#my reading for class is discussing how whiteness is seen as neutral in the US while other races are seen as races

[seven-saffodils]

.

[dem-obscure-imagines]

Try

Warren Worthington III x Reader

Fandom: Marvel/X-Men

Summary: Warren has been through hell and then some, but will meeting his soulmate turn that around?

Note: That’s right, it’s ya girl, back on my BS. I watched Apocalypse again and BIG SURPRISE, I’m in love with Warren and Kurt all over again. Still hyperfixating on Pietro also, so…expect more fics for him as well. Anyway, I’m a ho for soulmate aus and I haven’t written one for birb boi in literal years, so here ya go.

Reader is: Gender Neutral

Warnings: swears, mentions of alcohol

Word Count: 2.8k

Warren knew one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt: he didn’t deserve a soulmate. He didn’t. There was no question in his mind. Anyone who was destined to end up with his winged, alcoholic ass had been fucked over by the universe. No one deserved to be stuck with him for the rest of their lives. And yet, these thoughts didn’t seem to erase the words written on his forearm:

Hey, um, you’re Warren, right? The Professor wanted me to talk to you.

Professor. He scoffed. He was never going to college. If his parents had gotten their way, their son “cured” of his wings, he would have ended up at Harvard or Yale or somewhere similar. But it was far too late for that. Sitting in a cage in the back room of an illegal underground mutant fighting club in Berlin…it was far too late for that. He’d probably die before he met his soulmate anyway, rendering the prophecy on his wrist—and theirs, for that matter—useless. A waste of space.

That was all he was anyway.

He spiraled. His dependence on vodka got worse. The fights got harder. He wasn’t making it out unscathed anymore, winding up with burns and scrapes and cuts, depending on what kind of mutant he was up against. One night, one of his cuts had gotten dangerously close to the writing on his wrist. He stared at it for a long time, tears burning his eyeballs until they escaped and dripped down his cheeks, angry and hot.

He hated it, but even after everything, he still had hope. He still had hope that things would get better; that he could be better, even if it seemed impossible.

And then it got…worse.

Apocalypse had come, turned his wings to metal, tuned into his anger, his rage at the world, turned him into a monster, complete with knives for feathers and winding tattoos framing his face. He wished he could blame it on mind control or something, but Apocalypse hadn’t brainwashed him, only used his anger against him. Turned him into a weapon.

And then everything went black.

When he woke up after the battle, he was in an unfamiliar room, large and white and sterile; it smelled like hand sanitizer. He heard the steady beeping of a heart monitor and when he sat up, he noticed how sore he was. His whole body hurt. His head spun. But he was alive. And when he looked down at his tattoo, the words were still there. Wherever his soulmate was, they were fine. His stupidity in joining Apocalypse hadn’t caused anything to happen to them.

For the first time in what felt like years, he breathed.

“You’re awake.” A voice said as a tall man with brown hair entered his room. “I’ll let the Professor know.”

“Where…” his deep voice rasped and the man pointed to a glass of water sitting on the table adjacent to the cot he was situated in. He picked it up and took a few long, greedy sips, not realizing just how thirsty he was until the cool drink hit his tongue. “Where am I? What is this place?”

“This is the infirmary at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.” The man told him, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “You’re safe here.”

Warren nodded hesitantly, but didn’t say anything else. Safe. The word was almost a myth to him at this point. But at least he felt like he could rest for a little while.

***

It had been a few weeks since Apocalypse and his horsemen had almost ended the world. Erik had decided to stick around, and two of the younger horsemen, Storm and “the Angel of Death,” respectively, had been absorbed into the school’s student body. You didn’t know the Angel’s name. No one really talked to him, not even Ororo, Storm, who had been quickly adopted by your friend group.

Supposedly, Peter had tried to talk to the Angel guy, but he didn’t say anything to him. Ororo theorized he probably felt guilty about the whole thing. She did. But you all knew she didn’t know what Apocalypse was really trying to do. He probably hadn’t either, but that didn’t seem to keep the grim expression off of his face.

It was on a nice, sunny day that Xavier called you into his office, and you went down without complaint, knocking on the door a few times before he called you inside. You sat in the chair across from his desk.

“Hi, Professor. What’s going on?” You asked.

“Ah, yes. Just the empath and healer I wanted to see.” He smiled brightly. “(Y/N), if you don’t mind it too terribly, I have a small job for you.”

“Of course! What do you need?”

“I’m sure you’ve seen our newest pupil, Warren, around.”

You thought for a moment. “The, uh, guy with the wings? The big metal ones?”

“Precisely.” He nodded. “Warren…he’s been having quite a hard time adjusting.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“He came to me yesterday discussing…well, quite simply, he was wondering if any of our mutants here would be capable of…reverting him to his previous state. His wings, before Apocalypse, were made of feathers. They’ve been serving as quite a reminder to him and it’s been weighing pretty heavily on him, both literally and emotionally.”

“Yeah, I’ve, uh, caught his vibes from across campus.” You nodded. “It’s like there’s always a rain cloud hanging over his head.”

“Yes,” Xavier agreed. “It doesn’t have to be right away, but at your nearest convenience, if you see him around, would you talk to him? Tell him I sent you?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll see what I can do.” You promised him.

As an empath and a healer, your first priority was helping others. And even if he was known to be a bit intimidating, you wanted to help him if you could.

So, you walked out of Xavier’s office, attended your final class of the day, and when it was over, you wandered out into the courtyard where, because of the nice weather, students were everywhere. And luckily for you, just as you suspected he might be, Warren was sitting under a tree, still sporting his leather jacket despite the warm weather.

You shielded your eyes from the sun and walked over towards him, your heart racing as you built up the courage to talk to him. So, you took a breath and said, “Hey, um, you’re Warren, right? The Professor wanted me to talk to you.”

He stared up at you for a long moment, his green eyes wide in shock. He took a breath, blinked a few times, glanced down at his wrist, and then back up at you. You could have sworn you saw tears beginning to form along his waterline, and you didn’t realize why until he said, “You’re my…No…Oh my God…I’m…I’m so sorry.”

You froze, your knees going weak. You glanced down at your bare forearm and read over the words he’d just said, exactly the way he’d just said them.

You’re my…No…Oh my God…I’m…I’m so sorry.

“Why are you sorry?” You whispered, lowering yourself onto the grass beside him, not trusting your legs to support your weight for much longer. Now you were the one with tears in your eyes. “Don’t be sorry.”

“You deserve so much more than me.” He insisted, his eyes locked on his boots, unwilling and unable to meet your gaze. “I can’t drag you into…this. Me.”

His emotions were heavy, a bleak blue and gray haze and you felt it radiate off of him in waves. His pain, his everything. And you felt it, deep within his chest. He thought you wouldn’t want him anyway.

“Warren…” You shook your head. “Why…Why would you think I don’t want you?”

He was shocked into silence for a few seconds, thinking over his words carefully, his jaw tense and hands shaking. “You’re a telepath?”

“Empath.” You corrected quietly. “And…a healer. Which is why Xavier sent me.”

“Oh. Right.” He swallowed thickly, nodding. “Did he…tell you why?”

“He did.” You smiled softly. “And I’m willing to try if you are.”

Finally, his eyes met yours and he could tell that you meant more than just the healing when you said it. The weak little voice in the back of his head was screaming for him to push you away like he pushed away everyone else, but looking into your eyes, a genuine and warm smile on your face, he just…couldn’t lose you.

He couldn’t lose anyone else.

***

Today was the day. Warren was sitting on a stool in the infirmary. Hank had run his vitals and the two of them were in the room waiting for you to come down after your class was over.

“(Y/N) is the one who saved you, you know.” Hank told Warren while he jotted down some notes.

“What?” Warren asked, snapping out of whatever daydream he had been caught up in. “What do you mean?”

“(Y/N) found you in the rubble. We didn’t think you would make it, but…they healed you. They insisted we bring you back here. Give you a chance.”

Warren was quiet for a long time, thinking about what that meant. Part of him wondered if (Y/N) had known back then that he was their soulmate, but he decided that would have been impossible with just their tattoos alone. Especially without context. They hadn’t known and yet, they’d still wanted the best for him.

“Didn’t know that.” Warren said, his voice soft and deep. He stared at the words on his wrist for a little longer, a hint of warmth swirling around in his stomach. Was this happiness? Was that what happiness felt like? He barely remembered anymore. But he knew there must have been a reason that when you walked through the door, his heart started beating a little bit faster.

“Sorry I’m so late. Professor Leaf kept us a little later than she was supposed to. Are you ready?” You asked taking off your backpack and setting it against the wall. As soon as you looked up at Warren, you felt the way his heart rate was increased and you didn’t miss the warmth swirled with the anxiousness. The anxiousness, you had expected. Even you didn’t know if you could pull off what you were going to attempt to do, but the warmth…it was a pleasant surprise.

“Don’t worry about it.” He told you, shaking his head. Was he…was he smiling? It was a small smile, sure, but you didn’t think you had ever seen him smile before. It looked good on him. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Alright.” You nodded, walking over towards him. Underneath where he was situated on a stool, Hank had laid out some pads from the training room, you assumed, to catch his metal feathers if they fell out rather than transforming back to his normal…feather feathers. None of you really knew how this would unfold. “Again, I’m not sure this will work. I don’t want to get your hopes up in case it doesn’t.”

“I’m not expecting it to.” Warren assured you, but it wasn’t in a rude way. “If it does, I’ll be pleasantly surprised. Cross my heart.” What he didn’t say was: You could never disappoint me. Not even if you tried.

“Okay.” You nodded, taking a few steps closer until you were standing right in front of him. He looked up at you and for the first time, you didn’t feel any negative emotions from him. Only anticipation and that lingering warmth. “Here goes nothing.”

You focused on the warmth in your own chest, the tingling yellow healing power that constantly swirled around your heart, and you forced it into your palms. You reached forward for his hands and he took the hint, his larger hands wrapping around yours.

Immediately, he gasped at the sensation, warm tingles running up his arms, down his spine. It stopped in the center of his back, right where his wings intersected with his body. At first, he didn’t feel anything. And then, he felt everything. The pleasant warmth flooded his metal wings, and one by one, the knife-like feathers fell out, each one landing with a thud against the mat situated underneath him.

Hank’s pencil jotted against his notebook as he took notes. He knew you were powerful, but he’d had no idea you were capable of something like this.

Neither had you.

Once the metal wings were gone, Warren felt a new sensation: another pair of wings, this one soft and familiar, slowly emerging from him. Part of him expected the process to be painful, like the one Apocalypse had forced upon him was, but it wasn’t. Warren chuckled to himself. Of course you would never hurt him. Not even unintentionally.

After a few minutes, the feathery wings had fully emerged, stretched out to his full former wingspan and he stared up at you in awe. You stopped your flow of power to him, but he held onto your hands, squeezing them to keep them in his grasp.

He looked back at his new wings, flexed them and moved them. They felt familiar, like they had always belonged to him.

“Thank you.” He said, giving your hands another squeeze, the warmth in his chest brighter and bolder than it had been before. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course.” You told him, squeezing his hands right back in a way that caused his heart to lurch. “I’m glad I could help.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but do you mind if I keep some of these for research?” Hank asked.

“Keep all of them, if you want. I don’t want them.” Warren told him, standing up from his stool, his hands still in yours. “So, um…do you want to go grab dinner or something?”

“Sure.” You nodded, smiling up at him. “See you later, Hank.”

“Bye, guys, have a nice night.” Hank said as you and Warren walked out of his lab. He couldn’t help but notice the way one of your hands remained in one of his as the two of you left.

***

Later that night, after dinner and after you and Warren had split for the evening, you were walking back to your room from Jean and Jubilee’s and you found Warren, lingering in his doorway, his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. His eyes widened when he spotted you and he held up a finger, indicating you should wait for him, so you did while he went into his bathroom and rinsed out his mouth, returning a few moments later.

“Hey.” He said, the word casual as it fell from his pink lips.

“Hey yourself.” You chuckled, feeling ridiculously underdressed in your pajamas. But then again, he was wearing his pajamas, too, a large black Metallica shirt and a pair of plaid pants.

“How…how are you? Feeling?” He stumbled over his words, chuckling as he rubbed the back of his neck. You felt a wave of nervousness rush through him. “Hank said sometimes you get tired after, uh, bigger healing jobs?”

“I’m fine.” You nodded. “For whatever reason, I never get tired when I’m healing you.” You chuckled, your cheeks heating up the slightest bit. “Well…I think I know why…”

“Heh, yeah.” He nodded, mulling over his next words very carefully. “Did you, um…I don’t know how to ask this. Did you mean what you said about…trying? About us trying…this. Trying us.”

“Of course I did.” You nodded and took a few steps closer to him. “You’re my soulmate.” You reached for his hand and he gave it to you, letting you play with his fingers. You felt the way his heart fluttered when you did. “Of course I want to try.”

“I’m broken.” He told you. “I’ve never done this before. I’m…I’m a lot, and I know that.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m a healer, huh?” You tilted your head. “And if we’re being honest, I’ve never done this before either. So how about we teach each other? Learn together?”

He smiled softly, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

You let go of his hand and instead took the last few steps between the two of you, wrapping your arms around his torso. He froze for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. It had been…a long time since anyone had hugged him. But after a few moments, his arms got the hint and wrapped around you, pulling you to his chest. He rested his head atop yours and exhaled a long, long breath. And for the first time since you’d met him, you felt a wave of peace wash over him, encasing him entirely as his wings gently cocooned you in their warmth.

You felt his lips brush against your temple, pressing a soft kiss there. You looked up at him and his eyes met yours before fluttering shut as he leaned in to press his lips to yours.

[pan-fangirl-345]

Not All Are Bad

Summary: Dabi, formerly known as Touya Todoroki, was arrested. While being interrogated, he spills everything that his father did to him and his siblings until the day he disappeared from their lives. Now, not only are you and Shouto in danger of losing your pups, your friends are too. It's up to you and Shouto to prove that not all Pro Heroes are abusive parents and spouses.

TW: Enji Todoroki's A+ parenting (heavy 600 ton sarcasm), abuse, swearing, referenced child abuse, abusive relationships (not anyone from Class 1-A), nosy reporters, A/B/O dynamics (I don't think that's a warning, but I'm adding it anyway.), mentions of sex but not actual smut because this is a SFW blog, mentions of pregnancy, discussions of pregnancy. If I forgot anything, or anyone wants me to add something, please let me know! Slide into my DM's or leave a comment. I would hate to make anyone uncomfortable and I will change it as soon as I see the notification!

A/N: This just popped into my head today, so I figured I would write it out! Also, a little run down of how my A/B/O scenarios work is under the cut with the rest of the story in case these kinds of things make anyone uncomfortable!

Quick run-down (if you don't care skip past all of the italics and find the bold words and the space where the story starts):

Alphas: An alpha is someone who's alignment makes them a lot more domineering in certain situations. They tend to be natural leaders and don't appreciate being questioned by someone they perceive as lower ranking than them. They release strong pheromones that allow them a certain level of control over the other alignments, usually omegas, but there are omegan protection laws that keep alphas from using this to their advantage in unsavory ways.

They get ruts twice a year, which means that they just get really possessive of their mates and anyone they consider family. This is expressed in different ways, from your typical A/B/O scenario when they get really h*rny, to simply scenting their mates and family more than usual. They tend to take their ruts off from work, because the chemical imbalance in their brains can sometimes make them go feral.

*When an alpha goes feral they will attack anyone they perceive as a threat to them or their families. They can sometimes go after their mates or even their pups if they think their pups are hurting their mate. It rarely happens among families, but there are extenuating circumstances. Common signs include an excessive amount of growling, snarling, howling, snapping etc. Sometimes, depending on how strong an alpha's alignment, their eyes will flash a deep crimson. (Think Kurapika from Hunter X Hunter)

*When an alpha offers to share their rut with an omega or beta, it is either a related family members (or found family, someone they feel no sexual attraction to), or someone they have been courting with. It's a big deal when an alpha requests that someone they're courting spend their rut with them. It shows that the alpha is ready to commit to a more serious kind of relationship.

*These are the alignments most likely to impregnate an omega or a beta. Rarely are alpha x alpha relationships able to conceive and bring a pup to full term. (For the sake of ease, it's the usual nine to ten months.)

Betas: These tend to be your more neutral alignments. They can smell pheromones, but they tend to have less of a reaction to the other alignments. They tend to keep the peace among packs, simply because they are less likely to become swayed by pheromones. They can snarl and growl like alphas, but they also purr like omegas, they are kind of in the middle of the spectrum.

*They don't have ruts or heats, but they aren't sterile either. They can impregnate an omega or even another beta with little issue, though they have a harder time impregnating alphas. They also have a hard time bringing a pup to term. It's uncommon, but it does happen.

Omegas: Now, most A/B/O scenarios I have read make omegas seem weak and taken advantage of. Not mine. An omega can just as easily sway an alpha with their pheromones as an alpha could with an omega. There are certain things that are just courtesy when in public, and there are laws about using one's pheromones to one's advantage. Omegas also tend to have more of the maternal instincts, but that's not the entirety of their character.

*They are the most likely alignment to get pregnant, and they are the least likely to impregnate another alignment.

When omegas get their heats, it shows mostly the same way as when an alpha goes into a rut, but sometimes they also become a lot more affectionate with younger members of their family since their maternal instincts are on a high, and they tend to become more clingy to people they see as protectors, for lack of a better word, usually their alpha friends or parents, depending on the age. Alphas tend to get possessive, while omegas become more clingy and touch-starved.

Please note: Sex and gender have nothing to do with one's alignment. One's alignment is simply something that happens by chance and rarely makes one less worthy of something than another.

Children are called 'pups' but they are still referred to as kids and children etc.

Children start presenting from as early as nine to as late as eighteen, and it's different for every child. The alignments all have different symptoms.

Alphas become easily irritated, possessive, sometimes they become destructive or even go feral when they present. They also tend to run a fever, and their eyes sometimes turn crimson, even if they don't go completely feral. Female alphas don't get their periods. They just get the rut.

Betas just tend to have their scents change. Pups smell a certain way, but when one presents, the scent changes. They also tend to be more in tuned with their packs' feelings.

Omegas become touch-starved, clingy, and sometimes more emotion. They tend to get cramps and muscle aches. Think about a girl on her period, minus the blood. Female omegas don't get periods or bleed during their heats, and neither do male omegas.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Touya, Reizo, come on guys, we're going to be late if you don't hurry up!" you called, laughing as your pups practically climbed over each other to get into the hallway from their room, Reizo with his sweater on backwards and Touya almost falling on his face trying to get his pants up over his knees and his very colorful Pro Hero Shouto boxers.

"Moooommmaaa!" Reizo whined, blue eyes shining brightly as he fixed his sweater. "Touya pushed me!"

"Reizo bit me!" Touya argued, face flushing redder than his hair.

"Come on boys, come here," you cooed, crouching down and gesturing them over. "Do you love me?"

"Of course!" they cried.

"Do you love Daddy?"

"Yes!"

"So you guys must love each other right?"

They glanced at each other, frowning, but flushed, telling you everything you needed to know.

"We're family," you told them, keeping your arm firmly around each of their waists, despite Touya being almost as tall as you. "And that means that no matter how much you fight, or how much you irritate the snot out of each other, at the end of the day, you love each other. Right?"

"Yeah," they muttered, albeit a little reluctantly.

"Okay then," you said, ruffling their hair softly. "And remember, no matter what happens, your father and I will do whatever we have to to protect you and your cousins."

They nodded.

"Alright, now Daddy has the car running downstairs, so we need to get going!" you said, ushering your boys out the door, making sure to lock the door behind you.

"No one forgot anything?" Shouto asked, climbing out of the car to make sure that the boys were strapped into the car properly. "Everyone has jackets?"

"Yup!"

"You have your keys, phone, wallet?" Shouto asked you, opening the door for you.

"Of course," you replied, buckling up, letting Shouto know that he could shut the door.

"Alright, well, we have to get going anyway," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple before he moved to close your door.

"Momma, Dad, why do we have to do an interview?" Touya asked, frowning.

He was your oldest boy, thirteen and a spitting image of his uncle, who he was named after, save for a white streak in his hair that covered his left eye, that he inherited from Shouto.

His quirk was a fire type quirk, and it relied on his emotions. His flames changed color based on how he felt, and when his emotions got out of control, so did his flames. Unlike what Enji had done with Touya, you and Shouto had taught your son to understand and channel his feelings so that he didn't harm himself or anyone else by accident. He was extremely in tune with his feelings, and his communication skills were through the roof, despite his age.

He was also intelligent, already having skipped two grades, and he was much more mature than most kids his age.

You supposed that with both of his parents being Pro Heroes, along with most of your found family, that he had heard and had to deal with things that other kids hadn't been exposed to. Not to mention that he had started taking care of Reizo more and more while you and Shouto were gone, despite both of you trying to make sure that one of you was always home with them.

Reizo was named after his grandmother, and he was ten, with white curls with (Y/H/C) undertones, and heterochromic eyes. One was gray, the other was the same shade of (Y/E/C) as your eyes. No one knew where the curls came from, but you were assuming it was from your side of the family, since most of the photos you had seen of Shouto's side of the family made it clear that it wasn't from him. Reizo's quirk was also some sort of mutation quirk. He was able to manipulate light at will, it didn't matter what kind.

One night, after you had woken up from a nightmare, you had checked in to make sure that both of your pups were safe and found Reizo sitting up in bed with a small ball of light in his hands. He had turned four a few months before, and while the doctors had assured you that he had a quirk, he had yet to manifest it physically.

Shouto had assured you, and vice versa, that it didn't matter if your pups were quirkless, you would love them regardless.

Reizo, even at four, had known that you were upset, so he had put on a little light show for you, and had managed to keep permanent star charts all around his room as he got older. He had memorized so many constellations and their stories that it made your head spin.

You and Shouto couldn't have been prouder of your boys, but that didn't mean that you subjected them to the media the way some heroes did with their kids.

In fact, you had tried to keep your kids as far away from reporters as you could, but you had also coached them on how to deal with them as they got older.

Touya, a recently presented alpha, had become much more protective of you and Reizo when reporters tried to stop you in the streets for questions.

Touya had never been violent, and you had been so proud of him when he had hung a reporter with his own tongue after they had gotten under Touya's skin with personal questions they had no right asking a thirteen-year-old.

"Because some things have been happening with your uncle Touya recently, and people are nervous. We're hoping that this makes them feel safer," you explained, turning in your seat to look at your boys.

Shouto's grip on the wheel tightened enough that it made a small noise, and you reached over, touching his thigh lightly.

"Hey," you whispered, turning back around, "it'll all be okay, we haven't done anything wrong. They have no reason to take the boys from us."

"I know, but he screwed everything up, not just for us, but for our friends too."

"Wait, what?" you asked.

"Bakugou called me to tell me that every hero with pups is going to be getting investigated, just to be sure. He and Kirishima might lose Kazuki and Eichiro," Shouto murmured.

"Fuck," you muttered, quietly enough that you knew your sons wouldn't hear you.

"Bakugou isn't exactly thrilled, but he's too afraid to do anything about it like he normally would."

"I can imagine," you replied. "But it's fine. No one from our class is going to lose their kids. We all love our pups, and we love everyone else's."

Shouto nodded, and you could tell that he was really trying to believe you.

"Hey," you murmured. "We're gonna be okay. Me and the boys and you. We're all gonna be okay."

He nodded again, and his grip on the wheel relaxed a little bit.

Interviews like this always made Shouto edgy, but he was extra concerned about this one and what was at stake.

He hated putting the boys in the spotlight, he hated even taking them to a news station, but he knew that you all had to do this if you wanted to stay together.

"I love you," he murmured, taking your left hand, kissing your hand lightly.

"I love you too Sho," you told him, smiling at him softly.

"Ready to walk through hell?" he asked as he pulled up to the building.

"With you by my side?" you inquired. "Always."

Shouto, as always, climbed out first, drawing a cheering crowd, and opened your door for you.

Then you each grabbed a boy.

Touya moved to stand dutifully by his father, and they both moved to your side.

You had your hand wrapped tightly in Reizo's, who was on your left. Touya, on Reizo's left, had an arm around his brother's shoulders protectively, and Shouto stood at the other end of your little line, glancing at you and his boys every few seconds.

Cameras flashed, and there were fans there to show their support to you and Shouto. Some of them held signs, other had merch.

Touya copied his father, his eyes steadfastly forward unless he was checking on you or Reizo, and his head held high with a confidence you knew wasn't entirely faked.

Reizo, on the other hand, was glancing nervously back and forth as you made you way inside.

"Momma, I don't like it out here," he said.

"I know baby," you murmured, barely pausing as you scooped him up into your arms, hiding his face in your shoulder.

Reizo was small, even for ten years old, and you could easily carry him in one arm while the other rested on Touya's shoulder, a comforting gesture.

Reporters shouted questions, fans screamed for some attention, and some people just watched, stone faced and blank.

Touya opened the door for you, and you ruffled his hair affectionately while Shouto kept a protective hand on the small of your back.

Shouto, who had been the first of you to meet the hosts, lead your family through the building, waving away assistance with enough politeness that no one got offended, but got the point across that he didn't need their help.

"Momma," Reizo murmured sleepily.

"Yeah baby?"

"Are Touya and I going to be taken from you and Daddy?"

"Not if we have anything to say about it baby," you whispered, trying to control the pheromones that were leaking around your scent reduction patches.

You had been straight with Touya about what was going on, he didn't appreciate being treated like a child, but you had sugar-coated the explanation you had given Reizo. He still understood, but it was terms he could understand.

"I love you Momma," Reizo said, clinging to the back of your shirt.

"I love you too baby," you told him, kissing his forehead lightly.

You and Shouto had declined the list of questions the station had sent you, and your PR managers had already 'leaked' it to the media that you and your family were winging this.

You had told the boys to answer the questions honestly, unless they didn't want to answer a question that made them uncomfortable.

You and Shouto had had a long conversation with the boys about this kind of thing, about personal information protection when being questioned, tone of voice, all of it, but at the end of the day, you knew that someone would find a way to twist everything.

Everything seemed to pass in a blur before you entered onto the stage, Reizo still in your arms.

Shouto and Touya were on either side of you, and you suddenly felt as if you had two bodyguards.

"Nice to see you again, Mrs. Todoroki. Mr. Todoroki, Mini Todorokis," Nariko, one of the hosts, said.

Shouto nodded, wrapping an arm around your shoulders absentmindedly.

"Nice to see you again too, Ms. Tanaka. I apologize for my husband, his second cup of coffee hasn't really settled in yet," you snarked, nudging your husband playfully.

"Dad doesn't function properly until nine in the morning," Touya added, flashing one of those dazzling smirks that would have people bowing to his every wish in a few years.

"My own son," Shouto muttered, making you laugh.

"It seems like your youngest takes after his father," Tatsuya, the other host, offered.

"Reizo does like his sleep," you agreed, rubbing your son's back soothingly.

"He's been spending too much time with his Uncle Katsuki," Shouto muttered, and you chuckled.

"Hey, when we were in school, you and Katsuki were the only ones that went to be bed before ten," you reminded him, wrinkling your nose in a teasing way.

Shouto opened and closed his mouth a few times before he pouted, tugging, very lightly, on a stray piece of hair that fell into your face.

"So, Touya- is it alright if we call you that?- what's it like? Having both parents be Pros?" Nariko asked.

"I don't mind if you call me Touya," your son said, looking surprisingly relaxed. "You guys don't ask the weird questions that some other reporters do. But, to answer your question, it's been . . . interesting, for sure."

"How so?"

"Well, for once thing, it's always stressful seeing them fighting on TV, no matter if it's a small time attention seeker or a high profile criminal. Dad has been my role model since I was little, even more so since I presented as an alpha. And I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a Momma's boy," Touya said, sending you a fond look. "So I want to make sure Momma's safe."

People in the audience cooed, and you let out a small purr, ruffling your son's hair.

"What do you have to say to that Mom?" Tatsuya inquired.

"Both Shouto and I already know that Touya is a Momma's boy," you informed them. "Both boys are, though recently Reizo has been spending more time with his father."

Reizo shifted in your lap, slowly peeling his eyes open, glancing around.

He rubbed his eyes as they asked Touya a few more questions, before he crawled from your lap into Shouto's.

Shouto waited for him to get settled before moving to make sure Reizo was secure in his position.

"So, Mrs. Todoroki-"

"Please, call me (Y/F/N)," you interrupted. "We've been doing this since I was in high school."

"Fair enough," Nariko said, smiling at you. "(Y/F/N), what's it like for you? Being a mother and Pro?"

"The separation anxiety in the beginning almost made me quit," you joked, waiting for the laughter to die down before continuing. "But seriously, being a mother is stressful enough, but I was rising through the ranks, so was Shouto. We both knew that our jobs were dangerous, and we made sure that we talked it through thoroughly before we even got together. When I found out I was pregnant, we both took a few days off to talk about things. We both agreed that I was going to take myself out of the field, stick to desk work, that kind of thing, and then we argued on baby names."

"Speaking of baby names," Tatsuya said, making sure you were done before continuing, "you named your son Touya. Care to explain the name choice, given everything that's happened?"

You and Shouto glanced at each other, and you could tell by the look on his face that he was leaving this one to you. He wouldn't be able to get through it if he answered.

"Until recently, we didn't know that Dabi of the League of Villains was Touya Todoroki. Shouto and the rest of his family thought that he was dead. I don't know the full story, since Enji didn't like me to begin with, and Shouto doesn't talk about him much. Shouto was separated from his siblings because of his father."

You tried to reign in all the angry pheromones leaking out, but it was hard. You had never really liked Enji Todoroki, in the uniform or out of it, and hearing about the abuse over the years from Shouto and his siblings had lowered your opinion even more.

"Anyway, when we started talking about names, Shouto brought Touya up. He said, 'I want there to be one Touya Todoroki that gets to see all the good the world has to offer'. Once he told me that, I couldn't say no, besides, I wanted there to be one Touya Todoroki that saw what love was supposed to be."

You took Shouto's hand, interlacing your fingers, and your son took your other hand.

"You got what you wanted," your son told you, voice cracking with emotions.

"So, Touya, do you think that your parents are a good example of love?" Nariko asked.

"Without a doubt," Touya replied, almost instantaneously.

"You answered that very quickly," Nariko told him, eyes wide.

"For those who don't know, my quirk reacts with my emotions," Touya said, setting his hand on fire, the flames a bright gold. "The flames change color based on my emotions. From the first day that my quirk appeared, neither of my parents have ever lost their patience with me. They have both taken the time to communicate with me. They taught me that showing emotions isn't a bad thing, it's something that makes us human.

"My parents have never raised their voices at us, me or Reizo. Even when we probably deserved it, they've never yelled at us out of anger or frustration. Never. They've never laid a hand on us either. I've never seen Dad's eyes change color even a little bit when talking with me, my brother, or my mother. He's gotten mad at a few people who can't take a hint, but he's never been violent around the house. He's never yelled at Momma, and Momma's never yelled at him either. Not in the time I can remember. Dad taught me how to be a good alpha. I said earlier he was a like a role model to me.

"I watched the way he treated Momma and followed his example. Now I know how to treat my future mate, and how to make things work. My parents are a good example of a healthy relationship, love, acceptance, parenthood, and a bunch of other things. They taught me and Reizo that communication is the key to everything. If only it was the key to cooking, because I think that's the only thing neither of them can do."

The audience had been cooing at your sons little speech, then laughed at his unexpected joke.

Tears stung your eyes and Touya seemed to panic a little bit.

"Sorry Momma, I didn't mean to make you cry!"

"I know honey," you said, wrapping your arms around him. "I'm just happy."

He sank into your hug, arms tight around your waist.

Shouto rubbed a hand down your back soothingly, and you pulled away, wiping your eyes.

"So, Mr. Todoroki, you've been very quiet," Tatsuya said. "Why are you letting your wife and son answer everything."

"If there's one thing I've learned in the fifteen years that we've been together," Shouto said, "it's that my wife has a way with words that I lack. Luckily, both our sons have inherited that from her. Besides, I like hearing her and my children talk. I like hearing their voice much more than I like hearing mine."

"And you said you didn't have a way with words," you teased, and Shouto chuckled.

Reizo rubbed at his eyes, glanced around, and crawled over your lap to get to Touya, who let his little brother tuck himself into his side, yawning.

"Finally awake baby?" you asked, turning your attention to your youngest son.

"Yeah," he murmured, stretching before he settled down again. "'M not used to being up this early on a weekend."

"We know," Touya teased, patting his brother on the head.

"Rude Touya!" Reizo whined.

"Boys," you chirped, "save the bickering for when we get home okay? Let these people do their jobs."

"Sorry Momma," they both muttered.

You smiled at them, and Shouto shook his head with a small smile.

"Are they always like this?" Nariko asked, trying to hide a giggle behind her hand.

"Pretty much," you admitted, smiling brightly. "But they are our sons, it's to be expected that they get a little snarky."

"We certainly were," Shouto muttered.

"To say the least," you agreed. "God, high school was rough. We were such problem children, I don't know how Aizawa dealt with us, or any of our other teachers for that matter."

"Speaking of your U.A. days, Touya, you're in class 1-A currently, aren't you?"

"Yes, I recently got my acceptance letter," he confirmed. "I can't wait! I already met some of my other classmates already, since they're cousins of sorts, but it's gonna be great to see where Momma and Dad went when they were my age."

"And you were accepted through recommendations, but you took the public entrance exams didn't you?"

"Yeah," Touya said, nodding. "I wanted to show everyone that just because I was accepted through recommendations didn't mean that I didn't have the power to back it up, or that I thought I was better than anyone else. I wanted to prove that it was through my power that I got in."

Shouto's eyes shined at the words his son used, and you took his hand, remembering the words that Izuku had told him at your first Sports Festival together.

"That's my boy," Shouto murmured, leaning across your lap to ruffle his son's hair.

Touya grinned, fixing his hair.

"Reizo, do you want to be a hero?" Tatsuya asked him.

"No, I want to be a natural disaster first responder."

"Why don't you want to be hero?" Nariko inquired.

"Because I don't want to steal my brother's spotlight," Reizo teased, cutting a playful glare at his brother. "Besides, they're heroes too, they just aren't Pros. Most civil servants are heroes, they just don't have the same title. Momma and Daddy taught me that!"

Reizo beamed at you, and you couldn't help but smile back at him, wrinkling your nose at him, which he did back at you.

"(Y/F/N), Mr. Todoroki, do either of you have anything to say to the people who are questioning whether Pro Heroes can be effective parents?"

"I can't speak for all Pro Heroes," you said, your voice going colder. "But I can confidently, without hesitation, tell you that the entirety of my graduating class- those that have kids- are better parents than most of our grandparents were. None of them would ever hit their child. And yes, we're all training our kids to use their quirks, but it's to teach them control, and we aren't training them for battle. Our children are not soldiers. And I think some people need to be reminded that while heroes are capable of handling situations that others are not because of our training, we're still human.

"Every time we leave our kids, every time we go out, we know that we might not make it back home. I worry about my kids whenever I leave for patrols. Every time I come across a strong opponent, I worry about whether my kids are safe, whether Shouto is safe, whether I'm going to make it back home. And to those that are specifically questioning Shouto's ability to be a parent, I'm disappointed in you. For those that are more than willing to let him walk in harm's way to risk his life for them, but doubt his parenting skills, well, ask any alpha from our class and they will tell you that I was not an easy omega to get to know.

"As an omega that was almost deemed unbreedable, unmateable, for me to let Shouto anywhere near me should be proof enough, not to mention the fact that we have two amazing pups. Not every hero is Enji Todoroki. Not every hero is thinking only of themselves or their image. The reason we're heroes is to help the world. We're not looking for fame and glory. We're looking to keep the world safer for our mates and our pups. We're heroes, but we're human, we're parents. I'm disappointed in every person that ever praised Enji Todoroki for his parenting skills, I'm disappointed in everyone that was fooled by his 'hero' persona. He may have had a license, but when it came down to it, he was no hero, not in any of the ways that mattered."

You leaned back against the couch, tearing your eyes away from the camera, leaning against Shouto's side.

"I have to agree with my wife on this," Shouto said. "My father set the bar pretty low when it came to what being a functional parents as a hero looks like, but our class is setting the bar high. None of our friends have pups that are terrified of when they walk through the door after patrols. None of our nieces and nephews have ever hated their parents with serious intent. Every member of our class, which we all know is still referred to as 1-A, adores their children. Even Katsuki does, and when we were in high school all he cared about was being number one. He took time off from work to raise his pups, and if that doesn't speak volumes, I don't know what does. When we get home, Touya and Reizo always jump to their feet and hug us.

"Katsuki's kids are the same way with him and Eijirou. The number of times (Y/F/N) and I have been knocked over when we get home from patrols is insane, honestly. Denki and Hitoshi's kids are just like Denki, always smiling. We've made mistakes of course- what parent doesn't?- but that doesn't make us bad parents. My father was a bad parent, most of the time he was a bad person, and I made it my mission to not be like him in anyway. I think I did pretty well."

You took Shouto's hand, squeezing it.

"Our class is one big family," you murmured, "and every time the kids are with us or any of our former classmates, they always smile. Like Shouto said, we've made mistakes, and we'll probably make more. We're human, it's what we do, but we're trying our best to be good parents. Our boys know that we just want what's best for them, that we support them no matter what. We taught our kids that it's alright to be afraid of things, but we also taught them that we shouldn't be something they feared. Class 1-A wanted to be the kind of parents where instead of them thinking 'Oh shit, I can't tell Mom or Dad' we wanted them to think 'I'm in trouble, I need to call Mom and Dad'."

"It sounds like you did a very good job," Tatsuya said.

"He's right!" Touya and Reizo chirped.

"You all agreed to wing this interview. We personally watched your PR agents tear up the copy of questions we were going to ask you, though (Y/F/N)'s went further and dissolved hers in water, so you had nothing to prepare yourselves with. Why would you do that?" Nariko asked.

"Momma and Dad are great parents," Touya began. "We knew that any questions you asked us would have only good answers. They get frustrated with us, they get mad, but they handle it well, they never take it out on us. Twist our words however you want, but at the end of the day, that's my final answer. I wouldn't want anyone else to raise me."

"Same," Reizo said. "And anyone that thinks Momma and Daddy are bad at what they do needs to get their eyes checked."

"Reizo," you chided.

"Sorry Momma, but it's true," Touya agreed.

"My boys," you murmured, pulling them both closer, resisting the urge to cry.

"There you have it folks," Nariko said. "I don't think there are any other questions we need to ask."

"None," Tatsuya agreed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few days later, the interview was on TV, and you couldn't resist the urge to watch it.

You were home by yourself for now. Shouto was out on patrol, Touya was at the dorms getting settled in, and Reizo was at a friend's house for the night.

It was clear how much your boys adored you, and it was clear that neither boy was frightened at all of you or Shouto.

Katsuki had called, practically in tears, though whether that was from the sappiness of you and your family or the kind things you had said, you weren't sure.

Most heroes had been cleared of any suspicion, they had started in the higher ranks and worked their way down, so you and the rest of your class had been cleared already.

After you had all learned that you were cleared, kids had been dropped at grandparents' and other trusted family and friends so the adults could celebrate.

It had been nice to see everyone, and there had been a lot of tears (Izuku and Katsuki were the worst, though you had been close to them), but there had also been a lot more laughter and drunken shenanigans that you would never tell your kids about.

Your ranking, along with Shouto's had shot through the roof after that interview, and you and your husband had both gotten tons of fanmail apologizing for ever doubting, and other that said they had never doubted at all and that they were glad that you were cleared.

Shouto had been so relieved when the investigations had been dropped, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

"I told you," you had told him one night, and he stumbled across the interview on twitter, along with someone's breakdown of it.

You were lying in bed together, his arm wrapped around your waist as you laid on his chest.

"I know," he murmured, kissing the top of your head.

"You will never be like your father, and you will always be my hero, same with the boys."

"Speaking of the boys," Shouto began, cheeks tinted a little pink.

"Oh no," you teased, pushing yourself up to see his face.

"I . . . I want to have another pup," he admitted. "I want to try for a girl this time."

"Upset that both of our boys are almost as devoted to me as you are?" you asked playfully, moving to sit in Shouto's lap as you both readjusted.

"No, I love that our boys love you as much as they do, but they are Momma's boys," he said. "I want a Daddy's girl."

You couldn't help but chuckle, leaning down to kiss him.

"Let's ask the boys in the morning," you suggested. "Then we can try for a girl."

Shouto beamed at you, and you shook your head at him, kissing him again.

"Dork," you muttered, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"I would've asked sooner, but with the investigations going on, I didn't think it was the right time."

"You're right, it wouldn't have been, but we would've worked it out. We always do."

Shouto nodded, burying his face in your neck.

"I love you Shouto," you told him.

"I love you too (Y/F/N)."

[empire-of-wildfire]

HOLIDAY SURPRISE

A @starseternalnighttriumphant X @empire-of-wildfire CHRISTMAS MINI-FIC COLLABORATION

WARNING: GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT. NOT SUITABLE FOR READERS UNDER 18 YEARS OLD. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

a/n: here’s part 3!! Sorry it’s not on schedule, we both have been going crazy with work but we worked really hard to get this out for you guys tonight!

Cassian hung up the phone, running his hand down his face in frustration. His partners hadn’t been pleased when he’d told them he was staying in Velaris longer than planned because they needed him to start working on another case, but he told them he would work virtually until he could return. He hadn’t told them about Amina, wanting to keep her to himself for a little while at least. He’d called and arranged for more of his things to be sent to him in a week or so, and he looked into AirBnBs so he wasn’t living in the hotel long-term. He was pretty sure he’d thought of everything that needed to be handled while he stayed here, although something still nagged at him but he ignored it. The possibility that he wouldn’t be returning to Illyria permanently flickered through his mind, but he shoved it away. It was too early to know that. That would require further planning, and likely an extremely uncomfortable discussion with Nesta. If she didn’t kill him first.

Even just thinking about her for a brief moment, she moved to the forefront of his mind like she always had, since the day he left Velaris. Except now it wasn’t just Nesta he couldn't stop thinking about. Now she shared his headspace with Amina.

Amina. Now that he’d had a little while to get over his initial shock, he marvelled at the thought of her. So many times he’d dreamed of the day Nesta would bless him with children, but his imagination couldn’t have ever come up with such a perfect child as the one he met hours ago. He wished he could’ve been there to see her birth, to see her grow into the fiery toddler she was now. He couldn’t wait to see the woman she would become one day. Tough as nails and sharp as a whip, no doubt, with Nesta as her mother.

He was dragged out of daydreams of his daughter by the shrill sound of his phone ringing. He didn’t even look at the screen, assuming it was Rhys calling him to chew him out some more.

“What, Rhys?” He snapped.

“Sorry to disappoint, but it’s your other favorite brother,” a deep voice said, sounding amused.

“Oh shit, sorry Az.” Cassian instantly regretted his attitude. He hadn’t even seen his other brother yet in the hours he’d been home, he didn’t deserve his anger. And yet, Azriel had clearly known about Amina, and had kept her from him just like Rhys. “What’s up?”

“I just got off the phone with Feyre… she sounded pretty upset. Mentioned something about you and Nesta and that she wasn’t sure if you were leaving again?” Azriel said the last part slowly, as if afraid of setting Cassian off.

Cassian sighed heavily, bracing for the conversation he knew was about to happen. “How could you not fucking tell me? I don’t give a shit what Nesta threatened, I’m your brother Az. She’s my daughter. I deserved to know.”

“I know Cass, trust me. I wanted to tell you so many times. But I also knew how much your job means to you. I guess I’d just hoped you’d at least come home to visit sooner than this so you didn’t miss so much time, but then the longer it got the less likely I thought it was that you’d ever come home. And I didn’t want the only reason you came home to be because I told you about Amina. I was afraid you’d come to resent me for taking you away from your career, or worse, resent Amina for it. And I couldn’t risk her getting hurt like that.”

Cassian just sat there for a minute, shocked into speechlessness. For all his anger about how he felt about this, he hadn’t stopped to think about how Amina would feel. He’d just decided she would love him automatically, but what if that wasn’t the case? What if she never wanted to know who her father was? Would Nesta have ever told her, even if she didn’t ask?

“Cass? You okay?” Azriel asked tentatively.

“I just… I don’t know what to do,” he admitted.

“It’s Christmas Eve, and I know she’s taken the next week off. Go talk to her. I would assume at this point you know where your priorities are, so tell her that. Apologize. Make her see you won’t hurt Amina, or her, and go from there.” Azriel paused, clearly considering something. “She just dropped Amina off with me and Elain. She’s over in the neighborhood by the Sidra.”

Cassian sagged with relief, glad that someone was telling him something at least. “Thanks.”

“Good luck brother,” was his only reply.

Cassian immediately hung up and ran for his car, taking off for the other side of town. The neighborhood Azriel had told him Nesta lived in was pretty small, but he still wasn’t sure how he’d find her house. He slowly drove through the neighborhood, looking at each house for a sign of the fiery woman he hoped was living in one of them. Suddenly he came to a stop in the middle of the street, unable to look away from the house in front of him.

At face value, the house was simple, but elegant. Nothing overly extravagant, but clearly a well loved home. The thing that stopped him in his tracks though, was the front door. All the other homes had very neutral front doors, black, beiges, whites. This door was a bright, crimson red. He was immediately transported back to a different time in his life, when whispered secrets were shared under soft sheets with the woman that held his heart in her hands.

“When we get our own place, like officially ours, I want the front door to be red. I know it’s weird, but I want it to be a statement.” Nesta’s words rang in his head like she just said them, though that conversation was over five years ago.

Evidently Nesta had taken her dreams into her own hands, no longer wanting or needing Cassian with her to make them happen.

Cassian pushed down the twinge of pain and regret that thought caused, then finally parked and got out of the car, making his way slowly towards that bright red door that represented so many missed moments and realized dreams.

Knocking on the door, he braced himself for the wrath of Nesta Archeron.

As soon as she opened the door, she took a step back and ground out, “What do you want?”

“Can I come in?” Nesta hesitated, scanning his face as if looking for something. “Please, Nesta. I just want to talk,” he pleaded.

Finally she nodded, turning and walking into the house, leaving the door wide open since she knew he would follow her. He quickly stepped inside, following her through the house.

He spied the big Christmas tree in the living room, covered in matching ornaments. Nesta had never really been in to Christmas, but he wondered if that had changed now that Amina was in the picture.

He had to admit, he wasn’t expecting Nesta to live in the richer part of town. She must’ve been doing well at the hospital, being paid well if it meant she was living like this. Despite how awkward it felt to be here, to feel her weighted gaze on him, he was glad Amina would be cared for well, even if things didn’t end well and he ended up going back to Illyria.

“How is she?” he asked after a few moments.

Nesta’s whole body was tense as she poured cups of coffee, and he watched her closely just in case she decided to poison him. “She’s fine.”

He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Tell me about her.”

“Oh, all of a sudden you’re interested?” she asked, her pleasant voice not concealing the venom underneath.

“Nesta, please.” He never begged, and she knew it. Her shoulders dropped in acquiescence, and she walked over with the two mugs, setting one down in front of him as she sat at the opposite end of the table.

She looked out the window to where the sky was dark now, and he had forgotten how late it was. But she just gazed out for another moment before she sighed and turned back to her coffee, staring into the mug.

“She’s super smart. She started walking months before the doctor said she would. She started talking months before she was supposed to. She’s leagues ahead of any other kid her age.” A small smile graced Nesta’s mouth. “She’ll be smarter than me one day, if you can believe it.”

Cassian watched her intently, hanging on to every word as Nesta finally relaxed and talked about their daughter. It was clear that Amina was the center of Nesta’s world, a place that had used to be his. He always knew Nesta would be an amazing mother, and his heart clenched when he realized he’d always thought he would be there for that day that she did become one. And he’d missed it all: the moment she found out, the ultrasounds, the birthing classes, the actual birth of his daughter. And the truth of it hit him square in the chest, making him wince.

As if she had sensed it, she stopped talking, eyes roving over him. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”

Ouch. He guessed she was ready to move on to the harder parts of a conversation that was four years in the making. She didn’t give him time to reply as she grabbed her mug and placed it in the sink, walking out of the kitchen. He scrambled to follow her, catching up to her in the living room.

“Nes, you know I loved you. So much. I just wanted to prove I was more than the dumb kid I was here. I wanted to see if I could make something of myself.”

She spun on him, her eyes ablaze. “You don’t know how much it hurt when you told me you wanted to leave. I thought it was because of me. Every insecurity I’d ever had about us, warranted or not, came roaring back.”

“Nesta—”

“We’d been together all of high school and college, and then suddenly you wanted to leave and I hardly got any more notice than anyone else did.” She was on a roll now, and didn’t leave any space for him to interrupt. “I mean for cauldron’s sake Cass, we’d talked about our future together! That didn’t involve you being thousands of miles away and leaving me here. So after you left and I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t want to try and make you come back. And I knew if I told you and you still didn’t come back, it would crush me.”

Her words shocked him. Nesta Archeron knew him better than anyone else in the world, knew him better than his own brothers. And for her to think that… “Do you honestly think that if you’d called me and said we were having a baby, I wouldn’t come back and be there for you? For fuck’s sake Nesta, I can practice law anywhere.”

She crossed her arms stubbornly, fire in her gaze. “You fucking left, Cassian. You wanted to chase your dream, you were so focused on being such a hotshot lawyer, so forgive me for thinking that a baby would ruin that pipe dream for you!”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. You’ve known me for how fucking long, Nesta?” his voice was hard, and he was struggling not to raise it but he couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. “Do you think for one second I would’ve stayed in Illyria if I had known you were pregnant with our child?”

Her jaw clenched. “I didn’t need you to stay here out of guilt that you knocked me up.”

“Gods, Nesta, I’m not standing here because I feel fucking guilty. I’m here right now because I never stopped loving you!”

She froze, her face a mask of pure shock. For once she was left speechless, and Cassian took advantage of it. He closed the distance between them, taking her face in his hands and kissing the hell out of her.

He wasn’t expecting her to return his fervor, her hands sliding up around his neck, tangling in the locks at the base of it. Every nerve ending came alive at her touch, his body reacting to her the way it used to over four years ago. The feel of her mouth was like coming home, so familiar and intoxicating that he had half a mind to wonder why he ever left her.

He grabbed her up, somehow finding his way to her bedroom and settling her down on her bed, hands slipping her out of her shirt. As he pulled it up over her head, he realized it was one of his old shirts from college. His heart clenched painfully, lungs refusing to breathe. He wasn’t stupid, he knew what Nesta keeping his things meant. But he wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t push just yet.

As soon as he had her completely naked before him, he pulled back to take in every inch of her. She was completely breathtaking; her sharp angles and curves were softer now, likely an after effect of giving birth. But it didn’t matter to him. This was Nesta, the one woman that he would never get over, no matter what happened between them.

He slid his hand over hip and up her stomach, watching goosebumps pebble her skin. Before he could reach her breast, she sat up and grabbed him, impatiently pulling at his clothes to get him on the same playing field. He chuckled, helping her get himself undressed. He leaned over her again but she surprised him by wrapping a leg around his hip and flipping their positions. She was now atop him, gloriously naked above him, her golden brown hair falling around her shoulders and down her back. Her face was vulnerable, open, her eyes already blown with desire. She was a goddess.

She leaned down to meet his mouth, kissing him long and deep. He groaned against her lips when her hand found his already hard length, stroking him softly. When she ran the tip of him between her folds, he was ready to lose his godsdamn mind.

“Nesta,” he breathed, her name coming out like the holiest of prayers.

She wasted no time in sliding down onto him, and he was already lost in pleasure that he almost missed the sharp gasp that left the woman atop him. She stilled, adjusting to him after so many years apart. His hands wrapped around her hips, thumbs caressing her skin as he met her steely gaze.

“Lost for words?” he quipped, the left side of his mouth hitching up into a smirk.

Her nostrils flared, but instead of shooting a venom-laced reply back at him, she moved her hips, effectively shutting him up and leaving him incapable of any cocky remarks. Her hands braced against his chest as she began to ride him, and he wondered if he was going to die from this. He hadn’t been celibate since he’d left her, but every single motion of hers was threatening to undo the very threads of his life. Coming together after so long was going to ruin him, but he didn’t care.

He watched her as she moved on him, rolling his own hips to meet her movements. She clenched around him and he swore, fingers digging into her hip as his other hand came down between her legs to stroke the sensitive bundle of nerves there. When she let out a breathy moan, he knew she was his again.

He continued his ministrations, watching in awe as Nesta started her ascent, writhing and moaning above him. He took over her movements, thrusting into her slow and deep, feeling every inch of her. When he knew she was close, he sat up, seated inside her at a dizzying angle. He captured her mouth, tongue invading her mouth as he picked up his pace, thumb circling her clit torturously.

Her back arched, chest pressing against his and then she was crying out his name and spasming around him, body shaking as her orgasm overtook her. He didn’t stop, continuing to stroke into her, his mouth on her neck as she trembled. He rolled them so she was on her back, his body resting against hers as he continued his pace, hips stuttering as she clenched around him one last time. Her arms and legs wrapped around him, pulling him even closer, her nails raking gently down his back until her hands were on his behind, urging him to go faster. 

He didn’t resist, bracing himself on his arms as he looked down at her, taking in her pink cheeks and glazed gray-blue eyes. She held his gaze, hands coming back up to slide along his jaw, pulling him back down to kiss him softly. Her kiss seared his mouth, and he sighed in content against her lips, savoring the way she tasted.

“I love you,” she whispered, the worst so quiet he wasn’t sure if he’d even heard her right. His eyes shot open, brows furrowing in surprised but she just kissed him again, holding him close.

Her lips found the juncture of his shoulder and when her teeth dug into his skin, he found release, choking out her name as he emptied inside her, all but collapsing on top of her sweat-slicked form. He couldn’t think straight, could only focus on all five senses that were overwhelmed by Nesta. Everywhere they touched was like fire, all he could smell was her and the evidence of what they’d done. His head was on her chest, listening to her heartbeat, and the memory of her coming undone kept playing in his mind. He felt no better than a house cat as she ran her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp.

When he finally lifted his head, it was to place a light kiss to her collarbone, to her jaw, to her swollen lips. Her eyes were already half-closed, trying to fight off sleep, but her mouth curved into the soft smile that had captured his heart all those years ago.

It wasn’t until she was sound asleep that he ran a thumb over her cheek and whispered, “I love you too.”

-

@werewolffprince @schmlip-scribble @justgiu12 @westofmoon @legallyhermione @love-is-a-contradiction @shyvioletcat @oversizedbats @superspiritfestival @ladywitchling @disgreisful @empress-ofbloodshed @lovemollywho @highqueenofelfhame @rocky99 @sayosdreams @mynewdreamwasyou @whydoineedtowriteanamehere @charincharge @sjm-things @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @queenestarcheron @julemmaes @littlehoneyybee @throne-of-crescent-roses @sleeping-and-books @agentsofsheilds @that-golden-lyre @swankii-art-teacher​ @nessiantho @mythicaitt

[ramblingthoughtsofayoungadult]

Nev, Max, Help!-Nate Jacobs Oneshot

Requested: Yes

Warnings: aggressiveness and rudeness from Nate and a brief panic attack scene

A/N: The reader is gender neutral since the requester did not specify what they wanted and I did not want to disrespect the storyline from the show. Also, it’s a long one. 

  For once, Amy Winehouse’s low, melancholy voice did nothing to soothe my nerves as I typed what I was looking for in the designated box. “Love is a Losing Game” was definitely not the best song for the mood but I loved her voice so much; it was like a really messed up security blanket for me. My thumbs shook as I kept typing and quickly deleting my words. 

  Someone to have fun with.

  No, that’ll bring every single creep to my profile.

  Someone to watch Netflix with.

  Ew, no, they won’t want to go anywhere or do anything. 

  Someone to discuss Maya Angelou with...

  This could go one of two ways: attract a sensitive, nice person or the ultimate softboi who was really just an f-boy in a sensible cardigan.

    Okay, Y/N, just add to it.

   ...and have adventures, great conversations, and watch the best movies.

   That seemed broad enough and, potentially, weeded out all the weirdos. Patti Stanger would approve of this. I took such a deep breath that I could feel the oxygen in my feet as I pressed the green check mark. An adorable buffering sign appeared before being quickly replaced by a CONGRATULATIONS, Y/N/N, ON COMPLETING YOUR PROFILE. 

   The air came out of me slowly, like a balloon, and I tried to make myself relax as I swiped through different matches. One person was too short, the other too tall, another had way too many pictures with reptiles in his profile, and one’s bio simply read: DM and you’ll find out. 

  Serial killer much?

  “That’s part of your problem, Y/N,” Jules had chastised me a few day prior.

 “What do you mean by ‘part’?” I’d replied.

 “Well, for one, you barely leave the house anymore unless I drag you out,” Jules argued.

  “I’m busy,” I’d defended. 

  “Rewatching Breaking Bad for the eighth time does not count as being busy. Plus, you’re so picky.”

  “Am not!” 

  “You said you’d only do DiCaprio in his Great Gatsby days,” Rue had added.

  “Did you see him in that suit?” 

  Jules then shrugged. “All I’m saying is if you aren’t careful, you will end up all alone.”

  “That’s not true, Y/N might get cats.” 

  That conversation had haunted me since and had driven me to making a dating profile after the required Saturday night family dinner. While my parents and brother were downstairs watching a movie, I was holed up in my room, cringing and regretting accepting any chat requests. 

   Half an hour on the app caused the images of various male genitalia to be burned into my mind. I would need my brain soaked in holy water for it to be erased. I huffed and kept scrolling, vainly hoping and wishing for a decent guy to pop up on my radar.

  Maybe Jules and Rue were wrong. Maybe I had all the right in the world to be picky, I thought harshly to myself. 

  I dropped my phone on my nightstand and flopped against my pillows as Me and Mr. Jones began playing. I sighed and felt myself being lulled into the comforting abyss Amy created. 

   Ding!

   I jumped out and glared at the source of the noise. Another chat request, another picture to ruin my young brain? 

  “Be positive, Y/N, this might be good,” I stated as I grabbed the phone. 

  Tyler wants to chat!

   I frowned and opened up the app, only to be met with the most sculpted six-pack I had ever seen. My heart began banging against my chest and my thumbs fumbled for a moment to answer the chat request. 

  Whoosh. 

  My stomach dropped as I stared at my first chat to Tyler: Shg.ismtle

  I’m. Going. To. Die. Alone.

  I quickly typed: Please ignore that, I’m so sorry!

  Seconds later, my phone dinged.

  Tyler: Really? I thought you were trying to send me a secret code and I liked that we were that cool already.

  This was not real, this could not be happening. Tyler had to be a bot, that was why he didn’t show his face in his profile. Bots were supposed to have a hard time recognizing and creating faces, right? 

   But, on the off chance Tyler was real, it would have been rude to leave the conversation so abruptly? 

   Y/N: Who knows? Maybe it was a secret code and I’m just testing you.

   Tyler: Ok, let me guess what it means.

   Tyler: Hi? 

   Y/N: Haha, you really thought I’d use such a simple code as a first message?

   Tyler: It’s my bad for underestimating u. I should have known u were smarter since you read Maya Angelou.

  Y/N: U a fan? 

  Tyler: “You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.” 

  He knows Angelou? He could have Googled a quote though. Still, it’s a good quote to use if he had Googled it.

   Y/N: Nice, but, doesn’t get u out of the guessing game.

   As Tyler helplessly guessed wrong for several minutes, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I used to think online dating was a last resort or a breeding ground for predators. But, maybe there were decent people looking for something (or someone) meaningful after all. 

  Tyler: I give up, you’re really good. 

  Y/N: Thx. But, I can tell you what I meant to say. 

  Tyler: The suspense is srsly kiilling me. 

  Y/N: I meant 2 say hey.

  Tyler: I guessed that!

   Y/N: No, u guessed ‘hi’, there’s a difference.

  Tyler: C’mon, barely.

   For the rest of the night, Tyler and I chatted. He told me that he plays baseball at a school across town and he doesn’t like anyone around there. He liked John Mulaney stand-up, lemon bars, going to the gym, hanging out with his friends, and reading good books. He was an only child and his parents tended to spoil him. I told him about my friends and how I liked being on the swim team at my school as well as the different YouTubers and books I enjoyed. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of talking to him. 

   On Monday, Jules and Rue were hanging out outside the school as other people either headed to class or relaxed on the lawn. I could not stop my feet from bouncing as I walked up to them.

   “...and that is why Sailor Mercury is the most underrated character of the whole show,” Jules affrimed. 

   Rue seemed halfway interested as her head nodded slowly underneath the hood of her burgundy hoodie. “Cool, all I asked was who’s your favorite but, cool.” 

   Jules rolled her eyes playfully and straightened up when she saw me. “Hey, Y/N, nice shirt.” 

  “Thanks.” I wore a sky blue tie dye shirt with ripped jeans and white Converse.

  Rue leaned forward and squinted at me. “You’re not wearing black, something’s wrong.” 

  “Nothing’s wrong, she’s obviously been influenced by me!” Jules teased as she wrapped a slim arm around my shoulders.

  “Yeah, you can only hang out with this literal rainbow human so long before she starts influencing your outfit choices.”

  We started heading inside, which was really just Jules and me dragging Rue into the building.

   “But I don’t wanna be here. It’s so stupid that I have to wait six more months before I can legally decide where I spend my time,” Rue muttered.

  “It’s fine, you have us!” Jules insisted.

   “Yup!” I agreed.

  “Hey, Y/N, Rue, Jules!” Cassie greeted as she sidled up next to me. 

  We all greeted her.

  “Have a good weekend?” Rue asked. 

  “Yeah, there was this great party that Nick Davis threw. I swear, everyone there was on acid.” Cassie stopped herself and bit her bottom lip. “Sorry---” 

   Rue shook her head. “It’s fine.”

  “How were yours?” Cassie asked as we continued to our lockers. 

  “Fine,” Jules said.

  Rue shrugged in response.

  I opened my mouth to reply when my phone beeped and I wrestled it out of my pocket. 

  Tyler: Is it 2 late 4 a good morning text? 

  I smiled. 

  “You’re so cheesy,” I muttered under my breath. 

  “Who’s that?” Cassie asked, peeking over my shoulder.

   I jumped and cradled my phone to my chest like it was my child. “No one.” 

   Jules pulled open her locker and cocked a bleached eyebrow. “‘No one’ does not cause huge smiles like that!” She jabbed a sparkly-manicured finger at me. 

  “Yeah, show us,” Rue said. “We are your friends.” 

  “It’s nothing,” I insisted as I weaved around them. 

  I pushed myself against my locker and managed to open it with my free hand. Rue was on one side of me and Cassie was on the other. 

  “Is it a boy?” Cassie sang.

  “Or a girl?” Rue questioned.

  “It’s none of your business,” I gritted out as I grabbed my necessary books. 

  As I shuffled the books in my arms, Jules came from behind and slipped my phone away from me. I gasped, whirled around, and watched as Rue tried to look at the phone while Cassie playfully blocked me.

  “Guys, this is not cool! This is such a serious invasion of privacy,” I argued as I tried to move around Cassie.

  “We’re besties, there’s no such thing as privacy!” Jules retorted. 

  “Wow, Y/N, these are so----” Jules cut Rue off.

  “Adorable!” Jules squealed and turned to face me.

  Cassie took the opportunity to glance at my phone and she smiled. “Aw, this Tyler guy sounds so sweet.” 

  I snatched my phone from Jules. “Well, now you know. Can we please go to class now?” 

  As the other girls grabbed their things from their lockers, I got out my phone to reply to Tyler.

  Y/N: It’s never too late...until noon technically.

   Somehow, I started wandering away from the girls until I ran into someone. I tried to jump away, but they grabbed me by the forearms.

  “I am so sorry, I should have looked where I was going---” I stopped speaking when I recognized Nate’s direct gaze on me. I was pretty tall but I always felt like he could throw me into the lockers if he wanted to.

  “Watch it, Y/N,” he muttered. 

  “Nate, let go of them,” Maddy chided, her hand resting against one of his arms. 

  She seemed to have the magic touch because he relaxed and I joined my friends. As the couple continued down the hallway, I couldn’t help but admire them. In a very messed up way, they worked. Kat had told me only a little about what Nate would do whenever Maddy upset him and I felt so bad for her, angry at him, and then conflicted. Nate just had to have that stereotypical amazing all-American look.

  “You okay, Y/N?” Cassie asked.

  “Yeah, is it weird that I can still feel his eyes on me even when he’s not looking?” I asked. 

  “No, his need for dominance permeates everyone’s sense of autonomy,” Rue assured.

  “Nice,” Jules said. 

  “And scary accurate,” Cassie added. 

  Jule looped her arm with mine and steered us in the direction of our first classes. “Anyway, if he tries anything, I’m sure Tyler would gladly kick his butt for you.” 

   Throughout the day, Tyler and I chatted and I even had to get creative with responding. In English, I kept my head down during quiet reading time and made sure my phone was positioned just right in my lap. During geometry, I told Mrs. Packer that I was having some digestive issues and spent most of the class outside the bathroom, texting Tyler. At lunch, I could barely focus on my friends’ conversation.

   “Hello, Earth to Y/N?” Lexi waved her hand in front of my face and I blinked.

   “Sorry, I was----”

   “Texting her boooyfriiiend,” Jules sang.

   “He’s not my boyfriend, we’re just talking.” I started poking at my sandwich. “What did I miss?” 

  “Oh, nothing, just the fact that I nearly blew up the school during chem,” Cassie said. 

  “Magnesium chloride isn’t an explosive,” Lexi argued. 

  “Well, the tube overflowed and everyone was freaking out,” Cassie argued.

  “Yeah, because magnesium chloride can have bad side effects,” Lexi continued.

   “I wonder what would happen if the school exploded and we weren’t all here? Would they have to give us our diplomas?” I thought outloud.

  “Ooh, and I could go to fashion school early!” Jules cheered. 

  “I’d be happy not coming here anymore,” Rue admitted. 

  It was quiet for a moment as we all ate but that quiet was broken when Maddy yelled.

  “WHO ARE YOU TEXTING?”

  I couldn’t help myself but look. Maddy was standing behind Nate, who was sitting with his teammates at the center table. Bebe and Kat flanked Maddy a little behind. Everyone stared at them. Nate’s jaw tightened. 

  “Maddy, calm down,” his relaxed, controlled voice nearly echoed in the silent cafeteria. 

  “DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! YOU’VE BEEN ON YOUR PHONE ALL DAY!” she snapped. 

  “Maddy---” 

  “ARE YOU TEXTING OTHER GIRLS?” Maddy shouted.

  “Can we talk about this somewhere else?” Nate asked. 

  Maddy sighed. “Are you gonna let me see your phone?”

  “Maddy, we need to talk.” 

  “Don’t talk to me again.” 

  Before Nate could respond, Maddy dumped the contents of her lunch tray over his head and threw the tray aside. Kat and Bebe followed her as she strutted out of the cafeteria amid the shocked gasps. 

   “I’m gonna go check on her,” Cassie whispered.

  We all nodded and she quietly exited the room. As I stared at Nate, the supposed king of the school, drenched in soggy salad and fat-free milk, I wondered why he could never stay broken up with Maddy. Their relationship was not just toxic, it was volatile. Their breakups were always public and outrageous, but they always ended up back together. No one questioned it either. I never understood why people could continue to choose relationship they knew was bad over pursuing something new. I told Tyler as much that night. 

   Y/N: It’s like those dogs that get killed by electric fences because they keep walking into them.

  Tyler: U have a good point, but, that couple’s relationship is more complicated than u think. 

  Y/N: Probably, but, it doesn’t look that way. They hurt each other a lot.

  Tyler: How do u know? 

   Y/N: Bc I’ve seen it. I don’t mean 2 b judgy, but, I could never be in a relationship like that. 

  Tyler: Well, I don’t think anyone would b if they knew it would b bad. 

  Y/N: Good point. But, why would they get back together so much? 

  Tyler: Idk them, but, it could b bc it’s familiar and it’s what they know.

  Y/N: Still, it’s messed up.

 Tyler: Yeah, but I don’t wanna talk abt them anymore.

 Y/N: K, what do u wanna talk abt? 

  A few seconds later, Tyler sent me a picture so graphically beautiful that I was convinced I passed out.

 The next day, I showed Rue and Jules the picture during break time.

 “Holy crap!” Jules took my phone and leaned into it for closer inspection. 

 “Tyler is packing,” Rue agreed. 

  Jules slid my phone back to me. “You haven’t replied to him?”    “No, and he hasn’t talked to me at all today.”

  “He’s probably expecting a reply that’s similar to what he sent,” Rue said.

  My face warmed up. “I can’t send him nudes,” I hissed.

  “Why not? It’s like the greeting cards of our generation,” Jules stated.

  “Really? You’d send your grandparents a greeting card of your naked body?” I replied sarcastically.

  “Relax, if you’re uncomfortable, we can help you,” Jules assured.

  “We can?” Rue asked.

  “We can.” Jules gave her a look and Rue relaxed. 

  “It’s still weird, but, I guess you guys can come over after school.”

  “Sweet! Your mom still bakes cookies for you after school, right?” Jules asked.

  I nodded.

  “She might stop once she learns her darling favorite older child is sending nudes,” Rue snorted as she spoke.

  I recoiled in my seat, taking a second to bask in the sun’s warmth. “Don’t remind me.” 

  After swim practice, once my teammates left the locker room, I eyed my naked form in the mirror. I had nothing to be ashamed of, really, thanks to all the swimming, but, I just felt weird being naked in front of people. There was something so vulnerable about it, like, being on display in a museum or lying on a cold surgery table. But, online dating was supposed to get me out of my comfort zone and I’d found someone who’d made me feel comfortable enough to do it. With this resolve, I changed into a hoodie and some sweatpants and left the school. It was dusk and I typically walked home after practice since it wasn’t far. Plus, I’d told Jules and Rue to just go to my house after school. 

  The late breeze rippled past me and I dug my hands into my pants’ pockets as I started walking towards the parking lot. There was barely anyone around, except stoners hotboxing their cars, some couples making out, and dance team members and football players getting out of practice.

  I kept my head down as I maneuvered around the few cars and people around. It felt like someone could spot what I was about to do once I got home and it was nervewracking. All I had to do was get home, let Jules make me look even better, take these pictures, and never thinking of it again.

   “Something on your mind, Y/N?” Nate called.

   I froze and snapped my head up to look at him. He was leaning against his truck, looking like a model for Ford in only a tshirt and jeans. Ford should hire him. 

   “No, not really,” I said. 

   I started to side step the truck, eyeing the sidewalk that was only a few yards away as though it was a lifeline. 

  “Get in,” Nate ordered.

  I paused and looked at him. “Excuse me?” 

  “I see you walking home all the time, let me do you a favor, one athlete to another.” Nate was about halfway in the driver’s seat of the car and all I could do was stare.

  “We’ve...never really talked before,” I stated. 

  “We can talk during the drive.” 

   I stepped back and my eyes flittered around, like the best decision would hit me in the face. Then, I saw Maddy across the lot. She was standing with a couple of dance team girls, including Cassie. She stared me down as though daring me to do it. I glanced from her to Nate, who started the engine loudly. 

   I quickly climbed into the passenger’s seat and stared into Maddy’s reflection in the rearview mirror as he pulled out of the parking lot. 

  “How do you know where I live?” I asked.

  “You forgot that I gave you a ride before?” Nate asked.

  “When?” 

  “After Cassie’s sweet sixteen. You blacked out, your friends were panicking, and I offered to take you home. For some reason, you remembered your address,” Nate recalled.

  “Oh, thanks?” 

  “Sure.” 

  We pulled up to my house a few minutes later, Lil Wayne bragging about his conquests filling the quiet. I hopped out of the truck and grabbed my bag. 

  “Thanks for the ride, this one, I mean, I owe you,” I said.

  “Yeah, see you around, Y/N.” 

  I closed the door and headed inside.

  “I’m home!” I called.

  My mom poked her head out from the kitchen. “Y/N, how was school and practice?” 

  “Fine.�� 

  “Was that Nate Jacobs outside?” 

  I hesitated. 

  How did she know what Nate’s truck looked like?  “Yeah, he gave me a ride today.” 

  “Aw, isn’t that sweet? Rue and Jules are waiting for you in your room. They took the cookies with them.”  

  I nodded and went to my room. As soon as I walked in, they bombarded me with questions.

  “Why did Nate give you a ride?” Rue asked.

  “What did you guys talk about?” Jules inquired. 

  “Don’t you hate him?” 

  “He’s kind of a dick, but, unfortunately, super good looking.”

  “Did Maddy see?” 

  “Do you think she’s gonna kill you?” 

  “Guys, I don’t know but I do know that if you do not take amazing pictures of me with no clothes on soon, I will delete my entire profile,” I interrupted. 

  They both nodded. 

  “But, we will ask for details later,” Jules insisted.

  “Okay, but, please give me a cookie, I’ll need it to get through this.” 

  Rue extended the plate towards me and I bit into the melty goodness as Jules began doing my makeup. It was simple, only bringing out my best features. I made them both turn around as I undressed. Once I had, Jules encouraged me.

  “You look amazing, I would be shocked if he didn’t jizz in his pants,” Jules said.

  “Lower your voice, Y/B/N can only play Five Nights at Freddy’s so loud,” I hissed.

  Jules held her hands up and Rue direct me to lay on the bed, my phone held up in front of her.

  “Okay, look sexy,” Rue said.

  I tried to smolder, but, by their expressions, I did not achieve it.

  “No, like, pout your lips, like, you just heard that TheOdd1sOut is not uploading for a month,” Jules directed.

  “And give the camera bedroom eyes, you know, as though it’s Tyler.”

  “Okay.”    After a few pictures, I slowly got the hang of it and even started posing a little naturally.

  “Oh my gosh, Tyra is shook!” Jules cheered. 

 “Yeah, these are pretty good if I do say so myself.” Rue handed me my phone and I flipped through the pictures. 

  She was a talented photogrpaher and I joked that maybe she should go professional.

  “Yeah, I’m sure I’d have a nice clientele.” 

  I laughed as I changed back into my hoodie and sweatpants. “Okay, help me pick one to send.” 

  Jules took my phone and she and Rue began scrolling.

  “No, the lighting’s off in this one,” Jules muttered.

  “No, it’s never off in any of these,” Rue argued. 

  “I’m not shading your talent, I’m just trying to find the best thing for Y/N to send Tyler.” 

  After a little more bickering, we all agreed on the picture and I sent it to Tyler.

  “Should I follow it up with something?” I asked.

  “Maybe say ‘Wrong person’? Guys want what other guys want,” Jules suggested.

  “Or say ‘Sorry for the late reply’,” Rue added.

  “I’ll go with Rue’s, sorry, Jules.” 

  Jules shrugged. 

  I sent everything off and my friends and I watched as Tyler typed a response.

  Tyler: It was worth the wait ;).

  We squealed so loud that my mom yelled for us to keep it down. We apologized as we descended into a fit of giggles. Through it all, I could not help but feel so bouncy and light all over. Was I...falling for this total stranger? 

  “What do you think he looks like?” Jules asked during lunch later that week.

  I shrugged. “It’s different every day, if that makes sense.” 

  “I guess that’s the nice thing about interacting with someone who doesn’t show their face,” Jules thought outloud. 

  “How do you see him now?” Lexi asked. 

  I sighed. “Right now, I think he’s tall, six feet at least. He’s got a mix of blonde and brown hair like a surfer because it’s lightened from all the time he’s spent in the sun. He has green eyes, freckles, and he dresses well.” 

  “Sounds amazing,” Jules said as she rest her chin in her hand. 

  Rue nodded slowly. “You’re not nervous or anything?” 

  “No, this is so cheesy, but, I feel like I know him, you know? He’s so easy to talk to and has so much to say.”

  “Y/N’s blushing,” Jules teased. “Do you love him?” 

  “I really, really, really, like him.” 

  “Do you think you’ll meet soon?” Lexi asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, neither of us has brought it up.”

  “Well, it just matters that you’re comfortable, okay?” Rue said.

  “Okay.” 

  If I was honest, I did not know if I wanted to meet Tyler. I knew that I liked him more than I liked anyone before, but, there was something strange about breaking this wall the internet provided us. It was freer to talk on the internet than it was in person. What if I said something stupid in front of him? What if he thought that I looked different in person? What if he looked different in person? 

  I managed to keep these thoughts at bay for the rest of the day until I got home. Post-dinner had been officially declared Talk to Tyler Time. None of my family knew what I was doing besides blasting Amy Winehouse in my room for about an hour. My laugh nearly overpowered her high note in “Best Friends, Right?”. I had to blink away my happy tears as I replied to him. 

  Y/N: That did not happen!  Tyler: Yes it did! Do u want 2 c the scar????

 Y/N: No, I think I’m good.

 I wiped away my tears and settled under the covers. I wondered if his friends would agree that Tyler gets into some weird situations as well. Just as I started typing, Tyler beat me.

 Tyler: I want 2 meet u.

 The speed that I launched my phone away from me almost shocked me more than the text.

  Almost.

  My heartbeat thrummed in my ears. This was it, I knew I couldn’t avoid him much longer, but, I felt like I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare at my phone like it was the most offensive object in the world. Slowly, I regained mobility and grabbed my phone. I took a deep breath.

  “Take a chance, Y/L/N,” I whispered.

  Y/N: When and where?

    “You’re meeting him tonight?” Jules squealed the next day.

  I hushed her as people in the hallway paused to look at us. “Not so loud.”   “But this is so exciting. Please let me help you decide what to wear,” Jules pleaded with a pout. 

  “Sure,” I said. 

  Jules hugged me. “This is going to be so fun. I won’t go crazy with glitter since this is the first time you’re meeting this guy.” 

 “Thanks?” 

 “Do your parents know?” Rue asked.

 “No,” I replied as I slowly pulled away from Jules. “They’re coming Senior Night tonight, though. and I’m going to meet him at Mercy Park an hour before it ends.” 

 “Are you sure you even want to do this? I know that Jules and I tease you about your love life, but, this is risky,” Rue said. 

 “You weren’t saying that when you were helping me with those pictures the other day,” I shot back.

  “That was different. You’re...you’re actually meeting him now and he could be a psychopath or a sociopath or, just, a creepy old guy who likes to look at teenagers!” Rue insisted.

  “Rue, relax, everything’s going to be fine.”

  “You don’t know that!” She turned on her heel and hurried into the bathroom with Jules and I on her tail. 

  When we entered, Rue was leaning against the wall, panting and staring up at the ceiling. Jules and I approached her slowly as the girls who were in the bathroom quickly filed out. 

  “Rue, slow down your breathing,” I said slowly.

  “I...I can’t. You-you could get hurt or something and-and I would know about it an-and I-I couldn’t live with that!” Tears burst from her eyes as Rue began pacing and Jules and I were close but gave her room. 

  “Rue, Y/N is going to be okay, we both know what time she’ll be at the park. If anything happens, we’ll know the area she could be in,” Jules assured her.

  Rue shook her head and stopped in her tracks. Then, she looked between us helplessly before bowing her head and sobbing. Jules and I carefully hugged her and let her cry.

  “I’m sorry that I’m scared and I care about you and I don’t want you to get hurt,” Rue mumbled into my shirt.

  “It’s okay, I appreciate it. I really want to meet Tyler, though, and, I promise I will let you know if something happens, okay?” 

  Rue nodded and sniffled.

   It took Jules about an hour to make me look amazing. I had no idea my hair could be so fluffy and put together until she was done with it. She used eyeliner to make eyes look bigger and rounder and added sparkly lip gloss to make my lips look plumper. After she contoured and highlighted the best places she deemed that her work was done. My outfit, a fitted forest green long-sleeve shirt and fitted black pants with Jadons, was also approved by her.

  “Tell me everything later!” she insisted.

  Rue couldn’t join us since she had “prior commitments” but I texted her that I would let her know when I head to the park and when I leave. My nerves didn’t let me focus on the soccer game my parents insisted I joined them and my brother at. I couldn’t care less that the forward on one team got a yellow card or that the goalie on the other team made illegal blocks. I was practically buzzing with excitement and fear so much that I had to give my pretzel to Y/B/N. Finally, the third quarter arrived and I told my parents that I would meet them at home since I’d promised Lexi that I would help her with some homework. 

  Lexi wouldn’t mind being used for a lie this one time; it was an emergency.

  I tried to practice some calming deep breaths as I walked over to the park. The dark night sky provided a little bit of comfort to my walk. I wondered how different Tyler would look from the picture in my mind. I wondered if he thought I would look any different. Maybe (hopefully) it wouldn’t matter to either of us.

  Finally, I reached the park. It was empty, save for the oak trees scattered throughout the lush green scenery that seemed mysterious under the mooonlight. A few benches and wooden tables were around as well, but, Tyler and I had agreed to meet at the fountain which was further in the park. The breathing exercises had to have helped because I felt much more relaxed and I hoped that everything would go all right. 

   When I got to the fountain, there was a tall person facing it. All I could make out were dark clothes and broad shoulders. I took another deep breath and kept walking.

  “This is a nice spot, you have good taste,” I commented. 

  “I could say the same for you.” I stopped in my tracks as Nate slowly turned to face me. His face was unreadable but his eyes stayed on me. 

  “What? Wh-where’s Tyler?” I asked, my voice already hoarse. 

  Nate glanced down at his shoes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how else to talk to you.” 

  I shook my head. “No.” My vision got blurry but I could tell that Nate was looking up at me now. 

  “Just let me explain,” he requested softly. 

  He took a step towards me and I took two steps back .

 “I don’t wanna hear it. This....this is some sick joke to you or something?” 

 “No, never, Y/N, just listen to me.” 

 “I don’t want to!” The tears rolled down my cheeks and I swiped at them so hard that I thought I scratched myself. At least I could feel something because my heart felt numb. “You catfished me!” 

  “I just wanted to talk to you, I really do like you, Y/N. Tyler and I are the same, just different names,” Nate insisted, coming closer.

  For some reason, I didn’t move. I didn’t know if it was from emotional exhaustion or stress, but, I let him approach me. I kept shaking my head. 

  “No,” I hiccuped. 

  “I wanted to meet you tonight because I was tired of lying. I want to figure this, us, out,” Nate said.

  I sniffed. “Us?” 

  At that moment, I could actually see his face and Nate seemed so hopeful. There was a slight smile on his lips and his eyes seemed light for once. Maybe he wanted there to be an “us”. Maybe, despite all logic, he wanted to talk to me seriously and could not do it offline because of his reputation. Maybe, he was over the on-again-off-again situation with Maddy. Maybe, this was my chance, our chance.

  I wiped my face again, mentally cringing at how upset Jules would be for my ruining her masterpiece. 

  “Yeah, us.” Nate stepped closer to me, gently wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me into his chest.

  Gradually, my muscles relaxed and I relished in the feeling of his strong upper body and his warmth. Then, I began to feel pressure on my waist and gasped as it intensified. 

  “Nate, you’re...squeezing...too hard,” I rasped out. 

  And he started laughing, no, cackling. As he laughed, his grip tightened and I continued gasping and clawing at everything I could. 

  “Nate...stop!” 

  But he kept laughing and squeezing. When he finally released me, I looked up and saw nothing behind his eyes. Everything in me told me to run, but, I knew he could have easily caught up to me.

  “I really thought you were smarter than that, Y/N. C’mon, you couldn’t honestly think that I would do all this to be with you,” he sneered.

  “So why do it then?” I asked, my voice so small that I could have kicked myself for it. 

  Nate sighed and folded his arms. “Because you made it so easy and, to ask for a favor.” 

  “What? That makes no sense,” I argued. “I told you I owed you one that day you gave me a ride!” 

  “Yeah, well, I needed to make sure that you were available when I needed you.” 

  “Whatever, screw you,” I hissed as I pivoted on my heel. 

  “Too late for you, you’re already screwed.” Nate pulled out a folder from inside his jacket pocket. “Remember those special pictures you sent to Tyler? Well, they count as distribution of child pornography, which has a hefty fine and sentence.” 

   My mouth opened and closed several times before I faced him and responded. “But...but you held them, doesn’t that count towards possession? And, you’re extorting me!” 

  Nate glowered at me and stormed over. “Heresay, no solid evidence for your case. Plus, I’m a Jacobs, so, who are you kidding?” 

   I felt so sick to my stomach that I could have thrown up, fainted, or cried at that moment. This was not real, this could not be real.

   “What do you want?” I asked.

   “Like I said, just be available when I need you.” 

  “Fine.” 

  “Sorry, what was that?” He gripped my chin his hand and forced me to look up at him.

  “Okay,” I said softly.

  “Hmm.” His eyes scanned my face before he released me. “And if I ever hear you judging my relationship with Maddy again, these pictures are going to be the least of your concern.” 

  I nodded weakly, regretting every single thing I ever told him. Nate Jacobs was truly the devil. He wandered off into the night like a centurion leaving a victorious battle. It seemed like he always won. 

  I managed not to start crying until I was on the empty sidewalk. No, I sobbed so bad that my throat went dry. 

  How could I have been so stupid? I should have known it was him that day Maddy yelled at him for texting all day. 

  Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  My sobs continued as I grabbed my phone and texted Rue. 

  Y/N: U were right. 

[ldwritesstuff]

Tales From The SCP: Critical

I'm alive? nah, just posting an idea I had based on this thing (which you will need to read before this or nothing gonna make any sense). Might turn this into a series, we shall see, it depends on life, which is kicking my ass. Tip to ya: don't advertise your stuff at a convention because then you might be compelled to do something with it while all your other WIPs stare daggers at you. Anyways, there is the disclaimer: the only characters I own are Dr. Raven, Dr. Generic and Collins. SCP doesn't belong to me either, go check it out yourself if you want to get into in and find yourself down a huge rabbit hole. And obviously I don't own the Dream SMP or their characters.

Tales From the SCP: Critical

When it came to dealing with SCPs, Dr. Raven was no stranger to them. Having been stuck in this cat’s body and given a different life, he has been carted all around the earth, from one site to another, dealing with his new specialty against reality benders. But this was a new one he didn’t expect to be dealing with. One Dr. Generic had experience with and even worked with. Apparently things have changed and now the situation of the Keter Class SCP has become critical. In this case, the SCP the doctor is working with has changed, or rather, an instance has suddenly been released from the SCP itself. Dr. Raven is here to merely observe and act as a deterrent from the reality bending SCP during the interview. The cat with black fur covered by a white lab coat and wearing a blue collar with an ID card with his name and rank dangling from it continued down the halls. A Mobile Task Force operative assigned to make sure he stays safe follows behind as they make their way to the interview room.

“Collins, what do you think?” Dr. Raven asked, his voice cold and neutral as always.

“I’m not too sure sir, I'm not a researcher,” Collins shrugged.

“And that’s why you are only an MTF member,” Dr. Raven grumbled.

Collins didn’t respond to that, opting to just adjust his body armor. Dr. Raven just rolled his blue eyes and came to a stop in front of a door. Collins opened the door and the two of them stepped inside the dark observation deck. Another researcher greeted the pair with a nod. Collins stayed by the door while Dr. Raven sprang up on the desk and looked through the one way window down to the interview room below. Harsh fluorescent illuminated the room, showing a single table with two people on the opposite ends sitting in plain, metal padded chairs. One sat Dr. Generic, a simple man with short, dirty blond hair, sunglasses he is normally seen with set on the table and a black face mask. But on the other side sat a woman, somewhere in her 20s, looking scared and confused. Her light blue eyes continuously scanning the room. Her long, blond hair disheveled and in need of a good cleanup. That is how they found her, in an abandoned looking house, in a dusty room with a book with furious scribbles inside and a glitching PC with the game known as Minecraft on it, the main menu screen putting on a light show with the glitching. Reports of activity in the house and her disappearance from the SCP prompted action, with MTF apprehending her and bringing her to the Foundation. This surprised Dr. Generic, the one who wrote the file on the SCP and swore to study it and figure out everything about it. And yet another mystery is thrown at them and more questions needing to be answered. Then again, the Foundation is all too used to such curve balls being thrown, which is why continuous study and testing is needed. And in this case, an interview with an instance or a victim of the SCP, depending on how you feel about such things. Dr. Raven looked to the other doctor and nodded. Then the interview began. A speaker was switched on in the observation room to hear their conversation and record the whole thing.

“Hello, I would like to ask you some questions,” Dr. Generic began.

“Where am I?” the instance asked, her eyes continuously darting around.

“You are in a safe interview room. Now then, can I ask about your experience with the Dream SMP?” Dr. Generic asked gently.

“How--How did I get out? It’s impossible,” the instance’s voice laced with panic.

Dr. Raven’s ears twitched, he had a funny feeling about this whole thing but couldn’t shake it. Everything seemed fine, nothing registering on any instruments. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched from somewhere. But he continued to focus on what was ahead of him, in this case, instance SCP-6969SMP-5 getting more and more agitated. He has a psychology PHD after all, he can tell the signs of anyone in great distress. But that didn’t matter to him in the long run. As a level 4 researcher, he had the power to shut down this whole interview, but he didn’t. He needed answers right then and there. So he let Dr. Generic continue.

“Care to elaborate?” the doctor asked.

“No . . . I shouldn't be here. I can’t remember . . . . this isn’t right,” the instance was becoming more and more distressed.

The instance suddenly jumped to their feet, eyes wide with fear, her breathing becoming more and more erratic. The chair she had been sitting in fell backwards, slamming on the ground with a clang. Nobody in that room flinched.

“STOP, I can’t be here, I can’t be out here. None of this makes sense, I'll get pulled back. The others, oh my god the others. No, you have to help them, they hardly know. Sometimes they know, but it makes us forget. YOU HAVE TO HELP!” the instance screeched, her movements all over the place, even slamming the table with her fists a few times to empathize her point.

Dr. Generic stood up slowly as well, holding his hands up in submission. A member of MTF entered the room in case things got hostile. Dr. Raven leaned forward, interested in her response.

“Please, you have to calm down,” Dr. Generic pleaded with her calmly, the MTF gripping their gun tightly.

“No, no, you don’t get it. They were sucked in, the whole thing is a lie, it’s all a lie. You have to help them, anyone who goes in there--you have to help them!” she cried out, running her fingers through her hair and even tearing at it. Tears had begun to pour down the side of her face, shrieking a bunch of nonsense in the process.

“Stop the interview,” the observer ordered through the microphone.

“What? No, continue the interview, we could get vital information,” Dr. Raven hissed.

“Doctor, with all due respect, even you can see that it would be futile to try and press with the instance in this state,” the observer said.

Dr. Raven looked down to see as she pressed herself in a corner while Dr. Generic tried everything to console her. The MTF had a few more enter the room to escort her to a humanoid containment cell until they can get her to calm down and do another interview. Dr. Raven’s tail twitched in annoyance but he wasn’t stupid. Once a person had gone down this route, their emotions all over the place, no good could come of it. He looked over his shoulder at Collins who nodded in agreement. Dr. Raven sighed and relented. The observer then ordered the MTF to take the instance to her assigned cell and wait for further instructions. Dr. Generic waved them off and the instance went along, sobbing in her hands, still muttering about others. Dr. Raven leapt off the table and Collins opened the door for him to exist. The observer would be in charge of the recording they got, uploading it to the file. The pair of them would meet up with Dr. Generic to discuss what they have learned. The feeling Dr. Raven had gotten before faded away for the time being, but he was suspicious of a potential return of whatever. That’s a common occurrence in this dangerous line of work after all. Dr. Generic did catch up with them and the three of them began their walk to the nearest break room for a quick drink and a short debrief.

“Her name is Alyssa, or username ItsAlyssa,” Dr. Generic informed them as they walked.

“Why does that matter? 6969SMP-5 is just that,” Dr. Raven replied coldly.

“Doctor, they are victims, pulled into the SCP, as the file reads. Though I didn't think the thing was too keen on spitting any of its victims out,” Dr. Generic huffed.

“Yes, and that is why we need to press for another interview as soon as possible,” Dr. Raven said.

Dr. Generic shrugged. The three of them entered the break room where maybe a few other personnel sitting around. They took a table in the corner while Collins got them drinks and even took the opportunity to take off his helmet and body armor. They sat around for a moment, Dr. Generic sipping on some coffee, Collins with some tea and Dr. Raven with some plain water. Oh how Dr. Raven missed coffee, the only thing that kept him sane. But ever since the incident with 239 that turned him into this cat form and even left him with a few extra abilities, he had no choice but to give up the delicious bean water. Apparently the stuff is deadly to cats and him having a cat body, there were a lot of things he had to avoid now. So he lapped up some water while the three of them took a breath for a moment. But then Dr. Generic’s phone rang a few times. He pulled it out and looked at the alert.

“Well, what timing, a couple of instances have gone live on Twitch,” Dr. Generic hummed.

The doctor in turn set up his phone to show a twitch stream of what could be ordinary Minecraft players on a server, playing the unsuspecting block game. But if you knew the truth like the Foundation did, this was the SCP at work again. Knowing those were real people inside this Minecraft Server, putting on a performance for millions who had no clue, it would make anyone’s stomach churn. But to the Foundation, this is just a regular Tuesday. They did flip through a few streams and something caught their attention soon into the stream.

“They don’t even notice Alyssa is gone,” Dr. Generic said, stunned.

“It seems the SCP has made them forget after 6969SMP-5 escaped, interesting,” Dr. Raven hummed.

“Complete control over the environment it created, damn reality benders,” Dr. Generic fumed.

“So what now?” Collins asked as he finished his tea.

“Simply put, what we normally do, continue to observe and study,” Dr. Generic shrugged.

And Dr. Raven watched, that feeling came back. The three of them leaned closer to the screen. It glitched for some reason, causing the three of them to lean in even closer. Suddenly, words began to form on the screen in the Minecraft chat text font.

‘I can see you,’ it read.

Immediately, Dr. Generic whipped out his camera and took a picture and started to record the stream itself. Nobody from the looks of things had seen what they had just seen. The Twitch chat continued as if nothing happened, spamming ‘E’ again. Even Dr. Raven was flustered, his fur bristling a little on his back and tail. He didn’t see that coming and even if he did, he figured this reality bending SCP fell into that 20% that he couldn’t use his ability on fully. That being, deterring reality benders from doing just that, reality bending. The SCP was mocking the Foundation, clearly. The writing disappeared, followed by an ‘:)’ flashing on the screen for a brief second and then the whole stream returned to normal. The room seemed to turn cold, folks noticing it but not really making a move. All eyes turned to the three practically squishing their faces onto a tiny screen. This simple block game had produced a dangerous SCP and now it was up to the Foundation to contain the thing. But that was the issue, containing something like this would be difficult. And throwing it into the sun wasn’t an option, they didn’t need another incident where they did that to 682, what a disaster.

“So, it's aware of us,” Collins muttered angrily, leaning back in his chair.

“That actually might work in our benefit of making contact and learning more,” Dr. Generic huffed, folding his arms and drumming his fingers on them.

“Right, I suppose the next step is to increase efforts of contact through private direct messages and even donations,” Dr. Raven added.

“Right,” Dr. Generic nodded.

[paigesturning]

Race in 5e: Who Is at Your Table?

I had to write an argumentative essay for one of my classes this semester. I was really into the idea I had, and gave it a shot! I think this might be one of the best pieces I’ve ever written.

Word count: 2995 TW: Discussions of race science, orientalism, and references to white supremacist rhetoric

Writing is difficult, and it’s even more difficult to write collaboratively. This applies to TTRPG as much as it applies to novels. Sure, the DM could simply railroad the players into sessions of combat, lock them into a certain path, or make their other options so terrible that they simply must go the way the story is leading, but it’s bad practice. After all, though it’s not a traditional story, written down in book form for distribution, TTRPG relies on the interplay between the DM’s idea for what should happen in the story, and the players’ ideas. Unlike writing a book, however, TTRPGs rely on another influence, rather than just the set of people who have agreed to tell a story. There’s always at least one other person in the situation, who might be completely unknown to the DM and players. I refer, of course, to the game designer. TTRPGs have far more freedom than video games, but the decisions made by the game designer have the same amount of weight in both mediums. In Skyrim, for example, this looks like a prioritization of combat mechanics over puzzle solving mechanics or relationship mechanics. Though both are implemented in the game, there’s not nearly as many options in playstyle for relationships, or variation in puzzle types, for it to be considered a romance game, or a puzzle game. In TTRPG, the influence of the designer is often far less apparent. In 5e, your character can do basically whatever they want so long as the other people at the table agree that it’s something they want to interact with. However, with some exception, you will not be able to run a game set, for example, in real-world Chicago or on a transport vessel in space. Players tend to be locked into a fantasy setting. Like Skyrim, 5e is a system that prioritizes combat in a magical, pseudo-European medieval setting. It’s a mix of mechanics, and built-in worldbuilding that can allow us to come to this conclusion - each spell, if it doesn’t explicitly add or remove hit points from a target, changes the rules for when and how combat can happen, and each class is described in their flavor text in high fantasy terms, often opening with the examples of ways each one can be useful in combat. True as all this may be, it is, at its core a neutral thing, and I find myself blessed to occasionally be at the tables of others as a game designer and homebrewer. All games must make assumptions about the kind of game players want, and must do their best to fulfil those expectations, the same way a speaker might attempt to predict the thoughts, previous knowledge, and counter-arguments of their audience. However, in 5e, there lies a certain set of assumptions that I personally find troubling, and in fact in need of some serious reworking. The way that race functions in 5e represents an old-fashioned way of viewing the world. In the most direct terms, yeah, it’s kinda racist. Therefore, the assumptions 5e makes in their race system, represented in mechanics that both promote archaic ways of thinking and force the narrative in directions the players and DM may be uncomfortable with, means that it is time to either dramatically change the way race works, or pass over the system entirely.

When a DM is preparing to start a new game of 5e, one very good place to start is the Dungeon Master’s Guide, or DMG. In it, theoretically, are the tools for DMs and players alike to better understand exactly what the game they are playing looks like. In many ways, it’s a behind the scenes look at what goes into planning a session. For example, each “encounter”, or a portion of the game in which the players fight enemies or find ways around them, there’s a bit of calculation which can tell you what enemies will be appropriate for your party size and level. However, in a new game, before even doing that, you should go to the beginning of chapter 1, on page 9. It lists the assumptions the rules make about your setting, which is a helpful tool for anyone attempting to rectify the base rules with a far-out, high-concept world. They are as follows: “Gods Oversee the World”, “Much of the World is Untamed”, “The World is Ancient”, “Conflict Shapes the World’s History”, and “The World is Magical”. On paper, that’s all you need to know (though it might be worth noting that on page 43 the book contradicts this and gets more specific about what sort of multiverse is required to support the rules). These are five basic rules anyone can follow, rules that most people working to create a fantasy setting would have followed anyway, especially in such a combat-focused system. However, in the Player’s Handbook, (abbreviated as PHB) there are additional assumptions about the setting you’ll be playing in, most notably in the section on the different races that appear in 5e. For starters, each race has a small box that explains how the other races in the game are likely to view them. Taken from page 37, when the book is discussing how Gnomes (a small race of humanoids with large heads and thin limbs) think about their place among other races, “It's rare for a gnome to be hostile or malicious unless he or she has suffered a grievous injury. Gnomes know that most races don't share their sense of humor, but they enjoy anyone's company just as they enjoy everything else they set out to do.” They give no explanation for why gnomes tend to be “Good”, in terms of 5e’s morality system. Perhaps this isn’t an oversight, and instead they are allowing you to fill in the blanks yourself? Do the gnomes perhaps have free healthcare, while some others do not? 

I am of course being facetious. I am certain the creators didn’t think quite so far ahead, and instead just wanted to paint a picture of the world they envisioned. It’s not some great sin of design, of course, to do this, and I will admit I am guilty of it in my own design. However, this is just one of the smaller examples of 5e making decisions for the DM and the players. Unlike some other portions of the rules, that brief note can be ignored with little to no need for creating a replacement. You could just as easily scribble the note out of the book, and leave a black sharpie stain where it once sat. Unfortunately, there are other decisions made about race that are much harder to ignore without a level of homebrewed (or player-created) mechanics. For example, a little later, on page 43, the book tells you about the specific mechanical benefits that half-orcs get. Two in particular stand out to me as disturbing. The first, Menacing, means that “You gain proficiency in the Intimidation skill”. The other is Savage Attacks, which reads “When you score a critical hit with a melee weapon attack, you can roll one of the weapon's damage dice one additional time and add it to the extra damage of the critical hit”. There is no way in which these cannot be seen as narrative decisions on the part of the creators. Exactly what is it about an orc’s presence that would mean it is more intimidating than any other person? One could surmise that, perhaps they are much larger than most people, or that their rarity means that people are not used to their size and tusks. Perhaps I only speak for myself, but I do not often find myself intimidated by people who look different from what I am used to. The explanation the rules provide is that full-blooded-orcs are barbaric raiders, who wantonly destroy and kill, and are considered evil. Why is it, however, that there’s an entire group of people, people with thoughts, feelings, social structures, who can produce viable offspring with members of other groups of people, that the book deems evil? I submit that, in the minds of the creators, there is some sort of orientalist mystique behind the savage barbarian, one that is physically superior, and yet is still no more than fodder to be torn through by the heroes of the story. This isn’t even the worst example of racism built into the game, but to explain this next portion, I will need to explain a concept. 

At its base level, phrenology is, as per the Encyclopedia Britannica, “the study of the conformation of the skull as indicative of mental faculties and traits of character, especially according to the hypotheses of Franz Joseph Gall”. Gall, born in 1758, measured the heads of his colleagues, convicts, and people in asylums, in order to determine traits such as intellect and potentiality for criminal behavior. As with many things invented in late 18th century Europe, this practice was used to fuel European imperialism. The article Of ‘Native Skulls’ and ‘Noble Caucasions’: Phrenology in Colonial South Africa, by Andrew Bank, explains very quickly that “The leading proponents of the new discipline almost uniformly adapted their science of the brain to issues of racial differentiation”. I assume that from here it isn’t difficult to see the direction I am heading with this. Elves, Tieflings, Humans, and Gnomes are given bonuses to Intelligence. Dwarves, Humans, and Elves are given bonuses to Wisdom. Elves, Half-Elves, Humans, Tieflings, Dragonborn, and Halflings are given bonuses to Charisma. Of the races present in the PHB, Half-Orcs are the only ones that don’t get any bonuses to the so-called “Mental Stats”. Physical stats, on the other hand, include Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution, and Half-Orcs get bonuses to Strength and Constitution. In mechanical terms, this leads to a fairly good balance. The other classes serve as either well-rounded jacks-of-all-trades, or are specialized for certain casters, or help fit an archetype of dexterous fighter/caster combinations, while the Half-Orcs are specialized for non-caster tanks, such as the Barbarian or the Fighter. This makes narrative sense as well; if Half-Orcs are raised by the orcish side of their family, they are far more likely to be brutal in martial combat, trained to fight and kill anyone who might have supplies or treasure for them. 

However much this might “make sense”, I have to ask why this was an addition to the game. I see three possible answers, and by my approximation, they are likely to all be true. The first is that the creators wanted more narrative control than they let on. The second is that they needed those stats to be stand-in numbers to represent various types of spellcaster and are simply ignorant to their implications. The third is that the creators simply find race science unobjectionable. Earlier, I suggested that the game designer joins the players and the DM at the table, through their work. At my table, ignorance and suggestions that some races are simply more intellectually powerful than others is not tolerated, and I should only hope you feel the same way. 

At this point, you’re thinking so loud that I can practically hear it, even in the past. “Ignorance isn’t tolerated? What if the ignorant person in question is willing to change, and well-meaning?”, but if this is what you were thinking, I say with the deepest respect that you’re being just a touch too literal. Of course, if I’ve sat down and agreed to play with someone I know, I am willing to go over why what they said made me uncomfortable. TTRPG is a dialogue, one where the players and the DM must negotiate, not battle, for the story they want to tell, and where everyone must speak up when something happens that makes them upset. The difference between a literal player’s presence and the game designer’s figurative presence is that there is no arguing with a book. In some ways, it’s easier to change a book’s mind. Simply write your own rules, and move on, there’s no need to debate an actual person. You may also be thinking that 5e simply utilizes the mechanics of previous editions. While that is technically true, what is the point of creating a new edition if you can’t change things moving forward? And what’s more, each of my criticisms can be moved onto 1e. The biggest criticism I expect against my argument however, isn’t any of this. Obviously, only one of the races in 5e is human. Nothing in 5e indicates that one race of human is significantly better or worse than any other race of human, and so surely it can’t be racism. Again, you may be thinking a little too literally. In the world supposed by 5e, each race is seen as a person, and (depending on the setting and narrative your group constructs) has the same rights to freedom and life, and yet some are just more mentally skilled than others as soon as they are born. How often in reality do the dregs of society say something along the lines of “it isn’t that I think [members of a certain race] aren’t people or should be enslaved, it’s just that I think that white people are inherently smarter” to make an effort of sounding more reasonable? It isn’t that I think the races in 5e are 1:1 parallels to real-world racist stereotypes. Instead, it’s a matter of philosophy, race-based pseudoscience, and ideology that makes 5e (and previous editions) racist, without major rules upheavals. 

However, in some cases, it would require such an overhaul of a system that it isn’t worth it. Most people would look at the rules for 5e’s races and pale at the thought of changing it completely. Do you get rid of stats completely? Do you select whatever stats you want by yourself? Perhaps you instead get certain bonuses when you select your class, rather than your race? These are all possibilities, and I have played games that utilized some of these options. Aside from the strength of reducing the amount of racism in 5e, it also increases the amount of choice a player has when creating their character. It isn’t unheard of to have a dwarf that uses Dexterity and Charisma as it’s primary abilities, but it is poorly optimized in comparison to the options of Half-Elf or Tiefling, and though it takes a bit more work than just handing a player the PHB, I believe it is worth it in the end. There’s no shame in admitting defeat, though. It’s not every day that I feel like fixing another person’s game, and I design games. And I do it for fun. It is the talent I am blessed with, and my lifelong burden. I understand not wanting to put in the effort. However, my suggestion isn’t that you walk away from TTRPG forever, scorned by the problems in 5e, never to roll a die again. Instead, it might be worth your time looking into other systems of play. Whenever I recommend a system to someone who has only played 5e and is looking for a similar aesthetic, I always turn them toward my personal favorite, Dungeon World (abbreviated as DW). DW is, in many ways, the game that I thought I was playing when I first started playing 5e. Looking through the PHB, it seems very comprehensive to incoming players. But to go back to the example of Skyrim, there’s a suggestion when you start it for the first time that you are about to enter a world of endless possibility, only to be shoehorned into a game that directly prioritizes combat. Dungeon World, while it has far less comprehensive rules for combat, one of its biggest strengths is that it has far fewer rules in general. That isn’t to say that it’s harder to follow. Instead of having intense, complicated rules for combat, every moment in the game is subject to “moves” in which, when you say that your character is doing something, the GM - Game Master, in contrast to the Dungeon Master of 5e - can tell you that the outcome is uncertain, and that it might be difficult. When this happens, you roll two six-sided dice, and the game provides very comprehensive rules to help you resolve it. When you choose a race, you get one extra move and nothing else - an option easily alterable, if one finds it uncomfortable. Blades in the Dark, a similar fantasy system, resolves roles in a similar manner, once again, with a much lesser emphasis on violence, and a much stronger emphasis on magic heists. It’s races have no mechanical benefit, and can be completely ignored if so desired. 

Creating a system is difficult, I know. Playtesting aside, it’s a combination of finding something special that you want to create, deciding what the players will be looking for, and editing draft after draft. It’s also difficult, both logistically and emotionally, to kick someone out of a campaign. It’s my belief though that a line should be drawn when someone in the game insists on adding not only social, but biological inferiority to characters of certain races. It’s a privilege to have your work at someone else’s table, and it’s a privilege that can be revoked. Once again, playing 5e isn’t some ethical failing, or mortal offence. However, it is worth evaluating what changes can be made to 5e’s race system, and if it’s worth it to you to not switch to another system. If you have found any of this compelling, consider your other options. In addition to what I’ve already mentioned, there are designers out there who can bring you into space, cities filled with dark magic and/or under control by cosmic monsters, or honey conventions where there are a few bears trying to steal stuff. Next time you get the urge to roleplay, just consider what I’ve said here, and think about who you’re inviting to your table.

Bibliography

LaTorra, Sage, and Adam Koebel. Dungeon World. 1st ed., The Burning Wheel, 2012.

Harper, John. Blades in the Dark. Evil Hat Productions LLC., 2017.

Works Cited

Mearls, Mike, and Jeremy Crawford. Player's Handbook. 5th ed., Wizards of the Coast LLC, 2014.

Mearls, Mike, and Jeremy Crawford. Dungeon Master's Guide. 5th ed., Wizards of the Coast LLC, 2014.

“Phrenology.” Encyclopædia Britannica, Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., www.britannica.com/topic/phrenology.

Bank, Andrew. “Of 'Native Skulls' and 'Noble Caucasians': Phrenology in Colonial South Africa.” Journal of Southern African Studies, vol. 22, no. 3, 1996, pp. 387–403. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/2637310. Accessed 26 Mar. 2020.

[cilliansaccent]

Class of Temptation - CHAPTER THREE

Leave a like, reblog or comment below to show your support and love! Enjoy…

PLEASE READ:

No mention of Cillian’s true family or relatives. All names are made up.

This is a TEACHER x STUDENT fanfiction, it’s going to be kinky and very taboo!

I will write whenever the mood grabs me, so I apologise if there are long breaks between chapters :)

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Background: Tessa is a twenty-three-year-old model from a broken-up family, living in London with her best friend and starting a course on Drama and Theatre. Though, when she gets closer to the super hot Mr Murphy who is her much older teacher, there is a battle of lust and love between them. They’ll have to figure out what to do with their tight relationship as other issues begin to rise and nip at their heels…

Word Count: 2,141

!!Warnings!!: None.

Chapter Name: First Day

Brief Chapter Outline: It’s Tessa’s first day of class and she goes through it without any hassle. But a letter comes in and her mood changes drastically...

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Tessa was early for her first class, walking towards it. She wore wet look pants and a tucked-in black shirt with TOMMY JEANS across it in bold red writing. She had a pair of white sneakers with the trademark Tommy Hilfiger branding on the side of red, blue and white stripes. She liked the brand, most of her clothing was bought from the store. Well, she is one of their models for their brand. 

She hoped no one was there already but also unsure if she was able to even enter the class. As she came to the door which was slightly ajar she peeked her head in. 

Mr Mur- Cillian was already inside setting up the chairs in a large circle. She counted about forty chairs. 

Cillian turned and spotted someone peaking in, "Come in." He called out, standing in the middle of the giant circle he had made. 

Tessa pushed the door wider and stepped in, "Good morning." She said as her nerves began to start. 

"Morning, Tessa. Welcome back." Cillian gave her that heart-stopping smile. He wore a button-down blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves to his elbow and black jeans and a pair of brown loafers. He looked good. 

"Yeah. Nice to uh, see you again." She smiled as she stepped to the chairs. "What are you doing?" She asked seeing all the tables pushed against the walls. 

"Preparing the morning class. Instead of the old, sit at your desks thing I thought it would be good to get everyone involved." He said as he gestured for her to take a seat. 

"And what would that be?" Tessa stepped through and took a seat, setting her bag in front of her legs. 

"Can't say. You'll see." He said as he finished up, "By the way, you are very early. Class doesn't start for another hour." 

"Oh, yeah. I know. I wanted to make sure I was in the right class." She blushed lightly. 

"You found the right place fast too. I had students who would come in with the campus' student guides cause they couldn't find the place." He chuckled as he came over and took a spot next to her, a chair in between them and crossed his ankle over his knee. 

"Oh, well. You won't expect that from me, I'm pretty good at remembering where I have to go." She explained. 

"I hope so. I'll make sure everyone comes early. Makes it better to start the class right away." He said, "So, tell me about yourself a little? I remember you said you're a model?" 

"Yeah. I um, I work for an agency in Central London but I do shoots for various brands. Currently working with Tommy Hilfiger." Tessa said trying her best to meet his gaze. She wasn't used to this type of attention, most of it was through a camera lens which she never got to met the gaze of the person behind it. 

"Huh, I can see the clothing you wear. What is it like?" He continued, genuinely interested. 

"Fast-paced, constantly changing clothing, makeup and hairstyles to fit in with the shoot. Can be some hours to a whole day or a couple of days." She explained clearly. She was okay about discussing her work but never about herself to strangers. 

"Seems intense. Do you think that will affect your studies? This class does have a lot of practical sides to it." He frowned a little. 

"If it does, I will make sure to give you a heads up. I can miss some shoots but not all, it won't be seen as a professional." She stated. 

"Hm, okay. We'll see how it goes." He nodded. "So you get to go overseas as well?" He moved on. 

"Yep. I can when we have big events happening. I tend to go to as many as I can, I love it." She laughed lightly. "Most of the events are in Europe so its shorter trips." 

"So I'm assuming you're quite a big deal?" He asked his smile never left his face. 

"Uhhh... I mean, I don't know. Maybe not as big as you are but I do have a large following on social media." She shrugged. Tessa never saw her number of followers as important, just the support and care she received from her fans what made it important. She wanted to make sure she created a caring and supportive environment for all types of people. 

"How big, may I ask?" Cillian was always curious about others especially if it came to learning that they worked in a completely different industry than himself. 

"Well, almost six hundred and thousand followers on Instagram and about two hundred and fifty thousand on Twitter. I rarely ever use Facebook, only for updates for the ones who don't use the other two media." Tess shrugged. 

"Wow. That is big." He chuckled. 

"Yeah. But I honestly don't care about the number, as much as it sounds bad. I'm just after a good happy environment for all." She shook her head. 

"I'm curious, how do you deal with it all though? Can it get daunting?" He asked her. 

"Yeah, a hundred per cent. There are days where I take breaks from it all to recollect myself. I guess any person with a big following will always attract the good and bad kind, but I don't let it get to me. It's only words on the internet." Tessa stopped there. She felt like she was just blabbering on nonsense to him. Who wants to listen to that anyway? But Cillian did not seem annoyed or bored, he was really into it. 

It made her nervous and intimidated. It showed. 

Cillian spotted the odd look across her face as if she had said too much and began to step back. So he stepped back faster, "Nice, that's good. Well, I'll let you sit here and relax while I do some paperwork before the rest of the class comes in." He said and gave her a gentle smile as he stood and sat behind his desk. "Do you mind if I play music?" He asked. 

"Oh go ahead. I don't mind." She gulped as she pulled out her laptop to set up her documents and look at her uni email for any updates. 

Cillian played some cool jazz, rock, alternative, some genre she never really heard before. It was odd but she kinda liked it. 

When the hour was up, people began to file in. A mixture of guys and girls all dressed in various clothing types. They took their seats around the circle until it was somewhat full, about five seats unoccupied. 

Cillian started the class and began to introduce himself. Tessa could see some of the girls, the flashier ones watched him with such unashamed desire for him. 

It made her internally cringe. What the hell? 

The first thing they did was go around the class and introduce themselves. Their name, what they like, and why they picked this course. 

Everyone seemed here for the same reason, to get into acting for a play or movie. Or whatever fancied them. A lot of book readers, she thought once it came to the five flashy girls. 

The leader, or so Tessa thought made herself to be super good at... everything with acting. The other four nodded in agreement, but Cillian didn't seem one to phased by the sexual attraction the girls seemed to give the vibe of. 

Tess wondered why they were taking this class in the first place if they claimed to be so good. They were the only ones who had said that. 

Then it came to Tessa and she slowly stood. All eyes on her, "Hi. I'm Tessa Miller. Uhm... I love music and reading and uhm... Relaxing. I... Took this course because I want to expand my path into something new." She gave the class a tight smile and hastily sat back down. She had gripped her hands tightly in her lap and kept her eyes downcast. 

The last ten people went before Cillian praised them all for telling him about themselves before they spent the next two hours playing games. 

It consisted of a lot of small groups doing things, and she worked with a few different people in each game. Cillian tried to get every person involved and to constantly swap seats. 

Then it got serious and he took them through the module for the first term. There was a small project that was to be started by the following week, a short play with two people that was basically a monologue and acting it out for ten minutes. 

Tessa was paired up with a guy named Julian. He had blond hair that was combed back and faded edges. His eyes dark brown and his facial features were strong. 

The class went on as they went through some basics and more introductions to the whole acting thing. By the end of the class, they were to state an interesting fact about their new partner and then class was dismissed after the tables and chairs were put back in order. 

"So you're that model chick on insta?" A voice came from behind Tessa and she turned around to face of the five girls that had eyed off Cillian the whole time. "Didn't think you would actually do the course." Sofia laughed, flicking back her dark brown hair over her slender shoulder. 

Tessa kept her face neutral. To be honest, she wasn't even sure what to make of this situation. "Okay? Your point?" Tessa wanted to head into the library ASAP to get the reading material for tonight's homework. 

"I'm quite proud of you. That's so cool." Sofia said with that hidden malice that Tessa could easily pick up on. 

She knew how people can act fake. 

"Ah, thanks." Tessa gave her a smile, "I really must go. I have things to do." Tessa bobbed her head once. 

"Okay. See ya next time, Tess." Sofia and her squad walked past her. Tessa watched them go, laughing and muttering to each other. 

She would work hard and not let anyone else try and deter her from that. She was not the kind to let others trample on her. 

She headed to the library and get to work on her task given to her. Once she had finished her given tasks, she had headed home to rest. On the train, she thought back to the class. 

Most of the guys in the class had watched her like she was some meal as she did the warm-up games Cillian had prepared. She was used to the stares and tend to not pay much attention to it. If they verbally spoke to her in a way that would make her uncomfortable, then she would say something. 

But she would stay alert no matter what. Especially towards those group of girls. They seemed off and trouble circled them. 

She was glad to be back in her apartment and flopped on the bed as she discarded the letters on the coffee table. But one had fallen to the floor and she reached to grab it. 

It had been addressed to her in that familiar writing she knew. She quickly sat up and frowned, this time it wasn't thick. 

"Fuck." She muttered as she battled with her thoughts before she ripped it open. Time to see what else the bastard wanted. 

Reading the letter felt like the world had stopped. Her father and his bitch of a wife was going to come down in December to have a Christmas altogether. He wanted the family back together and he was willing to make amends. Also, he had added he wanted to see how Tessa was going with her studies. 

Was he really? Why now of all the times? She prayed silently to whatever God heard her in hopes that this wasn't some other shitty way of pinning the blame on her or her two eldest sisters. It would be totally messed up and would make her even angrier than ever. 

Tessa chucked the letter aside and rubbed her eyes. Great, she did not want to deal with Grace or her stupid sons who always bullied her. This was not how she pictured it. 

She tried to distract herself by playing her cello in her room, a cover of With or Without You and various other slow songs for the most of the afternoon until Esther came back from a shoot. 

The pair made dinner but Tessa would not tell Esther yet about the news she received today. She wasn't in the mood for it and Esther seemed to sense Tessa's change in mood so she had left her to her own thoughts for the rest of the night. 

Silence yet inside Tessa's head was a roaring tidal wave. 

[leonelaalejandro]

Tumblr Multimedia Journal Assignment 1: #OscarsSoWhite

1.What is the subject of your film, program, or internet/social media selection? Provide a brief summary, describing your selection and how it relates to our course topics, readings, and screenings.

2.Referring to related and appropriate readings and screenings from the course, describe how your selection represents racial and ethnic identities (and if applicable, intersectionality). In what ways does this media generate a conversation regarding race, ethnicity, and cultural diversity?

3.How does your selection relate to the course readings, screenings and discussions?  Reflect upon the representation and circulation of racial and ethnic identities in popular visual culture. Your reflections should be attentive to the intersectionalities of race, ethnicity, sexuality, religion, socioeconomic class and gender

4.Include Images, video,audio,links or other media elements for your selection.Make sure you cite everything you use. Please make sure to use either MLA or Chicago 16th Style for citations. The more media-rich the post, the higher the grade.

The first media selection I will be writing about is the hashtag #oscarssowhite. April Reign created the hashtag five years ago when the nominees for the 2015 Oscars were announced. All 20 acting nominations were given exclusively to white actors. In 2015, the Academy membership was overwhelmingly white and male (92% and 75% respectively.) Reign was watching the nominee announcement one morning while getting ready for work and immediately noticed the lack of diversity, prompting her to tweet “#OscarsSoWhite they asked to touch my hair.” This created a snowball effect of more tweets: “#OscarsSoWhite they wear Birkenstocks in the wintertime.” and “#OscarsSoWhite they have a perfect credit score.” Franklin Leonard, the founder of Black List, noted that this was only a year after “12 Years a Slave” won and how minority communities felt they were led to believe that there had been a real change in the white-washed Hollywood industry. In 2015, there also weren’t any women directors nominated or any visibly disabled people, so although #oscarssowhite directly refers to race, it’s really about the underrepresentation of all minority groups. This has been a common trend from our class materials. White people are constantly put in the center of all the media we consume, in television and in movies. We are constantly being taught that white means neutrality, a white person could be anything. They can play characters that are complex and are given proper arcs and development and their race has absolutely nothing to do with it.

Something that is interesting to note is that in the Oscars, the few women that have been nominated for best actress or supporting actress, a large part of them are playing roles of women going through hardships, or women who have lived a life full of struggles. Cynthia Erivo was nominated for the role of Harriet Tumban in “Harriet” in the 2020 Oscars. Erivo portrayed the life of a woman born into slavery who escaped and became an abolitionist and political activist. In 2014, Lupita Nyong’o won best supporting actress for her performance in “12 Years a Slave” but got snubbed from even a nomination for her part in Jordan Peele's critically acclaimed horror movie “Us.”  Nyong’o faces the task of playing two completely separate actors, so what’s the difference between her characters in both movies? Trauma. I feel like this relates closely to Dyer’s “On the Matter of Whiteness.” Lupita Nyong’o gets recognition from the Academy when she plays a character based entirely around her race (and the suffering that came as a result), but when she plays a fully realized, multifaceted character (two actually) in “Us”, a nomination is not merited. This goes back to the tradition of white representing relatability and neutrality and non-white meaning a representation of their race. 

There’s a trend of seeing nominations for Oscars throughout the years being predominantly about the experiences and lives of straight white men. With the larger part of the Academy being that demographic, we can infer that many times, the way they choose actors and films to nominate, it has to do with the lens they view it through. Perhaps if the Academy was more inclusive in its members (more women, more people of color, more people from the LGBTQ+ community), Oscar nomination lists would look much more different. Through the entirety of the Oscars (over 90 years), only a total of five women have ever been nominated in the category for best director and out of all of them, only one has won, being Kathryn Bigelow for “The Hurt Locker�� in 2010. There have been some changes in the Oscars since 2015. In 2020, Bong Joon-ho’s “Parasite” made history by being the first non-English film to win best picture, and also getting five other awards, including best director and best original screenplay. However, none of the nominations went to the cast despite their top tier performances. Also in 2020, Greta Gerwig was snubbed in the best director category for “Little Women.” Gerwig was nominated in 2018 for “Lady Bird”, being the only woman nominated for best director in the last decade. In 2019, three out of four of the acting categories were won by non-white actors (Rami Malek, Mahershala Ali, and Regina King.) Since the start of #oscarssowhite, the Academy has doubled the number of POC members from 8% to 16%, which is still ridiculously low. Incredible directors and films with representation and diversity continue getting snubbed by the Academy (Kasi Lemmons for “Harriet”, Lulu Wang for “The Farewell”, Lorene Scafaria for “Hustlers.”) 

In Peggy McIntosh’s list at the end of “Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack”, she includes: 

6. I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see people of my race widely and positively represented. 

12. I can go into a book shop and count on finding the writing of my race represented, into a supermarket and find the staple foods that fit with my cultural traditions, into a hairdresser’s shop and find someone who can deal with my hair.

26. I can easily buy posters, postcards, picture books, greeting cards, dolls, toys, and children’s magazines featuring people of my race. 

All of these have to do with finding proper representation of your race. This is something that white people don’t really have to worry or think about as much. We’ve seen it year after year at the Oscars, nominee lists full of white actors and directors. The lack of people of color on these lists has nothing to do with their merit or the quality of their work. It doesn’t have to do with box office numbers or how the audience or critics respond to it. This problem is ingrained into the whiteness of the Academy, and until they open up a space for diversity and inclusivity, the situation won’t ever truly change.  

Dyer, Richard. “On the Matter of Whiteness.” Only Skin Deep: Changing Visions of the American Self, by Brian Wallis and Coco Fusco, International Center of Photography, 2003, pp. 301–311.

Ferrari, Alex. “Are the Oscars Too White...Again? #OscarsSoWhite.” Indie Film Hustle®, 26 Dec. 2019, indiefilmhustle.com/oscars-so-white-oscarssowhite/.

Johnson, Zenzele. “#OscarsSoWhite: Why Representation Matters.” The LAMP, 20 July 2016, thelamp.org/oscarssowhite-why-multi-dimensional-representation-matters/.

Jurgensen, John. “'Parasite' Makes History at the Oscars.” The Wall Street Journal, Dow Jones & Company, 10 Feb. 2020, www.wsj.com/articles/the-stars-are-out-as-the-2020-oscars-kick-off-11581296482.

Mcintosh, Peggy. “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack (1989) .” On Privilege, Fraudulence, and Teaching As Learning, 2019, pp. 29–34., doi:10.4324/9781351133791-4.

Reality Check Team. “Oscars 2020: How Diverse Are the Oscars?” BBC News, BBC, 10 Feb. 2020, www.bbc.com/news/51094069.

Reign, April. “#OscarsSoWhite Creator: With a Mostly White Academy, What Could We Expect? (Column).” Variety, Variety, 15 Jan. 2020, variety.com/2020/film/news/oscarssowhite-nominations-diversity-april-reign-1203467389/.

Reign, April. “OscarsSoWhite Is Still Relevant This Year.” Vanity Fair, Vanity Fair, 1 Mar. 2018, www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2018/03/oscarssowhite-is-still-relevant-this-year.

Ugwu, Reggie. “The Hashtag That Changed the Oscars: An Oral History.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 6 Feb. 2020, www.nytimes.com/2020/02/06/movies/oscarssowhite-history.html. 

[nellie-elizabeth]

The Handmaid's Tale: Household (3x06)

This episode was... well, it was something, alright.

Cons:

I really did like it, just like I've liked every episode of this show. It was powerful and well-made. But I will admit, for the first time in this very symbolism-heavy show, I was a little put off by how much symbolism there was in D.C. Like, I get it... this was the capital of the USA, and now it's under Gilead's control. It's supposed to be this terrifying dichotomy between the former "land of the free" and what we have now. But the contrast didn't quite work because we know it's not a matter of black and white here. It's usually a lot more of a gradual slope. This was maybe an example of less being more. We have the mouth rings for the Handmaids, which is obviously chilling but also a little bit impractical... how do they eat? We have that obnoxious shot of June standing in front of a statue so it looks like she has wings. What is this, Game of Thrones? Those shots are certainly artistically cool to look at, but it's putting things on a bit thick, don't you think? Same with the shot of the Lincoln Memorial with the top of it blown off. Heavy-handed comparisons between slavery in the U.S. and slavery in Gilead are all well and good, but we have to admit that the way race is handled on this show is clumsy at best, so... not sure they want to draw such stark attention to themselves there.

I'm obviously reserving judgment about Nick, because like everything else in this show, there are complexities there. He seems to have tried to help negotiate with the Swiss, but maybe he chickened out, or they wouldn't accept his information, or he wasn't willing to go far enough... and then we get the revelation that he was part of the "holy crusade" that brought about Gilead in the first place. This is brand new information to June, and to the audience as well. The thing is... it doesn't quite track with Nick as a character thus far. If he was an opportunist who, whether he believed in the system or not, decided to keep his head down and accept his fate, then why was he involved in the resistance, even before he fell in love with June? And if he was forced into all of his actions, and has always been a rebel at heart, why is he stopping now? I don't think Nick's characterization thus far is a problem for the show, or at least not a problem that they can't easily rectify. It's just a little unclear to me right now exactly where they're going with this, and I'm starting to get nervous that I won't like the end result.

Pros:

There was one piece of overwrought symbolism that absolutely worked for me and knocked me on my ass, and that was the sight of the Washington Monument turned into a giant cross. I think the reason that this worked better for me than some of the other D.C. imagery was that it was about re-purposing and distorting the meaning of an existing piece of art, instead of just destroying it. Gilead has left the rubble of the Lincoln Memorial there for all to see. They're not trying to hide the fact that they destroyed something. But with the Monument... they didn't shear it in half, or knock it over and leave it lying there... they built from it. They warped and twisted it, and if you didn't know what the Washington Monument was, you'd never know there had been anything different there before. That's the chilling thing to me. Warping history, erasing the past, so that there could conceivably be a future, not so distant, where nobody alive remembers things the way they were.

As always, I want to discuss Serena. For the past couple of reviews I've been noting how interesting it is to have a performance so well done that you feel a bit of sympathy for Serena's plight, despite her despicable actions. This episode continues that thread. Serena Joy really is one of the most interesting villains I've ever seen on any TV show. The moment I want to focus on is when Mrs. Winslow tells Serena that she liked her book. This is taboo, since of course the women aren't allowed to read. But it is also a stark and important reminder that Serena helped to shape this world. I'm not saying it makes her culpable for everything, but she was an evangelical Christian extremist who wrote a book about how women were meant to stay in the home and take care of the children. She did that, and the result is plain to see.

Mrs. Winslow was fascinating to me as well, because she thanks Serena for helping to change her life - she used to work at a law firm, and she and her husband had no time for a family. But look at them now! Six children, and they still have a Handmaid. The privileges of rank. That's an important point to make here - Commander and Mrs. Winslow are both seemingly a bit more casual and down-to-earth than a lot of the other Comamanders and Wives we've seen. They have openly affectionate and goofy relationships with their genuinely happy children. They offer their first names to their guests. Mrs. Winslow hugs Serena and hands her a baby when first meeting her. It's all quite... normal. It reminds me that oppressive systems do not oppress equally - that if you're in a position of power, even as a member of the oppressed class (women), you are given more leeway. I as a white woman still have to deal with the effects of sexism on my day-to-day life, but I have the privileges granted by my whiteness and many other privileges besides.

We should also talk about Fred Waterford. He's such a weak-willed man. He's slimy and annoying and only scary because of the context of this society. As a man, he has so much power. As Fred Waterford, he doesn't know how to actually properly take advantage of that. I think you can see that in how he interacts with Commander Winslow. He's just so desperate for a chance to improve his prospects, and his brown-nosing is really pathetic. I think Fred Waterford is just as interesting as Serena in some ways, although the type of villainy is very different. You don't get the sense that he really cares all that much about Nichole, in the long run. He wants to leverage a personal tragedy for professional gain, and despite some moments of sentimental bonding between husband and wife, I'm not sure Fred and Serena are ever going to repair any sort of healthy partnership... that is, if they even had one to begin with.

To continue the trend of interesting villains... we see that Aunt Lydia is very shaken by what she sees in D.C. I liked the moment when June asks her if she wants them all to be silenced, and Lydia immediately says that she does not. Lydia is one of the more terrifying figures on this show, because unlike Fred, who I really do believe to be just an opportunist, Aunt Lydia seems to have a genuine desire to help people. Her harshness with the Handmaids is in some way an attempt to protect them from even worse punishment. That excuse is flimsy and does not hold up under even the smallest amount of pressure, but it makes for a really complicated portrait of this woman, who could beat Janine one week, and then be genuinely sympathetic to June, and be horrified by the oppression she sees around her. Again, like with Serena, just because I can understand and untangle some of her twisted motivations, doesn't mean I'm on her side or that I forgive her for her monstrous actions.

I liked the idea of the Swiss being neutral negotiators here, because it's another chance to get some hints about world politics. Gilead is enough of a military threat that Canada doesn't want to provoke conflict. And yet Canada has been offering asylum to refugees from Gilead. We know that the gender politics of Gilead seem to be restricted to just Gilead, because we've seen women in positions of leadership in every other country we've interacted with. I'm so interested in how the rest of the world reacts and responds to Gilead. It's sort of a chilling reminder of how much power the United States has, that other countries kind of have to let us do whatever we want, in a really messed up way. When I think about the endgame of this show, of how it's all going to wind up, really the only thing I can imagine is a widening of the scope - does this show end when Gilead is destroyed and balance starts to come back to the world? What does that look like? I don't know, but I want to find out.

So that's that - again, a wonderful episode of a complicated, difficult television show. I had some qualms about the over-abundance of symbolism, because I guess even this show can go too far sometimes. But still... this was great!

8/10

[ithinkthingsaboutstuff]

Tip of the Iceberg

Did this for the Arkham Garlley Zine which is free to download here

or check them out at @arkhamgalleryzine 

Oswald is preparing for a bi-annual auction at the iceberg lounge and is inconvenienced by the thrills and spills that gotham has to offer and is own mind. For a man who has control over everything, he has more under the surface. 

By H.T.Vitols

Gotham is rather unique, in that most places with rotting infrastructure and corrupted governments don’t tend to lean so hard into that aesthetic, usually places like that tend to keep up a facade as to hide its own putrefaction, in a half-hearted attempt to delude anyone who comes across them that there are civilized. Gotham has never hidden how ugly it is, to a point that its almost beautiful in an ostentatious sort of way. Not to say that there is nothing alluring about Gotham, quite the opposite. Gotham has a way of claiming the hearts of many, sometimes literally, but the lost and forgotten can always find a home in Gotham, their still lost and forgotten but so is the city itself.          

The Iceberg Lounge was the closest thing to elegant that Gotham had to offer. The outside was, and forgive the prosaism, Gothic. The doors where lined with white heavy steel and where shaped like umbrellas, if umbrellas were sharp, metallic and had an ominous amount of cleaning done. The doors themselves were wooden, polished and painted indigo blue. The doors were about 4 feet wide and were as strong as enforced steel which coincidentally was inside it, you could drive a car into it, and you would need a new car and a paint job for the door. The top of the door frame which was about 6 to 8 feet upward had a blue and white neon sign that spelled out the name of the club and blue lights that moved around the top of the roof, signalling, daring anyone to enter making an announcement to the police, the city and the Batman, I’m right here come and get me, if you can.

The inside of the lounge was far larger than the outside could have prepared anyone for, the ceilings were high, the main floor was laid out like a ballroom, with blue, purple and white lights slowly dancing across the floor as if they were patrolling lights, that most if not all the patrons were far to used to. The centre of the main room had as the name of the club suggests an Iceberg, it was a rather fitting piece of  décor and not just because of the predilection, but also what could be a more apt metaphor for the men and women who dwell here, then a clandestine place that has a chilling and unstable piece at its core and the magnitude of how vacillating it truly is, is hidden under the surface.

There were purple curtains that lined all the walls of The Iceberg Lounge, what was behind them was anyone’s guess, a room, a door, an alarm, a wall, a way out, a way in, who’s to say. The Iceberg Lounge is home to many in Gotham, the bad, the slimy and the straight up crazy. It is a place to go and to hide, from whatever animal themed hero is on your ass that week. The Lounge is a strong hold and a neutral ground to any who enters.

No fights, No guns, No deaths.

These rules were enforced to the highest measure, not out of any moral obligation but simply to make things easier for business, after all, people are more willing to meet and make deals with you if they know within a reasonable assumption they are not going to be shot. This peace of mind comes with a small price though, any deal made in the lounge has a fee to go with it.

Negotiations: $100 (per person)

Trade-offs: $200

Drug deals: $400

Gun sales (unloaded): $1000 (per every 10)

If you were caught trying to make a deal in the Lounge without permission, well let’s just say no one ever does it twice. This level of meticulous control was possible due to the work and obsessions of one Oswald Cobblepot. The man thought rather highly of himself, more so then he should, which is easy to do when you are barely above most door handles and wider than some doorframes. Not to say he did not have class or rather his own definition of class, hand tailored suits all with tails, the most beautiful fabrics and of course a shining monocle that never left his face. And today Oswald donned an indigo blue jacket that had black fathers around his neck so today he looked more vulture then penguin. And in a place where a man with a rodent facade is more productive and less corruptible then the police department and the mayor’s office combined, being larger than life is not only common but a necessity. Oswald had many enemies, in fact if you weren't his enemy, he was less likely to trust you. Having enemies was more repute then having friends as he liked knowing what people wanted from him, it was easier to control the situation and easier to turn the situation in whatever suited him best.

Today, much like many other days, Oswald was in his office at his desk with a small glass of fine port wine at his side. Unlike many other days, he has not allowed anyone to disturb him (other than for an unexpected rodent infiltration). He wrote with a quill tip pen; the pen was white with a black line that matched up with a black swan feather that was connected by a small metal penguin pendent. He did not write with this pen often, as it was as impractical as it was beautiful. He only ever used this pen for one reason. 

To my dearest, Penelope.

I write to you in good health, my dear I have been having a quite the week, however, I will not plague you with the details as I fear your heart or indeed your stomach may not be able to take them. However, my dear, what I can tell you is that today is a big night for the Lounge, for it is the Biannual Bat Bunker party. I do not believe I have told you the full story behind this party and that will be a story for another letter, but simply my dear, some years ago there was an incident, that lead to certain events, that lead to a great number of my associates to take refuge in my lounge, and since then it has become so what of a tradition for a rather long party to take place here twice a year.

The party is to be quite the sceptical and I do believe you would enjoy yourself, but I would not be much of a father if I allowed you to attend such a thing with the calibre of characters that indent to come. But any money is good money if you understand the price.  Speaking of, Edward Nygma will be stopping by at some point before the party, I have mentioned him to you before, and as much as he can annoy me I can’t help but enjoy our conversations, for it is one of the rare times that learned discord is actually of value, though I could do without more of his foible, idiosyncrasy's.

As Oswald wrote at his desk, the door opened silently and a man walked in and slowly made his way to the desk, the man than sat on Oswald's desk and crossed his legs like he was a femme fatale from a noir film. 

‘Oswald, how are you, you old bird, you.’

‘Edward, you better have a very good reason for disturbing me. Who let you in here?’

‘You’re working under the assumption that I would ask.’

‘Good point, but you also know my tolerances for your antics only goes so far.’

‘True, but since I’m still alive, safe to say I have not irritated you too much your lordship,’   

‘Sarcasm is beneath you Edward.’

‘To hell it is, it’s one of my best survival instincts and I’ll have you know Oswald, the only things beneath me are invalids, the wilfully ignorant and my silk sheets when I lie my weary head to bed for most earnest of rests.’  

‘Why don’t you put your vanity to bed for a moment Edward, and tell me, why exactly you have disturbed me.’  

Edward clapped his hands together, his leather gloves gathering as he did.

‘Well, Oswald, I have come baring gifts, for our little shindig tonight,’

Edward pulled out a note from his pocket. 

‘Here,’ 

‘What is this, Edward,’ 

‘A list of inventories, from all of our friends, the supplies and donations they will be making this evening.’

‘Well thank you Edward, but you could have had some else send this up to me.’

‘Oswald, I’m a praise whore and you know it.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that, but that is no reason to interrupt me.’

‘Oh, come now, I came all the way out here to do you a favour and I’m treated with such hostility.’

‘Edward, my boy, you are very much aware that this is me, not being hostile, but if you would like to see it, then by all means, continue.’

Edward then slid off the desk and adjusted his jacket.

‘Very well, I will prepare myself for tonight's debauchery elsewhere.’

Edward went to the door.

‘Oswald,’

‘Yes, Edward.’

‘In all the years we’ve know one another, I have only seen you use that pen for one propose and yet I have never seen you read a letter in return,’

‘Your point, Edward.’ 

‘No point, just observation, I just don’t know why you still bother, if she’s never written back.’

‘Get… out… Edward.’

‘Alright, alright, I’m gone, give her my best.’

Oswald throws his glass of port at Edward as the door closed behind him, missing his head and shattering on the door. The wine dripped down the door slowly leaving a trail of red residue, like other red fluids that have dripped down this very door and will no doubt do again in the near future. Oswald leaned back into his chair and picked up his white and black pen.

Penelope dear, I sometimes envy that you have never meet any of my associates, Edward is one of the most insufferable men I have ever meet, and I have discussed politics with the mayor of Gotham. Not to say I don’t respect the man, in fact Edward’s capacity to anger anyone he comes into contact with has never failed to impress me. But charm and showmanship can be mutually exclusive my dear, as I know all too well.

Are you happy where you are dear?

I have found I can be content, but I have also found happiness is not on the cards for me without you here, Penelope.

In any case, I have been keeping myself busy. The list Edward handed me some moments ago will help with tonight’s proceedings, you see dear, the list is inventory being put up for auction. Now you must be wondering why this is of any importance, after all you are a clever girl and the Lounge has an auction monthly. This auction is a special one, you see unlike the usual fanfare that comes through here. This list has items that are more exclusive and the most sorted after then any other in the city, such as some of Doctor Cranes Fear Toxin, a rather deadly pair of hydrangea’s curtesy of Doctor Isley and Edward has donated one of his masterplans that contain everything from blueprints of the job, to the riddles to leave.

Now my shrewd child, you must be asking why we are doing this, the answer is the reason any of us do anything in Gotham, entertainment, profit, and to cause chaotic shenanigans , but most importantly nothing brings us all together more than trying to one up the Bat and his Birds. You see my dear, these items are sold at these times as to have a level of mutually assured destruction. You see, by having these items you can set someone up at your own discretion, I for one like to know the cards others are holding.  But it is mostly used to throw The Batman off the trail. The Batman won’t investigate my shipping lists if fear toxin is in the air.  

Truly mad, is it not.

Oswald continued to write as there was a knock on his door.

‘What.’

A man slowly moved his head into the room leaving the rest of his body outside. He was trying his hardest not to look at red liquid that is at his feet, as he wanted to maintain some level of ignorance in his line of work.

‘Mr Cobblepot.’

The man paused and waited; Oswald tapped his pen down hard on the table making the man in the frame flinch.

‘Yes, well, spit it out lad, I don’t have all day.’

The man’s voice jumped as he found the words.

‘Mr Wayne is here, sir.’

Oswald slowly put down his pen, he lifted himself out of his chair and moved behind it to push it into desk. Mr Wayne did not often frequent the Lounge but when he did it was a sign of fortune if it was good or bad was up to Mr Wayne’s mood, but what can you expect from a man who could buy up all the city if the whim ever hit him. Mr Wayne and his horde of children were almost as annoying as the Batman and his Birds. Oswald made his way downstairs to the main floor where Mr Wayne was leaning on the bar talking to one of the female bartenders.

‘Mr Wayne, to what to I owe the pleasure.’

‘Cobblepot, I have come to see you about tonight’s auction.’

‘Mr Wayne, I fear the guest list is full for this evening.’

‘I’m sure you can make an exception.’

‘Now, Mr Wayne, I am sure that you are used to that being the case, but I am afraid I am going to have to use an unfamiliar phrase to you, No.’

‘Well now I have to be there. Is there anything I can do to change your mind?’

‘I assure you, there is nothing you could say or do to change my mind, Mr Wayne.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing, you would be willing to do, Mr Wayne.’

‘Such as?’

Oswald paused before slowly letting out a coy smile.

‘As amusing as your antics are Mr Wayne, I am going to have to ask you to leave, as I am preparing for tonight’s festivities. So, I bid you adieu and if you wish to join next month’s auction then you are most welcome, provided you make the proper arrangements.’

For the first time since the younger man came in, he dropped his smirk as though a mask had trickled away, but the man put it back as quickly as it went, making Oswald question if he saw anything at all.

‘Yes, of course, then I will be seeing you Cobblepot.’

‘Yes, a good evening to you Mr Wayne,’

Oswald waved three men over to them, 

‘Will you gentlemen escort Mr Wayne off the premises.’ 

As the two of men walked Mr Wayne out of the club, he held on of them back. 

‘Make sure he stays out, the last thing I need tonight is Gotham’s golden boy finding something he shouldn’t, I don’t want the hassle of killing him. The body disposal alone would be a logistical nightmare.’ 

Oswald then set the man after them, Oswald made his way to the centre of the room and put his hands on the railing to look at the icy mountain that floated in the frozen water. The lounge was being set up for the auction, people moving around him as quickly as possible, as Oswald stood still looking at the ice mountain that was swaying in the water. The ice was towering and the cold from it could be felt all throughout the lounge. Oswald looked harder at the chilling structure; he saw a small steady stream of water was trickling down the ice. Oswald’s mind floated elsewhere, think how something with such presences and intimidating high could be melting away slowly and unnoticed by all around it.

‘As much as I have always liked this glorified monument to your ego, it’s always come off a little more …. Subzero, then was intended don’t you think?’

Oswald jumped, snapping his head around, and snarled.

‘Edward, I swear. If you ever do that again I will throw you into the water and I will make sure everyone here watches you, as you’re drowning.’

Edward gently twirls the green drink in his hand and takes a light sip, he then leans his back on the railing and faces Oswald. Edward lingered on Oswald, his face void of any hostility, silently staring at Oswald waiting for a reply but Oswald just turns his head back to the ice in front of him, his hands gripping the railing tighter.

‘Rough day, Oswald.’

‘It’s going to be a long night.’

‘Oswald this is Gotham, every night is a long night.’

‘Edward, leave me be.’

‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown, are you looking upon your kingdom and weeping, old friend.’

Edward took a long slow sip of his drink.

‘Oh, how very apropos of you Edward, and what is it exactly that I have to weep about.’

‘Oh, who knows, Oswald, you have never once been satisfied with anything.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘Oh, perhaps, perhaps, is that what you are going with, ok I’ll play, Oswald you have more money, territory and respect then you have ever had, and yet here you are gazing like Gatsby. So, riddle me this Oswald, a turn of phrase, to be sage and yet mindless, what is at its lowest when it’s on top, and how can less be learned and more be dim-witted?’

‘Edward, I don’t, I can’t, do this today, I have not the strength nor the temperament.’

‘My, my, Oswald, I dare say we are dangerously close to having a heart to heart.’

‘Please Edward, don’t insult me.’

‘Yes, your right, we would actually have to have hearts for that.’

‘My boy, you have no idea how badly I wish that to be true.’

‘Tut-tut, we can’t let the other degenerates know such unsightly things about us.’

‘Yes, I suppose it would be quite a blow to the reputation.’

‘Indeed.’

Edward took one last sip of his drink.

‘…Have you figured it out yet?’

‘Edward.’

‘Alright, fine I’ll drop it…. for now.’

Oswald loosened his grip on the railing and looked at Edward.

‘My boy, I believe there is still work to be done.’

‘Indeed.’ 

Night fell and crowds grew as the auction came closer. Item after item was moved into the lounge, the air was filled with cigarette smoke, gunpower and opportunity. The items were counted by a heavily motivated Mr Wesker as Mr Scarface watched him from a nearby shelf. The auction could now get under way, Oswald was by no means a showman that was one of Edward’s games, but he was at times diplomatically inclined. Oswald went to the stage and tapped the microphone.

‘Good evening, lady’s, gentlemen and twisted creations of the night,’

Oswald raised his glass gesturing to Killer Croc and Man-bat.

‘Right, now, we all know the rules, but for those of us who need to be reminded.’

He tuned his gaze to Harley Quinn, who was at the bar drinking three different cocktails through three curly straws all at once.

‘One item per customer, so choose wisely. You may inspect the product, but it cannot be opened in the Lounge. And most importantly this a silent auction, so do not go around boasting and giving away the tonight’s secrets, so in short keep your mouths shut.’

Oswald looked over to the side of the stage where Edward was standing. Edward then put his hand over his chest like a Victorian woman who just saw something unseelie.

‘Now ladies and gentlemen and others, to tie you over while the auction is underway, I give Edward Nygma,’

The crowd collectively groaned.

‘Now, now, I promise this is only his musical stylings.’

The crowd mumbled in agreement, as Edward walked on stage.

‘Oh, gee, thank you everyone, for that dazzling display of comradery.’

‘Sing, Nygma or get off.’

Growled Harvey,  

‘Wooo, Eddie. Take it off.’

Harley cheered.

‘Give 'em the hook.’

Yelled Crane.

‘I am going to ignore that Johnathan. Now without further ado, Duke Ellington’s It don't mean a thing hit it boys.’

The band started to play. The patrons started to put their names in for items, Harvey pulled himself from one side of the room to the other, well it seems Harvey and Harv were having a disagreement on what to buy as his ashy left hand kept slapping is right whenever he tried to write anything down though oddly enough there was no coin in sight. Jonathan was sitting off to the side letting his slender frame trail up the wall, his head down letting his glasses slide down his nose. As laughter and small talk flooded the room. A loud crash came from the roof, when the Batman comes knocking it’s never on the door.  

Now what is that old saying about glass ceilings.

            The Batman comes bursting through the roof, the patrons scattered to the wind like glass being through onto the concrete. The Batman grabbed Jervis by the back of his collar and Edward was still on the stage.

           ‘Well now, we have a Bat in our belfry.’

           As Batman pushed Two-Face down, still holding on to Jervis, Two-Face pushed Batman onto the bar counter.  

           ‘Oh, you who Bat’s.’

           Harley had grabbed poured alcohol all over the bar and lit it on fire.

           ‘Oh, and it is getting a little hot in here for the dark knight.’

           Edward said calling into the microphone. A glass bottle flow in his direction and he ducked to avoid it.

           ‘Shut up, Ed.’

           ‘Make me Crane.’

           ‘Fine.’

           Jonathan yelled as he throws another glass. Oswald then runs on stage pulling the microphone out of Edwards hands.

           ‘Enough! All of you, Enough.’

           The room settled under Oswald’s voice, Batman still holding onto Jarvis.

           ‘Now, I dare say Batman, that you have made it abundantly clear, that you want something or rather someone form here this evening. Yes?’

           The room was silent, flames still burning on the counter dancing on top of the alcohol.

           ‘Yes. Now, why don’t you take Mr Tetch and leave post haste, before I change my mind and burn this place down along with everyone in it, myself!’

           The last words died in is throat from the screaming. Batman looked around the room he took a moment and then silently started dragged Jervis by the scruff of his neck, taking him out of the club as Jervis begged and pleaded to everyone in the room as he was struggling but all of them were still looking at Oswald on stage none of them moving.

Oswald then screamed at the room again.

‘Get out! Auction over, out now, all of you, out. Be gone, go back to whatever place has the misfortune of having you as a resident.’

Not ones to out their welcome, the room began to clear. Oswald headed back to his office, he shut the blinds and sat in darkness, he pulled out his pen once again.  

Well my dear, today had just about everything, thrills, spills and arson. Not that I am ever sure what these nights will ever bring. I am only ever sure of what that they will never bring, and that is you, Penelope.

I have done monstrous things my dear, I have robbed, killed and betrayed many men. I have seen vigilantes rise and the old ways of Gotham fall. I have built all that I am on the bones and ashes of other men and yet the only regret I have is and always will be that I never got to see you grow. That for all my transgressions and all the immoral measures I have taken in my life, the blood that was spilled for all of it, was yours. Even though I have buried the ones who are responsible and entombed them so deep into the earth that their own souls can’t find a way out.

But the emptiness I feel by your absents is one I can not fill, no matter how much luxury, power or control I obtain.

Truly, Penelope, my love, my sweet Penny, there is only one thing that could appease that void and that would be for me to hold you in my arms again and to tell you that,

           The door swung open.

           ‘Well that was a disaster.’

           ‘Get out, Edward’

           ‘It’s a big mess out there, and you through a fit on that stage, mind you that’s not unordinary behaviour for you or any of us. But there seemed to be a little more to it this time as compared to your usual screaming fits of rage.’

           ‘Edward, I swear, if you don’t leave right now, I’ll.’

           ‘Kill me? Please Oswald, empty threats are unbecoming.’

           Oswald the reached into his coat and pulled out a gun.

           ‘Are you sure about that.’

           Edward flicked up his hands with a light flourish and spoke dryly.

           ‘Oh, no, I have been bamboozled, please sir, leave me with my shillings and silk robes.’

           Oswald cocked the gun back.  

           ‘Edward, out, now.’

           Edward leered at Oswald with his hands lowering to his sides.

           ‘You really mean it this time don’t you.’    

           Edward said steadily.

           ‘What gave it away, dear boy.’

           ‘Oswald whatever is happening, you need to keep a level head, lest it be chopped off.’

           ‘Edward, I am going to tell you one, last, time, get, out.’

           ‘Oswald,’

           Oswald’s hand was starting to shake rattling the gun. Edward then slowly moved to go out the door and looked out to club’s centre piece.

           ‘Our love for the dead, like a floating iceberg, can only be measured by the depths of our resentments.’

           ‘Rosario Ferre.’

           ‘Rosario Ferre. Just something to think about, Good night Oswald.’

           When Edward closed the door, Oswald still held the gun in his shaking hands. After a few shuddered minutes Oswald placed on the table. He picked up the pen once again.

Penny, my dear child, you were taken from me to soon, you shined so brightly you could block out the sun. and even now after all these years I think of you always.

           And perhaps Edward has made a point, though he has done so in a way that made me want to shoot him. My love for you has fuelled my fury, my culpability and solidified my wrath over these long years without you. So even in death you are my hidden strength. Sleep well my child and know that I have not forgotten you. For you are forever a part of me and  as long as I am etched  into the walls of this city, where my name is held in respect and the city’s life blood flows through me, you will live in its bones with me,

until my bones rest next to yours.

Happy Birthday my dear, With all my love,

Your father.

Oswald then put the letter in an envelope and signed it, he then closed it and went into the ballroom, it was empty, a mess, and small ambers still danced on the bar counter. Oswald made his way slowly to the iceberg, he moved around the ice mountain until he reached a platform that lead out and was attached to the iceberg, Oswald walked onto the platform until his noise felt the frost from the monument. Oswald then placed his hands on the ice, moving down to a small block that had been carved out and he removed it and then he put the block at his feet, the hole in front to him was no bigger then a sheet of paper. Oswald then held the letter in his hands. Moments stretched out into hours in Oswald’s mind, he then reached out and put the letter into the hole, it landed onto a pile of older frozen, frosted over and twisted together letters. The frozen graveyard has received another body. Oswald them puts the block back into place, he then adjusts his coat and walks off the platform.

For the morning is upon him and light is on its way, so it is time for Gotham to lay itself to rest. As everything worth doing in Gotham is done in the darkness and hidden below the surface.          

Oswald the put the letter in an envelope and signed it, he then closed it and went into the ballroom. Oswald then made his way slowly to the iceberg, he moved around the ice mountain until he reached a platform that lead out and was attached to the iceberg, Oswald walked onto the platform until his noise felt the frost from the monument. Oswald then placed his hands on the ice, moving it down to a small

 The end  

[thewellzine]

High Fidelity, Racial Ambiguity, and the Myth of Universality in Film and Television

By Amber Delgado 

I rarely binge watch television shows, I try my hardest to avoid it. I go to the movie theater pretty regularly—the ease of entering a specific viewing space to consume a story where I know I’ll receive a beginning, middle, and end typically within a two- and half-hour time span (to include trailers) is efficient for my busy millennial lifestyle. With the advancement of streaming services within the past decade, television series are getting better, more “diverse,” more abundant, and simultaneously longer in episode length and shorter in number of episodes within a series. I avoid binge watching for two reasons, the first being due to the capitalist society I’ve been brought up in; it makes me feel like a lazy, worthless blob of a human being to have sat or laid still for hours on end looking at a screen. How dare I spend that much time being unproductive? The second is that these shows, the good ones at least, are so damn tempting to binge they practically require it. The next episode button counting down in the right-hand corner basically taunting you as the music of the quick credits plays in the background. A black screen with white text pops up and you’re stuck with that immediacy to decide: should I continue being a worthless blob or finally go to the gym? Because I can at times have an addictive personality, I always go in for the kill when I occasionally find a show that I enjoy.

I hadn’t heard much about the new Hulu adaptation of High Fidelity starring Zoe Kravitz until about a week ago, through Instagram. I believe someone I follow shared in their Instagram story a promotional photo that Zoe Kravitz took for the show. Due to my years long crush on Zoe, I looked further into what exactly this show was about. I had never heard or seen the original film High Fidelity, adapted from the novel by Nick Hornby. So I was interested to check it out, and on Saturday night after returning from the gym and starting some laundry, I decided to attempt to watch only a couple of episodes.

In the opening scene of the first episode Zoe Kravit’s’ character Rob, is breaking the fourth wall in tears about the breakup with her boyfriend Mac. It really draws you in. (I personally haven’t seen much Zoe Kravitz has acted in. I’m aware of her most recent role in Big Little Lies, but was never too interested in giving that a watch; take that with a grain of salt because again, I’m not watching much television generally compared to the average person). The acting in this scene, and also how stunning Kravitz is, instantly pulls you into the series. Rob replaces the main character played by John Cusack in the original film adaptation. While I was watching the show, I found myself Googling more about both the novel and the film, and scanning reviews for more context regarding the show.

Little to no surprise, I read multiple headlines claiming how groundbreaking it is to have Zoe Kravitz replacing a white male lead. What was surprising for me however, is how in the ten episodes, the character Rob—played by Kravitz, a Black woman—rarely acknowledges her identity and rarely has dialogue with other characters in the show. I enjoyed High Fidelity for its incredible costume design; lighthearted moments; the comedic champion who carries the show, breakthrough actress Da’Vine Joy Randolph (who has one of my favorite character introductions in television history);and its nostalgic and fun soundtrack. Where the series falls flat for me is unfortunately through the writing of the main character, Rob. I want so badly to like her and root for her; I see a lot myself in how she shows up (or doesn’t) in relationships. I enjoy newer series giving complexity to female leads in terms of romantic relationships. Being shown the representation that women don’t always have their shit together, we can be confused, we can seek multiple partners, we can hurt people and don’t always conform to the predetermined, hetero-patriarchal assignment of care-giving nurturers, we can crave sexual relationships and pleasure without seeking long term commitments.

This review is me wading through something I’ve constantly been thinking about. A couple of months ago, while having a conversation with a friend of mine who is a cis-het white filmmaker, we discussed him writing in characters that are people of color within his scripts. And got into disagreement about representational writing and universality. He was arguing that there are certain stories and emotions that transcend race and identity. And also, that not all television and film consisting of Black and Brown characters have to directly be attached to their identity, they can just be “everyday people with everyday stories doing ordinary things.” This is what the writing of High Fidelity feels like to me. I suspect a predominately white writers’ room casting a Black woman lead character in replace of this story about a white man who owns a used record store.

My discomfort around Rob’s character are in the writing; I’m not arguing for a monolithic representation of Blackness and Black womanhood or a script that consistently states that Kravitz is a Black woman. I don’t think that Rob isn’t written “Black” enough for me to enjoy. Moreover, I feel when Black characters in television and film are written through the lens of universality, so much context of living life as a Black person is lost. That type of representation is one we cannot afford to lay to rest when Black people can never “put down” their Blackness and while white supremacy remains entrenched within the foundation this country was built upon. White people need to understand that Blackness can never be detached from our everyday lives, both white people who are consuming media and culture and those creating it who want to have a fun diversity party.

The myth of universality serves white supremacy, white people having the historical advantage of defining rules and building institutions. I can’t help but associate a yearning for universality with objectivity. The argument of make this “neutral enough so everyone can enjoy it” undeniably has historically served and prioritized whiteness. This always brings me back to the amazing Toni Morrison quote which I feel directly addresses the myth of universality:

“I never asked Tolstoy to write for me, a little colored girl in Lorain, Ohio. I never asked [James] Joyce not to mention Catholicism or the world of Dublin. Never. And I don't know why I should be asked to explain your life to you. We have splendid writers to do that, but I am not one of them. It is that business of being universal, a word hopelessly stripped of meaning for me. Faulkner wrote what I suppose could be called regional literature and had it published all over the world. That's what I wish to do. If I tried to write a universal novel, it would be water. Behind this question is the suggestion that to write for black people is somehow to diminish the writing. From my perspective there are only black people. When I say 'people,' that's what I mean.”

Rob lives in Crown Heights in Brooklyn, and a majority of people she dates and hangs out with are white people, with the exception of her brother and her co-worker and friend, Cherise, who she seems to have a complicated relationship with. I think this show is able to literally write off Rob’s Blackness, due to Zoe Kravitz being a lighter skinned, almost racially ambiguous Black person…which has long been in discussion within how Black people are represented in media. Major production houses and casting companies are most comfortable seeking Black actors who confirm the loose curl pattern, light skin preference. Even Zendaya has acknowledged her awareness of her career being due to how she looks, and how she looks being preferred by the industry. What does it say that in the year 2020 we have the nerve to celebrate representation when so many of the Black actors getting work have all these same physical attributes? Where is the diversity, really?

Lastly, like in the film and the book, Rob goes through her top five worst breakups of all time, and seeks to contact them as a means for understanding why her relationships are failing. As she goes through this list, four out of five partners are white people. I myself, being biracial and growing up middle class, understand firsthand how their specific experiences can lead to a Black person ending up in predominately white spaces. However, these contexts are never presented for Rob in the story of her character; the series treats, as natural, that a Black woman just happens to have always had a bunch of white people in her life…and that needs no explanation as to how? This is particularly hard to take in throughout the series as she consistently disrespects, undermines, and ignores her only Black woman friend and employee, Cherise. At times, outside of her Black most recent ex-boyfriend, Mac, I questioned if Rob really cared to have any Black people in her life, which wouldn’t be difficult to do living in New York City. Why were the writers content with making those decisions? It was enough to have a Black woman lead and one Black supporting character—the diversity box is checked and then the rest of this cast can be mostly white.

Rob feels so flat to me; there was potential in this remake but it feels the writers were striving for the clout of having a Black female lead without actually writing a Black female lead. I’ve also had a similar feeling about the 2019 film Waves, starring Kelvin Harrison Jr. and directed and written by a white man. When watching the trailer for Waves, I felt like I had no idea what it was about, and after a Google search and seeing that the film was written and directed by a white man with a predominately Black cast, I instantly lost interest. I did follow through on seeing it out of curiosity, and for me it was my least favorite film of 2019.

At this point, I’m sure you’re asking yourself, especially if you’re a white person, “So what, white people can’t write in characters they don’t have a lived experience of? Isn’t that art? Can’t I be free to make whatever I want?” White people don’t need my approval to create, or much less do anything. White people have been doing whatever they want to since the beginning of this land mass (see colonialism). What I am saying through this review, is that if you expect a hoorah for your forced universalism via pre-approved Black and Brown bodies that you call diversity, we’re gonna continue to see right through that. So hire some Black and Brown writers, there’s plenty out there.

[risingmoonyue]

I was raised in a loving Christian home. My Father is a pastor’s kid, and my Mother is a first-generation immigrant who converted to Christianity in her teens. I grew up with bedtime stories about Moses and the Seven Plagues and Esther. My family has never shied away from explaining things to me as I asked. When I was seven, I had a deep conversation about death with my Great-Grandfather.

That was--is--my life. My family has been so incredibly blessed with the life and family we have now. I think families like mine also add to a common misconception about the Christian faith, especially in America: that the Bible promises a good and easy life to those who follow it.

I’ll be honest. That isn’t true. If anything, the Bible says the exact opposite--that people will hate us, that we’ll be outcasts, that people will just want us to shut up and stop. Life will be hard.

I’ve known that for a long time now. It’s something I’ve always kept in mind as everything happened, as horrible things happen to my family of faith, to my friends, to my loved ones. And this leads to what I’m going to talk about next.

As a Christian, I have experienced a lot of opposition in my short life. But most of it wasn’t actually to my face, though in all honesty, I wish it was most of the time. It would be easier that way, to be able to defend myself and say what I mean directly without constraints of time and place, or just to get it over and done with, without sounding like just another insignificant voice in this world full of people who scream, shout, hate, or just don’t care.

Most of this opposition has been passive but no less difficult, both from people and society in general.

In 10th grade, I took a civics class. At that point, the class was focused on the effects of nuclear weaponry and fallout on society and literature. Throughout the semester, we were reading the book “Cat’s Cradle” by Kurt Vonnegut. For those of you who don’t know, it’s a satirical science fiction novel about science, technology, and religion, that ends with Earth being destroyed by a man-made weapon. It was... A read. Not my favorite, but definitely well written.

At the end of the semester, when everyone had finished their book and was preparing to write their final essays, we had a Socratic Seminar. Now, at this point, I had already not had a good experience with these. In other classes, I was usually one of the only two people who would try to carry the conversation, and I was probably the quietest person in the room at any given point. But this seminar honestly kinda traumatized me.

At about the halfway point of the seminar, I was feeling pretty good. This class was great about getting other people to talk, and I wasn’t forced to carry and lead the conversation like my other classes. Eventually though, the topic turned to the relationship between religion and science. The “leader” of the discussion asked who in the room was religious, and to raise their hands.

To fully understand why this was already nerve wracking: my school is primarily atheist, and very, very liberal. It is focused on science and math, and most Christians I’ve spoken--myself included--to there are honestly kinda afraid to talk about it, despite the school always talking about being “open minded” and “judgment free”. While we aren’t as bad as one of our sister schools, there is still a bit of pack mentality--think what you want, as long as you don’t disagree with us. Many Christan beliefs tend to oppose that of the majority. Opinions are very strong there, and I’ve seen a girl get in trouble because she addressed the student body as “guys” instead of some gender-neutral term during a school assembly. It’s kinda bad. So you might be able to see why it was making me nervous that they were directly calling out religious people.

I ended up being one of only two or three people who raised their hand. They then started talking about how “science cannot mix with religion”, with Christianity as a focus as in the book, that is where some of the main religious themes came from. So I tried to say differently. Shy, 15/16 year old me tried really hard to explain that the two can, in fact, coexist, and that we do it all the time--case in point, me actually going to that school.

But what really got to me, was not even two seconds into me talking about it, the leader just shook his head and ignored me. That hurt. A lot. I just… stopped talking for the rest of the day, pretty much. I almost ran out of the room crying, but didn’t because I wanted to be a good student and actually get a good grade on this. I didn’t feel better until I went home and had a long discussion with Mom about science and religion and why what they said wasn’t true.

That was just the most obvious instance in my life. I’d say the thing that has the largest, but mist unseen effect though, is the media. In my experience at least, I’ve found there’s a resistance in talking about Christianity in media, especially since it’s a “White People” religion--which is also untrue, as it originated in the Middle East, and is supposed to be for everyone. So now, whenever I see it online, it’s almost painful to see, because I’m afraid it’s going to be about why my faith sucks, or why it’s wrong, or it’ll be a good post, but hey, the majority of people commenting on it hate it and are picking out any flaw they can because they don’t agree. The worst part is, I’ve seen a lot of controversial posts, but Christian posts are the only ones I’ve seen get this type of backlash. And I hate that.

I hate that it happens. I hate that I hate it so much, because I don’t want to hate. It’s a terrible emotion, and I don’t want anything to do with it. It’s painful that I have to feel afraid going on social media and saying I’m a Christian, because everyone else hates it. It’s painful that I see others struggling with the same thing. It sucks. I’ve always been an easygoing person, and never could hold a grudge. Even now, as much as I hate the action and the responses it creates, I find myself forgiving those people, because those people clearly don’t have God in their lives, and my faith preaches forgiveness.

For me, it’s always been difficult to say these struggles out loud, because I’ve had it good, and I know it. Society says to suck it up, because so many people have it worse than you. But that’s wrong, because there’s no comparing pain, and we shouldn’t be. Why are my experiences and pains rendered invalid just because of who I am? It’s not right. Everyone feels pain differently.

I believe that God has a plan. My main prayer in any situation is “Let Your will be done.” Maybe I can’t see it. Maybe it’s so big, that one action I make won’t come into effect until years down the line. I don’t know. But I can keep hope and faith that other people will see the Truth.

Honestly, two hours ago, I hadn’t even thought about making this. But today in church, during the sermon, the pastor said something, and the Lord just… Called to me. And I knew I had to make this.

I don’t know what people will think of this. I don’t know why, or how, but all I can hope for is that somewhere, this reaches someone’s heart.

My name is Galina. I’m 18 years old, and this is my testimony.

[cloudbattrolls]

As She Made Us

Chimer Latrai | Dimasqa | Present Night

Heat soaks into your veins and bones like it’s trying to live in your cold body, nestle there like a meowbeast in a windowsill.

Civitrecce’s warm, but its tall buildings block out the sun. This place doesn’t have a thing over five stories; everything bigger got bombed all those sweeps ago, and whether through forbiddance or indifference, no one’s ever built things up again.

The city doesn’t need it anyway when it threads through the craters of the ancient blasts as well as on the surface around them. Bridges, psi-lifts, and riders on winged lusii calling out their fares are all happy to take a troll up or down if they can’t or don’t want to use their own feet.

I grew up in Dimasqa, after all.

A meaningless throwaway phrase, or maybe your ticket to figuring out more about the annoying little pissant of a blueblood and if possible, where they got their Chimera statue.

If your informants actually pointed you to someone helpful, that is, and if you don’t get trampled by one of the big beasts hauling supplies everywhere. Unlike your base city, this place isn’t much for tech, and you have to watch your step to avoid actual hoofbeastshit at points.

Disguised in a head covering, which thankfully doesn’t stick out much here (plenty of trolls wear them, especially women) you’re one of maybe five trolls above yellow you’ve seen so far, and three were greenbloods. It’s hard to imagine a pampered cobalt coming from a place like this.

But it wouldn’t make sense for them to lie in front of Yezule about their origin, not when Dimasqa’s about as well-regarded as toxic mold. No reputable troll ever admits to coming from here, and few do anyway.

If they’d wanted some primarily lowblood place to claim as their hivetown, there were infinitely better options.

Your periodic checks to see who’s following you through the winding, crumbling streets are rewarded with what’s probably a pack of muggers who aren’t doing a half-bad job as your shadows as they flit between living buildings and burned-out shells, keeping to the darkest shadows.

They’re smart enough to realize that someone of your height is almost certainly at least teal, and since there’s no identifying colors on your flowing gray and black clothing at all, it’s doubtful you have a higher caste quadrant who’d come looking for revenge.

Not bad at victim picking, girls and boys, but I’ve got better things to do tonight.

All blithe tourist curiosity and idle ease, you wander over to a weathered plaque with a trident engraved into it boasting about the Imperial eradication of the dangerous horrorterror worshippers and study its trilingual inscription intently.

“Turn around nice and easy, lady, and give us your caegers.”

You don’t bother turning around.

“Nah.”

With a flick of a remote you take out of your sylladex, a shimmering dome forcefield encloses the group of vagabonds -

- except the one placed on a wall several feet to the front of you, whose thrown dagger just clinked off your collarbone and bounced onto the stone with a clatter. Fortunately you’re covered with form-fitting body armor beneath your clothes, though the blade probably wasn’t tough enough to pierce fuchsia skin anyway.

You give them a look you know they can’t particularly well through the veil over your eyes, but it’s the thought that counts.

The stunned looking rustblood kid - you can’t tell if they’re brown or maroon, since they’re perched a few feet above you on that crumbling wall - scrabbles back down the blasted brick and runs until you and your long legs put a stop to that.

Picking them up by their shirt, you hold them out like a naughty baby meowbeast.

“Ok, I get this is a real disappointment for you, but if you could just - ”

A long string of curses in two different languages and spit on your face as they try to claw your eyes out makes you realize logic is only going to crash, burn, and leave behind more craters than the city has if you try it.

You shake them a little instead, not too hard, but enough to underline that you have highblood strength.

They go still, wide gray eyes frantically staring into yours. Sheesh, they can’t be older than seven. They’re a scrawny thing with flaky, stubby horns and clothing dustier than an abandoned basement.

You switch to Southern Desert Dialect from your usual Imperial Standard - you’re not very good at it, but you can get through a few sentences okay.

“Give me directions to the scribes’ market, and I’ll let you and your gang go. Or you can stay trapped.”

That’s probably the wrong form of that verb. The kid is certainly looking at you with a real sniffy expression.

You sigh. Everyone’s a critic.

They rattle off directions too fast for you to understand, and you have to make them repeat it twice - obnoxiously slow the second time  - before you can understand and write down what they said.

Once you’re a good bit away, trudging down a long, winding flight of stairs down the side of a crater, you release the field around them.

You didn’t actually need the directions, but keeping up appearances in front of any better class of stalker (a few of whom no doubt saw that exchange) matters, as well as not arousing too many suspicions; most trolls don’t just let aggressors off scot-free, even if their attacks had as much effect as a squeakbeast trying to fight a dragon.

If only you could’ve actually helped the kids, but any offers of money or food would be highly suspicious. With any sense at all they’d suspect poisoning or drugs - or counterfeit cash designed to get them arrested.

Even a small increase to the lowblood stipend system could reduce muggings so much. Trolls are violent, and some are assholes with no good reason to be, but you’ve had projections done by people who know statistics and economic caste inter-dynamics way better than you do. Your proposed growth of caeger allowances could cut maroon to yellow crime by 70% in most areas.

Wow that’s an ominous looking arch in the doorway of this building.

Your thoughts scatter as you gaze up at the black stone structure, which stands at least twelve feet tall. Weathered by time but free of the decay and ruin marking so much else around it, it’s covered by spiraling golden script.

Speak with care, say two of the script’s languages - you don’t recognize the third one, strange rough gashes and dots in dizzyingly complex combinations. Words bear the greatest weight.

Not an unusual warning, but your neck still prickles a little as you pass under its shadow.

You blink as you walk in, surprised by how bright it is - there’s a big hole in the roof three floors up, and in the floors between the ground and said hole - so pink and green moonlight is pouring through.

It takes a moment for you to notice the actual stalls stretching on the ground floor as far as you can see - it’s a big dang building, and while it’s much more subdued than where you’ve been so far, trolls still have quiet, heated discussions over paper or parchment, ink and printing molds. Most are covered up as you are, and it’s not hard to guess why.

In Dimasqa, owning the wrong texts is a death sentence.

Wait, doesn’t that gap let rain and wind get in, mess up the books? You look up, squinting in the light, since there’s no clouds to cover the moons. Then you realize - there’s a slight psiionic aura over the hole, white or yellow sparks. Someone must be controlling what passes through it.

“Looking for someone?”

You turn quick enough to nearly smack the person who’s sidled up behind you, your fins puffed up to the base of your horns.

“Jeez, could you give a lady a little warning? That’s my pumper calisthenics done for the night, thanks so much. I’m glad you care about my health, but next time, I could just do water yoga.”

Commodore Weirdo pauses as they appear to puzzle through this one, which gives you a moment to study them.

What you can see of them. Not only are they covered from head to toe, they don’t seem to have any horns, or else they’re the kind that curl down around the face instead of up. They don’t seem that big physically, but their clothing flares out behind them and to their sides so much it’s a wonder people aren’t tripping over them left and right.

Only the glint of white, glowing eyes behind the veil confirms it’s a person under there and not a really elaborate puppet.

“Sorry.” They reply, and while it’s fairly neutral in tone, it sounds genuine enough. “I thought you were more alert than that.”

“Got a little distracted.” You point at the hole.

They look up.

“Some texts can only be read in direct moonlight, or under certain stars. A few require the blinding sun, with dark lenses to protect the eyes. Yet others require special glasses to be seen.”

You’re about to give them shit for sounding like a video game character  - though their voice is oddly familiar in some way you can’t place - when they speak again in a more mundane tone.

“Also, we shoot the birds that fly in for food. So, how can I help you?”

“Are you the appointed tour guide? Where’s your dang name tag and badge, you fraud.”

They laugh, which is reassuring. If they’re trying to distract you while someone else sets up a hit, at least they enjoy your quality jokes.

A quick look around fails to locate any untoward interest in you. Everyone is occupied with their haggling or browsing, or curled up with a book in some corner. A few apprentices to what you assume is a master scribe are frantically copying down lines as their master barks at them, her monkey lusus adding its own mocking chitters.

You look up again for good measure, since any telekinetic worth their salt can float, but the higher stories are clear too.

“No one’s allowed to bloody up the stalls by attacking tourists. Bad for business, and the parchment sellers have skinned troublemakers before.”

Shit, are you that obvious? You glare down at the troll, who’s about a foot shorter than you.

They seem perfectly unconcerned.

“Pushing aside that telling some rando who I’m here to meet is really stupid, why do you want to help me? I’m flattered and all, but I was hatched a lot of yesternights ago.”

“I’m bored.”

“You are so valid, and yet I have to find it in my pusher to turn you down. It’s been real, peace.”

You turn around and forge onward into the crowd, looking for the section of the market that has fewer visitors and stands with armed guards, despite that doofus’s chatter about how fights are frowned on here. Maybe in the ordinary sections.

Books with powers lent to them by ancient psiionics. Books that talk about all the highblood castes’ weaknesses, politicians’ secrets and classified Imperial content.

Books of magic and viseralchemy.

Books written by the horrorterror worshippers who once ran the city, and if the stories are to be believed, warped and enslaved the people here to the point where the Empress herself sent her forces to save the last uncorrupted survivors.

By wrecking their shit! Happily ever after, ignore any and all better ways that could’ve been done.

Dimasqa’s never recovered in the millennia since, even if its black market obviously has. But hey - small victories.

After some sign deciphering, you see the one you’re looking for - Suppressed Religious Artifacts for Sale. Even illegal fencers have to be poncy with names, apparently. Does anyone think an Imperial spy would be fooled by a longer label?

Wait a second, isn’t that - oh come on.

The dope from earlier waves at you with what must be an artificial hand, made of some sleek dark gray material with glowing green lines on it.

“Ok, I’m a fan of playing practical jokes, but why didn’t you uh, I don’t know, say you were my contact?”

“You play around so much, I thought you'd enjoy another game.”

Good; they answered in the pre-arranged code.

With a sardonic smile and a flick of your fins, you gesture to the bolted waist-high (to a normal troll anyway) gate leading to the inside of their stall. With a flick of their fingers, it unlocks itself and you step through into the yet warmer confines of wood and tarp.

So they’re at least a telekinetic, and their control is very fine. You keep a wary eye on them while browsing their wares.

There's the usual horrorterror stuff - blatantly creepy monsters and warped troll-like figures standing side by side on the shelves - and more subtle things, everyday objects that make your neck prickle or cause nausea when you look at them directly.

Curled up angels share space with beasts and gods that probably come from minor, mostly forgotten religions. Cups, plates, and weapons engraved with extinct languages and ancient creatures are hung from various-sized pegs, all carefully polished.

Maidel would give his left arm for some of these. Too bad you can never tell him you were here.

“I don’t see what I’m looking for.”

The skepticism and question in your voice is plain.

“I locked it up for safekeeping.” They retort, the ‘duh’ in their voice plain.

If your face weren’t veiled, you’d stick your tongue out. Immature, yes, deserved, also yes. Especially because the heat is really starting to get to you, sweat running down your face and limbs.

You keep both eyes on them as they kneel down, reach under a table and take out a carved wooden box, inset with gems and buzzing with the same kind of feeling you got when you walked under the arch.

It’s not psiionic energy. It’s not any kind of magic you can immediately identify, though you’re not an expert.

It, and their voice, are still tantalizingly familiar. This is gonna bug you so bad.

The box rearranges itself into a small shrine, pieces flicking apart and re-aligning themselves in an upright shape. For the first time there’s a faint hiss and a wisp of white energy as they seamlessly re-align.

That can’t just be plain telekinetics. Matter manipulation? Tyrian tits, who is this troll?

If they’re a troll.

A look at the shrine - and the two figurines in front of it - makes you swear quietly.

Carved from rose quartz, one can only be you, except the face is intricately carved to be more cruel and imperious than your own is (at least, you goddamn hope people don’t see you that way).

You’re aiming a trident at another figure, a blueblood with their arms raised defensively who looks an awful fucking lot like Cherie...but they’re thinner and taller. The face is clearly meant to be more aged, and the horns are bigger.

Unthinking, you reach out a hand to touch them until the vendor swats you.

“Come on, Chimer, you’re smarter than that. What if they’d been cursed, or psi-affected?”

“Yeah, that’s fair - ”

You stop short.

They were never supposed to know your name.

Suspicion over your network and the possibility of being betrayed flares, but then you smile lazily.

“Soooooo. How’d you get ahold of these?”

Eat a dick, eat a dick, eat a barrel of dicks, you mother grub sphincter-sucking asshead.

If they’re a mind reader after all, that ought to get a reaction.

They shrug.

“Is that important? You just want to buy them, right?”

Not a twitch. Either they’re a hell of an actor, or they can’t really see into your head.

You know what? Fuck it.

With a click of your remote, a forcefield springs up around the pair of you, this one trapping all sound inside it and blocking the view of anyone watching.

You grab at their head covering -

- and get swatted down by a feathered wing reaching out, landing flat on your ass.

“Srevni.” You growl when you get your breath back.

They take their veil off, revealing a face that isn’t quite how you remember.

It’s not quite the beast they were before, but not their troll disguise’s either.  Some strange hybrid of the two, their second pair of eyes smaller and angled under their primary ones. Their mane has become green tendrils sprouting from their head, and the big ring floating around their neck now rests around their collarbone, a snug fit.

Their orange throat eye blinks at you.

“I didn’t think you’d be pleased to see me, Chimer. I failed you, after all.”

You roll around your feelings in your head, trying to decide how not-pleased you really are.

“Look, I’m a lot more mad at Cherie right now than I am at anyone else.”

They nod, and while their face (less mobile than a troll’s) is hard to read, the drooping of their large pointy ears seems to indicate remorse.

“I figured if you were tracking down Liehde’s cult, it could only mean they’d resurfaced.”

“Hold up, who?”

They blink, and you can see the feathered tip of their tail poke out of the long clothing swaths. No wonder they bundle up so much.

“I thought you knew. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“I’m here because Cherie popped up and had this in their hive.”

You stand up and take out the damaged Chimera figurine from your sylladex, handing it over to the hybrid creature.

Srevni takes it with careful fingers, their sharply pointed nose - almost a muzzle, really - nearly touching it as they lean in, poring over the thing.

“Only a replica, but they probably have an original somewhere.”

“You will score so many more points with me if you don’t put me through the same cryptic garbage as last time, pal. Please tell me you can talk normally now.”

“I’m getting there.” They huff. “Besides, I don’t know what you want to know because I don’t know how much you know.”

You blink.

“That's a trainwreck of a sentence, but fair enough.”

With a deep breath, you tap your fingers together and think.

“Cherie’s back, and they’ve made noises about trying to help my political aims - lowblood rights, all that jazz. Pure bullshit, you were there during their little timeline stunt and you saw all those helms suffer too. They couldn’t give less of a fuck about anyone below them - or above, given they janked Coloth’s shit up and down.”

As the words leave your mouth you realize this makes Cherie’s claims of teaming up with him weird, given they had no problems taking his stuff behind his back before. If there’s one thing you feel sure of about how they operate, it’s that they never deal directly with anyone unless it’s strictly necessary; the blueblood basically said as much during your last chat.

“Anyway, that’s about it. I mean, I know their bloodline was given their powers by Chimera, and one of them had been involved with making the rift, but beyond that...nothing. I didn’t even know they existed during the whole Echthros business. They almost don’t seem to fit in the picture at all.”

Srevni smiles - or well, you think it’s a smile, hard to tell with that jagged maw - and snaps their fingers, having put the figurine down.

“That’s exactly what drives Cherie. Their bloodline came before you, long before Chimera and Miruka found Tabula and Priori, before the razing of this very city. When the immortal influences found those women after their long search, they abandoned the original bloodlines they made. Those trolls’ only purpose had been ensuring that Alternian bodies could handle such power, so they were useless once they’d found the perfect hosts for their soul fragments.”

Your fins flick up and down, trying to understand, and then you snort.

“Are you saying Cherie feels ignored? Shit, they should be grateful the Dolcez line got left alone! Fat lot of good it did me or Tabula to be the center of attention. I’m glad pangosheep isn’t like that, one is bad enough.”

Srevni, to your surprise, doesn’t join you in mocking the cobalt. It’s weird, given their prior hatred of the troll (and what you suspect was a mega-weird pitch crush on them, in hindsight).

“Cherie’s silly, their original ancestor less so. Liehde - “ They gesture to the blueblood, carved out of what you think is lapis lazuli. “ - seems to have been raised by Chimera from grubhood, if the surviving accounts can be trusted. He took it pretty personally when she left him for you.”

You take off your dang coverings because no one can see the pair of you behind the field anyway and you can’t stand suffocating anymore. Beneath, you’re only wearing swim gear (a fuchsia crop top and black knee shorts, along with a half-skirt) so you don’t die of heat exhaustion, and Srevni looks at the ground for some reason.

Why would a non-troll creature care about modesty, especially when plenty of silly fuchsias wear less than this all the time? They make no sense.

“That’s real sad and all, but I swear Maidel said Cherie did have a lusus - a sugar glider. Why'd Chimera need to raise him? Why did she even care? She fucked right off after making my deal.”

You’re not jealous of this long-dead blueblood with some screws loose, but it does stick in your craw that the fluffy asshole apparently spent sweeps around some guy she was always going to abandon, and then left you with zero explanations or tips about what she’d stuck you with.

They shrug, hands splayed outward.

“I don’t have all the answers, Chimer. Why he had a real humdinger of a grudge doesn’t matter, only what he did about it.”

“Which was...?”

“Remember that cult I mentioned?”

Your mouth pulls back into a very annoyed frown.

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“Remember what Cherie did with the helms? Multiply that.”

A breath gets sucked in through your fangs.

“...he killed a bunch of people by draining them of power to do what, exactly?”

Srevni turns, and taps at the shrine.

The worn, painted images depict light beams coming out of trolls and into the man you now know as Liehde Dolcez. He’s holding up a clock - one that resembles your dear old tick tock.

Dude really was fixated. Must be genetic.

“His temple’s been searched, but no one’s ever figured out what he accomplished - if he managed it at all. There must have been a record somewhere, but it’s been so many sweeps; could be lost or destroyed by now.”

You stare at the images with growing unease.

“What did you mean when you said this was a replica, that Cherie probably had an original?”

“It seems they’ve visited Liehde’s temple themself and nabbed a few things - probably feel like they own them. This is a granite replica of a rare artifact. Originals are made of a material that can hold a low psiionic charge of almost any kind indefinitely. That, and that kind of stone being impossible to find now, makes them so valuable.”

“Ohhhh no.”

They wave a placating hand at you, their wings rustling.

“There’s not enough intact ones around for Cherie to do damage with even if they had them all. They can’t hold much anyway.”

You grit your teeth.

“Remember how Civitrecce is full of tech a million times fancier than anything here, Srevni? I’d bet my ducks Cherie’s trying to find a way to copy it somehow.”

“Even if they did, their actual power level is low, remember? Liehde’s writings whine that it was a way Chimera kept them from wreaking havoc.”

“She should’ve tried harder.” You mutter.

Looking at the creature in front of you is another reminder of why Chimera’s safeguards are worse than worthless.

Their expression hardens, you think, as they must catch yours.

“She didn’t force the Dolcez line to make their bad choices, Chimer. Any more than she forced you to make decent ones. You can’t blame her for everything.”

“Actually,” You drawl, sitting on the floor because you’re tired of standing. “Considering I wouldn’t exist without her and all of this is her fault, I can.”

Srevni sits as well, shedding their own clothing, wearing their more familiar leotard underneath, high-hocked doglike legs crossed and long feather-tipped tail curled in their lap. Their wings extend, fanning out and around the pair of you.

White wings tipped with bright teal. Echthros’s wings.

Your arms wrap around yourself as that night of the reset comes back to you.

“You still have trouble trusting me.”

The barest wisp of hurt runs through the words.

A few fangs sink into your lip, guilt blossoming.

“...does it help if I feel kinda bad about it?”

They laugh a little.

“Blanca stole my body and I had to flee the city. I found an energy source and restored myself to a solid form, but I’m stuck this way now. I’m always going to have her face.”

“Yeah.” You mutter, thinking of Tabula. “I know the feeling.”

“Look on the bright side; people don’t scream or shoot if they see you without a dozen layers on.”

Thinkpan catching up, you raise a finger to stop them.

“Waitasecond, Blanca stole your body? Why?”

They shrug.

“She thinks I’m Echthros and decided revenge would be fun. It was really annoying, but this form’s better than my original, even if...well, it could be worse.”

An uncomfortable pang of platonic pity strikes.

“How can you not constantly blame Chimera and Miruka for everything?” You marvel.

Srevni pulls their clothing back on, hiding their non-troll features again, and gestures for you to drop the shield.

The kid who threw the dagger is shifting from foot to foot at the front of their stand and launches questions at Srevni in Southern. From what you can understand they’re a girl, and also...an apprentice?

She points at you proudly and then gets what sounds an awful lot like a (fairly amused) scolding.

“Hadija says she’s sorry, but next time you should pretend to be hurt - it makes people feel better.”

You squint.

“Did you sic a child on me.”

Their jagged mouth is hidden, but you can feel the creature smiling behind their veil. Then you frown, mild indignation replaced by seriousness.

“...does she...know?”

You wave a hand vaguely.

“Hadija -” They ask her in Standard. “- what am I?”

“Weird woofbeast!” she replies in it proudly, tossing her horns.

“And?”

“Teacher!”

“What do I do?”

“Keeps the weather out!”

They toss her a coin and she snatches it, running off who knows where.

All you can do is blink as you watch her weave off among the stalls and roving trolls.

Srevni looks back at you.

“It’s not that I never resent them, Chimer. I’ve just moved on.”

With a blink, the shrine and figurines are hovering in front of you.

“These aren’t really cursed or anything, right. I won’t start coughing up frogs?”

“They could’ve been.” Srevni retorts, amused. Little shit.

Grumbling, you put them in your sylladex, then take out a suitcase from it.

“So, what do I owe you?”

“Five thousand.”

You take out enough stacks for ten thousand, putting them on a table.

“Feed Hadija and her friends a little more, try to keep them out of trouble.”

They snort.

“I can’t do miracles. I’ll see about the food and some better showers.”

Their sigh well speaks to how much trouble it must be to keep these gremlins clean.

You wouldn’t think a eldritch monster/troll hybrid would make a decent lusus, but this night’s been full of surprises.

An idea strikes as you put your own layers back on.

“If Cherie’s been to old Dolcez’s temple before, maybe they’ll come back. Could you set a trap in case they do? I’ll pay you.”

Srevni shakes their head, but then they speak, it’s with vindictive glee.

“No need. You get that on the hive.”

You grin and clap them on the shoulder.

They look away again, but now that you know what to check for, you see their tail wagging underneath their clothes.

What a bizarre creature.

“It’s been real, Srevs. I’ll contact you if something else comes up.”

“I can’t leave Dimasqa.” They warn. “My power source is here; beyond the city limits I wouldn’t be able to think, or keep my form.”

“I get you. Thanks, by the way.”

They tilt their head.

“For what?”

“Helping.”

They’re quiet for a minute, then speak in a slightly resentful tone.

“I'll always help you, Chimer. Not just because I was made to.”

A couple things finally click in your head and you feel kinda stupid, but also, why would you think they’d feel that way?

Now it’s you who doesn’t know where to look.

“Jeez, Srevs. I swear I never realized.”

They sigh.

“You never did, in all the time I knew you before.”

Then they laugh, and nudge you back.

“It’s fine. Go back and stop Cherie from whatever they’re cooking up.”

Before Srevni can turn away you give them a hug, feeling their wings trying to flare in surprise beneath your arms.

Then they hug you back.

You wave to them as you walk away, then turn, making your way back through the market’s crowds with the moonlight shining down behind you.

END

[perditaalottachocolate-blog]

The Girl in the Mirror (17)

AO3 / fanfiction.net

Chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19+ | ( >> (more coming soon)

A @marinettemarch​ story, Day 17: Failure

By the time Marinette made it home she was beyond exhausted. And the internal mantra of „Adrien-is-Chat” still echoed in her head.

‘Why did you make Chat return the phone you took?’ She attacked Ladybug as soon as the skylight closed behind them.

‘Relax, I just wanted to make sure he wouldn’t follow us,’ the older girl rolled her eyes. The mask of the laid-back heroine was back on. ‘It’s not a big favor. He’ll find Adrien in no time.’

No time indeed, Marinette thought. She sent Ladybug a searching look. Just this afternoon the heroine claimed she didn’t know Chat’s identity. It was just a coincidental choice of words, right? One that maybe even would have been amusing had she had any power left to laugh. Alas she only had enough to get Tikki some cookies and crash onto her bed. She fell asleep almost immediately.

Early morning found her as tired and stressed as last evening but she forced herself to get up and shower, before she needed to head to school. The helplessness of yesterday had been in part replaced with frustration. She quickly summed up her status:

One akumatized Ladybug. Check.

One incompetent heroine who couldn’t deakumatize her. Check.

One partner who turned out to be classmate - slash - crush. Check.

One Jagged Stone concert she was supposed to provide costumes to. Check.

Designs returned for adjustment. None.

Messages from Penny. None as well.

Oh, and she should show up at school in 20 minutes.

There were so many things on her plate right now she wanted to scream. And she would, but she didn’t want to wake Ladybug. Tikki took her place in Marinette’s purse and the two of them left the attic in search for breakfast.

Marinette’s dad was in the kitchen, putting groceries away.

‘Hey, cupcake!’ He gave her a peck on the forehead. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yeah, Dad,’ she chirped. There was no need to make him worry. There was nothing he could do about her problems anyway.

‘Oh, a friend of yours asked for you yesterday,’ he scratched his chin. ‘I think her name was Lila.’

‘Lila?’ Marinette had seen her the day before. But what would she want from her?

‘Isn’t she in your class?’ Her dad frowned. ‘She said it was nothing important and that she’d talk to you at school.’

‘Yeah, she’s in my class,’ Marinette carefully kept her voice neutral.

‘She seems like a nice girl, doesn’t she? She bought some bread rolls and said they were the best she ever had. And apparently she travels a lot, so that’s a huge compliment.’

Marinette chose to evade. The last thing she needed right now was a discussion on how Lila wasn’t the traveler she claimed to be. ‘You own one of the best bakeries in Paris, Daddy,’ she climbed to her toes and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Is this a surprise when you get praise for your merchandise?’

‘I guess it’s not,’ Tom curled his mustache. ‘It’s good to know your friends appreciate it, though. Have a nice day, cupcake!’ He added slipping a warm package that smelled of butter into her backpack.

‘You to, Daddy!’ she called from the door.

She decided to leave via bakery and say goodbye to her mom as well. She had returned so late yesterday, that she couldn’t ask Sabine if there were any messengers from Jagged.

‘No, honey,’ her mom shook her head. ‘There was someone asking for you yesterday, when you were out, but they disappeared before I could talk to them. You know how it is with the rush hours.’ She stroke Marinette’s hair. ‘But if that was a messenger surely they would wait. That’s their job after all.’

‘Well, if anyone comes today, please accept the package,’ the girl asked. ‘I’ll text Penny to tell her they can send it anytime.’

‘Sure, honey,’ Sabine waved her goodbye.

As soon as the door closed behind her Marinette felt the weight of her troubles on her shoulders again. Her parents’ presence always had a soothing effect on her, but now there was nothing distracting her. She added Lila’s visit to the list of things she should be concerned about. One quick message to Penny later and she was already entering school.

‘Have you seen Lila?’ she asked Alya in the locker room. Her friend usually knew these things. She often interviewed the girl either for school blog or her Ladyblog, as Lila seemed to get involved with akumas more often lately. ‘She asked about me at the bakery yesterday.’

‘Girl, what are you talking about?’ Alya looked at her as if she grew a second head. ‘Lila left for Achu two days ago. She just tweeted she’ll be back for Jagged’s concert,’ the Ladyblogger waved her phone in front of Marinette’s eyes. Lila smiled back at her from the screen, some foreign landscape in the background.

‘Like she has tickets,’ Marinette snorted. She recalled Lila lamenting over it few weeks ago. The tickets had sold out in 5 minutes and the Italian girl almost broke her phone in half because it had disconnected mid transaction.

Alya shrugged as they left the locker room and headed for class. ‘With her connections she can get anything. I mean she probably just asked Jagged. I imagine he'd do anything for her after she saved that kitten.’

All around them students were showing each other Lila’s tweet and enthused over the storied she would bring from the concert. Even those who hitherto had shown no interest in Jagged nor his music, like Max or Kim, seemed to be excited because of it.

‘You think Lila could be convinced to stream that concert? Or at least a fragment?’ Alya mused. ‘It would be awesome to have it on school blog!’

Marinette decided to restrain from comment. She had tried to get Alya to see the truth too many times. There was always a good reason why Lila’s promise couldn’t be fulfilled yet or why she said one thing and then something exactly opposite happened. Marinette was fed up with constantly being accused of attacking Lila out of jealousy.

‘Probably,’ she agreed instead.

Her phone chirped with a notification of a new text message.

[Penny R:] “Marinette. The messenger took the clothes to the bakery yesterday together with the two backstage passes you asked for. He said you picked the package yourself. We’re waiting for the final product.”

She squinted at her phone. Her blood ran cold. Yesterday? No package came yesterday. She wasn’t there yesterday. There must have been a misunderstanding. Maybe her dad had signed for the package and forgot to tell her? Maybe...

‘Marinette. Dupain. Cheng,’ a shrill cut through her panic. ‘My mom said to give you this.’

Chloé dangled a white envelope in front of Marinette’s face. She was holding it in two fingers as if it was the most disgusting thing on earth. Marinette noticed Audrey Bourgeois’s logo printed in the corner and her own name written in cursive on the back.

‘Since when you deliver mail, Chloé?’ Alya chuckled.

The blonde only rolled her eyes dropping the item into Marinette’s hands. ‘Since my mother decided a baker’s daughter isn’t worth wasting stamps on her.’

Marinette ripped the envelope and unrolled the letter.

‘I’ll save you trouble reading, Dupain-Cheng,’ Chloé drawled jabbing her with a manicured finger. ‘It says your entry has been disqualified from the Paris Fashion Contest.’

[berniesrevolution]

Piers Morgan is a bully. From beefing with Lady Gaga over the veracity of her trauma to attacking gender-neutral clothing as a concept, Morgan has a reputation. That's why it might be no surprise that he got called out (again) on a live broadcast of Good Morning Britainfeaturing a panel discussing protests against President Donald Trump in the United Kingdom.

Ash Sarkar, a senior editor at Novara Media, was on that panel and ended up in an argument with Morgan that went viral. Morgan challenged her over her willingness to protest Trump by accusing her of not protesting former president Barack Obama. That sparked a shouting match heard 'round the Internet.

Challenged about deportation figures under the Obama administration, Sarkar said she did have a problem with the 44th president's immigration polices. But Morgan wasn't hearing any of it. Morgan repeatedly asked Sarkar where her Obama protests had taken place, speaking over Sarkar's efforts to answer. After Morgan's cohost, Susanna Reid, pointed out that you don't have to take to the streets over every issue, Morgan again refused to let Sarkar explain the work she had done to protest Obama's policies, calling Obama her "hero."

"He's not my hero," Sarkar replied. "I'm a communist, you idiot."

"Have you ever considered chairing a debate without straw-manning your guests, Piers, to make up for your own incompetence?" Sarkar continued after Morgan claimed there were zero protests against Obama's U.K. visits. (Morgan was wrong about that.) When Morgan again labeled her "pro-Obama," Sarkar responded, "I'm not pro-Obama. I've been critic of Obama. I'm a critic of the Democratic Party because I'm literally a communist."

Sarkar spoke with Teen Vogue about that moment with Morgan and what being a literal communist means when you're talking about U.S. presidents past and future.

Teen Vogue: 

You were on Good Morning Britain to discuss Trump protests in the U.K. How did those demonstrations go?

Ash Sarkar: 

There were at least 250,000 [people] at the Together Against Trump March yesterday, which makes it the biggest weekday protest in British history, and the biggest protest since the one in 2003 against the Iraq War.

It was a real mix of people. It was lots of young people, which might have been their first protest. Others were recognizable activists from anti-arms trade campaigns or Palestinian solidarity campaigns, so it put together a diverse range of political experiences.

Teen Vogue:

Have you seen an increase in youth activism in the U.K.?

Ash Sarkar:

Yes, certainly. I think that since 2010 especially, when there was a revived student movement, there has been a sense that street protest belongs to the young, and that's a really productive avenue of political expression.

I would think that when you put [on] something like an anti-Trump march, it's about a statement of values, right? And trying to define who you are through a rejection of the values that you find completely abhorrent. It's about defining yourself as the anti-Trump: being welcoming, outward-looking, and anti-racist.

Teen Vogue:

So can we talk about Piers a little bit?

Ash Sarkar:

Oh, yeah. A bellicose walrus himself.

Teen Vogue:

He accused you of being pro-Obama by virtue of being anti-Trump; why do you think that people make that assumption?

Ash Sarkar:

I think that the reason why he made that connection is because he really knew that if [he] got pulled into talking about Trump's policy platform, it would be completely indefensible. So then he had to do a bit of sleight of hand and set up what he thought the only anti-Trump person could be, which was a pro-Obama one.

What we know is that lots of the people who have protested Trump in the U.S. — for example, all the people of Black Lives Matter — were leading protests when Obama was president, too. And what they've done is highlighted a lot of the consistency of the kind of problems and issues that they've identified with Trump's presidency. So I don't think that it is a simple category error or accident that someone has made that conflation. It's a deliberate attempt to discredit opposition to ruling-class interests. That's all it is.

Teen Vogue:

How does being a communist impact your view of the U.S. presidency, whether it's Obama or Trump?

Ash Sarkar:

If you've got politics which are left of social democracy, it implies that you've got an understanding that the economic platform used by Obama, which was [also] advocated by Clinton, did dispossess a great many Americans, and this isn't just the "white working class" everyone loves to talk about in relation to Trump.

Those who have suffered the most are working-class Americans of color. To me, having those politics means that you can look at economic problems without making it identity politics in the way that Trump has. Also, being a communist means being a fierce critic of the prison industrial complex and the military industrial complex. The expanded use of drone warfare and the expansive use of deportation under Obama. You can be a vocal critic of all those things, while also looking at how Trump [has done them] because, quite simply, he was able to build on a lot of Obama's legacy, particularly in terms of executive overreach. He's been able to pursue extreme, draconian forms of state violence.

I also think that Obama represented a possibility of change, of weakened forces of racism in America — pretty meaningful. I'm not going to be someone who's going to discredit his legacy entirely.

(Continue Reading)