#how many. how structured. what type of shoes they were wearing- these were important to know

[ru5t]

scale of 1 to 10 how unsettled would your character be if Tech recognized them by footstep and/or another movement sound of theirs?

[da-janela-lateral]

MP100 S2E01 under a writer's perspective

The Emi Fukami episode in Mob Psycho 100 was a beautiful display of Mob's character development in relation to his individuality and a earnest vision of emotional vulnerability, but I want to call attention to a single detail: Emi being a writer.

Out of all the secret truths that the cast masks during the narrative, Emi's must be one of the most mundane. She is writing a book. She doesn't want people to know about it, much less read it, as Emi was led to believe this hobby of hers was embarassing.

I find it very interesting that Emi, character whose focus episode revolves around vulnerability, has writing has her main passion. In a way, writing is one of the most revealing art forms that there is. Literary choices are a reflection of the author's context, beliefs, likes and dislikes, fears and dreams, even though many of these choices cannot be perceived in a sensible level. Even if I suddenly decided to write a tale about a random theme - you say, a blue-footed booby who becomes an architect while wearing ballet shoes - it would say something about me. It could be a preferred text type, my sense of humor or even my idea of what is "random". Word choices, rhythm, figures of speech, themes, narrative structures, spins on a literary genre's expectations - all of these and more consist of conscious or unconscious decisions made by the writer. Writing as an art form serves as a mirror to the artist's very mind.

As a result, a piece of text can be a very delicate thing. Many people would only reveal their works to a exemplarily trusted someone, or to no one at all. That's the origin and end of uncountable masterpieces. It is also associated to passion. Few are the writers who characterize themselves as such and don't feel a duty to write. Yes, duty. Not all pieces are a labor of love, but it's almost universal that they're one of resolve, as little as it might be. One can unlock a fundamental will to write something in spite of it being weary work. At this point, for many writers, it's not a simple hobby. It's a need. It's a compulsory manner of expression hardwired onto our brains; thus, it's an inseparable part of who we are.

So what does any of this have to do with Emi's arc?

S2E01 is all about being vulnerable. Even though Emi had only asked out Mob because of a bet and hanged out with him for a week, she felt safe enough to show him her book. Her own friend group didn't have an idea that she was working on one, and once they discovered this, they ridiculed Emi's effort and teared it to shreds. Emi tried to alleviate this rejection by affirming she didn't care for her work, while everything shown previously on the episode proved this was wrong. In turn, Mob uses his psychic powers to put back her text together - his first public demonstration of them since he was a child. Mob was honest about himself by revealing he was an esper. Emi was honest by wanting his opinion on her book.

Emi is a fourteen year old girl going through a confusing and ever changing phase of her life. After doubting on Mob's emotions, she tells him that she too doesn't know well who she is, and her actions around her friends prove how she was prone to peer pressure. Her mind and identity were on an uncertain state, and this would also reflect on her writing. Emi uses complicated words, perhaps to make her writing sound more serious. Based on a translation of her work "Adventure", she uses more of a stream of consciousness prose and ambiguous descriptions. She immediately decides to write something different after her experiences with Mob. Emi has a personal style! She has techniques and topics she enjoys and active choices about how she will employ them! Emi has a bit of her on her story and this was why she hid it so much: a mockery of it would be synonym of a mockery of herself.

This is what makes the plotline with her book so important to express the episode's themes. Emi felt insecure to reveal such an integral part of herself to the world until someone came and not only took it seriously, but appreciated it enough to make an effort to understand it better. It tells a lot how Mob's demonstration of caring made her leave the people who destroyed her work.

As a writer, this detail gave a whole another layer of significance for the episode. I've felt Emi's struggle in a very intense level on the past. Storytelling is something so dear to me I can't see myself without the adjective of "writer", but the acknowledgement of my work would be the same as exposing myself to the world. It can be scary at times, to divulge something so sincere to others. However, such is the writer's role: divulging. For reasons long unknown a magical excess of words was born to me, and this coincidence can't be supressed and abandoned on the dark. There is something I can offer copiously hand in hand and its words. Words. Words. Words... And the reflection of me resonates on others.

[voskhozhdeniye]

Back during the George Floyd protests, I made a post criticizing the people who were blindly saying that Black voices need to be lifted. While they were correct in their intentions, my point was that you need to be critical of which voices you lift up. I also criticized the whole invest in Black business and Black capitalism spiel that usually followed.

I asked a simple question. How does investing in Black businesses put money back into Black communities?

Now I know the excuse the business majors would give, but what really happens is the creation of a Black petite bourgeoisie.

The interests of the Black petite bourgeoisie and the Black working class do not align with each other.

I have a coworker who has been trying to get me in on his government job. He is quickly approaching six figures a year. Last year he told me about another person who he was attempting to help get in. He eventually ghosted the dude. He felt the other guy was 'too hood' for the opportunity.

This is already too long, but this is why I despise 'the culture' so much. Black bourgeoisie figures selling a materialistic lifestyle for working class Blacks to imitate. It's unrealistic, unattainable and maintained by gatekeeping.

Once again, Drake and Travis Scott have Nike deals. Every time you see them wearing Nike shoes and clothes, or name dropping Nike in a verse, it's because they're on the payroll.

"Checks over stripes, that's what we like."

How many brands does Beyoncé name drop on RENAISSANCE?

That penultimate tweet is so important.

I'm glad they invoked Killer Mike's name. He might say a lot of revolutionary type shit, but it's always structured within the status quo. He's also homophobic as fuck. You can't claim to want freedom for Black people, while simultaneously oppressing a specific group within the very Black communities you say you want free.

No one is free until we are all free.

[gingerlillywomensleepwear]

Satin Pyjamas Set - Is Women's Nightwear The Comfiest Choice?

Pyjamas are a great way to relax and unwind at the end of the day, but they can be hard to find. The right women's nightwear can make all the difference. They're designed for comfort and will help you sleep better. Below, we'll look at some of the best pyjamas available on the market today:

Is women's sleepwear comfortable?

Sleepwear is an important part of any woman's night routine. It can keep you cozy and warm, or it can help you stay cool if the night gets too hot.

Women's sleepwear is comfortable because it allows for a good amount of movement. Satin pyjamas set comes in many different styles, including those that are loose and those that fit closer to the body. It also comes in many materials, such as cotton or silk—each material offering its own unique properties. 

Some fabrics are breathable while others keep heat trapped close to your body (like flannel pajamas). No matter what kind of sleepwear you're looking for, there's something out there for everyone!

What is the most comfortable women's sleepwear?

The most comfortable women's nightwear is a mix of cotton, silk and satin. Cotton is great for breathability and silk is good for softness. The satin is there to add some structure to the pyjama set but still keeps it comfy.

Flannel or velour are also fantastic options if you want something cozy or luxurious feeling against your skin. You could also try velvet if you like a little bit of luxury around bedtime!

Are pyjamas and nightdresses available in different materials?

Pyjamas are available in a range of different materials. The most popular choice is cotton, which is both comfortable and breathable. If you want something a little more luxurious, satin pyjamas or silk pyjamas could be the perfect choice.

 Polyester is another common material for nightwear, but it can be less durable than cotton or silk. Flannelette pyjamas are great for winter because they keep you warm without feeling too hot—although you can also find flannelette bedding in styles other than pajama sets!

If you want to choose something that's both comfy and cool (but not too revealing), go with loose-fitting cotton pants paired with a roomy T-shirt or top. You can even throw on some shoes if it’s cold outside!

Do women's pyjamas come in different sizes?

Choosing the right size for you is important, as well as considering the style and material.

It's easy to get confused about comfortable women's loungewear because they come in such a wide range of sizes, styles and materials. But let's start by looking at some of the most popular types of nightwear for women:

The iconic look that has been with us since 19th century England when it was worn by children who were not allowed to wear pajamas (pants). These days they are available in adult sizes too.

Their loose-fitting design allows them to be worn without a top underneath or paired up with a t-shirt or camisole underneath. This makes them ideal for summer nights when you want something cool but light on your body.

Conclusion

So, are women's pyjamas the most comfortable? It's hard to say. There are many factors that contribute to how you feel when wearing women's nightwear, including your body shape and size, as well as the material and style of the garment in question. What we can say with confidence is that there is no shortage of choice when it comes to women's nightwear!

[midnightmoonkiss]

Esoteric.

Witch!Izuku Midoriya X Fem!Reader

Summary: What was a witch, exactly? Someone who casts spells? Dabbled in medicine? Fought in battles? You didn’t know. That was, until you met one.

WARNINGS!: Soft!Dom!Izuku, Face-sitting, Fingering, Potion-play

Category: Smut

Word Count: 7.3k (more than half is like.. pure smut..)

A/N: The final day of the Izumonth Collab!

P.S. I really love Witch!Izuku, idk if you can tell,,, Also, I made the witch!collage above! ‘Tis just to suck you into the mood. And sorry this was.. a bit late.. heheh,,,

Just To Clarify:

You’re both consenting adults

Witches, though actually fairly rare, are seen as common beings

Witches aren’t human

Fantasy-ish au!

Tag List:

@coupsieddori​ @desia2​ @strwbrry-lia​ @my-bnha-things​

Every castle has a witch.

It’s been that way for as long as you, or anyone else, could remember.

It was normal.

Mundane to some.

Just something you’d hear about time and time again.

They were workers, just like you. 

But yet, that never stopped your sense of wonder.

They never were in plain sight, not for a peasant such as yourself, anyway.

It always brought up so many questions whenever you’d stop to think about it. 

What did they look like?

Were they nice, or wicked?

How did their magic work?

What did they wear?

Depending on the kingdom, most witches were treated like royalty, especially those who worked in castles.

Of course, how could someone so powerful not have such a title?

It made you question if it was given out of fear, or respect.

It wasn’t until you met the witch of Thidel castle, the ever-so-generous Izuku Midoriya, that your questions were all willingly answered.

You truly weren’t anticipating meeting him during such a catastrophe of a day. Looking back, it was quite embarrassing.

You were the baker’s assistant, tasked with making the batter to elaborate sweets for the King’s ball that evening.

The flour was freshly ground from the mill, the vanilla was as pure as a white daisy, the sugar ever-so-sweet, eggs fetched that morning, everything was perfect.

In fact, everything was running all nice and smoothly, until the King decided to ask for triple the amount of baked goods he had originally requested.

Not only did that mean running to town and back in shoes already falling apart, but that also meant stirring and stirring and stirring until it felt as if your arms were on fire and about to melt off.

You were covered in ingredients and sweat, the other bakers and assistants were running around, spilling things on each other, and making large messes as they pulled their hair out to get everything done on time.

It was chaos.

And that’s when he showed up.

You forgot what he was originally there for, herbs, perhaps?

Batter smudged on your cheek, you were carrying a large sack of flour to the mixing station when the door opened.

You slipped comedically on an egg that had fallen on the floor, and of course, you had to slam into this sudden brick wall of a man.

White powder flew everywhere, and the clock stopped in your head as you watched in horror as the last bag of flour you had was just about to spill all over the dirty cobblestone.

That’s when you saw it for the first time.

Magic.

He had simply flicked his wrist and all of the flour was back in its bag, and such a high ranking individual was on his knees, sputtering apologies to you.

To you, of all people.

A lowly peasant.

It felt unreal.

But that was how you met him.

He looked up and the first image he had of you forever imprinted in his head was wild (H/C) hair coated in sweat and flour, cheeks smudged with chocolate and dried batter, eyes wide with panic, and cheeks a burning red.

He never let you live it down, the bastard.

That night at the ball, you met him again. He had the gall to note how you cleaned up fast, all while sheepishly smiling at you like you were the only girl in the room.

You wanted to punch him at the time. Or die of embarrassment. He was still the witch after all, and never before had someone so high class spoken to you before. You were filled with so many emotions that night, you were sure you were going to throw up.

Instead, you smiled, offered him a pastry, and walked away.

He just had to follow you, though.

His reason being, “I was looking for some entertainment at such a boring event.”

It had made you laugh, as IF you were any entertainment. From then on, though, after having spent an entire night chatting the time away, he was as hooked on you as you were with him.

Nowadays, you got to frequent his studies often.

A privilege not many had, as apparently- witches were quite stubborn with letting people into their sanctuary and touching their things.

Perhaps it was a possessive trait of theirs, one that kept them from misplacing important potions, books, and ingredients, but nevertheless you were absolutely honored to be allowed somewhere so.. otherworldly.

The King and his youngest son were the only ones besides yourself allowed in.

But stepping inside would always be a slap to the face, no matter how many times you actually did enter.

It wasn’t exactly clear to you how he did it, or how the witch before him did it, but the small study tucked away on the east wing of the castle wasn’t a small study at all.

The old, heavy brown door was signed with words of a language unknown to you and others, the hinges creaking ever so slightly as you pulled it open, only to be met with a two-story home inside.

Your nose was always immediately hit with the earthy scent of rain and plants, no doubt from the plethora of the heavenly greens hanging about the place, glowing orbs of light hovering near the ones doomed to never touch true sunlight.

The place was cluttered yet neat, parchments piling up in one corner, yet another where they laid organized.

It was almost like a different world crafted by steady and loving hands.

Old maps were tacked to one of the walls, scribbled writing and red circles pointing out certain areas of the land beyond the one you knew.

Witches apparently had their own realm, or at least, “a pocket of Earth hidden away from humans by magic”, as Izuku had thoughtfully explained one night as a thunderstorm raged on outside.

Old books smelling of age are scattered about, the large bookshelf barely able to contain them all.

Candles lit by a green flame surround a large wooden table, herbs such as chamomile, ginger, ginseng, valerian, lavender, and saffron are neatly placed by a bowl, wrapped in bundles. Clearly, he was going to try and make some more anti-depressant mixture for the prince again.

He was more of a naturalist when it came to the sick, unless worse came to worse.

He was essentially a glorified doctor who was far more knowledgeable on plants rather than bone structure and types of sickness.

He was a sweetheart who helped all he could.

Hell, he was even taken to some battles as a last defense.

Despite looking so innocent, with his baby fat still hugging his cheeks and freckles splattered all about, the definition of youth, he was quite powerful.

Scarily so.

You had heard hushed whispers from fellow servants about how he had taken down armies alone multiple times before, coming back with nothing but burns and a broken bone or two.

He was terrifying to those who didnt take a mere second to glance at him.

But those who did were greeted with nothing but a warm smile and the fleeting wave of a busy man.

It was a mystery how you had managed to capture his undivided attention, enough so that he had made you his, the plain-looking bracelet made from leather string holding an emerald sealed with magic signifying that.

You were untouchable.

Once gutted with fear, you walked the polished grounds of the castle freely.

After all, not even a King would so much as dare to harm witches beloved, lest he wanted to be burned alive by immortal flames and sent to the ninth level of hell.

A level solely made by strong users of the past, the ones who carved the road for witchery, having bent time itself to do so.

Truly terrifying how powerful they could be, but yet it was so mystifying.

You’d be lying if you said you haven’t spent nights wide awake listening to him ramble about their history, about how they came to be and how they flourished.

They didn’t start off as human-like creatures, they started off as a ball of magical light in a land filled with nothing.

It was said that witches built the Earth from the ground up until greed overtook the lands and the humans overpopulated them.

And yet, they work harmoniously together.

Humans fearful of their power, and witches just naturally seeking to help people and continue their craft in harmony with all those who share the lands they grew from scratch.

 It truly was a peaceful existence they led, you couldn’t help but admire it.

Just like you always have.

Pulling the door shut, it locked behind you as you stepped over some paper with doodles, knowing better than to mess with his disorganized things without him in the room to see it.

Speaking of, you were asked here this evening, something about wanting to try out a new potion he had made.

He was always making new things, an inventor of sorts, but never one to have you as a test subject.

Of course, it piqued your curiosity and had you quickly cleaning up the mess you had made in the kitchen when the day was officially over just to get here as fast as you could.

The large window covered in vines holding a small couch beneath it glistened with the light of a crescent moon, casting the room lit with an array of colors in a cool glow.

Smoke from the candles blurred the light, only to collide with the wooden floor above them.

Humming, you grabbed an orb sitting on a side table,  holding it in the moonbeams so it would absorb its brightness. A candlestick of sorts made from magic. You weren’t going to risk going into complete darkness again.

He was obviously not in his work area, so he was probably upstairs.

And so, as quietly as you could, you crept up the old stairs, holding your breath and biting your lip whenever you came to a creaky step. You wanted to scare him, or at the very least surprise him

He was so easy to scare, and he always made the cutest of noises when you did it.

It was hard not to try everytime you were given the chance.

Once you made it to the top, fingers clasped tightly around the carved wooden railing, you looked around the darkened hallway, searching for the room he’s most likely to be in.

None of them had any lights on, which was eerily odd.

He never was much a fan of complete darkness.

It only raised questions as to if he wasn’t here yet, or if he was leaving you high and dry.

No, he would never do such a thing. Perhaps you’re early?

Chewing on your thumbnail, you stood dead at the top of the stairs, waiting for a sign that he was here.

“BOO!” 

“ARGGHH!” you shrieked, jumping away from the noise only to have your back slammed against the wall.

Horrified, you snapped your head to the direction of the noise, only to find a giddy Izuku covering his mouth with a leather-gloved hand, holding away his giggles.

Huffing, you placed a hand on your heart, ignoring the laughs that seeped out of him.

“Geeze, you scared me!” You chided, glaring up into his playful green eyes.

“Oh, like you weren’t trying to do the same to me just now.”

Laughing still, he bent down in front of you, offering you a hand to help you up.

Ever the gentleman.

Placing your palm into his own, he easily pulled you up to your feet, holding you against his muscular chest in a welcoming hug, to which you eagerly returned, arms wrapping around his slender waist.

Though you didn’t know the common body type of a witch, you had to admit, he was certainly buff. Not that you minded.

He could easily throw you over his broad shoulder, and you loved it.

Completely defenseless and vulnerable.

Oh, how sweet it was to trust fully in someone.

His foreign clothes were soaked in his familiar thick scent, the smell of the forest after it had just rained, dewdrops in the early morning sun, a hint of pine, and his own natural musk that always had your head spinning. He tends to travel the forests in the kingdom often, collecting natural herbs and stones he found interesting.

He had jars and jars of rocks and stones, sometimes cracking them open to reveal crystals tucked away inside. He’d always make little trinkets out of them, giving them to people he deemed as friends as a sign of gratitude. You only had one, made from the rarest crystal he had ever found, taaffeite. 

“So, why did you need me?” You mumbled against his chest, cheek rubbing against his familiar warmth.

“Firstly, I always need you.” The sap.

“Mhmm..” you hummed out, letting him pull away and grab your hand, taking the glowing orb and tossing it up and down as he led you down the corridor.

“Secondly,” he trailed off, leaving the orb to float in the air as he unlocked his bedroom door, pulling you inside.

“It’s a bit of a personal thing I can only trust you with testing.”

Smiling to yourself, you sat down on the edge of his large bed, running your fingers over the soft wool that made up his thick comforter.

Never one to use dead animal pelts.

“Is that so?” Your eyes naturally follow his being as he walks around the room, shuffling through different materials before snapping his fingers to light the stone fireplace off on the other side of the room, providing more light, as well as warmth, so he could see where he was going and not trip on the books scattered across the floor.

He didn’t like the windows in his bedroom open at night.

“Y-yes..” he stuttered, fumbling around with a few glass jars on his desk, muttering to himself as he examines the label on each one. Seemingly finding what he was looking for, he turned back to you, proudly showing that he had found it before making his way back to the bed.

“What is that for?” Curious, your fingers brushed against the cool glass containing the shimmering magenta liquid as he sat beside you on the bed, mattress dipping enough from his weight that your sides knocked together.

“A few weeks ago, Shōto had asked a familiar question, if I possessed the ability to make every potion out there. Of course I- I can’t exactly, but I’ve enough skill to make some rather.. exotic potions. He questioned if I ever tried something different than just potions to heal the sick or offer beauty, and I haven’t. I don’t know why, but realizing that upset me. As if my skill set was limited to just some average joe healer,”

“Izuku..”

“So for a while now, I’ve been branching out. Trying different types of potions and having him as the tester.”

“Is that why he’s been acting different these days?”

“Precisely. I’m just lucky I haven’t gotten in trouble for turning him into a frog yet..” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his head as you took the glass from him to ogle it.

“So what is this then?”

“Um..” Embarrassment was creeping up his neck and resting on his cheeks as he averted his shy eyes, “I have a hunch of what it might do. But.. secret?”

You pout at him, “Shouldn’t I know what this is?”

“You’ll know soon! I promise it won’t harm you, darling.” Leaning down, he pecks a kiss on your cheek, large arm wrapping around your waist to pull you into a side hug.

Taking the glass from your hands, he pulled the cork out, glittery, pink mist floating out like smoke from a blown-out candle.

“So, what do you say? Will you try it?” It was almost as if he was giving you no option other than yes with those big puppy eyes of his staring into your soul.

Licking your lips, an action his eyes followed, you gulped the nervousness away.

What had you to fear? This was Izuku after all. Had he ever done you harm? Absolutely not.

You had no reason not to trust the man who held your heart.

“Alright.”

Joy lit up his face, smiling so widely his eyes crinkled.

Huffing out a laugh, you took the bottle from him again, curiously sniffing its fragrance.

“Chocolate and.. maca?” The scent was certainly familiarly tasty, having worked with the foods before, being a baker. Judging how the liquid didn’t resemble them at all, it was off-putting. How had he managed to trap such a delicate smell inside?

“Mhm! That’s right! Apparently, when made, the potion takes on a heavenly smell. Most are usually bitter.”

“Ahh..” Trailing off you eyed it up one last time before finally bringing it to your lips, a shiver running down your spine at just how cold the glass still was, despite being in a warm room.

Tilting the glass up, the liquid glimmering in the light of the fire traveled down the shoot, pouring into your awaiting mouth, feeling as if you were swallowing a runny syrup.

It had the slightest hint of sugar and cinnamon to its flavor, but nothing else. How odd.

Gulping it all down just to get it over with, your eyes that unknowingly closed fluttered open as he pulled the glass away.

Feeling perfectly fine, you stared up at him with confusion, about to speak before his lips cut you off, tongue poking out to lick the renaming liquid from the corner of your mouth.

The clink of the bottle being set down echoed around the room before his gloved palm delicately cupped your cheek, tilting your head as to deepen the kiss.

His tongue eagerly explored the wet cavern of your mouth, as if he was drinking the little essence from his own creation left over.

Pulling away with a wet pop, his forehead rested against yours, mesmerizing green eyes staring softly into your own, waiting.

Waiting for what was what you didn’t know, perhaps for the potion to take effect.

You were eager to find out just what it was, but you had a semblance of a guess considering the position you found yourself in.

“How do you feel?” he whispered breathlessly against your parted lips.

Just as you were about to reply, your words got caught in your throat as your body began to heat up in a familiar way.

“I..” You pant, grip on his cotton shirt tightening as your gut suddenly twisted with a burning need for HIM.

Your (E/C) eyes glaze over with lust in front of his own, pupils dilating as your body began to shake, whimpers escaping your throat.

Thighs rubbing together to offer friction you didn’t know you desperately craved until now, you looked at him helplessly, so close to falling apart if it weren’t for his large hand on the small of your back holding you close to his steady figure.

“I-I feel hot.. Izuku..”

You whined, chewing at your lip as you wiggled beneath his excited stare.

“Good.”

Suddenly, his lips connected with yours once more, drawing a stuttered moan from your throat at the contact you unknowingly began to crave more and more as your lips connected again and again.

You clung to him like a koala, kissing him fervently like you would never be able to again, desperate to have his undivided attention.

Hands sliding to your hips, he pulled you onto his lap, legs hugging his own as hot breaths mingled together with the wet sound of kisses.

“Ah..!” You squeaked against him, your hips involuntarily grinding down onto his crotch, greedily searching for the pleasure your body desperately craved.

“M-mmm.. Izu.. I-” Your apology was cut off with a nip to your neck, “Don’t apologize,” he scolded. Grip still on your hips, he pulled you down rougher against his hardening dick, his hips thrusting up to meet your own, eliciting a sharp cry from your being as your head threw back at the sudden pressure where you craved it most.

He was quick to chase your lips, dragging you back into your heated makeout, swallowing every moan you let out as you both humped each other like horny dogs, the eagerness from him only adding to the pool of moisture leaking out of your body.

The button on his trousers was rubbing deliciously against your clothed clit, making your hips stutter every so often as you fought to maintain that hard surface.

Saliva began to drip down the side of your mouth from the intense kissing, but you hadn’t a care in the world.

No, your mind was too fogged to even think about it.

All you craved was him.

Him.

Him.

You yearned for him like he’d been gone a decade, and your body acted on it in a way you were typically shy about.

Biting your lip, he pulled away from the kiss, dragging a whine of protest from you before he hushes you by licking the outer shell of your ear, breath fanning across it only adding to the tingles of excitement shooting down your arched spine. “Hush,” he commanded, and as if you couldn’t disobey him, your words of protest died on your tongue, leaving only a parted mouth and heavy breaths.

Licking down the column of your neck, nose brushing against you, he searched for that familiar sweet spot on you, teeth grazing your flesh.

Still grinding on his hard cock covered by pants, a wet spot no doubt leaking past the underwear you wore beneath your hiked up skirt and onto him, you gasp once he found the place he was looking for.

Smirking, he nibble gently, holding you still as you began to wiggle once more.

Your head tilted to the side to give him more room as he sucked on your skin, teeth repeatedly nibbling at your sensitive flesh. Biting down harshly, you cried out with pain and pleasure, hips grinding down so hard onto him he groaned, the vibration making your heart jump in your throat.

“A-ahh… hnng.!” Moans poured salaciously past your thoroughly kissed lips, holding onto him for dear life as he controlled your being with every fiber of his own.

A button on your blouse popped open, and your foggy gaze traveled down just to see his fingers expertly undoing each one without looking, letting your bare breasts bounce out above your corset.

Not giving you a second to cover yourself out of embarrassment, his large hand cupped one of your tits, massaging it gently just to feel the soft flesh as your chin rested against his grounding shoulder, small moans now directly in his awaiting ear.

“You’re such a good girl, (Y/N).” He praised, eyes filled with nothing but love as he got to watch your unusually heated body search for the pleasure it craved.

You were usually so shy in bed, but with this potion pumping through your veins, he hoped it’d help give you the confidence boost you needed.

Though, that wasn’t the only thing it did.

He was filled with anticipation, if his throbbing member was anything to go by.

Thumb circling around your cute, perky nipple, he took the bud between his thumb and forefinger, pulling gently and rolling it between them, dragging high pitched whines from you.

You couldn’t help but pull away from him again, body constantly shifting from the delicious pleasure you were being given.

Fully pulling your blouse off, he left your chest completely bare, giving him the chance to dip his head down and latch onto the opposite nipple, lathering it in attention with his warm muscle, sucking softly and continuously rolling your other nipple with his hand.

It left you craving more, fingers threading through his messy green curls, pulling as to not lose yourself, only eliciting yet another deep groan that vibrated on your skin.

Feeling yourself slowly start to come undone, you desperately ground against him, pants becoming high pitched and moans being louder.

He could tell you were getting close, and from grinding alone no less, it made him feel so damn good to know he could get you to come purely from grinding.

But he didn’t want you to cum like this.

Certainly not.

And so, he fell back on his back dragging you with him as his lips found yours again.

Gripping at the hem of your skirt, he yanked it down, pulling it off your legs. Using a little handy magic, he effortlessly pulled your own shoes off, already working your underwear down your quivering thighs, eyes zeroed in on the drip of wetness attaching your core to them for a split second before they were across the other side of the room.

Corsets were always his worst nightmare.

He couldnt think too clearly to untie the knot in the back as your now bare crotch rubbed against his own, so without thinking, he ripped it off, the bare display of strength having you keening against him.

“Princess,” he whispered against your lips, dragging your hips upwards, “please, sit on my face.”

How vulgar of him to say, with a smile no less, but nonetheless it scent a throb of want to your stomach, and you found yourself, once again, unable to disobey him.

Your body burned red from embarrassment as you crawled up his own still fully clothed one, but you weren’t given the chance to dwell on it before he moved your hips directly over his face, tongue poking out to lap at your dripping folds.

“Gaah..!” You cried, fingers digging into the blanket beneath him as your hips once again helplessly sought the pleasure you craved, unafraid to press down against him.

Your juices tasted so sweet, he eagerly lapped at you like a dog deprived of water.

He had to hold you still against his face, drinking in the image of your breasts jiggling like jelly with every shuttered breath you took, head flung back and eyes shut tight as you focused purely on the way the flat of his tongue licked you up like a sugary treat.

He couldn’t help but occasionally press a kiss against your sobbing flesh, teasingly avoiding your clit begging for attention each time you moved against his mouth.

Your cries of pleasure filled the room, only sending his mind into a state of hunger, wanting to drag every noise out of you he could, along with the loud licking that caused your essence to drip down his chin.

His aching cock was straining against the flimsy button of his pants, desperate to be released and buried deep inside your soul-sucking pussy again.

Tongue dipping inside you and lips pressing against your sensitive, pink labia, he ate you out with earnest, squeezing your hips tightly with his fingers as he fought to control himself from shoving you to the blankets and fucking you raw without finishing his dessert first.

A choked sob tore from your throat with his lips finally encased your puffy clit, the tip of his tongue tracing around the bundle of nerves before flattening his tongue against it.

Your hips bucked involuntarily against his face, pressing him harder against you just so you could cry out his name like a sinful prayer.

His heart was full of love for you as he observed your reaction did everything blissful he did.

You were in heaven, walking on clouds as wet squelches from your own body surrounded your ears.

“Z-Zuku..!” You cried as he sucked on your clit like candy, enjoying the rough treatment. The tip of his tongue traced his name possessively over your button, marking you as his forevermore, silently vowing to never let another man do the same.

“I-I’m close..!” You cried, tears of pleasure falling down your flushed cheeks, dripping onto the thighs squeezing his head like warm earmuffs.

He hummed against you, dragging his tongue across the expanse of your womanhood before enclosing around your clit again, lathering it in the attention you needed to be pulled over the edge.

Your thighs clenched around his head, his hair tickling you, body stilling as you screamed out in pleasure, back arching and giving him a lovely view of your demise.

You came on his tongue, the stimulation he gave you throughout your orgasm sending you higher and higher in that clouded head of yours.

When you finally came down and slumped forward, catching your breath, he licked up the mess you made, pulling away from your lower lips and running a tongue over his own to greedily savor your delectable taste.

Placing you off to the side, giving you a second to calm down,, he hurriedly shuffled out of his clothing, throwing his cloak, gloves, and various other things on his person to the floor, kicking his boots off that landed with a heavy thump, leaving his underwear on as he crawled over on top of you.

Dazed, you stared deliriously up at him, a bashful smile on your lips, watching as he wipes your juices away with the back of his wrist before licking it clean. He was so sinful and messy.

The warm fire crackling in the corner hugged at his soft skin, making his eyes blown wide with lost twinkle like starlight. He looked so in love as he stared at you as if you were the only person in the world.

Breathing heavily, you reached out for him, and he was happy to lean in so you could wrap your arms around his neck, toying with the shorter curls at his nape as he kissed you again, your taste still on his tongue as your tongues intertwined. You weakly fought against his intrusion, teasing, only for him to grab a handful of your ass, making you gasp and effectively losing the battle.

He flooded your being with everything he had, his scent, his love, his passion, adoration, everything.

His knowledge on your own sexual human anatomy astounded you, but always left you moaning against him, much to his utter pleasure.

His thumb circled your twitching clit, bringing your attention back to his actions and the way you clenched helplessly around thin air, waiting for him.

You hungrily eyed the bulge in his underwear, licking your lips at the spot of wetness where his dripping head was.

You wanted to feel him inside you again, to clench around the very thing that drove you insane other than his skillful touch.

“P-please..” You begged, detaching yourself from him, pleading for mercy under his sharp gaze as he soaked up your wrecked self.

He loved hearing you beg.

“Please what?” he drawled out, running his lips down the side of your face and neck, pressing kisses against your collarbone. Moving his thumb previously giving you what you desire to your thighs, he held them in his grasp just to feel your smooth, warm skin against his rough, scarred palms.

You whined, shimmying your hips to draw his attention to them. He ignored your advances, peering up at your face with a glare and crooked smile that shot sparks down your body, “Tell me.” 

As if on cue, and unable to disobey his words that squeezed your heart, you sputtered a response, barely able to maintain eye contact, “P-please touch me..! M-more.. I, I need more, please! I want..” your breath was stolen from your lungs as he began to grind his clothed crotch against your wet core, “I want you! I w-want you to fuck me, please..! I- I can’t take it anymore.. Please, Izuku..!” More tears fell from your eyes, falling onto the mattress below you, “Please fuck me..!”

Happy with your response,  but still not quite ready to give in, he pulled away, circling your clenching hole with his middle finger, watching as your head flew back with tears as you meekly thrust upwards.

As much as he wanted to pull himself out right now and fuck you until his bed broke from the sheer force, he couldn’t risk hurting you.

Even if the potion was designed to make you ready for everything sexual, willing to comply with his every demand, you still were his princess, his angel, and he was going to treat you like one.

He didn't want you to wake with the soreness of not being properly prepared, even if he could heal you a minute after. That minute of you crying from the pain that HE selfishly caused would always be stabbed into his heart, and he certainly didn't want that, nor you to experience it.

“Sorry, love..” he apologized, finally plunging his thick finger inside you after thoroughly coating it with your slick, moaning at how tight you were for him. 

“Fuck..” he whispered under his breath, keeping your thighs splayed wide open as he sat back on his haunches to watch you react to him.

Your back was arched, begging for more as you gripped the sheets below you, cheek pressed against the mattress as low moans trickled out your sinful mouth like water.

Face hot, a boyish smile fell on his face as he added another finger, observing how you hotly throw your head back as he pressed against the spongy spot inside your walls.

“Aaahh..! T-there! R-right there..!”

“I know, darling, shh, shhh.” He cooed at you, curling his fingers against your G-spot with each thrust in and out of your sopping pussy. His fingers made wet clicks inside of you as they rubbed against your walls, dragging more and more moans out of you as you ground down on his large digits.

His eyes couldn’t leave the view of you sucking him back in every time he pulled his fingers out, it left him imagining more and more scenarios in his head.

God, how he wanted to destroy you.

Have you screaming his name so loudly you broke the sound barrier he had set up ages ago, letting all of the castle and its snobby guards know he was fucking the love of his life and doing it damn well.

He bet they would be jealous.

Those thoughts of it made his adrenaline spike, adding a third finger to the squelching party mixing your insides up, leaving you at their utter disposal.

Arousal poured from you like a steady stream, gushing down and leaving a wet puddle under your ass.

You were so wet for him it was hard to bear, but you felt so, so good.

Your mind was so muddled with lust, you couldn’t think straight, all that entered your mind was ‘more, more, more.’ 

You were being greedy, but you couldn’t help it.

Deciding you were prepped enough, his fingers pulled fully out of you, putting on a small display of licking them clean as you watched with wide, doe eyes, stuttering out about how dirty that was.

“More dirty than you using my face as a seat, my lady?” He teased, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“T-thats..”

He chuckles at your flustered response.

Pulling his underwear down, his cock slaps against his toned stomach, fully erect and dripping with precum.

Throwing them off to the side, he noticed the way your eyes greedily looked at his body, confidence burning his veins as he sees the impatience in your eyes as you stare at his member.

He was tempted to say, ‘like what you see?’ but he himself was far too eager and impatient to wait any longer.

Grabbing himself, he ran his thickness between your lips, gathering your arousal on him before leading himself to your entrance.

“Ready?” He asked whilst kissing the skin below your ear.

You nodded, hips wiggling in anticipation.

“A-ahh! Fuck!” You cried out as he fully sheathed himself inside you with one thrust, bottoming out immediately.

He bit at your skin, concealing the deep moan that rumbled in his chest as you strangled his weeping dick at last.

You were so intoxicating, you sweet aroma wafting off you with every breath.

Grinding himself inside of you, he waited patiently for you to adjust, leaving hickeys all over your skin with each passing second.

Gulping down air, you thrust upwards, dragging him out of his blissed-out state just to moan heavenly deeply in your ear.

“Naughty girl..” he seethed, making you giggle, only to be shut up as he pulled out and slammed his hips back into your own, drawing out a garbled moan.

Skin slapped wetly against skin with each rough thrust he relentlessly delivered, drinking up your cries for more.

Leaning back to watch you with hungry, dark green eyes, pupils blown wide with lust. He pinned your arms to the bed above your head, a punishment for catching him off guard.

His cock was truly a godsend, thick and long, curved upwards just to slam repeatedly into your soft g-spot over and over.

You could only hold on for dear life as he fucked you good and hard just like you wanted, just like you craved.

“O-Ohh!!! Izu!! Izuku-! Ahh.! F-fuck..!” You moaned with each thrust inside your wet self, body being pushed back from the sheer intensity of which he fucked you with.

He knew your body so well by now, he knew each and every way to make you fall apart by his own doing.

He knew how to break you in the most sinful way possible, and he loved it.

Your face was lewdly contorted with pleasure, eyes looking back, eyebrows pinched together, (H/C) baby hairs plastered to your sweaty forehead, and mouth gaping wide open so he could hear every slur of words and every noise you emitted.

He wanted to hear everything you had to say, every reaction to the way he fucked you.

He could feel you growing tighter around his throbbing cock, juices coating his thighs with each heavy thrust inside of you.

He loved how much he could turn you on, even if right now it was all thanks to the potion that added pink hearts to your innocent (E/C) eyes.

The same potion that had you openly moaning unashamedly, whereas you previously would have held them in by biting your lip and hands.

He was so happy to hear how good he made you feel.

At long last.

“(Y/N)..” he panted heavily, peering deeply into your glossy eyes, movements becoming more and more sloppy as he lost himself to the pleasure, a burning pressure building up in his gut with each shallow and deep thrust.

Falling down on top of you, he held you close to him, letting your arms go so you could dig your nails into the flesh of his toned, freckled back flexing with each movement.

The bed banged loudly against the wall, he momentarily worried it would leave a dent- but he couldn’t think about that now. Not when you were crying out his name so sweetly.

“I’m here, I’m here..” he soothed as you clung to him.

Your hips began to move in circles, drugging him with intense ecstasy as he thrusts into you. You kept him wanting more and more. He was addicted to you. 

Pushing your legs back against the mattress, he reached so deep inside you, you swore you could feel his head kissing at your womb. 

You were so helpless to the waves of infinite pleasure he washed you over with that all you could do was take it.

“You’re doing so.. hah… so good, baby..” he praised breathlessly.

“Gnnn! Gaahhah..! Izuku!!”

“Let me hear it.. let me hear you, princess.” He smiled against your skin as you let out an onslaught of sultry moans, fueling his inner fire.

“I’m..! I- gwaahhh..! I’m so c-close..!”

“Me too, me too..” He fervently pressed kisses to your cheek, letting his other hand travel down to coat his thumb in your spare wetness, just to rub circles on your puffy clit, applying the right amount of pressure that always drove you insane.

Drool dribbled down the side of your mouth as your tongue flopped out, breasts bouncing with each and every thrust, constantly captivating him as he could feel their softness against his pecs.

Holding you flushed against him, he let magic crackle to life on his hand, green sparks lighting up the area around the two of you just barely. His hand began to vibrate, magic he learned was good for massaging muscles, but of course, it had.. other uses..

The vibration against your clit, added to the pounding of his cock expertly slamming against your G-spot, sent your head flying back, white vision going black as your pussy strangled his cock like a python.

“Haaahh.! Aah!” You cried his name out so loudly it burned your throat, leaving you to cum harshly on his dick, the strange sensation of liquid squirting from your body making your mind go numb as all you were left with was burning hot stars in your eyes.

The display alone was enough to drag him over the edge as well, slamming his cock into you once more before warm ropes of cum spurted into you, completely coating your walls and spewing out from the sheer amount as he let out a silent moan.

His thighs twitched and his stomach felt empty when he finally came down from his high, the same time as you.

Love filled his gaze as you both peered into each other’s eyes, enraptured by the souls sealed within.

Heavy breaths blew past your lips, desperate to calm down your racing heart.

“How was it..?” He questioned lightly, moving hair out of your face so he could get a better look.

“How was… what..?” Your mind was still clouded. You hadn’t any idea how he could still think straight.

Giggling, he rubbed his nose lovingly against your own. 

“The potion. Could you feel its effects..?”

Staring at him in bewilderment, it took a second to register his words. 

The potion.. what had it done again..?

Oh..

You slapped a hand over your mouth, pulling away from him. “Oh gosh..!” 

You were so embarrassed! 

Gah, to be so loud!! You wanted to hide in a hole..!

“Don't be shy, my love,” He pleaded sweetly, placing a kiss on your sweaty forehead, “it’s just me.”

“That's the point!! I-it was embarrassing to- to be so.. lewd in f-front of you…”

“You say that, and yet I’m still deep inside you,”

“Izuku..!” You groaned, shoving his smiling face away with both hands, only for him to grab your hands and place gentle kisses on them.

“I.. I liked hearing you..” he flushed, bashfully looking away.

Though he could be quite the dominant man in bed, it was always endearing how he was still the shy witch you fell in love with at the end of the day.

“W-well I..” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, “Well I’ll be louder for now o-on then..!” Your declaration surprised him, shock resting on his features before he broke out in another smile, flopping on top of your sweaty body just to hug you to his own equally as sweaty body.

“I love you, (Y/N)..” he sighed blissfully, burying his nose in your hair as he cuddled you, the crackling of the blazing fire just now reaching his ears.

“I love you too, Izuku.”

Though he could be a handful at times, with his insistent drive to be better and push himself beyond his current limits, as well as running headfirst into danger and getting littered with scars, you still loved him.

You always would.

He was your kind witch, and you, his darling beloved.

And nothing would ever get between a witch and the one he called his.

.

..

…

….

“So, are you going to pull out? I feel a little messy.”

“In a minute..”

“Izu!”

[memes-in-a-half-shell]

Business AU - Working Late, Part 2

Part 1 can be found here. Idk man, I’m enjoying this. I’m not going too overboard with descriptions and stuff, unless really necessary. It’s just a “feels good” kinda thing, you know 😂 ANYWAY, let’s get on with 👏

She thought she’d feel pressure by working with one of her bosses, but to be frank Donatello had this way of easing her into the work - it felt like a walk in the park. Conversations with him were always light and amicable, all while remaining professional. His insights about various projects and knowledge of certain employees proved to be quite useful, and soon enough Vee’s end of the month was a thing of the past - at least, until another rush. Just in time for this Friday night.

“Here’s the last file that was up for review,” came up Donatello’s voice as he dropped a light document on Vee’s desk.

“Peter’s file, correct?” asked Vee, still typing on her keyboard, not even lifting her eyes.

“Yeah, there wasn’t much to review, hence why his is quite small-ish. He’s doing good so far.”

... No answer. Vee was still typing, now in silence. The turtle frowned lightly, hunching over a little in order to look at her screen, leaving a hand on the desk for support.

“What’s so important that requires your undivided attention?”

The woman did a small jump, mostly dued to the other’s proximity.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m being so rude right now,” she blabbered, a faint blush coming to her cheeks. “I was just so focused on answering this email.”

“No worries,” smiled the mutant. “It wasn’t such a bad sight to see you this focused, anyway.”

“Oh please, sometimes I look like a dead fish or a deer facing headlights when I’m deep in thoughts.”

That brought a soft laughter from Donatello, trying not to bring too much attention on them from the other employees - although it was already too late by his sole presence in the room. Vee couldn’t help liking to see this side of him, showing that he could not only be a boss - he could be a friend. A complete snack of a friend though... Today he was wearing a black shirt, the sleeves, as usual for him, rolled to his elbows. He was also adorning a grey tie that matched his grey pants, a simple yet elegant combination for him. Meanwhile Vee felt a bit too casual for the workplace, but she knew she was staying true to herself in a reasonable fashion. A black turtleneck shirt, high-waisted jeans and black shoes. There were days she would dress a bit more formal, but in the end she mostly valued her comfort over fashion.

“How about we celebrate tonight? Since we finally got through your work.” he asked.

“Oh? Something in particular?”

“You, me,” he started, pointing to her than himself. “A bottle of wine and my drafting board.”

Vee almost choked for a moment, her thoughts turning wild and impure all of a sudden, but she was quick to save the situation:

“You’re quite eager to get back to your project,” she said, alluring to the Lowline structure.

“We made a deal, remember?” he smirked. “I help you, then you help me. Unless you’re chickening out?”

The woman didn’t break eye contact as she opened one of her desk’s drawers, revealing pencils, various rulers of many shapes and forms, and a compass.

“Joke’s on you, I’m already prepared.”

Both chuckled, trying to keep it down. In this comfort, Vee left a light touch on Donatello’s skin, one of his hands still down on her desk.

“I’ll be there,” she added with delight. “Don’t you worry.”

The turtle’s hand moved, shifting the woman’s touch to his palm, holding her ever so gently.

“Excellent.” His thumb brushed the top of her hand, pensive. “... You may get back to your emails now, miss Vee.”

As he left, Vee was trying so hard not to grin like a fool. It took her a couple of seconds to realize that some coworkers close by were glancing at her, the woman’s focus quickly shifting back to her computer, hoping she wasn’t looking too much like a blushing mess...

***

The place was empty, but the echo of laughters could be heard coming from a small room. It was no lie that the bottle of wine had been opened first, anecdotes of the day and week bringing amusement to their conversation. Vee was seated by the drafting board, pencil in hand as she tried to review Donatello’s lines. ... She had to admit that it was hard to focus and be steady at times.

“You see,” she started, first applying a tracing sheet over the actual plan. “It’s all about the flick of the wrist.” She held her pencil, carefully tracing lines in fluid circular motions. “Organic shapes have to be felt, not calculated... well, to a certain extent.”

“I can’t just wing it though,” pointed the turtle, next taking a sip of his drink as he was sitting close by. “How else could I provide exact measurements if I simply go with my feelings?”

He held up a free pencil with his other hand, faking a serious look as he held it in a comical ceremonious manner.

“Oh pencil, let me pour my emotions through thee, for I want to draw half-circles.”

“I’m trying to help you!”  she laughed while playfully slapping one of his shoulders.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he chuckled in return. “I’m a man of logic, I can’t help it. Your speech would probably resonate better with my brother Mikey.”

Before Vee could protest, the mutant was up, freeing his hands and next standing behind the woman. She felt his hands travel along her arms, until close to her hands. He was trying to mimic her posture, the side of his face close to the top of her head - a smile felt in the air.

“I need to be taught by example. That way I can probably feel what you’re talking about.”

Gosh ... Vee sure hoped he wasn’t noticing her blush. She couldn’t explain it, but his touch right now felt a bit more different than earlier today. Still delicate, but much more intimate.... She started to draw, her voice quiet as she explained:

“You see, mister Donatello-”

“Please, you can call me Donnie. It’s not forbidden.”

She gulped.

“Feel the movement in my wrist,” continued the woman as she drew a circular line. “It’s best to feel relaxed and not be afraid to move your body.”

“I move my body pretty often, so at least that.”

Vee did not hesitate this time to look at him, a slight surprise in her eyes. Donnie showed clear amusement as he added:

“Trainings.”

Oof, she could breathe again. She tsked, then returning to her task, executing some more shapes until she proposed the pencil to the turtle.

“Here, try it out.”

He took it, not even prompting for them to switch places next. He prefered to stay behind Vee, practically nuzzling the top of her head so he could have a view as if sitting at her place. All Vee could feel was this strong shiver going along her spine, Donnie’s presence overwhelming her senses. She then saw him execute some strokes on the paper, copying her movements. She could see a clear improvement, his pace then slightly decreasing, observing his work. Putting the pencil aside, he couldn’t help getting a hold back of Vee’s hand, his thumb slowly grazing her skin.

“Impressive what an artist’s hand can do and teach...,” he said calmly.

And those hands could do so much more.... Vee tried to hush her thoughts, peacefully removing her hand from his hold.

“I should get going, it’s getting late...”

The dream seemed to fall, the mutant moving away. ... The room seemed so cold all of a sudden, Vee missing his proximity and heat.... He was still showing that soft smile though, offering his hand for her to grab and help her up.

“Understandable. If you want I could drop you to your place, or anywhere you want.”

The offer was so tempting...

“No thank you,” she replied, next grabbing her belongings.

She did pause for a moment, their gazes meeting.

“... This was nice,” added the woman. “I look forward to working with you more, ... Donnie.”

“Me as well, Vee.”

((Part 3))

[justzawe]

Browns 50: A Conversation With Zawe Ashton

Zawe Ashton has worn a myriad of hats in show business — as a film and theatre actor, director, writer and late night TV host. Her career, which she began at just six years old, is multilayered and transcends traditional categorization. The London-born polymath boasts leading performances on Fresh Meat, Netflix’s Velvet Buzzsaw, the Broadway play Betrayal. Her own play, For All the Women Who Thought They Were Mad, released in 2019, addresses the rampant cultural bias faced by Black women in the healthcare industry. The powerful drama feels more important than ever in the midst of the global Black Lives Matter Movement. Armed with a passionate drive and love for her art, along with a refusal to adhere to the structural limitations of race and gender, Zawe is only getting started. Fresh from the Browns 50 shoot, she tells us more.

What are your first memories of wanting to act?

I started when I was six. I knew when I started acting classes that I wanted to do it for the rest of my life. The Anna Scher theatre classes were based on respect and integration. Learning about poetry, history and the world was just as important as crafting ourselves as actors. I’ve never let go of the activism instilled in me there.

You’re also a playwright and screenwriter, and the author of Character Breakdown. Can you tell me more about the writing aspect of your career?

I started writing and reading poetry in my teens. I fell in with a group of artistic people in college. Instead of clubbing, we’d write rap and poetry. I won the title of Youngest UK Slam Champion when I was 17. Later, I began integrating writing into acting. I realized there weren't enough scripts for people who looked like me at my school. That’s when I wrote my first play, and from there, everything came.

Your play, For All the Women Who Thought They Were Mad, released in 2019, is about the Black female experience confronting racial prejudice in health and pharmaceutical institutions. Can you speak on that — given the play’s ongoing relevance in light of the BLM movement?

I wrote it aged 25, and for 11 years no one wanted to put it on. It’s about Black maternal mortality, cultural bias, and Black female relationships that exist without a dominant caucasian character. People were scared to put it on because they were unfamiliar with the wider context. Now the mortality rate for Black women in the US is a hot topic, but people dying isn’t a hot topic. How many Black playwrights and screenwriters are waiting for the times to catch up with their experiences?

Your first novel, Character Breakdown, is a fictitious memoir about a Black female actor. What are some challenges you’ve faced as a BIPOC in entertainment and how can future generations overcome those challenges?

There’s a spectrum of different types of aggressions and prejudices. When I started acting, I’d be asked to come to set already done-up, because they didn't have people willing to do my hair and makeup. It was the same for many BIPOC actors. The trailer is this peaceful rite before going on screen, and POC get robbed of that. It has lasting psychological effects. In 2020 there are still models and actors calling people out.

I’ve also been yelled at in meetings about my artistic property. The question is, would this be happening to a white male counterpart? I don't think so. Both my play and book are about cultural bias, micro AND macro aggressions and the white male gaze. When we keep writing and talking about it, we make the next generations aware of their strength.

How does costume affect you as an actor? And what are some of your favorite TV and film fashion moments?

Costume has a huge effect on me as an actor. If I'm wearing the wrong shoes, I find it hard to fully embody the character. One of my breakthrough moments was the creation of the character Vod for Fresh Meat alongside June Nevan and Janet Horsefield. Vodd’s style embodied every era of fashion — ‘90s rave, ‘80s punk, afrofuturism, with some ‘70s psychedelia and Grace Jones-esque androgyny. The most stylish films are from the ‘50s and ‘60s Italian neo-realists, and the French Nouvelle Vague. Even an alien from outer space would see how they dressed and think they were iconic.

How does your style change according to where you are? Do you dress differently when in London than in NYC?

I'm incredibly affected by my environment when it comes to fashion. The American and UK styles are so different. We’re more experimental and confrontational here. In the US, things can feel a bit more… sexy and normcore.

Who are some designers you love?

I still wear designers who supported me from the beginning — The Vampire’s Wife, Stella McCartney, Erdem, Tom Ford, Christopher Kane, my friend Roksanda... It's nice to support people who also support me. Fashion can be kind, it doesn't have to be harsh.

What are some upcoming projects you’re working on?

I’ll be shooting The Handmaid's Tale in Toronto. I’m a Margaret Atwood fanatic and Elisabeth Moss is incredible. Talk about iconic fashion on that show… I’m also finishing a couple of screen projects and there could be a new book beginning to bubble up...

Zawe wears dress by Khaite from our exclusive Browns 50 Designer Collaborations.

[xxbyimm]

A tale as old as time - Bard the bowman x OC

Check out my Masterlist!

Hello dear people of Tumblr!!! I needed a break from all the work I yet have to write, because every time I look at my existing projects, my mind goes into full panic mode. So I asked myself what I wanted to do instead and just went with it. The world just doesn’t have enough Bard the bowman content, BUT I AM HERE FOR IT! 

I do hope y’all enjoy! xoxo

A tale as old as Time - Bard x OC - Chapter 1: Esgaroth upon the Long Lake.

Summary:  How could he never have noticed her before? Because after just one single glance at this lady and her breathtaking eyes, these bowman’s nights grow long and restless. He considers himself to be too old for infatuations like this, but yet there he is, watching her from a safe distance and craving her touch. Bard is determined to sit this one out, to wait until these unwanted feelings fade away… But we all know what happens when you’re trying to avoid someone in a small town…

Warnings: Not really. Alfrid being creepy as fuck, but that isn’t surprising??

Taglist: @soradragon​ @pistachiozombie​ @legolaslovely​ @tomisbaeholland​ @saviorsong​ @swoopswishsward​ @fizzyxcustard​ @deepestfirefun​ @ruthoakenshield​ @mariannetora​   Furthermore: @marvel-ous-hobbit​ @tigereyesf​ @aryaarathornson​  showed interest so I’m giving you lovelies a tag! If you don’t wish to be tagged anymore, please let me know! Or if you’re not on the list and want to be tagged: check out my lists and I’d like to hear which list you want in on!

When her father had suggested that the family could use a new start, surely he did not mean… this?

Brea’s grey eyes glanced over the market water and she watched the people bustling about, chattering with one another while examining goods. Her platinum blonde hair hung in a loose braid over her shoulders. The embroidered green dress she had chosen this morning was still a bit too thin during this time of the year, but Brea had been determined to wear it. Her mother did not approve of her daughter’s choice, nor did Mîrhel, wife of Brenion, like the fact that her daughter hadn’t planned on wearing her winter coat as well. The loud, shrieky protests still rung in Brea’s ears.

The eldest daughter of Brenion and Mîrhel shivered and drew the woolly, knitted shawl closer to her body. This place was so cold. Perhaps she should have listened to her mother anyway and brought her coat, but here she was… making her own mistakes. If anything, returning home and telling Mîrhel she was right, wasn’t an option. So for a moment, Brea faced the cold in stride and listened to the local fishermen banter about the weather conditions, their wives and other unimportant matters.

She did not mean to come across as a spoiled brat, but from the moment her father had started preaching about the grand Esgaroth upon the Long Lake, she had imagined a collision of elven and human culture, a rich town which still bore the remnants of the dwarves who had occupied the area long ago. A majestic city, built upon the ruins of Dale.

Lake-town and its’ inhabitants however, was nothing like that. It was a poor place, the houses built upon structures of wooden poles and decks. The people solely relied on their trades with the elves of Mirkwood and the dwarves in the Iron hills, that is if you didn’t count the fish the lake had to offer. Everyone seemed to settle for a simple life and not a noble, meaningful one that (at least in Brea’s opinion) would be so much more satisfying. So as she regarded the fishermen and their merry banter, Brea wondered briefly if these people were even able to think beyond the daily struggle of survival, as the living conditions here were a lot more harsh than she was used to. She pursed her lips together. Compared to her former home of Minas Tirith, she couldn’t help but find Lake-town a bit… disappointing.

It was safe to say that the constant odour of dead fish and the earthly undertones of rotting wood weren’t helping Brea’s view of Lake-town. To make matters even worse, Esgaroth was a terribly cold place. Before, father always had claimed that there was nothing a warm hearth couldn’t cure, but it seemed they never had experienced this particular clammy cold that chilled you to the bones, for not even the winters in Minas Tirith were this wet. It didn’t matter how high you stoked the fire or how well dressed you were. Everyone suffered the same cold.

So if their lives had turned so miserable during these past few weeks, why stay? Why would a family leave the relatively safe borders of Gondor and venture this far north? Why would they risk being robbed, or worse: being killed on the dangerous road towards their destiny? Mother had asked herself this question a hundred times and the answer had always been the same. There hadn’t been a choice, nor could they ever go back home. And for that, Brea was to blame.

A gust of wind travelled over the market water and Brea shivered once more. Though spring had finally set in, even on afternoons like this the weather conditions were treacherous. One could still easily catch a cold. Besides, her mother had insisted her eldest daughter should be back for teatime. She was lucky that Mîrhel had asked her to collect shoes from the cobbler anyway. Since her latest mishaps, Brea wasn’t allowed to go out without a chaperone. It didn’t matter how many times she told her parents that this was a different town, she would do things differently now… They still merely shook their heads and shooed her away.

Brea continued her way around the market water again. The cobbler’s shop lied west of the market, near the town’s gatehouse. Her mother’s instructions had been clear: Brea should inspect the shoes before handing the townsman the money that was owed. If the repair wasn’t living up to the expectations, the poor soul should be payed less. Whatever these expectations might be… She heaved a sigh and trotted over the quays towards her destination. Just before the market, she took a left turn into a small street. She only had been in this part of town once, but if she remembered it correctly the cobbler occupied a shop just further along the way. She narrowed her eyes and tried to spot the little sign to make sure she was going the right direction.

‘My lady Brea, daughter of Brenion.’ A nasty voice called just behind her. Brea whirled around and eyed the hateful man to whom this speech belonged to. The chap was of moderate height, had pitch black hair that was rather greasy and eyes that were dark and looming. Though the stubble on his cheeks did indicate that he did maintain his beard (or he wasn’t able to grow one, she wasn’t sure), he somehow had decided that sporting a unibrow was the way to attract the ladies. Surely this guy was unmarried, because if he would have had a wife, she surely would not let him creep around town looking like this. And definitely not in those dark, slimy clothing that should have been laundered weeks ago.

‘Alfrid.’ She replied while suppressing a shiver. ‘How lovely to see you again.’ ‘Oh, the pleasure is all mine.’ He ensured her with a crooked smile, showing off the yellowest teeth in Middle Earth. ‘Your presence is always a delight.’ She inclined her head, silently sending prayers to the Gods to let this man leave her alone. ‘Thank you.’ ‘So you’re out and about?’ Alfrid went on, his dark eyes piercing through hers. ‘On your own, I might add?’ ‘Our maid was busy and my mother needed someone to collect her shoes.’ Brea said. ‘I’m happy to help.’ ‘I’m sure you are. But I happen to know that your father has told the master you can’t go anywhere without a chaperone.’ The master’s deputy declared. Brea shrugged, not feeling the slightest inclination to let this nasty man stick his awful nose in her business. ‘I guess when we first moved here, my parents redeem Lake-town as less safe for young maidens like myself than our hometown of Minas Tirith. You see, you never know on which corner there might be an assailant lurking.’ Alfrid thought on it for a second, but did not seem to include himself in the category described to him. ‘There are no scoundrels in this town, I daresay, miss. Except from the occasional bargeman.’ ‘That’s a relief.’ Brea answered before turning away. ‘I think my parents must feel the same, which explains why I’m allowed to run some errands. With that being said, I must be on my way now, good sir.’ His hand grabbed her sleeve firmly, causing Brea to hiss in pain. ‘Not so hasty, miss.’ He told her. ‘The decks can be quite slippery in this part of town. I will gladly escort you.’

More slippery than the motives of this guy? Unlikely.

‘Oh, that is very kind of you, but you must have more important, pressing tasks that need tending to.’ Brea replied quickly, while gently pulling her arm away from his hold. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’

She did not wait for a reply and started walking in the way of the cobbler’s shop again. The heavier footsteps behind hers told her that Alfrid was quite the persevering type. She suppressed a sigh and quickened her pace. ‘I saw your little sister today.’ Alfrid remarked. ‘Oh?’ Brea murmured, finally setting her eyes on the sign, her destination. ‘She was wandering the market with the eldest spawn of Bard.’ The master’s deputy told you. ‘I must warn you about that bargeman and his kin.’ Though Brea wasn’t interested in the slightest, she did feel inclined to ask anyway. For Jen’s sake it was better if she knew something was wrong before their parents did. ‘What about them?’ ‘They are vile people, troublemakers. No respect for the authorities, so to speak. Your parents should not allow your sister to associate with that family.’

Brea paused and turned around to face the ugly man. Her grey eyes bore into his dark ones. She knew her sister had an excellent sense of character: Jen would never associate herself with the wrong people. Unlike her big sister, who only seemed to attract the worst of humanity itself. The prove of that point was standing right before her. ‘I will talk to her.’ She finally replied rather haughtily. ‘But I am fairly sure-’ Alfrid wasn’t looking at her anymore. Brea followed his gaze over the canal.

There was a man standing on the deck on the other side. Though it seemed he was just minding his own business, arms folded and casually leaning against a wall of one of the homes, his glare was directed at the spot they stood. The man had a tall, strong build and dark hair that reached his shoulders. From such a distance she couldn’t tell the colour of his eyes, but they seemed mysteriously dark. A familiar yearning feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and Brea licked her lips.

‘Will you leave this poor woman alone, Alfrid?’ The man finally spoke in a gruff tone. ‘She clearly doesn’t want your affections.’ ‘This is the troublemaker I was telling you about, miss Brea!’ The master’s deputy spat. ‘He gives us nothing but revolts and misery!’ Brea could not hide her grin and she immediately liked this bargeman. Not only was he very easy on the eye, Alfrid seemed to hate him. Perhaps if she became acquainted with this man, that rat would leave her alone. ‘It’s nice to meet you, master Bard.’ She said, while making a curtsey. ‘I am Brea, daughter of Brenion the merchant. We’re new in town.’ ‘The pleasure is mine.’ He replied, a rueful smile adorning his face. ‘I think I have seen you at the market with your mother a few times before, but we never spoke.’ ‘And let’s keep it that way, shall we!’ Alfrid broke in and he glared nastily at Bard before grabbing Brea’s arm and dragging her along with him. Brea shot a helpless glance behind her only to discover that the bargeman was gone. She winced when the master’s deputy squeezed her wrist too hard, but the latter one didn’t seem to notice. He paced over the decks, trotting the eldest daughter of Brenion along all while mumbling to himself. ‘This beautiful young lady doesn’t need her reputation shattered by that smug, lowly piece of filth. I will tell the master what he-’ Brea groaned, this time slowly peeling his cold, clammy fingers from her wrist. Alfrid didn’t seem to notice and went on grumbling about the wrongdoings of this poor Bard fellow. She couldn’t imagine what he had done to set a character like Alfrid off, but it surely would be something ridiculous.

By the time she had freed herself from the master’s deputy’s slimy touch, they were standing before the cobbler’s shop. ‘Here we are, miss Brea.’ Alfrid made a little bow and showed her his huge, yellow teeth again. ‘I will wait outside to escort you home.’ ‘Oh, that’s not necessary.’ Brea said sweetly. ‘I will probably need to stop by the tailor anyway. You see, these shoes only go with special undergarments. My mother is quite specific about these-’ Alfrid held up his hands defensively and smirked. ‘Enough said, my lady. I don’t need to know about underclothing, especially not your mother’s. I’ll leave you here to run your- errm- lady errands.’

Exactly. She had been counting on that. You see, people like Alfrid did get nervous whenever women addressed women’s topics. Brea smiled innocently before making a little curtsey. ‘You are too kind, mister Alfrid.’ She crooned. ‘Now forgive me, for I most hurry. My mother will be worried if I don’t make it back before teatime.’ Alfrid bowed before her. ‘This is where we part ways, miss Brea. I’ll see you tomorrow, at the master’s house.’

Good Gods, she had totally forgotten about that. The master had invited father and his family over for dinner. Up until now, Brea hadn’t even thought of the possibility of Alfrid being there. Of course he would. And after being unnecessary kind to the guy, she probably had to deal with the consequences of that tomorrow. With a deep frown on her face, she watched the master’s deputy creep away over the decks. Jenessa was bound to have the best time once she discovered what her big sister had set in motion, unwillingly attracting the worst suitors of mankind.

There had been one exception to the rule. She glanced at the direction where Bard had been standing. Well… make that two.

‘Goodness girl, what took you so long!’ Her mother cried from the reading room as soon as their servant opened the front door to let Brea in. ‘I almost did send poor Catherine out to tell your dad you were missing!’

‘Don’t fret, mother.’ Brea protested loudly while handing the shoes and her shawl over to the servant. ‘The master’s deputy slowed me down, that’s all.’

There was a short silence. ‘Ah, you mean that chap… what’s his name…’ Mîrhel murmured, barely audible. ‘Alfrid.’ Brea replied as she made her way through the hall and entered the reading room. Her mom was sitting on their chaise longue, the couch in opposite of her surprisingly empty. In the table between stood a porcelain tea set on a silver platter. ‘Come here, my dear.’ She said and she patted on the spot directly next to her. ‘You tell me all about your encounter with that man, while we wait for Jenessa. Haven’t you seen her? And have you been kind to him?’ ‘Who?’ Mîrhel huffed and started to pour her daughter a cup of tea. ‘That deputy of course!’ ‘Yes, though he was a bit persistent and wouldn’t leave me alone.’ Brea said. Her mother rewarded her with a bright smile. ‘Good girl. We have to keep those people on our side, so make sure you always behave impeccably towards them.’

Brea couldn’t promise she’d do that if the guy became too friendly, but she gave her mother an assuring nod anyway. ‘I will, mother. Where’s Jen again?’ ‘Your sister’s name is still Jenessa.’ Mother scolded her eldest daughter, though with a smile. ‘She went looking for you, to make sure you’d be back for tea. Maybe she got lost, or she bumped into that Alfredo, just like you did… Goodness, nothing would have happened to her, would it?’ Brea licked her lips and for a moment she pondered the possibilities where Jen might be. Then she remembered something Alfrid had mentioned. Her heart skipped a beat.

‘Mother, I know where she might be.’ Brea said breathlessly. ‘Where?’ Mîrhel demanded. ‘Tell me at once, then we can send Catherine out and fetch her before the tea is cold. CATHERINE!’ They heard some shuffling and a loud clang in the kitchen, before poor Catherine hastened through the hall towards the Missus. She shyly prodded her head around the corner into the reading room. ‘You called, Missus?’ ‘Yes. Can you fetch Jenessa for me? She’s at-’ Mother paused and glanced at her eldest daughter. ‘Brea?’ ‘Bard the bargeman, though I’m not sure.’ ‘Who is that?’ Mîrhel demanded. ‘Do we know him?’ Brea shrugged and Catherine merely bowed before retreating. ‘I will get her at once, Missus.’ Brea took a sip of her tea and grimaced as she burned her tongue. It would take at least twenty minutes before she could drink the beverage properly. ‘Mother…’ she tried. ‘Since the tea is still boiling hot and Catherine should be preparing our meals, shall I collect Jen for you?’ ‘Are you exploiting your newly found freedom, darling?’ ‘Maybe.’ Brea said truthfully. ‘Or maybe I’m just trying to help. You know father hates it when he has to wait for dinner.’ ‘That seems like a fair remark.’ Mother pondered. ‘And to reward your thoughtfulness, I will allow you to go. But before you do, you have to make me a few promises.’ ‘Yes, mother.’ Brea beamed. ‘Anything.’ ‘You go straight to wherever your little sister is, fetch her and then come directly home.’ ‘Yes, mother.’ ‘No funny business. No snooping around other places.’ ‘Yes, mother.’ ‘And no flirting with young men.’ Mîrhel demanded. ‘Not even Alfredo.’ ‘You mean Alfrid?!’ Brea cried. ‘Mother! Why would I even-’ Her mother shook her head. ‘I have to make sure, Brea. You have proven yourself to be far more cunning than your father and I could ever have imagined. I don’t want you to drag our reputation down the drain once again, not even in this wretched town.’ ‘MOTHER!’ ‘Don’t use such a tone against me, young lady.’ Mîrhel rebuked. ‘Now go, before our servant-’ A strangled groan erupted from her throat when the front door fell shut. ‘There she goes, poor lass. Hurry, Brea…’

Thus Brea set out once again on the same route, but this time she passed the market place instead of venturing left. After inquiring at a tapestry stand, Brea learned that Bard lived in the northern part of the city. The merchant told her that if she turned left before the town’s hall canal and kept walking straight ahead to the outskirt of the city, she’d find the bargeman’s home.

So with those instructions in mind, Brea walked around the market water until the town’s hall and the canal that laid before it came into view. Brea halted and glanced over her surroundings before taking a left turn. The waterway that ran along the right side of this particular quay was much smaller and the various boats that were docked here made it even more narrow. In order to inspect the homes that stood directly on her left, Brea slowed her pace. The people living on the right had built small, wooden bridges allowing them pass the canal to their home safely. Brea enjoyed the various wooden carvings adorning both the homes and bridges. She was told that at some point, the water would broaden into open water and the bargeman’s home lied directly behind this small square. Furthermore, she would have to enter a few steps leading up to a blue front door, that would appear on her left and it was described to have a diamond shaped window in it.

It didn’t take her long to find the house. Brea took the flight of stairs and the door was there, but when her fist reached for the hard wood, she noticed her hand was trembling.

In fact, her whole body was. Her heart hammered in her chest and Brea was sure that the people inside this home could hear it slamming. Her breathing was shallow, like she ran all the way here like a- Oh, stop it! She gritted her teeth, mentally scolding herself for being such a lightheaded, foolish girl. What made her believe that this handsome bargeman she just got acquainted with, lived here? For all she knew, there could live two Bard’s in this town. Furthermore, if Bard turned out to be the one she though he was, he was said to have children so there probably was a wife in his life. In any case, he wouldn’t be interested in a girl like her.

And with that, she knocked firmly on the wooden door.

The first thing she noticed, were his eyes.

Bard the bargeman easily possessed the most gorgeous hazelnut coloured eyes she’d ever seen. Brea’s breath hitched as she took in the man who was standing in the door opening. He had dark, messy hair that was kept out of his face with a string of cloth at the back of his head. His fine cheekbones were distracting and though Brea usually wasn’t that fond of moustaches and soul patches, somehow this man’s carefully trimmed facial hair made him only more desirable. The greying hair at his temples betrayed the fact he must be well in his thirties.

He was wearing sturdy brown boots adorned with fur, black breeches, a light brown woollen tunic and a long, leather coat in a slightly darker shade. The woollen tunic had a low v-neckline, showing some chest hair and the grey undergarment he was wearing underneath. Her thighs clenched and Brea bit her lip. Goodness, she hoped she wasn’t showing her desires too much… How was this possible anyway? Before, there had only been one man who had made her feel like this, but she was still mourning him. How could another stir the same in her to the point she was just staring at him like he was a piece of fine meat?

Though there was no denying that in fact, he was. How rude of her…

‘Oh.’ Bard murmured as he took her in just as she had done. For a second he looked more alarmed and flustered than anything, but that expression faded quickly and was replaced with a smug smile. ‘Miss Brea.’ He greeted her. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of encountering you on my doorstep?’ ‘Just Brea is fine, master Bard.’ She replied, a little out of breath. ‘I apologize for disturbing you, but I’m looking for my sister. A little worm told me she was forming rather unsavoury relations. When I asked him what he meant, he pointed me in the direction of your home.’ Bard grinned. ‘Unsavoury relations? Why would he think that?’ ‘The real question is what you have done to make him hate you.’ Brea mused. ‘I might need your advice on that matter.’ He stepped aside and motioned for Brea to come in. ‘Ah, yes. He was quite determined this afternoon, wasn’t he?’ ‘That’s an understatement.’ She said. ‘Is he always like that?’ ‘Yes, though women in this town know him too well to let him come close like you did.’ Brea placed her hands on her hips and eyed him defiantly. ‘I’m capable of handling myself, thank you very much.’ The bargeman chuckled. ‘I didn’t say you couldn’t. But you were too polite to him today.’ Brea smiled sweetly and stepped over the threshold. Bard’s home wasn’t as big as theirs, but it was a cosy one. A grand table and two benches dominated the middle of the room. Directly on Brea’s left was a wooden staircase that led a level down. In the far left corner of the room stood a bed that could fit at least three people. At Brea’s right, stood a small kitchen where two girls were busying themselves.

‘Any tips for when I have to keep him at armlength tomorrow during dinner at the master’s home?’ she asked Bard, giving him a teasing glance. He winced. ‘Are you sure you want to enter the dragon’s lair?’ ‘I’ve heard there lives a dragon in that mountain, is that-’

‘Oh! That stupid dinner! I forgot about that!’ her sister’s voice squeaked. Brea turned on her heels and discovered her sister, Jenessa. The raven haired girl with the most beautiful mahogany toned skin erupted from the kitchen, wearing mittens. Her dark eyes were sparkling with joy. She obviously had been preparing something with the other girls before Brea came in. The two girls had to be sisters, as both of them had dark blonde hair, blue eyes and the same facial expressions.

‘Hey Bree!’ Jenessa beamed. Brea heaved a sigh. ‘Jen, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? And it’s not a stupid dinner, it’s a necessary evil.’ ‘You don’t make it sound any better, Bree.’ Her sister grinned. Brea groaned and turned to Bard. ‘I’m so sorry. Jenessa can sometimes be oblivious to social conventions and overstay her welcome-’ Bard shook his head and gave her a reassuring smile that did send a pleasant jolt through her abdomen. ‘It’s fine, really. In fact, we’re happy she’s here. My eldest daughter, Sigrid, was planning on making apple pie and she happened to come across your sister at the market.’ ‘She was lost.’ Sigrid filled in with a grin. Jenessa cried indignantly. ‘Was not!’ ‘You were!’ The youngest sister chortled. ‘You were looking rather sad.’ Brea’s little sister heaved a sigh. ‘Fine. I was lost. Happy?’ ‘We won’t tease you too much with it, promised.’ Sigrid giggled. ‘But only after we have found out if your addition to ma’s recipe is a success.’ ‘It surely smells delicious!’ The little sister proclaimed. ‘That’s Tilda.’ Bard informed Brea with a fond smile. ‘She’s my youngest.’ Sigrid gave Tilda a few plates from the rack that stood on the counter. ‘Right Tilly, can you set the table for six?’ The girl nodded and set out to work. ‘I’ll boil some water for the tea.’ Jenessa said happily. Brea watched as the girls bustled around her and Jen, accepting these strangers in their midst easily and entertaining them with their cheerful banter. She turned to Bard, who was eyeing the scene as well, an amused expression adorning his face.

‘I am so sorry my little sister bashed into your home.’ Brea whispered. ‘The trick is not to encourage her, because she will to take over your whole household.’ ‘At least she can’t be worse than Alfrid, can she?’ Bard said casually and Brea suppressed a snort.

‘What is she saying?’ Jen demanded noisily as she put the pie on the table. ‘Is she trying to be the responsible, older sister again?’ ‘That’s my job.’ Brea told her. ‘Especially when you are misbehaving.’ ‘Am I? Shall I inform master Bard about your indiscretions in Minas Tirith, Bree?’ Jen inquired with a wide grin. ‘Please don’t.’ Brea warned. ‘Or I’ll have to beg mother to trade you for another, more grateful adoptive sister.’ ‘She’s adopted?’ Bard asked with a frown. ‘Her parents were friends with mine.’ Brea explained. ‘When they died thirteen years ago, my parents took Jen in.’ ‘And she regrets that decision every day!’ Jen complained as she was guarding the kettle until it would start to boil. Behind her, Sigrid grabbed six mugs from the cupboard and a tin containing dried tea leaves. Brea crossed her arms and watched her sister with narrowed eyes. ‘Jen, please tell this poor family you are joking!’

‘Da!’ Someone ran up the stairs and a few moments later, a teenage boy with dark hair and the same dark eyes as his father came into view. ‘I finished fixing the nets.’ He stopped in his tracks and eyed the newcomer curiously. ‘Who’s this?’ ‘Brea, this is my son Bain.’ Bard said. ‘Bain, this is miss Brea, miss Jenessa’s sister.’ ‘Oh, hello.’ The boy replied, suddenly a bit nervously. He quickly turned on his heels and stumbled down the stairs again. ‘Nice to meet you!’ Brea called after him. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s up with him these days.’ Bard murmured. ‘He’ll come around.’ ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Once everything was all set, the Bardlings took their place around the table and even Jenessa settled rather quickly as if she already belonged there. Brea stood there, a bit unsure what to do, until Bard turned and sent her a smile. ‘Will you join us, miss Brea?’ he inquired gently, gesturing at the place on the other end of the table.

Brea knew that she should have said no. She should have told them that mother was waiting for her and Jen to return, but… Brea’s brain seemed to have forgotten that information. She couldn’t remember a damn thing, only the fact that those gorgeous dark eyes were pleading her to stay, offering her a place at his table. And the best thing about that, was that there was no wife in sight. So her lips had formed the words before she could even stop herself from saying it. ‘Yes, please.’

Thank you so much for reading my humble story. Feedback is always welcome.  Did you like my work? Spread the love and reblog! :) And here’s my Masterlist.

[witchyaqua]

planets in the 1st house

DOMAIN OF THE 1ST HOUSE:

The self; ego, identity, consciousness

Your name, title, and any other unique words you (and others) use to identify you

Your physical body and outward appearance

People’s first impression of you when they meet you face-to-face

Mannerisms, facial expressions, hand gestures, body language

Appearance as self-expression: the styles and trends you want to dress yourself up in

SUN IN THE 1H:This is an exceptionally powerful placement for your Sun. Anything placed in the 1st House is expressed at its fullest capacity with absolutely no censorship. For you, this means that you cannot shelter your ego from being impacted by others, and you also cannot stop expressing yourself in the realest, rawest way possible. When you are young or immature, people will see you as obnoxious, egotistical, self-absorbed, and self-important. But others will be drawn to your warmth, generosity, optimism, and creativity. Whether good or bad, you impact the people around you in a noticeable way, and are bound to be popular because of your large personality.One way you impact others is through your own personal aesthetic. You have the glamour and the sex appeal of the golden god himself - beautiful hair, a shining smile, muscle tone, a warmth to the colour of your skin, and a taste for bold, sexy, creative style choices that draw all eyes to you. It makes sense that you put a lot of care into your appearance, since it is an enormous source of pride for you. Of course, you aren't immune to bad body days, where insecurity gets the best of you. But the important thing is to focus on what you can change, and what you love about your body, no matter how you might feel day-to-day.

MOON IN THE 1H:Those with this placement are often given rounded features and softness about their face and body. Your look gives an impression of being warm and caring, a fact that is aided by a quiet disposition and telling eyes. You prefer soft, stretchy fabrics in soft colours, and like to feel "bundled up", like you were wearing a blanket. In many ways, you appear young and child-like, perhaps even baby-faced. This planet is closely tied to the maternal feminine, and many astrologers link the Moon to your impression and experience of your mother. When reading your Moon sign’s description, you may find you can relate a lot about what is said of your own emotions to what your mother is like. And in turn, you have become a lot like your mother in this way (whether you choose to acknowledge this or not).It is an understatement to declare yourself as an “emotional person”. You are moody, compassionate, intuitive, and very sensitive to your surroundings. Being so thin-skinned, all of your feelings exposed on the surface, you are permeable in the way that everything penetrates you, no matter how hard you try to erect barriers between yourself and the outside world. You feel enormous empathy for other people, especially animals and small children, and can't help but pick up on all the subtle energies in the air around you. Faced with other people who are upset, stressed out, angry, or on the verge of a nervous breakdown, you feel like the waters of your heart are crashing back and forth in your chest. In quiet isolation, at home or with family, you feel your waters are still, your inner seas calm. In a frenzied crowd, you feel overwhelmed, and run away to safety. And in the wild spaces outside our human cities, you feel at peace, as if the waves are gently lapping the shore.

MERCURY IN THE 1H:You are Mercury and everything it stands for. You flit from person to person, topic to topic, picking up information like a bee collecting pollen from a variety of colourful flowers. From everything, you take a little piece and make it a part of you, adapting to and mimicking all different kinds of people. Frequently, your life changes on a whim. Once you feel you’ve become stagnant, you suddenly change, travelling somewhere or picking up a new area of study. You are restless, inquisitive, insatiably curious. Your mind never turns off or slows down. Books, games, puzzles, studying, tinkering with things in your hand - you can’t sit still for the life of you!When being by yourself isn’t enough, you like to go out and mingle in big groups and talk to people. You need your mental abilities to be challenged, sharpened by wit and forged in the fires of intellectual discourse. This is why you have the potential to become such a prolific public speaker, writer, singer, journalist, or teacher. Your way with words is unparalleled by all but a few. But an obstacle stands in the way of you connecting with a wider audience: there is no filter between your head and your mouth. You say whatever comes to mind, no matter how offensive or insensitive it may sound. This can create tension between you and other people, who become irritated at your rude and audacious behaviour. Others, who are thicker-skinned, find it funny, and revel in the fact that they can say whatever they want around you. A little bit of edgy controversy can get you some attention, but you do not want to be popular for being vulgar and mean!

VENUS IN THE 1H:But despite this placement giving you enormous sex appeal, this is not an especially harmonious placement for Venus. When you take Venusian ideas into your personal identity and merge with the goddess, the value you place upon yourself depends on what other people think of you. Your worth and self esteem are not determined by your own level of self-respect, as it should be. You go out of your way to be as likeable as you can be. You may be a goody-two-shoes, always being sweet and good and impressive. Or you may become a seducer, flaunting your body for attention and adoration. You are gentle, reception to their emotions, compassionate, cooperative, and eager to make another person’s life more beautiful. Yet people call you weak, lazy, indulgent, pleasure-seeking, shallow, and vain. You spend too much time and money pleasing yourself and not enough on improving yourself. As long as your self-esteem depend on the opinions other people have about you,their perceptions of you will cut to the bone, and you will never feel satisfied with yourself.And honestly, there is so much to love about you. For all the hang-ups Venus has in the 1st House, there is no denying the charm and the beauty she gives you too. There is a reason for your reputation as a heart-breaker, a heart-throb, an idol, or a sex symbol. That certain something you have that draws people in and keeps them there is caught by everyone you meet. You move enticingly, like there is a coiled spring inside of you ready to twist little people around your pinky fingers. You enjoy the attention and find it flattering, allowing them to covet you even when you have no intention of making their dreams come true. Aside from that, you also impress with your artistic talents in art, writing, music, design, and acting, all of which come easily to you. And don’t forget your social etiquette – refined, elegant, but not without good humour, people find you as enchanting to be around as fireflies in the night.

MARS IN THE 1H:Possible conflicts aside, this is a very good placement for Mars. Through this energy you are able to exert your will and get what you want without shame or embarrassment holding you back. This placement shows itself very early on in life, as you were the type of baby that kicked and cried until you were free to stretch and move around. You showed an early desire to walk, to climb, to get into things and explore; bravery showed too, as you charged forward into new adventures and never looked back to mom and dad. You got hurt a lot, a trait that can be seen all the way into adulthood. Scars (especially on the face), bruises, broken bones, and trips to the hospital, all a result of you moving too fast, knocking things down, falling over, and your general accident-prone nature. You were one of many children that needed to be put into sports or some other kind of physical activity. Without a structured outlet, your boundless energy becomes destructive.As an adult, you still share many of the same charismatic features as your younger self. You still have that same strong identity, the same desire to impose your will upon others, the same outspoken (borderline inconsiderate) way of expressing yourself. Truth be told, you do not fare well with sensitive people; they find you to be  cruel, offensive, and too overwhelming to be around for very long. If you are wondering why people have such strong, predominantly negative, reactions to you, that would be why! You do better with other masculine people who do not need their friends or lovers to be so gentle. You are hilarious, entertaining, confident, sexy, and you possess enough strength of character to get past the hate doled out to you on a regular basis. Perhaps you are not always the most sensitive, nurturing type of person (if you are at all) but you possess other likeable qualities that draw others to you.

JUPITER IN THE 1H:Exaggerated stories, exaggerated speech, exaggerated movements – all makes you comical, dramatic, and fun to watch! This is what makes you so very popular, lucky, and successful in life. People like you, even when you stick in your foot in your mouth and say things that offend them. For you are totally honest (even brutally honest at times), even when that means telling people things they do not want to hear, and are not about to quiet your opinions on anything. You are totally yourself. You love yourself, and you aren’t about to deny yourself anything. Pleasure-seeking with a big appetite for live, you indulge in hedonistic pleasures all the time. Good food, drinks, shopping, parties, games, entertainment, seeing friends, having fun, school, and travelling make up the list of things you like to do. But be careful. Money slips through your fingers when you spend it unwisely!You are not simply a student of knowledge, who seeks to fill one’s head up with information. You are a student of philosophy and spirituality, who pours over pages of history, culture, politics, language, and the nature of mankind in order to become wiser to the ways of the world. There are big questions that need to be answered. As a teacher, you open your pupil’s minds to all the possibilities hosted here, inviting them to explore topics freely and unrestrained. In the position, however, you are victim to an inflated sense of self-importance and the false belief that you have more wisdom to offer than you actually do. Still, your confidence in yourself inspires confidence in others too – which is part of the reason why you fulfill the role of entertainer, too. Being as dramatic and funny as you are, you were born to perform!

SATURN IN THE 1H: Saturn here usually indicates a long and difficult birth, as if the child is not ready to come out and meet the world yet. Even in the very beginning of your life, you met new experiences with apprehension, unwilling to make any sudden changes to your established routine. Fear seems to run your whole life in this way, making you hesitate and procrastinate and dwell on things long after you should have acted. You are not made for frivolity. You plan out big goals that take you years to accomplish and then work very hard to make sure they are realized in the end. You are a figure of strength, stability, safety, and security; a reliable person one can trust to always be there and to be the same no matter what. But you are also frigid, strict, controlling, and unforgiving, totally devoid of sentiment when you are setting out to accomplish something. You are as stubborn as a bull, as solid as a rock, as enduring and as patient as a mountain, and as persistent as the waters which slowly erode them into valleys below. Responsibility and duty become your two most admirable qualities. Coupled with your intense work ethic and goal-setting nature, long-term success is bound to find its way to you. Even your appearance takes on the qualities of Saturn. An air of chilly superficiality tends to hang around you, adding to the unfriendliness that people pick up on. To some you look mean, cold, calculating. But the expression you wear on your face is there to mask your insecurities and put up an emotional wall between you and other people. Your clothing is apt to cover your body, as you are modest and do not like to show much skin. You are attracted to traditional, classier cuts and darker colours which lend a sense of timelessness to your style. One might get the impression that you are hiding your body, and they would be right. Saturn can make your body feel unattractive or uncomfortable to live in, as you focus on your flaws and what needs to be “worked on”. You are able to discipline your body with a strict diet and exercise regime. You may even be able to lose some of the weight you seem to retain no matter what. But you will always have the impression of being heavier, sturdier, and stronger than you actually are.

URANUS IN THE 1H: Your influence on the world is nothing short of revolutionary, as you characterize disruptive change and innovative individualism. You seek to discover the truths of this world that lay in science and reason. And yet you also ascribe to eccentric beliefs, unusual interests, and strange hobbies in your personal life. You feel entitled to determining your own truth for yourself and possess a highly independent way of viewing the world. When it comes to hard science you are in agreement with the experts. But on topics of spirituality, religion, politics, culture, and world issues, you can be quite controversial in your views. At times, you can be quite inconsiderate of other people’s beliefs and opinions, stubborn in your own, and intent on getting your way at all costs. For this reason (among others) you do better in leadership roles or working by yourself. You need an enormous amount of freedom to express yourself, and often you would prefer just to work alone. You may identify more readily with alternative styles, outcasts, weirdos, subcultures on the outskirts of your own. You may even start you own trends from the outside in. Kurt Cobain, who had this placement, became the face of the Grunge Rock movement of the 1980/90's, and John Lennon became a figure of war-hating, peace-loving, drug-using counterculture in the 1960/70's.

NEPTUNE IN THE 1H: You are a creative, imaginative, and talented artist in your chosen medium. You are a highly spiritual person who possesses uncanny psychic powers, heightened by a lack of emotional boundaries between you, other people, and the divine. You reflect their qualities like a mirror and absorb their energies like a sponge. Perhaps it is because your mother refused to let go of you that you feel so guilty about separating yourself from other people. Or perhaps when you were growing up, your life was so unstable you never developed a secure sense of self. You are so easily affected by other people that their emotions can be overwhelming to the point of madness for you. But instead of erecting walls between yourself and others, you simply look for methods of escaping from your current negative feelings. This is why you are so prone to drug use, alcoholism, and getting lost in your own imagination. You should not feel as though you have to sacrifice yourself and your own happiness for the sake of making other people comfortable. And yet, you do it all the time.

PLUTO IN THE 1H:Pluto in the 1st House makes you look intimidating and unapproachable. You are a figure of power, like royalty, and you gaze upon the world as a ruler does. Some people are hopelessly drawn to the energies you emanate, and some are too scared of you to dare approach. What is true is that you have a deeply profound, highly emotional effect on the people around you, whether you realize it or not. People around you pick up on the intense emotional energy you radiate, as well as the sultry, sexual magnetism exuding out of every pore. Your fashion sense is likely to switch between being sexually appealing and conservative, as you likewise sway between wanting to be an object of desire and being ruthlessly self-protective.Pluto in the 1st House is given to children who needed to protect themselves when they were younger. Some astrologers claim that this indicates that your birth into this world was difficult or life-threatening for you and your mother, beginning life itself with strong birth-and-death themes. Throughout your life, you have learned to be self-sufficient, to support yourself, not to trust anyone (even the people you love), and to observe people for clues as to their hidden motivations. In extreme cases, this could mean a childhood of abuse, betrayal, crisis, traumas, painful separations, destruction, emotional turmoil, and other difficult experiences. This has lead you to become a person obsessed with gaining power over yourself and your relationships, making you very controlling, obsessive, vindictive, and paranoid regarding whatever is “yours”. Depression and anxiety, as well as anger issues and violent fantasies, plague you. But these are all a part of who you are. You are not above using sex or emotional manipulation to get what you want. You are ruthless, dark, and dangerous, and as much of a threat to others as you are to yourself. You can unravel people’s lives from the inside in and force them to burn and be reborn – and you can do so destructively, through pain and anger, or you can transform them through love and acceptance.

-all the information i found is from canaryquillastrology.com

[dippedanddripped]

For more than a year, Los Angeles-based streetwear designer Tremaine Emory had been working with Converse on a red, green and black sneaker inspired by Jamaican political activist and Black nationalist Marcus Garvey’s Pan-African flag and artist David Hammons’ 1990 work “African-American Flag,” an original of which was acquired by the Broad museum in Los Angeles last year.

Emory’s brand, Denim Tears, tells the story of Black people in the United States starting in 1619, when the first documented enslaved Africans arrived in Virginia; according to the designer, the brand’s logo, a cotton plant, is a direct reference to slavery. That’s why the proposed packaging for his Converse sneaker collaboration depicts a coffin covered with Hammons’ flag and a cotton wreath, as a tribute to Black Americans who have died under unjust conditions. The image is based on an art installation, “A Proper Burial, Thanks America,” that Emory debuted in London last year.

However, in late May, as protests spread across the country after George Floyd’s death in police custody, Emory announced on Instagram that he and Denim Tears couldn’t go forward with the partnership until Converse’s parent company, Nike, went beyond its plan to donate $40 million over four years to support the Black community. (Michael Jordan, through his Nike subsidiary Jordan Brand, is donating an additional $100 million over 10 years.)

Emory called the move by Beaverton, Ore.,-based Nike, which reported $37.4 billion in revenue last fiscal year, a very expensive Band-Aid. He said he wanted to use his voice to push Nike to look inward at its own record on diversity and inclusion.

“It’s accountability,” Emory said in a phone interview. “It’s about Fortune 500 companies and how they are run under the guise of white supremacy and patriarchy and how I take accountability, that I need to see the steps — and brands that I work with dispensing that — or guys won’t work with me.”

In recent months, nearly all major industries, including entertainment, journalism and sports, have been forced to confront how closely their statements opposing systemic racism align with their treatment of Black and brown employees. The fashion industry, which has frequently been criticized for cultural appropriation, instances of blackface and a lack of diversity, is no different.

According to a count by trade publication Women’s Wear Daily, Black people make up only 4% — 19 out of 477 members — of the invitation-only Council of Fashion Designers of America, whose new chairman is Tom Ford. In an email to The Times, a CFDA spokesman said, “The CFDA does not record nor require members to state their race upon application, but it is estimated that members of color make up approximately 25% of the total membership.”

June 8, 2020

In anecdotal comments, Black streetwear designers from L.A. to New York told The Times that their subset of the fashion industry is no different.

“You can’t ignore the fact that there aren’t many Black brand owners in the streetwear space,” said Scott Sasso, who founded 10.Deep in 1995 while he was a student at Vassar. “And [at] some of the biggest companies, I don’t know if they’ve even had Black employees.”

Streetwear brands such as Denim Tears and 10.Deep offer casual clothing, primarily for men, that blend the styles of various subcultures, including hip-hop (as popularized in the 1990s by brands such as FUBU, Walker Wear and Phat Farm) as well as surf and skate motifs. It’s an identity that can be found in the clothing from brands such as Supreme and Stüssy. Instead of offering widely available, mass-produced products, streetwear brands tend to offer limited-edition drops for consumers who hear about companies through social media or by word of mouth.

Although Black style — from hip-hop to sneaker culture — has played a major role in shaping the fashion industry while bringing new designers and brands to prominence, Black fashion professionals and streetwear brand owners said in interviews with The Times that the clothing industry has failed to elevate and promote Black creatives in a way that reflects that influence.

Several designers also questioned the sincerity of corporations promising to invest in Black communities. They reflected on their own experiences trying to explain Black art to predominantly white company leaders.

Chicago-based designer Joe Freshgoods started selling T-shirts in high school and has been selling his designs out of Fat Tiger Workshop, the streetwear retail hub he co-owns, since 2013.

“I feel like a lot of these brands are in these boardrooms having these talks about how to fix this or how to just clean up their mistakes real fast, and it’s just like, ‘Hey, let’s just fill in the blanks real quick and see if this will make them happy,’” Freshgoods said.

He said he tried to include the logo of the Black Panther Party on a design for an Oakland-themed collaboration with an apparel brand last year. The company’s legal department rejected his proposal. At the time he went along with it, but now he’d push back, he said.

“A lot of Black collaborators are the reason why a lot of brands are super successful right now, so that’s a lot of power to have,” Freshgoods said.

Emory, who has partnered with New Balance and Levi’s, called on Nike to stop supporting Republicans while President Trump is the party’s leader. He also wants the company to release more information on its record of hiring Black employees and assist in “the defunding and total reform of all the police departments across America.”

Since his initial Instagram post in June, Emory has spoken to Converse Chief Executive G. Scott Uzzell or Uzzell’s team about a half dozen times over the phone or in video-conference meetings. In those discussions, Emory said the company acknowledged it hasn’t done everything it could in terms of creating a diverse corporate structure and laid out its hiring plan, especially in its executive suite. The designer said he discussed current initiatives at Nike to invest in Black communities and to address systemic racism and police brutality. “They want to get involved in all that, and we will see,” he said.

The release date for his red, black and green Converse sneaker has been moved up from February to October, ahead of the November election. Emory said the marketing for the shoe will focus on promoting voting. The shoe will be available in North America, Europe and online for $95 to $100.

“We respect and encourage the efforts of any collaborator or athlete we work with to raise their voice against racial injustice,” a Converse spokesperson said in a statement to The Times. “We have spoken with Tremaine and look forward to working through these issues together.”

At its core, streetwear is about authenticity and the personal connection between consumers and the designers and labels they love.

The push by larger brands and corporations — specifically in the fashion industry — to meet the current moment with statements, donations and new initiatives is in direct contrast to what many Black streetwear designers have been doing since the inception of their brands. Those designers have been hiring diverse staff, speaking up about political issues and infusing their works with references to Black culture.

“Now I feel like everybody’s rushing to make some type of relevant shirt or make some relevant message on their Instagram,” said Zac Clark, a Black designer who started his brand, FTP, while in high school in Los Angeles. “To me, a lot of this stuff right now seems very unnatural and just forced from a lot of these brands, so they won’t get ‘canceled.’”

Olivia Anthony, the designer behind the Livstreetwear brand, said the turning point for her New York-based company was her 2017 My Love Letter to Our Culture collection, which paid tribute to Black trends of the ’90s — think long nails, grills and slicked-down baby hairs — that were largely considered unfashionable until they were adopted by other races.

“It was so beautiful, but it was looked down upon,” said Anthony, adding that she wanted her brand to reflect how those Black trends, now featured in magazines including Vogue, have been “shown in a different light.”

Kacey Lynch said he created his South L.A.-based streetwear company, Bricks & Wood, after years of working at streetwear brands where he felt Black representation was missing.

“They wanted a lot from us, but they didn’t want to do the work, what it took to understand us,” Lynch said of his past employers. “Whether that’s Black culture, South-Central, minorities … wherever the cool came from, they all wanted it but they didn’t really know how to identify with it.”

In May 2019, fashion website Hypebeast and Strategy&, a consulting firm in the PwC network, released its Streetwear Impact Report, based on interviews with more than 40,000 Hypebeast readers and 700 global industry insiders. The survey found that 70% of respondents said they care about social issues, 59% said brand activism is important and 47% said they would stop shopping from a brand because of inappropriate behavior.

“It’s fine as a starting point for corporations to say, ‘This is what we stand for and this is what we believe,’” said Elena Romero, a fashion journalist and author of 2012’s “Free Stylin’: How Hip Hop Changed the Fashion Industry.”“But that’s not going to be enough.”

Romero, an assistant professor at New York’s Fashion Institute of Technology, said companies likely will face questions over where they invest their profits, the diversity of their staff and how they’ve helped build the communities from which their dollars are coming. She said many companies will realize they’ve fallen short because the answers to those questions weren’t a priority until their profits were at risk.

“Now the consumer is saying, ‘You can’t fool us anymore,’” she said. “If you’re not authentic and truly supporting the very same things that these young people believe, your business will suffer.”

The result has been an industrywide push to make those investments now but also to make amends for past inaction. After Black Adidas employees criticized the company’s response to racism, Adidas announced June 9 that it would add more diverse staff, start a scholarship program for Black employees and invest an additional $20 million over four years in programs that serve the Black community. A day later, Adidas upped its $20 million pledge to $120 million. (In addition to those changes at Adidas, the company’s global head of human resources, Karen Parkin, resigned at the end of June after facing criticism for her handling of racial discrimination.)

Adidas also apologized for its past silence. “For most of you, this message is too little, too late,” a tweet from the Adidas account read. “We’ve celebrated athletes and artists in the Black community and used their image to define ourselves culturally as a brand but missed the message in reflecting such little representation within our walls.”

In the broader fashion community, various organizations and members of the industry have offered different strategies for creating a more inclusive environment. Aurora James, a New York-based creative director, started the Fifteen Percent Pledge, which calls on companies to provide at least 15% of their shelf space or contracts to Black-owned businesses.

After the CFDA announced its plan to promote diversity, a group called the Kelly Initiative called for the CFDA to adopt its proposal to conduct and publish a census of diversity in the industry, audit its recruitment practices and release an annual list of top Black talent, the Kelly List. The initiative is named after the late Patrick Kelly, a Black fashion designer who rose to prominence in the 1980s with work that played with Black cultural symbols and racial stereotypes.

April Walker, whose New York brand Walker Wear was worn by ’90s hip-hop stars including Method Man, Tupac Shakur and the Notorious B.I.G., stressed that Black designers need to look outside the fashion industry for success by collaborating, mentoring and sharing resources with their counterparts.

“We just need to not look for the fashion industry, as it’s been very oppressive for the last 30 years, to be the end-all, be-all for our opportunities,” she said, “but to create our own.”

Among streetwear companies, the effort to fight systemic racism in the country and the fashion industry has been on an individual basis, with brand owners of all races deciding how much they’re willing to give back and how comfortable they are using their platforms to discuss and condemn racism.

For some, that means speaking up in solidarity with the Black community. Bobby Kim, cofounder of the Hundreds, a Vernon-based clothing brand, teamed with Pharrell Williams’ brand Billionaire Boys Club to raise money for Black Lives Matter and the Black Mental Health Alliance with a shirt that was available for 48 hours. After the Fairfax shopping district where his shop is located was vandalized in late May, Kim, who’s Korean American, defended the right to protest.

In an interview, Kim said, “If you have been given a lot of money, and especially if that money has come by way of participating, contributing, or even stealing or borrowing from Black culture, then you — more than anybody else right now — need to tithe, need to pay up, in a sense, in order to reflect how influential Black culture has been in your career and your profitability as a company.”

Sasso’s 10.Deep stopped selling its regular collection for most of June and instead offered a new line of 10.Deep products to draw attention to activism against racial injustice and police brutality. The profits went to national bail funds for protesters.

“Streetwear, in its truest form, is about shooting yourself in the foot as often as possible but also just doing what you think is right,” Sasso said.

He said he was drawn to streetwear because it was a multiethnic community of different countercultures, a blend of the skate, surf, hip-hop and graffiti scenes, with a dash of punk rock, united by an exclusive knowledge of where to find and buy certain brands.

However, he has noticed a shift among streetwear consumers. For some shoppers, it’s not about the community. It’s just about the clothes.

He said he lost “several thousand” social media followers after he posted about Black Lives Matter and has received comments asking him to just stick to fashion.

“My thought is: If you want just some regular clothes, go buy Banana Republic, go buy Levi’s,” he said. “Those are companies that aren’t gonna take political stances. They’re providing basic stuff. This space is about a culture. If you want to participate in it, this is what it’s about.”

[greenninjagal-blog]

Wishing On Stars

So, fun story! Remember that quick one shot I made [Idle Threats] that was not quick at all and featured Deceit punching a guy in the face? Guess who made a sequel!

Word Count: 4958

Pairings: Brotherly Thomas and Deceit

Summary: Dee’s world is shifting and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Quick Taglist: @chelsvans @felicianoromano @jemthebookworm @holliberries @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @treasureofpriam

Read on AO3 || Masterlist

Dante Ethan Ekans has never thought of himself as dumb. It’s simply not something he’s ever allowed himself to consider the possibility of. So what if his grades sucked and he couldn’t even buy a candy bar at the market with his unweighted GPA? So what if he wasn’t in any honors clubs or wearing nerd glasses or correcting his teachers in class? So what if he had never found a grammar error in his textbooks or maxed out his library card (can those be maxed out?)?

Dante Ethan Ekans—ugh just call him Dee—was not, is not, and never will be “dumb”.  He’s fought for his grades and lost, he doesn’t have time to waste on honor clubs, and its not like he needs to give his teachers anymore reasons to hate him. Since when has anyone actually read the textbooks? And he’s never really found a good book that keeps his attention past the third chapter.

But that’s never meant that he was dumb.

And fuck Dr. Logan Ackroyd for making him question that about himself.

Dee leans forward on the rickety structure, pressing his head into his arms into the cool metal bars as he does. He wants to stare up at the stars, wants to bury his head in his arms and sleep, he wants to tear the the packet of papers in his right hand to shreds and then feed it to Dr. Ackroyd with a sneer.

The stars over head twinkle, because that’s all the stars do. Dee had learned at the lovely age of six, no amount of wishing on the stars was going to change how reality had panned out. Stars were just lights in the sky with no ability to bring his dad back or obscure the burn marks on his face. 

The papers crinkle in his hand, like a campfire, like a car crash that once again ruined his life. Or is ruining. Or, perhaps, is in the process of ruining? It feels like it, like everything good and great that Dr. Ackroyd had promised was collapsing on him and suffocating him all over again.

“I know you can do it,” The teacher had said.

And Dee really hates him for it. Really hates Mr. Walker for that car accident he was in and for not coming back, hates Dr. Ackroyd for showing up with his gaze of steel and his stupid ties and his “equality under the law” reign that’s dragged Dee from the cave everyone had exiled him too and let him enjoy a bit of light. 

Sure, Dee can do it. He can also throw himself from the top of this old playground set and fracture his arm or something so he doesn’t have to go back to that stupid room and see that stupid teacher ever again.

The stars blink down at him, and maybe they take pity on the boy who aced Dr. Logan Ackroyd’s midterm test last week, because Dee thinks they look a little less distant than before.

He knows he’s not dumb. He knows that the formal red pen on the test, the long line, the circle and the next long line mean something great and amazing is on the brink of happening. He knows that Dr. Logan Ackroyd is to blame for it, because the man has no time for jokes and no time for nonsense and no time to waste leading Dee astray.

He knows the man means well.

He knows that he hates him for it.

Since when did anyone look at Dee and “mean well”? Since when did any teacher look at him and see something worth believing in? Since when had Dee wanted them to?

Dee knows when: since at exactly nine hours and nineteen minutes ago when Dr. Ackroyd had called him to "please, wait a moment, Mr. Ekans! Its imperative I talk with you." And Dee like a fool (which is completely different from being dumb, thank you very much. Dee very much was a fool), had paused just short of fleeing the classroom.

(Kyle Phillips had shoulder checked his way by him, the healing purples of his black eye just visible under the layer of concealer his mother had applied that morning and he had worn away through the day.)

Dr. Ackroyd had taught up to the bell, or at least he had talked up to the bell. Dee and the rest of the class had stopped paying attention after 2:15. For a terrifying second Dee had felt a cold hand clench his heart and the voices in his head whispered that this was it, the end, Dr. Ackroyd was finished pretending to be nice to him.

"I hope you don't mind if we walk while we talk," Dr. Ackroyd had said (and it most certainly was "Doctor" because the man had snarled something about several PHDs the last time a student had mistakenly called him Mister Ackroyd. To be honest it had been a little hard to make out while the man was foaming at the mouth). Dr. Ackroyd had gathered all of his teaching notes, several stacks of worksheets that needed grading, and his laptop into a bag and pulled it over his shoulder. 

"You have a younger sibling to pick up at Mind Elementary, correct?" The teacher had asked, "I happen to have a colleague I am meeting there as well. To prioritize our time, it would be efficient to talk while we walk.” 

And Dee hadn’t had a reason not to agree so instead he nodded and let the teacher lead the way.

On their way out of the building, they had run into Mr. Hart who had wished them “a wonderful rest of the day, and oh, Logan, text me when you’re both at the restaurant!” Dr. Ackroyd had waved him off with a soft smile and two seperate promises. Dee hadn’t seen any sign of Resource Officer Roman Prince anywhere, and he was silently grateful he didn’t have to watch the adult man sulk because Mr. Hart showered Dr. Ackroyd in love the second he entered any room. Dee had made sure to avoid that growing drama like the plague. It was a soap opera in the making.

They had carefully trekked out of the school building and down the walking path that lead to the student parking lot and then branched off to the sports fields and to the Elementary school. Dee normally tried to procrastinate the walk for a good fifteen minutes to avoid the drivers that like to play chicken with the kid walking on the sidewalk while they waited for the traffic to ease up. But no one would dare try to run him over with the new substitute teacher by his side.

(The rumor was that Dr. Logan Ackroyd could stop a truck moving at 100 miles per hour with just a look, and Dee wasn't immune to propaganda.)

Dee had focused on how nice of a day it had been outside, how the sun was shining so it wasn’t too cold, how the grass peaking out of the cracks in the sidewalk were rather resilient and how many breaths he was taking and was that too many? Was he annoying Dr. Ackroyd? Should he take less? Could he? How important was it for him to breathe?

"Mr. Ekans," the teacher had said, "I'm not exactly one for beating around the bush with these types of things. Patton often tells me I am too blunt, while Roman criticizes my delivery. However, I believe the best way to approach any subject is straight on to avoid deluding you with false pretenses."

Dee had wanted to state the hypocrisy: the teacher rambling on about how he should just say something instead of talking around it. But his heart rate had increased with every word which in turn caused his mouth to dry and his tongue to stick to the roof of his mouth. 

“I finished grading the midterm you took,” Dr. Ackroyd had said.

It had been so much worse than any of the thoughts had been swimming through his mind. His chest tightened, his breath silently disappearing and his lungs refusing to work the way they were supposed to. He had wanted to apologize, had wanted to melt into a puddle on the sidewalk right then and there and safe himself from the embarrassment. He had wanted to avoid the part where Dr. Ackroyd tells him so plainly that he never should have risked his reputation for someone as worthless as Dante Ethan Ekans.

But Dee was only human, only a child, only normal. He stared hard down at the sidewalk at the patches of squashed gum that students had spit out in the past while waiting in traffic, at the tuffs of grass peeking up through the grass, at the loose rocks that his scuffed yellowed shoes tapped against.

“Speaking quite frankly,” the teacher had continued, “I was impressed--”

And Dee had really stopped breathing. His chest had heaved, the gasping word billowed past his lips before he could think to keep it back. “What?”

Dr. Ackroyd had reached up and tentatively adjusted his glasses. “I was relating how impressed I was with your test. As I predicted you are far ahead of your class-- far enough that I put in the request to have you moved up to my higher level class.”

“Wait what--” 

“Additionally, your performance exceeded my expectations. You exemplify more dedication to learning than any other student I have seen in a good three years, Mr. Ekans. I entered your missing work last night and you far exceed the requirement for the Science Honor Society. I took the liberty of reaching out to Mrs. Hydrus on your account--”

“Stop!” Dee had blurted out. His mouth tasted like ash, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his head was still ringing from being completely blindsided by the information he had just been given.

Dr. Ackroyd had paused, taking span of three steps to adjust his glassed once again and peer down at Dee. “Pardon? Is there something the matter?”

It was horribly pretentious when he said it like that. In retrospect, Dee groans into his arms and wishes he could invent time travel solely to go back and stop the two of them from ever meeting, from ever having that conversation, from ever existing. Logically, what the teacher had been saying was amazing news, the news of a lifetime: he had gone out of his way to do things for Dee that no other teacher had done and it honestly hadn’t ever occurred to the doctor that he hadn’t needed to do it at all.

“I can’t,” Dee had told him kicking a rock on the sidewalk. He didn’t elaborate, because it hurt so much to get two words out, he couldn’t imagine getting anymore out. He had wondered absently when he had allowed the rose bush to grow around his own neck, allowed to prickly, pesky thorns to embed themselves in his throat, when those blood red petals that had matched the flushed color of his face.

Dr. Ackroyd had let him walk another ten paces in silence-- as silent as it could get with pop music blasting from the cars stuck in the afterschool traffic and the game of honking that was going on distantly from the parking lot (that Dee was pretty sure Kyle was a part of).

“You can’t,” The teacher repeated, but he hadn’t sounded angry or offended. It had taken a moment for Dee to place the tone: somewhere between confused and curious. “I’m afraid I do not understand. As your teacher, I have assessed your ability and professed that you are certainly capable of keeping up in my honors class, and Vice Principal Joan has already confirmed that your school schedule can be amended around the new class with very little impact on your current learning courses. Additionally, the honors club for science has very few requirements: no more than three unexcused absences-- which you have none of--, at least an eighty-five average in the class-- which you now have a ninety seven--, and--”

“--and a grade point average of 3.0.” Dee had finished for him.

Because it wasn’t like at one point Dee hadn’t been looking into honors clubs. He knew collages looked into club activities, and that most honor clubs had scholarships that came with admittance to said honor clubs. 

“Also, Kyle Phillips,” Dee had said lowly, “is president. He gets the power to veto any applications he doesn’t like.”

It had gone without saying that Kyle and him weren’t on the best of terms. The black eye incident hadn’t even blown over yet and it had been a whole week. When Kyle had found out that Dee hadn’t really been punished for punching him, he had whined to his mom, who in turn showed up at the school and demanded that Dee be expelled.

VP Joan had refused on some grounds or other, and it ended with her threatening to sue the entire school system. VP Joan had calmly told her that she was welcome to take them to court, just let them know the date. She had stormed out of the school.

And so far it looked like she wasn’t really going to push it, but VP Joan had pulled Dee into their office and asked him to lay low for a little bit. 

Dee had dragged a hand through his unruly hair, “I guess it doesn’t help that Mrs. Hydrus doesn’t like me much either.” 

It had gone without saying, again, that it wasn’t just Mrs. Hydrus. All the teachers didn’t like Dee much. The “why” was still something Dee was trying to figure out.

He had offered Dr. Ackroyd a parody of a smile. “Sorry that you wasted your time.” 

And that should have been the end of it. That was usually the end of it. One of Dee’s apologies, a short tense silence, a backhanded comment that always, always, felt like a slap in the face and Dee left standing alone once again. When had Dee stopped expecting something better from people?

And why did Dr. Ackroyd keep upsetting these expectations of his?

The teacher had hummed to himself, staring at the distant elementary school. The brick building had a faded look to it: something that had stood for a thousand years and would stand for a thousand more, something that had seen hundreds of kids grow up and move on, something that should have been remembered fondly.

All Dee remembered was the fact his scars matched the pattern of the brick by the southern entrance from the number of times his cheek was grounded into it, and the way a deflated kickball felt slamming into his face repeatedly. He remembered the look on the nurses face when she told him to stop crying over the blood on his face, the annoyed expression from one teacher or other when he came in late covered in bandages. He remembered the librarian who always brought up the car accident when he saw her, always saying what a shame it had been, always ripping the scab off the wound before it could heal over and ten year old Dee trying not to scream at her for it.

“Mr. Ekans,” Dr. Ackroyd had said suddenly. “I have never once wasted my time on anything. I do not plan to start now.” He had picked at the packet of papers in his hand before hands before handing over it to Dee. Dee had taken it without really knowing what was happening.

“What?”

“I’m going to get you into the Science Honor Society Club.” The teacher had told him as if it were really just that easy.

Who knows. Maybe he really thought it was.

“I’m going to do all I can, Mr. Ekans, so I expect you to do as much as well. Bring your grades up.”

“What?!” Dee had stopped in his walk, blinked, and then repeated, “What?!”

“Surely you heard me the first time--”

“I did!” Dee had said hotly, “What do you think I’ve been trying to do this whole time! Bringing my grades up is not-- it’s not that--” He had spit the word between his teeth, “--easy!”

And Dr. Ackroyd had raised an eyebrow at him, in that way of his, “I know you can do it.”

Dee squeezed the test packet in his hand leaning forward on the old playground structure again. There it was. That voice, that absolute conviction in the teacher’s tone. At the moment it had filled Dee with a horrible fiery anger that send him storming away from the teacher and leaving him behind on that sidewalk. 

He had picked up his brother. He had gotten home and did the dishes and made dinner and done everything that wasn’t open his backpack and look at his homework. Then when he had finally caved and pulled the four pages worth of good marks from his bag, he had immediately thrown that stupid test in the trash, taken it back out, flipped through it, ripped several of the pages, crumpled them into a ball, thrown it out again--

And at half past the Little Dipper, Dee was in his backyard on a playset that should have succumbed to the natural selection a decade ago, with the test in his hand and his ears ringing from a teacher who had such absolute faith in Dee’s ability he had managed to make Dee doubt the very law of his life.

(Like Newton’s law of Gravitation, or Murphy’s law of Perversity: Dee’s law of Loneliness.)

((It has a ring to it, didn’t it?)

Dee had been alone for all of his life, alone in his corner of the boxing ring there to be beaten again and again as others used him as a stepping stone to something greater. There had never been anyone cheering for him in the stands, any coach hollering advice at him, any water boy reminding him to drink in between rounds of the fight. It had been him and him alone.

All at once Dee becomes aware of the noise behind him, the dramatic shift in the balance of the playset he had been sitting on that causes the rusted metal screws to whine and the floor to shake. Dee yanks his feet up onto the platform and hugs the metal bar he had been leaning on and tries to remind himself that a four foot fall was not going to kill him.

Then the shaking stops and Dee chances a look behind him to see exactly what idiot chose to come outside and play on the goddamn kids play castle that Dee had already claimed brooding rights on for the night--

“Thomas?”

The eleven-year-old totters on the platform, less than a foot away, on his hands and knees and in socks that have several chucks of the playground mulch stuck to them. The kid looks at him with those wide eyes, a sheepish smile, and he unapologetically shifts so he’s sitting across from Dee. 

“Hi, Dee!”

“What are you doing out here?” Dee asks, “Do you know what time it is? What about mom--”

Thomas picks a piece of mulch off his socks, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Dee had known Thomas since he was eight and Thomas was just a year old. He knows all the kids ticks, the way he picks at his fingers when he’s nervous and lying, and how he hates the cowlick in the back of his hair and how he hates when Dee leaves him alone with their mother, but never says anything because he feels guilty. 

He knows that when Thomas says he can’t sleep its a lie, and he still can’t bring himself to be even a little upset.

“Go back inside, Tom,” Dee tells him.

“Why aren’t you coming in?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Go to sleep.”

“Fine!”

And because Thomas has known Dee since he was one and Dee was eight, he leans forward until his head hits Dee’s shoulder.

There’s a pause between the two of them, where Dee goes as still as he can, feeling the pressure of his little brother’s head right there on his shoulder, feeling the weight of the absolute trust, feeling the frustration fade right out of his bones. 

“What…” Dee says, impossibly soft, “are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” Thomas answers equally soft.

The test papers in his hand crumple again, when he squeezes his fingers into his fist to wake himself from the dream he’s been living for the past week since Dr. Logan Ackroyd walked into his life. The reality doesn’t shatter around him; its distressing, worrying, and stupid, because Dee doesn’t think he’s known what to do in this upside down world.

If he accepts it, he’s going to lose it. If he fights it, it will destroy him. In the boxing ring of his life, Dee’s alone, lonely, abandoned and losing. The past week has just been setting him up to knock him back out of the fight and is it wrong for Dee just want to want the final blow to land, already?

“Whats that?” Thomas says.

And because Dee doesn’t lie to his brother, he flattens the front page out and spreads it for the moon to read. “My test.”

“Did you do good?”

“I did.”

“Then why are you sad?”

Dee doesn’t lie to his brother.

He’s not like his mom when she says “it won’t happen again” or like Thomas’s dad who says he’ll “be back in a little bit” and just to “tough it out” until he shows up like he isn’t gonna leave again in a week, a day, a few hours. He isn’t like Thomas’s friends who say they’re not scared of his brother, and he’s not like his own teachers who tell him that they “don’t give out grades, kids earn them”.

So instead he drives his chin into his chest and tries to speak around the lump in his throat. “I’m not sad.”

“Why are you angry then?”

“I’m NOT ANGRY!” Dee snarls, maybe a little more angry than he means, and he doesn’t regret it for a good one, two nanoseconds.

Three nanoseconds and Thomas flinches. “I’m sorry!” 

And then Dee recoils, because fuck, he raised his voice, and this was Thomas and He raised his voice at Thomas. 

The playset shifts dramatically underneath the two of them, wobbling like Thomas’s last loose tooth seconds before it fell out. Dee’s hand flings to the metal bar, and Thomas grabs the wall opposite of him. There’s a squeak of fear from them both, something shrill enough that Dee’s sure a light at the house across the street flicks on and off and a call to the police is probably being debated (and ultimately discarded, because no one called the cops for Dee’s broken arm three years ago or someone took a metal bat to their mailbox or the rock to the window, or, or, or.)

The playset wobbles, and they both cling to their respective parts, and they both stare at each other. Dee and Thomas.

At some point it stops shaking.

At some point, both their breathing evens out again.

At some point, Thomas says, “oh,” and they’re both quiet. 

Dee can hear the crickets sing, the too-early morning breeze dancing through the wind chimes on someone’s porch, the soft even breaths of his little brother. The test scatters on the ground a few feet below them, picked up by the little wind and tossed across the little yard. Somehow it makes the whole world feel confined to this little bubble where it was him and Thomas and this stupid space that Dee had forced between them.

“I’m sorry,” Dee says and its different from the times he’s said it before, all the times his teachers dragged it out of him and all the times the other kids had claimed one as a person victory. This time he means it, because it’s Thomas.

“It’s stupid,” Dee says because he doesn’t lie to his brother, “It stupid and I hate it.”

Thomas, sweet, wide-eyed, little Thomas, waits for him so say more.

“It’s stupid that I’ve made it this far and I can’t go any farther. I hate it. They said that everyone had a chance and then they drew the line right in front of me, like “oh not you”. I hate that everyone has always ignored who I am and what I can do, what I’ve done-- and Thomas? It sucks. I’m so tired of it. I’ve tried so… so very hard to do the right thing every single time. They tell me to apologize, and I do. They tell me to try harder and I do. They tell me that I���m not going anywhere--”

Dee savors a breath, and forces it out just as quickly, possibly a little hysterically, “I don’t wanna be here for the rest of my life, Thomas. I can’t be here forever. It will kill me.”

Thomas at eleven years old is too wise for his age. Because he doesn’t tell Dee that he’s not going to die, he doesn’t tell Dee that its going to be alright, he doesn’t say anything at all.

Dee feverishly wipes at his eyes, because heaven forbid the stars see him cry. 

(They’ve seen him do that enough already.)

“Dr. Ackroyd made it seem so easy,” He says barely more than a whisper in the silence of the night. “I’m really scared it might be.”

The metal feels warm to his touch, burning hot and he clings to it like a lifeline that will light his entire body on fire and turn the rest of his skin to match his face and shoulder and arm and, and, and.

“I’m really scared that it’s gonna be that easy after all, and that I’m going to make it out of here and that I’m going to get to college and that it will be the same exact thing all over again.”

“It won’t.” Thomas says, loud enough that Dee has no choice but too focus back in on him. The moonlight is playing with his pale skin and making his eyes shine. Or maybe those are tears. Is he crying? Or is Dee?

Thomas, wise beyond his years, too wise for his eleven years. Thomas says it won’t be like this out there. Thomas says he’s going to have a chance. Thomas agrees with Dr. Ackroyd.

“It won’t be like that, Dee, I promise.” Thomas says. “You won’t let it be.”

Unwavering faith.

“I know you can do it.” 

He brings a hand to his face again rubbing those tricky, telling tears off his face. He sniffs, his ears prick, and his throat stings just a bit. How ridiculous is it, crying at half past too-late, and with his little brother watching him. He thinks of how Dr. Ackroyd must be somewhere probably asleep because that’s what normal fucking people were supposed to be doing--

And stupidly Dee thinks of that boxing ring of his life and thinks of Thomas standing in his corner smiling at him like he is right now, watching him take hit after hit and watching him get back up each time. And he thinks of that Science Teacher watching him with those calculating eyes, pen in hand and analyzing his opponent’s every move and crafting the plan of retaliation---

Just asking Dee to make it to the next round, to the break where he can get to the moment where he remembers why he’s fighting in the first place.

Thomas lets go of the wall, and carefully leans forward again. The playset squeaks slightly. Thomas stops just an inch away from Dee. When he calms down he reaches the last bit forward and hugs him. Dee can feel him shaking, can feel them both shaking.

And then the playset comes toppling down.

They both let loose twin yells of panic-- Dee blindly grabs to his side and pulls Thomas forward, covering him with his arms. The metal screeches, something wooden cracks and Dee feels absolutely, terrifyingly weightless for a full second. 

They hit the ground heavily: Dee, landing on the platform base at an odd angle and Thomas landing on him at an odder angle. Dee loses his grip on his brother he rolls to the side. The air, what little bit of it was left ejected from Dee’s chest, and several part of his back and his arms and his legs are left whimpering with promised bruises.

And they’re left lying there, trying to catch their breaths in the wooden and metal wreckage, staring up at the stars.

And they’re left there, alive even after everything around them had come down around them.

“You okay?” Dee asks the second he’s sure he’s not dead.

“Yeah,” Thomas says equally out of breath. Dee watches him raise his head, slightly, a stupid shiny grin on his face and flushed cheek in the moonlight, “You?”

It’s not that easy, bringing his grades up. It’s not like flicking a switch, or knocking over a domino, or starting a car engine, or, or or. But he’s got a couple people (Dr. Ackroyd, Thomas)  in his corner, and something that he wants (Science Honor Society).

And the stars twinkle overhead the same way they’ve always done

“It’s so... fucking late.” Dee chokes out a sopping wet laugh. It tastes like salt and despair and something completely awful that he absolutely hates: hope. 

Dante Ethan Ekans has never thought of himself as dumb. 

He’s not.

[jojoreadwhat]

something infinitely interesting / honey & smoke - m.h. x OFC story

Matty's POV.

Mornings were never my favorite. Mornings were cold in the grays of London most of the time. When the sun would dance across wall panels, they were enjoyable. Only if you didn't have obligations of going to work or class. The worst were the ones where you didn't know where you were and how you got there in the first place.

Lying in a different bed that didn't form to your body like the one you owned. Looking at a person you knew you had made bad decisions with. Different variations of women. Some blonde, some brunette or fire red. The occasional pinks and blues.  Covers exposed their complexions, those cliches of tattoos or oddly shapes birthmarks.

Many of them I could never get the first letter of their name to roll off my tongue properly. Most usually asleep when I rummaged to find my belongings of the fun the prior night, many seeing me off on my walk of shame. Saying goodbye, 'last night was fun' or the simple 'call me' without even a number to reciprocate that type of request.

Then there were mornings as I lied in my own bed. The women rummaging my room with the same thoughts as mine. Looking for the bra I clasped off in one wince of my finger. The shirt that I may had loosened buttons to. Watching them discreetly as they would sit on my bed or the chair near my window, one shoe at a time before they'd say goodbye, occasionally being a gentlemen and seeing them out. But like most, they'd leave without a word and I was perfectly okay with that.

Mornings were changing recently though. I was waking up early now, willingly. The warmth that I never wanted to abandon from my duvet. Now was a small frame fitting into the crevices of mine. My face nestled in the lively scent of lavender intertwined in her golden brown hair. Waking up my senses like the fresh brew of Dark Roast that once use to be Colombian. Beginning to acquire a new taste for it once Lucy began staying over more frequent.

Often finding myself pulling her closer to my chest, resting to the patterns of her steady breathing. As slumber took her by the hands and had her wander that colorful mind full of different worlds like a map. One I was beginning to mark all the favorite places I had experienced from it and would love to visit when she'll let me.

There were mornings where she was facing me. Giving me time before she would wake up. Letting my eyes go on a adventure, without her questioning why. Enjoying how she was so beautiful and yet so unaware of it. Her brown hair falling around her face wildly as her hair beret tried to tame it.

My calloused fingers picking up a mind of their own as they pursued on a journey. Tracing every sharp edge or roundness of her bone structure that lied beneath her flawless ivory skin. Grazing her exposed skin that quickly goosebumps at my touch.

Tracing that feather tattoo along her collarbone or the lips that left this lingering cherry taste against mine. Admiring how good she looked in my clothes I let her wear when staying over wasn't the original plan.

++

This morning being slightly different when I heard soft sounds of one of my records spinning faintly. My white walls covered in my arrays of posters, looking slightly gray from the smoke meeting the sky. The bright ray of sunshine was standing near my dresser, looking at herself in the black frame mirror above it. Her dainty fingers fixing her hair.

I smiled at her. Watching as she slightly swayed to what was turning, her hips hugged by dark denim jeans. Wearing one of my big over sized jumpers, my favorite one with the slit at the shoulder blade. Enjoying how comfortable she was becoming with me.

Quietly without warning, I leaned up out of the duvet till I could grab a hold of the black worn out fabric. A little yipe slipping from those succulent lips. My lips attacking the exposed skin of her neck as I pulled her close.

"I have work." She cried slightly above a whisper. Her soft fingertips tracing the tattoo on the arm I had embraced over her torso. "I don't think Ms. Watkins would mind." I remarked, smiling at the little giggle that immersed. She then turned her whole body around to face me.

Her blue eyes meeting mine before I leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose. "I don't think she would," She agreed with a sigh, "But it's a crucial week, I bet the aisles are swamped at this moment." It was the last week for all exams, assignments due. Anything else to keep credits and GPAs above high waters. It was also nearing when I would see Lucy off at the airport as she was going to spend the holidays at home. Trying desperately to push that thought further as I pulled her closer.  

Her fingers twirled into my nest of curls before her lips waltz with mine. The bed feeling chill every second she roused from laying in my arms. Watching as she slipped her cargo jacket on along with her bag. "I made you coffee." She pointed, then. Grabbing her phone off my nightstand. I sighed, playfully laying on her side.

"I don't want that." I muttered, my brown eyes meeting hers with a smirk. Her cheeks matching her rosy lips. "I know." Now bending down to kiss me again, "I'll see you in class." Watching her walk out the door.

-----------------------------------------

Lucy's POV.

I sat slouched back in my chair in with the off shade white hall of Woman Studies. Watching Professor Mullen walk around in her floral blue dress. Her long brown hair painted with highlights to the middle of her back. Swaying with every step she took. Talking about several books we had read in under a ten slide span as the crucial notes paraded along the screen. Slyly repeating how 'important' this exam would for our final payoff.

I should've been paying attention. My mind racing from the third cup of caffeine I've consumed in the past hour and a half. Note pads open with my laptop brighter than the gray skies. Everything set up and ready for my hands to run across the keys and prepare.

None of it grasping my focus like my phone with repeated flowers on the case. Lighting up with the distraction sitting in the next lecture hall. Vibrating with the continuous conversation that we had left on back in Creative Writing.

Matty:  "If I had my way we'd sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes."

It read as Matty kept playing trivial with quotes. Smiling at the Burroughs quote because it was quite clear on what it indicated.

Lucy: Burroughs at his finest... I miss you too.

Running my hand over my forearm of the fabric that radiated of Matty's heavenly musk. Wishing I had called out and stayed immersed in it. Thinking back at the way I was engulfed into bed before I left. My hand moving from the fabric as it grazed the skin that Matty kissed last.

Matty: Maybe not as much as I do you.

Longingly looking over at the navy framed clock hanging on as it's arms moved slowly to the next hour. Professor Mullen's gritty voice echoing in my brain when I didn't want it nowhere near.

Like majority of this class, I was finding my mind trailing. Thinking about all the ups and downs the final outcome would payoff. I knew I had this all covered, my credits were still good. My grades flying high in vivid color like the flight I would be taking home next week for the Holidays.

Unsure why I was thinking about them in the first place as the reminisce of going back home payed a visit. Feeling this sudden warmth about hugging Eric and my dad after my time away. Visiting my favorite bookstore and coffee house in town. Nostalgia on the rise as it caught the curl of my lips.

It was sure going to be so nice to see them again. Decorate the tree on Christmas Eve and watch all the old carols. I sighed, it was mixed with the happiness of stepping foot back into New York and then the one thought I was trying to keep far.

I was going to be away from Matty for a week after being around him since I've arrived in London.

My last video chat with Eric. I finally confessed up to him about Matty. It was never a conversation I had prepared for, thanks to the extra push of tags on Facebook. My brother's reaction was not what I expected, he was happy for me instead of getting on the next plane to London. Insisting that I invite him on my flight back to home.

I hadn't brought it up yet that the offer was there. But I thought about it a lot. When I was wrapped up in Matty till the alarm wasn't being patient. That, that was going to be terribly missed back home.

When I looked at my leather bound that I used to paint murals of London. Just screaming as it was nearing to be replaced. All entries just filled to brim, with him being a lead character through out. Needing him there as I explained because there was no ways to explain or describe the ways he had over me or how his stubble tickled when he kissed me.

Professor Mullen dismissed us, reminding us one more time of the exam and it's importance. Closing out my programs and shoving all my things into my bag. Reminding myself of the text that Matty was waiting for me at the cafe.

[otome-loli]

The SOS:FOMT remake and why the designs make SENSE part two

So like I said in my first post, I’m back again with part two.

Like I’ve already mentioned, I am analyzing and explaining why the redesigns make sense for the Story of Seasons: Friends of Mineral Town remake and how overall, their new designs better suit their roles and personalities in FOMT in comparison to HM64. 

For this post, I’ll be looking at Mary, Eli, Trent/Doctor and Gray. 

In HM 64 Mary:

Is known as Maria

Is the daughter of the Mayor and the Mayor’s Wife/Anna

Your rival for Mary is Harris

From HM 64 to FOMT Mary didn’t change a lot minus her parents changing and the name change. In FOMT, she still serves as the local librarian and is working on her own novel in FOMT. Personality and role wise, she didn’t change as much as the others. 

In HM:FOMT Mary:

Is known as Mary

Is the daughter of Basil and Anna

Your rival for Mary is Gray

Between HM64 and HM:FOMT, Mary really doesn’t change a lot. She’s one of the characters who undergo the least amount of changes. She remains the daughter of Anna but her father changes, however, she still remains the local librarian and remains a shy and introverted person. 

In fact, her new design remains relatively the same as her old one, except just more updated to be a more modern outfit. Just about everything about her has stayed the same which makes sense as someone who has undergone the least amount of changes in terms of personality and role in the games. She even retains the same color themes as her previous designs. The only thing is that she doesn’t look a lot like a mix of both of her parents similar to how Karen does and her primary resemblance with her mother is her dark hair and the fact that her clothing incorporates stripes and how her bangs frame her face, similar to Anna’s

But doesn’t look a lot like Basil.

In HM64 Elli:

Works in the local bakery

Still takes care of her grandmother Ellen, but has no younger brother

Your rival for her is Jeff. 

Similar to Mary, Elli didn’t really undergo many changes in terms of personality when it came to going from HM64 to HM:FOMT. In FOMT, the biggest change for Eli is her job and family as she has a younger brother now and it’s implied that her parents, or at least her mother, have died. Personality-wise, she remains roughly the same. 

In HM:FOMT Elli: 

Works at the clinic. 

Now has a younger brother, Stu

Your rival for her is Doctor/Trent. 

Once again, like Mary, Elli didn’t undergo a lot of changes. You can see here her outfit stayed the same and her personality did as well, except now she just works in the clinic alongside the doctor. Her grandmother remains Ellen but now she just has a mischievous younger brother Stu. 

Her new design pays a lot of homage to her original one with the apron and long dress underneath it, it even keeps with her original color scheme. Similar to Karen and Popuri, her outfit retains small and simple patterns and designs, making her fit in with the thematic approach for girls in Mineral Town and giving her outfit some more, but simple, design elements. They even made her bow look like little angel wings. Which she is. 

In HM:64 Doctor:

Actually doesn’t appear in HM:64

The closest to him as himself is Back To Nature

Is a bit of an outlier and his closest equivalent is Degas in 64. 

Sooo... Degas is the closest equivalent we have of Doctor in HM64, however, Doctor doesn’t actually appear as himself as we know him until HM:BTN. If we were to use Degas as his equivalent, we could clearly see how much Doctor changes from HM64 to FOMT. In HM64, Degas is the grandfather of Stu and Kent and runs the potion shop is the closest to a clinic that you have.

In HM:FOMT Doctor:

Appears as himself as he was in BTN

Still an outlier, being a relatively “new” character by this point in the franchise. 

Has completely changed if we use Degas as his “original” counterpart

This is (one of) the first time that he actually appears as himself as he initially appears in BTN, Harvest Moon Boy and Girl, etc. which are effectively ports or remakes of the original 64 game, or at least BTN is which set the standard for their new personalities from HM:64 to FOMT. In my initial post, I explained the reasons that I wasn’t using their BTN counterparts was because from BTN to FOMT nothing had really changed as it was BTN that changed their personalities and roles from the original HM64. So it would be a bit of a redundant point to use BTN and FOMT as opposed to 64 (which would be the original “original) and FOMT where their roles and personalities were changed. 

As a result, he is a bit of an outlier. In fact, from 64 if I were to use Degas, he is a completely different character with Degas being pretty much scrapped come to FOMT as opposed to someone who had the same appearance as the original but different roles and personalities. However, there isn’t much to reference “back” for him in terms of personality.

But getting on with the point, his new design in Story of Seasons makes him look like a more modern doctor. He still retains his lab coat, except now it isn’t and closed and his outfit isn’t all white either. His look maintains the serious yet still calm and kind outlook he has towards being a doctor. However, they still couldn’t give him an actual name as “Trent” so, in SOS, he’ll still be known as Doctor. 

In HM64 Gray:

Is the son of Doug, Ann’s brother and cousin of Rick. 

Works on a horse ranch and used to be the jockey for Cliffgard. 

Socially awkward and quiet but otherwise nice. 

In HM64, Gray has familial ties with Doug, Ann, and Rick. He’s described as a quiet and socially awkward guy who is cold but otherwise actually pretty nice. He was already quiet before the horse-riding accident and it just left him even quieter. It’s pretty clear he works with horses quite a bit considering that his hat says “Uma” which is Japanese for “Horse” and wears something akin to a tracksuit, although, it’s more so suit for farmwork similar to the MC rather than riding horses. 

In HM:FOMT Gray:

Is the grandson of Saibara and has no familial ties to Doug, Ann, or Rick. 

Moves to Mineral Town from the city. 

Is rude as a result of his frustrations with Saibara rather than being socially awkward and quiet. 

You can see that despite no longer working with horses or on a farm, he still retains his original design. Given that his jumpsuit looks to be made of a thick, insulating material from how the wrinkles are drawn, it would be too hot to actually use for blacksmithing work and making tools or accessories. 

Of those introduced for this batch, he has actually undergone the most changes going from HM:64 to FOMT. In his new design, he ditches the jumpsuit for what appears to be a denim jacket and work pants, shoes, and gloves, something that’s more appropriate for working in as a blacksmith while also still retaining the fact that he’s someone who isn’t actually from Mineral Town. It looks like he’s wearing a type of reinforced shoe as well. 

While he loses his hat, his color scheme pays homage to it by giving him a red, white, and blue color scheme, similar to what his hat was and on the shirt, it looks like it says “Uma”. So in a way, his hat will live on. Given that he doesn’t have any ties to Ann, Doug, or Rick, it makes sense to further distinguish them from each other. 

A few people have criticized or pointed out that his outfit is too stylish, however, it fits within the same style range as someone from the city (as the city naturally offers more “stylish” options when you go cloth shopping even if you don’t care for it personally) while also still being similar to Rick’s in that they both do labor-intensive jobs and opt for wearing denim and work clothes. Denim is a common material used for work clothes and actually has a history being used for work clothes due to the fact that it is structurally stronger than other material and doesn’t have insulating properties.

When you compare his outfit to actually stylish characters such as Kamil/Cam, Gray’s clothes are actually less stylish and are just more plain similar to Rick’s or even Doctor’s. From what we’ve seen so far, stylish characters such as Sasha, Anna, Jeff, etc. lean towards having simple patterns and designs on their clothes such as stripes or zigzags. 

As I’ve already mentioned in my previous post, it’s important to remember that this is a remake, not a remaster or port of the game and is, as such, treating the characters as if they are new people rather than just keeping the same nostalgic designs that we’re used to. Given that their personalities and roles in the story of Mineral Town have changed from their Flowerbud counterparts, I think that it’s the right direction to go in.

Part One - Karen, Popuri, Rick, Cliff

[throtegote]

Bigfoot in Bots

(If you’d like to read this off my wix blog here’s the link:https://erikatriesall.wixsite.com/tlhodia)

I remember a friend advising me to get my prom shoes from Options and thinking, “yeah sure, let me just saw my toes off real quick,” because there is no way I could fit in anything there otherwise.

Hi, I’m Erika. And as you may have guessed by now, I have large feet.

No, I do not wear size 13 Nikes (men’s size 13 Nikes) but by comparison to most people in my country, at a size 9.5/10 UK, I’m substantially above average. Retailers and boutiques here stock shoe sizes from 1 to either 6 or 7 and the larger the size, the harder it is to find it. An 8 in the women’s section is a rarity and a 9 that isn’t sneakers or granny shoes? Get down on your knees and sing hallelujah because that’s a miracle. Size 10 is unheard of. It doesn’t help that there are no specialist stores for women’s shoes here either.

Although it’s easier to shop for shoes if you’re a guy (because the assumption is that because you are a man, you have larger feet than the average woman), if you are a male with a foot above size 9, welcome to the struggle circle, take a seat, because you too, will find it hard to find sizes here. My dad, who’s around size 11, like me, finds it easier to shop abroad. Unfortunately, my parents do not believe in shopping for clothing and accessories online.

I don’t blame these stores, because it’s a thing of supply and demand. If a lot of the population has tiny feet, then why waste cash on stocking large sizes? It’s all about money, and if everyone else is satisfied and buying, then they don’t really need mine. So, as you’d expect, I own a lot of sneakers from the men’s section or unisex, and all my nice-fitting girly shoes are likely imported (which I don't own a lot of because I need to be present at all times to try the shoes on and uh, trips are expensive.).  When I walk into a shoe store, I don’t browse until I ask a clerk what their maximum size in stock is. And that’s when I’m shopping in a place like South Africa because I’ve given up on shoe shopping in Botswana. I just don’t want to waste anybody’s time.

Shoe shopping used to be an absolute nightmare for me and even though there have been improvements in the local market, and I’ve gotten better at it with age, it’s still a frustrating experience. I kid you not; I used to shed tears while shopping as a nana. In my young girl’s brain, being told “oh, we don’t have your size” was on the list of the top 5 worst types of rejection. A lot of store clerks were nice enough to check in the back for a shoe I really liked but some would widen their eyes do the loud “*gasp* So big?! Ah! Men’s section is that side”.

That hurt like a bitch.

About two years ago we had a family trip to Kenya (which is where my dad is from, btw) and my dad had promised me I could get my prom heels in advance from there as well as other stuff because his sisters had larger feet than me growing up and they managed to get shoes with little difficulty. So our assumption was that Kenyan women have larger feet on average than those in Botswana. Yeah no, I still struggled. 4 whole shopping malls in one day and nothing. At my grown age, by mall number 3 I was blinking back tears and I just wanted to go back to the hotel and not waste any more of everyone's time. I felt played and betrayed.

My feet were one of my first insecurities and they’ve been a struggle to keep up with all my life. I just remember going from having normal feet for my age, to fitting very snug in my mom’s high heel shoes to only wearing men’s sneakers. In what felt like a minute.

And as a growing kid I probably pinched a lot on my parent's wallets because I'd outgrow a new pair of shoes in like three months. Oops.

I also remember getting teased quite a bit in primary school too, especially by boys. “Bigfoot” was iconic, I sort of fit all the criteria by being large footed and hairy “like a Sasquatch”. It didn’t help that at over 5"2 I was taller and bigger than a lot of my classmates. At the time it’d get to me so much because my feet were a new development that kept developing and as a kid, the last thing I wanted was to be registered as an anomaly or a freak. Unlike body hair or acne, there’s nothing you can really do about your height or the size of your feet and that fact devastated me. I don’t think any young girl wants to hear their crush referring to them as a gorilla. Just rip out my self-esteem and toss it in the trash on the way out, why don’t you?

Looking back, I think I intimidated a lot of boys in my classes, especially those who believed that there’s a direct correlation between shoe and penis size. (*puts foot next to mine*, “Bro if you were a dude you’d be packing!”… thanks, I guess?) They were probably mad that I was showing more “masculine” physical traits than them- but to be honest they were all little bitches. And that’s on fragile masculinity. jkjkjk... or am I?

Now I’m older and a lot more mature, so I’ve learned to accept my “Sasquatch” feet. I've also learned that they aren’t abnormal at all and in a lot of other countries I’d be able to go shoe shopping freely. As a matter of fact, as a species our feet are growing bigger with each decade on average. Unlike your weight or your haircut, you can’t change your bone structure to give you smaller feet.

Go ahead, tell those nanas that they’re just mad that you’d be packing shmeat if you were a guy. Flex on the girls who think shopping for shoes in the children's section at 16 is a personality trait. Wear those boots; trust me, you don’t look like a clown. Embrace the big feet. Take care of them. Sure, you slap the road when you walk but hey, you get places faster so that’s dope. Your feet don't define your femininity, no matter how many people will try to make you think so.

What’s your odd experience with shoe shopping/ big feet? We’d love to hear. Like, comment and follow for more stuff like this

xoxo

Erika