky's cousin). They looked less heroic and epic as the outfit I gave Sky, which suits Riven's more roughish nature and how he hasn't had an easy life compared to Sky (More on that later). It also has a bit of a low-key bad boy vibe to it. I still stayed true to his signature color, magenta, while making sure it didn't clash with his magenta hair, and giving him some purple to match his eyes. And I just had to give him an angry look on his face because it's Riven, so of course. Riven is my absolute LEAST favorite of the specialists. Sky may be boring as hell but Riven is ANNOYING as hell. He's poorly written, has terrible development, is always an asshole for no reason, has no backstory to justify the way he is, doesn't really change, and his relationship with Musa is absolutely toxic. In my version, I give him a backstory and better character development. His backstory is that he was born to a father that was a sorcerer and a mother that was a fairy while he was born without the ability to perform magic, which was a MASSIVE disappointment to his parents. They neglected him, emotionally abused him, and on occasion physically. This makes his actions and attitude all the more understandable. He's a show off because of how he never really got attention growing up from his own parents and is trying to make up for it, as well as prove that he is capable of great things and isn't useless just because he doesn't have powers. He's angry and a hothead but has more of a secret gentle side that he sometimes shows, MUCH MORE than the original Riven, which helps make it more understandable why Musa would have a crush on him. His emotional baggage also made it easier for Darcy to manipulate him, even giving him some magic (But takes it away when she dumps him). His backstory also gives him a reason for why he lashes out at his fellow teammates. In my version, Brandon is a fairy and Timmy is a sorcerer, so they can perform magic while he can't. He especially resents Sky because of how he was also born with parents that could perform magic while he couldn't but was still given love and attention despite this. It made him VERY angry and jealous because of how Sky manage to have parents that adore him, despite being born unable to do magic, while Riven had neglectful and abusive parents because of his inability to perform magic.

Timmy

For his face/head I used some old concept design of Milo from Atlantis: The Lost Empire and the smile, eyes, and body of Aladdin. I went with Aladdin's body because of how Timmy wouldn't be as masculine as the others but wouldn't be lanky. Aladdin has some muscles on him but he's not super built. I also gave him freckles because it's just too perfect for him. His outfit was tricky because of how I had to find a way of making him look like a sorcerer but also incorporate it with technology to go with his powers because of how he is the Sorcerer of Technology. For his scepter, I went with Tecna's Mythix wand, with some adjustments. Redheads look surprisingly really good in the color yellow. I decided to make Timmy a sorcerer because of how I feel it suits his personality. He's not as action-oriented as the other guys but more intellectual, even though he still fights. Imagine how amazing he'd be with technology with magic. He'd excel! No, I don't have him being from Zenith like Tecna but from another technology planet, though one that isn't considered as high up as Zenith. So this makes him feel a little intimidated by Tecna, that and him having a MASSIVE crush on her. He always is trying to prove that he is capable and isn't just some weak nerd. Out of all of the specialists, he's one of my favorite, if not my number one favorite. He's just absolutely awesome with how much of a dork he is.

Helia

Helia was the one that I was looking the most forward to doing a redesign of because of how I made him a fairy. Out of all of the Specialists, he's the one that really benefits the best from being made a fairy, especially when I got to his Believix and Enchantix. He has more of a feminine personality while still proving he isn't a wuss but rather a badass, despite being a pacifist. This gives him layers and depth beyond just being a typical good looking hero. Plus, his hair is just AMAZING! I used the body of Mako from The Legend of Korra, the eyes and nose of Shang from Mulan, and the head/face of Little Creek from Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron. I also gave him Brandon's skin tone to make him look more brown instead of just a light Asian. His outfit is very feminine but also clearly meant for a man because of how it's kind of toga looking. But I did his toga in a way that looks more Asian inspired instead of Greek inspired. Plus, this look suits his chill and relaxed personality. I made his outfit salmon pink with some orange because those colors just look so good on him and just suit his character. I made him the fairy of art, the same way that Musa is the fairy of music. So he can make art literally come to life, turn things like paint into ropes, can control paper (Particularly when in an origami shape), create portals, can jump into paintings to hide, and you get the point. Basically, his powers are awesome!

Nabu

And now we've come to my favorite of The Specialists, Prince Nabu. First of all, I want to make VERY CLEAR that in my version, Nabu DOESN'T die! That was a bunch of BULL CRAP! I mean, he's introduced in season 3 and then close to the end of season 4 they kill him off? Not to mention that out of all the boys, they chose the darkest one, who was also the love interest of black woman! She ended up having to suffer more than any of the other girls because of this. Not to mention that in season 5 they tried to replace him with a brown (But much lighter) man with terrible blonde hair and a terribly bland and boring personality to match, Roy. Then when that didn't work, they did a dumb love triangle in season 6 where the white man that has a personality mixture of Riven and Brandon, Nex. Yeah, all of this is TOTALLY not racist! And that's coming from a white man. Also, I wanna also point out that Nabu is NOT black! He is Indian, so he is coded as South Asian. Now that we got my rant out of the way, for his design I used the face/head of Naveen from The Princess and the Frog, the body of Flynn Rider from Tangled (I wanted to use Naveen but there wasn't a base of him to use or a tasteful nude picture of him), and the eyes of Esmeralda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I also chose to keep his super long single braid instead of the two shoulder blade length braids he had in season 4. Why? Because it just looks SO MUCH better and is more badass. Non-white men just look amazing with long hair. He is still a prince but he doesn't come from Layla's planet, Andros. Why? Because that planet is water themed and his powers aren't related to water. His powers are illusions and healing, so it only makes sense that he comes from another planet, especially when the rules of Andros are black while Nabu and his family are Indian. He and Layla are in an arranged marriage, which she refuses and their relationship still goes the same way it did in season 3. Except, I'm having them meet during my Sirenix story line because that season would be about Layla, due to it being water themed. He still went by a disguised name, Ophir before revealing his true identity once they fell in love. So I'm giving true respect to the Sorcerer of Healing and Illusions.

And now for Brandon and Helia's Believix!

Just like the girls, Brandon and Helia are getting Believix and Enchantix forms. For the Believix forms I took inspiration from @teawithlemonacid, who did some fanart of The Specialists as fairies. I did make some adjustments of my own but still did take inspiration from that artist, so credit where credit is due. As I said when I did the girls with their Believix, the way they earn their Believix is pretty much the same way they earned their Charmix in season 2. They have to believe in themselves and overcome a personal struggle. I also took liberties with the Believix aesthetic because of how I want the fairy looks to be more timeless rather than dated-looking.

Brandon's Believix

For Brandon's design, I gave him a new hairstyle because if the girls get new hairstyles for each new fairy form, so do the boys. I gave him Nex's hair, apart from those dumb looking sideburns. I embroidered some stoned onto his outfit because of how he's the fairy of geodes. Since I also decided to have his race be Middle Eastern, I decided to incorporate some of that into his look as well. I gave him some curled toed shoes and some Middle Eastern inspired accessories. That was hard because of how most Middle Eastern jewelry are women's jewelry. I gave him Tecna's Mythix wings because they just really suit him for some reason. As for how he earned his Believix, well he had to overcome some hidden resentment he had for Sky that was starting to show during a trust exercise. He resented that he had to put his life on the line for Sky ever since they were kids. That really effects a child when they are having their lives in danger in order to protect someone else. Yes, Brandon did agree to do it in order to protect his friend but he also knew that if he didn't do it that he and his parents would be in trouble with the King and Queen. Sky's parents didn't really show much concern for Brandon's safety and that caused more resentment because Sky didn't really say anything to his parents about their poor treatment of his friend. Sky could tell something was up and it was only when Brandon stopped bottling up his feelings that things started to get better. It was emotional and difficult but Brandon felt better when he finally let it all out. It was then that he earned his Believix.

Helia's Enchantix

homeworldHelia's Believix was A LOT of fun to do. I loved getting to have his hair loose because it looks amazing. I didn't make too many changes to the outfit I modeled this after. I love how the gold has a paint-like feel to it. It really adds to his powers being art based. I used Flora's prototype Bloomix wings for his Believix wings because they just seemed to suit him. I also had the magic coming from his hand looking even bigger and more powerful than it was during his Magic Winx form. The way he earns his Believix was different from how others earned their Believix. instead of mainly being an emotional struggle, it was also a physical struggle because he had to overcome his passive nature. He has a lot of power but he holds himself back because of an accident that happened when he was a kid. Because he didn't restrain himself, a friend of his got badly hurt. The friend lived but his parents wouldn't allow him to be friends with Helia anymore. After that, Helia kept to himself, chose not to be aggressive, and wouldn't live up to his true abilities because of that accident. His grandfather, Saladin (The headmaster at Red Fountain), has been trying to break him out of it and live up to his true potential. It was only when his friends, specifically Flora, were in danger that he finally overcame his passive nature and started using his full power. This caused him to earn his Believix.

And finally for Helia and Brandon's Enchantix

We have come to Helia and Brandon's final transformations, Enchantix. Just like the girls, they must earn theirs by saving someone from their homeworld by making a big sacrifice. The boys were hard to do, due to how there wasn't really anything for me to go off of. However, I think I managed to do a pretty good job. I also wanted to have them be in revealing outfits just like the girls. I mean, fair is fair, after all. Let me know what you think.

Helia's Enchantix

For Helia, I wanted to do something that had an Asian influence to it that also showed his art powers being influenced. I gave him something that was very flowing to go with his sensitive and feminine personality while also having a rainbow theme to go with his powers. I didn't use the colors of the rainbow because I didn't want him to just look like a Pride themed look, which ended up looking awkward and busy when I first attempted it. So I limited the colors to the ones in his wings to make it look better. I still wanted to include his two main colors, salmon pink and gold while still making the rainbow colors pop. I went with a very Asian inspired hairstyle, which actually shows both of his eyes. The eye that is usually covered is actually blind, which goes with the childhood backstory I gave him that helped him earn his Believix, which will also play a part in earning his Enchantix, which I will get to in a little bit. I felt it would show him embracing himself while also showing the Asian culture. I took some liberties with the jewelry because of how most jewelry is meant for women, which is why most male looks are boring. I tried to butch up his shoes to make them look less girly and making the gems resemble a paintbrush. For his wings, I used Stella's Mythix wings because they look like a rainbow, which really suits Helia. I made his powers in his hand the biggest and strongest they've looked out of all his fairy forms. As for how he earns his Enchantix, I had him save his old childhood friend, who Helia had accidentally caused to become permanently blind because of his powers, which also caused Helia to become blind in his right eye. He had seen him but was avoiding him because of his guilt, despite his old friend trying to reach out to him during this time. He saves his old friend from an avalanche that was caused by The Trix, specifically Stormy. Helia not only almost died but his wings were crushed, so he wouldn't be able to fly. He said that he lost his friend once because of something he did and wasn't going to lose his friend again when he could do something about it. However, it was due to this sacrifice that he was able to earn his Enchantix and gain a new and MUCH stronger pair of wings. Not only that, but he had his old friend back after all this time. Helia apologized for what he did to his friend when they were kids, but his friend forgave him and said he missed Helia.

Brandon's Enchantix

Brandon's Enchantix was even more difficult than Helia's because of how Brandon's not as feminine as Helia. I took some inspiration from Tynix because of how Brandon's powers are related to geodes. I made his vest and best/waist thing look like diamonds. I even incorporated gems into his sash. I took major liberties with jewelry because Middle Eastern (Which is the race I decided Brandon is) jewelry is very limited in jewelry for men, at least from the google search I did. I love the one sleeve look I gave him with his emerald vest/armor. I even gave him some gems on the bottom of his pants. I gave him very Aladdin looking pants, only without the crotch being so low lol. I gave him the hairstyle of the character Thoren from Winx Club and Stella's Tynix wings. The way he earns his Enchantix was by saving Sky from being eaten by one of Valtor's minions, causing Brandon to be eaten instead. This cause Brandon to earn his Enchantix and his powers were enhanced to where he could destroy the creature from the inside. This earned him not only his Enchantix, but also finally getting respect from Sky's parents, who, AT LAST, apologize for how they treated him. Yeah, this is simple but you get the point.

ENJOY!

Credit for the character bases goes to SelenaEde, Credit for the backgrounds goes to SparxGuardian, credit for Helia's Believix wings goes to darkfairyofmadness, and credit for the Enchantix wings and Brandon's Believix wings goes to AstralBlu. All of whom are on DeviantArt.

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pvffinsdaisies · 3 years

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aph Norway, professional singer au headcanons

Lukas somehow manages to be both an amazing vocalist and a formidable lyricist at the same time. He himself is pretty humble but his fans brag about both of these qualities all the time

His songs tend to be quite challenging and pretty demanding to sing, he’s usually completely fine with performing them though there has been times he’s lip synced (usually bc of a sickness of some kind). he’s open about having lip synced before but unfortunately it has meant he’s lost some respect as a singer

Lukas’ songs tell a story, all usually different but there are a few songs that lead off from one another and it’s one continuing story throughout all his albums. there are even theories online predicting where he’s taking said story

His sound is very unique, and he himself will openly say he’d rather not be defined as a type of genre. despite that it’s generally agreed to be somewhere on the rock spectrum.

He plays all the instruments you hear on the album himself- he’s very independent in terms of most areas of his work. however the only instrument he tends to play live himself is his iconic blue and black 7 string electric violin. he absolutely destroys it every time.

Norway is a countertenor, but he’s easily able to hit soprano notes and whilst it is a little harder for him, has the ability to go far lower than he necessarily should be able to.

that being said it’s very clear at the start of his career he was shy to show off his high voice, his first album his voice was basically as low as he could make it. over time his confidence grew to the point he’s more than comfortable with his actual voice and many of his songs flaunt his ability to hit high note and his flawless falsetto and head voice

in some of his most recent songs he has hit whistle notes, but he prefers to dodge them live because they’re not the most supported at the moment and he’s still a little scared to actually hit them in general even on album tracks

he tends to collaborate most often with Finland as their styles are easiest to match together. not only do their voices harmonise beautifully, finland sounds hauntingly perfect on top of norway’s violin. whenever they perform live together it’s a t r e a t.

in terms of appearance and image, nor cares very little about gender stereotypes and actually is more often seen in skirts than in trousers. some kinda rock look going on, a lot of blacks, whites and darker blues and purples. he has a signature black and white sailor hat which he is seemingly always wearing- even just in interviews and such- no one really knows why he hears it but for the longest time everyone assumed his curl was connected to it via a very thin wire. that was proved to be incorrect when he looks his hat off at the end of a performance once and placed it on one of the band members and the curl didn’t move.

his fans will often turn up to concerts and live events with their own versions of his sailor hat and their own fake curls usually connected to the hats

he tends to walk around and pace a lot in his performances, and when he isn’t holding his violin he’s clutching his microphone with one hand whilst the other runs around freely in the air making lots of hand gestures and movements

he prefers if the music videos match up to the story of the song, and often takes a bit of control in terms of directing too. he’s also in charge of the costuming himself. he takes his brand and image very seriously and refuses to let anyone mess with it. if the image ever slips it’s because he’s chosen for it to happen, and usually for a reason.

norwegian folklore plays a big part in his image.

he generally tends to sing and write in english, but there are a fair amount of norwegian songs too. it really all depends on language he personally thinks will tell the story better. the music videos will always have translations to either english or norwegian in them too.

he debated the stage name “Sigurd Fjor” for quite a while before quickly deciding to just go with “Lukas”. he still sometimes regrets not using the stage name but he doesn’t mind using his real name either.

Lukas has only ever written one personal song, and it was actually in danish rather than norwegian. it was a love song, telling his own story of how hard it’s been for him to accept his feelings towards this mystery woman and how scary and frightening it was- and still is- but the song ends peacefully to show his own comfort with her and how happy is he is to have her. the song is titled “og jeg elsker dig” (and i love you) and is one of the most complex songs to both play and sing out of his entire catalog but is also seen as perhaps his most touching song. he revealed in an interview the song is in danish bc it’s one of the languages he associates with his lover that he himself is also able to speak. (the mystery girl is my Faroe Islands oc bc i’m a sucker for them)

Lukas’ musical talent is unmatched, and it’s clear he absolutely adores what he’s doing, he has a very devoted fan base who he absolutely adores. he often supports plenty new and upcoming artists on his social media platforms.

Lukas has won awards before, i would say at least two. like previously mentioned, he has still managed to remain humble and sweet.

#hetalia #hws nordics #aph nordics #aph norway #hws norway

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cowboycassini · 3 years

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Partners

Chapter Three

Rating: soft M

Characters: Jotopa Kaid, Toby

Warnings/Tags: mutual pining intensifies even more, clone culture, talk of being abandoned, force fuckery

Summary: Anakin Skywalker calls up his friend and fellow Knight Jotopa Kaid to go "on a little mission" with clone captain Toby and basically ruins their lives.

Word Count: about 6k

Chapter One, Chapter Two

---Mission Continues---

First day of officer training, and he was a wreck. Of his batch, only himself and Pyro were selected for commissions. The rest, Joker, Checkmate, Lucky, Kit, Snow, Blue, all showing exceptional promise, had gone into their own specialized training regiments. Toby (still then called Worrier) and Pyro also had their specializations, but heaped on top was the added burden of command.

The young man Jotopa watched did not think he was cut out for the job.

This was a memory of a dream. A dream of a memory. She remembered it as vividly as she had then and was as helpless to stop herself from sinking into him as she had been then. Jotopa did not recognize this exact instance, but there were so many; it would have been impossible to remember them all.

Worrier at this age was long and lanky, his limbs this side of gangly as muscles began to fill in the spaces between his stretch-marked skin and bones. His hair was regulation cut, a wisp of beard and mustache attempting to play around his jaw and lip at this late hour. The day must have been a particularly stressful one: the honey brown of his eyes was hooded and downcast, an expression she learned to recognize as anxiety and unhappiness. A shock of sympathy rushed through her, and not for the first time, she wished for the ability to pull the young man into her arms, to comfort and soothe.

His younger brother Pyro had an arm draped around his hunched shoulders, soulful dark eyes tired and pinched with worry. They leaned into each other, their curly heads touching, one drawing strength from the other and sending it back just as effortlessly as breathing.

“It’ll be alright, ori’vod. We’ll be alright. Don’t worry. You can do this: I know you can,” Pyro was murmuring soothingly, a familiar refrain that had taken on the cadence of a lullaby and often lulled Jotopa to sleep when she was wakeful. Worrier’s mouth twisted, head dipping before he shrugged out of his brother’s embrace. Pyro’s shock lanced through him, crackling across his skin like a bolt from a training blaster to the chest. Worrier grimaced, tugged Pyro down to lay side by side on his bunk.

“You’re right, vod’ika, of course y’are. I can do this.” He said, forcing levity and assurance in his voice when he felt none, when there was none. He couldn’t do this, not under his own strength, but for Pyro, he would.

Jotopa slowly opened her eyes, the ever-present sound of rain still ringing in her ears even as the cacophony of the rainforest raced to replace it. She breathed out, slowly, deeply, took stock of her surroundings. Cassios-7. Beneath the starboard wing of her powerless ship in the makeshift camp set up by clone Captain Toby. A bedroll surrounded by netting infested with bugs. Most of note, the man curled around her, face nestled in the space between her shoulder and the back of her neck, not quite snoring. She swallowed and decided to focus on the pair of fox-like creatures moving across the tree line opposite her. She thought they must be going for the stream hidden not six paces into the dense thicket. Four days ago, she and the man who had his muscled arm draped across her middle found it as they had scouted out the immediate area around their ship and camp. She truly had not pegged him for a cuddler, and every night since the first morning she awoke cradled in his arms, she was somehow more surprised than the night preceding.

Her lips twitched up as she remembered the exasperation that flickered over his handsome face and through his Force signature when she told him she could sense the water was safe to drink. He had squatted down, the sunlight dappling attractively over his bare shoulders, and pulled out the water sampling kit. Eyebrow raised in unabashed challenge, he had asked if she didn’t mind if he double-checked, and she didn’t think she did the best job of concealing her immense amusement as she agreed that it was best he do so.

Hard to believe he was the same person from her dreams. Jotopa pulled her upper lip into her mouth, worried it with her teeth as a frown knit the space between her eyebrows. It didn’t make sense, she thought as she absently ran her palm up the captain’s warm forearm, eyes still carefully following the fox duo. The pair were a sleek sapphire, their tails bushy, their undercoats a lush emerald. Though not as long-limbed as Loth cats, something about the way they moved, about the glint around those dainty ink-black paws, convinced Jotopa that they were several orders of magnitude more dangerous. Her captain was much the same, Jotopa concluded as, with a deft leap, one of the agile blue and green foxes snatched a bird out of the sky.

With a sigh of regret, she slipped out of the warm shelter of his arms and stood to stretch. Her eyes were drawn to the sleeping man at her feet, sweeping her eyes over him briefly as she thought about the day ahead. Though the past four days had seen them very busy, Jotopa couldn’t help but feel slightly impatient. The jungle was dense, and both she and her captain well knew the dangers of setting off without having a game plan or without having any navigational methods or bearings to help them should they get lost. She thought she was doing a good job of keeping her desire to leave the confines of the camp to herself. It couldn’t be said that she did not enjoy Toby’s company. The opposite was true: she enjoyed his company too much. Watching him as he went about his self-appointed duties, the play of light and movement of muscle beneath his sweat-slicked skin quickly established itself as her favorite hobby. Jotopa did her best not to indulge, but his smiles often drew her helplessly in, little gifts he gave generously, and she was addicted to the way his eyes lit in surprise and pleasure when she did something he supposed out of the ordinary.

But all of that fueled her conviction that they leave this place as soon as possible, so when she could tear her eyes from him, she found herself pacing the edges of the tree line, waiting for her captain to finish his preparations. The coil of tension that burned hot in her navel each time Toby set eyes on her form turned into a restless energy that she was eager to put to use in the jungle. If she were able, Jotopa would gather every atom of frustration into her legs and leap over the treetops and directly to the top of the spire. But she would wait for him. She would wait for him to be ready.

As all their usual navigation methods were unavailable, they were forced to fall back on more primitive means. It was something they were both well versed in, and even luckier for them both, that Captain Toby, being a scout, was especially suited. Jotopa smiled at the sleeping clone captain, let herself admire his plush lips framed by beard stubble, the broad set of his shoulders, and the groove of muscles cut into his abdomen in the predawn light. Just visible above where the waistband of his blacks slung low across his hips, she could just barely make out streaking bands of stretch marks, the dark trail of hair that had its origin at his belly button, and she clenched her fingers to dispel the desire to reach down and touch them. There were things to do, and she needed to do them before he caught her gawking at him.

Jotopa silently slipped out of the netting, noting as she did that the foxes were gone, and the only evidence of their presence was the bloody remains of their breakfast just barely visible in the tall grass. A soft laugh escaped her, and she shook her head and made for the center of the clearing, where it was quickly becoming her habit to perform her morning stretching and katas before Captain Toby woke.

Face turned towards the sun, Jotopa spread her arms wide and simply listened to the world around her for a long moment. Master D’Aleric always said that a Jedi’s first duty was to the Force and that no Jedi worth his or her salt was ever remiss in taking the first minutes of the day in grounding themselves as deeply as they could in its presence. Jotopa took his lessons to heart, and for her, on Cassios-7, that meant greeting the sun as it crested the horizon and began to peek between the tangle of tree trunks shyly.

The sunlight was warm on already warm skin as she slowly dropped her arms. On her shoulders, her leather vest sat uncomfortably, and Jotopa, tired and irritated already from wearing it in the unrelenting heat and fearing to chafe if she continued, shed it with little thought. Feeling much cooler without the stifling weight of her vest, Jotopa quickly fell into her first form and, mind clear, allowed herself to think about the dream she’d had.

For nearly half her life, her dreams and idle imaginings had been haunted by images and scenes of a life for which she had no reference but of which she was sure was real. Worrier and his brothers were sometimes more real to her than the memories of her fellow younglings in the creche. When sadness threatened, when self-doubt tapped at her ragged shields with poison-tipped claws, she was as likely to ground herself by humming batch songs and snatches of cadence she picked up in her dreams as she was the songs of her covert or the techniques taught to her by Master D’Aleric. Without ever having spoken to him, he saved her life more times than he could ever know.

But it was one thing to know, in a distant way, that you were connected to someone. It was alright when the longing to see him face to face was an ache in her chest that she knew could never be satisfied. How could she fulfill that desire when she knew nothing of him besides his name and number, besides the fact that he was one unforgettable face lost among a sea of identical faces? It was an impossible dream. And it was safe. The longing she felt. The desire that grew with the long years, her feelings and regard for a man she was so certain she would never, ever in her lifetime meet. A Sentinel could not afford to dwell on what could never be, and Jotopa strove to be the best in her generation. The darkness was growing, and even though every dream, every glimpse of his face filled her with light, she couldn’t afford to falter, not when there was so much work left undone.

Jotopa grappled with the shock of Worrier as she often saw him in her dreams and Toby as he was now. The reality of it. The way everything about him was even more overwhelming than in her dreams. For so long, she had only known him by the name his fellow cadets had given him. It burned, it clawed at her insides when the Council disseminated the alert, and she was finally able to provide a proper label for her honey-eyed Worrier: clone trooper. Slave soldier. Born to die in service to the Republic. And the Jedi were the ones chosen to lead them to their deaths. It grated. It grated in a way, Jotopa couldn’t wholly attribute to her morals.

Often, she wanted to reach out for him and stopped herself. Since the war began, she dreamed of him less. His mind was often out of her reach, and she hated how much that worried her. But worse was the crippling relief every time she felt his mind return from whatever deep levels of unconsciousness from which it had been trapped and reach out towards her. It wasn’t fair, but then, she thought as she swiftly moved from the easier katas and into the more intensive forms, life didn’t promise fairness. Her fault for getting attached to a man she wholly couldn’t have. That he was safe was important. That she had an opportunity to spend time with him, to admi- (study, she corrected herself hastily, sternly, cursing when her concentration broke, and she flubbed her backflip).

She landed as gracefully as she could and rubbed her temples in irritation. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and seconds later, the sounds of Toby shifting as he woke reached her. Jotopa sucked her teeth, stomping off towards the tree line. She needed a stick to run through her katas. That would help her concentrate, she decided firmly. And worst-case scenario, she could beat herself to death with it.

—

A week back in the welcoming bosom of the Jedi Temple was enough to convince Jotopa that she did not belong here anymore. The man who called himself her Master was kind enough to show her to their old suite of rooms. He’d maintained them all these years, and the fact that he one day intended to come to collect her like a suit left overlong at the dry cleaner’s hung heavy in every breath of recycled air she pulled into her lungs.

The young woman that the young cadet, once known as Worrier but now called Toby, watched was a stranger in her own home. This was a familiar dream. A well-trod memory. The dimensions of these rooms were as familiar to him as his sleeping tube on Kamino. He thought she must often think of it, like picking at a scab until it formed a scar that she in turn was unable to leave off.

Sometimes, she remembered her room best, the moment she walked in and saw that everything had been left just as it was when she left it years ago. She would touch the desk, run a nail-bitten finger through the fine layer of dust, a thick feeling rising in her throat and hurting her so much the echo of it resonated in his skin and bones when he woke. At times, she would linger in the kitchen; eyes fixed on objects he didn’t know the purpose of.

But today was different. Today, she went down the road less traveled. Today, she spoke to her Master.

D’Aleric was always on the couch, waiting for her. The Chiss Jedi Master was friendly, kind, and compassionate. Tousled, close-cropped hair. Warm, bone-crushing hugs that never failed to make her feel safe and wanted. Robes that smelled of home. That was the Master D’Aleric young Kadijah knew. That was the Master D’Aleric who sat waiting patiently for Jotopa Kaid. When they alighted upon her, his crimson eyes were sympathetic, as if she had disappointed him somehow, and it galled Toby every time that it seemed as if she agreed with the assessment. If he were able, he would gather her up and protect her from the honeyed poison of her Master’s soft gaze.

“Come sit, my dear. Let us review the basics.”

Pack rubbing a blister on his naked back and feeling more vulnerable than he had since the first time he jumped, with nothing but his blacks and a breather clamped between clenched teeth, into the raging Kaminoan sea, Toby followed Jotopa as she slowly picked a path through the dense jungle.

If Joker could see him now, even he, who never heard a joke that could crack the impenetrable fortress of his face, would be doubled over in laughter at his predicament. Many were the nights that Pyro and Checkmate crawled into his tube, the three of them passing snippets of bawdy one-liners they’d picked up from other batches and squads between each other, weaving them into ridiculous stories and jokes that made even Snow pause, and there was hardly anything that could put him off his dinner.

How many times had Joker told the three of them, and him especially, that if they spent less time karking around, maybe they’d know the regs frontways and backways like he did, eh?

Well, tell a guy something enough, and it finally gets through his thick head. His batchers would be proud. Four days had come and gone since their arrival on Cassios-7, and Toby had not spent the time idle. Since his hardy little Jetii woke the day after their crash landing, he made it his business to learn the immediate area around them like the back of his hand. It was vital for him to have an excellent working knowledge of his surroundings. With so many unknowns about their circumstances and with so much of their equipment currently inoperable, his Knight would be depending on him to know what to do and where to go at all times.

So it was with surprise and no small amount of pleasure when on the second full day of their stranding, she joined him in familiarizing herself with the lay of the land. She was skilled, nearly as proficient as he was in many tasks. The little beauty could count paces and subtly make landmarks with the best of his vode, better than some. The thought didn’t rankle. There was a familiarity about her actions that he couldn’t quite figure out, something about her besides her staggering beauty that drew him up short time and again. But that was fine. Patience was instilled in him by the finest trainers in the galaxy. Sooner or later, it would come to him. What was bothersome was her casual dependence, her easy confidence in the Force, and if he caught himself challenging her assumptions here and there just to see her dark eyes narrow or the quick upturn of her plush lips, well, that was his business.

Knight Kaid. Jotopa. She wanted him to call her Jotopa. Jotopa. Jotopa.

Jotopa was a ball of impatient energy. It became clear to him early on that she was content with a more rudimentary setup than he was. Though he supposed with a derisive snort, if he had some mystical power to depend upon, he would be too. Given how much she seemed to enjoy pressing him on more trivial matters, Toby expected a struggle when he cautiously broached the subject of pausing for a few days in their camp. But she surprised him again, looking up at him with an earnest expression in her lovely brown eyes, listening to his argument with a focus that made his skin feel hot, and then agreeing so readily he later questioned why he even brought it up. The way she looked at him when she said she trusted him to know when it was time to go still made his heart thud painfully in his chest. Despite the resolution he made then and there to stay as far away from her as possible, Toby nevertheless found himself gravitating to her side by the time the sun was setting.

Despite herself, by the third day, she was pacing the bounds of the camp, her eyes scanning the sky, her hands on her shapely hips, head tilted towards the barely visible Temple spire as if she could summon the artifact to her side through sheer will alone. Toby spent many unproductive hours hidden away in high vantage points watching her. Jotopa was up even earlier than he was, but he often woke in time to watch her doing her stretches and her exercises. He would lay, sleepy and still, and admire the graceful movements of her body, so much different than any Jetiise he had ever seen before. Later in the day, he would contrast her early morning serenity with the way she delicately balanced on the balls of her feet, looking like she would sprint off into the jungle at any moment. It was a curious thing that the only reason she did not was that he asked it of her.

But regardless of how much different she was from other Jetiise, despite how she made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to be feeling, Toby figured she was still just a Jetii. He knew how to deal with those.

Joker would most definitely be laughing his ass off at his big brother Worrier right now.

In his defense, she caught him off guard: hers were the first pair of breasts he had ever seen (not that the fact made him any less certain they were the most perfect and well-formed in the entire galaxy). And it was morning. He hadn’t even had his ration bar yet, for Prime’s sake! It wasn’t like he’d never seen breasts before; he’d gotten the same thorough sex education and anatomy flash training as every other cadet. And even if he didn’t spend nearly all of his conscious hours on missions, he was sure he wouldn't spend his time as some of his vode did, trawling the clone intranet looking at all the illegal porn there was available; there were always more entertaining things to do than that. But even if he had, nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight of her practically half-naked. He’d gawked at her like a dumb shiny, not sure what he should look at more: those parted full lips, her breasts in that ridiculous mesh top, those abs, those toned abs, or the alluring flare of her hips, aware in a profound way that the true answer was that he shouldn’t look at any of it.

Hard not to remember the way her dark areolas had tightened into tight little buds the longer he stared at her, thrusting so enticingly through her top that even now, his mouth watered. He was absolutely, miserably sure her skin was the softest thing he would never be allowed to touch and try as he might; Toby couldn’t figure where this conviction came from. At some point, she licked her lips (a move he followed with incredible attention) and asked him what his plans were for the day. He mentally thanked her for being precise. Maker only knew what might have come out of his mouth if she had been a little vaguer. Instead, through the rush of blood heading towards his groin, he’d told her that he was ready to make an attempt on the Temple. A lie, that. But one he would take to his grave.

If he thought about it, Toby knew he could easily recall innumerable situations that were much worse than this. Trekking through the jungle half-naked with only a knife to defend himself didn’t even touch his top twenty shitlist. Was it hot as fuck? Yes, even in halfsies, he was sweating his balls off, and even though every glimpse of her skin did nothing but reroute precious blood from his brain, Toby knew shedding the leather vest was the wiser decision. Was it noisy? Yes, loud as fuck, but it was nothing compared to 79’s when the Wolfpack rolled in fresh from a victory or in the Guard barracks that time Hound got ahold of contraband whiskey. And none of it so loud as cannons firing. He wasn’t the biggest fan of being without blasters and rifle, but Toby wouldn’t count himself an ARC trooper of any worth if he couldn’t adapt to that little handicap. Oh, and the biggest kicker: had he worked with worse Jetiise before? That was a resounding fuck, yes. He might have only known Jotopa Kaid for four and a half days, but in that time, she’d shown herself to have more honor, compassion, and grit than any Jetiise he’d ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on.

Just ahead of him, she stopped and crouched beside the trunk of a tree whose outstretched branches drooped with long, wispy vines. Carefully, Toby settled in next to her. The trees surrounding them created a thick canopy that obscured the sky, and the occasional shafts of light that pierced the quiet gloom were of indeterminate quality and impossible to tell time with. Among the trees, the air was hot and still, and at first, he wondered why his Jetii decided to break at this tree, but then he felt the slightest hint of a breeze cooling the sweat on his skin and picked up the faint movement of the draping vines. In the low light, their matching grins shone.

“I thought I sensed this break in the trees about a kilometer back, but I wanted to confirm,” she whispered. Toby tilted his head.

“How could you sense a change like that, sir?” He asked, curious despite himself. Though her expression remained the same, Toby was suddenly convinced she was self-conscious. She laughed softly, shrugging.

“The density of the Living Force changes in a clearing. It doesn’t empty, of course, because a clearing isn’t devoid of life, but it’s a different quality, you could say.” She cut her eyes away, cupped her elbows in her hands. “It was a hunch, anyway.”

Carefully, Toby parted the curtain of vines. “It was a good hunch, Jo,” he said as he looked out onto the clearing, taking note of the position of the sun and estimating that it was mid-morning. “The spire looks even closer from here.” At her indrawn breath, he looked back at her, only to find her staring at him open-mouthed.

“Sir? Are you alright?” He asked even as he shifted his position to check her for injuries. It hadn’t sounded like a noise of pain, but it couldn’t hurt to be sure, especially when they had limited medical supplies. She gently caught his hands in hers, halting his inspection.

“I’m alright, Toby,” she said, making a face. Toby cocked his head, eyebrows furrowing at this entirely new expression. A tendril of worry curled in his stomach, and he quickly reviewed their conversation, trying to locate his error so he could improve and she would smile at him again.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asked when he drew a blank, and he tried to keep the anxiety out of his tone, choosing instead to stroke the pad of one thumb across the palm of her hand. Her’s were much softer than his by far, but even still, he felt the gun calluses on her fingers, felt the way work had toughened the skin. He didn’t need to take his gloves off for that: she often touched him on his arm and shoulder enough to sear her touch into his memory.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said vehemently, wresting one hand from him so she could rest it on his chest above his heart. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. You surprised me, is all.” The knot in his stomach loosened, a lazy warmth spreading through his chest at her touch.

“I surprised you?” He asked with a raised eyebrow. She smiled, all teasing eyes and bright teeth, and the anxious knot dissolved completely. When she moved to slide past him and enter the clearing, he let her.

“You often do, Captain. It’s part of why I like you so much.” She threw over her shoulder, and Toby rolled his eyes, glad neither that she nor his batch brothers could see his dopey grin.

---

By late afternoon, Jotopa decided that either they were lost or something was afoot. The spire that seemed so close in the meadow at mid-morning break was not closer for all their walking. Several times over the hours, she or Toby would stop and carefully climb to the top of a tree and regain their bearings, assure themselves they had not gotten lost or were going in circles. Each time they confirmed the same facts: they were on the correct heading, and the Temple looked to be no more than a kilometer or two away.

And yet, the sun was beginning to tilt downwards, and they were no closer to the Temple than they were that morning.

Honestly, she should have noticed sooner. Any other mission, any other time, Jotopa knew she would have, but ever since her encounter with Toby in camp before they set off, her concentration had been...scattered.

A more mature Jedi would have already brushed the incident off. The entire thing wouldn’t have even been rated as being anything of note. What did it matter, someone like Master D’Aleric or Master Lidan would have reasoned, that her clone trooper was attracted to her? The galaxy was teeming with life and full of possibilities. Was she so immature as to think that she was immune to being looked at, and was she so weak that she couldn’t simply shrug it off, release what discomfort she might feel from his interest into the Force, and focus her attention on the task at hand? She was a Sentinel, a Jedi who lived among the people and the shadows and brought light to them. Discomfort was as much a part of her day-to-day as eating and drinking.

It was only that his interest didn’t make her uncomfortable. It scared her, but only because she had convinced herself that what she felt was internal and limited to her own foolishness. So to be frozen on the spot, heart in her throat, while he looked at her with an expression that was so nakedly hungry, she would have known exactly what he wanted even if his Force signature wasn’t a billowing swirl of desire and frustration. It made thinking difficult. Certainly, Jotopa didn’t think she could be faulted for that, but even so, she was supposed to be better than this. She expected better of herself than this.

With a soft sigh, the young Sentinel looked out of the corner of her eye at her companion. The armor he had worn when departing the Resolute reminded her in many ways of the armor members of her covert wore, and she supposed that made sense. He and all his vode were clones of the Mandalorian Jango Fett, and the irony of that was not lost to her. His pauldron, helmet, and chest plates had bolstered his aura of lethality. Looking at him now, with only his vambraces and gauntlets on, the calm, watchful expression on his face as they picked their way through the undergrowth, the careful way he marked trees as they went, Jotopa decided he looked more dangerous and more natural, like this.

When they broke through a tangle of trees and found themselves in a small copse, Jotopa called for a break.

“We’re not going in circles, but we’re not making any progress,” Toby said, getting straight to the point as he rummaged through their pack and tossed her water and a ration bar. Jotopa smiled around her swig of water. There was a tree, larger than all the others and twice as wide, its bark peeling in long grey strips, whose roots pushed out of the rich black soil and created a small depression of moss and leaves. Jotopa dropped her hands to her belt, intending to use her kama as a makeshift blanket. Behind her, Toby made a choked noise.

“A-Ah, let me,” he said, and in a few practiced motions, his kama was drawn from his hips and draped across the depression. Jotopa blinked.

“Oh. Thank you.” She said, gingerly sitting. His kama was made of pliable synth leather, the black painted with thick blue stripes. There were faint scratches in the material and what she recognized as blaster burns that had been lovingly cleaned and repaired. In the Force, the kama sang with his signature. Jotopa smiled softly and looked up to where Toby had taken a seat on a root to her left.

“So,” Toby started, rolling his water bottle between his hands, a pensive look on his sweaty face, “how is it that we’ve been walking through this jungle all day, and we’re no closer to the temple than when we started?”

Jotopa shrugged.

“It’s probably some Force osik. It usually is, in my experience.” She said casually, reaching out to pluck a large pink blossom and study it. It was large, requiring two hands to hold it, the petals rich and shot through with deep blue veins. The stamens pulsed purple in the dappled light above. Toby made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. She thought it might have been a mix of disbelief and irritation. Jotops hid her smile behind the flower.

“Sir, you don’t even know what that,” he pulled in a deep breath and seemed to reevaluate himself. When he continued, his tone was more level but no less skeptical, “Force osik, huh? An astute observation.”

“Hmm, I know. It’s almost like we’re on a planet steeped in Force energy, and our mission was to retrieve a powerful artifact of unknown power.” She said dryly.

“Point taken,” he said with a chuckle, and she ducked her head, unwilling to let him see how much his laugh affected her. It wasn’t fair how much she liked him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

“Where did you learn Mando’a?” He eventually asked in a tentative tone. Jotopa smiled down at the flower in her lap, stroked the soft petals between her fingers.

“My mother taught me. I’m a foundling.” She said and felt his confusion roll over her skin even before he voiced his question.

“A foundling? But,” he trailed off at her self-deprecating laugh, and she did not see the frown on his face, lost as she now was in her memories.

“It’s a little confusing, I know. When I was thirteen, my Master traded me for intel. It was the right thing to do: he saved an entire village of children with what he learned. I was given to a Mandalorian who adopted me, and I threw myself completely into that life. Until my Master returned for me three or so years later.”

The copse was still amongst the shrieking of the birds. Jotopa could hear him shifting, feel his confusion and an undercurrent of some emotion that ran too fast for her to grasp or understand.

“He gave you away, and you went back with him. Why?” His incredulous, angry tone made her laugh. The answer was so obvious.

“The Force, of course. It told me that if I became a Jedi, I would find something extraordinary.”

He furrowed his brow.

“Did you?” She looked up at him, smiled softly.

“Yes. I did.”

He huffed, feeling his face heat at her earnest expression. When she looked at him like that, he was never sure what to do, and it didn’t help that her story was too much like his dreams for comfort. Bad enough that it made his blood simmer in his dreams; in person, he was nearly boiling with rage. It didn’t take a genius to see how much it hurt to be traded away like that, like something that didn’t matter, and even if she excused it or said that it was the right thing to do, Toby knew in his guts, she was wrong. She deserved better than that.

“Well, whatever it was you found, I hope it was worth it to you, Jo,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and offering to help her stand with the other. She took it with a grateful smile, and he pulled her up effortlessly.

“I think we should head back to camp. What do you think?” She asked. He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and considered a moment before nodding.

“Think so. If we’re lucky, we won’t encounter any night predators.” He said pessimistically, and she laughed.

“Looking on the bright side, I see. On the way back, would you mind telling me a little about yourself, please?” She asked, holding her arms out for the pack. He shot her an affronted look and shouldered it. Slightly put out, she checked their position and headed in the direction of the camp.

Grimacing, Toby walked behind her in silence for several minutes. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she could carry the weight, far from it, but it was just a small pack. He was used to carrying much heavier loads, and he hadn’t scratched the reserves of his stamina yet. Though she wasn’t making a big deal out of it, he could tell by the set of her shoulders and the way the air around her seemed a little dimmer that she was still upset, and that wasn’t something he wanted.

“I was in the Coruscant Guard before being assigned to General Skywalker,” he said, squinting up at the trees ahead. Her interest, of a different flavor than usual, lighter but still good, still very good, tingled over his skin. His mouth twitched up.

“Oh? What was that like?” She asked, and he didn’t know why he was surprised by how genuine the question was. It tied his tongue into knots.

“Ahh. Noisy.” He said, vastly understating the hell that was Guard service, and she giggled, which was something he liked very much. They walked in companionable silence for some distance.

“What about Anakin? Does he treat you well?” She asked just as they broke through the trees and entered their camp. The question drew Toby up short, and instead, he commented on what great time they made: the sun was still out.

“So it is. Chalk that up to more Force osik, huh?” Jotopa said teasingly. Toby nodded distractedly and let her pull him by the hand into camp.

#sw fic #sw oc #swtcw fanfic #clone trooper oc #jedi oc #star wars oc #black woman oc

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tough-bit-of-fluff · 4 years

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A Gil In The Hand Pt. 2 - A Journal of a Thousand Malms

((Read Part 1 of “A Gil In The Hand” Here))

Journal Entry 1: Hello! My name is Aly as far as you know, and this is my journal! I have asked other people (Not to name names but let’s call them Smargent and Quicktor) to keep a record of the Good Deeds They Have Performed and How That Made Them Feel. My good deeds are obviously too numerous to list, so instead, I’ll write about whatever comes into my mind, which you will quickly discover is A LOT. Also I will chronicle my journey of becoming an even more intrepid adventurer, which today has included 1) waking up (always a good start), 2) making pancakes, 3) making up a song about making pancakes, and 4) EATING DELICIOUS PANCAKES (as foretold in the newly-classic song, “I’m About To Eat Some Pancakes”). What it is ABOUT to include is Aetherial Manipulation for Targeted Relocation of Diminutive Material Objects, or my more fun title of Coinaportation!

Here’s The Backstory Part For Inquiring Readers: At a tavern one night I was trying to do a coin trick, which did not work as such BUT I accidentally turned it into a way better one where the coin like...shimmered away, and then back, plop! Into a random guy’s drink. He had no idea where it came from. Gil from the GODS! I blessed that man’s life that night, basically. Anyway Argent saw it and was like “okay so that’s weird but maybe see if you can do it on purpose I would think you are cooler than I already do which is a whole bunch and it would be way useful but not for crimes or tricks or anything, good vibes only bb” (I may be paraphrasing a little bit) and he told me to practice shimmering a coin into Victor’s pocket, so that is what I will do! I will be a prize pupil and leave an apple on his desk which will be surprising to him no doubt because he never showed me his desk. Doubly so if he didn’t have a desk before! But is it not said, that if a teacher has not a desk, it would be necessary to create one? ((A/N: No one has ever said such a thing. Until now.))

Anyway, I’m off to do the thing. Wish me luck! And pancakes!

Journal Entry 2: I found more pancakes. Which *is* pretty lucky, come to think of it. Anyway, NOW to practice Coinaportation!

Journal Entry 3) I did not inform Victor of the topic of today’s experiment, and now he thinks I’m throwing gil at him. ….oops? Accidents happen…?

Journal Entry 4) Victor said some mean and not-nice things and I got really fluffed up about it and then I DID throw gil at him. Oops. Accidents happen.

Journal Entry 5!) We made up and now Victor is helping me as best he can. Like not getting grumpy at me for teleporting a coin into his drink.

Journal Entry 9: It’s in there again.

Journal Entry 10) Sorry Victorrr!

Journal Entry 12) Do I ONLY have the ability to teleport coins into drinks? That is a very specific and messy power!

Journal Entry 14) Apparently my powers also include teleporting coins into the cat’s food. Kitty, nooo!

Journal Entry Fifteen) I needed to clear my head and regain my focus so I am teleporting myself to various picturesque locations. It’s going fine! Easy-peasy. I’m great at transporting *myself*. I enjoyed the waterwheels of Gridania, the springs of Southern Thanalan, the wine of Wineport. (I was thirsty!)

I ported into a sewer tunnel (ew!) with a too-small drain to find a lady’s lost wedding ring, and onto a roof (woo!) to rescue a little boy’s cat. I did not attempt to transport one or more gil pieces anywhere near Felone, the Purry. (That’s what the cat was named and honestly I’m jealous.) It’s important to learn from one’s mistakes.

(Journal Entry 16) I teleported straight back to Victor’s side. I could find his specific aetheric signature from a hundred malms away, and I did! There are pros and cons to this.

Pros: My confidence is way restored! I’m great at seeing magic, finding magic, aetherial travel and manipulation in ways that are not always immediately obvious but I’m figuring them out. However long it takes, I will figure out this coin trick, too. And a whole lot more along the way, I bet.

Con: Victor was in the bathtub when I ‘ported to him, so then, abruptly, I was, too. Splash! Victor takes very lukewarm-to-cool baths apparently or at least sits there spacing out long enough that they get cold so it wasn’t even warm and relaxing. Just kinda wet, though at least my shoes got cleaned? He’s just a little guy though, what if he catches his death of cold!? When I asked him, he said, and I quote, “Oh, yes. That is the most troubling aspect of this bath.”

He also said, “...what smells like sewer?”

Sorry, Victor, I don’t have time to solve your thought-provoking riddles right now - I’ve got magic to master!

#ffxiv #ffxiv rp #ffxiv characters #ffxiv stories #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv magic #miqote #journal #alyona amariyo #victor vallakovich #argent renard #catgirl #disaster cat

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edgymegatronus · 4 years

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The Pits of Kaon

The lights of the arena where always blinding. Searing white light that chiseled its way into your optic nerves, washing away any other surrounding colours so much that one may think they’re joining with the Allspark once they step out onto the ashy plain. This is purposeful, of course, for the arena was a stage for the barbaric, where the onlookers can see it’s actors, but the actors cannot gaze back at them. Once you have shuttered your optics several times and they begin to adjust, only spots of bright light decorating your vision for a short while, the arena comes heaving into view, stagnant and intimidating. Massive, beyond comprehension, the blackened jewel of Kaon. You’d have to squint to see the opposite end of the Energon-crusted pit. The steep, cold grey sides rocketed up towards the skies, the heavens where the audience sat to eagerly absorb the slaughter. Every brandish of a sword, every amputation of a limb, every scream or victory holler, every spark taken was feasted upon by those hunger bound optics. In the lower areas of the arena, closer to the action, there were boxes reserved for the higher caste aristocracy from great cities like Iacon and Vos. Above them, with a more strained view, sat the rest of the Cybertronain populous. It was never correctly calculated how many the arena could house- it depended on how tightly the lower class worker mechs packed themselves together to watch the entertainment. There was always shoving and drunkenness, fights began over the limited space and smaller mechs often simply got crushed under pede if they didn’t move fast enough. Very few actually from Kaon ever got to sit in the golden boxes, where quality high-grade Energon flowed like ground oil as its famed patrons gawked down into the pit. The atmosphere was always rancheros, the first death spelled out the kick-off for the day's events to begin. In the mornings there were petty fights. Weak slaves pitted against each other, unarmed mechs left to the mercy of some of the most vicious beasts Cybertron had to offer. This got the crowd vying to see more Energon spilled on the ashy floors of the pit. As the hilarity reached its crescendo into the afternoon, we were brought out.

Titled ‘Gladiators’, we were prime time entertainment. Romanticised as strong mechs each with some characterisation the media invalidated us with to entice the onlookers into made up rivalries between us, adding passion to the murder. Some mechs actually sank into this, and took signature moves and mottos played into their characters, worked to gain support from those oppressing them. Usually, this was the quickest way to die. The arena owners would only allow a Gladiator in the limelight for so many matches and killed them before they became too boring, and to make the audience more invested as each match progressed. They died deluded, for we were just slaves with swords. Brought from all over Cybertronain, but most commonly hailing from places like Kaon, Tarn, and Praxus. Sold off from our previous services because we were no longer needed, a better model had been introduced, rule-breaking, being damaged, or because our masters had taken a general disliking. Being sold to the arena was most times a death sentence, an execution in front of the masses. Gladiators were ones who had won their petty matches by some flailing chance of Primus, and in turn proven their metal, and therefore their worth as a mascot. We were not Gladiators.

Our namesake competed by choice, for fame or honour or glory. For a fractured misconception of what they believed to be justice or righteousness. We were slaves, forced to kill our peers, and stare them in the optics as we did, giving a good performance. Refusal meant immediate death, and showmanship was integral. Most of us only lasted a few months before losing a match and being offlined, the longest-reigning mech making it just over a year before the Arena Owners decided he had nothing left to give, no new tricks, and threw him in the pit unarmed with four Krystar Iron-Bears. Some audience members genuinely cried when he passed. But by the next week, he was replaced by a new favourite Gladiator to root for.

I was on my fifth month. My last match had been a near miss. Bad damages all over my frame, lost an arm and my sword-wielding servo was crushed. Inches over and my spark chamber would’ve known the cold of a blunted blade. My opponent was of a bigger build than me, but still new, he had chosen the name ‘Ignode’ for himself after the Arena Owners had given him a flashy new red paint job, replacing his basic menial grey. For some appalling reason, he’d made the mistake of choosing two weapons, rather than one and a shield. An underestimation, I suppose. The new Gladiators, nicknamed ‘Pickrings’ by the rest of us, often got too cocky and suffered the consequences. The day I was declared fit for fighting it was a ‘Winner stays on Tournament’ these often drew larger crowds due to the anticipation and tension aspect that was attached to them. Clearly my medical bills were going to be well paid for by this grotesque procession. The objective to continually kill, over and over, to vanquish spark after spark until eventually, you grew so weak from each consecutive battle that you could no longer hold your own – and you were killed, your deathbringer taking up the mantel and the cycle continued deep into the night while the crowds drank and laughed and indulged.

The bellowing winds that spun like a lifeless tornado around the arena whipped uncomfortably over the exposed cables on the back of my neck. The piece of armour plating that usually protected it had been lost last round and was therefore subject to the treatment of the blowing grit and ash that made a point of invading every crack and gap in plating. Everything felt too heavy, most notably my spark. I had just completed round fifteen, downed fifteen opponents, and somewhere I doubted if Primus would accept me into his loving cradle. My frame was ex-venting in long, drawn out drags. An attempt to cool my shot systems. Every inch of plating was dented or scarred, with slices and holes, faintly missing main Energon lines or mobility joints. I smiled. Before entering the arena, each slave got to choose two tools to utilise during the match. Almost classically, I wielded a long sword with some form of age old forgotten crest on the hilt. I had nicknamed it ‘The Pick’ and it occupied my right servo. To my left brandished a thick oval-shaped silver shield, decorated dashingly with chipped paint and emblems. These things were my trademark, my protection, my symbol, and my saviours.

The spotlight swung intricately around the arena floor once more towards the pit entrance. The thick metal gates opening with the same slow dramatism to reveal my newest combatant. The light fell on him, illuminating his thickset grey frame for the crowds to gawk at, tantalising their optics with the slick view. He smelt like blood and burnt circuitry. They were enraptured, seeing that I was weakening and that this new rival seemed finely built to deliver onto me the final blow, one of those agile miner types. I sized him up immediately; hazarding a guess the Arena Owner’s hadn’t expected much to come from him, only bothering to add spiked red paint under his optics and the larger areas of his expansive grey plating. His optics were stifling, staring directly at me as I stood blatantly forward with my shoulders rolled back, awaiting. We couldn’t yet commence as the Announcer hadn’t yet called for us to do so. Most Gladiators took this brief interval to entertain the crowd, picking up the bodies of mechs they’d killed and throwing them, giving grand victorious gestures and shouts with their weapons, lapping the arena, cheering. I stood still and stared, unwilling to give them any more than the battle.

“Welcoming! Megatronus of Tarn! A heavy-hitting ground-build from the Mines of Messatine! During his petty match earlier this week, Megatronus won against two fellow contestants and a Decopodian in record time! Let’s see how he will fare against our reigning Knight! May Round Sixteen Commence!”

Of course- I had viewed that match from my cell screen. Looking at him now, his crimson optics dimmed. He seemed like a mech who had slaughtered millions, not just two. He made the first step forward, revealing to me his weapons. A small, lightweight shield and a ridged axe. A very decent choice for a mech of his stature. A bow or daggers would’ve been suicide, he was too stocky to be properly dexterous with them, and he was clearly aware. A mech overtly aware of his own capabilities was inherently more dangerous than one who overestimated, or even underestimated themselves. I resumed my ‘defensive stance’ as his larger frame drew closer, each step meticulous and powerful and calculated. He was so self-assured, confident in his ability to wield and kill on his first ever Gladiator match. His EM’s were almost suffocating. I struck the first blow, my long sword firmly embedding itself between his thick shoulder plating. The weapon felt so leaden in my tired arms, each movement causing a low static to run through my circuits as they protested in earnest. My frame was tired, and my processor malcontent. The grey mech swooped his axe low and he raised his smaller shield, directing it precisely so my sword repelled off of it, the force driving my abused frame backwards – into the sharpened blade of his axe.

The Arena began to swirl maliciously as I opened my optics, my HUD showing severe damages to my left leg, and to my back spoilers which had taken the brunt of the hurt as I hit the engulfing floor of the pit. Through the static shock that vibrated through my audial, the faint crazed shouts and cheering from the crowd, layered over the Announcer speaking in a hurriedly excited tone. They were joyful in the revelation of my oncoming demise.

He stared down at me blankly, lifting the axe while calculating the weakest points to strike in my neck or spark chamber. The lights of the arena shone brighter than ever, searing into my optics as they flickered and faded.

He took his victory unlike any other, simply lifting his arms and throwing away his weapons in retribution. They hit the floor of the pit with an almighty clatter, and the crowd cheered and chanted his name, making members of the elite recoil.

#mtmte #mtmte megatron #maccadam #transformers #tfp

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yoon-kooks · 6 years

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Witch Hazel- Pt.1

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: FanficWriter!Jungkook, Idol!Reader, College!AU, Angst, Fluff

Summary: There are two students in your art class with a secret: you and the quiet Jeon Jungkook. You’re a problematic idol singer, infamous for your ice cold reputation and perpetual resting bitch face; he’s the artist and author behind the viral comic series based on a certain ice queen idol. After a blowup of destructive rumors, lost motivation and inevitable solitude, you stumble upon Jungkook’s comic and find a new and unexpected light.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: none

Parts: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // ?

A/N: after a million years, it’s finally here guys! my first jeon jungkook series :’)

“For homework this weekend, I want you all to sketch a self-portrait. It can be realistic or abstract, but just make sure it still represents you,” your professor says before dismissing class.

As you shove your sketchbook into your bag and pick up your guitar case, you hear one of your loud classmates, Kim Taehyung, talking with his friend who’s always so quiet in class that you don’t actually know what the fuck his name is. All you know is that he only ever wears oversized hoodies.

“Psst, Jungkook. Wanna draw my face for me?” Taehyung makes a flower pose with his handsome face.

“What’s in it for me?” Hoodie Boy throws his eraser at Taehyung to make him stop, perhaps out of secondhand embarrassment. You snicker silently to yourself as you pass by them to exit the room, but not before they mention something that triggers you.

“I’ll pay for your ticket tonight.”

“And tomorrow night, too, lol.”

“Bitch, I’m not even going to tomorrow’s concert.”

“Then I guess you have time to draw your own face~”

“Wait, Jungkook. I’m busy tomorrow. Really. I have a date, remember?” Taehyung is basically pleading for his life at this point, and you can’t really blame him. Out of the entire class, he’s the only other non-art major besides you, so his drawing abilities are almost as shitty as yours. “And besides, we both know you could spend five minutes on the assignment and it’ll still look better than if I spent an hour on it.”

“Fine,” Hoodie Boy sighs. “I’ll take a ticket to tonight’s concert and a signed album instead. Thanks in advance.”

“Deal… I just don’t understand how you can be so whipped for an idol like Snow. She might have a nice body and a pretty face, but her personality is the worst. Even worse than Y/N’s,” Taehyung spins around to wave at you. “Right?”

“Ew, don’t compare me to her, Tae.” You give him an unimpressed face. The boy literally talks to everyone as if they’re his friend, and it kind of pisses you off.

“But you agree she has a shitty attitude, yeah?”

You notice Hoodie Boy is keeping a close ear out for your opinion on his supposed favorite idol. He accidentally makes eye contact with you for half a second before flailing around to gather his shit into his camo backpack. Were you really that intimidating to make those around you so flustered?

“Her shitty attitude isn’t the problem,” you hum as you walk away before they can bother you some more.

When you arrive home, you only have half an hour before you have to head out again. After tossing your bag and guitar case off to the side, you slip into slightly more fashionable clothes and break out your makeup bag. A quick layering of shadows, winged liner, and falsies paired with contouring and rose lip tint is enough for you to transform out of your barefaced college kid self. With a mask and your signature icy blue lens, you leave once more.

“You’re late, again,” your manager, Kim Seokjin, only sighs as you casually walk into backstage with a nonfat latte in hand. “I’m the one who’s going to be fired if you keep showing up late for soundcheck, Y/N.”

“It’s not my fault, Jin.” You pass your latte over to your cranky manager, who’s long overdue for another caffeine fix. He takes a sip, still glaring at you. “I was held up after class by two cute boys~”

“Cute boys? Y/N, you know you’re not supposed to be-”

“I know, I know. I’m just fucking with you,” you shrug. “All they did was ask me about Snow’s shitty personality. Oh, and apparently they’re coming to the concert tonight.”

“Don’t let them recognize you.” Seokjin finally hands you back your latte after chugging down half of it.

“I’m sure they would’ve said something months ago if they recognized me in class, Jin…” No one at school knows you’re an idol. As a matter of fact, no one in the world is aware that you, Y/N, are the idol with a cold piercing gaze and an even colder personality, Snow. No one except Seokjin, of course. He’s the only one you trust enough. “Besides, taking that art class has improved my makeup disguising skills, so don’t worry~”

“Well speaking of cute boys attending your concert, there are a few other idols that’ll be coming as well, so be careful.”

“Great, because all we need is another dumb dating rumor to get out of hand.” You’ve already experienced far too many of those in your short idol career. As an idol equally looked up to as you are frowned down upon, you’re pretty much at the center of every rumor or scandal. And it fucking sucks.

“Just try to stay positive about it, and don’t put yourself in a situation that the media can take advantage of, okay?” Seokjin has a worried look in his eyes—not for his own sake, but for yours. It’s his genuine tenderness and concern for you that keep you from walking away.

“Okay…”

The concert goes as usual. There are no technical difficulties, your vocals are on point, and nothing scandalous happens on stage. But at what cost?

Fan engagement is always kept at a minimum—the most fanservice you can offer is a split second of eye contact while you’re singing. You often wonder why anyone would want to see you perform live when there’s an invisible yet obvious wall standing between the stage and the audience. Like Seokjin advised, your company is doing what they can to ensure that their loose cannon idol stays out of any potential problematic situations.

But this distance doesn’t simply go away after your concerts. If it did, you wouldn’t be known as the Ice Queen, and your personal life wouldn’t be such a mystery to everyone. And for that, you cannot even put the full blame on the strict rules of your company. A large part of you appreciates the privacy that comes with this distance. Even if it is a little selfish and unfair to those who only wish to support you and your music.

As your concert comes to a close, you’re finally given the opportunity to address the dedicated fans who came out to see your performance.

“Thank you for coming tonight.” I’m sorry if it feels like you’ve wasted your money and time.

“A lot of you might be busy with school and studying right now, but you still made time for me.” I know because I too am a student.

“That means a lot, even to an Ice Queen.” I know what my reputation is, but please remember I’m human as well. I’m really grateful even if my resting bitch face doesn’t reflect that.

“Let’s meet again next time.” Next time, I’ll try to show a better version of Snow.

“Good night, everyone. Please get home safely~” I hope I was able to make you guys smile at least a little bit.

On your way out, you do your best to avoid both the media and the crowd. If you’re quick enough, you’ll be able to make it home in peace. Tonight is not that night, however.

You don’t even get outside of the venue before you see two familiar faces from class sitting on the stairs near one of the exits: Taehyung and Hoodie Boy. This is exactly why you never take off your makeup or lens until after you’re home where you don’t have to face anyone.

Of course it’s the loud one who approaches you. Hoodie Boy stays put on the stairs and watches from afar. You give them a halfhearted wave in hopes that that’s all they want, but of course it’s not.

“My friend is a huge fan of yours, Snow,” Taehyung lowkey pointed his thumb back at Hoodie Boy. He pulled out a copy of your latest album and a black sharpie. “Of course I love your music too, but would it be alright for me to get an autograph for him? He said he didn’t want to bother you himself.”

Usually you’d refuse. Whenever people say their “friend” is a fan, you get the impression that they’re just too ashamed to identify themselves as a fan of you. Like they don’t want to be associated with the kind of idol that you are.

But you’re certain that Taehyung is telling the truth since you heard that same promise being made earlier in class. And you know how shy Hoodie Boy is. So just this once, you’ll allow it.

You take the boy’s album and pen. “What’s your friend’s name?” You want to know, not only so you could write his name out, but also so you could stop calling him Hoodie Boy.

“Taehyung,” he says in a rather hushed voice.

“Taehyung?” That asshole. You glance over at Hoodie Boy just for a second. He’s busy taking pictures on his phone—not of you, but of the now empty venue. You feel bad, but there’s not much you can do besides sign the album to “Taehyung”. As you hand back the album, an idea pops up, “May I ask what your name is?”

“Me? Uhh-” You catch Taehyung off guard. “It’s Jungkook.” The name sounds familiar to you.

You nod and pull out a spare album from your bag to sign for Jungkook. You even decide to get a little fancy and draw a cute heart next to his name, just to spite Taehyung. “Here,” you say, looking back at the real Jungkook once more, only to find that yet another unwanted visitor had appeared. In moments like this, you question your decision to become an idol despite hating the attention.

Quickly you shoo away your classmates before the media shows up. You wouldn't want there to be another “misunderstanding”. The other boy now approaching you is already more than you’d prefer.

With his bleached ash blonde hair and an expensive yet casual fashion, you recognize him as fellow idol, Park Jimin, aka Korea’s Sweetheart. If you’re the devil, he’s most certainly an angel.

You’ve never spoken to the boy, but you’ve seen him at music shows plenty of times and have even competed against him for several awards. The two of you are “rivals”, or at least that’s how the media loves to phrase it. To you, there is no such rivalry; it’s clear that Jimin is the likable one. Your name is only ever placed next to his to generate newsworthy content.

“Is it really a good idea to visit your rival at her concert?” You don’t know how else to welcome the unwelcomed idol.

“It’s always good to scout out the competition,” Jimin shrugs, going along with your unfriendly greeting. “But for real, the concert was a lot of fun.” He glows with sparkles in his eyes. You can’t deny he has the most gorgeous smile.

“I’m glad…” It’s reassuring to hear compliments, especially from a fellow idol. But at the same time, you know Korea’s Sweetheart would never say anything rude—even if he feels differently. He’s perfect, after all.

“Anyway, I heard from the boy in the black hoodie that you’re handing out free autographs?” Jimin tries to point back at Jungkook, but he and Taehyung have already vanished. “I thought you were notorious for refusing autographs?” He pokes fun at you, but not in a way that annoys you like Taehyung had.

“They were bothering me and that was the easiest way to get them to leave,” you explain in half-truth. “Should I give you one too? It’d be better for you to leave before the media shows up.”

“Only if you have a stash of albums hiding in your bag.”

“I don’t.”

“Why did you happen to have one with you?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“I’m just curious. Idols don’t just carry around their own albums like that.”

“…My friend gave it to me,” you say after a moment of hesitation. That isn’t a lie, but a vague truth.

“Your friend gave it to you as a gift, and you just gave it away to a stranger?” Jimin chuckles, amused by you for whatever reason. “Living up to your reputation as Ice Queen, huh.”

You narrow your eyes at him. You hate when other people call you that, and you hate it even more when they aren’t wrong.

“I’m just kidding, Snow.” The way he smiles while speaking is so mesmerizing that you almost forgive him. “I know you did it with good intentions. And because of that, those two boys were able to leave here with a smile.”

“Good.” Your expression softens. “Anyway, did you need something or…?”

“I just wanted to say hi before heading home,” Jimin shook his head. “But let’s hangout some time, yeah?” He waves farewell and leaves before you can properly reject him.

On your way home, however, you take the time to consider the boy’s offer again. Truthfully, it would be a nice opportunity, especially since you don’t have any friends besides Seokjin. Plus, Jimin is pretty fucking attractive in your eyes.

But the conclusion you come to remains the same. There’s no way you can say yes.

By the time you finally return home, it’s late, you’re exhausted, but you still have that self-portrait to draw. In all honesty, you’re quite jealous of Taehyung who has a friend willing to do the work for him. If anything, Jungkook should draw your face, since you were the one who ultimately ensured that he got his signed album. But that’s just you being salty.

You pull out your sketchbook and pens and stare into the oval mirror that hangs from your bedroom wall. Your eye makeup is smudged, your dark circles are prominent through the fading concealer, and your eyes are as icy as ever. To finish your homework as soon as possible, you don’t overthink anything and just draw what you see. At this point you just want to get it over with so you can roll into bed and laze around.

“Finally~” you squeal about an hour later, plopping yourself onto your bed in your pink penguin pajamas. You’re always in a more cheerful mood after taking a shower, so you snuggle up under your blankets and take the time to check up on social media before dozing off. This wouldn’t be the first mistake of the night.

According to the latest news that has blown up on Twitter, you’re apparently dating and fucking Park Jimin, who made a special trip just to see you, his secret lover. How. Fucking. Romantic. You laugh because you notice a confused Jungkook with his hoodie and album in the shadowy background of the tabloid photo. But other than that, you’re pissed.

You want to post a tweet to express your outrage over the dumb rumor, but those kinds of messages need to pass through PR first, and you’re sure as fuck your company’s not going to approve of anything you have to say. As always, they’d just rewrite your statement in a more civilized manor, and at that point, it’s no longer your words.

So instead, you move away from the toxic hellsite that is Twitter and move somewhere a little more tranquil. You wish you could just find a few posts about fans who enjoyed the concert—that would be enough to set your mind at ease. It isn’t easy, considering all of the positive posts are buried beneath the massive amount of shit you’re getting for sleeping with the Park Jimin, but you eventually reach a cute blog post.

“guys! i saw snow tonight and shes so pretty😭💕”

“her vocals? fUCK. yes pls”

“also she might have rbf but shes super sweet ok”

“btw new fanfic coming tomorrow bc i was suddenly inspired lol👋”

You’re not sure how to feel about being the central subject to someone else’s fictional fantasies, but you do really love that you’ve inspired this person. Being able to have a positive impact in someone’s life; that was perhaps the deciding factor for you to walk the path of an idol. You only hope that this rewarding feeling can outweigh all of the bad.

Before closing your eyes, you check the name of the blog: jk.seagull. What a funny name, you giggle to yourself. But at least there’s someone out there who’s able to make your cold-hearted soul laugh. And for that, you’re as grateful to that person as your fans are to Snow.

7:27AM jinnie❤️ “We have to cancel today’s concert.”

7:28AM jinnie❤️ “There have been multiple threats made against you overnight after that rumor broke out, so we believe this is the safest thing to do.”

7:31AM Y/N “at least now i have more time to spend with my boyfriend park jimin~”

7:32AM Y/N “(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻”

7:33AM jinnie❤️ “Y/N, just take it easy today, okay? I’ll keep you updated on everything.”

7:35AM jinnie❤️ “Let me know if you want to talk.”

7:40AM Y/N “can you come over now?”

7:41AM Y/N “and can you bring another album please?”

You roll out of bed much earlier than expected to change out of your pink penguin pajamas and into sweats. Usually, you’d kill time by scrolling through Twitter, but since you aren’t in the mood to see all of the death threats, you decide to check up on that jk.seagull blog instead. You’re delighted to see that there’s a new post waiting for you. It’s a comic of some sort.

The first thing you see is a cute drawing of a pouty magic girl with bright blue eyes and a tiny snowflake in her palms. You’ve never seen fanart of Snow before, but you’re pleasantly surprised by the amount of detail and effort put into the drawing. It looks a lot like you, except cuter.

What impresses you even more is the storyline of the comic. Snow is a powerful ice witch who wishes to protect the world from evil. The only problem is that the world fears her and bans her from using magic. Rather than shunning the world that has shunned her, she decides to find new ways to be a positive light for others without the use of magic. She decides there are other ways to be a hero.

You want to keep reading, but there’s a knock at your door.

“Ooh, pancakes~” you sniff the plastic bag of sweets that your manager hands to you as you sit him down on your couch. “Thanks, Jin~”

“You’re in a rather good mood, despite all the shit that’s been going on,” Seokjin says, putting a warm hand against your forehead to make sure you’re not sick.

“I just read an interesting fanfic.”

“You read fanfics?”

“Not usually, but this one was super cute by this funny person named jk.seagull.”

“jk.seagull? He’s a pretty popular writer and artist for Snow fanfiction, you know.”

“How would you know that? Are you saying you read smutty fanfics about me, Kim Seokjin?” you smirk.

“I never said anything about smut!” He gets overly dramatic whenever you tease him, but you always find it adorable.

“So anyway, has anyone addressed the dating rumors yet?”

“Jimin apologized for the misunderstanding, but that’s all so far.”

“We shouldn’t have to apologize.” You take an angry bite of the pancakes. “I’ll deny the rumor, but I’m not going to apologize for something that didn’t happen.”

“Look Y/N, I understand, okay? But you should at least relay a statement to PR so you can clear things up on your end.”

“Just tell them I’m sorry for interacting with another human and I’ll never do it again.”

“Y/N…”

“What, Jin? It’s bullshit. I can’t do anything without it being twisted into something scandalous and getting a shit ton of hate for it. And the company isn’t even trying to help. The only reason they want me to apologize is to save their own asses, not mine.”

“Then what do you want to do?” Seokjin speaks in his calm voice.

“I want a break,” you sigh. What’s the point of being an idol if you’re doing more harm than good?

“I’ll ask the CEO on your behalf,” Seokjin pinches your cheek. “So cheer up.” He hands you the album you requested before heading out to give you some space to think.

The rest of the day is spent being a sad potato. You honestly don’t mind the threats or rumors by themselves, but what irks you is the fact that you’re not the idol you hoped to be. You’re not a light that people look to when they’re feeling down. You’re not someone who’s made a positive impact on the world. You’re no one’s hero.

You pick up your phone and go back to jk.seagull’s comic and reread everything that’s posted so far. You’re not sure why, but it’s as if this comic understands you—not just you as Snow, but also you as Y/N. The only difference is that the Snow portrayed in the comic is a much better version of yourself; a version you’re not sure you can achieve.

One other thing you don’t yet comprehend about the comic is the title: Witch Hazel. Who would ever name a story after skincare products? Then again, who would ever name himself jk.seagull?

After looking over Witch Hazel once more, you’re finally done being a sad potato and log back onto Twitter. You link the comic to tweet and post it out to the world. No caption is attached to the tweet. You want the comic to speak for itself.

#bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts angst #jungkook fanfic #bts fluff #bts college au #bts idol au #jungkook x reader #bts imagines #jungkook #bangtan #bts #witch hazel

895 notes · View notes

usuknetwork · 7 years

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USUK Christmas Countdown 2017: December 13

Title: The Song of a Heart Day 1: Music Summary: It’s almost Christmas. Arthur is deaf and is given a chance to restore his hearing, but little does he know that a certain street performer knows exactly what he’s going through. Rating: T, for mild language Warning: Angst, Comfort

(Written by: @birb-draws and Art by: @lily-clare)

The wind whistled sharply down the narrow London alleyways, ushering people into their homes and sending their windows flying shut; anyone caught outside was given a fierce reminder of what was yet to come. Winter had arrived and thick pools of slush were already piling in the dips of the pavement, promising children a lousy upcoming Christmas with not enough snow to roll around in.

Up ahead, the distant ringing of bells seemed to beckon very few brave souls out of their houses and into church, but to some it only seemed as though people were emerging from their warm homes for no particular reason...

Arthur didn't hear the bells. He didn't hear the windows slamming shut. He didn't hear the howling wind. He didn't even hear the sound of his own footsteps.

He heard nothing.

It was like an emptiness had invaded his ears, won the battle and stood guard, scaring off any noise that dared to pass by. Perhaps Arthur couldn't hear, but he could feel. He felt all the slightest touches of the wind as though it had weaved its way through his skin and buried itself into his bones.

Ever since the British student turned eight and onwards, all of his senses had become more susceptible, but one of them less so. Whatever had affected him hadn't exactly been for the best, some would say, since the poor blond had lost all traces of his hearing. Eventually, he had grown tired of people pitying him; telling him how everything was going to be alright even though there wasn't much of a problem to begin with. It's not like he was on the verge of death, so why over-exaggerate? His family would always make such a big fuss, and whenever a problem would arise, they'd bring up his complication and use it to defend themselves. Something like 'my son's deaf, you can't say that' was a pretty popular choice among his ménage.

At first, waking up to complete silence and watching your mother mouth mute words was a scary experience, but after a few months or so it became a routine for the scrawny blond, though it did take a while to get used to his flashing alarm clock, specified for people with similar problems.

It was as though he was all alone in this world... No one would treat him the same as they used to. There were more of those stupid fake smiles being thrown around him, more of the people who'd help him with even the most simple of acts as though he had not only lost the ability to hear, but to play out basic tasks too. He wasn't stupid, he was simply deaf.

Arthur breathed out a long and slow breath, his eyelids drooping midway as he watched the hot fog emit from his mouth and fade into the air around him.

He understood people were just being nice, so why not take the hint when he'd insist he could take his own plate back to the kitchen rather than have four people offer to do so? He was sick and tired of it, being treated like a child. The urges he'd get to scream and shout at people to stop driving him insane were always unbearable, but could he do it? What a silly question...

I'm eighteen, for God's sake, Arthur thought to himself with his signature frown playing on his lips. And I'm so lost...

Wrapped up in thick layers of clothing, Arthur pulled his crimson red scarf farther up his face, just enough to cover his pale lips. What have I become?

Whether or not he'd ever find the answer to that question was beyond him.

Who was he?

The journey to the grocery store was taking a reasonable time judging by the displeasing weather. Usually it was quite difficult to tread through thick layers of snow, but with a bit more willpower to get to a warm shelter much sooner than later, Arthur seemed to have shortened that period pretty drastically.

With rosy, flushed cheeks and minuscule snowflakes setting on his lashes, the Brit just about managed to pick his way correctly through the vast expanse of pure white.

Turning on a sharp corner, the blond felt a familiar sensation tingling in the air... It felt like music. A steady, perhaps a bit out-of-tune, beat weaving its way through the cold city. As he neared the source of vibrations in the air, Arthur's eyes found themselves set on a man - huddled a little way by the entrance of a store - in rags and seated on a few pieces of long, thin cardboard.

Peering a little closer, the Brit was able to catch a glint of blue from beneath those constantly squeezing shut eyes with every strained note the other seemed to be singing. At least, that's what Arthur expected he was doing. A few golden strands of hair had protruded from under his wooly hat and framed the stranger's face very, very nicely.

At the sight of Arthur, the man slowly came to a stop, his fingers ceased their movement on the guitar he held in his hands, and he peered up at the Brit expectedly through his thick bundle of clothes, just as he always did.

Yes, this street performer was no exact stranger to Arthur. Over the course of a few weeks of moving into his flat, Arthur tended to take this route throughout the week to get to his favourite (and closest) store which of course was always accompanied by this... Man.

Arthur had never even taken the moment to learn his name. It was quite a simple world, really; you threw a coin or two into a beggar's hat and ignored them in any other situation you'd see them in. But, for Arthur, his world was a little different... He was very much aware of the hardships in life - especially in this dreadful weather - and was more than willing to help a guy out. Of course, he hoped this blond wasn't spending his money on drugs or alcohol, and instead on real necessities like access to food and water.

He could never be sure, although this performer did seem very promising.

Despite the rather huge lack of savings the other would get for each of his performances, Arthur still continued to give him some change whenever he got the chance.

In fact, that thought lead him to wondering as to why exactly this man didn't get much money? The Brit had seen other street musicians with twice as many hats full to the brim of notes and shiny coins. So why didn't he?

Arthur huffed from under his thick scarf, feeling the heat vanish against the red material almost as soon as it appeared. He furrowed his brows somewhat at that eager look the other seemed to taunt him with before plunging his hand into his pocket and fishing out a five pound note. He leaned forwards, having to bend a little, so the 'stranger' could take his offering.

The blue-eyed man reached forwards, his fingers brushing against Arthur's own whilst he took the note. A giddy smile began to bubble amongst his lips whilst he excitedly traced his thumb and index finger over the thin piece of paper, peering rather intently at it for a while.

Soon after that brief moment of contact, the shorter of the two quickly withdrew his hand back towards his own chest, rubbing both of them together as if to warm them up. Arthur noted that the other's hands were (oddly enough) quite warm compared to his own - especially in this dreadful weather... He cleared his throat and let the familiar vibrations against the skin on his neck distract him for a moment, his gaze averted towards the store just a little ways ahead of him.

I should go... What am I doing, wasting time? Arthur took a step away from the other, sending him a curt, acknowledging nod before taking a couple more steps towards the store.

That was, however, until he felt a sharp tug pull him back to where he last stood. Instinctively turning on his heel, Arthur stared incredulously at the other blond, wanting so desperately to ask what on Earth his problem was. He couldn't. For a heartbeat, they each stood in an uncomfortable silence, just staring at each other as if they hadn't even a word to say. Arthur was close to fuming and marching off in the way he was supposed to be headed, but was unexpectedly caught off guard when the street performed released the fabric of his coat and his lips began to form words. The movement of his mouth seemed slightly off, and Arthur struggled to keep up with what he was saying - which he deemed to be quite strange considering he had nine whole years to practise and master lip reading…

Instead, the Brit arched a curious brow, staring at the man's lips the hardest he could. He could make out a few words, but it was difficult to piece them together, and so he merely linked it with the closest reason as to what the beggar could have meant. He had given him money just now, hadn't he? That must be what it was. Something like a 'thank you' of sorts.

Arthur sent him an off smile, dipped his head in gratitude, and continued to walk off.

He didn't see him on his way back.

Arthur arrived home later than he had intended that day. After his encounter with the fellow in the streets, the Brit found it more difficult to navigate his way back to his house. Not only was he exhausted by the time he got there, but pretty cold too. Apparently, wearing a few layers of clothing didn't aid him as much as he had originally hoped it would. The blond stumbled around on his front porch, trying not to tread in any seemingly deep areas of snow to avoid getting any colder than he already was.

Coming to a stop at the door, the Brit rummaged in his pockets for a key.

Where is it, where is it...?

Without looking like too much of a fool, he finally managed to find the damn thing and was quick to shove it into the door's lock, twisting the small article in the uniquely designed hole and hastily pushing it open. Once inside, he shut the door yet again and let out a loud sigh of which he himself could not hear. The heat of his home came flooding to him in a warm greeting and at no point did it ever become even somewhat overbearing. If Arthur could, he’d embrace it right then and there. Shrugging off his coat, the short blond hung it on the hanger just by his head when his fingers lost their grip of the key and - after failing to grab it mid air - had to resort to looking for it on the floor. Arthur spluttered in annoyance and reached for the shining item, however, his eyes caught sight of something else instead, and he curiously reached for a light brown envelope laying beside the metal object.

Forgetting about the key that stayed isolated in its spot on the wooden flooring, Arthur carried the envelope towards the kitchen whilst continuing to inspect it carefully on his way there. Walking into the said room, the Brit pulled out a chair, settled down, and began to slowly tear away at the paper of the enclosed letter.

Once he had it opened, Arthur slowly tipped the contents of the envelope onto the kitchen table. His eyes widened at the sight of… He reached for the stack of money, fingers flipping through each individual note. Of a little over two thousand pounds?! Clasping a hand over his mouth, the Brit hurriedly reached for the letter that had fallen on the table along with the few thousand notes.

It read:

Dear Arthur,

I’ve been saving up for over a year now… You deserve this more than I do.

Please meet Dr. Yao on Monday at 8am at your local hospital. I want this to be a surprise, so he’ll tell you all about it. Don’t you dare forget to bring that money with you.

Talk to you soon,

Scott. SK

Arthur’s head was reeling. A doctor? Why on Earth would he need to see a doctor? And what was so important that he needed to bring with him so much money? Questions were flooding his mind by the minute, and Arthur eventually realised that he felt tired and deserved some much needed rest. Oh, God, what was Scott planning…

Monday, 7:45am.

Arthur was already dressed in sub-formal attire, downing the last of his tea and internally promising himself that no, it wasn’t burning his mouth, and yes, he was running late. He should have been registered in by now, and yet here he was, an eighteen year old deaf boy, pushing the time as if he was Superman.

Grabbing his keys from the kitchen table, Arthur hurriedly pulled himself away from where he sat, almost tripping over his chair in advance and hissing a silent gasp.

Outside, a taxi waited, honking its horn every few minutes, completely oblivious to Arthur’s condition.

What seemed like an eternity later, the door to the small house’s entryway flew open and Arthur briskly made his way out, shutting it behind him. Approaching the taxi, he signed ‘sorry’ whilst holding an apologetic smile - the solemn face of the man at the wheel couldn’t seem to care any less. Entering the vehicle, the Brit handed the man a note with the location of his local hospital of which he read it over and began to drive to said place.

Arthur buckled himself in and huffed, letting his head loll to the side and gently thump against the window. He stared blankly out at his surroundings, watching tiredly as houses, leafless trees, and a few people whizzed by. Briefly, he wondered what exactly he had gotten himself into... Whatever it was, Scott had worked hard for it (a few years for goodness sake!). He must have felt very strongly about this. He shouldn’t get his hopes up though; a trip to the hospital could either mean a good thing or a bad thing, there was almost never any in-between in such situations.

They drove by a store he was very familiarised with, where he noticed a figure who was poorly dressed strumming heavily at his guitar. A noise of amusement slipped past the Brit’s lips, recalling their last encounter. The driver on the other hand, rolled his eyes at the performer and promptly muttered something under his breath. For a moment, Arthur watched in silent thoughtfulness, his brows furrowing to an extent. He was tempted to ask if the taxi driver knew anything about the beggar, but alas could not. His speech was probably clumsy, and he doubted this guy knew how to sign, so where was the point in asking?

They arrived at the hospital within roughly ten minutes, meaning Arthur had only five to get registered and have his appointment. He quickly paid the taxi driver, scribbling out another note and asking for him to wait to which the man nodded, switched off the engine, and went on his phone whilst he waited. The smaller of the two double-checked that the money provided by his eldest brother was still in his pocket before leaving the safety of his car and making his way to the hospital facility.

The building was tall, many stories high in fact, but instead of wasting time feeling intimidated, the British teenager hurried indoors and towards reception.

He approached a petite woman who adjusted her glasses when he neared the desk. Her mouth began moving, and Arthur read her lips perfectly.

”Hello sir, may I have your name please?”

Right… Arthur stared blankly for a moment and motioned his name with a flustered expression, hoping she would catch on that he could, in fact, not hear.

The lady’s mouth formed an ‘O’ and she excused herself for a moment, returning later with a plump older man who gave Arthur a slight wave and signed, “What’s your name?”

Oh, an interpreter.

For the second time that day, Arthur told them his name. ‘Ar-th-ur Ki-rk-land.’

The man proceeded to tell the woman what he read and she began typing away at her computer. Arthur’s attention was back on the man who told him to “Sign this form, please”. He took the sheet of paper handed to him and wrote down all the necessary information it asked for before handing it back and watching as the woman skimmed over his writing.

The man asked, “Who will you be seeing?”

Arthur signed, ‘Dr. Y-a-o’.

The man translated to the lady once more who sent Arthur a sickly sweet smile and motioned towards the corridor. “You’re his only patient this morning, feel free to enter to him through the first door down the corridor on the right. Thank you.”

Arthur gave her a brief, appreciative nod and made his way towards where she had motioned. The corridor was mostly empty of people, but the walls were littered with vibrant posters with some consisting of facts or encouraging people to ‘use medication’. Though the place generally looked quite sterile, Arthur had read that despite the multiple health precautions (for example the amount of hand sanitizer dispensers at every door), hospitals were actually full of bacteria. Whether that was true or not wasn’t up to him to decide however, and he doubted scientists would look into it as if to give hospitals a bad reputation.

The blond brushed some hair from his face, watching as his shoes walked out in front of him. He wondered what sort of sound they made. Was it quiet? Or loud? Did they click or did they sound muffled? Arthur furrowed his brows in thought but was soon interrupted by coming face to face with the door described to him by the secretary. Glancing around for a brief moment, he finally reached for the knob, but just as he did, the door was already pulling itself open. Arthur stumbled back in surprise, but when the door continued to open wider and reveal a man in uniform, the smaller blond found his face flushing with embarrassment. For a moment he thought the damn place was cursed.

Raising a hand, he waved a greeting and Dr. Yao (thank goodness) gestured for him to come inside. Arthur slowly entered, taking a moment to look around. There were all sorts of gadgets organised around the room, ranging from big to tiny ones, and an uncomfortable looking - seemingly adjustable - bed lying against the wall. Arthur took a seat at it and fixed his gaze on the Asian who shut the door behind him and sat at a chair in front.

The doctor pointed towards his lips and began to mouth words slowly. Arthur caught on within seconds.

“I’ll speak slowly so you can read my lips.”

Arthur nodded.

“Latest technology allows us to do something very special,” he explained, brown eyes boring into forest greens.

“Do you want to be able to hear again?”

Arthur stared, frozen to the spot. What Dr. Yao said wasn’t something someone could say so easily. Arthur had gone through a lot of trouble being unable to hear, and all of a sudden he asked such a blunt, emotional question? He frowned, getting to his feet and signing, ‘What is this?’

The doctor stood with him, stepping forward and motioning back towards the bed. “Sit down, Arthur, let me explain.”

Arthur shook his head hastily; he wouldn’t allow himself to get mocked by such a man. He probably had all the privileges one could ever wish for - and yet Arthur had been deprived of a good job just for something so little that he had been stuck with for nine years. His actions were sharp. ‘Tell me to sit down one more time-’

The doctor started to look distressed. “Please, I know it’s a lot to take in. Look, your brother went through so much to allow you to do this.”

Arthur’s expression softened to an extent.

“Do it for your family, yes?”

Family. Family… He wondered what they were doing now, whether they actually still thought about him anymore. Scott did, sure, but maybe he did all this to get Arthur off his mind and to move on. The Brit glanced down sheepishly. He didn’t have any reason to do this. He was strong as he was, and was getting along just fine, but what about all the little things? It was true, he wanted to hear his brothers’ voices now that they’d grown. He wanted to hear his own footsteps. He wanted to hear the soft breeze on a beautiful day. He wanted to hear birds singing. He wanted to hear his breathing before he slept. He wanted to hear music.

Music…

Arthur cautiously made his way back to the bed. ‘Go on,’ he signed.

Dr. Yao smiled warmly, this time taking a seat beside his patient. He placed a hand on the Brit’s shoulder. “We can do this together. We’ll bring back your hearing- wouldn’t you like that? We’ll restore it as much as we can. You’ll be one of the first people to try this out, Kirkland. What do you say?”

With a bit more of that reassuring smile and the comforting hand on his shoulder, Arthur found his head moving, nodding. He waited for a moment and slowly signed, ‘I want to hear again.’

He hadn’t expected to say that, not now, not ever, and yet here he was.

‘I want to hear again,’ he repeated, tears welling up in his eyes.

The day had come for Arthur’s surgery. Dr. Yao had repeatedly explained to him how the procedure worked and what part of the ear they would be focusing on. He mentioned that there was a low chance of something going wrong, however if something within the operation did occur, then to not worry as he would get refunded for the amount he paid to get this treatment done and they would look into the issue and possibly try again.

Arthur breathed in and out in a chaste, nervous manner. His whole body was wracking with nerves and he had no idea how to feel about the whole ordeal. On one hand, he’d regain his hearing, whereas on the other he felt anxious about doing just that. He hadn’t been able to hear for nine years. Nine years. What if his body couldn’t take it? What if he embarrassed himself bursting out into tears in front of the whole team who would work so hard on giving him something he had once thought to have permanently lost?

The door to the hospital room was gently pushed open and Arthur rose his gaze a little less steadily than he had hoped for to meet with the man who entered.

Dr. Yao smiled, a glint in his eyes. “Are you ready?”

Arthur made a noise of unease and buried his face into his hands, shaking his head violently, but a simple tap on his arm was enough to coax him out of bed and soon enough out the door.

He was going to fucking hear again and there was no turning back.

Thursday.

It was cold outside, and the streets were even more empty than they had been days prior to this. Each day was getting colder, however… And each day it was harder to hold on, harder to keep on going. Pedestrians had become a thing of the past now, rarely ever seen. Each day, he’d awake thinking ‘I wonder how much longer until I die’ rather than ‘I wonder how much longer until Christmas’. He didn’t even know if it had passed yet, or how long it would be until it did. Regarding either option, would he be alive to ever know?

His fingers were like ice, and his once tan complexion was almost as pale as snow. It became harder and harder every time to play guitar and set a performance… He’d stop thinking about what chords came next and instead how hungry he felt, how cold he was, and dear God, how lonely, too. He supposed that’s why most people would ignore him; because he kept messing up the song?

He shuddered, a cold shiver running along his spine. He wondered how many doors he’d have to knock on asking for help until he dropped down dead. Not many, perhaps. He was already halfway gone, or at least, it felt like it.

The blond slowly picked up his instrument, pulled it to his chest, and let his fingers run free. They strummed and plucked, and with each vibration that ran along his fingers, he sang a part of a song he’d made up over the years.

He didn’t know how it sounded to be honest, but hopefully it was good.

Hopefully…

A figure in the distance was emerging through the fog and he promptly shifted his empty hat forwards as if to put it on show so the other knew what to do if or when they saw it. He internally wished they had a kind enough heart to spare some change.

When they neared closer, the performer could make out their features, and he felt a heavy weight lift off his chest. He ceased his song and expectantly held out his hand, grin widening.

Arthur stood in silence, listening. It had been two days since his successful surgery and with the help of some hearing aids to enhance his hearing, he had managed to restore quite a bit of it. It was a surreal experience, and it still was. In fact, this was his first trip outside after getting such a thing done! He was even getting language classes too to help him get back on track with proper speech. But this... This was all he had never hoped for.

It was heartbreaking to see a man suffering with the same problem he had carelessly spent over two thousand on, lying in the streets near Christmas time, near death... This performer needed what he had most, and yet he still selfishly spent it on himself. Arthur shook his head slowly, a saddened smile on his face. This beggar was deaf. His singing and guitar wasn’t exactly on point, which explained his lack of money. So did his slurred movement of his mouth the first time they had spoken. He was throwing out every sign he could think of, and yet Arthur stayed oblivious, too engrossed in his own ‘problems’.

The shorter blond carefully dropped to his knees and shuffled towards the other. He signed to him, ‘What’s your name?’

The beggar signed back, a little hesitantly, ‘Al-fr-ed’.

Rummaging in his pockets for a moment, the Brit pulled out some earphones and plugged them each into Alfred’s ears, his fingers gentle and warm against the taller man’s face. ‘Listen,’ he signed.

Alfred’s expression was a clear display of confusion. Arthur didn’t blame him. Since when did the deaf use earphones? He himself would have found it ridiculous.

The shorter of the two took the end of the cord and wrapped it around the man’s finger before pulling his hand over to lay on his chest. The steady thrumming of his heart could be felt through the American’s fingertips and they both knew it.

Alfred’s eyes were gradually growing wet with tears, possibly on the verge of a breakdown, but Arthur was there, and Arthur always would be.

Because sometimes, actions spoke louder than words.

And sometimes, music wasn't enough to express the true meaning of love.

#usuk #ukus #usukxmascountdown #day 1 #aph america #aph england

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tshirttrend · 4 years

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newshirtonlines-blog · 4 years

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canyousevmyheavydirtysoul · 7 years

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Platonic. (Patrick Stump x Reader)

Note: This was written by my best friend.

“Why do we have to come with? We don’t even know the guy.” Pete whined.

“Because Seth said that he was going to bring a friend, and there’s nothing wrong with making new friends,” Andy said, smiling.

“When you say it like that, my dude, you really don’t sound like a 37 year old man,” Joe commented.

“Uh, yeah, I’m not really in the mood to meet two men that’ll make me feel like a actual tree stump in comparison to their huge, muscular bodies,” Patrick stated, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“C'mon guys, it’ll be fun, I promise, I mean, it’s Seth Freaking Rollins and he’s really nice, I’m sure his friend will be the same. How about this - if you guys start to feel weird, we can leave, okay?” Andy suggested.

“Fine,” the three men sighed in agreement.

“Why is leaving your houses such a problem?” Andy asked, quizzically.

“Because we’ll be seen in public with gigantic men that’ll make us look tinier than we already are,” Patrick said, fiddling with his fingers.

“Speak for yourself, I’m not that short like you guys,” Joe said smugly.

“Shut up, Joe!” The others said in unison.

“Ugh, where are they? I want to get this over and done with, so I can see my kids and not feel short,” Pete complained, resting his face on his hand.

“You’re getting to eat free pizza, stop complaining,” Andy stated, annoyed at Pete’s childish behaviour.

“Doesn’t count if it’s vegan,” Pete grumbled softly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I think I see them. Wait, no, it’s a girl and a guy, nevermind,” Joe said, craning his neck to see.

“That’s Seth! I didn’t know he was bringing his girlfriend. I could’ve brought Meredith with instead,” Andy sighed, “Does she look familiar to you guys too?” Andy questioned, furrowing his brows.

“Th-that’s his girlfriend? Th-they’re together? Uh, that’s [Y/N][L/N], she’s a WWE Diva,” Patrick said, slouching, misery evident on his face.

“She’s hot!” Pete said, “Hey, isn’t she that chick that you record and watch on your TV all day?”

“Uh, no, I don’t watch her all day, just whenever she happens to be on TV. I’m not obsessed,” Patrick said, unnecessarily defending himself.

“Whatever man, what you do while you watch her matches behind closed doors are your business,” Joe smirked knowingly, leaving Patrick’s cheeks a tinge of pink.

You and Seth walked into the restaurant, his muscular arm draped around your shorter frame while the two of you were deep in conversation, something he said made you chuckle while he watched you and smiled. None of you noticed the four men staring at this common occurrence between the two of you. Seth searched the restaurant for Andy and was met with four pairs of eyes already looking his way; you and him quickly made your way over to the booth.

“Hey man, how you’ve been?” Seth said, quickly man-hugging Andy.

“I’m great man,” Andy said, smiling, “these are my friends; Joe, Patrick and Pete”.

“Nice to you meet you guys,” Seth said shaking each guy’s hand, “This is [Y/N][L/N], current Diva’s champion,” Seth said, beaming with pride.

But Patrick knew that already, he watched and recorded that match of yours while he was supposed to be working on the new album with the guys. He sat on a couch, getting really flustered when you came out with your practiced entrance. He got excited when you had the upper hand - which was most of the time - and when you performed your signature on your opponent, he couldn’t help but yell loudly, the moments that she retaliated and got a few hits in had him frustrated; he hated to see you get hurt.

You greeted each of them by shaking their hands, all the while, Patrick kept drinking his Coke and watching you, getting more and more nervous the closer you got. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t realise that he was staring at you, his straw still in his mouth until Pete snapped him out of his trance, leaving him looking like a deer in the headlights. Patrick looked up at you, your hand out stretched, a huge smile on your face. He stretched out his hand towards you and was about to greet you but hiccuped instead. You covered your mouth and giggled, making Patrick’s face redder than a stoplight.

You ended up sitting next to Patrick, his nervousness growing, he only hoped that he could make a coherent sentence while talking to you. When you sat down, you surprised him, you were shorter than he thought, a bonus for him. With Seth on the other side of you, his arm resting lazily on top of the part of the booth behind your head, Patrick was left to wonder whether you and Seth were a couple or not.

When Andy and Seth began talking about Crossfit, you unexpectedly turned to Patrick and began a conversation with him. You asked him questions about the band and music in general, genuinely interested in his knowledge of something you were clueless about. You listened to him explain how he works various sounds together to create songs, with the help of Pete, Andy and Joe. You watched, in awe of his musical genius. You played it coy and flirted a little, the rest of the table not noticing your slight touches on Patrick’s arm or thigh, only he did, and he was losing his ability to speak.

“So, am I going to see you again?” You said, twirling your hair around your finger.

“Uh, yeah! I-I mean only i-if you wanted to, I would love it, I love you! I-In a platonic way of course. That’s a funny word, isn’t it? Platonic, strange wor-,” Patrick rambled.

“Just give me your phone so I can put my number in,” You said, putting your hand out for his phone, giggling at his nervousness.

“Y-yeah, sure,” He said, nervously searching through all of his pockets for his phone.

Once you took your phone from him, you quickly typed your number into his phone, adding a black heart emoji next to your name. You were astounded at your own boldness this past half hour, you were never this confident, but having the guy you thought was cute be more nervous than you, made you feel better, you weren’t the only one for once.

After getting to know one another, you all decided to leave, although, Patrick still wasn’t sure if you and Seth were an item yet.

“C'mon man, you gotta man up, it’s now or never. She’s your dream girl, just do it,” Patrick said, hyping himself up.

From Patrick: “Hey there, [Y/N]. Would you like to hang out sometime this week? If you don’t, it’s okay.”

From [Y/N]: “Patrick! Hey! I would love to see you again but I’m not sure when I’ll be able to see you, I’ve got to go to gym every day and I have meetings all week :(”

From Patrick: “Oh, :/ maybe some other time then?”

From [Y/N]: “Maybe I could find some time to meet up with you. How about lunch at 1? :)”

From Patrick: “That sounds great, I know this really amazing restaurant that offers healthy options too. Is Wednesday okay with you?”

From [Y/N]: “I think I know the one. Wednesday is perfect :) See you there ❤”

From Patrick: “See you there.”

From Patrick: “Wait, you just said that.”

From Patrick: “I’ll see you on Wednesday❤❤”

From Patrick: “The second heart was an accident.”

From Patrick: “Not that I don’t like you. I love you.”

From Patrick: “I mean in a platonic way. Did I just mess this up?”

From [Y/N]: “No, you’re sweet. See you on Wednesday. No need to reply. ;)”

Patrick facepalmed after reading your last message. He blew it, he could picture it now, after the date, he’d try to kiss you and you’d get weirded out and reject him or tell him that Seth was your boyfriend. Too busy imagining his dreams being crushed, Patrick failed to hear Pete enter his home, until he was actually standing in front of him.

“Earth to Patrick,” Pete said, snapping his fingers in front of Patrick, shaking him from his thoughts, “What’s going on with you, man? You good?”

“I’m nervous, dude. [Y/N] and I are going out on a date on Wednesday and I’m scared that I’ll screw everything up, more than I have already,” he huffed, shaking his head at the thoughts of how he embarrassed himself multiple times.

“Are you sure that it’s a date?”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, isn’t she dating that giant Seth guy?” Pete questioned, “I mean, I wouldn’t wanna risk being the other man in that relationship, that guy looks like he eats guys like us for breakfast, and he does back flips!” Pete said.

“Thanks man, that made me feel soo much better.”

“Glad I could be of service, man,” Pete smiled to himself gleefully.

“Do you not get sarcasm? Dude, I’m freaking the hell out and you’re not helping!” Patrick said, basically screaming.

“Chill out man, everything will be fine, in case you forgot, she wanted YOUR number, and even after you embarrassed yourself in front of her, she still wanted to get to know you better,” Pete said encouragingly before adding, “And I saw how she watched you when you were talking about music, she definitely had a lady boner for you,” Pete said, finishing his pep talk.

“Wow, thanks Pete, I don’t know where I’d be without you right now,” Patrick said sincerely.

“No problem man, I’m pretty sure that you’re never going to get a girl as hot as [Y/N], so you’re going to need all the help that you can get,” Pete said, walking to the kitchen to steal Patrick’s food as usual.

Patrick sighed and ran a hand through his hair out of stress, knocking his fedora off in the process. He still felt somewhat nervous, despite Pete’s reassuring words; he hadn’t been on a date in a long time.

“Shit, I can’t do this, I can’t do this, she’s going to reject me, Seth is probably her boyfriend and he’s going to kill me, oh fuck, I can’t do this,” Patrick panicked, nervously pacing across his living room.

“Dude, I’m not going to repeat my pep talk, just calm down, if anything goes wrong, I’ll be here,” Pete said, walking into the living room with microwaved mini pizzas.

“Yeah, eating my food,” Patrick scoffed.

“Hey, I’m helpful,” Pete said defensively, his mouth full with a mini pizza.

You arrived at the restaurant first, you were excited to finally be going on a date with an actual nice guy and not one of those wannabe actors that would rather talk about how often they’re in the gym than making actual human conversation. A few minutes later, Patrick arrived, nervously adjusting his fedora before walking over to your table, nearly crashing into a waiter in the process but quickly moving out of the way.

“Smooth moves, Patrick,” You said, giggling at his clumsiness.

“Holy smokes,” he whispered to himself, loving the way that his name came out of your mouth.

“Did you say something?” You asked.

“Uh, no, I-I mean yeah, what are you having to drink?” Patrick said, mentally thanking himself for saving himself.

“I’ll probably have a fruit smoothie, what about you?” You asked.

“I’m more of an ice tea kinda g-,”

“May I take your order?” The waitress interrupted.

“A peach iced tea and a mango smoothie please,” You answered, slightly annoyed at the interruption.

“Coming right up,” The waitress said, winking at you before walking away.

“So, you’re in a band, how do you do it? I mean, the writing, recording and touring, you must be really busy all the time,” You asked, genuinely interested.

Patrick blushed slightly, remembering Pete’s words, “Yeah, it’s a lot but I’m with my best friends so it’s a lot of fun, although, I haven’t been on a date in months, I mean, there is the odd drunk girl at a party that’ll flirt with me but it’s not genuine. I’m pretty sure that no sober girl is actually interested in me,” Patrick said, cringing slightly at his self-deprecating words and the thoughts of the drunk girls throwing themselves at him.

“Oh please, you can’t be serious, I’m sure girls would kill to be in my shoes right now, and I can assure you, I’m the same level of sober that Brendon was drunk in the History of Fall Out Boy video,” You said, flirting with Patrick.

“Y-You know my music?” Patrick asked, shocked.

“Of course. I love it, it’s perfect for when I’m at the gym,” You answered.

“Oh, I had no idea, I have to admit, I-I’m a huge fan of yours, I watched you win your title the other night,” Patrick said, slowly gaining confidence to speak freely.

“Wow, I-I’m flattered, Trick,” You said, accidentally stuttering, your inner fangirl coming out.

Patrick noticed your nervousness increasing and started to feel his die down.

“I know this is really blunt but there’s something I need to know,” Patrick said, taking a deep breath before asking, “Are you and Seth dating?”

You burst out with laughter at his question.

“Oh my gosh, no ways, Seth is like a brother to me, I could never date him, and besides, I’ve got a crush on someone right now, and he’s pretty damn adorable,” You answered, winking at Patrick.

It took a while but Patrick finally understood what you meant and when it did, he was stunned. Luckily he didn’t have to say much as the waitress came back, waiting to take both your orders. With Patrick unable to speak, you ordered a pizza for the two of you to share. Once the pizza arrived you both started eating in comfortable silence. With there being eight slices, you having had your four, and Patrick just finishing his third, you still felt slightly hungry, you were just at the gym this morning, both you and Patrick reached for his slice, your hands jolting back from the sudden feeling of each other, redness creeping up on both of your cheeks, at the realization.

“You can have it, I don’t need it, as you can see,” Patrick said, gesturing to his body.

“Patrick, you’re beautiful,” You said, holding his hand lovingly, “but I’m also really hungry so thanks,” You added, grabbing the last slice with your other hand and taking a huge bite.

Once you finished the last slice, Patrick called the waitress over to bring you two the check, the cause of your first argument.

“I’ll get it, don’t worry, Trick,” You said.

“No, I’m a gentlemen, I want to pay,” He argued.

“But I also want to pay, I’m not here to mooch off of you,” You retorted.

“Would somebody just pay?” The waitress said, annoyed.

“Wanna go halfsies?” Patrick asked.

“Sure hun,” You said, giggling.

After paying, you two got up and hugged. You felt confident and went in for a kiss on the cheek. Patrick’s cheeks that were once it’s normal colour was now a pinkish hue.

~2 months later~

“You’re gonna do great baby, I just know it, there’s no way that you’re going to lose,” Patrick said, holding your hands in his.

“But baaabe, I’ve never fought against her before and anything can happen, there is no set winner!” You said, still feeling anxious about defending your title.

“Look at me, I’ve seen you do this before and you can sure as hell do it again, I believe in you babe,” Patrick said, kissing you to alleviate your nervous energy.

“Thank you Trick,” You said, blushing.

You went off to get ready to go out while Patrick stood at one of the TV’S that were broadcasting the show. He loved supporting you and he couldn’t wait for you to be able to take a vacation so you could join him on his tour.

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

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thebipartisanpress-blog · 5 years

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October Democratic Presidential Debate in Review

Good News: I get a day off work while all of our high schoolers take the PSAT and can provide you with your Spark Notes updates of how the Democrats are doing. Bad news: There’s yet again too many candidates on the Democratic debate stage, with more yet to come. The moderators were our best yet in terms of persistently calling out question dodging, but with 12 candidates, even prominent figures at times faded into obscurity. While watching the debate, I’d hear, say, Bernie, speak and think “Oh, I forgot he was even here tonight! Where’s he been?” Is it too much to ask for a higher bar to entry? The debate environment was spicier this time, with Elizabeth Warren in the hot seat as candidates sought to eliminate her growing lead over Joe Biden and the others in the polls. Here are my continuing thoughts on each of the candidates latest debate performances, again ranked from best to worst for your convenience. 1) Pete Buttigieg This debate provided a perfect environment for Pete Buttigieg to shine. He isn’t a frontrunner, and the questions tonight didn’t highlight any of his weaknesses. This allowed him to emphasize his unique plans and criticizing other candidates, while insulating him from being attacked himself. Buttigieg this debate was the moderate who said whether to a sideshow like Beto or a top candidate like Elizabeth Warren, “how is this plan actually going to work?” and watched as they squirmed their way through. Now, normally I don’t like candidates who are all critique and no plan, but Pete Buttigieg managed to avoid that pitfall as well. He was critical of other candidates without being obnoxious or personal. He did propose some unique plans of his own, such as his 15-justice Supreme Court plan, and took a strong stand on foreign policy. He also took the ‘is this economically feasible” mantle from Biden by claiming it as a young person’s priority to see some change at least. Nothing but positive words for Pete Buttigieg. 2) Andrew Yang Well, I think I’m about to eat my hat. I never thought I’d say this, but I’ll give credit where credit is due: Andrew Yang had a great debate. Do I think he’s a serious candidate now? Well, no, but I can understand how it is that Andrew Yang in particular has stuck around in the race where all the other minor candidates and even a major candidate like Kirsten Gillibrand have dropped out. Andrew Yang only mentioned universal basic income (UBI) once tonight, and that was only when directly asked. This debate for him was about being forward thinking, and advancing a fundamentally different perspective than the other candidates. When other candidates want a wealth tax, Yang suggests a value-added tax (VAT). While other candidates debate about Facebook, Yang brings up screen time and its role on mental health. It’s like one of Andrew Yang’s advisors pulled him aside and was like “Hey Andy, people really like your ideas, but they think you can’t shut up about UBI. Can you give them the non-UBI Yang?” Andrew Yang took that advice, and it worked. While he’s still far from being close to any sort of top poller, I think he’ll stick around, and we may see him in a non-presidential political role sometime soon. 3) Cory Booker While I’m not sure exactly how to typecast Cory Booker as a candidate, he pleasantly surprised me this time. Of course, we got “I live in an impoverished neighborhood,” but in this debate Booker also stood up for other groups, such as the poor and women, a group he’s not even a representative for. Booker’s early willingness to discuss abortion both as a women’s rights issue and a poverty issue revealed a candidate with a fundamental civility and an ability to transcend identity politics. His comments against simply sniping at frontrunners served him well in a debate where Harris and Warren got into a legitimate argument about something as inconsequential as banning Trump from Twitter. I’m not sure why I would vote Booker over my favorite frontrunner du jour, but he put his crazier ideas on hold this time and allowed people to think of him as a mix of moderate and progressive. I won’t forget my past low scores of Booker (or of Andrew Yang) but in fairness ot both of them, they had good performances. 4) Amy Klobuchar Amy Klobuchar is not pleased. We know because she fell back on the meanest of midwestern insults, “Your idea is not the only right one,” and the well known “I’m SOAR-y.” Jokes aside, Amy Klobuchar is kind of the less popular, less progressive version of Pete Buttigieg, but also a person willing to step into a frontrunner role should Biden falter. Klobuchar realized she had a chance because of the Hunter Biden scandal, and so this debate she refused to apologize for her moderate views. The problem, though, is that so many times, Klobuchar would make a strong point and then immediately pivot in an obvious way, losing good ideas and failing to make the impression she could. The worst example was when she was asked about abortion, and was the first candidate to mention codifying Roe v. Wade. She was the first one on the stage to suggest that, and I was impressed….until she messed it up. Rather than emphasize that, she rushed on to criticize Trump, letting other candidates get credit for an idea she suggested first. I like Klobuchar, and I could honestly see myself voting for her, but she has no chance unless Biden falls, and if she wants to stay in, she needs to watch those flubs. 5) Elizabeth Warren I’ll say it straight up: This was not a good debate for Elizabeth Warren. Warren is an impressive debater, and she managed to convert a center-lefter like me for a while with her inspiring language and perpetual preparedness. This debate, she lost a lot of that luster. Instead of the perfectly composed Warren we’ve come to know and love, we got a Warren who dodged a question about raising taxes over and over again. One dodge might have been fine, but when moderators pressed, Warren wouldn’t commit to a straight answer. This was made worse by Sanders’ frank admission that taxes will go up in his plan. For me, Warren’s whole appeal was her record and her experience. To see her waffle this way was painful. Warren still had her good moments--calling big businesses the umpire as well as the team really resonated--but she took a hit this time. She’s still at Number 5 because outside of healthcare, she did fine, but I don’t have the sort of glowing praise of a Warren debate performance that has become usual in these recaps. 6) Bernie Sanders It’s always so hard for me to review Bernie Sanders. I don’t like his style or some of his views, but I still want to avoid bias seeping into my analysis. To me, Sanders was just average this time, a solid Number 6. There’s nothing new with Sanders, and his debate performances don’t inspire new voters to his side. Do I like that he was honest where Elizabeth Warren was evasive? Sure. Did he convince any voters at all who didn’t want a political revolution that we should have one? Not really. If Bernie’s going to win this cycle, it won’t be by his debating skills. It is a good thing he wasn’t on medical marijuana at the debate though (if there was ever going to be a debate inside joke, there it is). 7) Julian Castro I’m not really sure why Julian Castro is running for president. To be honest, I forgot he was even in the debate for most of the run time, and I was taking notes in order to write this article. Warren wants to tackle political corruption, Klobuchar and Buttigieg want to incrementally push liberal policy, Yang wants to bring us into the future, and Castro wants… what? There’s nothing bad to say about Castro mainly because there’s nothing at all to be said about Castro. I will give him credit where credit is due for being the only candidate to completely destroy the mandatory buyback argument (Mandatory gun buyback means door to door collecting, leaving the door wide open for racist and/or aggressive cops to abuse citizens), and I appreciate his efforts to bring up police brutality in a debate where it was ignored. That’s really all I can say this time, though. Castro was useful in this debate, because someone had to explain how mandatory buybacks would work. He wasn’t really useful for much else. 8) Joe Biden This debate should have been in the bag for Joe Biden. I mean, Trump clearly thought he was the best candidate enough that broke the law in order to get political dirt on the guy,. Biden could have played that to his advantage. Instead, he bungled his greatest advantage. When asked about the contradiction between his son’s position in Ukraine and his supposedly neutral vice presidency, he refused to admit any sort of fault. Instead of admitting his son may have acted with poor judgment (as Hunter Biden admitted) but that Trump’s fault dwarfed any action his son could have taken by orders of magnitude, Biden pretty much refused to talk about the scandal at all. This scandal could have cast him as the best candidate to beat Donald Trump. It makes zero sense why he would clam up on it. Worse, Biden continued to make his signature verbal flubs in a debate where his age and health were under intense scrutiny. Sorry, Joe, saying “We’re able to end Roe vs….oops, not that, I mean protect Roe” is not a good look. Let’s all take a small break here, before we get to the four worst candidates of the night. These candidates displayed far too many Trump-like similarities to be overlooked, so here we go…. 9) Kamala Harris Like Castro, I had such high hopes for Kamala Harris, and she squandered them. The last few debates, I criticized her for sniping at other candidates while refusing to respond to her own hypocrisy, and thus appearing petty. This debate, the issue she chose to go after Elizabeth Warren on was, weirdly, Trump’s Twitter account. Not to say this is a stupid issue, but, it’s a pretty dumb issue to pick a fight on. I legitimately don’t think a single voter changed their minds about voting for Kamala Harris because she took a strong, principled stand on banning Donald Trump from Twitter. Worse, she repeated her tactic of making strong use of executive orders. This, combined with her support for a mandatory gun buyback achieved through executive order is incredibly Trump-like in the sense that it erodes democratic norms and freedoms in a dangerous way. Using executive power to circumvent Congress, go into people’s houses, and take away their property opens the door for completely unchecked executive power. We are a nation where the president cannot make laws, and certainly should not plan on unilateral lawmaking without Congress. Harris’s willingness to prioritize her priorities over the public and to snipe personally at other candidates recalls Trump in a very unappealing way. 10) Tom Steyer Steyer somehow met the threshold for this debate and I’m really not sure how considering how low-profile he’s been in past debates and polls. Well, he’s here now, I guess. He’s not my favorite candidate for one big reason thus far. Tom Steyer loves to talk about how the government has failed, and that’s not what Democrats do. Describing the government as a failed experiment is a Republican talking point, and a pretty standard one at that. If the government has failed, how can one put in new programs or initiatives? Steyer is new on the scene, and I can’t see him getting support when his dominant message is one that basically endorses gutting the government. 11) Tulsi Gabbard While we’re on the subject of Republicans in Democrats’ clothing, let’s talk about Tulsi Gabbard. This debate really separated Tulsi from standard Democratic thought, and not in a flattering light. Donald Trump just abandoned the Kurds by supporting Turkey in Syria over Kurdish allies. All the candidates acknowledged this horrible decision, but only Gabbard argued that the United States should abandon the region altogether. Her Trump-style isolationism was thoroughly attacked by Buttigieg, himself a veteran, who reminded Gabbard that she was in effect encouraging ISIS. Unfortunately, foreign policy was not the only area where Gabbard presented herself as a conservative Democrat without the “get it done” appeal of someone like Klobuchar. On abortion, where every other candidate had fresh ideas and was infuriated at the conservative attacks on Roe v. Wade, Gabbard was much more restrained. Her attitude towards abortion seemed to be less focused on preserving the right and more focused on regulating it further, as evidenced by her proposal of banning third trimester abortions and keeping abortions “safe, legal, and rare.” Tulsi Gabbard’s debate last night identified her as far more socially conservative than I think is acceptable this election cycle, and in the current debate environment, it really stood out. 12) Beto O’Rourke Last but not least is Beto O’Rourke. Last debate, Beto branded himself as “the gun control guy.” I was excited to see him this time outline his policies for gun control and delve deeply into how he would reduce gun violence. Suffice it to say, we did not get that. When asked how mandatory buybacks would work in practice, Beto explained that people would turn in their AR-15s and AK-47s simply because “they follow the law.” Even when pressed that he had no idea who had the guns and no way to collect them other than door to door, Beto simply relied on good faith as a way to enforce a deeply unpopular policy. This sort of inability to discuss political logistics on what has become Beto’s signature policy was astoundingly bad debating, and I wasn’t the only one to see it. Immediately after Beto refused to discuss the logistics of the buyback, Pete Buttigieg criticized Beto for making empty promises. Beto’s response? Using emotional appeals about weapons of war in order to justify a policy he has no clue how to implement. Beto O’Rourke’s handling of his signature issue is a bit of a litmus test for the candidate himself: he’s all promises and emotional appeals with zero concrete policy. That’s why he’s on the bottom of this list. We’ll see how the candidates fare (and who’s still even on the stage) at the next debate in November! Content from The Bipartisan Press. All Rights Reserved. Agree or disagree with something in this article? Share it in the comment section and see what others think. Read the full article

#Democraticpresidentialdebate #ElizabethWarren #Ohio #PeteButtigieg

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foreverlogical · 5 years

Link

A combined 69 percent of registered voters say they don’t like Trump personally, regardless of their feelings about his policy agenda. A record 50 percent say they dislike him personally and dislike his policies, while another 19 percent say that they dislike him but approve of his policies.

Just 29 percent say they like Trump personally, with 25 percent saying they also approve of his policy agenda and 4 percent saying they disapprove.

On this measure, the high degree of personal dislike for Trump differentiates him from his five most recent predecessors. Majorities of voters said they personally liked Obama, Clinton, George W. Bush, George H.W. Bush, and Ronald Reagan, even though they might disagree vigorously with their political agenda.

In fact, prior to Trump’s presidency, the highest share of voters saying they disliked the president personally — regardless of their views on his policies — was 42 percent for George W. Bush in March 2006, after Hurricane Katrina.

Voters also have higher levels of discomfort about Trump’s re-election than about his main Democratic rivals.

Half of voters — 49 percent — say they’re very uncomfortable with his 2020 candidacy. That’s compared to 41 percent who say the same for Sanders and 33 percent apiece who say the same for Biden or Warren.

But Trump also continues to benefit from the upside of the polarization of the electorate around him, commanding more enthusiasm than his Democratic competitors as well. A quarter of voters (26 percent) say they’re enthusiastic about him, while fewer say they’re enthusiastic about Warren (17 percent), Sanders (13 percent) and Biden (12 percent.)

Some progressive proposals divide Democrats and the electorate at large

Voters overall are supportive of many of the policy goals being discussed by 2020 Democratic candidates, but there are notable exceptions surrounding "Medicare-for-All," government health care for undocumented immigrants, and complete student loan forgiveness.

Among Democratic primary voters, 64 percent say they support providing government health care to undocumented immigrants, while just 36 percent of all registered voters agree.

A similar share of Democratic voters — 63 percent — support a single payer "Medicare-for-All" style plan, also backed by Warren and Sanders, that would replace the existing private insurance system. Among voters overall, just 41 percent support that idea.

VIEW THIS GRAPHIC ON NBCNEWS.COM

And six-in-10 Democratic voters also back immediate cancellation and forgiveness of all student debt, a position shared by just 41 percent of all voters. Sanders has unveiled a plan to eliminate all $1.6 trillion in student debt, while Warren has proposed the cancellation of up to $50,000 in student debt per person, based on household income.

More moderate Democratic positions on the issues of health care and student loan forgiveness, however, have the backing of wide majorities of both Democratic voters and the general electorate.

Two-thirds of all voters — 67 percent — and 78 percent of Democrats back an optional program that would allow those under 65 to buy into Medicare just like one can currently buy in to private insurance.

A similar share of all voters — 64 percent — support a plan to forgive student debt for those who have paid 12.5% of their income every year for 15 years.

And 58 percent of all voters support a measure to provide free tuition at state colleges and universities.

While some of the most progressive Democratic proposals lack majority support, the poll also found that two of Trump’s signature plans are similarly unpopular with the voting public.

Just 43 percent of all voters support the construction of a U.S.-Mexico border wall. And exactly the same share back the elimination of the Affordable Care Act.

Voters raise concerns about Trump and Biden’s fitness for the presidency

While Biden may be the Democratic Party’s current standard-bearer for more moderate — and popular — policy proposals, a significant share of Americans in the poll say they’re losing confidence in his ability to lead the country.

A third of voters overall — 36 percent — say they’ve lost confidence in Biden in recent weeks, a time period that included a debate performance described as shaky by his critics. Just eight percent say they’ve grown more confident in him.

The same share — 36 percent — say they have become less confident in recent weeks in Trump’s ability to lead, with 17 percent saying they’ve become more confident.

Those who have lost confidence in the former vice president cited his debate performance, his age and what they say is an over-reliance on Obama’s legacy in making his own case for the job.

“Overall, I like Joe Biden a lot, but I think his performance at the debate gave me the feeling that he might be a little bit past his prime for the position,” said one male Democratic respondent from New York.

A white female Democrat from Illinois put it more bluntly.

“Basically he's an old white man who I don't think is going to help our country advance,” she said. “Because our country is not just a bunch of white people anymore.”

The NBC/WSJ poll was conducted Sept. 13-16. The margin of error for all adults is +/- 3.27 percentage points.

Carrie Dann

Carrie Dann is a political editor for NBC News.

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geneshaven · 7 years

Text

Shoulder To Shoulder

This is for those out there who know that Felicity Smoak is a badass. It was really fun writing this.

“Oh my god, Oliver. Are you okay?”

Oliver tried to roll over on the mat and a sharp pain went through his shoulder, keeping him on his back.

“Oliver…what is it?” She knelt down next to him.

“Uh…Felicity, I think you broke my shoulder.”

She instinctively reached out to touch him.

“No…” Oliver flinched away from her. “No Felicity, I’m okay. This isn’t my first broken bone. But I need to lay still and not move it.”

“Oliver, I’m sorry. Uh, I guess I did the throw right, yes?”

“Yeah, you did it right. But Felicity, when you’re in the real world, you can’t stop to see if your opponent is okay.”

“But…”

“Felicity, if you’re going to be part of the team out in the field, you can’t show the enemy any concern or worry. They are most likely trying to kill you. There are no time outs. You keep them down and don’t let them get back up to fight. What’s the lesson?”

“If you have to fight, make sure your opponent can’t fight back,” Felicity recited to him.

“Right. If you take them out at the start, your chances of getting hurt or worse goes down. Just because I’ve trained you to be a weapon---and a very beautiful one by the way, doesn’t mean you still can’t get hurt.”

“Okay Oliver, I will make sure I kick ass and not let anyone get back up. Kind of like what I just did to you, huh?” She looked at his injury. “So, how can I help you with your shoulder?”

“I’m not doubting your abilities, Felicity. You are badass in so many ways. But will you call John? I need his strength to help pop my shoulder back in.”

Felicity leaned down and gently kissed him. “Okay hon, I’ll call him. Uh, does this mean I get my black belt today?”

“Yeah babe, whatever color you want?”

“Oliver, it’s alright. Just back trace the signal and put in your algorithm.”

Oliver was sitting at Felicity’s computer station. His left arm was in a sling, completely immobilized. Tonight’s mission is not one the team can postpone. Rene has spent week’s undercover setting up this buy from the new drug dealer in town who calls himself Band-Aid. The guy actually stresses the hyphen in his name. There are already six fatal overdoses from the crap he peddles. Tonight, Team Arrow is going to shut him down. After some serious convincing, mostly by Felicity, Oliver is going to stay in the Bunker with his broken shoulder and coordinate the mission via computer monitoring. He was going to be Overwatch tonight.

He felt the irony of his new temporary position. Oliver is dead sure he could never measure up to Felicity’s skills on a computer, not even after just a few months of training from her. But now that Curtis and Paul had reconciled and were off on a second honeymoon, and because Oliver would be an impediment for the team in the field with his injury, there is no one else to step into the Overwatch job. The team needs Felicity with them tonight because of his absence in the lineup. Felicity assured him that he would be fine. He is a quick study, she reminded him. It isn’t like he has to hack into FBI or CIA databases. He only needs to monitor their coms and watch their backs. Piece of cake.

After the Lian Yu incident last year, Felicity asked Oliver to train her in more advanced hand to hand fighting skills. In return, she would teach him the fine art of hacking into street cameras and basic algorithm entries. Oliver at first declined the computer training. His place was in the field, not behind a computer. But Felicity convinced him that training each other in their respective fields would only enhance the team, and each other... so quid pro quid.

“Oliver,” Felicity’s voice broke through his reflections. “You’re not paying attention. You didn’t check for discrepancies in the signal. If one gets in, the whole com program will crash. We’ll be deaf and blind in the field.”

“Sorry. But Felicity, I’ve never been any good at math. I’m surprised I’ve learned this much.”

“Oliver, remember our deal. You turn me into Bruce Lee and I give you the skills to hack the world. You need to trust me.”

“Felicity, I do trust you. But honey, you went to MIT. You’ve been building computers since you were seven. I learned my skills by a madman on an island with landmines. Getting me to balance brute force with intellectual finesse is like teaching a brick layer with broken fingers how to perform brain surgery.”

“Nice honey,” Felicity smiled in response. “But witty analogies won’t save the day. You need to be spot on with intel tonight. Just stay focused. You’ll do fine.”

Oliver nodded and went back into the computer. After a few calculations, the signal trace clicked into place. He entered the alignment algorithm Felicity wrote and Oliver was up and running.

“Nice job,” Felicity said to him. “I’ll make a decent hacker out of you yet.”

Oliver smiled. “Okay, I’m ready to do this. Felicity, you be careful out there tonight. This is real world stuff with no restraint and no mats to fall on. Be strong, remember to breathe and…kick some ass.”

Felicity kissed him. “Thank you for believing in me.” We’re going to nail this son of a bitch tonight.”

“I love you honey,” Oliver told her.

Felicity bowed to her Sensei, gave the traditional fist into open palm salute and a quick wink to Oliver. “I love you too.”

“Hey sweetheart,” one of Band-Aid’s men addressed Felicity as he came into the alley were she was positioned. “Aren’t you the sexy one? It’s going to be a real shame hurtin’ that beautiful body of yours. But wow, you look really good in black, skin-tight…whatever that is you’re wearing.”

“Felicity,” Oliver spoke from the com piece in her ear. “He’s alone, according to the street cameras. Wait for backup. John is two minutes away.”

“Oliver, what am I supposed to do, make this guy a cup of coffee? I got this.”

“Who you talkin’ to, honey,” the criminal asked her? “Sayin’ a prayer, I hope.”

Felicity kept silent. It was another lesson Oliver taught her. Don’t engage in conversation with your opponent. It takes away your focus.

Felicity’s silence was beginning to annoy her opponent. “Nothing to say? That’s good. I don’t like my women talkin’ when I’m beating on ‘em.”

“I’m not your woman,” Felicity said to him.

The man suddenly moved forward with decent speed. But Felicity was ready. At his first movement, she pivoted her hips and executed a textbook spinning back kick. The man’s momentum and Felicity’s left foot met at the same time. She heard his nose break and then the bad guy dropped to the ground, unconscious before he landed.

Diggle suddenly appeared at the other end of the alley. “Felicity…are you…” He stopped talking as he saw the man on the ground at her feet. “Oliver,” he resumed. “Uh…she’s got this. The bad guy is down and out of the game.” He looked at Felicity and pride was shining in his eyes. “Good work, Felicity.”

“Felicity,” Oliver spoke in her ear again. “Are you okay?”

“Will you two stop it, I’m fine. And if I wasn’t, it would sort of be your fault, Oliver. You did train me, after all.”

“How…Felicity, what technique did you use,” Oliver asked her?

“I used a spinning back kick, honey. I always enjoyed watching you do those. If felt awesome.”

“Felicity…I’m reading…uh, I think it’s a heat signature. It’s behind…”

“Felicity!” John called out, “Behind you…”

It felt like the world suddenly crashed down on Felicity. Another bad guy was lurking in the shadows and stepped out. He brought an asp down on her left shoulder and then on the back of her head.

Darkness took Felicity to the ground.

The next night, Oliver and Felicity were in the Bunker, both of them sitting shoulder to shoulder in front of her computers.

“Oliver, reading that heat signature on the guy who knocked me out last night was at the same skill level as me taking my opponent out. It was an advanced move. I’m proud of you.”

Oliver turned to her and his shoulder cried out in protest. “Ahh…damn. Uh, thanks honey. I will never be as good as you on this thing. That reading…well, it could have been a rat or an alley cat. I took too long…” He sighed. “You got hurt, Felicity.”

Felicity turned to face him. Her arm moved in its sling and pain shot through her shoulder. “Ow!...son of a bitch.” She took a deep breath. “Oliver, it’s okay. John was there. I had backup. I…lost my focus patting myself on the back for being a badass. I should have waited for you to give us the all clear signal.”

“Felicity, in spite of that other guy who clocked you, you were awesome last night. You made me proud, honey. I felt like I was there with you. I will be you’re backup anytime.”

“Oliver, you were there, when my foot connected with that creep’s face.”

“Well, I’m still proud of you.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Computer man.”

Both to them smiled at each other with pride and love in their eyes.

“By the way, how long does it take a broken shoulder to heal,” she asked him?

@hope-for-olicity @louiseblue1 @dmichellewrites @lovelycssefan @myhauntedblacksoul @it-was-a-red-heeler @tdgal1 @almondblossomme @melolicity @memcjo

#felicity smoak

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junker-town · 6 years

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Why the Ivy League might finally be ready to compete in the playoffs

The conference is fun, rapidly improving, and full of coaches raring to test themselves nationally. Let’s talk to each head coach.

You might have a vision of Ivy League football in your head, of hoity-toity, champagne-at-tailgates sensibility with tall grass and three-yards-and-a-cloud-of-dust offense. That vision has never been entirely true, but it was true enough to persist.

That’s all changing. Ivy League football is good, and it’s getting better.

The Massey Composite compiles computer ratings for both the FBS and FCS levels. In 2015, the Ivy League, powered by No. 5 Harvard and No. 6 Dartmouth, graded out as the second-best FCS conference, behind only North Dakota State’s Missouri Valley. In 2017, it ranked fourth.

The league has fielded at least one top-15 team in six of the last eight years, and the depth appears to be increasing quickly, too.

That trend should only continue. Per HERO Sports, Princeton signed 2018’s No. 1 FCS recruiting class, and three other Ivy schools (No. 2 Yale, No. 6 Harvard, No. 14 Columbia) ranked in the top 15. Harvard and Yale ranked in the top eight in each of the last two years, too.

Maybe you’ve noticed. Maybe you flipped over to NBC Sports on a Friday night to watch part of an Ivy League game or turned on the annual Harvard-Yale battle and caught yourself getting sucked in. Maybe you saw two Ivy Leaguers get selected in April’s NFL draft. Or maybe you noticed Princeton beating out Alabama for a four-star quarterback.

But perhaps you didn’t notice. You could be forgiven.

After all, when FCS football is getting its lengthiest time in the spotlight — during December’s FCS playoffs — Ivies are nowhere to be found.

When the league de-emphasized athletics in the 1950s, it slid from big-time relevance. It still produced individual talent and a few awesome teams, but by the 1980s, it had removed itself from top-division football. The rivalries remained, and Harvard-Yale always finds its way to television, but few held the Ivy League to a high standard of football. Even if the Ivies had claimed an automatic place in the FCS playoffs, like most others have, they wouldn’t have made much of a difference.

That’s not true any more, not now that the league is recruiting and performing like one of the best in FCS, plus leading in innovations like player safety.

The Ivy League is too good and interesting to be confined to its insular world. Isn’t it time it sought a seat at the table to prove itself?

This offseason, I spoke with all eight Ivy head coaches to get some answers.

1. The non-scholarship league now offers something like scholarships.

Columbia University Athletics

Al Bagnoli has lived and breathed Ivy League football for 26 years, first as Penn’s head coach and, after a retirement that lasted mere weeks, now as Columbia’s. He won nine Ivy titles with the Quakers, and after inheriting a Columbia that had lost 21 straight games, he just went 8-2 in his third year.

If anyone knows the landscape, it’s Bagnoli. And he says there’s a clear reason why the league’s profile is rising.

“I think if you go back five to 10 years,” he says, “the Ivy League as a conference made an aggressive push to make things more affordable.”

The eight schools began to use a larger portion of their endowments to give incoming students grants and assure them that they can get a top-notch education without taking on spectacular debt. Without any debt, actually. This went for athletes and non-athletes alike.

“Once upon a time, the two-income family — mom’s a teacher, dad’s a postal worker — they’re in that middle class,” Bagnoli continues. “They’re getting squeezed out because they made too much [to qualify for Pell Grants or something similar] but didn’t make enough [to afford tuition]. We were devoid of that population. The Ivy League recognized it and made an aggressive push to make things affordable and make sure nobody incurs a loan.

“It’s opened up some population that was restricted.”

At first, it was only a few schools. Now, it’s all of them. And the effect is palpable in athletics. The league is still technically one of the few in Division I that doesn’t offer scholarships, but it basically does now, and if a kid has the grades, then the attraction of playing for an Ivy is strong.

The results first showed up in the sports that have smaller rosters — like women’s field hockey (Princeton won the 2012 national title), women’s hockey (Yale won 2013), and wrestling (Cornell finished second in 2011).

And in men’s basketball, too. After ranking no better than 20th in Ken Pomeroy’s conference rankings from 2002 to 2010, the league ranked 19th or better from 2011 to 2017, peaking at 13th in 2014. The league’s NCAA Tournament representative won its first-round game three times in that span and lost by two points in the first round — to Notre Dame, North Carolina, and Kentucky, no less — on three other occasions.

The effects are finally showing on the gridiron, too.

At the bottom of Yale head coach Tony Reno’s e-mail signature are two words: “Roll Dogs!” It is an adopted battle cry for Yale Athletics as a whole, and through college football-colored glasses, it suggests Bama-style ambition.

Reno was a Yale assistant for six seasons, then jumped over to rival Harvard for three before taking over the Bulldogs in 2012. More than anyone else in the conference, the Elis have benefited from the depth brought on by stronger recruiting.

“Last year we played nine defensive linemen in a game, and we played 20 to 22 guys in a game on defense,” he says. “So our ability to play our style of aggressive defense was great. We had guys who could play in different packages.

“Depth helped offensively, too. We lost our starting tailback in the preseason and our No. 2 guy midway through, but our No. 3 guy had a really nice year. The depth is so important, especially in our league, when there’s no bye weeks and you can’t redshirt.”

As with service academies at the FBS level, Ivy schools only have athletes for exactly four years. That puts premiums on development and experience and can mean significant year-to-year talent fluctuation, depending on how many upperclassmen you might have on your two-deep.

“[Recruiting] rankings are a really nice piece of information for fans and administrators and alumni,” Reno says, “but as coaches we know that the true testament of a player or class is what they do when they get there.”

In 2017, Yale enjoyed a confluence of experience (17 seniors on the two-deep) and the fruits of recruiting. The Dogs stomped Lehigh, an eventual FCS playoff team, and came within one point — a 28-27 loss to Dartmouth — of going unbeaten.

“I’ve been here 24 years as a coach and almost 20 as a head coach,” Brown’s Phil Estes, another Ivy veteran, says. “And at all levels — the athletic side of it as well as the offensive and defensive lines — we’re all recruiting at a different level now.”

Estes enjoyed a winning record in each of his first four seasons and won a share of the league title with a 9-1 season in 1999. He would win or share titles in 2005 and 2008 as well.

“We’re enticing guys that could be FBS or an FCS scholarship player, to say that we have a better package here that would compete against those scholarship schools.”

2. Embracing parity

Photo by Adam Glanzman/Getty Images

In a league of ups and downs, Harvard’s Tim Murphy had been the exception. The former Brown assistant held head coaching jobs at Maine and Cincinnati but took over in Cambridge in 1994.

The path was bumpy — Harvard had just one winning season in his first seven years — but soon came cruising altitude: from 2001 to 2016, Harvard never lost more than three games in a season. They won or shared eight Ivy titles.

Then in 2017, for the first time, Murphy was forced to start a true freshman quarterback for an extended period.

“We had to have a limited game plan, limited script. We couldn’t play as fast. It was one of the most challenging seasons I’ve had in 20 years.”

Still, Harvard was 3-2 in conference play with a chance at another league crown. The Crimson were one of seven teams that still had a chance to win the league with two weeks remaining. That list included not only stalwart Harvard, but upstarts Columbia and Cornell.

“In the recent past, from when I was getting recruited [to Cornell] in 2001 ... if you look at the winners, there’s no parity,” he says. “There’s really a couple of schools.”

In the 20 seasons from 1997 through 2016, either Harvard or Penn — two of the first schools to get much more aggressive about financial aid — won at least a share of the conference title in 17 of them.

“That’s to take nothing away from the job their players and coaches did,” Archer says. “You can’t just throw the jerseys onto the field [and win]. But I think last year — that’s parity.”

If not for Columbia’s historic struggles, Cornell could be called the most difficult job in the Ivy League. It claims long-ago national titles (five between 1915 and 1939) and Hall of Famers, but the Big Red had just two winning seasons between 1998 and 2012.

Archer, a former Big Red lineman, knew what he was getting into. It took him a few years to get a foundation. Cornell went just 5-25 in his first three seasons.

Of course, the school probably knew it was investing in a long-term project. In a conference full of wily veterans, Cornell promoted Archer to the head job when he was just 34.

“Five years ago,” he says, “I wasn’t as good as I am now. Having the experience of playing relevant football in November for the first time was ... if you want to squat 500 pounds, you’ve gotta feel it on your back first.”

Archer’s recruiting hasn’t caught the eye of analysts like that of other Ivies, but he’s casting a wide net to find the right 30 guys per year to bring in.

“We’re being Cornell,” he says. “Let’s be great finders. Let’s use our resources to scour the country — all 15,000 high schools that play football — and this is the No. 1 college town in the country. ‘Any person ... any study’ — let’s find people that resonates with. A blue-collar mentality, the guys who want to dig in and do something for the first time.”

3. Literally changing the game

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Buddy Teevens has been all over the country. A former Dartmouth quarterback, he took the head coaching gig at his alma mater in 1987 following a short stint at Maine. After his second straight Ivy League title in 1991, bigger programs came knocking.

He won just 11 games in five years at Tulane, and after a rehabilitation stint as a Steve Spurrier assistant at Florida, he won just 10 games in three years at Stanford. He returned to Dartmouth in 2005, and it took him a while to find a groove again. In his first five seasons back, he went 9-41.

But in the last eight seasons, he’s finished with a losing record just once. His Big Green tied for the conference title in 2015 and finished tied for second in 2011 and 2017.

“All of a sudden, it starts to work out,” he says.

At Dartmouth, he has been afforded one thing he didn’t get at Tulane or Stanford: patience.

“People want to win here,” he says, but there’s more to Dartmouth than that.

“There’s a little bit more of an understanding, and that personalizes the approach that a coach can take,” Teevens says. “You worry about going 0-10 — if you’re 0-10, you don’t feel real good — but our graduation rate, our APR, have been tops in the country. I think there’s appreciation for the challenges you might face, and people appreciate the fact that you’re graduating all your kids.”

And oh, the networking possibilities.

“Nigel Key, VP at Morgan Stanley, was my right guard,” Teevens notes. “Jeff Blackburn, VP at Amazon, was a linebacker we recruited. I tell my players I can’t get you a job, but I can put you in contact with people who might hire you. You can demonstrate that it’s not just about football, though I think we’ve had 12 guys sign NFL contracts in the last four years.”

Even if the quality of the football is rising, you never lose sight of the fact that this is the Ivy League. And with Teevens leading the way, the league has attempted to become a source of innovation.

A few years ago, engineering students at Dartmouth helped invent a robotic tackling dummy that could move like a real player, so fundamentals could be taught without as much player-to-player contact. The innovation got Teevens a date with Stephen Colbert.

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In 2016, Ivy coaches agreed to eliminate all full-contact hitting from regular season practices.

“I know the NCAA is considering legislation,” he continues, “but conferences are going to have to say, ‘This is what we’re going to do.’ I like to think the Ivy League can be a driving force.

“I tell all of our prospects, you will not tackle or be tackled in your four years on the practice field here. Repetitive blows are a concern, and you’ll have fewer of them here. We just don’t do it. And look at our win-loss record. It hasn’t hurt us.”

“You might even argue that maybe [the league has improved] because we have healthier players,” says Robin Harris, the Ivy League’s executive director. “We were trying to say, seven or eight years ago, how do we make our student athletes safer? And we’re not gonna sit around and wait for the NCAA to act. The fact that the NCAA is now acting, with [new NCAA Chief Medical Officer] Dr. Brian Hainline coming on board, I think it’s terrific.

“We work very collaboratively,” she says. “We share our information, and we share our data, because we want to benefit the collective. And when the Ivy League presidents do something, it catches people’s attention.”

The league moved kickoffs to the 40-yard line a few years ago to encourage fewer returns, and Harris notes that recent NCAA practice rule changes and recommendations limiting contact stemmed from what the Ivies were already doing.

“The NCAA practice rule changes came about, in part, because of what we did with our practices in the fall. And the NCAA went further than what we did, which is great — that’s what we were trying to do.”

4. Continuing the long Ivy football history of tactical innovation ... and maybe even getting really weird

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In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, two men created most of what we consider modern football. As I wrote in my book, The 50 Best* College Football Teams of All Time, Walter Camp gave the sport a line of scrimmage, a set of downs, and cut the number of players on the field from 15 to 11. Chicago’s Amos Alonzo Stagg, meanwhile, gave it personality. He’s credited with creating the huddle, the lateral, the onside kick, the unbalanced line, motion — even the Statue of Liberty play.

Camp was football’s conservative father figure with the ever-furrowed brow; Stagg was its fun uncle. Both came from Yale (Camp played and coached there, and Stagg played there in the 1880s).

Thankfully — for the Ivy and anyone watching it — the conference’s current offensive aesthetics are far more Stagg than Camp.

“The game went from the old, traditional I-formation — tight ends, pound the ball — to more 11 personnel [one running back, one tight end, three receivers],” says Penn head coach Ray Priore. “There are a lot of variations that allow you to outfit your team to your best personnel, and it becomes a way to utilize your personnel as you see fit. If we have multiple good tailbacks, we use tailbacks in multiple ways.

“Princeton had three quarterbacks on the field at the same time! Lined them up at different positions.”

Wait, what?

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Averaging nearly 90 plays and 44 points per game, the 2013 Tigers used modern-day tempo and made themselves almost un-scoutable. Three quarterbacks — Quinn Epperly, Connor Michelsen, and Kedric Boston — not only took snaps as first-stringers, but stayed on the field at other positions, too.

Three years in at Princeton, head coach Bob Surace had been scrambling. The former Tiger center had inherited a team that had finished with a winning record three times in the last decade. He began to see proof of concept with a 5-5 2012, and things came together in that 2013.

Epperly was the primary signal-caller, but the trio combined for 2,922 passing yards, 718 rushing yards, and 121 receiving yards. Anyone could line up anywhere from play to play.

“There’s no law against it,” Surace says, matter-of-factly. “There’s no law against a team like Alabama, with two good quarterbacks, having them in on the same play occasionally. If we do it, it’s because we think we can run efficient plays.”

Stagg would have been proud.

“Our guys can really process the information,” Surace says. “You can talk to them at a high level football-wise. They’re not NFL players, and we don’t have unlimited time with them, but within that small work week, we can give them a lot of information.”

“Whatever your scheme is offensively or defensively,” Archer says, “you want to be multiple enough to feature your best players. Because of our admission standards, you can’t have a set system and recruit to it. Maybe it’s my tailback that’s my feature guy, or my slot receiver, or my boundary receiver. The variety you may see if guys tailoring their systems to their talent.”

Every play-caller is a Stagg in his own mind, grabbing napkins to write down ways he’d reinvent the game if only he had all the right pieces. But every coach is limited by what his guys can handle. By being nerds, Ivy League players have given their coaches a chance to stretch themselves.

“You can put some additional stress on defenses via formations, via tempo, via deployment of people, and where you have your personnel,” Bagnoli says. “Everybody has to a certain degree a percentage of each. For us, as we look at it and and say, ‘What are our strengths, and what can we do to maximize our matchups,’ tempo becomes an important thing. If you don’t substitute, you’re not letting them substitute.”

Bagnoli and Estes have looked to a nearby source for innovation: the CAA’s New Hampshire.

After going .500 or better in 16 of his first 18 seasons, Estes’ win totals trickled downward, and in 2017, the Bears hit rock bottom. They went 0-7 in conference play for the first time under Estes — they were the only team not in the title race with two weeks remaining — and the primary cause was an offense poisoned by injuries and extreme youth.

Estes instilled youth on the coaching staff as well. It was also a UNH movement, bringing in former UNH quarterback Kevin Decker as offensive coordinator, plus two other UNH assistants (Chris Setian and Chris Zarkoskie).

This came after Bagnoli brought former UNH quarterback Ricky Santos aboard as his QBs coach.

Few schools have been more influential and innovative than UNH. When Santos won the 2006 Payton Award, the FCS’ version of the Heisman, he was running the up-tempo offense established by a coordinator named Chip Kelly.

5. Is it time to start sending Ivy teams to the postseason?

Penn Athletics

So if the league has been among the best in FCS over the last three years and has arguably been the best recruiter ...

And if the teams most recently at the bottom have either gained traction (Cornell), brought in new energy (Brown), or both (Columbia) ...

And if the teams most recently near the top have raised their recruiting games ...

... then what we’ve seen might only be the start of the rise.

And each year, one fact becomes more noticeable: football’s postseason is still the only one forbidden by the Ivy League. The head coaches are unanimous in their opinion about this.

Bagnoli: “I couldn’t give you an intelligent reason, to be honest, when you have 33 sports or whatever and every other sport can go ... it doesn’t pass the logic test.”

Reno: “You get into this profession to compete at the highest level and develop young men, and if you’re fortunate enough to have a championship team, you’d love to test your mettle.”

Surace: “It’s not our decision, unfortunately. I would go in front of any jury and argue against the smartest minds arguing against it, and I would win that argument.”

Priore: “It would be great to see how our teams would do on the national scale. All of our programs at some point have gone against the Colonial [Athletic Association] and had some success. We played Lehigh last year, and we beat them.”

Et cetera.

Priore knows as well as anyone, though, that sometimes it takes a while to get what you want. The SUNY Albany grad had already been a Penn assistant for six seasons before Bagnoli came aboard, and he remained during Bagnoli’s entire tenure. In 2015, after 28 years as an assistant, he was promoted to head coach. And with a slower tempo than many Ivy peers, plus an old-school emphasis on killer defense, he shared the Ivy title in each of his first two seasons.

“My experience with the league is that process is slow,” he says. “It takes time. Freshmen were not eligible to play varsity football — that was an NCAA rule change [in the 1970s] — but we didn’t change over ‘til 1992 or 1993. For the longest time, we used to just have one day of spring football, and now we have 12.

“I do believe change can happen, but I’d be wrong to try to tell you when that would be.”

It’s hard to believe that change is coming too soon, however.

“We haven’t talked about the postseason in any meeting in years,” Harris says. “The presidents haven’t talked about it in quite some time. It’s just not on our agenda for a variety of reasons.

“I do know that when the presidents last talked about it, there were a multitude of reasons. Look at when the championship is happening. It’s happening right when our student-athletes are taking their exams. And to have 100 football players have to put a pause on their academics to focus on the championship, or to receive accommodations, it’s a lot.”

In a roundabout way, the conference’s improvement only reinforces that logic.

“We would probably win at least a game or two [in the playoffs],” Harris says, which would only result in more awkward academic logistics.

What about a bowl bid, though?

“A one-game postseason opportunity might have more of a shot than a multi-game possibility,” says Harris, “but the issue there is, who do we play? It seems like other conference champions are tied up.”

(Surace has an intriguing answer: “Why wouldn’t we work with historically black colleges and play them?” he asks. “Take a school like Grambling or Howard vs. Princeton or Columbia or whoever. You’re gonna hit a huge number on TV, and you’re gonna sell it out in Atlanta or New Orleans or Washington DC. Why wouldn’t we want to bring more attention?”)

If any conference can still get away with that academics-first logic in this lucrative age of college football, it’s the Ivy. But it still doesn’t sit well.

“We hear about safety and class time and so forth,” Teevens says, “but we play fewer games than anyone, and half our games are at home, so we miss class less than anybody.”

And considering the good press that came from recent basketball success — and how athletics have long been called the “front door” to a university — a run of football success might be worth the extra accommodations.

“The only thing we can do is carry a unified message as coaches,” Bagnoli says. “Carry that message that we think we’re missing on an opportunity that should be available to us. We think we’d be competitive. Would we win four in a row? Who knows? But I feel comfortable that, some of my old Penn teams, would have been competitive.”

“I’m not sure it gets much better than the way it is,” Murphy says. He’s in favor of the playoffs, too, but he makes the counterargument. “Our last game [against Yale], we treat it as a bowl game. And to be able to play your bitter rival on national TV, and so many times for us this century, we’ve been playing for a championship.

“The Ivy League has athletics in a better perspective, or a different perspective, than the SEC or the Big 12 or the Big Ten,” he continues. “The way they do it works well for them, but it wouldn’t work well for us. I think there’s a little bit, if not less pressure, then a little less [desire] to make such quick decisions.”

Would that change with playoff pressure? Perhaps. But it’s clear that the coaches are willing to take the chance. And knowing how this league has been performing, they’d probably fare pretty well.

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