#or ‘it’s all dead white men’ as if there aren’t whole ass displays when you walk into fucking b&n

[sagemoderocklee]

truly so appalled by that screenshot about a*3 that i cannot sleep. i used to talk about this a lot more but the way ppl in fandom spaces absolutely don’t respect writing as a craft… like this is it!!! this right here is the culmination of that!!! this is killing actual literature and why we get bs like that r*ylo fic that got published and is supposedly a nyt best seller

genres exist for a reason!!! genres are what you’re looking for when you go to a book store!!! not tropes and tags!!! and guess what a poorly organized bookstore is partly because ppl are underpaid and overworked, and partly cause customers be lazy af and don’t put shit back cause “it’s not my job”

i love going to bookstores. i love looking through shelves of books. i love looking at covers and reading summaries. i don’t wanna pick up a published work that’s actually just fanfiction masquerading as something else with blurbs like “enemies to lovers!” on it cause it doesn’t tell me anything!!! the reason those work for fanfic is because fanfiction exists within an already established story!!! we already know what the story is and who the characters are!!! so you can tag it with “there’s only one bed” and have that be enough because the actual story already exists separately!!!!!!

i love to write and read fanfiction, but it has done something to yall, this whole entire fandom culture becoming mainstream has ruined ppls respect for storytelling. like it is truly and sincerely wild (and awful and disheartening) to me the utter lack of respect for writers and the craft of writing ppl who claim to love reading/writing are espousing rn. if all you ever wanna do is read/write fanfiction no one is stopping you, but published books need to behave like literature. and if you truly believe and want others to believe that fanfiction IS transformative then you have got to stop dismissing and disrespecting literature

[foradecision]

THE TOWER, DAY 21 ; 7:03:54.

     "yo, cap — hold up a sec.” 

     crane’s brows lift. he breaks stride halfway down the hall, turning back around on his heel to look at spike. “‘cap’?”

     “yeah, you know. captain america. ‘cause of the whole straight - laced, boy scout vibe —”

     he snorts. “kiss my ass, man.” 

     “nah, even better. got’chu a present.” 

     “oh yeah? it’s not even my birthday.” 

     “might as well be.” whatever he’s been holding is offered in plain sight, passed over once his strides cover the floor between them. “tried out a new recipe for the firecrackers. old ones’ll give you, what, ten, fifteen seconds? these babies, though — twice the juice.”

     “no shit? thirty seconds?” 

     “yup, just about. means you’ll have plenty of time to get your white ass clear of whatever clusterfuck it’s in, and then some.”

     he glances down, starts to tuck them into one of his pockets, then hesitates and catches spike’s eye again. “you sure you can spare ‘em? mine’s not the only ass out there every day.” 

     “got the prototype set up in back,” spike says. “for now, what you’ve got is all we got, but gimme a few more hours. we’ll have enough to go around.” 

     satisfied, crane nods and stores the firecrackers. “thanks, spike.” 

     “we do what we can.” a hand extended to grasp crane’s for a beat. “stay safe, man. next beer’s on me.” 

     “isn’t that shit communal?” 

     “hey, i take it back. go fuck yourself.” 

     crane laughs. the echo of it lingers on his face while he makes his way to the tower’s exit, but it’s quick to fade: the area’s empty, the doors unmanned. he throws a glance toward deniz who’s passing by with a crate of medical supplies, headed to the elevator that’ll take him up to sickbay. 

     “where the hell’s blake?” 

     “don’t know. it’s still early.” 

     “okay, and — ? c’mon, he knows better than that. last time he left his post, we almost lost a fuckin’ kid. do me a favor and track him down, huh?” 

     deniz nods and disappears around the corner. shaking his head, crane works the doors open and steps outside.

     the rustle of a bird startled into flight greets him as soon as he does. two circle, then a third takes wing. hoarse, throaty cries, jarring in the dazed heat of early morning; they’re vultures, he realizes. that isn’t unusual. enough carnage in the slums to draw them, keep them occupied, their bellies full. what’s unusual is their proximity to the tower’s shadow. the courtyard’s kept clean — as clean as it can be, at least, but that means it’s routinely swept of biters, their carcasses tossed past the wall. cloudbursts and regular storms do enough to wash away most of the blood. 

     forehead creased to a furrow, crane steps further out and lifts a hand to block the sun. the vultures do another lap and three more join in. there’s a noise from somewhere that sounds like a slow leak from a water pipe. the fuck ... ?

     he jogs down the stairs and does a full turn so he’s facing the tower again. 

     that’s when he sees it. 

     three floors above ground level, dripping gore onto the concrete. that’s where the noise is coming from. that’s where the birds are congregating. 

     “what the ...”

     blake’s voice rings out across the yard. mesut, another of the watch, is in tow. “hey, i don’t know who died and made you boss, but last i checked it was brecken who called th—”

     “shut the fuck up and look at this.” 

     “what? listen, you’re —”

     “hey!” crane parrots back sharply. “you wanna come down here and explain how the fuck this happened?"

     the two men filter outside and follow the trajectory of his gesture. 

     “holy —”

     a body. the corpse of one of their scouts, gutted, strung up from the window guard with what looks like a combination of cable and rope. intestines spill from the split of her eviscerated stomach, hanging like streamers. like the whole thing is decorative. on display. crane takes the stairs again, two at a time, and lands a solid shove against blake’s chest. 

     “you’re goddamn lucky brecken’s the one in charge, ‘cause if it were me, i’d throw your ass to the fuckin’ biters right now. how’d you miss this, blake? huh? where the hell were you when they were stringin’ her up?”

     “me? what, this is my fault?”

     “you’re supposed to watch the fuckin’ door, blake!” 

     “i was! i stepped away for ten minutes, not even —”

     “you don’t step away ever, you hear me? you do your fuckin’ job!” 

     mesut has to get between them, one hand braced against blake’s chest and the other held out, palm up, to crane. “guys, guys — c’mon, this isn’t helping. stop. take a breath. we need to go inside and tell —”

     “yeah, why don’t you get on that,” crane grates out, still glaring daggers at blake. “in fact, while you’re at it, get me a fuckin’ ladder, too.” 

     ��a ladder — ?” 

     “jesus, do i have to spell everything out for you people? you think we’re gonna just leave her up there for the vultures? no. no, i’m cuttin’ her down. get the fuck out of my sight, blake. i mean it.”

     but cutting her down is only easy in theory, not in practice. the bindings are tight. between the deadweight, the birds, and the sheer butchery of her condition, maneuvering her to solid ground — to the tarp he’d laid there beforehand — is a grisly, strenuous task. her name was defne. local girl, mid - twenties, used to be a competitive swimmer before the outbreak. healthy. slight, a head shorter than him, but all muscle, and fast as hell. 

     clearly not fast enough. 

     the abrasions on her wrists catch his eye. bruises that aren’t mottled, the way they would be if she’d already been dead at the time they were made. blood had rushed to the area, colored the skin underneath. 

     she was still alive when they’d hung her up there. 

     crane, by no means, has a weak stomach. if the things he’d seen during active duty weren’t enough for him to keep any physical response in check, the things he’d seen during his time in harran definitely were. bile washes up his throat anyway, pitches against the roof of his mouth. he has to tug the bandanna from his face and press his lips to the back of his gloved hand, forcing a thick, sour swallow, counting off seconds in his head as he wills the nausea to pass. the prickle of sweat all over him has little to do with the heat. but he counts, and it passes. a breath out and he’s focused again. on getting her wrapped, preparing her for transport to the nearest lot where he’ll be able to start a fire and — 

     something’s carved into the skin of her rib cage. easily missed at first, because of the blood. it’s an arrow; facing outwards, like it’s pointing to her back. 

     slowly, mindful of the gaping, weeping ruin of her stomach, crane turns her over. 

     “what th— what the fuck happened?” 

     brecken. coming outside, throwing his shadow across the tarp as he moves behind crane. crane, who hasn’t moved at all. 

     “brecken,” he says, guttural as one of the vultures. “it ...” 

     five letters, branded red, sliced deep into the flesh between defne’s shoulder blades. his name. it spells out his name.

     more people are drifting outside, mesur and deniz, seth, buckshot — spike brings up the rear with deanna close to his elbow, edging past him to get a clearer look at the scene. the four boys are there, nate and peter, omar and rahim, and whatever’s being said, whatever collective murmurings pass through the group at large, crane doesn’t hear. 

     he rocks back on his heels and looks up at brecken, whose gaze is already aligned with his. it holds for a long, long moment, and then brecken’s turning to address everyone else. 

     “alright, all of you lot back inside — spike, get them out of here,” that’s a more direct command, and the ‘them’ in question — four stubborn kids — is ushered through the doors first amidst a chorus of griping complaints. “unless you hear me say your name,” brecken continues, “go back to your posts and stay there. deanna, meet us upstairs. jade — where the hell is jade?” 

     mesut starts to say something and brecken waves him off before he’s gotten out a single word. 

     “just fucking find her, yeah?”

     “on it, boss.” 

     and still, crane hasn’t moved. 

     it’s his name. it’s his fucking name, on the skin of a dead girl. 

     “crane. hey.” brecken’s hand lands on his shoulder. “i’ll take her ‘round back. go on upstairs and wait for me.” 

     “you can’t carry her by yourself.” his voice is monotone, rasping at the edges. “i got it.” 

     deanna’s next. unsurprisingly, she didn’t go when she’d been told to. “we got it,” she says, already handling the tarp, and brecken joins in, the two of them wrapping defne up until crane can’t see the letters anymore.

     all three get her moved from the yard. get her clear of prying eyes to where she needs to be. autopilot takes over and none of them speak to each other until the body’s burning and they’re gathered in hq, along with lena, spike, and jade. 

     at first, crane just listens. talk surrounding blake is what jade jumps on first, because it’s the second time he’s pulled this — that they know of — and for the second time, somebody else paid for it. speculation that’s more assumption about what happened, as if there’s any real uncertainty around who’s responsible. it doesn’t matter who made the call, or the cuts. it comes back to rais.

     it always fucking comes back to rais.

     “they’re trying to rattle us, make us weak,” jade is saying. “the timing of this is no coincidence.” 

     she means the lull that wasn’t a lull. that span of days following nate’s rescue, where the threat seemed to retreat; it wasn’t a victory. it was a tactical move. 

     “he wanted my attention,” crane says. 

     everyone stops, everyone looks his way. deanna’s the only one he makes eye contact with and even then, it isn’t maintained. 

     “this is all part of his sick game, don’t you get it yet? he left her for me. he wants me. and i’m gettin’ real fuckin’ tired of everyone else bleeding for it.”

     “so — what?” spike says. “you gonna go after him yourself? that ain’t the play, man.” 

     “isn’t it?” 

     “the hell it is,” brecken puts in, and jabs a finger in crane’s direction. “don’t you even think about doing it, crane. not on my fucking watch. you go after him now, you’re giving him exactly what he wants.”

     “fuck it, then!” crane’s voice gets louder and he steps forward so brecken’s finger jabs his chest instead. “hell, if that’s what it’s gonna take, he can have it! one way or another, i’m ending this — and you’re not gonna stop me, brecken. all due respect, man, but —”

     “right, right, because making yourself a fucking martyr is the best course of action here, is it? don’t you square up to me like you’re —”

     “what? like i’m what, huh?”

     “you think i don’t want to see rais’ head on a fucking pike? you think all of us don’t want to end this?”

     “yeah, well, it wasn’t your fuckin’ name they knifed into a goddamn corpse!”

     “fucking hell,” jade bites off, at the same time lena gets in between the two men like mesut had done with blake earlier. 

     “enough, do you hear me? that’s enough.”

     “oh, my god —” the growling vitriol burns crane’s throat. he backs off, swiping his jaw with the flat of his wrist, hands landing at either hip. he’s gearing up to pop off again but deanna’s right there with a palm at the center of his chest. he’s breathing hard, almost panting. “you know he’s not just gonna stop, right?"

     “i know.” 

     “and i’m — just — what, i’m supposed to fuckin’ sit here with my thumbs up my ass, lettin’ him butcher his way through everyone in this place until he gets to me? is that it? is that the goddamn play?” 

     “hey. look at me.” 

     he’s so wound up that he damn near chokes on the next breath he pulls in, but he does as he’s told. this time, the eye contact is steady. the palm at his chest is steady. for a minute, it’s like the room’s emptied of every person except for them. 

     “blake’s off guard duty,” brecken says, clipped. “i’m putting a twenty - four hour watch on the fucking courtyard, no exceptions. spike —”

     “yeah.” 

     “can you rig another fence trap for that gap in the wall?” 

     “way ahead of you, boss. just gotta reroute the generators without pullin’ too much power from the floodlights.” 

     “but you can do it.”

     “’course i can do it.” 

     “good. get it done.” his eyes scan each face in turn. “jade, radio any other scouts in the field and tell them to pull back. i don’t want anybody else leaving until we’ve set up reinforcements. the rest of you, inventory and perimeter checks. find out where that prick blake is hiding,” this, to deanna, “and tell him if he isn’t standing in front of me in the next half - hour, he’ll lose more than just his job.”

     then he looks at crane. 

     “you, stay here. we’re not quite done.”

[honestsycrets]

Pay the Bill I: The Stranger and the Friend

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader (mob au)

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | church girl (Y/N) heads to the car with her niece to wait for her aunt. but she can’t help overhearing someone in need of help...

❛  warnings | mob au, nongraphic murder (i think)

❛ sy’s notes | i was gonna make this a one shot but I was having too much fun! Moster : aunt on mother’s side

Your aunt’s little two-story church on 24th street is smack in the middle of busy downtown. There’s a rundown pizza parlor around the corner where all the youth go after service, skipping down cracked sidewalks with pockets full of coin, bantering about their newest love interest or the hottest shade of lipstick. You shift in a rich wine dress, swishing the line of your dress in excitement for going home, kicking off your heels and sitting in the front of the warm brick fireplace with your niece.

“Did you turn off the air?” You ask your aunt, starting down the side door’s steps in a dress that was vibrant blue like the hue of her bright eyes. Your adoptive cousin stands-- bothered by something, he begins to lowly consult her. She throws you the heavy ring of keys.

“Go ahead of me, doll. Start the car.”

You catch them, fumbling with your poor skills. You can tell that you’ll be out in the cold a while. Your aunt has a way of talking round and round like a record and making people listen. Flurries of snow limit your view. Your fur coat affords you warmth with its muddy brown hairs. It would be a cold-ass day. The sooner you got home, the better. In your other hand, you hold your niece Marie, hopping in puffy white plastic shoes over puffs of snow. You bring your coat around your chest with chocolate gloves that match your mary janes.

“Get him the fuck up,” a voice says just outside the gated parking lot. A man’s voice: rumbling loud. You puff out frothy cold winter air while clicking toward your aunt’s car, glancing up to the brick wall beside you. An advert: enlist now for overseas service! A young man rushes to the mainline, his rifle prepped and ready for battle.

“Easy, easy big boy.”

“Please, please, please!”

You jangle the keys, stopping and standing upright at a man’s blubbering cries. There’s a loud rumble of the men beside him, boozing and having a few laughs at his expense. You can’t make him out behind the group of finely dressed men gathered.

“Moster?” Marie squeaks.

You tighten your hand around her, popping the car open putting her in her plush seat. You take up a warm maroon blanket and settle it around her shoulders. Mind your own business, you think. Your mother told you to mind your own business. This man? None of your business. Marie is your only line of business. You’d tell yourself that to death. But there was a tug-- damn religion and morals, telling you that he needed you.

“We’re just going to wait for Aunt Sella.”

“Where is it?” The man booms.

Marie turns her bright blue eyes to the door as you hop in, turning the heat on. She holds the hand of a monkey named Jo, one that you had made her yourself. “Are they gonna hurt him?”

Bless the words of a child. You search for the right words, finding there are none. Your hands shift around the steering wheel, flexing in those chocolaty gloves. Mor told you to mind your own business. Sella… she would have… She would have been right up there, swinging her finger around and telling them what for.

“Sweetheart I… No,” you shift around, fixing your skirt. “They ain’t. Now you just wait right here.”

Marie squeaks, Aunt (Y/N) saves the day!

The reality feels much different as you step out of that car. Your freezing feet carry you off the icy sidewalk, skidding closer to the fray. You straighten your coat, elevate your jawline, and press on. Your fingers dig into sleek suit jackets, a tug and a rip pulling each thug away from the middle.

The crumpled near-naked man is over the man’s sleek black shoe. He stands with a discordant frown, the barrel of his gun downcast toward the man’s head. More time, he begs, all I needed was some more time.

“Gave ya all the time ya needed, Solvasson.”

Solvasson weeps ugly tears against his boot. That’s when you move for better or worse and pull your chocolaty coat off your shoulders. The one your youngest sister brought you from Paris. She told you to keep it well. Then, kneeling at his feet you cover the man’s shoulders with the warm coat.

“Who the fuck is this--” another man asks, leaning from the sleek vehicle that blocked the street from the opposing direction.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“Wha-- whaa--- what?” He looks up, seeming to recognize you. Mr. Solvasson, the butcher who always donned his daughters in the finest of finery. “Miss (L/N), (L/N) no. Go home.”

A man wrenches you from the floor, forcing you to stand upright. This poverty-stricken street is otherwise abandoned. Church has been out a good while. Everyone would be hiding from the snow-- you can’t rationalize why these men would be making a scene in public. Unless… the thought hits you.

“You’re The Heathens,” you say. “The ones in the papers. Shooting men... outside churches.”

You take your first real good look at the man harassing the butcher. He shifts on his fine polished dress shoes, shoving one of his slender hands into the pocket of a slender and well-fitted suit. His lapel holds a lily in place. His tie made of silk fitted into his dark vest. He’s dressed to the nines-- and any woman would find the wonder in a man who could dress up.

“You know him?” He runs his hand through the long honey-colored top, then down his shaved side again. The man from the car speaks-- your lips roll in trepidation under the weight of his words.

“Kill them both and let’s get on with it.”

Your heels click in the snow. “Wait-- you can’t do that! He has a family.”

“Not for long,” the man inside the car says. His bright blue eyes derive some heathenous glee from the words as if he’s pleasured by the concept of slaughtering an entire family for the sins of one.

“Shut up Ivar.” The brunet man says, “It’s my business.” You stutter forward when the man extends his arm out again, cocking his gun toward the shivering bundle at his feet.

“But what has he done?!”

“Oh he owes me a whole lotta money,” the man says. You recognize him. A handsome jawline, twinkling green eyes. He’s the same man that used to pop up at Mr. Solvassons while you would order a hunk of pork for Christmas day. “A whole lotta money he can’t pay back.”

You rip from the man holding you, reaching out to grasp the man’s hand. You can smell the cologne on his collar, his playful green eyes shifting to meet yours when you say those few fateful words. “Then let me pay it!”

The man Hvitserk, as you hear the one in the car groaning, raises his gloved hand to your neck. His fingers lightly press over the necklace leading into the most tasteful display of cleavage. A smile grows upon his lips into something sickingly wicked. Your hand meets his on your throat. It shimmies up, angling your face with tender care. Hvitserk pulls you forward, breath tickling over your neck.

A loud pop rings your ears-- and then the sudden babbling cries all but still. Your eyes squeeze shut, forming lines over the lids. There’s another click. The men scatter like a well-trained hive to take care of business.

“I can be coerced, Miss (Y/N),” Hvitserk announces, reclining lazily against the car now. “He leaves behind a debt of a hundred thousand and while I’m uh, sure your rich li’l pastoral family could pay that sum-- I’m not interested in just money.”

“Just money?” You repeat after him.

Hvitserk bares a smile, tickling fingers around the side of your dress. Even if you knew what he was referring to, you did not really think he would go so far as to propose it! You were born in the church, raised under strict morals. You didn’t… you didn’t do that. Falling together with a stranger whose name you didn’t know seems-- out of the question.

He hands you a card. The Polvsen Hotel.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you? I like you. You’ve brave-- so, here’s the deal. You give me a little, I won’t blow them away. Even if Daddie’s dead as a doornail. So here is what you’re going to do, princess.” Hvitserk trails his hand lower. Your breath is sucked straight out of you, holding the card of a swanky, large hotel. He settles over your ass, leaning in against your ear. “You’re gonna me at the Royal Penthouse at ten o’clock. Wear something pretty. I like to uh, unpackage and taste before I eat.”

(Y/N)! Your aunt calls.

You shiver against his chest, turning your head toward the church. The cars have all dispersed. The body, gone. Hvitserk arches back, looking up and down your aunt’s trim body. He mulls over a hum, then looks down to you, tipping your chin up in his gloved hand.

“Do we have a deal?” He asks. You nod.

The only question now is--

Where the fuck are you gonna find something pretty on such short notice?

You can’t tell Marie or Sella what happened.

Marie was a child. Sella… Sella would give you that speech. The one that said you could get forgiveness for your sins you got on your knees and prayed hard enough. If she knew, the whole congregation would know… and the shame of not living up to everything that Marie deserved would tear you apart. Tear apart the Solvassons too.

The only other place you could imagine going was to your sister, Margrethe. She’s… not quite the same as you all. At a young age, she left the house claiming that the family was a bunch of hypocrites wrapped up in the ribbon that was the church. Her life was a fast life. One that you never inquired into, but never yourself put down.

Not until today, that was.

Your knuckles cracked against her mucky door. It’s discoloured and grody, you’d say-- but you don’t know anything about this life. Not a lick. Little Marie went home with your aunt and while you had too, you also escaped.

“Why if it ain’t little Miss.” Margrethe surfaces in the doorway, a hand on the outrageously nice corset. For a prostitute, it had to look nice. She pulls the robes over her chest and pulls you in. You pad in, clearing your throat.

“You look good,” you say, padding in.

“How’s Marie?”

“Good, good.” You step over a cockaroach, bouncing cutely. “Just doing her thing…”

Margrethe closes the door with a lock, inviting you to the kitchen. She’s always been a hospitable woman, plating you an open faced sandwich you have no appetite for. You wave it off, playing with the edge of your purse instead.

“You gonna tell me why you here, then?” Margrethe says.

“I-- I made a mistake.”

You set down the card face up. She reaches out, plucking the card up from the countertop. Immediately she hums,

“Yeah, you did alright.” She laments. “Which one of the brothers you get?”

“Brothers?” You repeat after her, bringing your purse into your lap. She nods, stamping the flimsy card twice on her countertop before handing it to you.

“Yeah. Who was it? Björn? Ubbe?”

You shake your head. “Hvitserk.”

“Ahhh. Hvitserk.”

“Is that bad? He— he killed a man. In front of me.” You quake in front of him. “He threatened to kill his family even.”

“So.” Margrethe draws low. Her eyes center firmly upon yours. “You didn’t…”

“I-- They didn’t deserve it.”

“So you offered to pay it?!” Margrethe booms, bringing her cigarette to her lips. You cough under the smoke that she blows at you in a billowing cloud.

“I thought I could--”

“He doesn’t need the money. If he needed the money, he would’ve busted up the man’s kneecaps! It’s the fucking principle, (Y/N)! Now you can’t back out, do you understand me? The Heathens will kill you!!”

You shirk visibly at her curse, eyes darting over the cracked tile toward her toes. You clutch your purse under the weight of her words. It’s not that you don’t think she doesn’t have your best at heart. You know she does. She doesn’t want you to be used.

Margrethe wasn’t like Ida. She didn’t have the money or drive to travel the world on someone’s else's tab. Marie kept her close to home, caring for her family despite the fact that she couldn’t… well, she couldn’t be close to home with religion as a strict forefront. I will not have a prostitute here! Sella claimed.

Margrethe collapses against the countertop. “What does he want?”

You look up from the floor. “He asked me to wear something pretty.”

Margrethe puts out her cigarette on her countertop.

“Figures. Let’s get you dolled up.”

@igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @cbouvier23, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @lisinfleur,  @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @end-of-night, @gruffle1, @lol-haha-joke @arses21434,  @smileyparrots, @miss-artemis-wild, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @wonderwoman292, @wish-i-was-a-mermaid, @killerb00sdeath, @heartbeats-wildly, @boo20017, @acacheofstrange, @shaelyn102,  @smokealone, @shaelyn102 @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly--canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44 @allvikingsfanfic @two-unbeatable-beaters, @igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok (no mix), @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @titty-teetee, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @piebytheocean, @strangunddurm, @rekdreams247, @justacrush, @ivarswonderlust, @peachesnpisces, @elenawrit, @equalstrashflavoredtrash, @roxxck, @dylanowhyyien, @ilvebeenabad, @vikingsmania, @huntingbears, @my-little-wolfe, @seize-the-droid, @moondustmemories, @colourmeinblue, @ilvebeenabad, @queenmissfit,  @hallowed-heathen, @neeadinghugs, @mblaqgi, , @triumphantreturnofpies, @dmv49, @glassythoughts, @iconicvaleria-blog, @lovelynerdytraveler, @tierneygonzalez, @zabee113, @meganjudee, @sdcyumyum, @ms-allenbrown, @pancake-blonde, @ivarswickedqueen, @starkiddreamer, @austenkingmylady, @pinkrockstar19, @jeowjungkook, @end-of-night, @yaminax-kuss-a , @gruffle1, @arses21434@natalie-rdr, @tempt-ress, @thevikingsheaux, @poisonedjoinery, @smokealone, @chewythecatus, @laughinglikenialler, @lefrenchfrye, @mybarnesmyhero, @vengefulflange, @imcreepininyourheartbabe, @therealmrshale, @that-goodgirl, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @athroatfullofglass, @x-valhalla @hissouthernprincess

[whoacanada]

‘Hot Jock Contest’

2k of date night auctions, shenanigans, and awkward first meetings. A Zimbits AU where Jack never overdosed and Bitty’s gay self is comfortable with being auctioned off for charity.

Rating: Teen, no explicit anything (not this time, lol)

(100% based off an ad I saw in passing for the Chicago Gay Hockey Association’s ‘Hot Jock Contest’.)

Jack rereads the email and fights a tightness in his throat at the image attached.

“Gay men’s hockey club is holding some kind of striptease disguised as a fundraiser. It’s the perfect place for you to spread your bisexual wings. You’ll get to see cocks in jocks, Jack. The kind you can actually look at, and, hopefully, touch.”

“Parse, I don’t know if that’s the kind of image I’m supposed to be cultivating, you know?”

Jack is eight months out of the closet and still horribly, desperately single; a fact made even less palatable by his ex trying to get him laid from a thousand miles away.

“Okay, that excuse worked until you got so backed up it started affecting your game. Look, at some point you have to make yourself happy, right? Coming out is supposed to be liberating and you’ve been wallowing in your freedom because people knowing you like dick doesn’t change the fact you’re still real fucking awkward, bud.”

“Thank you for the pep talk, Kent.”

“No, I mean,” Kent huffs like he’s the one suffering through this conversation. “Go out, have fun, get laid. And take Tater, he’s a good wingman.”

Ultimately, Jack folds like a cheap suit and finds himself in clothing that is far too tight, sipping on a craft beer that is too sweet, in a loud club full of beautiful people doing questionable things.

Jack doesn’t belong here.

“I still don’t think this is --”

“Zimmboni, relax! We find you cute boy tonight, no problem at all. How about that one? Nice legs? Nice face? Look good in your bed, ah?”

“Easy,” Jack throws his teammate a warning look at tries to focus on the parade of scantily clad hockey players looping the stage. “It’s not a meat market.”

Tater snorts. “Is always meat market. Just usually you are meat on ice.”

A beefy defenseman in a blue jock and matching harness stops in Jack’s line of sight and cocks a hip to display his bare backside and the tattoo of puck on his left ass cheek. Tater whistles and earns himself a wink.

“You’re not gay,” Jack chides.

“No, but I appreciate good physique.”

The lighting changes up and so does the music before a voice comes over the speakers announcing ‘special guests in the club tonight’ and Jack barely has time to duck his head before he’s hearing Tater’s name alongside his own.

“Crisse,” Jack curses while Tater stands to accept the resulting applause.

“AM HERE TO FIND ZIMMBONI CUTE BOYFRIEND,” Tater yells gesturing at a red-faced Jack. “HE LIKES BLONDES WITH SOFT HANDS.”

The crowd goes wild, practically drowning out the music.

“Well,” Jack peeks through his fingers and sees the glitter covered announcer staring him down, mic pressed close to his Providence Blue lips. “Lucky you, we have one of those up for auction tonight.”

Blue Harness comes to a stop on the other side of the stage with the other men up for auction and Jack tries not the stare, looking for the aforementioned blonde.

“Did you see him already?” Jack askes Tater, kicking himself for falling prey to his own curiosity.

“No,” Tater whispers loudly, “but always save best for last. You have to bid, or I bid for you.”

The lights go pink and Jack leans back in his chair, forcing himself to enjoy whatever is about to happen.

“Ladies, Gentleman, everything and everyone betwixt and between,” the MC teases. “Our last lot of the evening is a feisty peach from the sunny south who can out-skate, out-bake, and out-class just about any man on the ice.”

Tater wolf-whistles while Jack stares, lost in anticipation -- too preoccupied to comment on the fact ‘betwixt’ and ‘between’ are the same thing -- as the curtain slides back to reveal a short, adorable blonde with big brown eyes and very little covering his nearly perfect body. The man sees Jack, flashes a bright, teasing smile, and Jack’s breath leaves him.

“Our very own NCAA Champion, Eric ‘Bitty’ Bittle. Bidding starts at $500.”

Jack can’t make his voice work and someone else gets the first bid -- in fact, the auction is all the way up to $2000 by the time Jack can choke out “$1500,” but Jack’s voice is drowned out by Tater’s yell of “$3000!”, and Jack nearly gives himself whiplash turning to his teammate.

“What are you doing?”

“Bad taste for you to buy your own boyfriend, so I will buy for you. You will pay me back later -- I can be best man at your wedding.”

Someone else ups it another two hundred and there’s a slight commotion on stage. Bittle, ‘Bitty’ Jack silently corrects, has taken the mic and is assessing the crowd with an amused expression amid catcalls and whistles.

“Y’all, I’m very flattered, but you know you’re just buying a date, right? And you should also know I don’t put out on the first date.”

Some of the cheers slide to boos as Bitty hands back the mic before kissing two fingers and pressing them against his bare ass, skin practically glowing against the stark-white jock and thigh-high socks. Jack’s so light headed he’s going to pass out. He’s already dead.

Tater looks like he’s about to bid again when someone sticks a phone in Jack’s face and all hell breaks loose because Tater tries to grab the thing and by the time the dust has settled Jack is being ushered to the door and the auction is the least of their worries.

“All this press and you didn’t even get laid?”

“I knew it was a fucking mistake,” Jack grunts, trying to focus on his quads and fighting the heat in his cheeks as the boys keep chirping. He’s embarrassed for more than a few reasons. The pictures that popped up online, the call to his publicist, the fact he really wanted to win that date and couldn’t handle the attention long enough to pull it together.

It’s a lot of regrets to bring to a late-season home game.

Jack’s still going through his warm-up stretches when he starts hearing a tapping behind him -- he doesn’t look, he’s too experienced for that -- but eventually, the tapping becomes small voices saying, “Excuse me? Mister Zimmermann?”

Crisse. They’re being polite. He swipes a puck near his skate and stands, ready to plaster on a smile for whatever parent is pimping out their child for a game puck when he sees a familiar tuft of blonde hair through the glass.

Oh.

Bittle waves shyly from behind a whole slew of small children in Falcs gear, face pink with the chill in the arena. He’s bundled up tight, a blue and yellow scarf around his neck, looking embarrassed but determined. He’s as handsome fully clothed as he was barely dressed the night before.

Bitty calls out something over the kids' chatter, and Jack can barely make it out.

“I can’t hear you,” Jack tries, and Bitty shakes his head apologetically.

He swipes a few more pucks from the ice and shoves them through the camera hole before motioning for Bitty to follow him toward the penalty box, which is more of a task than expected as the seats are half full and cordoned off. Jack moves ahead and raps on the door of the penalty box until the attendant, Marcus, finally lets him in.

“Jack, what’s going on --”

“You see that guy?” Jack points to Bittle, who is trying to negotiate his way past an usher one section over. “Blonde guy they aren’t letting into 109, can you go get him?”

“You know I can’t leave, kid.”

“Ugh, fine,” Jack pulls off his gloves and sidles past Marcus to pull open the side door and step out into the stands, much to the shock of the dozen or so fans sitting in the first few rows.

“Zimmermann! What the hell are you doing?”

Jack sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly until the usher turns to see what’s going on, and Jack recognizes the staffer almost immediately. Unfortunately, he also attracts the attention of every fan the surrounding three sections.

“Hey, Christine! He’s with me! Let him through!”

She waves apologetically and Bittle, bright red with embarrassment, slides past the other attendees to reach Jack, who is back hiding behind the door as fans pile up behind the glass hoping for a photo. Eventually, Bitty makes it to the penalty box and Jack cracks open the door to let him in, but not before tossing a few bait pucks to the fans in the way.

“I don’t think any of those are going to kids,” Bitty chides with his delightful accent, collecting himself and making Jack’s heart melt even as fans keep slapping the glass hoping for more swag.

“eBay,” Jack mumbles, looking down because Bittle is a solid foot shorter than him in skates. Jack could lift him easily. “Probably. Hi.”

“Hi,” Bittle returns, the red in his cheeks still bright. “Hey, I thought you were going to win the auction.”

“What?”

Marcus coughs and says, “I don’t think you’re allowed to do this.”

There’s a pounding behind Jack and he catches Poots and Snowy making kissy faces at them. He can’t flip them off with kids around but they know he wants to, the look on his face is enough. Thankfully, Bittle laughs and blows a kiss back for good measure.

“I like him!” Poots yells, skating off. “I’m gonna tell Tater!”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Bittle continues. “I thought you were going to win. Then you were just gone. Hurt my ego a bit.”

“Bad timing,” Jack apologizes. “I get skittish around cameras.”

“Mmm,” Bitty hums and turns around to look at the dozen people recording them on their phones. “And this is much more private?”

“Well, you picked the venue,” Jack fights a smile and summons his courage, leaning down to whisper in Bitty’s perfectly shaped ear, “and, you’re wearing clothes this time.”

Someone slams into the boards hard enough to rock the wall and Jack spins, dropping a protective arm around Bittle. It’s Tater, grinning like a damn loon.

“LITTLE B! YOU FIND ZIMMBONI!”

“I did! Thank you again for the tickets, Alexei,” Bitty shouts back, leaning into Jack’s side. “I’m very grateful.”

Tater opens the box door and leans in, “Zimmboni, see, I am best wingman, Kenny tell you this. Also, coach pretty mad, you should come do job, now. Paid to skate, not kiss cute boy. Do that after game.”

Bitty giggles and Jack looks up to see there are only seven minutes left on the clock. “Crisse, I need to go,” he curses, looking back down at Bitty. “Where are you sitting?”

“Section 113, but how am I supposed to --”

“Go back and find Christine, the usher you were talking to, tell her Jack wants you to go to Bob’s Box, she’ll take care of you. I’ll find you after the game.”

“Okay, ‘Bob’s Box’, I can do that,” Bitty seems only slightly overwhelmed by the orders but nods dutifully, stepping aside for Jack to pull open the side door. “Wait, who’s ‘Bob’?”

Marcus snorts and Jack fights a laugh because, of course, this hockey playing angel wouldn’t know. If Jack wasn’t in love before, he sure as hell is now.

“You’ll find out,” Jack teases, leaning down once more to whisper, “and maybe tonight you’ll get a chance to see me wearing nothing but a jock strap. If you want.”

He drops a quick kiss to Bitty’s cheek, heedless of the cameras, and hopes to god he hasn’t ruined everything. 

Evidently, he hasn’t because when he rears back, Bittle is staring at him with wide eyes and a bright smile, almost dazed.

“Oh, honey, I want that very much,” he sighs, reluctantly slipping through the fans and out into the stands, heading toward Christine. “See you soon!”

He’s beautiful. Jack might have a date. Hell, Jack might even have a boyfriend.

“Zimmermann! Close the damn door!”

First, however, Jack might have a League Fine.

[knightofbalance-13]

https://rwdestuffs.tumblr.com/post/178357985392/done-dirty-the-white-fang

Too bad both are technically terrorists because both use fear to achieve their political goals and both ultimately are failures because both are just inferior versions of Ghira’s philosophy who, mind you, is the only ACTUAL civil rights leader the White Fang had.

Yeah, I maybe getting into my own political beliefs here but at least I can explain myself better.

Y’know, finding interesting ways to showcase the subject at hand is getting difficult…

How, you’ve just used common as fuck memes. These aren’t even your ideas, they’re the ideas of others you’re using.

You want to know something?- I’d say that the humans were pretty damn fortunate that all the faunus wanted was equality. They could have easily had enslaved their would-be-racist asses after they had won that war (actually, this sounds like a kickass ‘what-if’ story, if someone wants to make that, send a link my way please).

1. That is racist Dudeblade. Ruby, Yang, Jaune, Nora, Ren, Pyrrha, Coco, Yatashuri, Neptune, Ozpin, Oobleck, Glynda, Port and so many more have not display racism at all. Hell, most of these have actually displayed the EXACT OPPOSITE by just treating as normal people. Anything else would be racist.

For fuck’s sake, weve seen four racist characters in RWBY. One of which is reformed, one of which is a jackass bully, one of which was an attempted TERRORIST and the last is Snowy Satan.

2. Dudeblade, mind explaining to me how the people of Remnant today are responsible for the actions of PEOPLE THEY’VE NEVER MET? Especially since, by your logic, every single Fanaus is responsible for the actions of the WF. Meaning they have more blood on their hands due to the Fall Of Beacon than humanity as a whole.

And 3. Goes to show your mindset for this doesn’t it? Goes to show you have a political bias to make things look bad.

But really, the narrative seems to be really split on how we’re supposed to treat the WF. If we’re supposed to sympathize with them, then making them a terrorist group that Blake has to reform makes that hard. If we’re supposed to hate them, then making it so that they were retaliating against oppression and racists was a poor choice.

Yeah-

You know you can sympathize with people while also condemning their actions right? I mean, that is literally the only thing that stops me from feeling completely detached from you people. After everything you’ve done with LESS justification, I can still see you all have your issues.

Or can you only see the world in monochrome?

To clarify before I go any further: I side with the White Fang. Not with Adam. The WF is a civil rights group made to ensure the equality of Faunus (And is for some reason the only civil rights group to do so), and defend them. Adam, on the other hand, is a white kid who kills people in schools because he got rejected by a girl he liked (arguably the most accurate thing about the racism plot). This is the main point of the image used.

Too bad Dudeblade, that’s not how that works.

When you side with one side, you side with everyone in control of that side. That includes Adam. And thing is: you just displayed the exact same thought process as Adam with your opening paragraph.

That’s like if a Nazi said “Oh, I just side with the idea of rebuilding Germany. I don’t with the Furher.” The people charge DEFINE the meaning of the group. And the last two were terrorists.

Also, as BLM shows, you can’t get equality through fear. You just devolve yourself to your enemies’ point.

On it’s own, the idea of Faunus isn’t necessarily a bad one. Taking inspiration from racism in America isn’t a stupid choice. But they didn’t take inspiration from racism in America, they based it on the struggle of African Americans in the US. And when you just copy/paste that onto your fantasy minorities that are supposed to be a stand-in for all racial minorities, it creates a problem.

A. The Fanaus were never enslaved. That alone disproves the ‘copy paste’ bullshit.

And B. You’re using American sensibilities to argue about the Fanaus so by your own logic, your arguments don’t work.

See, there are reasons as to why people would be afraid of faunus outside of them looking different. They hold inherent advantages like superior hearing, and night vision.

An easy fix for this would be to make it so that different faunus types are treated differently.

Dudeblade-

Name me one advantage an African man has over a Caucasian man.

The moment you make this about genetics, the moment the racists have a point.

Racism is petty, nonsensical, destructive and superficial. Your way would just justify that.

For example: Velvet. She’s got bunny ears. That means that she’s one of the ��non-feared (Read: ‘good’)” faunus because all her trait does is give her better hearing. She’s ‘cool’ because she poses very little threat. Blake could also be in this category because she also only gets better hearing, but she might be trusted a little bit less because she gets better night vision thanks to her feline heritage. She is also ‘cool’ because she poses very little threat.

Except ALL fanaus have those traits. So there’s no difference.

Also people are racist against Asian people despite being genetically shorter than Cauasians. How are you gonna justify that? Easy answer: there is no justification. You just don’t understand racism.

Now we go to the other side of the spectrum and go to Tyrian. He would be one of the “Feared” faunus. Scorpions on their own already freak me out, so making one human-sized and still letting him keep his venom is terrifying to me. Tyrian is ‘uncool’ because he poses a very clear and dangerous threat.

Again, no one cares about ‘safety’ or whatever. Doing that would JUSTIFY the racism as natural paranoia. It’s the same reason why the X-Men don’t work as racism standins-because the bias against the mutants is JUSTIFIED since mutants have abilities that grant them a distinct advantage over normal people AND they can kill so many people so easily.

Faunus could have been used to showcase multiple forms of fear. In fact, these natural weapons and abilities would be an easy reason to justify humans hating them (again: Jealousy is right there). 

THAT. IS NOT. THE POINT.

How do you NOT understand that doesn’t work because it sends the message of ‘racism is okay so long as the race is a threat to you!’ God, are you TRYING to make RT look racist? Or are you THAT blind?

See, if it were jealousy that fueled the hatred, then a lot of things would make sense. Humans are mad that they can’t have the advantages that faunus have, so they attack and belittle them. Not only would this make sense, but it would be a far better idea than what’s going on right now (though, to be fair, it’s not that hard to be better than the canon story for faunus discrimination).

And yet somehow, you made a plotline where Jacques Schnee’s abuse of the Fanaus and Cardin’s racism would be JUSTIFIED and make THEM the good guys. 

People in the real world do not fear races because of genetics. That implies an idea like racism could exist in an intelligent world. People are racist because they were either taught that and never taught that was bad, they have a fear of what is different (an irrational holdover from our primitive days) or they had a bad experience and irrationally connect that to all people of that race. Racism is NOT justified. It is completely and utterly IRRATIONAL.

And this would miss the entire point of the WF plotline and just make Remnant so far removed from our world that no one could relate or care about the characters. You bitch about the fucking plotline and yet make the WORST POSSIBLE VERSION of it.

But it’s not just the Fang as a whole that’s been done dirty, there are also several members that have been dirtied too. Like Sienna Khan.

Oh goody, we can watch Dudeblade fail to understand individual character purposes as well as entire fictional race purposes.

The woman is a skilled fighter, has an interesting motivation, and managed to take over the White Fang.

And then she goes down like a bitch.

The writers tried to fix this by showing her off in the trailer, but that makes the situation far far worse.

- Sienna fights like that, and she gets defeated so easily?

Speaking of the trailer, it shows exactly WHY Sienna went down so easily.

Namely, Sienna TRUSTED Adam. Adam was her golden hero, her shinning example, her prepared successor/second in command in waiting. Adam was suppose to be the pinnacle of what Sienna’s ideals were. So even when he was within killing range, she never thought Adam would harm her.

Same thing with Batman and Miranda Tate in The Dark Knight Rises. Batman never considered the idea that Miranda was a threat to him because he trusted her.

Look, it’s possible to have a character show off how badass they are  even if they’re already dead. Take a look at Episode of Bardok from Dragonball. We, as the audience, know that Bardok is going to die, but seeing Freeza using his deadly technique after Bardok gives it his all in one final attack against the tyrant is one hell of a way to go out.

But Sienna just gets stabbed after less than five minutes of screentime.

A. That’s Bardock, Father Of Goku you idiot. Episode of Bardock is the one with time travel and him becoming the Super Saiyan that Freeza’s family feared.

And B. So are we gonna just ignore how Freeza negated that attack by simply POWERING UP an attack of his own, in his first form no less, thus suffering from the same issues that you bitch about here?

For a show that got known for it’s fight scenes, it really lacked in the fighting to justify why Adam managed to beat her.

And to preemptively shut down any argument that “Sienna didn’t have her aura up,” I have to ask you why you wouldn’t have your own guard up if the people around you were pointing their weapons at you, and had very clearly betrayed you.

Because Adam was still a trusted lieutenant in her eyes as well as the reason why Sienna was able to become High Leader in the first place.

Do yourself a favor and never play a Danganronpa game. You wouldn’t make it past the first trial.

Sienna not having her aura up seems a lot more stupid now, doesn’t it?

Maybe if I smoked a bunch of weed, drank a bunch of beer and smashed each bottle against my forehead.

Adam is also a character that was ruined. Not because he’s a terrorist, mind you (see comment about him being rejected above), but because they decided to make him a bitter ex.

A. So was Sienna. She literally said she wanted respect through fear, which is the same as being feared.

And B. He was always gonna be an abusive lover. The evidence was always there. The disconnect between what Blake described and Adam’s actions, her irrational fear of Adam, the worry and fear she has of people becoming like Adam. Not the show’s fault you reject reality.

Adam being a mentor figure and only a mentor figure should be enough to justify his relationship with Blake. There’s more relationships out there other than romantic and friendships. There’s student-teacher relationships, familial relationships, co-worker relationships, etc. 

Except it always had romantic undertones and it makes the pain of Blake leaving even more poignant-

Oh wait, you don’t understand writing. What was I thinking?

Adam being Blake’s mentor that fell from grace is really the only relationship we need for those two. It establishes a real fear, and it doesn’t add……… the problematic complications of an 18-year-old dating a 13-year-old.

Adam is a mass murdering, genocidal, racial supremist douchebag.

Adding Edhepophila isn’t even worth discussing.

Not only could this be a means of mirroring the relationship that Jaune had with his dead prop Pyrrha dead prop, but it would serve as a really cool moment of Blake surpassing her teacher when she inevitably defeats him. While I will acknowledge the fact that standing up to an abuser takes a lot of courage, it also takes courage to stand up to a mentor that you looked up to and admired- and finally tell them off or defeat them. That abuse story could have gone to Weiss, and her standing up to her abusive father- which she did. That was an awesome moment for Weiss.

A. That’s sexist dudeblade. You never call Jaune a prop to Ruby.

B. But it DOES seal the idea of fear and Adam’s sheer madness and evil. Just because a character wasn’t what you thought doesn’t make them bad.

But I guess Blake dodging into Adam’s sword and Adam somehow forgetting about Blake’s semblance was a higher priority. As was a priority for the writers to make sure that Adam goes down like a bitch. 

You know, kind of like how Yang forgot ‘Gee, swords are kind of a bad thing for me?’

Not like Adam and Yang have direct paralells to each oth-

Oh wait, they do.

... Don’t you look stupid?

I’d like to reiterate that as a surface-level idea, faunus racism isn’t a bad one.

Well your version is.

I’m sure that when we were younger, we all slapped animal parts onto a human, called it a new race, then called it a day. But it’s the poor implementation that makes it hard to sympathize with either side. 

Despite the fact that you don’t argue against the Fanaus side AT ALL and in fact side with them (well, superficially since you side with the terrorist group that uses them as a shield.)

Yeah I call bullshit.

Apparently, when fighting against the grimm, you can only resort to violence. And the grimm are a force with no mercy.

But when fighting against inequality, you can’t use violence at all. Because the racists will obviously learn the error of their way if they see their targets sitting around a campfire singing Kumbaya.

Dudeblade-

The Grimm DO NOT have the intelligence for discussion. They have animalistic intelligence AT BEST. You cannot reason with a wild animal, you can only run. But even worse, the Grimm DON’T WANT to stop. They WANT to kill. They WANT to destroy. You cannot reason with something that not only cannot understand you but doesn’t want to stop.

Let me give you an example of this. In Persona 3-5 games, there is an entity called the Reaper. Under certain circumstances, the Reaper will seek out and attempt to fight you. In Persona 5, you can actually communicate with the Reaper. You can ask it for an item, or for money or even to join you. But no matter what you try, it will always say this:

This is the Grimm.

You are trying to compare the complexities of racism in individuals to this, a creature with no desires other than your demise.

That is how stupid you look.

Also: I don’t wanna here this shit from a guy who, in this same post, tried to portray racism as something that could be rational.

And the fact that there are no humans pushing for equality is also a historical mistake. For a bunch of writers who basically copy/pasted the struggle of minorities in America onto their animal people, they seemed to have missed the part where even people in the majority were on the side of the minorities.

Proof?

Because no shit no human would join the White Fang, they’d probably just kill him. They’re racists.

As for actual equality: Ozpin, Ironwood and Leo all accept Fanaus without question, even former White Fang members. That is a push for equality.

Sympathy is a great start, but that has yet to go anywhere.

Aside from Vale letting fanaus own stores and not showing an ounce of racism aside from one asshole who could be from mistral for all we know and a convicted criminal?

There was no mention of any humans at the protests siding with the Faunus, there were no mentions of humans boycotting restaurants alongside them- It’s just the faunus struggle. 

Maybe that’s because the only protest we’ve ever seen was interrupted by the White Fang, meaning that if humans DID try to protest they’d actually be at MORE risk than anyone else because they run the risk of being murdered by the White Fang AND human racists unlike the Fanaus. Kind of like you usually don’t see BLM members who are white.

And it would be great if the writers would think this through a lot more than they have

A. Excet you know, anytime they do you just ignore it so why even bother,

And B. *throws him a shovel* the guy you want to talk to is over there, six feet under. You had your chance, you never said it. Now you get to pay for it.

Because all a lot of us want, is some freaking nuance for the racism arc.

Except you know:

Not only have most of the people who bitch about it shown they don't want nuance, they want their side to be seen as absolute good and everyone else as absolute evil.

Not only have you suggested a version that would make the racists JUSTIFIED in their actions, thus making the fanaus the bad guys here. 

But there is nuance. You just ignore it.

I would say that I want you assholes to acknowledge your bullshit but-

Yeah we all know how you’d react...

[windrocklibrary]

VERDANT LILY [ 1. ]

The sun is shining high at its peak, to everyone, it's another day all the same.

Throughout the horizon, the eyes see nothing but ashen grey rubbles flourishing the pale emerald landscape with littered sand. The path that all walk is straight, paved for commoners to traverse into their final destination: an Urban Jungle, a concrete of mountains, a market of opportunity and another future -- a good one, hopefully. Four caravans are riding on the common road, two of which are made with a rough linen for a camp and a decade old wood for a platform -- and the other two made from derelict scraps of autovehicles, completely repurposed into a monstrosity of a transportation: same intention, but different and poorly designed; all of them dragged by simple-minded beasts of burden, something in the fine lines of a bison and a muscular stallion. Their movements are slow, perhaps it's the heat that's bringing them down, the travelers are stationed inside their respective caravans, in an attempt to avoid the savage heat; and as a meager shade, it'll only help them for so much before they all began to feel cooked like inside a crockpot.

It'll take three hours to get there, they assumed according to their situation, it doesn't sound bad, they've done this before after all; though most of the crews begin to wonder why they couldn't have just traveled during the night, "We got's a package to deliver!" one of them, the head honcho, reminded, "Our goods won't deliver itself ain't it? We keep the reputation good for the boss so that we can do our biz'. He'll quit shipping Lights if we're late, so chin up!" the majority of the pack reply in a singular groan, they're too tired to even make an argument but still aren't quitting in making a statement only for it to be swat down with a strong hiss.

"Hey, Boss!" The driver of the head caravan shouted, calling out to the rest of his folks, "Yeah?" The boss answered, "There's something in front of us".

Indeed there was. From perhaps a 100 meters or more, a human figure can be seen by everyone sitting in the middle of the road, the appearance is hidden by a black hood, obscuring the face completely. "What do we do?" One of the men near the boss asked, "Pray for the rooster", the boss replied, a message that was sent to everyone in the band almost instantaneously; a signal from the leader himself to ready their weapons on what's to come.

As the four caravans move closer towards the figure, the head immediately looks straight into the caravans. The figure slowly stands as it takes notice of the incoming caravans, but it did not move a single inch, it only chose to stand firm in place as it waits for them to come even closer towards it. Upon closer inspection, the travelers begin to have a clear look at the figure: it had a lean body, holding onto a long wooden staff and clothed in a long tattered cream-white coat colored with flares of crimson and onyx across the frames; the figure also wears a black jacket on top of it, using its hood to cover itself -- in addition to the hood, one will notice the figure's face to have a piece of paper filled with drawings akin to that of a child used as a mask of sort; the same style of drawings can be seen around the tattered coat as well, filled with varieties of color and shapes trying to make an abstract figure of something. The caravans reached close to the figure slowly reaching a halt, the entire crew, sat patiently with armaments ready in their hands, trying to get a sense at this moment.

"Do you have food?" The figure asked with a voice of a woman.

"In your dreams, now buzz off." The Boss jeered her, in an attempt to make her move out of their way, but she didn't.

"Do you mind helping me out. I've got nothing to eat, and I'm hungry." She answered.

"Eat my ass why don't ya? The Urban Jungle is 'ight there in front of ya, walk o'er why don't ya?" The man sneered. The girl paced towards the caravan slowly, leading to many of the gang to jump out from the caravan, trying to stop her from moving any closer to any of the caravans at all. Weapons of swords, club, and even guns were aimed at her; the girl didn't seem to bother and continued on, slowly moving as the voice of her staff and boots taps unevenly through the ground. And then she stops.

"I can't." The girl began, in response to the Boss's question, "Too tired. Need food. Maybe a little lazy as well".

"S'that so?" A man to her right barked, he had a bewildered tattoo that covered half of his face, “Then let’s keep it that way yeah?” He didn’t have anything smart to say, then again, the girl didn’t seem to pay attention at all. What she did notice, however, in a sudden glance was him raising a rifle at her trigger ready to be pulled.

Crack!

That was the only voice heard from everyone followed by a scream of pain, almost suddenly, the girl was seen with her staff held high in a flash. It was intentional by her, she swung her staff towards the bottom of the rifle, hitting directly at the man’s left knuckle that was holding the gun; as she raised it high up, the force she brought was powerful enough to break the bones and also toss the rifle faraway behind him.

“Argh! Damnit!” The Face-Ink roared, as he knelt to the ground holding his broken knuckle. The whole gang grew frantic by the sight, they don’t know how to react to it; they all did back out slightly, but they were too hesitant in admitting it.

“You think you’re some hot shit are ya?” Another man, with one of his eyes blackened mocked, as he rushed towards the girl with an iron ready to batter at her. The woman reading his intention swiftly run straight to him as well, using her staff she halted the club into a furious clash; his war-shout enveloped completely by a screeching crash of the two weapons. It grew as a stalemate between the two of them, but it was when the vagrant began to spot one man with a sword and another with a gun who all make sight on her that broke it all.

Still holding onto the club with her staff, the vagrant began to show something more of the golden-oaked staff. The girl grabbed onto the one end of the staff and, in a swift movement, pulled it apart to reveal to the Black-Eye what seems like a beam of light, the girl ducked down and makes a swipe to the legs, cutting Black-Eye’s left foot. Revealing to all her weapon: a blade.

Blood spattered to the ground as Black-Eye fell flat to the ground, screaming as the pain bites the wound cleanly cut by the girl. Her next target is the Swordsman. Grabbing onto the sheath of her sword, the vagrant dashed towards the Swordsman and just upon reaching a fighting distance between the two of them, the vagrant ceased; as if waiting for the Swordsman to make a move.

Strikes were sent towards the vagrant, for every vicious cut the Swordsman creates unto her, the girl easily evades them with her erratic movement. Her arms were moving sporadically; in every swing and thrust she makes to both her blade and her sheath, the hesitant the Swordsman becomes. All movement she made imposed a false danger that her enemy cannot read, from a threatening slash that only cuts the air she replaces it with a forceful shove swaying his body to various directions of her choosing. This constant dance of blades between the two went on, in the hopes for the vagrant in able to protect herself from being open from the Gunman while seeking an opening to take advantage of.

The opening that she sought out for soon come in place from the mess she had made with the Swordsman. After the storm of blades dealt between the two, one canvas caravan happens to be stuck in the midst of the duel, with the tent now ripped and torn, the inside is left visible for everyone -- including the vagrant -- to see, and inside is none other than the head honcho himself. In a simple stroke of instinct, the vagrant shoved the Swordsman as she slashed his upper chest to fend him off; leaving him growling in a stinging gash. Now that the Swordsman is out of it, the girl jumps into the open caravan; the Boss, trying to raise his pistol, was too late as the vagrant firmly grips onto his right arm nails biting down the skin; she twisted the arm uncomfortably as she raised it high, which she then uses her remaining left hand to place the blade by his throat.

"Wait wait wait-!" The Boss stammered as he was put on a display in front of the remainders of his crew whom all weapons readied in his direction, threatened to be killed by a vagabond, "Hold it! Hold it! I knows you from somewhere." The Boss captured the girl's attention, "The crazy movements? The shinin' green shitfest ya made with one of my lads?" He continued on, but he knew she was losing her patience the moment she tightens her grip, so he hurried on to the final point: "An' that sord. Silver lined with a speckle of greenery, you're no other vagabond ain'tcha? You're more special than 'at." He paused, trying to struggle lightly in some attempts of escaping, but she was persistent.

"I thought you's just an urban legend. You're the Verdant Lily. Right?"

The girl remained silent to his question, but the nails digging deeper into his arm is more than enough for a clear response.

"They got stories 'bout you." He added, "Leavin' a blaze of light and a load of dead body."

"Boss!" One of the men interrupted, taking a proper aim at the girl's head.

"Quit that down lads. We ain't got nothing against this sonofabitch. We already lost enough, and she ain't even trying." The Boss stopped his men from trying to do anything funny, "Let's settle down for now and work this out straight. What do ya want?" The Boss asked, looking at the vagrant that made him a hostage, to think that he needs to surrender against some person -- it was shameful. But she was no person, she made stories that shivered everyone's bones. The fact that he and his mates are alive now with the Verdant Lily is not a relief, a miracle rather.

"Food." She answered briefly. At first, he thought she was only joking, but guessing from her attitude itself, he's better off giving what the Verdant Lily wants right now before things go south. "It's... In one of those caravans-" The Boss pointed at the metal caravans; before he could finish his sentence, the Verdant Lily hopped down and walked quickly towards them ignoring everyone in her wake.

"Hey hey wait -!" Cried one of the men, but his voice dissolved as the girl slammed her sheath into the lock of one of the steel caravans, in just a single effortless swing, the lock itself was broken into pieces. The Verdant Lily forcefully open the door to reveal a collection of large wooden crates. She didn't stop for a second to stare at it, impatiently she swung her blade from one crate to another to open it one by one in search of rations -- and in every crate, all that she found were grains of glimmering sands pouring out from the dents she made.

"Stop wait! Hold on!" A crew begged by the door only to be greeted by a glare. "The... The rations are on the other one, n-not here." He informed, backing off in fear.

The Verdant Lily headed towards the last metal caravan, this time, following the man towards it. The whole gang is on edge, afraid of what she's capable of but more terrified on when exactly she will unleash her tantrum. After the door was opened, more identical crates can be seen; the girl was the led to one of the many crates and once opened, it's finally revealed to her: a hoard of vegetables and fruits.

"J-just a question... What food're you looking for exactly?" The man asked, but was completely ignored, the girl opened a large plastic bag that she kept inside her coat; hurriedly grab onto any nearest greens and fruits that she can get on her hands. Cabbages, carrots, bell peppers, oranges, tomatoes, apples, the list goes on; once the bag is full, she puts it back before taking another piece of broccoli and ate it straight.

"Well?" The Boss interrupted, "That it?"  He asked, though truthfully still anxious about the girl. The Verdant Lily swallow the last piece of the broccoli down before jumping out from the caravan. She sheathed the blade and plant it to the ground firmly and quietly, staring deep at the eyes of the head honcho, cold sweat drops down in the back of his neck; second-guessing the next thing she'll be doing. The Verdant Lily walked forward to the Urban Jungle, quietly ignoring the settled commotion she had made very recently.

The Verdant Lily walked away from a traveling caravan that she had ravaged in the middle of a road. Now with foods snatched from the previous mess she made, the midday sun isn't so bad anymore. Her eyes locked sharp to the Urban Jungle ahead, not knowing where to go, not caring where it'll end. To her, it's another day all the same.

[zell-dincht]

"Tiger Lily"

Unsure if I’d bother posting to AO3, maybe if I do a followup chapter. But no one is interested in OC stuff anyway, so I’m just gonna put it here for now. Also, this isn’t part of my OC “canon,” don’t know that he’d actually agree to marriage ever, but after talking with @hipsterizzy I just love the idea of Lorne as bridezilla.

No warnings, just some language.

———

Weddings only ever meant two things to Lorne - open bar, and a one-night stand with the hottest bridesmaid and/or groomsman.  Other than that, it was a stupid ritual that was entirely unnecessary and even stupid to legally bind yourself to another person this way.  He never imagined he’d ever find himself in a situation where he’d be planning any wedding, not to mention his own.

He didn’t readily agree to the proposal, of course.  At first, Lorne thought Davin was playing a joke on him and laughed it off, nearly shattering the poor man’s heart.  He was no more forgiving when he realized his boyfriend was dead serious, and did, in fact, want to get married.

It was a practical decision, Lorne told himself, nothing more.  Originally, he wanted to just elope.  Go to a court and fill out the paperwork and be done with it.  Davin didn’t want to make a big production out of this, anyway.  It was just some legal paperwork, like going to the DMV.

But low-key had never been Lorne’s style.  The whole point to a wedding was the open bar, so there was no way he could pass this opportunity to have a party and bask in all the attention.  In a matter of days, Lorne went from repulsed by the idea of marriage to having his very own planning book and Pinterest board.

He was so focused on his laptop, scrolling tirelessly through images of wedding ideas, that he barely even noticed Davin had entered the room until a hand rested gently on his shoulder.

“Still at it?” the larger man spoke up.

“Davin, we need to decide on a color theme,” Lorne huffed impatiently.  “I can’t go forward with any other plans until we figure out what our colors will be.  I still like a deep red with gold, kind of like fire.”

“I guess so,” Davin muttered, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.  “Mum says you ought tae use softer colors for a wedding.”

“For the last time, I do not give a rat’s ass what your mother–” Lorne instantly cut himself off as he looked up at Davin and noticed his future mother-in-law step through the doorway.  He instantly flashed his best fake smile as he greeted her.  “Hi, Mrs. Dahey.”

If she heard what Lorne had said, she showed no indication.  She waved with a tiny wiggle of her fingers and replied, “I told you, just call me ‘mom.’  We’re practically family!  But how are the future Mister and Mister Daheys today?”

The strain in keeping the fake smile was growing so tiresome, Lorne suspected he had begun to scowl, so he dropped his expression to what some might call a “resting bitch face.”

“No, actually, I’m keeping my name.”

“Oh, you’ve got time to decide, anyway,” she brushed him off as if he’d change his mind, then continued,  “Anyway, I was talking to my lady friend at work, you know I just can’t stop talking about how my baby boy is finally getting married!”  Mrs. Dahey paused to wrap her arms around her son as best as she could, squeezing with all her strength.

Being quite tall and muscular, Davin could easily have escaped, but instead idly tolerated her outburst of maternal affection.  “Ma…”

“I won’t apologize for loving you too much!  Anyway, so this lady friend of mine - her daughter was married just last year and she recommended this amazing florist.  Why don’t we all go take a look, if you aren’t busy?”

Lorne opened his mouth to protest, but Davin quickly spoke up, “We’d love to go, won’t we, sunshine?”

The blonde looked up at his fiancé with a pout, and Davin wirelessly communicated with large, pleading eyes.

“Fine.”  Lorne closed his laptop with a huff and pulled himself to his feet.  There still was quite a bit left to plan, and he wasn’t going to accomplish much by just looking at pictures of flowers.

The car ride was awkward, with Davin’s mother driving and her son in the passenger seat, leaving Lorne to sulk in the back.  Once they arrived, the shop didn’t look like much, but the owner was warm and welcoming.

“Congratulations to the happy couple!” he gushed, ushering the trio inside.  “Trust me, we will find the perfect flowers for your wedding.  All I need to know is your color theme for the big day.”

“Crimson and gold,” Lorne confidently answered.

“Oh, they aren’t set on that, though,” Mrs. Dahey cut in.

Lorne glared daggers at Davin, who responded with an apologetic smile and a shrug.

“If you are open to suggestions, flowers have a language of their own,” the florist offered.  “For example…”  He gestured to little white flowers blooming in the shape of a star.  “The stephanotis here represents happy marriage.”

Lorne barely paid attention as his eyes wandered over the various displays of flowers.  Ignoring the stephanotis, Lorne stepped towards a fiery orange lily and leaned in for a quick smell. “I like this one.”

“Er… the tiger lily represents wealth and pride,” the florist said hesitantly.  “Perhaps to show you are proud to join hands with your husband to be?”

Husband.  That word still turned Lorne’s stomach into knots.  But he was too distracted by the task at hand to worry over any of his own insecurities.

“What about sunflowers?” Davin chimed in.  “Suits you, I’d think.”

“Yes, the sunflower means ‘adoration!’  It would add a wonderful touch to your ceremony,” the florist encouraged.

“To hell with meaning,” Lorne scoffed.  “No one’s going to know that.  They’ll only see how it looks, and I want the tiger lily.”

Mrs. Dahey spoke up once again, “What about some some classic white roses?”

“Too common.  Tiger lilies and sunflowers, that’s my final decision,” he replied.

There was a pause where Mrs. Dahey pursed her lips, and Lorne had hoped she would remain silent, but he was wrong.  “I don’t believe Davin was too keen on this red and yellow theme.  Are you, dear?”

“Well?”  Lorne set his hands on his hips, glaring at Davin.  “Are you?”

Meanwhile, the florist had stepped aside, more than familiar with the tensions that came with planning a wedding.  Davin, however, had found himself caught between his mother and his fiancé, despite trying so hard to keep the peace.

“This really isn’t a big deal to me, Ma,” he finally confessed with a sigh.  “I just want to marry the man I love, doesn’t matter how.  So long as he’s happy, so am I.”

Lorne felt his gut turn into knots and he was just about ready to throw himself at Davin right there in the middle of the flower shop, but of course Mrs. Dahey was quick to ruin the mood.

“This is your wedding too, Davin!  I raised my sons to have a backbone, so if there’s something you want, then say so!  You can’t let your wife or husband or whoever just walk all over you!”

“It IS his wedding,” Lorne snapped.  “It’s his and mine.  Not yours.  We don’t need your help, Sinéad.”

“Oh don’t you?”  She turned on her future son-in-law, head held high and arms folded over his chest.  “Who do you think is handlin’ most of these costs, mm?  I don’t see your mum ‘round anywhere.”

Lorne’s eyes burned with anger as he glared at Mrs. Dahey.  “I wouldn’t let my mother within thirty feet of this wedding.”

“Shame, after she’s given birth and raised you.  I taught my sons to have a bit of gratitude.”

“Unfortunately for all of us, mine barely raised me at all.”

Knowing Lorne’s strained history with his family, Davin quickly stepped between the two before this fight could get any worse.  “Look, it’s fine!  It’s just flowers, we–”

In that moment, Lorne and Mrs. Dahey both turned on Davin, simultaneously ranting at him:

“JUST flowers?  This is not just flowers, Davin, this is our wedding, and it’s a pretty damn big deal for me.  It’s my big day, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t go the way I want!”

“This isn’t about the flowers, it’s how you need tae be a man and stand up for yourself!  Don’t just lie down and get walked all over ‘cause some blonde tart made eyes at you!”

Davin froze in a moment of panic before finally raising his voice, “All right!”

Hearing him shout was such a rare occasion, it caused the others to finally shut up, allowing Davin to continue, “Okay, there’s plenty of time to discuss our options.  We’ll sleep on it.”

“But I–” Lorne began to protest, but Davin silenced him with a quick kiss.

“Trust me, sunshine, let’s come back here later, all right?”

If they came later, Lorne realized, perhaps they could ditch Mrs. Dahey, and have better luck with just the two of them planning alone.  With a sigh, Lorne nodded his head in agreement.

Before they left, Davin paused to give the florist a friendly wave and apologetic grin.  “Sorry about that.  Still in the planning stages, apparently.  We’ll be back soon!”

The florist responded with an understanding nod and saw the group out the door.  The car ride back home was even more unbearable, even with music on the radio that Davin had played in hopes of easing the tension.  Lorne kept catching Mrs. Dahey’s gaze in the rearview mirror, and every time, he held that eye contact with a cold, hard stare.

When they returned, Mrs. Dahey was ready to park the car and go inside with the couple, but Davin managed to talk her out of it.  She dropped them off in the front of the building, leaving the two men to return to their apartment alone.

“I don’t see why she has to come along,” Lorne huffed as soon as they walked through the door.  “I never cared to be married in the first place, so if I’m doing this, I’m doing it my way.”

“I know she’s a bit… enthusiastic, but she’s my Ma,” Davin sighed.

“So, what, just because you happen to share DNA, you have to be her slave your whole life?”

“Look, princess,” Davin calmly rested his hands on Lorne’s shoulders.  “I know you’ve never been on good terms with your family, but you’re about to be part of mine.  Just give ‘em a chance, is all I ask.”

“I’ll consider it,” Lorne agreed and slid his hands around the larger man’s waist, tugging him closer, “so long as she backs the fuck off my tiger lillies.”

Davin gave a soft chuckle.  “We’ll go back to the shop tomorrow without her, and I’ll buy whatever arrangements you like, okay?”

Lorne responded with a silent nod and rested his head against Davin’s chest.  After a moment, he pulled away again, looking up at the other man with a concerned expression, “You don’t really hate the crimson and gold theme, do you?  If you’re just hiding behind your mother…”

“I meant what I said,” he replied with a warm smile.  “If I had to choose, I’d just want something small and outdoors, but I don’t care about what colors or flowers or anything like that.  I just want you to be happy.”

Lorne cupped Davin’s face in his hands and leaned up for a deep kiss.  Not wanting to pull apart, he began to nudge the larger man through the living room and towards the hall to their bedroom.

“Don’t wanna save anything for the wedding night?” Davin smirked as he allowed himself to be tugged to the bed.

“Oh, please, we’re well past saving anything.”  Lorne tugged off his shirt and flopped into the mattress, beckoning for his fiancé to join him.

Davin had done well today, keeping his mother in check and saying all the right things, and Lorne was quite eager to reward him for it.  But that’s not why they were getting married, he reassured himself.  It was totally a practical choice.  No feelings involved, whatsoever.

[jornami]

Hamilton High School AU!

A/N: I'm so excited for this! With every person’s headcanon there's a little something about me too!

Request: no one asked for this, but did that stop me from writing it? No

Let's start with Aaron because he is me

He freaks out about his grades. He checks them three times a day. Minimum.

He once tried to go the whole winter break without checking his grades.

Spoiler alert: he lasted for three hours

One time he got a 69 on a math test

He freaked

He started looking up McDonald's applications and told all his friends that he could kiss his dreams of college goodbye

I actually did this. He actually did this.

He's also in debate club

Him and Alexander argue the whole time every single meeting

Student Body President

The other members have renamed it “The HamiltonBurr Discourse Club”

Let's do Eliza next, shall we?

She's in chorus and she outshines everyone

She auditioned for District Chorus and got in of course

She has the hugest crush on Alexander and none of friends know why

She has straight A’s

She packs her lunch strategically

Her sandwiches are always perfectly cut

she has her carrots and hummus in a container that looks like this

she always puts a napkin on the table and on her lap

All the teachers love her

Got all her community service hours done her freshman year

She's that girl that's so perfect you just wanna punch her but you can't because she's so kind

Let’s give it up for the baddest female in town, Angelica Schuyler 

No one messes with Angelica Schuyler

She eats fuckboys for breakfast

She's in Social Justice Club

She got kicked out of history class for saying, “America is a hierarchical structure that was built by sexist white men.”

And let's just say they definitely had something to say to talk about in the next Social Justice meeting

Also got kicked out of English class the next week for saying, “Well, excuse me for thinking that we should read books by a variety of authors not just old, dead white men!”

I love her. She's my hero

I'm not even going in any specific order at this point, so I'm going to talk about Gwash!!!

He's the sexy math teacher that everybody wants

He wears button ups and rolls up his sleeves,,, and,,,, his hands,,, they’re so big and,,,,I,,,, lost all ability to for,m sentences,,,,

He's clueless to the fact that everybody wants him

“Wow class! I've never had such a big turnout for after school SAT prep!1!1!”

Poor baby, he's clueless, protect him, okay?

Calls Alexander son

Next up, my sweet sunshine, my cinnamon roll, my curly haired freckled faced cutie, JOHN LAURENS!!

He's in Social Justice Club too

He loves to doodle !!!

He's gotten so many points taken off for classwork for doodling on the side of them

His binders are filled Polaroids of his friends and pictures of sloths

Common misconception: his favorite animal isn’t turtles; it's sloths!!!

He's notorious for taking naps in class???

“John what's the answer to number 6?”

“Uh, y=7x-8”

“John, this is Spanish class.”

Yeah,,,he never lived that down

Thomas motherfucking Jefferson

He's cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs

He packs Mac and cheese with ketchup 3 out of 5 days of the school week

Shows up to class late

Goes on random tangents in Debate Club and ends them with

“And if you don't know, now you know.”

Never goes anywhere without his sidekick/echo/lap dog James Madison

Theatre nerd

“Today I'll be performing a monologue for A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare.”

Then continues to recite the monologue until the teach interrupts and says,

“Young man, I asked for your name.”

Starts speaking in French for no reason at random times,,,,,????

“Mr. Jefferson, answer the question in English or go see Mr. Seabury in the office.”

“Peu importe.”

Complains about school but is getting all A’s

Yay! Time for Maria!

She's super introverted

She writes poetry and music and sits in the chorus room during lunch to focus

She writes like she's running out of time

She can sing her ass off

Always afraid that she's going to get the answer wrong but always ends up getting it right

She is quiet, but she's definitely judging you

She very shy and gets intimidated very easily

Angelica always stands up for her

Lafayette! Ladies! Lafayette!

Uses his French accent to get what he wants

Also uses French to confuse people

He's sort of a rebel??

“Laf, we can't make out in the dressing rooms!”

“Shhhh, you worry too much.”

Is also a theatre nerd

Is the only person getting an A+ in AP French

throws raging parties when his parents aren't home

Despite his rebel ways, he's getting straight A's

And Peggy, of course!

Went through a phase in middle school where she wore headgear

They called her metal mouth even when she got it off

She hit her glow up freshman year and every guy was throwing

themselves at her

She's the person who finds the quizlet for the whole test online

Then people are asking how she got an A on the hardest test of the year

She'll never tell

She's in theatre and she always end up in the ensemble even though she deserves a starring role

Also in district chorus

Eats in the middle of class????

They’ll be taking a test and all you hear is a bag crumpling

She once brought peanut butter crackers and started coughing up a lung because they were so dry and got caught in her throat

help her

B rahhh B rahhh it’s Hercules Mulligan

Is the king of Home Ec

Knitted all his teachers scarves for Christmas

Looks like a jock but is really a big softie

A model student™

Hates math class with every fiber of his being

 Tutors people for fun

And last, and definitely least: Alexander Hammy Ham

If Mr. Washington calls him son one more time he's going to wild out

His spam account on Instagram is mostly rants about Mr. Washington

Don't let this fool you...he loves Mr. Washington

Turns Debate Club meetings into rap battles

Incapable of answering a question without going on a tangent

“Mr. Hamilton we get it. Please, sit down.”

Laughs at Burr for freaking out over his grades but also freaks out about his grades

Oblivious to the fact that Eliza likes him

Only eats nachos from the cafeteria

Has his name displayed on the “Perfect SOL Score Wall” multiple times

Hates Shakespeare with a burning passion

smarter than most of the teachers

[thweaty]

I’m the Salvi anon from earlier. 

Ok… so boom. What I meant in the first sentence of my message was not meant to be a blanket statement for aalllllll Warren supporters, but a majority will move to Biden because a majority of her people are not part of the working class or progressive group. I liken that statement to when people say “Men are trash”, which when said we obviously don’t mean every single man on this earth. So if it doesn’t apply to you, don’t trip about it.

About the white supremacy part, I never meant to phrase it as you personally are saying “Niggers for Whities 2020!1!!”, but I meant it as the presidential position itself, no matter that candidate and their stances, is an imperialist position that does so much harm. As much as people want to say “Yeah! My vote matters!” at the end of it, it really doesn’t. We really DON’T have a two party system if we’re keepin’ it a buck. Real change comes from revolutions, not figuring who America’s Next Top Settler is. You look at the 50-70s and all of those revolutionaries who were murdered and made out to be crazies in the media, that’s exactly what’s continuing to happen now.

I know you were being 100% sarcastic when you said MSM is “toxic” to Bernie, but I think it’s actually correct. I don’t agree with using the word toxic to describe the situation, but the media definitely strategically propagandizes his tiny tiny threat to capitalism. MSM will never have the backs of radicals because they are a threat. Sanders himself isn’t as progressive as people make him out to be. He honestly represents the last “peaceful” option to US imperialism/capitalism. I do agree with you that he’s chicken shit for not running as an Independent, maybe his intention this whole time was to break up the Democratic party from within? I don’t like Bernard and some of his supporters can absolutely kiss my ass with the way they started talkin’ about Black people when the South voted for Biden. Out here basically saying Black people are low educated and Bernie and Bernie ONLY can fix their issues. But what I’m trying to get at here is that we should see beyond/question what is being told within the MSM because a lot of them aren’t agenda free.

As a Black/Indigenous person, some of the things that I’ve went through in life had unintentionally and drastically changed my viewpoints on things and I see that for a lot of others, it’s not something they’ve had to deal with because they’ve (unintentionally) been on the winning side. i.e. just literally living in America. 

You may or may not still think this is headassery personified, but I’d just like you to keep an open mind about these things and explore some of these ideas to a greater extent. Thanks for reading XX.

sorry i didn’t respond to this sooner! i think we’re on the same page about almost everything you said-- and i appreciate you offering your perspective especially when coming from different background. i think there are a reasonable majority of americans who do desire change, but again the question comes down to how much and when? and, like you said, the changes that you desire are likely influenced by direct experience. i would wager that there are a significant amount of people who think our current two party system is pretty ineffective, but at the same time, i think it would be harder to get these people to agree on a complete upheaval of the current system because of the potential for temporary chaos and because you probably won’t be able to get the people to agree on one uniform way it should be done. i reaaaaally could not imagine a situation where a dramatic revolution would happen, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t impossible. however, the barrier of getting enough people to agree to such an idea is... huge.  i’ll give credit to sanders for being pretty consistent with his platform against capitalism and consequent income equality, but while some people find it admirable, others find it to be stubborn and display a lack of desire to compromise. now, mind you, i’m not saying he has to, but i think a successful revolution would require significant support and he just doesn’t have that. there’s something called the hostile media effect that’s honestly quite interesting-- and i think it might be a contributer to some of the “MSM” theories we’re seeing especially around election time https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hostile_media_effect . the main issue with the argument that the media is against sanders is that prior to sc he was the favorite, and the reports reflected that. a few months ago biden was considered dead in the water and there was very little positive coverage about his campaign. the odds of winning have shifted and thus the reports have shifted. obviously there are certain websites and news outlets that lean more “left or right” than others (and i think there’s a website for that somewhere), but MSM isn’t the reason why black voters don’t fuck with bernie and you and i both know that. also with the MSM bias argument, it implies that voters are too ignorant or guillible to come to their own conclusions (and i’d argue that some people definitely are influenced, but that’s neither here nor there). but there are a few issues with that-- is it truly realistic to say that everyone who votes against bernie are only doing it because MSM told them to and that everyone who voted for bernie have some level of intelligence that puts them above that? i’d say no. it would also bring up the question as to why bernie wasn’t on tract for an absolute blowout while he was winning if MSM has such a significant influence, especially when reporting on who’s in the lead? i fully agree with you that all sources should be questioned, but i don’t think that there’s a significant enough MSM-mediated attack on sanders that explains away his shortcomings in polling. i just want to reiterate that i don’t disagree that there is bias in all media platforms, but i do think the mass perpetuation of this idea by that Bro cohort to justify his losses is dangerous because it’s a major talking point used by the people who are saying w their whole chest that they won’t vote against trump. just as a last point-- i have to disagree with you on the statement about the warren supporters who moved to biden doing so because they aren’t progressive nor working class. i think that a recent poll showed a slight edge in supporters moving to biden vs sanders, but there are also a significant amount who are still voting for warren herself in their primaries. regardless, there seems to be a common idea that bernie is the paradigm of the working class and the progressive movement, and because of this idea, anyone who doesn’t move to support him must not belong to those two groups. if we got rid of the candidates themselves, their histories, and their supporters, i would be more inclined to say that you’re onto something. but, in a weird way, it can almost be countered by those who vehemently support bernie. these people want change and they consider themselves progressive. sanders and warren ran extremely similar platforms. if all progressives, because they identify as such, should support whoever the most viable progressive candidate is based solely on principle, why didn’t that subset of bernie’s supporters switch to warren when she was ahead? bottom line is that there is no single right path to progressive change. if two people were told to run north, they’re both going to head north, but while it’s unlikely that they’ll take the same path, they’ll end up in the same general area of “north”. is it fair to say that person 2 didn’t actually go north because they didn’t take the same exact path as person 1? i don’t personally think so.

[tsw-bees]

He could smell it on him, on the cologne and lingering wafts of body wash, the stench of money.

The knock at his door had been enough to sour his mood, a quick glimpse out the window showed enough to further ruin it. It didn’t take someone that had ate their bee to identify Illuminati, he realizes it in that moment, just how well they had made their own existence a conspiracy theory - and then fed right into it. Delaying was pointless, whatever the cause for the visit, he would have to at least engage with the two suited men outside his door. It’s swung open without any theatrics, the Romani boy backpedaling a single step under the assumption that the duo would be barging in. They don’t, leaving him to stare dumbly at the suited men, at least practically giving him a moment to get a proper look at them. The lead of the two is also the larger, standing a full head above the other, with clasped hands and an expressionless laxity that is further covered by aviators resting atop his nose. An agent of some variety, read easily enough by someone that had operated around the archetype for years now.

Behind him, the smaller of the two, would be the handler. Blonde hair, skin that was heavily marked with the unique texture of too much time in sandy air, mixed features that made it impossible to pin a geographical forbear. South African, Australian, Saudi, something in there he wagered.

“Mister Inrith.” The Agent speaks, and Cuthben starkly realizes that the only thing coming from the two is a void. An outpouring of nothingness where the physical strands of reality should be, in some way his ability to see the fabric of creation was nullified by one of the two, or perhaps a piece of technology they wore. The lead figure, the Agent, was South African, the accent was blatant. “Just a talk, huh? You look nervous.”

“Government spooks knocking on your door in the early ass mornin’ is how revolts start, bro. Of course I’m nervous.” Cuthben responds with a testing step forward, closing the gap he had awkwardly left prior.

“You know we’re not the government, Mister Inrith. You don’t mind if we come in for a talk, eh? You are in no trouble, it is a simple thing.” The Handler speaks next, the second accent panning out as Saudi. The Heads were looking to make a point, or maybe he had just ended up on some paper pusher’s shit list.

“Sure, come on in. It’s a little uh… messy, and like… kinda cramped. I got two chairs, so Top Gun over there is going to have to stand, which will probably work with his whole intimidating strongman trope anyway.” Cuthben mutters distractedly, turning to push back into his trashed apartment with a shove of the door to be certain it was left wide open for them. He hurdles an upturned laundry basket to situate himself at the small round table, dropping down in one of the two barely held together chairs.

The two illuminati at the door exchange a brief glance, the only hesitation displayed before both push through. The Agent sidesteps at the door to settle there, closing it when the Handler had passed and started his perilous traversing of the seemingly never before cleaned apartment. “You should clean, eh? It is not well to have your home in such a state. The squalor… it is senseless, you are paid well, are you not? For years you’ve worked, I’ve seen the file, and this is how you live? Where does the money go, I wonder?” The Handler questions, dragging his chair out with a testing wobble to either side before finally settling in it, his attention turning to Cuthben after a brief onceover of the surroundings. “Even animals do not live like this, I think.”

“Yeah, real weird.” Cuthben agrees with a yawn, gesturing lazily towards the man before him. “Nice suit, by the way. I’d think, at least, I mean… you know, I see a lot of them at work, so I just kind of figure you guys are going full bougie with it.”

“Thank you, they’re Brioni. I like your… are those babies?” The Handler questions with a squint, peering at Cuthben’s shirt.

“Yeah.” He confirms. “Rugrats. You probably didn’t watch a lot of Nick growing up, but trust me, if you were from America? You’d be a huge fan of the shirt.”

“I see.” The Handler responds simply, and for a time a silence falls. It leaves Cuthben to simply sit and stare, taking in the features of the man opposed him, given time to truly appreciate how much he innately dislikes him. There is a predominant disearnesty about the Handler, bleeding most heavily from the shark like smile that seems constantly affixed his face. That, Cuthben decides, he hates the most.

“Can you figure why we are here, Mister Inrith?”

“To not introduce yourself and get educated on popular nineties cartoons?” Cuthben guesses.

“Half right.” The Handler confirms. “The other half, I am afraid, is not so right. It harkens back to what I previously mentioned, regarding your income. You have worked for us for some time now, have you not?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“And yet you live like this. You have less than a hundred dollars in your bank account, no car, no investments, it appears as if you can barely feed yourself. This does not make sense, you see? It does not line up with reality.” The Handler presses, one leg kicking up over the other as he settles in properly for the talk. Something about the motion inexplicably brings a wave of unease to Cuthben, an emotion he attempts to bite down on but can’t seem to suppress totally.

“I donate it.”

“Ah, Mister Inrith, you do not. You launder it… very well, yes, enough to avoid the IRS, but not enough to avoid us. I am only curious where it is that the money is going, given our inability to locate a single substantial expenditure in the past two years.” The Handler presses.

“Which of your parents was white?” Diversionary, Cuthben knows the man is good enough not to get thrown by it long.

“My father.” The Handler answers without hesitation, his smile shifting towards earnesty, apparently entertained by what must have been viewed as desperation.

“Kafir.” Cuthben theatrically chides with a click of his tongue, head shaking. It has the intended effect, but he realizes near immediately that it may have been a mistake. The Handler straightens, his smile curls back into the facade, not warm signs.

“Yes, but you are kafir as well, no?” The Handler responds, the shift in his tone much the same as the physical that Cuthben had witnessed, a trend towards curtness. “But we are not in The Kingdom, and we are not here to speak of such things. We are here to speak on your missing wealth, Mister Inrith.”

“I don’t justify how I spend to you, spook. They think they’re going to rattle me by sending you two in here? Why? I’m fuckin’ doin’ my job, man, and you’re in here busting my balls because I’m not blowing money on cars and shit?”

“It isn’t your money that is the problem, Mister Inrith.” Caeden interjects. “It is the trail of Blue allied companies that have, without explanation, been hit with massive financial losses due to leaks. It took some time, Mister Inrith, as you are really quite good at hiding your tracks, but not good enough. I don’t understand the specifics of how you did it, I don’t understand why you did it, truth be told I don’t care. The Company doesn’t care. We only care about the funds that you’ve funneled, and resecuring them in as expedited a manner as we can.”

“Why?” Arguing is pointless, they had him dead to rights. They were minor jobs, or so he thought, small siphoning actions from players he didn’t figure anyone would care about. The funds were funneled to causes he considered worthy, typically causes that the Blue boys wouldn’t look fondly on. Then it hits him, there must be some personal stake in this. “Did I hit something of yours? I did, didn’t I…”

“We’re not talking about a specific case here, Mister Inrith. I have verifiable evidence on at least a dozen accounts that you’ve fraudulently accessed and taken funds from. We want every cent back from every account.” The Handler responds without saying much at all, but Cuthben is locked onto the idea. It would be the only reason that someone would show up at this door, the amounts weren’t worthwhile any other way. This was personal.

“RBM, Symbi, Edict… Edict… You’re Almasi, aren’t you?” The growing panic crests, the urge to throw himself back out of his chair and attempt to bail only squelched by the knowledge that he’d probably be shot. Uncertainty over what the two were actually capable of keeps his fight or flight response from fully firing off, leaving him confused and agitated with surging adrenaline and nothing to burn it on.

“It can be simple, Mister Inrith. You tell us where the money is, you stop hitting Blue friendly institutions, and we pretend like this never happened. You’re a valuable asset, there is no reason to throw your career on idealism.”

“The shit you did in the Congo with Brethil… you should be in prison right now, you should be hanging.”

“Do not try to assume the high ground over me, Mister Inrith. I admire the resolve that must be required to try to rip off the Illuminati of all people, but espousing Marxist theory in the notes you left behind while actively working for the people that created the theory of capital is a bit harder to parse. I’m not looking for you to recant whatever weird moralist jihad you’re waging, we are here for the money, Mister Inrith, nothing more.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Cuthben spits back, pushing himself up from the table. The two of them may be somehow resistant to his reading, but there was nothing stopping him from magic otherwise, a point he displays visibly with the introduction of crackling red flashes at his palms. Caeden’s smile grows with a glance back towards Benedict, one eye flashing closed in a wink before his attention returns to Cuthben.

“Alright, Mister Inrith, there is no need for hostility.” Caeden’s hands lift passively, his head tipping towards the door. “We’ll be on our way. As I said from the start, we were only here to talk.” He makes good on his word, a hand lowering only to push himself up and aid in balance during his trek back towards the door.

“I’ll walk you out, wouldn’t want to be a bad host.” Cuthben shortly responds, and he too proves good on his word, his gaze alternating between the back of the Handler’s head and the staring aviator’s of the Agent, trying to make it as obvious as possible that any bad move would probably lead to something far worse. He halts when they do, with him on one side of the door and the duo on the other, stoneface aviators and the faux smile. “Just tell them to leave me alone, alright? No reason for them to be sending people to fuck with a dude that can warp reality, and you sure as fuck would deserve it, Almasi.” His tirade delivered, he slides the door closed as hard as he can, the last image of Caedenal’s growing smile rolling into the realization that the door he had just slid closed was, twenty minutes ago, a door he had pulled open.

The immediate horror of it sends his hand recoiling, the landscape around him ebbing in a fevered waver, struggling to hold apart at the seams. It breaks away in strips, his apartment ripping out from underneath him in angry blemishes that rush over in an uncertain darkness before coalescing into the actual surrounding, unblemished and drab stretches of grey. The scene comes into focus unevenly, leaving him with a puzzle until enough of it has filled in, the telling part being the wrought bars he had just had a hand wrapped around. They lined in a formation with beams at intervals, a prison cell, he soon realizes. He had just closed the door to his own cell.

“Reality is mine, Mister Inrith.” Caeden says simply, jabbing a finger twice against his chest before his head shakes a single time. “Not yours.”

“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Mister Inrith. A night to think, eh? Easier now, without the pain. That’ll change.” Aidanor promises, turning to trail after the already retreating form of Almasi. Cuthben is left alone in a cell that mirrors a thousand others, the waves of terrified screaming from further down only registering after he had fully accepted where he was. Having lived life with the ability to literally control reality, he’s left with no thought for options, and nowhere to even begin in terms of escape.

Hopeless.

[rodrigohyde]

Style Mistakes Guaranteed To Repel Women

Is it possible that what you consider to be just fine fashion finds have caused you to miss out on meeting Miss Right? Let’s hope not. Yes men, it’s what’s on the inside that really counts, but before she decides if she would like to get to know you any better, she’s sizing you up on the outside. Even if you’ve set your sights on hooking up with Miss Right-Now, pulling a great look together will get you more second glances and swipe rights. Whether it’s your online dating profile, your official first date or a chance meeting on the street, your wardrobe should be relationship-ready. After all, she’s taking the time to look good, so you should too. Need help getting started?

When it comes down to men’s style, we know all you men want to look your best regardless of your mission -- looking to attract women ready for a relationship or just feel attractive having fun out there on your own. Maybe your closet is already peacocking with a wardrobe on a whole other level with countless suits, a strong shoe game, and not a fashion faux pas in sight -- but chances are it's probably not. If you're starting from scratch, use the KISS Principle . Remember, you’re wearing the clothes, they should never be wearing you. Whether you’re known to be decked in a fine Italian suit or a t-shirt and jeans is your outfit of choice, when you finish getting dressed, your outfit should look effortlessly cool. So before going tri-hard with your #OOTD, ask yourself if maybe you need to dial it back a bit. Looking pulled together isn’t about being painstakingly curated or entirely overdone, it’s about confidence. However, roll up for a date disheveled, and the ladies will absolutely notice your lack of effort. You can’t usually make it on body language alone. Will your wardrobe seduce women? No, of course not, but it may give you the confidence boost you need in order to do it yourself.

Related: I Tested Out MeUndies For A Month -- The Results Are In

Here’s What You Should Be Doing:

Invest In Your Wardrobe

Don’t cheap out on closet staples. Men and women typically approach this very differently. A lot more women know it’s okay to spend on shoes, belts and classic pieces like trench coats, leather jackets, and premium denim. So men, skip the one season wonders and start building a quality wardrobe of clothing that will stand the test of time. When it comes to personal style, you should try to think quality over quantity. Knowing you have on clothes that look good on you give a confidence that has no price tag.

Cole Haan Grandevoluton Shortwing Oxford

$200.00 at Amazon.com

Learn To Do Laundry

It’s easy, since you’re a grown-up, right? Separate your lights and darks. Wash bright colors and your dark clothing in cold water and your whites in hot. Keep your whites bright. Dingy t-shirts and gray underwear are a dead give away that you’re domestically challenged. Hate to iron? It doesn’t mean you get a free pass to walk around looking like a wrinkled mess. Get yourself a pro-grade travel steamer and de-crease with ease. Want to know to know a secret to a woman's heart? Don’t expect her to do your laundry.

Jiffy Portable Electric Garment Steamer

$75.99 at Walmart.com

Find A Good Tailor

A good tailor is worth their weight in gold, and should be a relationship much like your barber or doctor. No matter what, clothes that fit properly can show off the best parts of your bod while also helping camouflage any areas that aren’t your favorite. Don’t skip alterations to your off-the-rack clothing. Tailors know what they’re doing, but be sure to speak up if he or she suggests an alteration you are not completely comfortable with. This is a conversation you’re allowed to be a part of too. There’s no reason to pull your favorite pants out of the rotation just because they need a new hem or need to be let out at the waist.  The same goes for items in need of repair . Spend a few extra dollars on a tailor, and you'll be set for a hefty return on investment.

Replenish Your Basics Regularly

Freshen up that sock and underwear drawer. Nobody wants to cuddle up to a pit-stained undershirt or play footsie with a blown out sock. Should the situation arise, you’ll want to be prepared to get confidently close. Subscription services like MeUndies, Nice Laundry and Stance are super convenient and make it easy to replenish your supply without breaking the bank.

MeUndies Classic Membership

$16.00 at MeUndies.com

Own It

Do you. Women are attracted to men with what? Confidence. Going to extreme lengths to hide your flaws can backfire and call even more attention to your insecurities. For example, if you’re putting lifts in your Jordan’s or shoulder pads in your jackets, eventually she’s going to find out. Own your shit and enhance your best qualities without going overboard. Seriously, there’s nothing sexier than confidence and a guy that keeps it real.

The Subtle Art Of Not Giving A F*ck

$12.99 at Amazon.com

Related: Top 10 Ways To Show Confidence With Body Language 

Now Here’s What To Avoid At All Costs:

Not Dressing Your Age

No matter what your clothing budget, there’s a way to dress age-appropriately. That doesn’t mean you have to commit to a grandpa shawl collar sweater if you’re over 30. However, dressing like a teenage skateboarder just doesn't work for a forty-year-old guy. Are you a grown ass man that still loves to shred? There’s a look for that. Forget the skinny jeans and go for a pair of fitted dark stretch jeans that allow you the freedom to ollie. And no, you’re never too old for a pair of Vans as long as the rest of your look doesn’t scream middle schooler.  

Vans' Old Skool Sneaker

$59.95 at Nordstrom.com

Showing Up In Uniform

It’s one thing to be a fan and another to show up for the game in full uniform when you don’t even play the sport. If you want to support the team, go ahead and wear a jersey and quit while you’re ahead. She’s going to put you in the penalty box if you sport the whole kit. Don’t show up wearing the authentic shorts, socks, and jacket of the guys on the field. Resist the urge to swing for the fashion fences. Unless you’re a football fan, in which case, you do you.

You’re Rocking The Wrong Size

One of the most important rules of style is making sure you duds fit properly. Again, make friends with your tailor. In case you didn’t know, tailors can work on a lot more than just suits, but it is up to you to make the effort. If you’re swimming in extra fabric or had to pour yourself into skinny jeans, that’s all she’ll see. Got a great ass? Then don’t hide it under a blousy shirttail.

UNTUCKit Blue Selvedge Chambray Barbera Shirt

$88.00 at UNTUCKit.com

Unbuttoning Your Shirt To Your Belly Button

Do not unbutton your shirt to the waist. Just don’t. This is a signature look for some and seems to start trending after a few too many cocktails. You’ll lose even more points for exposing a hairy chest and gold jewelry. Yep, it worked for Travolta back in the day, but like disco, this look is dead. So for now, she’ll appreciate you much more if you just fuhgeddaboudit and don’t unbutton more than two buttons, even at night.

You’re Way Too Extra

There you are in your perfectly tailored suit. Well done! Don’t repel her by blowing it with your underpinnings. When selecting the right dress shirt and tie combinations, look for subtle patterns and texture. Next, add tasteful accessories. Remember the KISS principle from earlier? It certainly applies here too. In other words, less is more. Add a watch, bracelet, loud tie and pocket square, tie bar, lapel pin, novelty sock, and finish with too much pungent cologne and bam! Just like that, you're over the edge. See how fast that can happen? When in doubt, less is more, but that doesn’t mean you have to smell bad.

Synthesized Musk Perfume Oil

$52.00 at malinandgoetz.com

Big Logos And Knockoffs

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with designer labels or even tastefully sized logos. Who doesn’t love a good polo player on their polo shirt? But remember, you’re not a walking billboard. You’re also the real deal. So, skip the knockoffs. And that goes for cologne, sunglasses, and wallets as well. Us gals can usually spot a fake with ease. Keep it authentic and tasteful, and you should be good-to-go.

Displaying Denim Discord

Dad jeans, skinny jeans, bootleg jeans -- the ladies love them all. But with so many styles, where do you begin? Start by getting the fit right, even if that means spending a little bit more time searching and money at checkout. Your butt will look better . And if you’re squatting in the weight room, find a pair that allows for your bulging thigh and calf muscles. The opposite goes for you marathon runners. Skip the relaxed denim and go for a straighter, slimmer fit.

Levi's 541 Athletic Fit Stretch Jeans

$48.99 at levis.com

Traveling Like A Slob

There’s nothing to do but people watch on a long haul flight. Which is good news if you're hoping to be seen. Remember the skies will be a whole lot friendlier if you show up looking first class. That doesn’t mean giving up on comfort, but it does mean leaving your pajamas at home. Invest in a pair of denim with stretch or a hip athleisure situation. Never go to the bathroom on the plane in just your socks, or worse, barefoot. It’s gross, and you know it. Pack a pair of slides in your carry-on to slip into after take off.

Showing Your Underwear

It’s time to move on. If you’re a grown ass man  quit showing the waistband of your underwear and enough with the childish underoo prints and cartoon characters. When it comes time to drop trou, she’ll expect to see grownup skivvies. Keep it clean, charming and classic. Want to go ahead and upgrade? These will do the trick.

Nice Laundry All-American Boxer Briefs

$24.00 at NiceLaundry.com

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The AskMen Guide to Guy Brows

from Style channel http://www.askmen.com/style/fashion_advice/style-mistakes-guaranteed-to-repel-women.html

[jackblankhsh]

Wedding Crash

Because I did not receive an invitation to the wedding I felt a desire to attend.  I reasoned if they really didn’t want me to come, the bride and groom could’ve taken better steps to prevent me from knowing about the impending nuptials.  Seeing how they brazenly mentioned it on social media, I felt indirectly invited.  Alluding to an open bar, frankly, they might as well have told a moth about a flame. So, in the interest of saving money, with hope of kindling a chance of romance, I ventured downtown to the wedding of Jackie Sanchez and some guy.  

I met Jackie in high school.  The first time I saw her I learned an erection can swell to a painful degree – dick feeling like a rock about to explode apart.  Long licorice colored hair, caramel skin, and sneakers decorated in white out doodles, she inspired feelings I’ve never learned to properly express.  Mainly that’s because there’s no way to charmingly say, “So I was jerking off the other day, thinking of you, and…” whatever comes next is irrelevant.  For some reason most folks aren’t flattered to learn they’re in the spank bank.  Maybe it’s something everyone fears they won’t live up to.  I don’t know, I’ve never had a problem failing people.

Hitching a ride from my buddy Sid, I told him to head to the Art Institute.  He pulled over to the curb, put the car in park, and said, “Do not go to Jackie’s wedding.”

Struggling to put on a tux while seated passenger side, “I resent the implication of your accusation.”

He sighed, “You had four years in high school, four years to ask her out.”

I nodded, “Truth fact.  However, life is a continuous opportunity for those willing to try.  I’m not dead.  Ergo…”

“Fuck yourself,” Sid said, then for emphasis, “Error go fuck yourself.”

“Are you gonna drive me to the Art Institute?”

Shifting the car into gear Sid remarked, “Only to see you fail.”

I truly believe it’s the amount of faith we have in one another that explains why the world is the way it is.  

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Sneaking into any kind of event is an art form.  The amount of security dictates the level of infiltration skill required to achieve a successful sneak.  For instance, breaking into an eighth grade graduation is very different from photo-bombing the President at the State of the Union.  One simply requires ice cream cake and a hammer, while the eighth grade graduation involves chloroform, white wine, peanut dust, and a child sized coffin.

I originally considered crashing the actual wedding, but since it took place in a church I could not.  God and I have an understanding, and though we clearly have little respect for one another, I abide by our agreement:  I stay out of the churches, God stays out of evolution, and the Winter Olympics.  So instead I aimed at the reception.  

Security didn’t appear to be anything other than Art Institute guards.  Instead of preventing flash photography two doorstops in blue blazers checked invites and IDs against a list on a clipboard.  Once again I felt like they left the door wide open. Out of myriad gambits, the way one guard blatantly scratched his ass, hand down the back of his pants to get at bare skin, I decided to go with the maneuver known as the Hideous Hideaway.  

I called up a video on my phone then approached the entrance.  

A guard said, “Good afternoon.  May I see your invitation?”

“Sure thing.” Smiling I fumbled in my pockets, pretending to be unsure of its location.  In the process I pulled out my cell phone which seemed to inspire my remark, “Oh, hey, have you seen this yet?”

I pressed play on the video.  It featured insects devouring a man’s penis while he writhed in agony.  The millipede scrambling down his urethra is as far as most get, missing out on the young woman who comes along to save his cock by stomping the bugs to death.  These two made it all the way to the end.  That made things easier.

As expected, one guard asked, “Where’d you get that?”

I informed her of the link’s location, and while the two hurried to share the hideous spectacle with their friends, I slipped inside.  It almost felt too easy.  Then I stepped into the banquet hall where I immediately bumped into Jackie’s brother Alvaro.  

Alvaro Sanchez Junior always impressed me until he spoke.  He possessed the regal bearing and beauty of an Aztec emperor. Unfortunately, he often spoke with a toxic tone symptomatic of silver spoon poisoning.  This stemmed from the fact Sanchez Senior held a low level, but well connected political position; and many expected Alvaro, as eldest, to assume his father’s spot; regardless of the realities of democracy that political seat belonged to him – voters be damned.  Groomed, practically from birth, to be, as Alvaro liked to say “a leader of men,” he took a method approach to his future.  Like a Strasburg disciple, he stayed in the character of king almighty every moment of the day.  

We literally bumped into one another when, as I stood perfectly still, he walked into me. For a moment I tensed, expecting him to recognize me.  Alvaro never cared for me.  I based this on the fact he often told me, “I don’t care for you.”  However, he assumed from the second rate quality of my tux that I worked as a server.  An assumption made plain when he said:

“Watch where I’m going, and get me some crab puffs, or I’ll have you fired.”  He and a buddy high fived, yet didn’t linger.  So I headed for the open bar.  

There I collected a pair of cocktails, one for each hand.  Draining the glasses steadily, I orbited the banquet hall.  Staying in one spot ran the risk of prolonged conversation, chancing the development of holes in my cover – anonymity my best camouflage.  Still I paused every so often to dance in and out of conversations, killing time saying things like:  

“Baseball is a hell of a game if you can stay drunk… I’ve never been to Guayaquil, but that iguana park sounds fascinating… well, you’d be surprised.  Tuberculosis kills all kinds of career opportunities lemme tell ya (cough, cough)… Oh, I know the best man.  We used to sell runaways to the circus… No ma’am, I don’t think the bride’s dress is too tight.  She’s having trouble sitting because the groom, well, he likes to drill that ass.”

In retrospect, I could have been milder in some regards.  Yet, no one caught on to the presence of a crasher.  I’ve been to several weddings.  They all tend to be the same affair.  A nebula of tables adorned with floral centerpieces, ringed by a smattering of guests with various degrees of connectivity.  Wedding receptions are the only occasion where it’s okay to openly rank family and friends, status defined by seating assignments. Therefore, the trick to remaining discrete involved finding a table with the least desired family and friends. There I could sit, pretending to share in the minimalist joy of having at least been invited.  

“That’s better than Aunt Frida.  No one invites her anywhere.”

“That’s because she’s dead.”

“Only on the inside.  She’s a real downer.”

Still, I occasionally chanced brief hellos with those I recognized.  Her Aunt Morena, who wrote Xicana literature, a woman with a helmet of hair redefining Chicana archetypes.  Grandpa Emilio, whom I always thought of as the old guitarist.  I saw his beloved instrument beside his chair – Ana from the alley of the kiss – and hoped I’d get a chance to hear him play once more.  Cousins Fabiana and Facundo forever locked in a debate about the realism of football.  Friend of the family and party regular Vincent Redon in the 800th retelling of the woman at her toilette he saw after the hurricane ripped her house open. Jackie’s family and friends gathered, while I snuck booze in the background – it felt like old times.  

When dinner arrived, instead of eating I slipped outside for a smoke.  Exiting the room, I jokingly asked the guards if I needed a hand stamp to get back in.

One laughed, “Nope, but you gotta watch this.”  

He showed me a video of four women explosively shitting on the floor.  They then used the excrement as finger paint to draw floral designs on one another like sewer hippies.  I made an exaggerated display of comical disgust.  Delighted, the guards waved me off, and returned to finding more revolting videos.  

Outside I felt my phone buzz.

Sid texted, “I can’t believe you’re still in there.”

“Believe it,” I typed back.

“How much longer?”

Good question, I thought.  

After high school Jackie and I didn’t keep in touch.  By then we’d gone down very different roads.  We used to be kids searching for how to be who we wanted to be, following breadcrumbs laid out by albums, films, and books.  We could agree on the significance of a song, but not the whole album; the brilliance of a line from, though not the entire film, or book.  It seemed to me we were only off by a slight degree, that one shared element would bring us into sync.  But by the time we graduated… we took comfort in dissimilar realities, that one thing never having materialized.

Over a decade later, when social media blossomed, we got back in touch; however, it rarely amounted to more than peripheral interactions.  

Post:  Look at dis cutest kittie!

“Liked” by Jackie Sanchez. 

Strolling back to the banquet area, it dawned on me my infatuation with Jackie stemmed mostly from not dating her.  We never had a romantic relationship, so it never failed; therefore it could’ve been anything.  Possibilities are endless in the absence of contrary evidence.  Because I could only imagine us together I could always imagine us perfectly.  And oddly enough, fantasies have a way of making promises.  

Promises like if I got the DJ to play Patti Smith’s “Because the Night”, the song would inspire the words I needed to say to win her heart.  Seizing one last bold chance for love go up to the head table while the song fills the air, and speak – about this time I realized I hadn’t merely been vividly imagining the scenario, but actually now stood in front of the head table, Jackie staring over her pollo relleno in wide eyed disbelief.  

“Howdy do?” I said, immediately regretting my very existence.  If nothing else, I doubt any romantic victory ever began with howdy do, although I could be wrong.

Jackie blinked, “I’m good.  How… how are you?”

“Not bad.” I put my hands in my pockets, wondering how many times I’d have to punch myself in the throat with my keys before I finally killed myself.  I said, “It’s been a while.”

“Yes it has,” she nodded, “The last time I saw you, you set my boyfriend’s car on fire.”

“This is that guy?” her husband said.  He suddenly looked desperate to call the police.  

Smiling, I said, “That is indeed me.”  

“What are you doing here?” Jackie asked.

I sincerely believe honesty is the best move.  However, on this occasion, I lied, “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m here to steal a painting, saw y’all in here, and thought I’d stop by to say congratulations.”

“Thanks?” her husband said.

“Thank you,” Jackie smiled.  She got up, hurried around the table to hug me.  She smelled amazing, the kind of aroma that cures depression.  She whispered in my ear, “You’ll go to jail if you steal a painting.  Please tell me this is some deranged romantic stunt.”

It felt like an opening, yet I oddly enough knew better.  I squeezed her gently, “Nope.”  Stepping away from her I waved to the groom, “Once again, congratulations.  I’d stay, but timing is everything.  Don’t want to miss my moment.”

Heading out, feeling several eyes on me, I texted Sid:  "be out front, engine running, backseat open.“

Minutes later, running down the steps of the Art Institute, carrying one of Monet’s “Haystacks” – I had to steal something to diminish the lie – I found myself wondering what else I needed to let go of.  Diving into the backseat of Sid’s car, we peeled out, rocketing home.  

Glancing in the rearview Sid said, “What the fuck is that?”

“One of six, 25 technically – they can spare one.”

He cracked a beer, “So how was the reception?”

“A little too clear.”  

My impression of the past would no longer be the same, but that’s just growing up.  I tapped Sid on the shoulder.  He handed me a beer.  Opening it I thought, "Here’s to you Jackie.  I’m glad you’re happy.”

Sid said, “You know alotta marriages end in divorce.”

“Yeah.” But I didn’t feel like hoping for that. I felt like finding another dream girl, only this time actually trying to hold her instead of chasing the mirage.