#these answers can’t be full on false but they can be extremely vague or even just complete nonanswers so usefulness carries

[arolesbianism]

Finallly got around to properly designing Demonstrator! She’s silly

[kyuuppi]

Unworthy

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader (gn)

Contents: hurt/comfort; Reader has mental health issues (depression, social anxiety, possible manic depressive disorder, extreme insecurity)

Word Count: 1.3k

You don’t deserve love. 

It is a fact, etched into mind and engraved into your heart after years of painful confirmation. You are not extraordinarily beautiful nor do you have a heart of gold. On the contrary, your face barely passes as “average” and mental illness has rendered your moods a lethal concoction of manic and depressive, the ratios depending solely on the time of day. 

Nothing about you is loveable and certainly not deserving of someone like Katsuki. 

Bakugou Katsuki, the man who talks big and works more than hard enough to back it up. There is truly nothing he can’t do, nothing he is not the best at. He pointedly steers clear of nonsense, never afraid to call people out on their bullshit. He doesn’t bother with false pretenses, doesn’t bother with things that would get in the way of his goals—

Which is exactly why it’s best for you to leave him alone. You’re weighed down with emotional baggage and weaknesses both mental and physical, you’re just a nuisance and it would only be a matter of time before he recognizes it and promptly cuts you from his life. 

You figure it will hurt a little less if you do it first. 

That’s why you leave. You skip the date the two of you had planned, the one you had been so excited for just a few days ago, scavenging the mall for hours before settling on what you deemed the perfect outfit. In retrospect it was all pointless anyway, lipstick on a pig is still a pig. Maybe, if you make it home before it starts to rain, you can still return the flowy black dress. Fold it up nicely in the fancy white bag it came in. You’re fairly certain you still have the receipt sitting on the top of—

“Oi!” 

Every muscle in your body freezes at the familiar sound. For a moment you think—hope—that you’ve imagined it. The startled jumps and confused turns from the people standing on the busy street corner around you prove otherwise. 

“I know ya heard me—if you try to make a run for it I swear to god I’ll hunt you down.”

You refuse to turn around and face his voice as it comes increasingly closer but you can already see the people around shooting you curious looks from the corners of your eyes. A few people step away from you warily, silently wondering what type of dangerous person would warrant the appearance of the Number Two Hero of Japan. 

The pause of heavy footsteps is the only warning you get before a firm hand grabs your arm and forces you to turn around. For a moment you look up and meet his eyes, vermillion and boiling with an obvious anger—perhaps if you’d looked longer you would have noticed the worry as well—but you quickly let your head fall back down, too ashamed to meet his gaze full on. 

He huffs. 

“You better have some damn good excuse for standing me up on our first date.” 

A few people around gasp and whisper among themselves, no doubt shocked by the prospect of Ground Zero of all people being stood up on a date by some dull looking person on the street. You suppose you would be surprised as well. For someone who graduated in the top 10 at U.A., Bakugou seemed terrible at cost-benefit analysis when it came to finding a partner. 

“Hah?” he urges when it becomes clear you have no intention of replying.

“Don’t just fucking ignore me—and what the fuck are all you extras looking at?”

Most of the people around quickly look away and carry on with what they were doing but Bakugou pulls you away anyway, his hand still firm on your upper arm. He leads the two of you to a more secluded area, a relatively clean alleyway between a convenience store and some apartment buildings. You back is against the wall while Bakugou strategically places himself in front of you but slightly to the left, blocking the sole exit in case you try to escape. 

“We can stand here all night, princess,” Bakugou bites out, gaze nearly burning a hole through the top of your head as you continue to stare pointedly at your own feet. 

“Now why the fuck did you stand me up? If you didn’t like me you should have just said so—I’m not some loser who can’t handle rejection.”

You huff an involuntary laugh at the thought. How ridiculous—you not liking him? He’s literally perfect, the epitome of everything a pro hero should be and well beyond any normal human. Millions of people worship the very ground he walks on and you’re no different. 

“I think its for the best if we...don’t associate with each other,” you finally murmur, struggling to convey your thoughts without stating the obvious ‘you’re way too fucking good for me, why did you even ask me out in the first place? Did you get brainwashed by a villain?’

“The fuck is that s’possed to mean?” he barks back, clearly not satisfied with your vague answer in the least. 

“Are ya worried about the villains or something? I can kick anyone’s ass if they try to mess with ya, y’know.” His voice softens along with his grip on your arm, seeming to consider, for the first time, you could possibly just be scared. It would not be unreasonable—he is one of the top pro heroes, a status one doesn’t earn without making a few enemies along the way. It is not unheard of for the most detestable villains to attempt to use the friends or family of heroes as hostage to get what they want. That is hardly anything you care about though—you know Bakugou is strong. You have no doubts he can protect the people he cares about...you just shouldn’t be one of them.

You finally steel yourself enough to look up and meet his gaze as you speak your next words. 

“Bakugou,” you start, seeing his subtle flinch at you calling him by his last name for the first time in months since you’ve known each other. “I’m...not good enough for you. You deserve someone strong, smart, and beautiful—someone who deserves to stand by your side, and I am none of those things. I’m just...damaged goods.” 

You try to laugh off the last line as if it were a funny joke but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. 

Somehow, Bakugou looks even angrier now. 

“You’re right about one of those things,” you try to ignore the sudden sting in your eyes at hearing your own thoughts coming from him. “You are a huge fucking idiot if you think you get to decide what I do and don’t deserve.” 

He steps closer, his firm chest pressing into your own softer body in a way that makes your heart stutter through several beats. Your face heats up on its own accord and you bite your lip in attempt to keep your body from spontaneously combusting. 

“One thing I hate more than anything is being told what I can or can’t do,” his voice is low, his hot breath brushing against your cheeks while he pins your gaze with his own.

“I don’t know who fed you this ‘not good enough’ bullshit but I’ll kick their ass for saying it then I’ll kick yours for believing it—I like you, okay? I want you by my side, whether you think you deserve to be there or not.”

You find yourself nodding along dumbly.

[moonbeamsung]

CRΣΣKS

Love, a second glance, it is not something that we need.

member: jeno

au: guardian angel in disguise!jeno x gn!reader, guardian angel au

word count: 3.4k

genre: angst

warnings: character death/loss, profanity, no happy ending, mentions of religion, questioning/loss of faith

recommended song: 715 - CRΣΣKS by the nor’easters

author’s note: Please be very careful with volume when listening to the song (above) that inspired this story! But even without reading the lyrics/listening, the fic will still make sense, and happy reading :)

network tags: @kpopscape @neo-constellations @starryktown

The wind is whistling, weaving in and out of the tall river reeds like an invisible needle and thread, stitching itself into each and every crevice of the world’s gift called nature.

Another one of its many gifts is the young boy that’s resting beside a rushing brook, toes dipped into the cool water and face illuminated by the sun as it beats down onto the earth with celestial strength.

Well, a gift from the heavens, that is.

Sent from the endless skies above, Jeno is your guardian angel, assigned with posing as a humble peasant boy in the village, all to keep a watchful eye on you from afar. In his human form, he spends his days wandering the cobblestone roads and narrow alleyways between the quaint buildings, with no family to return home to at dusk. A sunny meadow on the outskirts of town becomes his home, and he takes refuge in the shelter that the overgrown grass provides.

Everything is going smoothly, and he’s doing his job just as he should be. It’s routine now, waking up and rising from his earthen mattress, curtains of copious plant leaves letting in the sun’s rays. He finds you, observes at a comfortable distance, and that’s that. At its core, being a guardian is really an easy job. A predictable one.

A monotonous one.

Until one day you approach him, youthful eagerness in your eyes piercing and nearly painful, even to his invulnerable body. He’s never seen you up close before, only on the near horizon as you’ve gone about your daily chores, tending to the housework just like any obedient child should.

“...Who are you?”

Now, Jeno is faced with a decision more challenging than any that us mortal beings have to make in our entire lives. Engaging with one’s assignment is an extremely dangerous path to take. Unimaginable punishments await, should the guardian make a wrong choice. But Jeno was careless, and he had allowed himself to be discovered by the only human on Earth that the divine forces permit him to be seen by.

He makes the fatal error of answering you, ultimately shattering a future he’ll never get to live out, one that he doesn’t even know he would’ve had. Like a sharp rock being thrown at a church’s stained glass window, the meticulously carved pieces of his worldly existence fall to the ground with a deafening crash, broken beyond repair.

“I’m Jeno,” the strikingly majestic cadence of his words is like that of angel trumpets, the sound ringing in your head and making you dizzy with both fascination and infatuation.

And just like that, in three short syllables, you’re both fated to fall before you can even spread your wings.

From the moment you hear his name tumble from those beautiful lips, you’re hooked, and he knows it. He sees it in the way you look at him, in the way you act, the way you talk. A child experiencing a first and a forbidden love all at once.

It breaks his heart, because he knows it can’t, and shouldn’t last. The churning rapids of the creek nearby weep for him, for they know that in a matter of just a few short years, their waters are destined to mix with the salty tears that will steadily cascade from your trembling chin.

Jeno remembers, although vaguely, the brief amount of time he spent living amongst the clouds, being prepared by the heavenly elders for this expedition of a lifetime, quite literally. He remembers the scriptures, the strictures, and all the times he’s been warned of the severe consequences that come with immorality.

But even the purest of young angels aren’t infallible, still susceptible to compulsions that lead them to sin and defy their creator.

Relishing in the fading daylight, you join him by the water’s edge, listening to his soothing tone as he answers your ceaseless inquiries with harmless little lies as white as heavenly robes and cherub wings.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. The first sin.

It’s interesting, he thinks, that despite looking after you in the endeavors of your youth for quite a while now, he knows next to nothing about who you truly are. Actions may speak louder than words, but how can he know that if he’s never heard your voice to begin with?

As the quiet, languid conversation shifts from his purpose there to yours, Jeno learns that you’re very content with your life, taking pride in helping your family with daily tasks as well as assisting your neighbors in the close-knit village with theirs.

Just then, all the smears of dirt and scattered scratches adorning your face catch his attention, gained after hours of hard work. No amount of water is ever enough to scrub them off of your skin at the end of the day, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, you feel tears prick your eyes as you try to fall asleep at night, frustrated with your lowly appearance and how it never seems to match your relatively optimistic outlook on life.

But Jeno doesn’t care. You’re breathtaking even in his eyes, the eyes that belong to an actual angel. If that fact alone isn’t enough to boost your confidence, he doesn’t know what else possibly could.

Like a fool, he lets himself drown in your sublimity for a moment, marveling at the ethereal glow of the sun on your smooth, ageless face. The faint noise of wisps of air blowing gently through the meadow and rustling the flora makes him drowsy, but the sight of a pure white heron landing gracefully on the opposite side of the riverbank brings him back to full consciousness in an instant.

The bird, an omen of sorts, had been sent down from Heaven, conjured up from a fleeting idea and into a physical reality, by the holy beings looking down upon the earth, indicating that they’re well aware of the threat he poses and just how close he is to making an irreversible mistake in regards to you, his assignment and assignment only.

The heron abruptly unfurls its delicately feathered wings, as if frightened, before taking off and floating away on the breeze, both of your gazes inexplicably drawn to it as it flies until it’s out of sight altogether.

It warns him of just what he’s messing with, exactly.

This is not a part of the creator’s plan for you, for him. Falling in love with the one an angel is supposed to guard is an appalling crime to commit in the eyes of the elders that inhabit the sky, in the eyes of God. Though it doesn’t explicitly go against a commandment or biblical law, it’s just an understood rule. It’s wrong.

Jeno tells himself this, and continues to do so over the many years that he looks after you, never acting on his emotions, only acknowledging them before sending the less-than-acceptable thoughts into the depths of his conscious mind. He only wishes he had a key to lock them up and forget he even felt them in the first place.

Even as an angel, he ages just like anyone else, the both of you going from kids to teenagers and then nearing the young-adult stage of life, with you remaining blissfully unaware of Jeno’s true identity all the while. It’s a miracle he’s managed to keep his secret for this long, honestly, but like grains of sand in an hourglass, your time together is running out, whether you like it or not.

Not even a year before your entire world, your entire reality comes undone before your very eyes, Jeno feels as if his has already done just that. Because you’ve found someone. And that someone isn’t him.

He hates the feeling of jealousy, despises it with every fiber of his heavenly being. But he can’t shake it, can’t bear the way it clings to him like an unwelcome visitor. An unrecognizable emotion, one so foreign that he can’t even put a name to it, is stirred up at the sight of you in their arms, so pure and so unworthy of this person. Boy, if he didn’t know any better, Jeno would swear that you were the angel.

With each day that passes, he begins to feel the final shreds of both his dignity and his self-control slipping away, lost to the familiar breeze that whips through the village, stronger than ever these days. He can no longer contain it within himself. He wants you.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. The second sin.

How ironic that a Sunday, of all days, is when everything falls apart.

The sun is hanging low in the sky, just barely grazing the horizon with its bright beams of warmth as it steadily rises, bathing the world in a soft yellow glow. You can also see the moon leftover from the night that ended not so long ago, fading fast but visible nonetheless. Two complete opposites, so close but prevented by the laws of nature for coexisting in the same space, at the same time.

Maybe, just maybe, if you knew just how much you had in common with the celestial objects above, you would have clutched the hand of Jeno a bit tighter yesterday, intertwined your fingers a little more closely with those of someone who had become the closest thing to a best friend that you had ever known. You admit that you wish he could be something more, but you know better than to push your limits.

You got tired of waiting to see if he felt the same way, choosing to fill the void with someone else that you liked, yes, but who just wasn’t the same as the boy who had always been there, waiting in the meadow every morning without fail. Still, your emotions are ever-alert and always searching for any sign of reciprocation within Jeno.

He’s nowhere to be found when you reach the water’s edge, the edge of the creek where you wasted away endless summer days and frosty winter nights, colorful spring afternoons and brisk autumn evenings.

This morning would seem no different than the rest if not for his absence. The knot in your heart loosens, but not by much, when you spot him at the forest’s edge, looking weary.

Jeno notices you and calls out your name with a smile, but something about it isn’t genuine. It’s pained, desperate, like he wants to hold onto this moment forever, unwilling to carry out the plan he’s already regretting. It’s too late now, he thinks to himself, but he’s wrong.

It’s been too late for years.

“Jeno?”

“This way!” He chokes out. It’s somewhere between a sob and a plea, but there’s no time to figure out which is the more appropriate term. He disappears between the trees and amidst their mossy branches, blending in with the shadows cast by the thick canopy of leaves, and you break into a sprint, afraid of losing him to the merciless wilderness and what lies within.

Thankfully, he’s not too far gone. A small clearing greets you less than a dozen strides in, and in the very center of it stands a glass gazebo, run-down and covered in so many twisting vines to the point where the small structure is almost fully consumed by the nature surrounding it.

The scene is beautiful, so much so that it makes you uneasy. What’s going on? Why did he bring you here? Why does he seem so sad? Jeno is never sad, maybe he could be described as brooding or solemn on the rarest of occasions, but never this melancholy, never so utterly hopeless in his expressions and his aura.

None of these questions are answered, even as he takes your hands in his own and leads you inside of the gazebo, its see-through panels catching the light with elegance and ease.

“I need to tell you something.” Just like it did the first time you heard it, his voice still shocks you like a bolt of electricity, your blood pressure and heart rate skyrocketing. All of this is heightened, though, by grim tone he’s speaking to you with.

“What is it, Jen?” There it is. The nickname you made up for him that, although simple, makes him feel like he’s on top of the world. Actually, scratch that: it makes him feel like he’s floating in the sky, up past the clouds and even further away from this cruel planet than the heavens are from Hell.

You’re only making this harder for him. He might as well just spit it out, because all this waiting is agonizing for the both of you.

“We... we can’t be together.”

The sentence that leaves his lips is two declarations wrapped up in one singular statement, the first being that he wants to be with you in the same way you want to be with him. It’s much too hopeful, misleading your emotions down a path of elation instead of dread. The second is unpleasant, a bitter taste lingering on his tongue once he says the words.

“...Yes, yes we can, Jen, because I don’t really love them and all this time it’s been you—”

“You don’t understand,” he tries to stop the confession spilling out from your heart before it overflows, drowns you. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Stunned to silence, he gives you a moment to drink in the implications of his words. “...I’ve known you for over half of my entire life, and you’re trying to tell me I have no idea who you really are? Not a chance,” you laugh softly, shaking your head and glancing down at the wooden gazebo floor, old white paint peeling under your feet.

“But haven’t you ever wondered why I’m always there by the creek every morning? How I turn up throughout your day at the perfect time? How I’m suddenly right by your side when you need me the most?”

You have wondered. Many times, in fact. But the possibility of him being anything other than human was not at the top of your very rational list.

“...Don’t you see? I’m your guardian angel.”

He sees you blink, realization dawning on your face like the sun and stretching your features. “There are laws—” He begins, but your reaction is not the one he anticipated you would have to that information.

Too overwhelmed, you can’t respond with anything other than physical actions, no matter how unreasonable, and you press your dry lips to his soft ones, sealing your fate. Standing there, with beams of golden light infiltrating the space and illuminating your unsteady figures, Jeno is petrified not by your kiss, but by the fact that he doesn’t push you away, and his hands hold onto yours even tighter than before. Nothing has ever felt so right in his entire life. Not when he was in Heaven, and not in all the years he’s spent on Earth, either.

You’re his Heaven, this moment is his eternity. Jeno has endured enough temptation, the undeniable thrill that a deliberate sin promises has become too much for him. If he pulls away now, everything would still be okay, you could both go back to normal and pretend this never happened. But alas, he was doomed to kiss you back from the beginning, and so he does, and you have no idea what the universe has in store when you feel his lips finally respond to yours in the most unholy way possible. For the first and last time, you indulge in each other’s touch and taste, and it does not please the ones watching from above.

The third and final sin, one sin too many for him to remain in this world without consequence.

Several things happen all at once. A clap of thunder sounds overhead, though there are no clouds in sight. Jeno is painfully ripped from your grasp and thrown out of the gazebo by some invisible force of nature, into the grass and dirt on the forest floor.

And inside of you, a piece of your soul is torn from your being, bile rising up in your throat as you comprehend the excruciating sensation that racks your body with pained whimpers.

Stumbling to his feet, Jeno heaves, hunched over and close to tears. Suppressing the agony you still feel, you hurry over to him only for the boy to charge away, heading back towards the open meadow. With a broken shout of his name, you follow.

You didn’t notice before, but now the blinding light reveals the condition he’s in. He looks almost normal, but the edges of his form are becoming fainter by the minute, blurring with the rest of the world around him. He’s fading away before your eyes, and it’s all your fault.

It’s a torturous experience, watching him slowly meld with the emptiness of the air. Making him disappear into thin air in an instant would have been an act of mercy, a mercy that’s apparently beyond the capabilities of the spectators in the sky.

Struggling to maintain your composure, you force a question out. “What’s happening?” You ask, though you know he doesn’t have an answer himself.

He’s obviously panicked, though he tries not to show it. “I... I don’t know, I knew that it was forbidden for us to fall in love but I didn’t think I’d be robbed of my existence like this...”

“What?! No, Jeno, please don’t go...” You beg the gods and angels above, if any exist. You don’t know anymore.

If there is a God, how can he be good if he’s taking Jeno away from you like this, depriving you of the one constant source of joy and comfort in your life?

It’s far too cruel to bestow such a kind and generous heart upon someone who isn’t allowed to love in the first place.

Even Jeno’s touch is faint, making you feel like he’s not there at all. You just barely detect the pads of his fingers smoothing over your cheeks, trying to stop the water spilling from your eyes. He smiles sadly, “Don’t cry for me. I’m not worth the tears.”

“You’re everything to me, Jeno. You’re worth every drop.”

“Remember me like this, okay? By the creek,” he gestures to the turbulent waters a short distance away. Walking slowly, he begins to take steps in its direction, but as he speeds up you’re no longer able to match his pace. “Jeno, turn around...”

Glancing back at you for the final time, he whispers a goodbye that the breeze carries away with it, the sound something only the two of you would hear, one that could never be replicated.

“Goddamnit, Jeno, don’t you dare leave me!” But you know you can’t hold on, you’re not strong enough. A greater force wants you two apart, unable to be overpowered by one human, a relatively insignificant being in the grand scheme of the universe. He vanishes completely.

You fall to your knees, the pain from the pebbles digging into your legs and feet underneath the surface of the creek numbed by your sorrow. The water drenches your clothes, splashing up onto your skin and becoming one with your relentless tears. You’re left all alone, with only the cattails to keep you company. You wish the waves would just swallow you whole so you don’t have to feel this suffocating isolation.

In an unnecessarily harsh trick of the light combined with the dancing shadows generated by the water, you swear that you see Jeno again for a second, sitting on the riverbank like always. You sob louder.

It takes forever for you to find the strength to stand up again, water running over your soaked shoes and threatening to topple you over. You wouldn’t mind if it succeeds.

Inconsolable even to your closest friends and family, you reluctantly return to the village, unwilling to leave behind what you’ve just been through and unable to explain just why you’re crying so hard. Maybe if you stay there forever, spending each day and night waiting among the reeds and the flowers and the grass, he’ll come back someday, but no. He’ll never return, but you simply can’t bring yourself to accept this fact.

You’re never quite the same after that. Part of the curse that haunts you for the rest of your life is this: no matter how hard you try to retain your memories, you’re destined to forget Jeno eventually, leaving vast gaps in your brain when it comes to the years of your youth.

You’re left with only a feeling of inexplicable nostalgia at the sight of the meadow and the creek running through it, the waters still as violent as they were on the day you lost him.

[beardofkamenev]

When Adults Attack! (Teenagers)

(Sorry to everyone for dragging this up again, but some people are chronically incapable of letting drama die down.)

The last time I posted about this was 18 February. It’s now late-March. Despite repeatedly claiming to be “over it”, a self-proclaimed “respected history blogger” has been screaming into the void for over a month now. She seems to be under the unfortunate impression that she’s completely innocent of wrongdoing, all the criticism is unprovoked, she has been targeted by “white bigots”, and that she’s somehow the real victim here. So now I have to explain why that’s bullshit. Unlike her and her two friends, I don’t make extreme but vague accusations with zero evidence. I don’t make empty threats about “exposing” people.

The short story? She involved her own self in a situation that had nothing to do with her, downplayed her friends’ racism towards others, incited her followers to harass a teenager, repeatedly lied to her followers about the multiple POC who criticised her friends being “white”, and has continued to inflame the issue while trying to downplay her role in doing so. The long story? Well, I’ll let the receipts do the talking.

That’s Olivia’s first post at the start of February, days before I or anyone else had even said anything. “My anonymous Jewish friend said!” should have been a red flag to anyone capable of reading anything longer than 280 characters. I’ve already explained why Haley (lucreciadeleon/turtlemoons plus her 92849374 alt accounts) is full of shit and so have plenty of others (here, here, and here, to name a few).

Olivia claims that, as a Romani woman, she’s not obliged to engage with content that offends her. Fine. So why is a black teenager obliged to engage with Haley’s deranged anons? Why are her hate anons are so worthy of a response that not responding is an act of ANTISEMITISM that warrants Olivia telling everyone what an antisemite this teenager is for not responding? FYI, NO ONE is obligated to respond to anon hate, especially from people they’ve already blocked. And considering Haley admitted not once, not twice, but three times to breaking Tumblr’s TOS to circumvent a mutual block and send those anons (including how she did it), people are especially not obligated to engage with her.

I made my first posts exposing Taylor (lucreziaborgia/elizabethblount) and Haley’s lies and backtracking on 6 and 7 February. This was before I acknowledged Olivia’s role in inflaming the situation. In fact, I didn’t even know about her tweets until 8 February. Yet, here she is on 6 FEBRUARY already bitching about my posts to her Twitter followers. She has some nerve acting like I victimised her, just because I posted the screenshots of her bitching about me. And bragging about ‘gaslighting’? The word that multiple people have separately described what her two friends subjected them to? Classy.

I can’t “stalk” her public Twitter any more than she can “stalk” my public blog. What an exceptionally stupid claim to make, considering her tweets kept getting recommended to my mutuals whether they liked it or not. Have some integrity and own the shit you say, rather than backtracking, deleting your posts, and pretending that you didn’t say the things we saw you say. If you want to talk shit about others in public, be ready to answer for it in public.

I also wonder how this started over Henry VII. I specifically wonder how this discussion between myself and May (richmond-rex) triggered Taylor’s totally unprovoked racist comments about how we and Nathen Amin “simp for a dead white man”, and we should “simp for someone who actually advocated for the rights of others” instead. The implication being that Tudor history is only for white people like Taylor, and that only her fave is worthy of discussion (“AnNe BoLeYn WaS oThErEd BeCaUsE sHe WaS tAn.” Good grief).

When multiple POC called bootleg Regina George out for it, not only did she say she couldn’t possibly be racist because Haley approved of her racism, but also tried to argue that Nathen Amin deserved it because it was inappropriate for a British man to joke about Brexit. She then claimed we called her “anti-Welsh�� (another fucking lie) to make it seem like a bunch of cRaZy blacks and browns were attacking poor, innocent white her (with Olivia coming to the rescue, of course). And as if that wasn’t enough, Haley then sent these bad faith hate anons calling Nathen Amin’s tweet ANTISEMITIC, for no other reason than to retroactively justify Taylor’s racist comments (though I didn’t see Haley getting offended when she was hate-scrolling through his blog before Taylor was called out).

That was the “antisemitic shit” Haley “privately messaged about” that Olivia thinks deserves a response. In case it's not clear: defending racism makes you complicit in racism. Being Jewish is NOT a get-out-of-racism-free card, and Haley trying to use it as one is absolutely dishonest, especially when NO ONE even knew she was Jewish until she finally admitted in February she was the anonymous ‘Jewish friend’ who sent those batshit anons. Other Jewish people also called Haley out on it, yet Haley and Olivia have conveniently ignored that little fact since it contradicts their narrative.

You think it’s over? Nope. Taylor then slunk into May’s dm’s with a half-arsed apology, where she admitted that the only reason she made those racist comments about Nathen Amin was because we “attacked Gareth Russell first” (“BeCaUsE AnNe FaNs CiTe HiS wOrk”) and she “just wanted to educate us about not lionising Henry VII” (even though anyone with eyeballs can read our discussion see she’s full of shit). At the same time, she and Haley were messaging other history bloggers, telling them that everyone who called them out were antisemites (including an openly Jewish mutual of ours) in an attempt to alienate them from the community. And this was just in JANUARY.

“I can’t be racist! My Jewish friend agrees with my racism!” That steaming load of backtracking horseshit is unfortunately the kind of nonsense Olivia has chosen to defend. FOR WEEKS Taylor ignored May’s messages, explaining why she — a black woman — found Taylor’s comments offensive. Did Taylor listen? Nope. In fact, she only replied in February: after she already started posting about how ignoring Haley’s hate anons was “antisemitism”. How convenient. Taylor might be a fucking idiot but we’re not. She only replied to May because she was afraid we’d use her own words against her. Clearly she never learnt a damn thing because here she is on 6 February backtracking on her apology. “Actually, I did NOTHING wrong! Also, you’re all antisemites for saying I did because my Jewish friend agrees with me!” And what made Taylor feel as though she had permission to start deflecting her vile behaviour onto others in order to get the heat off her? Olivia’s post about ‘their Jewish friend’ Haley: the one that followed Olivia’s “private discussion” with “her two friends”. Taylor is a racist hypocrite who hides behind the few minority friends she has to justify her racism, and attacks every other minority who disagrees with her. It’s no coincidence that the majority of the history bloggers who have a problem with Taylor and Haley’s nasty behaviour happen to be POC.

Despite Olivia admitting that she knew nothing about that situation other than what those two told her, she still took it upon herself to misconstrue and downplay to all her followers the extent of her friends’ racism, lies, and general nastiness (here she is on 9 MARCH). For her, our problems with racism are little more than “stupid drama”, “Henry VII drama”, “Gareth Russell drama”, “overreacting to a joke”, and “petty disagreements over dead people” because her friends are the perpetrators. Yet she demands everyone sympathise with her never-ending dramas and projects her behaviour onto others, despite the fact that she’s shown absolutely no understanding for why so many people have problems with her friends and has consistently defended the perpetrators. She’s entitled to be upset at whatever she wants to be upset at, but she is not entitled to tell her followers that we can’t be upset about racism directed at us, especially when that situation NEVER EVEN INVOLVED HER.

I agree. It’s disturbing that three grown women in their mid to late 20s have a vendetta against an 18 year old. Olivia acknowledged that her posts were reckless and that she would have acted differently if she just sat down and thought for one fucking second. But rather than correct the record on the same platform she made those accusations, she doubled down and took off to Twitter, saying that her anger entitled her to act that way. All with zero acknowledgement of the fact that the teenager SHE falsely accused and repeatedly mocked for her age was still being harassed by HER followers as a direct result of HER posts.

She might love the ‘clout’ that comes with a large following, but she evidently doesn’t care about the responsibility that comes with it. In Taylor and Haley’s case, it’s little more than a means to intimidate others into silence. Olivia might be a “respected history blogger” or a “good historian”, but that definitely doesn’t make her a good person. Far from it, if her behaviour is anything to go by.

This was on 9 February, 3 days after my first post. Bitching about me was all fun and games until the receipts came out, huh?

There’s nothing “insane” about keeping receipts, especially when Taylor and Haley are notorious for lying out of their arses and fake-apologising to people in the dm’s, only to continue mocking them on Twitter afterwards. You know what is insane though? Searching ‘romani’ on our blogs in a pathetic attempt to dig up dirt that doesn’t even exist (yeah, stat trackers exist). Do you know what else is insane? Haley spamming people with passive aggressive anons and sending anon hate to people who’ve already blocked her. She also “stalked” our WOTR group chat, though she’ll never admit to it, despite accidentally posting the dated receipts proving it. Oops!

It’s no secret that Taylor and Haley are cowards (as all bullies are), so it was no surprise when they eventually involved Olivia in their month-old vendetta against a teenager. They wanted to school a black girl on racism and Congolese genocide apologism, so they needed to get a “respectable history blogger” on their side. And Olivia happily obliged, kicking up such a fuss on their behalf that the teenager just offered to end it (despite the fact that Olivia vagued her first). Yet still Olivia continued, publicly mocking her age and calling her an “antisemite” long after the discussion was over (here she is on 24 February still carrying on). Either a teenager is old enough to be publicly shamed for being an “antisemite” and “antiromani bigot”, or she’s too young to be taken seriously. But at 25, Olivia is certainly old enough to know better than to participate in this kind of vile, petty, wannabe Mean Girl behaviour.

Olivia is not black. Taylor is not black. Haley is not black. So for the record, if you are not black, it is not your place to tell BLACK PEOPLE whether they can take issue with apologism for BLACK GENOCIDE. Multiple black history bloggers have already explained why they had a problem with Gareth Russell’s comments about the Congolese genocide (including the teen in question), yet that was less important to Olivia than not being able to call him a sexist weirdo because he’s gay. Olivia cannot speak on all minority issues — especially black and brown issues — and it is arrogant of her to assume that she can, especially since her understanding of the Gareth Russell issue came purely from “what she discussed with her two friends” by her own admission.

What a take. Here’s the “anti-Romani” post that I supposedly made. Precisely ZERO of my posts were about Olivia and not once did I even name her directly. So her claims that I mounted some kind of “vicious attack” against her is, uh, bullshit. Criticising her and her friends for their nasty, dishonest, and irresponsible behaviour isn’t “anti-Romani” just because she’s Romani. It’s no more “anti-Romani” than her erratic attempts to “expose” me are anti-Asian just because I’m Asian. It’s not any more “anti-Romani” just because the UK government has passed anti-Romani laws, any more than her telling deranged lies about me for over a month is an anti-Asian hate crime simply because there’s been an increase in anti-Asian hate crimes. I’m not British. I’m not from the UK. I have no control over whatever dumb, racist crap her government does. So she can fuck off and continue fucking off if she wants to make me personally responsible for that. The backlash she received had nothing to do with her identity and everything to do with how she purposely incited harassment against a teenager, defended her friends’ racism, and spread demonstrable lies to her followers. The “viciousness” of the backlash she received is directly proportionate to the viciousness of her own baseless attacks against others. She can claim to be more mature than an 18 year old all she wants, but do you know what the actual mature thing to do would have been? To not promote her friends’ lies and nonsense, especially when the other people they tried to involve had the sense to stay out of it.

Olivia, Taylor and Haley are fully-grown adults, but take no responsibility for their actions. Yet, they expect teenagers to have total control over not only their own emotions, but also the emotions and actions of others. Olivia thinks that a teen should be personally responsible for the behaviour of fully-grown adults, yet she’s close friends with Taylor — a racist, xenophobic bully who screenshots Tumblr people’s posts to mock them on Twitter (here and here from December), called Poles who’ve lost relatives in the Holocaust “genocidal loving freaks”, accused an openly Ashkenazi Jewish blogger of “internalised antisemitism” just for criticising her (a white gentile), said that people who like Mary I “resent their own siblings”, co-opted our struggles under Spanish imperialism just so she could bully ‘Spaniards’ (despite her being American and therefore equally responsible for genocide, by her flawed logic), and said that the black teen who called out her racism “really deserved to be bullied” and “needed to be policed”. Olivia is also close friends with Haley, who has a history of attacking people over posts that have nothing to do with her, publicly admitted to circumventing blocks in order to send hate anons, and likened me — a Filipino immigrant — to DONALD TRUMP and a neo-Nazi conspiracy theorist just because I posted the receipts exposing her lies, harassment of others, and projection.

Most of the people who have spoken out against these three didn’t even know each other until last month. Some of ‘us’ have actually blocked each other. Yet all of us agree that their behaviour towards others has been absolutely unacceptable. How is it that so many unrelated people from different corners of the ‘fandom’ have exactly the same problems with exactly the same people? If Olivia want us to take personal responsibility for “our friends’” behaviour, then she should first take responsibility for hers.

This is on 26 February, over a week after I last posted. As anyone with eyeballs can see, I called her British once. Not “repeatedly”. ONCE. So she can fuck off again with that bullshit. And why did I point that out? Because Olivia, a British citizen, made pejorative comments about “white Eastern Europeans!!!” just because she thinks some Polish people committed the heinous crime of... screenshotting her tweets. They didn’t even do it, and even if they did, how is that even relevant? Everyone knows that one specific Polish person lives rent free in Taylor’s head, so clearly Olivia just took Taylor’s word for it that it must have been The Poles who were “stalking” her. Maybe don’t take paranoid liars at face value next time?

Shameless, ignorant, tone deaf nonsense. Olivia constantly demands that people treat her and her identity with the utmost respect, yet here she was on 9 February already disrespecting the identities of others just so she can score some petty ‘oppression points’ against them. Why even bring their nationalities up? And why call them “white Eastern Europeans” instead of Polish since she knows they’re Polish? Is it because acknowledging that they are Polish would mean acknowledging that she doesn’t actually have a monopoly on a claim to discrimination or Holocaust trauma? Could it be that dismissing them as just some “white Eastern Europeans” was just another way for her to add credence to her own “pathetic lies” about the situation? There’s a word for that behaviour, and it starts with pro- and ends with -jection.

Let me reiterate: it is IGNORANT of her to use their identity against them, especially when hate-crimes against Polish immigrants have increased in her home country, and especially when the specific people she insulted lost close relatives (including Jewish relatives) in the Holocaust. It’s not “repeatedly mocking her identity” to point out her hypocrisy. Her being Romani is not an excuse for casual xenophobia. She might be able to hide her identity in the UK (though she shouldn’t have to), but Polish immigrants do not have the privilege of passing as first-language white British. I cannot pass as non-Asian. The black girl she and her friends tried to bully off Tumblr cannot pass as non-black. Olivia weaponising people’s identity against them just because she thinks they saw her public tweets is ignorant, petty, and completely uncalled for. She should be absolutely ashamed for using that pathetic argument, but based on her most recent farrago of nonsense, she probably won’t be.

Here’s her on 7 MARCH. And of course Taylor was the first to like it lol. Olivia may have deluded herself into believing she was just an innocent bystander, but unfortunately, enough people saw her admitting to inserting herself into the situation at the behest of her two friends. With every post before and since, her accusations have gotten wilder and wilder, falser and falser, and more and more irrelevant because she knows full well that none of her followers will bother fact-checking her. That’s the beauty of vagueing people. It’s how Taylor and Haley have been able to get away with pulling the wool over peoples’ eyes for so long. Too bad repetition, projection, and self-righteous outrage doesn’t equate to the truth because those are all those three have.

“SOMEONE NEEDS TO EXPOSE THE WHOLE DAMN LOT OF THEM! BUT IT WON’T BE ME!” 

No one has said anything since 18 February, yet here’s Olivia publicly inciting her followers again. She’s “done talking about it”, yet she’s the only one continuing the drama. She is being ‘persecuted’, yet she mobilises her followers to go after others. She needs to be defended against critics, yet she also can’t resist bragging about big her Tumblr following is, how “piddly” our notes are compared to hers, how she got over 30 followers to report my posts (they’re still up lol), and how many people she can get to dig through our blogs to find anything to “expose” us. Olivia, I’m sorry that you require constant validation from strangers on the internet, but not everyone has the same priorities as you. Some of us just come here to have fun, but having shitstarters in the community is decidedly un-fun.

All my posts were directed at Taylor and Haley, but since Olivia insists on making this revolve around her, let me clarify: she is a hypocrite and a professional victim. Words have meaning, and those words are the most accurate words to describe her behaviour. It has fuck all to do with her identity. She and Haley are professional victims because they act as if their minority statuses exempt them from basic rules of online courtesy and entitle them to run their mouths about others with no consequence. And Olivia is a hypocrite because she demands the respect and understanding that she has repeatedly refused to show to others. She made ignorant, xenophobic comments against Polish people because she falsely assumed they screenshot her public posts bitching about others. She pretends that the many POC who have spoken out against her are just some “white” hive-mind because admitting that we’re not white will discredit the victimhood narrative she’s been peddling to her followers. And she arrogantly presumes to be ‘our’ voice in the community, all while mobilising her following to intimidate and silence the minorities who take issue with her and her friends’ vile behaviour.

It’s extremely telling that in every one of her unlettered rants, Olivia made the conscious choice to conflate us with “white gentiles”, “white antisemites”, and “white Eastern Europeans”. Why? Because in order to “name and shame” us, she’d have to admit to her followers that the majority of the people criticising her aren’t actually “white”, but are in fact black, brown, and Jewish. Having repeatedly demanded that her followers defend her, her reputation and credibility now depends upon people continuing to see her as the oppressed victim of “bigoted whites”. Unfortunately for her and her friends, the truth will always come out. That’s what receipts are for, no matter what they claim.

The history community didn’t side with “a white gentile woman”. We sided with a black teenager who Olivia and her friends repeatedly mocked for her age, publicly and privately spread false accusations against, and incited their followers to harass with their never-ending posts. We sided against white racists like Taylor, and her white-passing enablers like Olivia and Haley. Since being called out for racism by a black girl discredited them, they had to discredit her. And unlike the others Taylor and Haley tried to involve, Olivia was their willing accomplice. If she has now been “alienated by half the history fandom”, it is because of her own behaviour and rightly so.

The ideal course of action would be for Olivia to finally take some responsibility for her actions, publicly apologise for her role in inflaming this drama, and move on like the rest of us have tried to do. But unfortunately, she may be too far gone in her own pathological need for online validation to ever admit wrongdoing without some serious introspection. So perhaps, Olivia, if anything else, you should just take your own advice and, once and for all, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

[zelenacat]

When We Were Young- Chapter 12- An Obitine Story

Satine was on her way to Senator Amidala’s room when she overheard a conversation.

“Oh. My. God.” gasped a certain Jedi.

“Shut up, Anakin.” Padme whispered harshly.

“No kriffing way.”

“Ani, someone might hear you.”

“Yes, Master Skywalker,” Satine said, coming around the corner, “someone might hear you.”

Anakin jumped, then realized who was speaking.

“Your Grace,” the Jedi turned with a bow, “how have you been finding your stay?”

“Anakin.” Padme snapped.

“I enjoy Coruscant,” Satine replied politely, “I sleep well here.”

Anakin’s jaw dropped.

“Duchess,” Padme held out her arm, “do accompany me inside.”

Satine took it, and after a wink at Anakin, entered Padme’s common room, which happened to be full of senators.

“Your Grace,” Bail Organa bowed, “I see you’ve found Padme again.”

“Like bees to honey, Senator.” Satine replied.

Padme smiled. The conversation then turned to a vote that would soon take place and Satine sat quietly. After a while, Anakin’s comm rang.

“Master Obi-Wan,” he grinned, eyes flashing before a frown, “wait, what?”

“Senator Farr has been murdered,” Obi-Wan repeated, “everyone is to stay in the senate building.”

Senator Amidala burst into tears.

“Oh, Padme,” Satine scooched closer to the Senator and put her arm around her, “I’m so sorry.”

Anakin flinched, retracting his arm.

“Anakin, there’s more.”

“What is it, Obi-Wan?” the Jedi asked, his eyes on Padme.

“The funeral will be held in twenty minutes, platform 3B.”

With a sniff, Padme swallowed.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Satine frowned, looking around the room, “for all of you.”

“Thank you, Duchess,” Mon Mothma nodded, “he was dear to all of us.”

“How could this happen?” Senator Amidala muttered.

“It’s best not to dwell on it, Padme,” Bail Organa sighed, “the Jedi will help us. Won’t they, Master Skywalker?”

“Of course,” Anakin nodded, “this is quite the offence.”

“Let’s say goodbye to the body.” Padme decided.

Helping Padme stand, Satine turned and nodded at Anakin, who came forward.

“Senators Mothma and Organa,” the Duchess began, handing Padme’s hand to Anakin, “is there any possibility there were signs of this beforehand?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Grace,” Senator Organa stated, offering Satine his arm, “Onaconda had few enemies.”

“But he did have some?” Satine asked.

“Yes,” Senator Mothma answered as they began a brisk walk to the platform, “there are some who didn’t think he led his people well.”

“And who would that be?”

Satine learned a lot on that walk down to the platform, in fact, she believed she had more in common with Senator Onaconda Farr than she thought at first. There were certain people who didn’t like the way Satine was governing as well.

“I wish I could’ve asked him for advice on the subject,” Satine commented, “how to stand your ground when people blame you.”

“I think he’d say have courage and be cautious,” Mon Mothma replied, “sometimes your constituents don’t know the pressure you’re under.”

“I want the best for my people.” Satine sighed.

“We all do,” agreed Senator Organa, “but I think Senator Farr’s death shows we must be wary.”

Obi-Wan wasn’t on the platform when Satine and her fellow lawmakers arrived, but Master Yoda was. The Duchess had much respect for the Jedi, Obi-Wan had always spoken of him highly, and he trained Master Qui-Gon, but Satine was slightly fearful of him. 

After the body was respectfully placed on a ship, Satine took her departure, after a promise that Padme would say goodbye before leaving, of course.

“Your Grace,” Parna clutched her chest, “I just heard about the Senator, are you alright?”

“Of course, Parna, thank you,” Satine nodded, “I think I’ve learned a valuable lesson today.”

“Sit,” the lady gestured, “and let me get you a drink.”

Most of the packing had already been done, so the Duchess relented and took a break.

“You’re reflective,” Parna frowned, handing Satine a water glass, “what is it?”

“Death Watch.”

Parna sighed.

“I think they’re more of a great than we realized, and besides,” Satine lowered her eyes, “most of their operatives were working within my government, I have to do something about this.”

“We will,” Parna nodded, “Prime Minister Almec will likely agree, and our week of hosting court is almost upon us.”

“True,” the Duchess raised her head, “I’m sure the Prime Minister will be a great ally.”

Three hours went by and it was time for Satine to return to Mandalore. Padme met Satine just outside her door and gave her a hurried hug.

“I’ll call you when I figure this out.”

“Padme-”

“I’ll be fine,” smiled the Senator, pulling back, “I consider it my duty.”

“You’re resourceful,” the Duchess admitted, “but who would I be if I didn’t tell you to be careful.”

Padme kissed Satine’s cheeks, “You’re a God-send.”

As Satine and Parna made their way down to the platform, the Duchess noticed two figures waiting by the ship. With a smile, she realized one of them was Obi-Wan. It took all her effort not to run to him.

“Your Grace.” Anakin bowed.

Obi-Wan was smiling at her joy in his eyes. Anakin elbowed him.

“Right, Your Grace.”

Satine giggled, vaguely aware of Parna directing the guards to start loading the ship.

“I’d better go help.” Anakin agreed with a smirk.

“Obi-”

“I know.”

“Still,” Satine squeezed Obi-Wan’s arm, “I’m glad I was able to see you.”

“And I you, my dear,” the Jedi took Satine’s hand and kissed it, “lovely as ever.”

“I’m going to miss you.” Satine confessed.

“So will I.”

“But you’ll come and visit whenever it’s allowed,” the Duchess stated, “won’t you, Ben.”

The luggage was finished loading.

“Of course, Your Grace,” the Jedi bowed, “I’d be delighted.”

“Goodbye for now,” Satine ran her thumb over Obi-Wan’s cheek, “Ben.”

Parna was quiet until the guards were positioned at their various stations on the ship.

“Oh my God.”

“Parna-”

“Your Grace,” Parna leveled her lady a look, “I had to stay with the Senator’s ladies-”

Satine crossed her arms, “I will tell you nothing.”

Parna waited for a beat. Satine broke into a smile, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I’m very happy for Your Grace,” Parna smiled, “though, we may have to tell Gorg and Jaym.”

“The heads of my personal guards?” Satine asked.

“They asked me about it, and I tried to be vague but-”

“They’ll find out,” the Duchess nodded, “I will summon them to my parlor when we return.”

Gorg and Jaym were very smug about it.

“A Jedi,” Gorg grinned, “well chosen, Your Grace.”

Satine opened her mouth to speak.

“It’s almost illegal,” Jaym snorted, “a Jedi and a Mandalorian?”

“No one can know, obviously.” Satine reiterated.

“Of course not, Your Grace.” Gorg bowed.

Satine raised an eyebrow, “Not even any jokes.”

“No jokes.” Jaym agreed.

“Good,” Satine nodded, “you’re dismissed.”

Still under a false bottom in her dresser drawer were the four birth certificates, now, Satine added a list of all the living people who knew her secret so she could keep track.

Khaami

Parna

Padme

Anakin?

Jaym

Gorg

Ursa Wren

Alrich Wren

That was only eight people, yet it still made Satine nervous. Things were very politically unstable now, with most of the galaxy at war, this had to be kept hidden. Parna watched her lady while she did this, silent for the most part.

“Everyone on that list has reason to help keep your secret,” Parna urged, “you’ll be safe Satine, and so will they.”

“But if they were paid enough,” the Duchess frowned, “and given protection-”

“It won’t happen, Satine,” Parna assured, “not unless you want it to.”

“I can’t think of a scenario where that would be wise.” Satine confessed.

Parna was silent for a long moment.

“Shall we review your dresses for holding Court?”

“Yes,” Satine stood, “we shall.”

The next four days were extremely busy for Satine, she spent every free hour she had in meetings. What societies to endorse and what activities to sponsor? Which delicacies would be served and what should the theme of her speeches center around? At the end of it all, the Duchess met with Waldie, her head seamstress of fifteen years, to discuss her outfits.

“I would like to repurpose some of your more magnificent gowns, Your Grace,” Waldie began, “everyone knows Court Week is a time for grandeur, and that all eyes are going to be on you.”

“Very true,” Satine nodded, “which dresses do you have in mind?”

“Do you remember meeting Senator Amidala on Naboo when she was queen?”

Satine smiled, “Yes, although, my hair was longer then.”

“I was thinking of dresses in the style of Saint Jaru’s time for the new ones,” Waldie continued clapping, “you’ll look marvelous. Of course, on the first night, you have to wear your gown embroidered with your star system.”

“That one,” Satine gaped, “it’s certainly been ages.”

“You’ll look lovely, Your Grace,” Waldie assured, “we’ll adjust it, don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Satine nodded, “any other ideas?”

“Dresses modeled after Queen Mara’s famous ensembles,” Waldie smiled, “it was suggested by one of my assistants.”

Satine grinned, “I like it.”

On the fifth day, Korkie arrived at Sundari’s Summer Palace, it was still dark out.

“How are you, my darling nephew?” Satine asked, embracing him.

“I’m well, Auntie Satine,” Korkie smiled, “ready for the big day ahead.”

“Wonderful enthusiasm,” the Duchess remarked, “now, have you had breakfast?”

“Yes,” Korkie nodded, “but not much.”

Satine smiled, “All you have to do is stand there and look regal.”

“Auntie,” Korkie’s shoulders slumped, “are you sure I can do it?”

“Of course,” Satine stared proudly down at her son, “you’re the Duke of Sundari afterall.”

The Duchess didn’t see Korkie again until after they were both dressed. Korkie grinned when he saw the dress.

“Is that the one you wore to meet Queen Amidala of Naboo?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll knock ‘em all out, Aunt Satine,” Korkie’s eyes flashed, “even though you’re a pacifist.”

Satine snorted, “Thank you, Korkie.” 

Korkie was dressed in his navy uniform with silver drippings and a purple sash, he certainly looked the part of her heir. Satine was proud of him. Turning to face forward, the Duchess waited for the doors to open, straightening her shoulders when the trumpets blared.

“Her Grace, Satine Kryze, Duchess of Mandalore, Second of Her Name and Lady Krewella, accompanied by His Grace Korkyrach Kryze, the Duke of Sundari.”

Daintly, Satine descended the stairs with a polite smile, pretending she didn’t hear the audible gasp from the ladies when she appeared. Once she reached the bottom of the stairwell, Korkie stepped forward and offered her his right arm, together they walked through the sea of a parting crowd towards the throne. Elegantly, Korkie took his hand and helped Satine up her stairs before taking his place on her right.

“The Duchess of Mandalore and the Duke of Sundari!”

In one singular motion, the whole room paid their respects. Bowing or curtsying all at once, it made Satine straighten her shoulders. When they rose, the Duchess spoke.

“Welcome to our ancient seat of honor, my fellow Mandalorians,” Satine began, “in light of recent events, I find it fitting to reflect on our past while pondering the future.”

Some whispers arose.

“We used to be warriors, that is true,” the Duchess acknowledged, “but a warrior thrives on chaos, wisdom, which Mandalore has now been blessed with, is far more valuable. The serenity which will come even in this turbulent time has allowed us to be lead by example, and show the galaxy that we will not abide by chaos, and that we choose to enlighten ourselves with the wisdom of non-violence.”

People clapped. Her opening was short, but Satine had no wish to relive her betrayals. Soon there would be new elections and Satine could forget about all her misfortunes.

Korkie offered Satine his arm, and she took it, gliding through the guests and letting them gawk at her dress. Very gentlemanly, Korkie pulled out the chair at the head of the table for his Auntie, and pushed her in when she sat down. Then, he took his place on her left. Once everyone was seated, Satine took her first bite and the meal began.

The duchess turned to her right, “It’s terribly chilling, isn’t it, Count Vizsla?”

His Excellency coughed, “What is, Your Grace?”

“Treason, especially by a member of one’s own clan.”

Tarrei Vizsla paled, that word had heavy meaning on Mandalore, many heads had been disemboweled for it.

“I would like to apologize for my son, Your Grace.”

“An apology will not be enough,” Satine smiled savagely, “your son tried to have me murdered.”

Count Vizsla clasped his hands, “Please, Your Grace, there must be some way to make amends.”

“There certainly is,” the Duchess smiled, “you will spearhead the hunt for Death Watch.”

His Excellency gaped.

“You may decline, of course,” Satine giggled, “but naturally a bounty would have to be placed on your son’s head.”

Tarrei Vizsla’s cheeks pallored.

“Are you well, Your Excellency,” Korkie asked with no care in his voice, “you look pale.”

Count Vizsla began quietly, “You are a pacifist-”

“But if your son believes in the old ways,” Satine countered, “then he should die a traitor’s death.”

Continuing with her meal, the Duchess noticed Count Vizsla didn’t eat.

“Korkie, darling,” Satine turned, “have you finished?”

“Yes, Aunt Satine.”

Smiling the Duchess set down her fork with a clang as her nephew stood, and the whole table prepared to leave. Korkie pulled out Satine’s chair and she stood, taking her nephew’s arm, and led the way from the room. There were few people who invited to join the Duchess on her comfortable couches, but they happened to be Ursa and Alrich Wren, their son Tristan, Lady Khaami and her husband, and, of course, Korkie. While the rest of the room was dancing, this group sat happily chatting, and it was clear to everyone Satine was trying to cultivate a friendship between Korkie and Tristan. For the most part, it went well, but the formalities used put ice on the situation, which made Satine frowned. 

Ursa suggested the boys enjoy the festivities, and Satine waved her sons off.

“Handsome boys.” Khaami commented.

“Fifteen and nearly seventeen.” Satine nodded.

“You remember?” Ursa turned.

Satine grimaced, “Of course, it's hard to forget such a thing.”

Lady Khaami’s husband commented on Sabine, the Countess Wren’s daughter.

“She’s very clever,” Ursa smiled, “I’m grateful to have her.”

Alrich Wren put his hand on his wife’s, “We both are.”

Satine glanced away, trying to remain steely in the face of a show of affection. Khaami didn’t miss this however.

“I’m glad your trip to Coruscant was successful, Your Grace,” she commented, “I couldn’t imagine being under siege.”

“Neither could I,” Satine agreed, “there is no need to bring conflict where it is not wanted.”

A slow waltz came on, and Alrich stood, taking Ursa with him. Khaami’s husband went off to get her a drink. The Duchess declined politely.

“May I speak frankly, Your Grace?”

Satine turned her head, “Perhaps.”

“I am in need of employment.” Khaami blushed.

“Ah,” the Duchess nodded, “the war may reach Mandalore yet, I intend to keep it out.”

Khaami pushed forward, “I could help Your Grace achieve such an end.”

Satine grew thoughtful for a moment. Khaami knew, which made her possibly dangerous, and if she was desperate…

“I’d be glad for you to return to your old position once the Court Week is over,” the Duchess smiled, “I’m sure Parna will take warmly to you.”

“Your Grace is most benevolent.” Khaami nodded.

When Satine finally retired, she was exhausted.

“Khaami will be coming back,” she mentioned as Parna undid her hair, “at the end of the week.”

“Really?”

“She needed employment,” Satine explained, “and she knows, besides, we were close once.”

“I hope it will be that way again, then.” Parna commented.

“So do I,” the Duchess’ gaze slipped to her drawer, “how I wish things could’ve been different.”

“I know.”

“Perhaps something good will come of this,” Satine though of Korkie and Tristan, “perhaps good things shall come.”

“Let’s hope for that.” Parna agreed.

The next morning, the Duchess was dressed in a glorious pink gown and gold in the style of Saint Jaru’s time, with long sleeves and flowing skirts. She wore a tiara over her crown of lilies and smiled gracefully as she descended into the breakfast room. Since breakfast was informal, most of the guests were already eating, but when Satine entered, everyone grew quiet. With a smile, Korkie stood and pulled out her chair.

 “Gorgeous ensemble, Auntie.” he whispered.

Satine grinned and elegantly took a sip of water from her goblet. Then, she took her first bite of breakfast, and slowly, eating resumed. After breakfast, Satine spent the morning at archery, an ancient skill that many Mandalorians still found fashionable. The court accompanied her of course, splitting up into groups and pretending to shoot while watching the Duchess and her nephew shoot at targets. Korkie Invited Tristan Wren to join them, and oh was Satine pleased.

“Why Ursa, Alrich,” Satine commented, “your son is an excellent shot.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Ursa nodded, “he does us proud.”

“Yes,” Satine turned back to watch the boys shoot and lowered her voice, “I hope this friendship shall continue.”

“As do I.” Alrich agreed.

After archery, Satine attended her morning meeting while most of the court went for a sightseeing tour of the capital.

“And what of these corruption rumors?” questioned the Duchess.

Prime Minister Almec frowned, “There may be a nugget of truth yet.”

Satine growled, “Public service should be for the people, not for greed.”

“I agree, Your Grace,” the Prime Minister stated, “but it may not be as terrible as the press made it seem.” Satine straightened, “Perhaps an example, a visit from a proper, honest government official would do the people good.”

Some advisors looked at one another.

“I’m sure many of you have heard of a dear friend of mine,” the Duchess smiled, “I’m sure Senator Amidala of Naboo wouldn’t mind paying me a visit.”

Almec cleared his throat, “Isn’t the Senator very busy?”

“It couldn’t hurt to ask her.” suggested an aide.

“Good,” Satine clasped her hands, “and now let us talk economics.”

Once the meeting was over, the Duchess spent a few minutes alone sending holo-messages to Padme. Who was delighted by the idea of a Mandalorian Vacation and sent the matter to her secretary immediately.

Once she’d finished with her meeting, Satine made her way through the luncheon room through the back halls, she needed a moment to herself. 

“Dude, no way!”

Although, she might not get it. Smiling to herself, Satine followed the voice.

“Isn’t it awesome?” Korkie’s voice replied.

“So awesome, no more pompous formalities for me!”

Creeping along the corner, Satine realized that she saw the blonde head of Tristan Wren next to Korkie’s ginger one. Then, she frowned, they were heading into the cellar, and they had the keys.

“Come on,” Korkie pulled the door open, “a gentleman always lets ladies go first.”

“Ha, ha.”

“No seriously,” Korkie smiled, “go on in, make a right at the bottom of the stairs.”

Satine was no expert in the cellars of her palace, but she was pretty sure that this is where the wine and cheese were stored. At first she was mad, then she tried not to laugh as Korkie descended the steps. How fun this would be, but first, Satine holo-messaged Parna to find Ursa Wren and bring her to the wine cellar.

“Dude,” Tristan filled out his syllables, “this is so kriffing good!”

“I wonder if they keep bread down here.” Korkie mused.

Satine tiptoed down the stairs, keeping to the shadows. When she reached the bottom, the Duchess carefully maneuvered behind a wine casket so she couldn’t be seen.

“Hey look, bread!”

Satine smiled to herself, watching as Korkie and Tristan spread out a blanket and ate the most expensive Mandalorian cheese one couldn’t buy.

All of a sudden, Tristan looked up, “Wine?”

Korkie shrugged, “Why not?”

Satine gasped, but the sound was hidden by footsteps at the top of the stairs.

“Oh no-”

“Too late, boys,” Satine stepped out from behind the wine casket, “you’ve been caught.”

Korkie went red in the face, “Oops.”

Scrambling to his feet, Tristan bowed, “Your Grace.”

Ursa Wren appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“You do know, boys,” she began, frowning, “that drinking in the Mandalorian system under the age of 18 is a misdemeanor.”

Korkie and Tristan looked at each other.

“Auntie,” Korkie grinned, “it’s my seventeenth birthday!”

“And I’m fifteen.” Tristan added.

Satine sighed heavily, “I thought I taught you to count better than that.”

Parna snorted.

“Boys, you can be friends,” Ursa stated sternly, “but please don’t do anything stupid.”

“I second that,” the Duchess agreed, “especially you, Korkie.”

Lowering his eyes, Korkie apologized, “Sorry, Auntie.”

“Why don’t you go explore the servant passageways or something,” Ursa suggested, “that’s much more fun than this.”

Both boys looked to the Duchess.

“Go.” she waved.

When they’d left, Ursa turned to her.

“Can you believe that!” gasped the Countess.

“Ursa-”

“I swear I raised him better than that.” she continued.

“Ursa, it’s alright,” Satine sighed, “it’s probably genetics.”

Parna shook her head, “Brothers.”

Both Ursa and Satine stiffed.

Parna recoiled, “Sorry, I thought-”

“It’s alright, Parna,” Ursa clasped her hands, “Satine, can I talk to you a minute privately.”

“Of course,” Satine nodded, “Parna, will you clean up?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Upstairs, Ursa Wren leaned into Satine.

“My daughter is rebellious,” the Countess confessed, “she likes the idea of Death Watch.”

Satine went cold, “And my, your son?”

“He falls somewhere in between,” Ursa sighed, “but I want to tell him the truth.”

“We can’t, the oath-”

“He knows he’s adopted,” tears swelled in Ursa’s eyes, “and he wants to find his real parents, we told him about the oath but-”

“Sh,” Satine wiped Ursa’s eyes, “I know this must be devastating after all you’ve done for our boy.”

“He’s like my own.” Ursa agreed.

“Perhaps we could tell him not in an outright way,” Satine decided, “Mara has figured it out, she could tell him.”

“That might work,” Ursa smiled sadly, “still, what about Tyra and Korkie?”

“I’ll tell them,” Satine stated, “when the time is right.”

At the end of the week, the Duchess wore a gown once adorned by Queen Mara the First, with a cinched waist and a square collar, the dress was red with ruffles. Satine got many comments on it as she bid goodbye to her guests. Of course, the head of Wren Clan and her family stayed an extra day.

“You summoned me, Satine?” Parna questioned, coming around the corner.

“What of your brother’s progress?”

“He should be here with Mara in an hour,” Parna smiled, “they’re coming from Coruscant.”

“Coruscant?”

Parna lowered her eyes, “There is a vast criminal underworld there.”

“Naturally, with the Jedi stationed there.” Satine commented dryly.

“Obviously.” Parna agreed.

In an hour, Satine’s fourteen-year-old daughter Mara was sitting across from her, solemn yet proud. The Duchess was honored to see the Kryze pin on her clothes. Parna’s brother sat next to her, even after all these years, she never learned his name. Ursa, Tristan, and Alrich Wren came in next and sat on the couch opposite Mara and her “master.” After Korkie entered, sitting next to his Auntie, Parna locked the door and Khaami dimmed the lights.

“There is something you all must know,” Satine straightened, “but it is something that will be nearly impossible to tell you.”

“Auntie?” Korkie wondered aloud.

Satine flinched, “Bring the papers, Parna.”

The lady left the room and did what she was asked, Khaami guarded the door to the outside. Parna handed Satine the papers.

“What I am going to tell you,” the Duchess began, “must remain a secret at all costs. There are too many people it would ruin.”

“What secret?” Tristan asked, sparing a glance at Korkie.

“I think,” Mara began, pointing to Tristan and Korkie, “that we’re siblings.”

The room went silent.

Korkie shook his head, “That’s not possible.”

“Mara is right,” Satine stiffened, “an oath was sworn to protect you, but if you need proof, here are the birth certificates.”

Satine handed Korkie his, then Tristan his, and finally Mara hers.

“But,” Tristan frowned, “this says that you’re my mother.”

“It says the same for me,” Korkie’s voice cracked, “have you been lying to me my whole life?”

“There is a good reason for it.” Khaami said calmly.

“No,” Korkie stood, handing Satine the paper, “I don’t believe it.”

“Sit down, Korkyrach,” the Duchess commanded, “I am not done.”

“You lied to me,” Korkie pointed, “how can I trust what you say!”

“Because we all know it’s true,” Ursa Wren stated, “we were all there.”

Tristan turned to his adoptive mother.

“Satine offered me you,” Ursa said, caressing Tristan’s cheek, “after so many years of trying for an heir, and I was so desperate I said yes.”

“But, Sabine-”

“She was scientifically spawned,” Alrich explained, “and that was a huge financial drain for us.”

“Then why,” Korkie asked, shaking, “why would you do this to us?”

“Your father is a Jedi.” Satine stated, full of remorse.

Everyone went silent.

“Korkyrach, I made up the story of my brother so I could keep you,” Satine continued, “I was going to keep your twin sister as well, Tyra Satine, but she inherited your father’s abilities.”

Korkie blinked, “I have a twin sister?”

“She goes by Tyra,” Mara explained, “she’s a padawan to Quinlan Vos.”

“A Jedi with Royal Mandalorian heritage?” Tristan gasped.

“Yes,” Satine nodded, “that is why this has to remain a secret.”

“Mara is force sensitive as well,” Parna’s brother explained, “but she can only do small things.”

“Mind tricks and object manipulation.” Mara nodded.

“What about-” Tristan began.

“You have some midichlorians,” Alrich answered, “we had you tested in secret.”

“Can I have a copy of those test results?” Satine straightened.

“Of course,” Ursa nodded, “we keep it under lock and key.”

“Then,” Korkie frowned, “What about me?”

“We definitely need to test you as well,” Khaami explained, “your father is a very powerful Jedi.”

Korkie turned to Satine, “So, you’re my mother?”

“Yes.”

The Duke of Sundari was silent for a long time.

“Then, who’s my father?”

Everyone in the room looked at her expectantly, except Khaami and Parna who stared at the floor.

“I will tell you someday,” Satine decided, “when you father learns of your existence.”

“You mean,” Mara frowned, “he doesn’t know?”

Satine shook her head, “No.”

The room grew heavy, Satine swallowed.

“Tell me about yourself,” Korkie smiled, addressing Mara, “I don’t know you at all, or Tristan that well even.”

Mara smiled, and taking off her pin, she answered.

“I don’t know if what I do is honorable, but I’ve always wanted a family,” Mara swallowed, “it’s always been a huge missing part of my identity.”

“When were you born?” Tristan asked.

“Marsh second-”

“At four-thirty-two.” Satine concluded, the ghost of a smile on her face.

“I was born on Mash second.” Tristan observed.

“You’re about half an hour older,” Ursa nodded, “I was in the delivery room.”

“And me?” Korkie asked quietly.

Satine put her arm around her son, “You are my firstborn, my eldest son, rightful Duke of Sundari, and the future Duke of Mandalore.”

Satine felt Korkie’s muscles tense.

“Wow.”

“And Tyra Satine?” Tristan asked.

“She was born five minutes after Korkie,” Khaami said, finally breaking her silence, “we were all quite shocked.”

“I’ve met her,” Mara said in a low voice after a quiet moment, “she’s glorious.”

“I’m going to arrange a meeting for all of you,” Satine decided, “I want you to get to know each other.”

[singtotheskiies]

the best medicine // thor x reader

request: Hello can you write a thor x reader fluff and he is just sick but thinks he is dying since he is a god and thinks gods don’t get sick and the r takes care of him all day 🙃😍

summary: poor thor has never contracted a human sickness in his life—good thing you’re here to help him through it.

words: 1632

warnings: it’s a sickfic, but there’s no v*miting or anything like that; just sore throats n coughs (it’s basically all fluff man)

a/n: PLEASE keep requesting, guys!!! this is so fun for me to do during quarantine, and i’ve got a lot of pent-up affection from being home all the time!! keep ‘em comin:)))

✖✖✖

Most people wake up naturally on the weekends, or are coaxed into consciousness by a phone alarm. Most people spend their weekend mornings at their leisure, preparing coffee and lounging in their pajamas until they decide to change clothes and move on with their day.

Most people, however, are not dating the god of thunder. And it is times like this when you envy those people.

It’s 7:00 in the morning, and you should be asleep in your warm little bed in your warm little house, not worrying about the Iron Man suit banging on your window and shouting your name at the top of its lungs.

You start and scramble clumsily out of bed, tumbling to open the window. “Tony, is that you? Jesus, I’m gonna get so many noise complaints! What the hell is going on? Couldn’t it have wai—“

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Stark quips, his armor drawing back to reveal his smirking and altogether-too-awake face. “Sorry to wake you, but Sparky wants you at the tower. Like, now.”

“Thor—is he—okay? What’s wrong, Tony, oh my god—“ you ramble, frightened.

“Shhh, keep it down—you have neighbors, you know.”

“Oh, I am extremely aware of that fact, and I’m sure every single one of them would love to know why you, sir, are causing a ruckus at seven o’clock in the morning,” you hiss.

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart. Let’s just go now so you won’t have to deal with it.”

“Tony, I just want to know what’s going on.”

“You’ll see. Just—buckle up, ‘kay?”

“I am nOT RIDING WITH YOU!” you scream.

Unfortunately, the man in the billion-dollar suit thinks otherwise.

✖✖✖

Tony deposits you less than gracefully on the kitchen floor of the Avengers complex, your heartbeat even more of a mess than your hair. “We are never,” you say between heavy, erratic breaths, “ever doing that that again.”

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart, it was fun. Just admit it,” Tony grins.

“Absolutely not,” you say, trying to maintain some sense of dignity by frantically carding your hands through your now-knotted hair. You manage to subdue it somewhat.

“I’ll take you to good ol’ General Electric,” Tony says, walking with you to the nearest elevator and holding it open for you. “He’s—well, he thinks he’s dying.”

“Is he?” you cry, worried.

“‘Course not. He’s just sick. I don’t think he’s ever caught anything from Earth before, so naturally he thinks every breath is his last. He won’t let any of the medical staff touch him, though—says he only wants you.”

“Poor baby,” you murmur. Your heart goes out to your boyfriend, but you can’t help but feel a small burst of pride at his insistence upon seeing you.  He’ll recover quickly with his godly immune system, you hope. You’ll just have to comfort him until it blows over.

“Well, off you go, now,” Tony says, making shooing motions as the elevator dings to a stop. “Don’t break anything.”

“You say that like you didn’t just crack all my bones,” you quip, but the doors have already closed in front of a smirking Tony. Turning around, you face the door in front of you. Knocking softly, you say “Thor, honey? It’s me.”

You hear a vague murmur from inside and take that as your cue to push the door open as quietly as you can. Stepping inside, you close it behind you and turn to see your boyfriend.

The curtains have been drawn tight save for a small slit that falls across the bedsheets, illuminating the large form huddled in them. The lines of his body are indistinct until he groans and lifts up his head. “My love,” he says. “My heart rejoices at the sight of you. You look as st—“ His raspy voice (which you would definitely find sexy in other circumstances) is cut off by a dry cough. You wince at the sound and hurry over to his bed, sitting gingerly on the edge so as not to disturb him.

“What feels bad?” you ask, wrinkling your brow.

“Everything. My head, my body, my throat—even my eyes ache,” Thor replies, sniffling. “Do not get too close—I do not wish for you to also die.”

“Thor, honey, you’re not going to die,” you say, trying your hardest to bite back a smile. “You’re just sick—if I got a bug like this, it would only take me a few days to get over it. With you being a god, I doubt you’ll be out for more than two.”

“So it is a bug—an insect—which has given me this illness?” Thor asks. “I have not seen such a creature anywhere near me.”

“No, silly. Bug is just another word for sickness,” you say, finally abandoning your attempt at a straight face.

“I see,” Thor says, looking very much like he does not. “It is a relief to know that my end is not near—although it does feel like that is so.”

“I’m right here to help you,” you say, taking your hand and brushing his slightly damp hair away from his forehead. You let your fingers linger for a moment, scratching his scalp softly. He hums quietly at the sensation, and you brush the back of your hand along his stubbled cheek. Now smiling, he captures your hand in his and kisses it lovingly, looking into your eyes as he does so. Your heart melts—even when sick, he’s a perfect gentleman.

“I love y—“ he tries to choke out, coughing too hard by the end of the sentence to finish it.

“Aw, let’s get you something for that, huh?” you say, rubbing his arm soothingly. “I’ll make you some soup and bring you some medicine.”

“Please do not leave me, my love,” he manages, and you smile down at him.

“I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Just rest until then.” Kissing his forehead, you exit the room softly, leaving Thor with a lovesick grin as he watches you go.

✖✖✖

“I’m back,” you say as you close the door with your foot. A bowl of soup, a glass of water, and a container of cold medicine are balanced on a tray in your hands. You make your way over to the bedside table and place your load on it, smiling when you see that Thor has fallen asleep in the few minutes you were gone. “Wake up, love,” you say gently, brushing the pad of your thumb over his cheek. His eyelashes flutter open, and he hums hoarsely but happily as he realizes you are there.

“Hello again,” he says, his words overtaken again with a coughing fit.

“Let’s get you sat up so you can eat a little bit,” you say. Your hands help prop his back against his pillow. His normally strong body feels weak and tired under your touch.

“What have you brought me?” he asks, eyeing the soup with curiosity.

“Chicken noodle soup. People on Earth eat this when they’re sick. It’s supposed to have healing properties,” you explain.

“So you have made pasta out of a bird?” Thor cocks his head to the side and you laugh.

“No, silly. There’s chunks of meat in the soup that are separate from the noodles. I also added carrots and celery to give you a little something more. Now open up and tell me how you like it.” Thor reluctantly opens his mouth and you feed him a spoonful, watching as his face lights up with delight after tasting it.

“This is amazing, my love!” he cries with as much surprise as his throat can muster. “I never knew Earth could contain soup this wonderful!”

“Now you’re just flattering me,” you grin.

“Indeed I am. Normally, I would find it insulting to be fed by a mortal, but I must confess that you are, as always, the exception.”

“Such a flirt,” you chide him, smacking his arm gently with the spoon. “Now eat the rest—not so fast, though, or you’ll have trouble keeping it down.”

Thor finishes the soup without incident, but balks when it comes to the cold medicine. “It smells like—false fruit and chemicals,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“That’s basically what it is,” you concede, “but it’ll help you. I promise.”

Thor still doesn’t seem convinced.

“Please?” you say, resorting to puppy dog eyes. “For me? So the horror of seeing you sick doesn’t weigh on my soul any longer than it has to?”

“Fine,” he says, caving. “But only for my lady.”

“Good boy,” you say, patting his head as he grimaces the medicine down.

“Now that I have done as you have asked, may I request something of you, now?” he asks, turning your puppy dog eyes back on you.

“Of course. What is it?”

“Lay with me?” he asks, spreading his arms wide. He looks so helpless and needy that you immediately curl up next to him, kissing his jaw lightly. His arms wrap around you, and you move your cool hands to his forehead and then to cup his face.

“My love?” he whispers. “I know that I am ill, but I cannot resist. Please, may I kiss you?” Heart full, you answer by tilting your head and meeting his lips. They are soft as ever as they rest against yours, barely moving—a ghost of a kiss made gentle by the pure love you both feel. When you finally pull apart, you rest your forehead on his, feeling him sigh in utter comfort. You press your lips to his cheek before snuggling into his arms.

When you wake up to both a perfectly healthy Thor and a killer headache, you can’t help but almost welcome the latter. The look in his eyes tells you that he’s about to take even better care of you than you did of him.

[streetlites]

G Dock was discordant with noise. At every turn, there was something making sound; screens with news, people talking into omnitools, boarding calls, advertisements begging for attention. I stopped at the observation deck and looked out into the expanse of The Citadel, black but glowing with neon lights; small cars zipping through the streets and in the skies above, a starry sky stretching outward. Was it space or was it contained? I couldn’t tell.

It all felt strange – like a little city contained in the basement of a parking garage. I carried my suitcase in a white-knuckled grip, looking for something that resembled an information desk. I passed throngs of people and aliens, all with haggard, exhausted faces. I knew in a week I’d look the same. How could anyone rest here?

Much like the rest of the dock, the information center was lined with neon and advertisements of things to do that I didn’t have access to and with destination trips. An alien sat behind a desk, vaguely lizard-like, with what sounded like a human talk show playing on the computer; only looking up from her phone once in a while to look at the other screen in front.  

I waited a moment for her to notice I was at the desk. When it was clear that she wasn’t going to acknowledge me, I cleared my throat, “Hey, I’m-”

“Enter your queries or orders into the terminal to your left,” she said, still staring down at her phone.

I poked at the terminal screen, wondering why even bother to have an attendant if the computer was going to be the source of information. The screen lit up and showed pictures of various sentient creatures. Selecting ‘human’ brought down a list of languages, some names of which I didn’t think were spoken on Earth. It blipped twice as I selected ‘English’ and more menus popped up; links to FAQs and stores to order items from.

After clicking around for a while, it became clear that if I didn’t have a credit chit or if I needed to have money exchanged, I’d have to speak to the disinterested attendant behind the desk. “I need to exchange money and put it on a chit,” I tell her, ire growing because I just spent 15 minutes getting an answer to something that would have taken, at most, 5 seconds for her to answer.

She sighs and takes her time, deliberately slow to pause the video on the computer. “How much do you want to exchange?”

“I want to put $10,000 UNAS on it.” May as well, I won’t have to worry about it then.

Her eyes cut to mine quick, large and black with a bright, yellow ring for an iris; she is unsettling to look at. “That’s 40,000 credits.” I nod. So? She sits straighter, almost as if indignant that I’m not wowed by the amount, “I can put it on the chit for you but we charge a 5% fee. That’ll leave you with 38,000. Do you consent?”

“Sure, whatever,” I tell her and open my suitcase, piling bills on the desk. She swipes the paper quickly, eyes darting nervously, putting them into a bill counter. The machine rattles and spits out a card, 38.000 blinking at the edge. I try to see where she places the money in case I need to revisit my new, inattentive friend but she’s lightning quick; it’s gone before I can process what she’s done with it.

She hands me the card, suspicion clearly painted on her face. “Here you are. Thank you, goodbye.”

I walk over to the wall of lockers to the side of the desk, intent to stash my things in one but I can’t figure out how to pay the damn thing to open it. Each is fitted with a scanner but they won’t scan the card I just paid for. “This locker isn’t working,” I tell her.

“Scan your omnitool.”

“I don’t have one.”

She rolls her eyes, “Well you need one. The vending machines over there sell them,” she points to a far corner of the docks. “And before you ask, you’ll put your chit in it and, no, I won’t help you with it. Open the settings menu and it’ll walk you through it.” She mutters something and pointedly puts earbuds in her ears.

I walk in the direction she pointed toward and see an expanse of shipping containers on the opposite side. Crate Town. I find the wall of vending machines that seemingly sell anything someone could have forgotten, down to underwear and deodorant. I buy a cheap omnitool that sucks in my credit chit and draws blood from me without warning as it ‘pairs the device’. A man sitting at the table in the common area laughs at me as I curse at the bracelet around my wrist before dropping his head down to sleep.

I walk to Crate Town, which seems to be its own little neighborhood with a grocery store, a doctor, two strip clubs, and I stop dead, beer. I sit down at the bar and the guy manning a grill over a barrel turns around, “Heeeeeey, Oasis Springs!” he says, smiling widely and gesturing over his chest.

“Yeah,” I nod. “What kind of beer you got?”

“Steki’s, it’s a rip-off of Stoli’s and only half as good.”

“That’s it?”

He laughs, “In G-Dock? Yeah, that’s it.” He pops the top off and motions for my wrist. I hold out my still stinging arm and he scans it. 36.990 left. He sits down a loaded quesadilla next to the beer.

“I didn’t order this.”

“Nah, I just like to watch Earther’s eat. I grew up in the OS before I came out here. That where you from?”

“Yeah,” I tell him, in between bites. I hadn’t realised I was that hungry. “From the heights.”

“Oh shit,” he laughs. “Who’d you piss off?”

“No one.” I lie. “I just always wanted to see space.”

“And you came out to G-Dock? Okay. Man, ain’t none of that LA-13 King shit out here, you’re good.”

But I don’t know that there isn’t. Not really. And if someone is paying to see me dead? Well, money is money. “You know where I can get a room out here?”

The guy stares at me for a minute before shaking his head, “Thunok handles that. He’s big, looks almost like an elephant – can't miss him. Though calling it a ‘room’ would be too much.” I offer to pay him for the food and he waves me off, “You’ll be back and then we’ll talk about home.”

As the grill guy said, it was impossible to miss Thunok - “Delighted welcome.” he said, voice monotone. “Have you come to inquire about lodging?”

“Uh yeah, I want to rent a room until next Monday.”

“I have a bed open, step this way.” He says, lumbering to a crate fitted with three cots. An alien in a suit grunts as we walk up and another opens his mouth, showing a mouth-full of razor-sharp teeth before chattering and giving me the finger.  

“This is it?” I ask in disbelief.

“With false sympathy,” - The fuck?! - “I’m afraid so. The price is 100 credits a night. If that is unsatisfactory, there are benches in the commons.”

“And who charges for those?” I ask, testily.

“No one. Wistfully. Anymore.”

“And that one giving me the finger isn’t going to eat me?”

“Drax is docile for a vorcha. He hasn’t killed Yaator yet and it’s extremely easy to kill Quarians. I believe he’s happy to have a human roommate.”

“Happy,” I repeat.

“With great humor. Yes, happy. Will you be renting a bed then?”

“If I leave and come back, will my bed still be mine?” I ask, sticking out my wrist.

“I can guarantee it,” the alien elephant says, standing up to his full height, far above the crates’ roofs. He gingerly uncurls his fingers and scans my wrist.

[it-takes-acquired-minds]

Chapter 4: Jane

((TW: Brief mentions of violence))

“I’m telling you, Edward, she hates me,” Jane insisted, walking with her brother away from the buffet table with a plate piled high with food. She threw a glance back at the duchess, who was daintily fluttering her white fan and talking with the Archduke of Acelain. 

“She does not hate you,” argued Edward as she popped a cherry and almond pastry in her mouth. It was crunchier than she expected and she struggled, for a moment, to bite down. 

“Try one of these things,” she suggested as the earthy flavors enveloped her tongue. “It’s from Cleves. It’s delicious.” 

“Ugh, Cleves?” Edward picked a tart off of her plate. “Screw Cleves,” he muttered, too quiet for anyone but her to hear, and he ate the little dessert. “Crunchy,” he commented when he had swallowed. 

“Screw Cleves?” Jane repeated, surprised at the severity of the language. “What’s wrong with Cleves? They’re a great country and one of our best military allies!” 

“They’re tyrants,” he said. “They burn oba at the stake and they let the thousands of refugees that flee to their borders starve and die and they never think they’re in the wrong. They’re stubborn and boastful and their laws are downright monstrous. And their ambassador is a polished bastard.” 

One hand flew to Jane’s gaping mouth. “Edward!” she hissed, stunned. “You can’t-you can’t say those things!” 

“Why not? I’m the duke of the King’s Fourth Court, which comes with some pretty stable protection. As long as I keep a smiling face in front of their ambassador, I can say whatever I would like.” He grinned and plucked up another cherry and almond treat, not dropping her eyes as he ate it. “Delicious,” he relished smugly. 

She elbowed him, annoyed. “You’re being disrespectful,” she chided. “I happen to like Cleves a lot.” 

He shook his head. “You shouldn’t. They’re political alligators and they’re proud of it. I know how you feel about oba-” 

“I don’t feel any way about oba!” Jane whispered furiously, but of course, that wasn’t true. She’d fought against the oba in the Great War, before she’d been knighted and appointed to the Tudor Tables. They’d been brutal and bloodthirsty, killing with supernatural weapons that gave them an unjust advantage. They’d been responsible for the deaths of many people that she cared about. She’d seen exactly how beastly, how inhuman they could be. Perhaps burning them was a little extreme, but who was she to question the actions of Cleves? Who was her brother to do the same?

“Yes, you do, and that’s fine, and no one’s judging you, but I also know that you’re honorable. It’s why you got appointed to the Tudor Tables,” Edward said. 

“That’s not the only reason,” Jane muttered, displeased with her brother’s brand new controversies. He could get in serious trouble, and besides, he was offending her! 

Edward carried on as if he hadn’t even heard her. “What they’re doing to the oba living there, to anyone living there, is immoral and cruel. They’re so wrapped up in their own hierarchy that they don’t realize their kingdom exists on a foundation of blood. Did you hear about the blizzard a few months ago? People were seeking asylum there and they were left out in the cold. No one would open their doors, and almost all of the refugees froze to death, if the hunger and disease hadn’t already claimed them.” 

“Is that true?” she asked softly, shocked, looking around to make sure that no one was watching them, listening to Edward’s opinionated speeches. 

“No,” he said. “Of course it’s not. Contrary to the clear evidence proving that it is absolutely true, the State of Cleves keeps telling everyone that it’s just a rumor spread by their rivals. They are obviously so honest, good and just, so how could it possibly be true?” 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Jane told him, her horror at his accusations melting into the dull throb of insulted anger. “You’re part of the nobility, Edward. You shouldn’t be saying those things! Do you want to end up like Thomas?” 

Edward spun around, flaring like a creature about to charge. Jane was momentarily startled, but she stood her ground. The words had been spit out, and she meant each one. “If you know so much about being part of the nobility, why don’t you join it?” he seethed. “Or, you know what? If you know so much about Thomas, go and join him. I know that’s where you really want to be, isn’t it, Lady Jane Seymour of the Tudor Tables?” 

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move or react. She just glared at him, unable to speak. How could she have spoken when he’d carved her throat out, leaving nothing but a screaming pain behind? And he wasn’t just spewing smoke. He was as honest as she was. He wanted to hurt her as badly as she wanted to gut him. The difference was he had succeeded. Not that she would let him know. Her pride wasn’t so weak that her own brother could make her crumble. 

He snorted at her defiant silence. “Enjoy your ball. Maybe while you’re here, you can suck up to some ambassadors. You could tell them about your favorite brother, if his name wasn’t a curse.” He raised an eyebrow and Jane braced herself. “Or, if they actually cared about what you have to say.” 

“I’d wager they care more about talking to a war hero than a politically corrupt buzzard prancing around in a costume and mask, crowned in a false title,” Jane shot back, folding her arms. “Everyone knows why you’re really a duke.” 

If Edward was kindling, he would have burned the entire castle down. “Everyone can see the blood on your manicured skin, Jane,” he retorted. “You’re no better than any of the people you left to die.” She sucked in a breath, and he sneered. “What? Offended? Better run away, back to luxury and forgiveness. That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?” 

“You’d know a thing or two about running away, Edward,” she snapped. “But if you’re going to turn this into a battlefield, I’m going to leave before you do something that you regret. Or, I guess, something else that you regret.” She turned on her heel and stalked off, swimming in her own rage. The temptation to find Ambassador Becker of Cleves and tell him everything that her brother had said was almost tangible, but she steeled herself and searched for a more preferable ambassador. One with gold hair and a beautiful smile. 

Edward didn’t know anything about her. While she’d been risking her life in war, he’d been picking his way up the royal tower, sweet-talking and flattering all the right people, using every ounce of charisma when Jane was using every ounce of courage. Had she done things in the face of death that she wasn’t proud of? She had.  Was she going to let Edward, someone who had far less to take pride in, tear her down because of her mistakes? She most certainly wasn’t.

“Lady Jane Seymour of the Tudor Tables?” 

One of the bewatchen, the king’s personal guard, stepped into her path, his infamous silver uniform impossible to miss. She froze, fear seizing ahold of her. Had the argument between her and Edward been overheard? Was she going to be punished for insulting a duke? He was her brother, but he was still higher-ranked in the eyes of...everyone. Knights may have been honorable, but they weren’t members of the court, not really. They were, in full truth, as prone to penalty as any commoner. All that was needed was the right excuse. 

Jane fell into a curtsy. “Yes, sir?” 

The guard chuckled. “You need not bow before me, Lady Seymour. You are a most noble knight, after all, and who am I but a simple guard?” Jane almost laughed. Bewatchen were most definitely not the same as simple guards. He held out a gloved hand. Bewildered by the respectful manner, she took it and rose out of her bend, meeting the bewatchen’s eyes. “His Royal Majesty requests an audience with you.” 

Her jaw fell open. “W-with me?” she squeaked. There was no way. There had to be some mistake. “Are you-are you sure?” 

The guard smiled. “You are Lady Jane Seymour, are you not?” 

Jane’s heart began to hammer inside her chest. “I-yes, I am. But-”

“Then I am certain that you are just the lovely lady he wants to see.” 

She had no idea how to respond. The king was known for being unpredictable. Every encounter with him was a gamble, but she had never been the one bold enough to roll the dice. She’d watched him condemn innocent subjects to death and appoint undeserving scoundrels to court in the same heartbeat. He flipped between being her hero and as conniving as any fairy tale villain like the two sides of a coin, always with the same smile on his face. Was he going to place a crown on Jane’s head or chop it off? 

Absorbed in her own fears, she let the guard lead her through the ballroom. After all, orders from the king were not to disobeyed, whatever they would entail. Whatever trouble she was in, she did not want to make it worse. 

As she walked, Jane caught Edward’s gaze. He glared at her, dripping with scorn, but the anger withered into alarm when he noticed who she was walking with. Her expression of fear must have been in full display. She swallowed and did her best to act indifferent. 

“Am I permitted to know why the king would like to see me, or are you going to remain frighteningly vague?” Jane asked, mostly making conversation, partially prying for something that would allow her to breathe. 

The guard looked sheepish as he answered. “His Royal Majesty did not tell me the reason, simply that I was to retrieve you. You may have noticed that he left the ball early.” 

“I did notice that, yes,” Jane said, not that it was any kind of accomplishment. Everyone noticed whenever the king did anything. He’d arrived late, dressed in a thick silver and violet  robe, laced with white sable fur, embedded with rubies. Trumpets had fanfared him as he paraded down the grand stairs reserved entirely for the king, and the guests had parted like the tides as he made his way through the ballroom, before he kissed the ring of the blue-eyed princess of Visha, and the two of them started to dance to a classic Tudor waltz that he had probably composed. 

He’d left with similar flourish, ordering the band to stop playing, standing on the first step of the grand stairs and delivering an eloquent speech about what the Dove Ball represented, and what it meant to him, not just as a king, but as a man of heart and soul, as a human being of flesh and blood, and as a genuinely good person. Jane couldn’t remember all of it, as at that time, Catalina and her had been sampling the varieties of Shirey champagnes in the corner. Was she being punished for her disrespect during his speech? But then, where was Catalina? And they hadn’t been the only ones ignoring him. He couldn’t possibly penalize that many people. 

The guard led Jane behind one of the buffet tables and through a patch of platinum-clad bewatchen.  They didn’t look at her or her escort as they passed through, but one handed over a thin copper rod with a point certainly sharp enough to be a torture device. Jane let out a soft whimper that caused the guard to stop. 

“Lady Seymour, is everything alright?” 

She straightened and yanked the corners of her lips into a smile. “Yes, absolutely. Why do you ask?” 

He raised his eyebrows. “The king isn’t going to hurt you, you know.” 

Jane bit her lip. “I thought that His Royal Majesty didn’t tell you why he wanted to see me.” It was an out of line observation, but she wasn’t sure she was going to live to see the light of day again. 

“His Royal Majesty didn’t,” the guard confirmed, which did not help Jane’s nerves at all. He placed the rod into a slight crease in the wall, and it unhinged, revealing a long, dark hall. Jane blinked. A secret door? This encounter could not get any stranger. “Do come inside.” 

Jane wanted to do anything but step over the threshold of the black hall of doom, but the bewatchen was staring at her, and the king was waiting, and if she disobeyed now, all she’d be doing would be sealing her fate. So, still holding the guard’s hand, she shuffled into the darkness. The door slammed shut behind her, loud enough to make her startle. I’m going to die in here, she thought. I am going to lose my head, or get stabbed, or burned alive. 

“Lady Jane Seymour.” A soft, cool voice came spiraling out of the void. She froze, recognizing all too well who was speaking “Just who I wanted to see.”

Hey everyone! Now that I’m GRADUATED (finally it took long enough) I can hopefully post more often!! And so we finally rope in our dear least favorite king, Henry the 8th. Question: Would anyone like me to tag him as a TW? I absolutely will do that. I haven’t been so far, but I most definitely will, especially as he becomes more involved. Anyway, we’re finally kicking off the action! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I’ll see y’all soon for Chapter 5!!  

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24040168/chapters/59500717#workskin

Tags: @theatergirl06 @silverpetals97 @timetoriseabove 

If you’d like to be notified when I post a new chapter, just send an ask and I’ll happily add you to the list. :-)

[canyousevmyheavydirtysoul]

Bodyguard IV: Vegas Lights (Chapter Five) (B. Urie x Reader)

IN A DIFFERENT SETTING, the shiny surfaces and flashy lights might have appealed to you, but in the current environment, it did the exact opposite. The high of being surrounded by high rollers and their lavish lifestyles had worn off pretty quickly, and now your journey throughout the hotel casino was made bearable only by the presence of the man whose arm you had a hand wrapped around.

"You alright there?"

"Hm?" Tearing your gaze away from the crystal chandelier dangling in the middle of the room, you turned to find Brendon observing you with an expectant expression. "Oh, yeah. Just... feel kinda out of place."

The agent let out a wheeze. "Says the one who lived in mansions all their life."

"Yeah but..." you gestured to all of the affluent individuals buzzing around, "These people are on another level."

Shaking his head, Brendon placed a hand on the small of your back and gently guided you further toward the center of the casino.

"They only look that way. I guarantee you that at least seventy percent of them can't even really afford to be playing. But they do it to keep up appearances. In Vegas," he stepped to the side and allowed a couple of servers carrying drink trays to pass, "it's all about the image. Which..." Lifting his hand from your back and stepping away to observe you, he nodded in approval. "You seem to have perfected." His eyes met yours, and your heart skipped a beat. "You look beautiful."

Smiling softly, you reached out to grip the collar of his shirt and smoothed out the small crinkles in the material.

"You're not looking too bad yourself. Not as good as me, obviously, but..."

Rolling his eyes, he placed his hand atop yours and lowered it from his collar. "You want a drink?" You nodded. "Okay," he said quietly, moving to place an order at the bar.

As he did that, you once again looked out across the casino floor. The section you were currently standing in was comprised mostly of poker tables, each one virtually identical to the one next to it. However, there was one table in particular that caught your attention.

It was one that had a particularly large, macho-looking older man in the seat left of the dealer. Everything about his body language and style of playing showed that he was extremely confident in his playing abilities, and the towering stack of chips in front of him was proof that he had good reason to be.

You had never been a good poker player, yourself. Sure, you could handle yourself during a hand or two, but winning was never something you could ever envision yourself doing.

"Thanks." Taking a sip of the drink Brendon had just handed you, you narrowed your eyes as you continued watching the game being played and pointed them out to your partner. "You any good at that?"

Cocking his head to the side and taking a sip of his drink as well, Brendon raised one brow. "What do you think?"

"I think..." you trailed off, staring in awe as the macho-man let out a cheer and used both arms to sweep the massive pile of chips in the middle of the table towards his pile, "...that that guy is fucking unbelievable."

Following your gaze, Brendon watched the man count his chips. Unlike you, though, he was unimpressed.

"He's too cocky," the agent said plainly, gently swirling the bourbon in his glass before taking another sip, "It's not an ideal trait in a good poker player."

You found his impression of the man somewhat hypocritical, and the funny look you were giving him made that quite clear. Noticing your disapproval, he pursed his lips and held out one hand.

"His cocky and my cocky are two vastly different things," he justified, once again guiding you by the small of your back, this time in the opposite direction.

"Right, of course."

As the two of you made your way through the crowd and consequently got closer and closer to the table you'd been watching, the planget voice of the macho-man became audible; he was relishing in his major win, and arrogantly tossing out open challenges to anyone who passed by the table.

"What about you, pretty boy?" Calling out to Brendon, the man leaned back in his seat and raised his chin. "You game?"

Not paying any attention to the challenge whatsoever, Brendon continued guiding you along. Macho-man didn't seem to appreciate being ignored, and seeing the two of you walk away prompted a louder, far more insulting string of words.

This time, Brendon stopped dead in his tracks.

Knowing that the only way this situation was going to end was badly, you immediately gripped his arm and squeezed tightly.

"Don't," you said lowly, "Let's just keep walking."

He turned to look at you, and you were shocked to see that his eyes weren't ablaze. No hint of anger at all. Not even a little bit. A small crease formed between your brows as you tried to make sense of it, meanwhile Brendon traced his fingers along your face before tenderly cupping your cheek.

"Don't worry, baby."

With those words, he straightened his shoulders and headed for the table.

You were still too confused – and slightly worried about what the agent was about to do to the macho-man – to make a move to stop him. In fact, him calling you 'baby' didn't even resonate with you.

All you could do was stand back and watch with bated breath as Brendon gripped the back of the chair across from the man. Much to your surprise, he didn't pick up the object and send it flying towards the man's face, but sat down instead.

Maintaining unwavering eye contact with his opponent, the agent reached into his inside jacket pocket to retrieve a stack of chips. Gently, he set them down on the table and nodded at the dealer.

"Let's go."

✧✧✧

A little while later.

Brendon tapped his fingers on the table, lifting just the corner of his cards to stare at them for the third time. Macho-man let out an irritated huff.

"Today would be nice."

Brendon didn't say anything in return, instead put his cards back down and fiddled with his chips; he counted twice and then slid them into the middle.

"I raise you," he said, face as blank as ever. Peak Brendon energy. You noted the look of surprise on macho-man's face.

"Someone's feeling brave, hm?" the man taunted, raising it again. Only by a few chips but still, a raise.

Brendon, again, seemed unphased really. He peeked at his cards, flexing his jaw.

Despite standing by your bodyguard's side for the entirety of the game played so far, you had no way of seeing what he had in his hand. You were desperate to know what cards he had, what kind of hand he could possibly deal right now. Not that you weren't extremely confident in his abilities; it was just that his opponent was clearly some sort of poker wizard, and if Brendon was able to beat him at literally his own game, it'd be amazing.

"You can always fold."

Brendon stared at him then, expression blank. It was astounding, really. Even his poker face had a poker face.

"Raise you." Brendon threw in more chips, and he was slowly running out. Anymore and he might as well go all in. You were obviously impressed, although part of you still worried that Brendon didn't have the cards to pull this off.

Brendon stared his opponent down, watching him for his reaction to him not backing down, but instead challenging him even further. Macho-man, ever stubborn and proud in his poker abilities, raised Brendon's bet.

You could have sworn he saw a twitch of Brendon's lips up into a smile. A twinkle in his eye. But you were most likely imagining it.

"All in," Brendon said, not even bothering to look at his cards this time. Macho-man simply huffed and pushed in the chips to match, still having what you counted to be about $750 worth of chips left. The pot was now around $10 000 and on the table was a 5, 7, 10, and two Aces.

"Have some of this, pretty boy," macho-man grinned wide as he laid down his cards. You inhaled sharply, a flush was a hell of a hand.

For the first time that entire game, Brendon dropped his guard and made an uncertain face; you might even have gone as far as to call it defeated and you felt a knot beginning to form in your stomach. That is... until Brendon flipped his cards.

A seven and the fourth ace. Full house, aces over sevens.

You let out a relieved, disbelieving laugh, as macho-man smacked the table with a heavy hand. Brendon's false uncertainty slipped away and his signature unreadable expression returned, now accompanied by the smallest of smirks, knowing exactly how well he played the man.

The agent stood and swiped up the chips as macho-man swore, glaring the younger man down.

"Huh, would ya look at that..." Brendon tucked the chips away, then picked up his almost-empty glass of bourbon, "Now I've got my looks andyour money."

He raised his glass as if to toast, and tilted his head. "Viva Las Vegas." Bringing the glass to his lips, he tilted it and let the remaining liquid flow into his mouth, then deposited the empty glass on the tray of a passing waitron.

Under the hateful eye of his seething opponent, Brendon approached you and held his arm out, pulling you closer to him once you linked your arm with him.

The pair of you began walking off and once you were out of earshot of Brendon's now forlorn opponent, you turned to grin at your partner.

"That was incredible," you enthused, "Where'd you learn to play that well?"

"Not important." He cleared his throat and used his free hand to straighten his suit jacket.

Your face fell, although you tried your best to hide it. You'd thought that the two of you were long past vague answers and dismissive gestures; evidently, you were wrong.

Those two words, as unimportant as they might have seemed, served as a stark reminder that despite everything that had happened over the last couple years – including those things that happened between the two of you – you still didn't know Brendon. Not really.

And you were starting to wonder if you ever would.

"Want another drink?"

The agent's question snapped you out of your thoughtful trance, prompting you to shake your head to recentre yourself.

"Yeah. Yeah, please."

He led the way to the nearest bar, which just happened to be situated in a spot that allowed those around it to peer into the adjacent music lounge. As Brendon placed your order, you rested your body against the top of the bar and observed the festivities across the way.

It seemed to be karaoke night, as could be seen by the unmistakably inebriated duo prancing around onstage, dancing out of sync and singing hopelessly off-key. A chuckle slipped past your lips as you watched them attempt to give a decent performance, but fail miserably. They were a tragic case, but their efforts were nevertheless endearing.

"Thank you," you cooed, taking the drink from Brendon's hand, "Hey, I meant to ask you – what's the deal with The Hounds? You heard anything from 'em?"

Thinning his lips, the agent shook his head before copying your action of sipping the drink he held. He had spoken to them last night, but he couldn't exactly be truthful and tell you that, considering he was the one who sent them off.

"Not yet, no."

"It's weird, isn't it?" Scrunching up your face, you held the cold glass to your chest. "That S.H.I.E.L.D would put them onto another mission just like that."

"We don't have anything concrete here yet, and they're fucking good at what they do so... not weird, exactly. Just," he sighed then, somewhat agitatedly, "God-awful timing." He took a big gulp of bourbon. "Anyway, I doubt we'll hear from 'em anytime soon. They're probably deep in some jungle or somethin'."

Brendon took another drink, looking across the casino floor and over to the entrance; it was there that he caught sight of three very familiar faces.

"Or not."

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

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[lazarustrashpit]

Hey if you want to be an artist, I want to be artist but on the side since I am worried about the financial situation and I have to get a career and stay in school that’s what my parents say do you think I can become an artist still or? Or how do you manage? I’m not sure o becoming an artist since I’m not that good at digital, colors but I would like to be but in a more financially stable future.

Hi anon,

They don’t call us starving artists for no reason.

I’m not sure I’m the best person suited to answer this, as this is something I personally struggle with in becoming a full-time illustrator. However, I’m going to give you as honest of an answer as I can based on my own experiences. Please note, that I do not speak on the behalf of other artists. 

I’ve been a graphic designer for over 10 years, and an art director for a production company for half of that. What you see me doing on social media is something out of pure hobby. Fan art doesn’t pay my bills.

Short answer: Yes, it’s possible to become a full time artist and be financially stable. Is it easy? DEFINITELY NOT. Like with literally anything, it takes a lot of work and dedication to be successful. I’ve had the pleasure of conversing and working with several different types of artists. We’ve all struggled and continue to struggle, but the pay off is incredibly rewarding, if you can get your foot in the right door... but you gotta find the right door to begin with. What kind of artist are you interested in becoming? 

Artist is a vary vague term. There’s so many different career paths for each specialty. Comics: Pencilers, inkers, colorists, letterers; Concept artists: props, vehicles, costumes, backgrounds, fauna, aliens, buildings; Animation: 3d modeling, flash animation, compositing, rigging, storyboards, 2d hand drawn animation, 3d computer animation, stop motion animation. There’s a lot of positions out there. Saying you want to be an artist is like saying I want to be a doctor. Okay, but what type? Podiatrist? Veterinarian? Neurologist? Pediatrician? Psychiatrist?

Long scary answer below the cut.

Disclaimer: I’m not speaking on behalf of other artists, just my own opinion from my own experiences. Also, I am in no way trying to discourage you because a lot of what is written below is negative. The last thing I’d want is to deprive the world of another artist, but I also don’t want to provide some sort of false hope.

Being a full time artist is not easy. It’s extremely competitive regardless of what industry you want to dive into. It’s a lot of work and sleepless nights overcoming deadlines, your own self-esteem, and the biggest hurdle of all, finances.

Choosing any career is a big deal. As stated above, you have to do your research to really understand what you’re going to get yourself into. What’s the job market like for where you currently live? If there are not enough opportunities, are you willing to move for work? Yes, a lot of jobs can be done remotely, but if we’re talking about being financially stable, your best bet is to get yourself in with a studio full-time or on a long contract project. Freelance artistry is difficult—you set and negotiate your own rates for projects, and you’re responsible for marketing yourself to keep getting jobs, not to mention you are more susceptible to getting scammed and taken advantage of. And with social media being a driving force for a lot of marketing, you’re constantly fighting with the algorithm to get your work seen. Not to mention, there’s a lot of pressure because you get paid per project and if you can’t land a project, then you’re not getting paid. Whereas if you can work for a studio, the work is brought to you on a consistent basis, provided you can keep up with the demands and perform to the task at hand. A lot of the work may be repetitive and time sensitive, but it will be steady. Working for a studio/business gets you benefits like retirement options, health benefits, vacation/sick pay, tuition reimbursement, etc. 

There’s also the other side of being a freelance artist that no one ever really talks about. Everyone thinks that we spend every day just pumping out art, which is somewhat true, but we don’t often talk about the missing the endless emails with clients, the constant marketing, searching on artstation, fiverr, etc for gigs, querying literary agents, changing your portfolio(this is another thing I can talk about for days so hit me up in DMS if you want to discuss) constantly to reflect your very best work, keeping up on all your social media platforms to engage your audience, honestly, finding an audience in general is another conversation, dealing with carpel tunnel and other muscle related injuries... it goes on and on.

I moved 3000 miles across the United States from my hometown to California for better work opportunities. Are you prepared to work another job(s) to make ends meet? I worked in retail and a handful of odd jobs for several years before I fell into an actual full-time art job. 

Ultimately, it really depends on how passionate you are about this, and how much you’re willing to struggle to get to do what you want. For me, I fall into a very depressive state if I can’t flex my creative muscles for even one day. I worked as an event coordinator for several years, and was never worried about money. However, despite being financially well-off, I was so incredibly miserable every single day because I just didn’t have the energy to draw when I got home. It was nearly impossible for me to get out of bed every morning. Then, I landed a job as a graphic designer, I made less, but I was so much happier, but it still wasn’t enough. I would work a full day and still come home and draw something after having dinner, even though I had already spent 8 hours being creative beforehand. It’s literally something I just need to do to be happy. It helps me relax and de-stress. So, what I’m saying is, if you’re not passionate about it, don’t make it your main focus. Why open a restaurant if you’re not ready to wake up at 3 am to bake bread or go to the fish market for fresh ingredients? 

In the end, I’d rather be dirt poor and drawing, than be wealthy and miserable. But that’s not for everyone. It really, really, really, just depends on who you are.

A lot of artists have day jobs and do art on the side for supplemental income. If you have the drive to keep that up, because it will be taxing on your physical and mental health (please take proper breaks), then please pursue it. I would NEVER want to discourage anyone from pursuing art as a career or hobby. I just want to be real about the struggle. The beautiful thing about art is that it’s never too late to fall into. It just takes time and dedication to the craft. I’ve spoken with dozens of animators that didn’t fall into it until they were in their 30s and now work full-time for Disney. Anything is possible if you have the talent and the drive for improvement. 

Again, I’m not speaking on any other artists’ behalf. I’m sure we all have differing opinions and experiences on the topic. Feel free to DM me if you want to talk about this further. As you can see, I can ramble about this for days, so I’m just gonna shut up now lol

[kikizoshi]

My (Rough) Thoughts on Shipping Self-Inserts With Canon Characters

Obviously, if you’ve read some of my newer works, you’ll know that I don’t mind OCs, and I feel similarly towards self-inserts. In fact, I’m in pretty high favour of them (good published authors have used themselves and their experiences as great inspiration many a time, and with much success--Dostoyevsky did so a lot!).

However...

With self-inserts, I find that shipping can be quite... problematic. 

I’d like to start with an experience of my own, a basic one, where I wrote a self-insert ship fic. It was... bad, but bad isn’t always indicative of the self-insert style. I remember the way I imagined it was myself in the story, interacting with the characters just like I would in my head, and how great it was to put it onto paper. I was invigorated, it gave me purpose, and I swore to write a new page every day. It was my first fanfiction, and I still enjoy reading it occasionally (even if no one else would).

But that piece isn’t my current ideal for writing, and there are several things I could’ve done to improve. Like, certain writing conventions served to tear me straight from a story, no matter how I tried to gloss over them in my mind.

Signifiers such as ‘(y/n),’ or ‘(h/c),’ ripped me right out of the screen and back into the room around me. Reading about how, “She looked up with her (e/c) eyes happily,” even if only for half a second, I lost my transfiction, and engagement stuttered as I knew I’d be ripped away again.

Strawmanning was another of these problems. The ‘bully’ characters weren’t anything more than a few cookie-cutter lines (not even stereotypes!), whereas the heroic me had the last word, expertly cutting through their paper-thin insults and winning for myself a glorious victory. Rather than highlight virtuous aspects of my character, however, this win only served to make my writing contrived, which goes with my next point.

Shipping myself with a character was perhaps my downfall. Now, don’t get me wrong, my beloved and I had some awesome dialogue about how we should use the honorific ‘-kun’ to make people think we were dating, but overall, neither of our characters were enhanced by each other. I was still my Holy self, the other character shared in my Light, and everyone else were unworthy heathens below.

So what could I have done differently, and what caused me to take such a self-indulgent turn?

To answer my second question, well, age was definitely a factor. I was ten, I believe, and not highly capable of self-reflection, something which is needed in spades in order to artfully insert oneself. I wanted an easy story, one where I could be with the character I wanted and never be in the wrong, and so that’s what happened, at the expense of both our characters (as I’ll elaborate on further down).

To answer the first, I’ll need to take a slightly deeper dive.

For signifiers, I believe why I used them is the key. There’s a difference between self-inserts and reader-inserts, although the two are often mixed, which makes sense (who’s to be the reader-insert if not oneself, or one’s close friend?).

My story was not a reader-insert, though, nor was it ever in my plans to share it, to make it accessible for a friend. (And not even for the purposes of this discussion will I share it with you now, perish the thought.) The only reason I’d thought to add in signifiers of personal traits, of which I knew very well, was imitation. I noticed that every other person on Quotev wrote their fanfictions that way, and so I followed suit. In hindsight, though, it would have been much better to just describe myself or, if preferred, just leave it vague.

I do believe, by the way, that the distinction between self-inserts and reader-inserts--or where we muddle the line--should be something kept in mind when writing. How do you know what’s in-character if you don’t know which character you’re writing about, after all?

For strawmanning, or making a ‘Mary Sue’ of myself, well, there’s a quick explanation. I loathe being wrong. Don’t you? And yet, it’s a real hinderance if I want to write myself into a story. I can’t stand being wrong, I fear it, but characters with no failings are, frankly, boring to follow.

So if they’re so boring, and I don’t want to be wrong, what can I do? Well, I could not write myself. Or, I could use that as a character flaw, and incorporate it into my writing. Maybe, instead of valiantly slicing through the bullies’ insults, my character could think that’s what they’ve done, while the narrator knows full well they’ve made an arse of themself.

And now... onto my main point as stated in my headline--shipping!

In order to ship myself with a character (let’s say Nikolai), I think, honestly, that a perfect storm is needed. 1) I’d need a deep understanding of Nikolai and 2) an extreme level of self-awareness so that 3) I can know whether or not being with Nikolai would be right for me.

Just because I like a character doesn’t mean that he’d automatically like me.

And in fact, I can say with certainty that, if Nikolai were to come to cross paths with me, he’d think nothing of me and forget me the next day. Such is the sort of realism that’s necessary, I think, if we’re not to mould the characters of our affection into someone entirely different, whom they fundamentally are not. If keeping Nikolai’s full personality is my genuine goal in writing, I cannot, therefore, ship myself with him, and I cannot write a self-insert fic about him loving me with any believability or integrity as a writer.

This isn’t to say that I can’t write a fic with both of us interacting, though. I could, of course, get unexpectedly trapped in a trash can, and there’d be nothing for him to do but generously help me out. The line there, however, is to not try to push him past his limits. If I truly respect him, then I wish for him to stay my truest version of him.

If I do wish to mould his character, however, then all that goes out the window. Suddenly, he’s whatever I want him to be, and we can go have a weekend getaway without complication... but I’d need to be careful. 

There’s a fine line between character interpretation and character butchering. Personally, respect is a massive part of my relationship with my character. If I don’t respect a character, I end up misrepresenting them, putting false words and actions in their mouths, and polluting the fic.

So what should I do if I want to mould them to like me (and I can’t change myself without actually changing myself in real life), but I don’t want to disrespect them?

Well, it’s actually pretty easy within Bungō Stray Dogs. In order to change a character, it’s important, I think, to keep some of their core values, and in BSD characters’ cases, the core themes of their namesakes.

(I’ll have to use Fyodor for this next example, by the way, since I cannot for the life of me come up with a situation that would grant me closeness to Nikolai.)

I’d never, ever make Fyodor choose me over his goals, for example (and in fact, very likely, he wouldn’t let me). However, there are still the quiet moments to think of. Were he perhaps a bit more like Alyosha (character from The Brothers Karamazov, by Dostoyevsky), more willing to make time for those he cares about, so long as we had known each other a long time prior, even if my intellect didn’t compare to his, loyal companionship and decent conversation over a good cup of tea is enough, I think, for a decent scene. (This takes some, though not all, inspiration from Dostoyevsky’s relationship with his second wife, as well as Alyosha’s relationship with his love interest.)

I believe the change should be in-keeping with his character, something slight, so that he remains the man I love and respect while still being able to be himself.

(Now, I’m also aware that I can’t come from a place of complete sincerity, since I don’t want to be with Fyodor, but the example still, I think, was necessary.)

To recap how I think I could do self-insert fiction better:

-I’d keep engagement in mind.

-I’d try to watch for unintentional perfection.

-If I don’t want to change a character, then I: evaluate if they’re right for me.

-If I do want to change a character, then I: keep them the truest form of themself at their core, and make only necessary in-character changes.

So... yeah, those are my rough thoughts. None of this is intended to be OC harassment, by the way, and the only fic I ever referred to here was my own. The itch just came, since I’ve been thinking about this for years, to flesh out my thoughts a bit. I hope anyone who managed to make it this far got something out of this, and thanks for reading <3

[x0401x]

Wow, I appreciate the essay that proved no point, thank you. I wonder how you could've mistaken I meant IN ALL YOUR POSTS when all I was talking about was how you literally just talked about MasaMina in the flower post. It's more beyond me how badly you comprehended my ask. The point abut me not giving sources is so you could look it up yourself because why would I let someone copy my hard-worked homework, noh? Maybe if you properly did research then you'd have a much proper analysis on it.

Anyway.

Honey, it seems you still don’t get it: you’re the one who made the claim, so you’re the one who has to prove your point, which you haven’t. You can’t just accuse someone of something without any argument and then tell them to prove otherwise. That’s not how it works.

Oh, that. I read “posts” by accident. I stayed up late to answer you, so my head wasn’t working straight. But I didn’t mistake any of the rest, so don’t try to generalize. Also, my answer remains the same. I don’t think I talked about them more than I should, because there isn’t a limit to how much I should talk about them. I’ll talk about them as much as I want because it’s my own post.

Lmfao, “hard-worked homework”. Right, visting a site is so much work. If you were actually trying to be constructive with these asks, you’d at least name the sources. All that happens if I google what I had already googled is that I find the exact same results, obviously. It’s impossible that you haven’t realized this much. Your claim remains baseless.

Also, don’t worry, I read your post through and through which is exactly why I knew how much of the post you were wrong. You even got some of the flowers wrong, most especially Masa-san’s. And moreover, I see no point, still, in putting them together, because as I’ve mentioned, they are individual characters and Kyoani gave them separate flowers. I don’t know how you automatically thought of them instead of generalizing the more important people around them unless you were clearly ship-biased.

Yet you were and still are so vague about it. Just tell me already what was wrong so I can fix it instead of repeating yourself like a broken disk.

The meanings of their flowers are directly linked to each other, and most of them represent the two at the same time. If I were to do what you say, at most, I’d only separate them by the flowers of the bonus artworks and write about the others as a set, but that doesn’t change the fact that the interpretations of one would cite the other so it makes no difference.

You don’t know why? I just told you in the examples from my previous answer.

“Generalizing the more important people around them”? Are you implying that there’s some sort of ranking of who’s more important to who and suggesting that Minato and Masaki’s relationship is less important to themselves than other relationships? Do you perhaps not realize that their relationship is the main one of the story? If so, then I can only assume that you didn’t read the novel.

I don’t really care much if you post MasaMina on end because I know you roll with that, but pushing it on a generalized post where EVERYONE is supposedly involved, I’m not sure what other un-rude term I could call it, tbh. I’m not even sure if I should be the one you should call a child between us i you’re the one who hates on something because your ship wasn’t involved in it. Of course, you would deny because you’re “so smart” but from the way you rant about it, it clearly shows. That’s sad.

It’s not a generalized post, whatever you mean by that. And I fail to see how all the characters being involved equals Masaki and Minato’s flowers having nothing to do with one another.

I would deny simply because it’s not true, lol. I’m not hating on anything, you are. I wouldn’t at all hate it if the symbolism around Minato and Masaki had nothing to do with each other, but it does and that’s not subjective. I already explained how they are involved, but I have no way of forcing it through your thick skull. If you don’t want to understand, you just won’t.

I don’t get why you keep trying to imply that I’m dumb or that I try to act intelligent. Your blatant dislike of my person is the most confusing part of your asks, tbh.

I wasn’t desperate to cover up anything, I know what I wrote you, I have copies in case tumblr deletes it, too ‘cause that happens. Maybe it was partial anon hate but also because I wanted to point out that your supposed analysis of a general thing for Tsurune is wrong and I felt bad for the people who saw/see it. Believing false information. I suggested disclaimer that it was still, nonetheless, your opinion because whether you studied it or not, the information is still not originally yours.

“Maybe” and “partial” are deliberate choices of wording. You indirectly insulted me, came up with accusations all of a sudden, literally tried to corner me, threw a fit because I didn’t reply right away, made false assumptions about me and acted extremely condenscending all along. It was anon hate. Don’t try to smooth it out and just say it like it is.

Stop trying to make it seem as if you being upset with it equals that a lot of people are upset. You’re the only one to ever complain about that post.

It’s not my opinion, and the information not coming originally from me doesn’t make it an opinion (it’s the opposite, actually). The information also doesn’t originally come from the people who host flower-related sites. Flower language has existed for literal centuries.

And I will repeat, interpretting Masa-san and Minato’s flowers are NOT IMPOSSIBLE. You just REFUSE to do it because you were, i don’t know, pushing your ship? You wanted to? But mind you, your post is Tsurune-general related. Masa-san and Minato don’t just have each other; they have families they love, friends they care for, any one of them cou;d’ve been what the flower is for. But you mainly focused on them for no valid reason. Wouldn’t you think that’s being rude?

It’s not rude, lol. That’s probably not the word you’re looking for. But no word of negative connotation applies here anyway.

So what if the post is about all the characters? I don’t see why that’s a reason for me not to relate their flowers to one another when they are, in fact, related. Besides, I talked more about them because there’s more symbolism surrounding them. Can’t help that 90% of the flower language used in the books is for their relationship.

Again, see the examples I used in my other response. Who was it that Masaki met in middle school and then met again as an adult? Whose smile is Minato weak to? There isn’t any other character who can be used as answer to these questions. This isn’t a matter of opinion. It’s literally what the author wrote.

You mentioned their bonds but neglected the relationship of the characs that appeared in the latter part of the flower post. I honestly couldn’t go past that post without reading about Masa-san and Minato but never really seeing other names get mentioned again. I didn’t mind my embarrassment tbh, if that’s anything to be embarrassed about. I just hope you’ll admit to being wrong for once, though. I’m not expecting an apology, but truth. Because I feel bad for the ones seeing your post.

I didn’t. I mentioned the team in Minato’s and Akihiro in Masaki’s Blu-ray artwork flowers. But I couldn’t see how anyone else applied to the flower language of the book.

Why do you keep repeating the things I said (and yet act like you’re not being childish)? I don’t have to apologize, lmao. You’re the offender here.

I’m certainly not wrong for interpreting things based on canon, and I write my posts the way I see fit, because my blog. Stop trying to force me into modifying my post to your wishes. That’s entitled as hell. Just make an account to write your own posts, if you really don’t have one, that is. Otherwise, die mad about me.

I appreciate you called me trying to point out your wrongs as assholery childishness. Now I’m just wondering if you’ll show my asks to prove you’re right or to prove I’m a child. I don’t really mind, I’m beyond it. As you’ve said, I am an asshole, best to live up with it, I don’t recall calling you anything, however. And to be clear, I’m not an anti-MasaMina before you point that out.

It’s assholery because you refuse to specify it and don’t present evidence to back it up, just keep saying that I’m wrong and biased. That’s not “pointing out” anything, it’s flaming, pure and simple.

Oh, so you think calling me names would be the only thing that defines it as assholery and anything else is fair game. That explains it all.

I don’t care whether or not you’re anti-MasaMina, honestly.

Okay, here they go:

Full of shade. Cue other three of those.

This one was doing fine, but then the tantrum started:

And then you came back pretending that nothing had happened:

I guess you’re gonna say that I should learn to take criticism or use some other bigoted argument. This is anon hate. Baseless, improductive, entitled and purely offensive. Case closed.

Funny the first one about the tag wasn't even mine. Oh I've read the novel, don't worry, it's kind of why I'm countering your opinions right now. I never said Masa-san and Minato's relationship was any less important but the story isn't even about them. The title says what the story is about. Masa-san is merely one of the many links of relationships Minato could have so the point stands. They're not a set. I'm more wondering if you've read it yourself.

Fixed that now.

Right, what the author writes is totally my opinion.

The story is literally about them. It’s literally the main relationship. What’re you even saying???

You say “merely” as if he doesn’t make that much of a difference when he was literally the trigger to everything.

You bet I did, that’s why I quote it directly all the time, which you don’t do ever.

I see that this discussion has no way of advancing because you don’t really seem to pay attention to my responses. My guess is that you’ll continue saying the same stuff, which would force me to do the same because there’s literally nothing else I can tell you.

I don’t mind answering other asks, but the flower post is out of question. It’s a waste of my time saying the same stuff again and again. This topic is over for me. Just refer back to the post and our whole discussion if you think otherwise.

[sleemo]

Edge of Darkness

From the Marines to the Emmys to the most powerful cultural force in the galaxy, for ADAM DRIVER, finding his path has been a long, hard battle. Now, for STAR WARS: THE LAST JEDI, in a role he never imagined could be so complex, the brooding face of millennial angst faces his toughest fight yet. Spoiler alert! 

—British GQ, December 2017

His face shrouded beneath a hood, Adam Driver strides toward me. Shoulders hunched, fists jammed into jean pockets, he lets out a low whisper, “Hi. I’m Adam.”

The mixed messages – simultaneously worrying he’ll be recognised and that he won’t – hang in the air awkwardly as Driver surveys our spot, a near-empty New York City café. Neither fear is well-founded; there is no flock of fans to notice him and yet there is no mistaking the actor, his grey hoodie notwithstanding.

“I try to disguise things, but it just doesn’t really work for me,” Driver says, shedding the sweatshirt. “I honestly just look the way I look and it’s difficult to blend in because I’m tall and I look strange. I shouldn’t put a judgment on it.”

Others have judged his appearance more favourably. Driver has been dubbed a “cure for the cookie-cutter leading man” and “a millennial sex symbol”. Which may or may not be a compliment. Although few phrases are as loaded as “unconventionally attractive”, it’s as if those two words were combined expressly to describe Driver. Exaggerated ears; hooded, slanted eyes; long nose with a boxer’s bridge; broad mouth and lips – his disparate features coalesce into a surprisingly appealing whole.

“I guess I never think about it like ‘I am a leading man’ or ‘I am a sex symbol.’ It’s strange to hear that stuff. I don’t think I could have imagined it,” says Driver. Yet, there was his visage on Gap billboard ads; in American Vogue with a black-horned ram slung across his shoulders; in a close-up at the Emmy Awards, where he was nominated for Best Supporting Actor three years in a row for his part in HBO’s Girls; and cast eternally in plastic as a Kylo Ren action figure for Star Wars: The Force Awakens – masked and unmasked versions available. (“Not bad,” he says of the likeness, “but my head and face are a lot bigger.”) Passers-by who once stopped him to ask, “How could you do that to Hannah?” in reference to the bad-boy behaviour of Driver’s character in Lena Dunham’s runaway-success television series, now ask, “How could you do that to Han Solo?”

“It’s a lot,” Driver says, “every part of my life. If we rewound to ten years ago, I would not have said that this is what my life would be.

“And now this music,” he waves his hands at the piano composition streaming through the café like pretentious Musack, “is making that sound so emotional. It isn’t helping, you know?”

Far from angry, the brooding face of millennial angst is smirking. At 33, Adam Driver’s signature intensity hasn’t wavered, but interest in being a tortured artist has. He’s aware of his tendencies – toward anxiety, analysis and absolutism – and is taking steps to temper them. Still, it’s a struggle, seeing good fortune as anything but a cause for self-flagellation.

If we did rewind ten years, we’d see why. Driver was a Gordian knot of clenched intensity. Enrolled at New York’s Juilliard performing arts school, he was so aggressive that his comments made fellow students cry. Every morning he would have six eggs for breakfast, then run five miles to the school from his home in Queens. He would eat a whole chicken for lunch and, during his day at the prestigious drama school, perform random feats, such as 1,000 push-ups.

“That must’ve been an obnoxious thing to be around,” he says, shaking his head. “I was trying to make it as extreme for myself as possible. Now it just makes me so tired and annoyed.”

I’ve met Driver in a peaceful, leafy corner of the Brooklyn Heights neighbourhood that he and his wife, Joanne Tucker, call home. It’s a square precinct full of baby strollers that belies the borough’s hipster cred. “I like sleepy, quiet places,” Driver explains, “because my job is very loud.” Right now he’s savouring a respite from work, the first in a five-year sprint to stardom and even letting himself idle a little. Driver, who has made a career of ill-at-ease eccentricity, is starting to feel comfortable in his own skin.

He genuinely enjoyed himself on the set of Star Wars: The Last Jedi, which will be released in cinemas this December. “The first one was all ‘You can’t fuck it up,’ you know? There was a lot more hanging out this time,” Driver says. “Then there are just practical things, like I have a lightsaber. That’s fun.”

Whatever the outcome of the larger battle between good and evil, the Resistance and the First Order, never underestimate the power of Driver’s light side. ”I had heard about Adam’s intensity before I worked with him, but he’s also really fun and funny,” says Rian Johnson, The Last Jedi’s director.

There was one emotionally charged scene that they shot over and over. “Every time the guy holding the clapper marked each take, Adam just starts trying to steal his shoe,” Johnson recalls. “It was hilarious. And then Adam goes straight into it with all the intensity of Kylo Ren. He just added a sense of play that made the process really click.”

Neither Johnson nor Driver can say what the scene was about or who else was in it. They are acutely aware of the cone of silence that surrounds the Star Wars films, suitably enough, like a force field. “There’s probably something in my contract, I don’t know – but it’s kind of unbelievable that no one has told me, ‘Don’t say anything,’” Driver explains. “It’s just implicitly understood.”

With plot points guarded like state secrets, even the tiniest perceived leak sets off an online feeding frenzy. Internet scribes grab at every quote, often misreading them. “You have to clarify truthful things you’ve said that people read these false things into,” Driver says. “It can be frustrating.”

After several years of sidestepping spoilers, Driver is practised at the art of obfuscation. His evasive manoeuvres are near perfect.

On whether he enjoyed acting opposite Daisy Ridley, who plays Rey: “That’s hard to answer. I mean, people assume that we’d spend time with each other. Maybe our characters see each other in the movie?”

On whether he had scenes with Carrie Fisher: “It’s hard to answer without being vague.”

On whether the lightsaber scar on his face, which came courtesy of Rey in The Force Awakens, was moved for the new film: “I noticed a lot of things.”

On whether Kylo Ren’s story has a happy ending: “Not saying yes or no. But continue.”

On whether Han Solo might have known Kylo Ren would kill him: “That’s interesting.”

On whether he appears with his mask off: “Yes, I can answer that. You’ll see it off in the new trailer, so I’m not giving anything away!”

Other times, Driver playfully embraces the absurdity of it all. “I can’t say anything, but what if I signal you,” he jokes. “If I just start sneezing uncontrollably…” He fakes a loud achoo and exclaims, “Bingo! Harrison Ford’s ghost returns!”

When I ask him about Kylo Ren’s mysterious order of Dark Side disciples, the Knights of Ren, he waxes whimsical. “We can talk about them. Peter, Paul, John… No, I was thinking of The Beatles. Except wait – there’s Peter. He was too ambitious on the tambourine. Now you know: the last Knight of Ren is Ringo Starr!”

On this particular mid-September day, the internet is abuzz with new speculation that Ridley’s character, Rey, is the daughter of Princess Leia (also Kylo Ren’s mother). This theory would take any romantic tension between her and Driver’s Kylo Ren into the realm of incest – territory that the first Star Wars trilogy explored with a kiss between Mark Hamill’s Luke Skywalker and Carrie Fisher’s Leia.

“Yeah, my uncle and my mum made out,” Driver says, with a laugh. “Which Mark still talks about. He’s like, ‘Luke kissed his sister. How could he do that?’ I guess he hasn’t seen Game Of Thrones, you know?”

The Last Jedi marks the final film in Fisher’s storied career. Like the rest of the cast, Driver was shaken by the actress’ death last December at age 60. “It’s hard to talk about it without saying generic things,” he says. “Like, ‘It’s shocking,’ but it was. Or ‘It’s incredibly sad,’ which it is. I mean, it is all of those things.”

Driver brightens as he recalls Fisher’s wit on display at Comic-Con before the release of The Force Awakens. “The whole cast was downstairs in a conference room, talking through what’s supposed to happen at this big event. She was like, ‘Just pretend you’re down to earth. People love that shit.’” Driver pauses for a moment then laughs. “So now I pretend I’m down to earth and you know what? People really do love that shit. They eat it up.”

The image of Driver that people have consumed is not so much down to earth as intense and uncompromising, the all-or-nothing avatar of millennial manhood named Adam Sackler, Driver’s character in Girls. Ever since Driver landed the part, originally a cameo called simply “Handsome Carpenter”, the notion he really was that id-driven artist has, like the life of another charismatic carpenter, been taken as gospel.

In the public consciousness, Driver’s backstory is as extreme as his alter ego’s: a Midwestern misfit enlists in the Marines after 9/11, then studies acting at Juilliard – and finds he’s an outlier in both worlds. The truth is both less and more dramatic.

Born in San Diego, California, Driver is the son of a preacher. When his parents divorced, Driver moved with his mother back to her native Mishawaka, Indiana, where she was soon remarried to a Baptist minister. As a teenager, Driver was a poor student who dabbled in pyromania, trainspotting and climbing radio towers. A fan of the film Fight Club, Driver started one with some friends. “Just seeing the angst, I thought it would be a good idea to emulate it.“

Acting offered Driver a way out of the tiny town he called a shithole. “I applied to Juilliard when I was graduating high school and didn’t get in, so I was like ‘Well, fuck it. I won’t go to college, then.’” Instead, he set off for Hollywood and what he thought would be overnight stardom. “I’d always heard the stories of people striking out and finding success,” he says. “Why not me?” The dream lasted as long as his hand-me-down 1990 Lincoln Town Car did. After it broke down outside Amarillo, Texas, the repairs cost Driver nearly all the money he’d saved. When he finally limped into Los Angeles, Driver spent two nights in youth hostels. The only agent he signed with was a real estate agency, which took him for the rest of his savings. Having landed neither an apartment nor an acting gig, Driver arrived back in Indiana a week after leaving.

Following the 11 September attacks, Driver did not, as some retellings suggest, march down to the recruiting station. Instead, he enlisted in the Marines several months later. “My stepfather pushed me into it a little bit, which was good – I was grateful for it,” Driver says. “It followed an argument where he was like, ‘You’re not doing anything!’ I’d gotten this brochure in the mail. He was like, ‘Why don’t you just join?’ I was like, ‘No, I’m not going to join the Marines.’ Then I thought about it more. I had this sense of patriotism and wanted to get involved. I also had no prospects. I was living in the back of my parents’ house, working as a telemarketer.”

From the start, Driver’s time in uniform had a profound effect on him and his worldview. “The patriotism, the idea of country, doesn’t go away necessarily, it just turns into something else,” he says, reverently. “Not a big, sweeping idea, but this group of people you’re serving with, and that becomes your world, and it becomes sacred.”

Going into the Marines, Driver had a seemingly straightforward goal: “I’m going to be a man.” But rather than reinforce clichéd concepts of masculinity, military service put the lie to them. “You have to put implicit trust in the people to your left and right, and when they demonstrate that they’re looking out for you, that their own safety is secondary to yours, then all that kind of guy shit goes away and there is no ego,” Driver says. “There is no posturing, no need to say how much of a man you are, whatever that even means. You prove it with your actions.”

When Driver was not allowed to deploy to the Middle East with his unit, after suffering a broken sternum in a mountain biking accident, he was despondent. Although he fought to stay on active duty, Driver ultimately received a medical discharge.

He decided to apply to Juilliard again and this time got in. The transition from the Marine Corps to a New York City drama programme was jarring. During Driver’s second year, in an effort to bridge his past and present vocations, he launched a non-profit called Arts In The Armed Forces with his then-girlfriend, now wife, Tucker. Driver was able to carry a discipline and teamwork into his studies, but it didn’t stop him from feeling he’d gone soft. “I was like, ‘What am I doing? I’m wearing pyjamas doing acting exercises where I’m giving birth to myself or being a plant or moving around in jelly,’” he says. “Then again, even now, I’m like, ‘What am I doing?’”

After a brief fallow period after graduating from Juilliard, Driver says he learned to hate everyone in the audition room. He didn’t like TV and almost skipped his audition for Girls entirely. Instead, he dazzled the show’s creator, Lena Dunham, and the one-episode part Driver had read for was expanded into a central one. In audition after audition, Driver made a similar impression on a series of noted directors. Even before Girls aired, Steven Spielberg cast him in Lincoln, in which he played a telegraph operator opposite Daniel Day-Lewis. “He was very nice to me,” Driver says of the legendary method actor. “He would still talk in character, but very nice.”

In particular, Driver’s unusual, instinctive style made him a favourite of indie filmmakers. He landed meaty roles in the Coen brothers’ Inside Llewyn Davis and a series of films by writer-director Noah Baumbach: Frances Ha, While We’re Young and The Meyerowitz Stories (New And Selected). He played the lead in Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson and shared top billing in Steven Soderbergh’s heist comedy Logan Lucky. When Martin Scorsese was finally able to make his passion project, Silence, after two decades, he sought out Driver. Similarly, Driver recently wrapped shooting on The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, which Terry Gilliam had been trying to make for 17 years.

And yet nothing Driver had done remotely prepared him for Star Wars. He had grown up a fan of the original trilogy, but had little faith in outsized film franchises. “I’m leery of big movies – a lot of them sacrifice character for spectacle,” he says. “When they’re bad, it pisses me off – you can just tell it’s made by a bunch of executives somewhere.”

Despite his initial trepidation, the complicated nature of Kylo Ren put Driver’s concerns to rest. “It was all about story and character and playing someone who doesn’t have it all together. Making him as human as possible seemed dangerous and exciting to me.”

Driver was drawn to an idea that JJ Abrams, who wrote and directed The Force Awakens, had. The man behind the mask was not a man at all, but rather a young person struggling to come of age. “I remember the initial conversations about having things ‘skinned’,” Driver recalls, “peeling away layers to evolve into other people, and the person Kylo’s pretending to be on the outside is not who he is. He’s a vulnerable kid who doesn’t know where to put his energy, but when he puts his mask on, suddenly, he’s playing a role. JJ had that idea initially and I think Rian took it to the next level.”

Driver is on a roll now, discussing what excites him: character and narrative and cinematic influences. The original Star Wars was an homage to Akira Kurosawa’s 1958 film The Hidden Fortress, he says, and the link lives on in the new trilogy, in which concealed identities drive the narrative. Then he lets it slip. “You have, also, the hidden identity of this princess who’s hiding who she really is so she can survive and Kylo Ren and her hiding behind these artifices,” Driver says, apparently dropping a massive revelation about Rey’s royal origins.

Perhaps he’s unconcerned and Rey’s parentage is less dramatic than imagined by fans, who posited that her father is Luke then trumpeted that her mother is Leia. Or it could be that, in passionately holding forth, Driver is simply unaware he’s revealed anything, much less a major spoiler. In any case, he doesn’t skip a beat. “The things that made it personal to me,” Driver continues, “I’ll keep to myself, but I think everybody can relate to the idea of almost being betrayed.

“Wow, this music is killing me.”

As the café’s latest piano piece reaches its crescendo, I ask Driver if he tapped into his own experiences with his dad and stepfather and he reverts to evasive manoeuvres.

“I may leave that one. I have strong convictions about not talking about family, for many reasons,” Driver says. “It’s not as if the answers for Kylo are found in my relationships with my parents.”

In The Last Jedi, director Rian Johnson saw Driver go light years beyond his own experience. “Adam was always pushing the context of the character,” Johnson says. “He’s put in this unhealthy environment and goes through the worst of youth, the selfishness and volatility, he’s representing that side of adolescence.”

Of course, these days immaturity and insecurity are no strangers to power. “It makes complete sense how juvenile he can be,” Driver says of Ren, who prefers lightsabers over Twitter for his tantrums. “You can see that with our leadership and politics. You have world leaders who you imagine – or hope or pray – are living by kind of a higher code of ethics. But it really all comes down to them feeling wronged or unloved or wanting validation.”

Even more topical and even more touchy was the decision to play Kylo Ren like a radicalised extremist. “We talked about terrorism a lot,” Driver says of his early conversations with Abrams and Johnson about his character. “You have young and deeply committed people with one-sided education who think in absolutes. That is more dangerous than being evil. Kylo thinks what he is doing is entirely right, and that, in my mind, is the scariest part.”

The demagoguery drives him to the most famous film patricide in galactic history, as Kylo Ren kills Han Solo in the shocking denouement of The Force Awakens. “When I watched the premiere, I felt sick to my stomach,” Driver recalls. “The people behind me, when the scroll started, were like ‘Oh my god. Oh my god. It’s happening.’ Immediately, I thought I was going to puke. I was holding my wife’s hand, and she’s like, ‘You’re really cold. Are you OK?’ Because I just knew what was coming – I kill Harrison – and I didn’t know how this audience of 2,000 people was going to respond to it, you know?”

One person in the crowd who appreciated that scene was Han Solo himself. “We were sitting on this catwalk in between takes,” Driver recalls, “and Harrison was like, ‘Look what we get to do. Just look what we get to do.’ Meaning, look at how lucky we are that this is our job, you know? To see someone at that point in his career still get excited like that hit me. It’s like, ‘Oh, right. I need to take this in more.’”

As if on cue, a couple stop and introduce themselves. “I love everything you’ve ever done,” the wife says. “Everything.”

“Thanks a million. Yeah. Hi, I’m Adam.”

As fan encounters go, it is respectful and pleasant, but not even a whimper of what will soon follow come the release of The Last Jedi.

For all the ways in which he’s made peace with his success, Driver, who is almost pathologically private by nature, remains uncomfortable with notoriety. “I’m not in the world the same way I was before,” Driver says. “It’s completely changed my life. My anonymity is gone. But who I am as a person is the exact same. I think. Or, I hope.”

Soon after, we exit the café, as Driver is heading home for some quiet time. He stops in front of a bicycle locked to a fence. “It only looks bourgeois-hipster because of the saddle,” Driver says, adding that he’s only just added the leather Brooks seat. “I bought the bike for $200 back when I was at Juilliard,” Driver says. “Besides the seat, it’s the same crappy bike I’ve had for forever.”

Driver pulls his hoodie up over his head and as he starts pedalling off turns back to me. “Remember,” he says. “Pretend you’re down to earth. People love that shit. Right?”

The Last Jedi is out on 15 December.

[brywrites]

The Political Abyss: Second

[1st | 2nd ]

The Cabinet Room, Washington DC May 7th, 12:30 PM

Jennifer Jareau glanced down at the list before her.

The Cabinet:

Secretary of State: Emily Prentiss

Secretary of the Treasury: Dr. Spencer Reid

Secretary of Defense: Derek Morgan

Attorney General: Mateo Cruz

Secretary of the Interior: Max Ryan

Secretary of Education: Dr. Alex Blake

Secretary of Agriculture: Ashley Seaver

Secretary of Commerce: Gina Sharp

Secretary of Health and Human Services: Tara Lewis

Secretary of Transportation: Kate Joyner

Secretary of Energy: Kevin Lynch

Ambassador to the United Nations: Clara Seger

Administrator of the EPA: Mae Jarvis

Director of National Intelligence: Russ Montgomery

Office of Management and Budget: Matthew Simmons

Director of the Central Intelligence Agency: Samuel Cooper

Administrator of the Small Business Administration: Matt Spicer

Awaiting Confirmation:

Secretary of Housing and Urban Development: Andi Swann

Secretary of Labor: Kate Callahan

Secretary of Veterans Affairs: Luke Alvez

Secretary of Homeland Security: Stephen Walker

There were still a few positions that had recently opened, two immediately after the announcement of Gideon's death, that needed to be filled. JJ had confidence that the Senate would confirm all of them – in a time like this, nobody wanted to stall things. There was too much grief for the past, too much worry for the future. Besides, they needed to present a united front, and she was willing to say whatever she had to in order to sway any last minute holdouts who refused to cross party lines. Until the measures passed, she wouldn't be able to meet with their newest additions, but as Chief of Staff she was ready to get down to business with those she could officially meet with.

Seventeen Cabinet members, along with Press Secretary Jordan Todd, sat around a long table, staring up at her. Some people would have been unnerved in that situation, but Jennifer Jareau was nothing if not cool under pressure. She met their stares coolly, taking them in, letting them know she was more than capable in this position.

"I know the situation we're in is unconventional," she said. "You began your term with one president, and will finish it with another. President Hotchner has chosen to keep most of Gideon's Cabinet intact, a move which I agree with. You all work well together, and there's no reason you can't continue to perform your jobs effectively. If anyone believes this to be false, I suggest you leave now." Seventeen pairs of eyes didn't look away. "Good. In that case, let's get to it. The country is watching. Right now, they need reassurance that things will be fine. They want to know that their government can still function. It's our job to prove that it can. In the next few weeks, Hotch will be releasing statements regarding his plans for the administration. I expect you to listen, to learn, and to provide your full support."

"With all due respect," said Secretary Sharp, "are we supposed to just pretend like nothing has happened? Carry on like this is normal?"

"As much as possible," she answered. "Gideon is gone. Everything in regards to him is now on a strict need-to-know basis, and you can bet that if anyone who doesn't need to know finds out, I'll find whoever let it slip." Rustles of unsettlement filled the air as people shifted in their seats. JJ didn't like playing the bad guy, but she had a job to do. At times, she felt like a glorified babysitter, wrangling Secretaries and other members of the staff into place and keeping them all in line. When she wanted to, she could be caring, gentle. But this position demanded a no-nonsense attitude, and that's exactly what she gave them.

After answering any and all questions they had, she finally dismissed the Cabinet, watching them all file out one by one. Only a handful lingered back. The "inner circle" so to speak, the very closest members of the cabinet. The "Cupboard" as she'd taken to calling them. Secretaries Reid, Morgan, and Prentiss; occasionally joined by Lewis, Blake, and Director Garcia. As Lewis and Blake both had meetings to get to, it was only the three who stood there with her.

"So that's it, huh?" Morgan asked. "That's how an era ends."

"That's politics," Emily answered, shrugging. With a mother who was an ambassador, she spoke from decades of experience. "One empire falls, and another rises."

The four of them filed out of the room together. "What happens now?" asked Reid.

JJ gazed out a window, onto the Rose Garden. They were in full bloom now. Politics was sometimes like perennials, cycling through the seasons. Sometimes leaving only the most jaded evergreens behind in its wake. Those who were sensitive, delicate, requiring more care were often the ones who vanished.

"Now, we move forward," she answered. "We work through policy. We do our jobs. Business as usual."

DuPont Circle, Washington DC June 1st, 8:17 PM

It wasn't long until the administration was faced with their first crisis. And in the middle of the briefing, Emily forgot how to breathe. A threat had been detected abroad, and American citizens visiting Galicia, Spain were in danger. Hotch was working to notify the American Embassy in Spain, as well as local law enforcement in the city in the hopes of saving lives.

Matthew was in Galicia.

He was taking a trip to the Santiago de Compostello, she'd heard so from their mutual friends. It had been months since she and Matthew had talked in person – his health was getting worse, and no doubt his parents still hated her. But she could never forget him.

What were the odds he could be in harm's way? They didn't have a location. Only a range of possibility. Maybe Matthew was out of the city that day. Maybe he would stay indoors. On the other hand, what if he didn't? What if he was hurt.

Emily stared down at the legal pad in front of her, notes she'd scribbled down half-heartedly. It would only take one phone call. What would she even say? To give details would be a breach of confidentiality. A vague plea would only confuse him, and given her position he'd likely know something was up. She was Secretary of State. It was her job to put the country first, to maintain foreign relations, to do the most good. If she called him, all of their covert operations could be put at risk.

"Prentiss." Morgan was staring at her, eyebrows raised. Living so close to each other, he'd been brought in for a joint briefing in her apartment before they each headed off to their respective departments. They were at the top of the priority list, as were Hotch and Rossi. The other secretaries and advisors would be told throughout the day as needed based on developing intelligence information. "What's on your mind?"

During briefings, she had always been the picture of composure. Cool, calm, collected. Walking the fine line between poise and emotion. Politics was a tough game for a woman, a great balancing act in which one had to be perfect. Veer too far in any direction and wind up in headlines questioning your ability.

"It's just…" The words caught in her throat. Could she be honest with him? This was Morgan. They had seen each other and their best and worst. He'd stood by her appointment even when Hotch had his reservations. They gave each other Vonnegut books for Christmas. "A friend of mine is in Galicia right now. I'm worried about him," she said.

He sighed, standing from the table. "We still don't have enough information. Alerting anyone now would-"

"I know, I know. I'm not going to risk that." Her fingers clenched into a fist under the table. She wasn't stupid, the rules were clear. Though she wouldn't have been the first Cabinet member to bend them in order to fit her own agenda. Gideon was notorious for doing so, and she had no doubt Hotch had skirted them as well. At any other time, perhaps the temptation would have been enough for her to take action, but with the transition between administrations, there was too much risk. Reporters were watching the White House closer than ever. Communications were monitored, security protocols were tight. A digression like this could cost her her career. On the other hand, staying silent could cost her her friend.

With a stoic determination, she threw on her coat and grabbed her black bag, stepping out into the chilly rain. Puddles were already forming from the downpour, which she quickly hopped over to reach the waiting car. The driver was quiet, never spoke unless spoken too. For that she was grateful. The backseat of the car offered her a particular kind of privacy. Tinted windows and isolation, nobody to see her break down or panic. Emily lay her head back against the cool leather of the seat and watched rainwater stream down the windows. DC moved past in a blur, but her mind was miles away, across the ocean.

Inside the walls of the State Department, she tried to busy herself with routine. Notebook, files, paperwork. Calls to be made, diplomatic missions to approve. At noon, Emily leaned against the doorway and stared out at the office. Listened to the murmurs and scraps of conversation floating through the air, watched her colleagues running back and forth between desks and doors. All these people going about their lives with no idea that somewhere, a storm was brewing.

When the phone rang at 3 PM, she jumped. Emily forced herself to take a deep breath and exhaled before answering the call.

"There's a car out front," came JJ's voice from the other end. "Come straight to the situation room."

Please let this be something else, she prayed silently. Was it praying if she wasn't sure who she was talking to? It had been years since she willingly set foot in a church. That was another thing she and Morgan shared. An extreme aversion to religious ceremonies and buildings. What had shaped his hesitation? In a matter of minutes she was back at the White House, piling into a room with the rest of the Cabinet and some of the National Securities Advisors.

Hotch sat at the head of the table beside Director Cooper, head of the CIA. He was a tall, bald man, dressed in a jacket emblazoned with medals and pins, who spoke with a low voice. "I'm going to get straight to the point. Some of you were updated on a situation we were monitoring in Spain. There was an attack in Galicia. It'll be on the news shortly."

Her chest tightened.

"Four people were shot in the lobby of a hostel that catered to American travelers. Three of them have been pronounced dead, the third is recovering in the hospital."

"And the suspect?" asked Rossi.

"Apprehended and in custody. He seems to be a lone wolf terrorist," replied Cooper. "His name is Paul Silvano."

Hotch flipped over one of the papers in front of him. "It's only a matter of time before questions begin coming in. We don't have information on motivations or much of Silvano's background, but you'll be updated as soon as we do. You may receive questions from reporters or citizens – refer to the second page of the packet for answers to give. Secretaries Prentiss and Morgan will pass on the later information we receive. Refer people with specific concerns to the State Department." Barely a month in and he was able to command the presence of the entire room at ease.

"Do we have the names of the victims?" asked Morgan.

"We do," said Cooper. "Thomas Valentine, Patrick Cavanaugh, and Matthew Benton."

The pain those four syllables caused was palpable. All the air left her lungs in an exhale she could barely restrain from becoming a sob. Not him. Not Matthew. She was acutely aware of heads turning her way.

"I – I'm sorry." Before any questions could be asked she rushed out of the room, shoving the door shut behind her. The interior of the White House suddenly felt too stifling and her feet carried her out to the lawn. She ran through the rain to a sheltered overhang on the South Lawn. The lawn was vibrant in summer green, everything alive. It didn't feel right, with the cold she felt upon hearing the news. Snow would feel right. Frozen, empty. The end of something, not the blooming beginning.

"You want to talk about it?" Emily turned to see the Vice President, holding a black umbrella. "You don't have to," Rossi added. "But if you do, I'm all in."

She weighed her options. Bare her soul to a man she knew little of? Or suffer in silence in the rain? The truth was threatening to drown her, she had to tell someone.

Her voice was strained when she finally managed to speak up. "He was… he was one of my best friends. Matthew Benton. We haven't spoken in years."

"What happened?"

Emily stared down at her boots, covered in mud from the lawn. It was the only way she could tell the story without shaking. Rossi stood there, perfect poker face, as she explained how her family had moved around frequently as a kid. How in Italy, she was desperate to make friends, to be accepted. How she would have done anything for that. At fifteen, she found herself staring at a pregnancy test in the school bathroom.

"Was Matthew the father?" he asked. Rossi's tone was gentle, which surprised her. Sarcasm and skepticism were typical for him, and given his faith, she'd expected more judgment from him. Maybe she had the wrong impression.

"No. But he was there for me when nobody else was." He was the one who went with her to talk to Father Gamino, and helped her find a doctor. Stayed with her after the procedure. And never would she forget that Sunday when they returned. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes. "Father Gamino actually stopped his sermon, but Matthew told me to hold my head up, and we walked to the front pew."

The tears began to fall freely now, her shoulders shaking. "Matthew saved my life. He made me feel like I was worthy… of love. And – and friendship," she sobbed. Things she would never be able to tell him in person again. He knew, didn't he? Oh, Matthew had to know how much she still cared for him. Her best friend. "I should have called him! I should have warned him! This is my – it's my fault!"

To her surprise, she found herself in a hug. "It's not your fault," said Rossi. "It's not. You don't know if that call would have changed anything."

"I could have saved his life. I owed him that."

"I don't think Matthew would have seen it that way. That's now how life works, Emily. We don't do things like that for people because we want them to owe us. We do it because we love them."

"It's not fair!" she cried, grateful for the sound of the rain to drown out her voice.

Rossi squeezed her shoulder. "No, it's not. It's not fair, bella. Sometimes there are no answers. But you wanna talk, you come find me." They stood there in the rain in silence, until Emily finally stepped back, ready to return inside. They walked together into the Oval Office, soaked to the bone. Cooper had additional briefing information she would need to hear, along with Rossi and Hotch. It took almost an hour to go over everything they knew.

Silvano was a former priest, retaliating for what he believed was a murder committed by American tourists. Unable to take out the potential suspects, he'd decided to make a statement on Americans in general. Authorities had found a long note from him, claiming Americans were possessed by evil, that this was the only way to rid the world of its demons. Matthew happened to be in the line of fire.

After Cooper finally left, the three sat alone in the dim light of in the office. Rossi grabbed an old bottle of red wine from beneath a desk, pouring it into three glasses.

"I just don't believe in all that demonology rhetoric," Emily muttered. Rossi made a face, and Emily quirked an eyebrow. "Come on, don't tell me you believe in evil."

"Don't tell me you do this job and you don't," he responded, without missing a beat. The VP leaned over to hand each of them a glass.

Emily shrugged. "Evil acts, maybe. But those are choices, brain chemistry. Not some omnipotent force of the universe. What do you think, Hotch?" For a second, she thought he might not answer her. After all, things were different now. Being Vice President still allowed a certain degree of familiarity, but now that he had assumed a new role, they were all still trying to figure out where the boundaries were.

Then he said, "I think deep down, we're all capable of unspeakable things. Where it starts or what you call it, I don't know." With that, he took a long drink of wine, Rossi following suit.

The wine was dark, deeply scented. She stared into it, imagining some sort of answer would rise from it that might make sense of the chaos of the day. Was it all worth it, this job? Was it worth risking friendships, making decisions that might save or take lives. What were they giving up to be sitting in this office right now?

I'm sorry, Matthew.

Maybe Rossi was right. Maybe there were no clear answers sometimes.

Emily tipped back her glass, the bitter taste lingering on her tongue.

The President's Bedroom June 19th, 8:40 PM

Haley sat on the plush armchair by the window, having put Jack to bed, and stared out the window. The lawn was green, perfectly trimmed. Everything was perfect in the White House. That perfection was just a cover though. An illusion that everything happening inside was just as cheerful as the building's exterior.

What a lie that was. The White House was full of secrets, dark ones at that.

She had secrets of her own. Since her husband first snagged the spotlight as a young Senator from Virginia, she'd learned to keep her composure in public and keep her thoughts to herself. In the weeks before Gideon's death, she'd been planning to leave Aaron. Things were too tense between them, and though she still loved him, they hadn't been a proper family in a long time. She wanted Jack to have a normal, happy childhood, and a father who was around to see it happen. The only person she'd confided in was Jessica, her sister.

Now that Aaron was President, her plans had changed. The desire to leave was still there, but she knew how bad it would look if the First Lady left the White House only a few months into the term. She had to play the press game, and keep her chin up even when she had no more strength left to do so. When things quieted down, perhaps she could quietly separate, slip away from the tabloids and the pressure. "Reclaim" her life. That was a phrase her sister Jessica used whenever they spoke.

"You need to reclaim your life Haley," she'd say. "You and Jack aren't some prop for him to use when it's convenient." And while she wanted to defend Aaron, assure Jessica that their relationship wasn't just one of convenience, she couldn't deny that Aaron's absence wasn't strongly felt. Jack was always asking for his dad, and what was she supposed to tell him?

In part, she blamed Gideon. It had shocked her that the strongest feeling she had upon hearing of his death was resentment. Aaron had always been a workaholic, but Gideon had encouraged it. The late president's own family had fallen apart, he'd been divorced before he began his campaign for president. Even Aaron didn't know when he had last spoken to his son, Stephen. The only person he loved had been killed. Did the thought of living that life ever frighten Aaron? She was afraid of losing him, in one way or another.

Leaving him was supposed to be a wake-up call, a reminder that there were other people in his life who needed him. Now more than ever, it seemed he belonged to the country. To the public.

Wasn't that how he'd rationalized it to her once, after leaving on Jack's first birthday to work on policy? "They need me," he'd said.

"What about us? We need you, too!"

"Haley, this is who I am."

"No, Aaron, it's not!" she'd cried. "This is what you do." That hadn't stopped him though. He thought she didn't understand the pressures, the forces at play behind the scenes in this political abyss.

She knew more than she let on. There were other spouses in Washington, husbands and wives, partners and nannies. There were channels of gossip that floated between various staff and reporters, bits and pieces she learned to glean from the grapevine because for some reason, they never assumed she was listening.

There were rumors about the real reason Secretary Greenaway left DC. About what had really happened during Secretary Reid's mysterious absences. That the government had made a deal with Frank Brietkopf. Rumors about Gideon himself. There were ghosts in this house, skeletons behind every door, carrying secrets heavy enough to bring the District to its knees.

It was only a matter of time before things came out about her. Nothing stayed secret here, not for long.

Wasn't it Nietzsche who said that? If you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

Haley Hotchner had been staring into the abyss long enough to know that something wasn't right.

[theonyxpath]

Greetings, wayfarers!

Creature from the Haunted Sea (1961)

Matthew Dawkins reporting in. It’s been some time since my last confession. As many of you will be aware, I’ve been at work developing Onyx Path’s new game, They Came From Beneath the Sea!, an RPG of 1950s b-movie science fiction, horror, and japes. They Came From is intended to be a game you can play to meet any mood or tone, using the framework of one of those archetypal sci-fi classics we know and love. The budget may be low, the costumes may be ridiculously rubbery, and the acting may be poor. But! That’s not too different from most roleplaying experiences, so we should be fine.

My aim with this game is to present a world where within the space of months, creatures from the depths emerge and start threatening our way of life. To the player or Director in need of an analogy, look no further than the reason many such invasion movies came out in the decade they did: the threat of nuclear war was ever present. The panic our heroes feel in these games is the panic they feel when confronted with the Red Scare, the House Unamerican Committee, enforced patriotism, and the real belief it could all end in an instant if someone pushes the big red button. The difference is that the threats are bipedal crabs, brain eater eels consuming our identities, peer pressure forcing every common Joe and Jane to take up arms, and the danger of something more dangerous than a single shuffling aquaterpillar creeping its way up the shore. There’s humor found in a game like this, and we certainly aim for tongue to be in cheek at parts. There’s also a feeling of humanity’s desperation. The writers have successfully put that mood into words in the drafts I’m redlining.

You will receive more information about this game as time goes on, but for now, I present you with an extract from Chapter One (written by Jacqueline Bryk and Larry Blamire, though this section is specifically Larry’s – so blame him for the clowns).

***

Keep Watching The Waves

Deep sea exploration is nothing new. It’s been going on since 1521 when Ferdie Magellan dropped a line 2,400 feet and didn’t find the bottom. It didn’t get into full swing until the 1870s with the HMS Challenger’s systematic approach to undersea exploration — leading to the birth of oceanography — with lines, dredges and trawls to make measurements and take samples. In the 1930s, Otis Barton’s bathysphere broke ground, or water, and Barton himself recently set a record with his 4,500 foot / 1,372 meter dive in his benthoscope.

Now there have been some pretty strange specimens retrieved from extreme depths, some that could be called nightmare-inducing fish, things glowing in a world of otherwise absolute darkness. But they are relegated and accustomed to those conditions, that enormous pressure and lack of light. They would not do well on the surface, if they could even get to it. And while it’s true that much of the ocean floor remains unexplored, it seems hard to imagine anything vaguely sinister, anything with an agenda, and certainly nothing to suggest advanced intellect.

And so indeed it is something of a shock that the actual alien invasion of Earth comes, not from above, but from below. The monsters are in our very own backyard, our giant swimming pool, where so many go to relax, that “next to final frontier,” the place we smugly thought we knew and rather complacently take for granted, where most of our water is.

They Come From the Sea.

So the question immediately comes to mind: Why? And why now? What could they possibly want with us? What could they want on land?

Quite a bit, actually. More on that later. First, let’s look at who, or what, they are, and how we first become aware.

Like many past civilizations before us, the first to become aware of the danger are pets and circus clowns. The latter might sound facetious, but when circus-goers begin to react listlessly and morosely to their zany antics, it’s the clowns’ heightened sensitivity (possibly brought on by years of pies in the face) that first react to the subtle changes in humanity. For the beginnings of this alien intrusion are not in the form of a sudden overnight onslaught of Things Marching From the Sea. Indeed, this invasion is insidious, not only in its sheer scope and variety of outrageous and horrific lifeforms, but also its clandestine and sinister infiltration into our daily lives.

Keep Watching Your Backs

The sandpits are singing.

You know, the ones out back, just past the yard, beyond the crooked tree on the little knoll. Like the little boy in Invaders From Mars we begin to discover that Mom and Dad are not Mom and Dad anymore. One by one, friends and family are lured out back, to be sucked into that sandpit.

Yes, the first wave of alien attack is subversive: infiltration. The enemy mixing among us. This comes in two basic forms:

Destruction and replacement

Takeover and possession

Each results in false humans walking and interacting with us. For the most part it’s systematic and effective, which is why we should be worried. But there are signs. There are things to look for, and that gives humankind some hope to go with our grim determination, science and flailing fists.

For instance, the Crab People, even posing as humans, are compelled to walk sideways. They can’t help it. Evolution-wise, they’re part people — and there’s quite a resemblance — but that sideways thing is just really hard to shake. Plus, it’s difficult to hold the bony face plates under their skin to retain a certain likeness (of the person they’ve replaced) for longer than several hours or so before needing a breather, at which point their wide hideous mandibles open up the entire face and suddenly it’s not Uncle Walt anymore.

Now, the disgusting Brain Eater Eel is easily squished in its natural form. Not so much in a human host. So these things are dangerous. What we need to be on the lookout for, then, is their insatiable appetite and a rather geekish hunger for human cinema. These can sometimes give them away. Of course, this does little to lessen the terror of knowing these creepy things could be beside us in line at the supermarket or Marx Brothers festival.

The third of our notable Identity Crisis Nightmares is perhaps the strangest. The Thaumocs are a form of super-intelligent octopi that are both clever and technologically advanced. How does a brainy cephalopod pass as human? With great difficulty, as the joke goes.

Actually, they ride around in a masterfully designed people suit; a fleshy fluid-filled frame fine enough to fool folks. One shortcoming is the Thaumoc’s lack of speech, causing them to depend on a contrivance that spews small talk, which is what they hear when they monitor and record our human blather. If you meet someone even more boring than usual, with limited direct interaction, there’s a good chance it’s one of them.

Knowing these imperfections should not lead us to a sense of overconfidence, by any means. It is merely meant to balance what has become the highest level of paranoia to ever infect civilized society, even more than the spread of communism. They are survival tips as well as morale booster in the face of things that sometimes quite literally make our skin crawl. The only enemy more dangerous than the one you don’t know is the one you know.

Keep watching your backs…

***

Feel free to ask questions below, and I will answer what I can!

[lejojotrash]

How about a imagine of the reader asking Dio for permission to use his impressive library?

Oh shit nizzle drizzle it’s mah vampire home boi Dio.

Let’s do dis. Also since you didn’t specify which Dio, I’m gonna write SDC Dio if that’s aight with u Anon.

Dio Imagine of Reader asking permission to use library:

DIO had heard three knocks to his bedroom chamber, as he currently finished devouring his meal for the night, he glares at the door, wondering who would disturb him right after he finished devouring his meal.

“Lord DIO, it is I, (First),” You called out, your voice muffled from the other side of the door. “May I please come in?” He stares at the door with mild disdain at you disturbing him on his down time.

“Of course,” Dio responded, dropping in his hands what used to be a living woman, now all drained of blood onto the floor, and you entered the room, unflinchingly as you eyed the body. You kneeled a couple of steps away from him in complete respect.

“My apologies, Lord DIO. Did I interupt your meal?” You questioned.

“No, in fact, I was just finished,” He answered. “Stand.” And you stood perfectly straight like a puppet. Dio eyed  you with mild irritation and a slight curiosity. You never really approached him unless he was out to give you a command. “What do you want?”

“I wish to browse through your library, Lord DIO,” You answered simply. “If you wouldn’t mind, of course.”

“What purpose does my library serve of you, (First)?” It felt like an interrogation, just replace police with the most dangerous vampire on the planet, a test of trust. You needed to craft your answer carefully.

“Knowledge is power, Lord DIO,” You state your catchphrase. “And knowledge might help bring down the Joestar bloodline from my perspective. Jotaro is merely too tough for me to take down physically, but mentally I can surpass him. With all of the knowledge at my disposal, I can outwit him by miles. The rest of them are just a ragtag group of monkeys.” He regards the suggestion carefully, eyeing you. He notes the ambition and fire in your eyes and it can’t help but remind him of himself when he was younger and the first time you two had met.

——————–

You were the aspiring doctor of your hometown in Egypt, the first woman in your family. He has heard of rumors circling around you performing feats of miracles, and he was mildly intrigued.

The night he had approached you was a cold one, and you were suspicious of him approaching you out of nowhere in the dark.

“Well, hello there, (First),” He had greeted casually, full of false warmth and an extreme charisma he was known for. He figured you would be skeptical of him. You were smarter than all of the other lackeys he recruited. You scrutinized him, looking at him up and down.

“Hello…” You replied slowly and with caution. “Do you need anything, Mister…”

“You may call me ‘Dio’,” He answered. “And… I was wondering if you’re willing to take up… My offer.”

“Well it depends on your offer, Dio,” You replied slightly curious. “Which is…?”

“I can offer you better things than just being a doctor, (First),” Dio said, vaguely. His statement sparked a fire of interest in your eyes, but still kept your caution.

“Such a bold claim,” You retorted, “and what would those things be? What things would be better than a respected title in homeland?”

“I have riches beyond your wildest dreams, power far beyond any of these humans, knowledge that would make your doctors’ intelligences on the level of mere apes,” Now you looked extremely interested, a brow quirked.

“How?” You breathed out. Hook, line, and sinker. He grinned maliciously.

“Swear allegiance to me and come with me to find out.” You kneeled, he didn’t even need to use a bulb on you because he saw the ambition and the fire in your eyes, telling him that you could either be his most useful servant or the most dangerous.

“As you wish, Lord DIO.”

He took a gamble.

——————-

The ambition in your eyes was the most dangerous thing about you that he would have to deal with. Your knowledge, strategy making, and stand were vital to him with coming up with plans to defeat the Joestar bloodline, although you did insult Enyaba’s plan of sending stand users one by one to defeat them (asides from Hol Horse and her son). He would like to say that you were almost as intelligent as him, but still he was DIO, of course he’ll always be smarter than a mere human like you.

Dio cupped your cheek with the palm of his hand and it wasn’t in a romantic gesture. You stare at him right in his eyes.

“…Do as you wish,” he finally spoke. “As long as the Joestar bloodline is gone, the method does not matter…” He moved the hand that was on your face downwards, his painted nail drawing a light cut on your face, a small amount of blood oozing from your face. “Do not disappoint me.”

“Of course, Lord DIO,” You state as if it was an obvious fact, not flinching from the blood trickling down your face. “Failure was never an option.”

“Good. Now you may leave.” You bowed, a hand placed your right hand placed over your heart, a signal of respect.

“Thank you, Lord DIO,” and you left the room, never turning back, most likely heading towards his library. Dio stared at your back. Ambition is a dangerous thing, look at how he turned out. In all honesty, he knew that you were using him to get what you wanted, but he let you do as you pleased as long as you don’t go astray from his allegiance, he wouldn’t hurt you.

He just needed to remind you whose in charge from time to time, dangling your goal right in front of your face, much like a kitten playing with a feather toy, the kitten almost had it, but the owner pulls the feather away, so the kitten won’t quite reach it.

I enjoy writing Dio. He’s my husbrando.