#this is a bit of a targeted post out of no where but irs tired and im just living life man

[mymp3]

can I put up a sticker on my blog that says "I don't like the p3 movies. they were fine but they're not my definitive everything and also I think the art is way worse than the cutscenes of the game."

[sitp-recs]

hi :) i simply adore your blog and your fic recs are so spot on, you’ve made me fall back in love with drarry and hp. I rly love reading a fic before I go to sleep but I end up picking a 70k word one and end up staying up much longer than I wanted to so could you possibly recommend me any fics max 15k words, with a happy ending pls i need the cuteness to help me sleep 🥰 Thanku so so much xx

Hi anon! Thanks so much, I’m thrilled to know I had a small part in making you fall back in love with Drarry, that’s amazing! And what a mood lol I used to pick long fics before bed too, it’s a mighty trap 😂 I’ve read many short fics in the last year so I decided to go for these delightful and not-as-popular shorts, with excellent build up and happy endings. Perfect bedtime reads in my opinion! I got a bit too excited with this list so I’ll call it 31 Bedtime Reads! One for each day of the month ;) enjoy!

The Long Fall by @tackytigerfic (2021, M, 3.6k)

It's supposed to be a simple house renovation, and maybe it's just the paint fumes, but Harry is feeling dizzy around Draco Malfoy. And what's the real meaning of family, anyway?

oxygen by @maesterchill (2020, T, 4k)

Draco doesn’t smoke. Except when he needs to breathe.

A Charitable Christmas by Alisanne (2017, E, 5.6k)

Hermione’s plans to raise money for war orphans do not meet with Harry’s approval. Fortunately, Draco steps in to help him come up with a much more enjoyable strategy.

Harmony (Left-Handed Melody Remix) by mindabbles (2010, M, 5.8k)

He is the last person Draco was expecting, but then again, this is not a place Draco ever expected to be.

Vintage by momatu (2017, T, 7k)

Of all of the vineyards, in all of the regions, in all of France, Draco's blasted editor sends him to Potter's...

Our Ordinary Days by Lomonaaeren (2012, M, 8k)

Two men, both fathers of sons, meet in a bookshop. And the rest is the kind of history that doesn't make history.

Ice Snakes, Glow-worms and Wolverine Stew by khalulu (2015, M, 8.4k)

Harry Potter apparently wants to talk to Draco about something, but odd events keep getting in the way of that conversation – and bringing them closer together.

The Page Eleven Wars by fireflavored (2010, E, 8.5k)

In a gossip-hungry post-war Wizarding World, Rita Skeeter has a wildly successful column in the Daily Prophet known as Page Eleven. Naturally, her favourite targets are the poster boys of the two sides of the war: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter.

Blind Date by JosephineStone (2016, T, 8.6k)

Draco’s been working with Harry for years when another one of his relationships goes stale. He has to be married within a year, and though the WizNet has burned him in the past, Draco finds a new possibility in man as desperate to marry as he is.

Stories in E Minor by @huldrejenta (2014, E, 8.7k)

Draco has found his place in the Muggle world. He's got his music, he's got his neighbours and he is content. Until a certain someone from the past enters his life again.

Life goes not backward by @shealwaysreads (2020, T, 8.8k)

Harry still isn’t used to gifts, but this one is different. A story of coming home, finding safe ground, and the wild courage of putting down roots.

Til Our Compass Stands Still by china_nightingale (2018, M, 9k)

Harry and Draco eventually realise that things don't always go to plan, even if it's a plan they've been carefully crafting to keep themselves safe from each other.

The Interest Here by disapparater (2015, T, 9k)

Draco has his own morning show on the wireless, which he loves; an ambitious assistant, whom he needs; and days in The Tea Shop, where he relaxes. He also has a new caller on the show, whom he finds bloody annoying.

Tidings of Comfort series by @blamebrampton (2012, G, 10k)

When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life. Luckily for Draco Malfoy, London has places where the tired can rest and recover.

Sweet Indulgence by @the-sinking-ship (2020, E, 10k)

It doesn't matter that Marcy from Accounting is dancing on the tables, Shacklebolt is wearing antlers, and Elliot from Transportation is on his third round of Mariah Carey on karaoke because all the free champagne in the world won't salvage the Ministry Christmas party for Draco if Potter doesn't show up soon.

Settle in in my slow-burning heart by orphan_account (2015, NR, 10k)

Five years after the war Draco is working a tech developer job in the Auror Office, and it's all great except this one thing: Harry Potter works there, too.

Adventures in Truth and Texting by @fluxweeed (2020, E, 11k)

Former Death Eaters are being targeted with a Veritaserum curse – it’s permanent, and makes victims speak aloud their every thought. Luckily, it’s easier to control when writing.

fine i'll hold my breath / til i forget it's complicated by teatrolley (2015, NR, 11k)

Harry and Draco become friends with benefits, and Harry thinks it's more complicated than it actually is.

Rebuilding Draco Malfoy by khasael (2011, E, 11k)

Draco wants to do something to get his life back on track, but no-one seems to be taking him seriously – until he finds himself in an Auror training session led by Harry Potter.

Cold Like Fire by QueenofThyme (2012, M, 12k)

Head Auror Harry Potter had no problem with mandatory consent training for his team. He’d actually been looking forward to it, that is, until he discovered who the teacher was.

What’s My Age Again? by @lazywonderlvnd (2018, E, 12k)

Harry Potter has had enough of pleasing the public, and his reckless tendencies are finally getting out of hand.

Title of Their Sex Tape by @cibeewastaken (2020, T, 12k)

What are the Wizarding world's most elite law enforcers doing when they aren't catching criminals? It seems Auror Malfoy is often caught throwing food into Auror Potter's mouth when he's mid-yawn.

Kill, Fuck, Marry by @lettersbyelise (2018, E, 12.6k)

Harry and Draco unexpectedly meet again on Draco’s birthday, years after their last encounter.

The Year of Non-Magical Thinking by whiskyandwildflowers (2018, E, 13k)

“I don't know what I'm going to do, Potter. I'll think of something. So will you. But this is my journey to self-actualization," Draco managed to smirk. "You can fuck off and get your own."

Evolution by @potteresque-ire Pie (2013, M, 13k)

Draco Malfoy was condemned to live a Muggle’s life for his three-year probation. His wand was locked away, and he was forbidden to set foot in Wizarding Britain until Hermione Granger secured a job for him in the Aurors’ stock room.

Plan Alphabet by @xx-thedarklord-xx (2019, T, 14k)

After realizing that his feelings for Harry were unfortunately real, Draco embarks on a foolproof—yes, Longbottom, foolproof—plan to woo Potter.

Countdown by dysonrules (2013, M, 14k)

When the Wizarding world is plagued by random outbreaks of Dark Magic, the Ministry assigns Curse-Breakers to assist Auror teams on their missions.

All Roads Lead Home by @dracogotgame (2015, G, 15k)

Draco is strong-armed into spending the first Christmas after the War with the Weasleys. And Harry Potter.

Espresso Patronum by @tasteofshapes (2020, T, 15k)

When Draco reappears five years after the war and opens a wildly popular coffee shop, Harry’s pretty sure that Draco’s Up to Something. He just has to prove it.

An Act of Kindness for One Harry Potter by a Sympathetic Draco Malfoy by 0idontknow0 (2014, E, 15k)

Someone should give Potter a better rogering than that sorry sod had. The man had saved the bloody world—okay, mostly Europe—the least someone could do was give him a proper shag.

Turn and Face the Strange (time may change me) by @punk-rock-yuppie (2019, T, 16k)

Draco and Harry and how their relationship—and themselves—change over the course of eleven years.

[tamagoincident]

To Lure a Bird

arthur morgan x reader

summary: The Van der Linde Gang plans to rob a train, too bad you hit it first. You, being the reasonable person you are, coerce rough-looking men to run a job with you in exchange for the stolen money, and everyone gets more than they bargained for.

chapter: 2/10

link: AO3

Chapter Two - The Man Who Makes All the Decisions

Chapter content warning: brief encounter of sexual harassment

You awoke gasping in the night, heart pumping, heaving in lungfuls of stale air. The darkness of the Saints Hotel room pressed close. You’d dreamt about Emma and Henry again. 

Frightened as you were, you whispered to yourself that you were safe, that the dampness upon your brow was perspiration, and not the spatter of blood from Henry’s gunshot wound. That the screams seeping from the peeling walls were not Emma’s, but recalled from the etchings of your memory. You collapsed back onto the sheets and pulled the blanket over your shoulders, shuddering hard against the nausea prickling in your stomach and praying for sleep to find you once more.

—

Arthur stood at the bar in Smithfield’s Saloon, casual in the way he leaned over it. How at ease he appeared, unapologetic in his taking space. You choked on your envy, allowing yourself to wonder what it’s like to do whatever you wanted, wherever you pleased, unescorted. This feeling climbed as the man seated closest to the entrance pulled his chair out fully in your direction, reclining with his thighs spread. You tightened your grip on the handle of your travel bag and kept your revulsion from showing too much. Folk like that chased any sort of reaction, like they chased down drink after drink.

Ernest waved you over, having noticed how quiet the room fell when you’d walked in through the swinging doors. Arthur remained fixated on his glass despite the change in atmosphere, spinning it idly atop the nicked wood, taking more stock in it than in his surroundings. His voice cut across the idle chatter from the tables. “You even wash these?”

“Funny you ask,” Ernest said, wiping down the bar with a rag. “We’re in the market for a dishwasher. You look right fit for the job.” He abandoned his task at your approach to reach towards one of the dozens of bottles lining the shelves behind him, but you held up a hand to stop him. You needed your full wits to do something as illogical as you were about to, potentially letting a stranger lead you to God-Knows-Where to meet God-Knows-Who, with the pistol shoved in your right boot acting as your sole reassurance.

“So you’re a comedian now, mister? Didn’t realize I was getting dinner and a goddamn show.” Arthur knocked back his shot of whiskey and put the glass down on the bar. You set your bag at your feet and settled yourself in the space beside him. Through the aroma of decades of liquor soaked into the timber of the saloon, you caught a whiff of soap and freshly scrubbed skin. 

“Cursin’ in front of women,” Ernest said, acknowledging you. “Ain't your daddy ever taught you manners?”

“Say that again,” Arthur growled and smacked both palms on the counter, moments away from hopping over it. You cleared your throat before he could hitch a leg up. He turned and froze, as if it surprised him that anyone else was in the saloon at all, let alone you in your best (and only) dress.

The disturbance had caused a bit of rubbernecking your way. While Ernest rattling the clients was always an entertaining diversion, (and privately, you would have seized the opportunity to see Arthur try to throttle him, the mountain of a man Ernest was) an all-out saloon-brawl was counterproductive to anything you’d arrived there to do. The situation had to be defused, and fast.

“I’m not a delicate flower, I won’t wilt from a little profanity,” you said. “It didn’t offend me to hear him swear the first time we’d met, and it doesn’t offend me now.”

Arthur looked at you. His expression turned from confused to even more confused. Clearly he hadn’t recognized you from your previous encounter. Taking pity on him, you helpfully concealed your nose and mouth with your sleeve, resembling the scarf you’d worn when he met you. He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. You dug four bits from your skirt pockets, sliding them onto the counter to Ernest. “For this man’s next drink.”

“Couldn’t tell it was you without the get-up you was wearing the last time,” Arthur grumbled, and accepted the second shot of whiskey, placated for now, “or without the rifle.”

The rifle wasn’t concealable, and it hadn’t fit in the bag with your other travel necessities, so you left it with Ernest. You’d come back to Valentine to retrieve it later, at the right moment, along with half of the train score you had hidden away in a lockbox. “Had to try to look somewhat respectable for a negotiation. If there will be a negotiation, that is. Didn’t want to show up in my dusty travel clothes.”

“You look naïve, and an easy target to swindle,” he said, sparing a glance toward Ernest, who only cocked an eyebrow in response. Arthur cleared his throat. “Not that I’d do something like that. You see, I’m an itinerant worker, laid off from a factory—”

“Save it, please,” you said. “I’m not interested in divining who you really are or where you’ve come from. What I am interested in is whether you can help me with that offer we discussed. From your countenance, I assume your friend decided to take me up on it, against your better judgment.”

“What’s wrong with my countenance?”

“You’re scowling.”

“I ain’t,” he said, scowling. You put your hands up, conceding.

“He said he’d meet with you,” Arthur said. He brought the glass up to his lips. “Still decidin’ if I want to spin him a tale that I came to Valentine, but you never showed. Or, I could just rob you. I don’t think he’d mind that as much.”

“You just said you wouldn’t swindle me,” you accused.

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched, as if he wanted to laugh, but didn’t wish to act on it for fear of appearing too amicable. “You said we’d get half the money upfront?”

“Yes. You’ll get half if we can come to an agreement, and the other half once Emma is home safe.”

“I’m gonna be honest,” Arthur said. “We already went through an ordeal with that train, risking our skin to come up empty-handed. Now you want to pay us to risk it again with the score which should’ve been ours in the first place. This might end up being more trouble than it’s worth even with the seventy dollars you promised on top of it.”

“Hey lady, how much for your company?” A grunting voice emerged from behind you. You ignored it, too immersed in assessing the value of all your worldly possessions, your rifle among the other trinkets you had stashed away in different locations. You didn’t own land or assets to sell or put up for a loan. The single thing of monetary value in your possession was Henry’s wedding ring, and you’d hang before pawning that off. It’d been his dying request to return it to Emma. They’d only been married for five months when he was killed.

“I said, how much?”

Ernest jabbed his finger at him. “You best shut your mouth and sit back down ‘fore I drag you out of here, you drunken fool.”

 “Weren’t talkin’ to you.” A hand clapped on your right shoulder, jerking you backwards. “I was talkin’ to this uppity bitch—”

You only had a brief moment to recognize the man as the one from earlier who’d leered at you. In the next second, he was flat on the ground, clutching his newly crooked nose. Arthur was towering over him, shaking out the soreness of the impact from his hand. He bent down and, without so much as a word, wiped his bloodstained knuckles on the howling degenerate’s shirt. Apart from his slightly mussed hair and the wild promise of barely restrained ire lurking in his eyes, an eerie calmness rolled off of him.

So much for preventing a brawl. 

“You broke it! You fuckin’ broke it!”

“Hey,” someone piped up from the cards table. “Ain’t that the feller who damn near beat Tommy to death the other day when Hubert was workin’?”

“That was you Hubert was talkin’ about?” Ernest said to Arthur. “You owe us money for the window you smashed through, my friend.”

“How much was it to replace?” you said. “I can pay—”

More wailing. “I’m gonna skin you alive!”

“You know, Tommy ain’t been right since,” another person called out. “He may be an imbecile, but he’s our imbecile! You think it’s fun beatin’ on all of us?”

People were getting out of their seats. “Yeah!”

“Let’s go,” Arthur barked at you amid the jeering.

“My bag—” you said, surveying around your feet for your belongings. In the chaos, Arthur had grabbed it for you and was heading to the door. You struggled not to trip over your skirts in pursuit, casting one last apologetic look to Ernest, who seemed like he wanted to go after you. 

Arthur stood outside, unhitching his horse from the post. The temptation arose to make a jest, to smooth the terse silence with something guaranteed to irritate him further. You swallowed it and instead listened to the bustle of wagons and barking of stray dogs. 

“Grab your horse,” he said. “You can follow me. We got a bit of a ride south from here. Can’t for the life of me figure out why he wants me to lead you to camp, but I’m tired of arguin’ with him.”

You wondered who exactly Arthur was referring to. At the Trading Post, he’d hinted at a leader of sorts, the one who had yet to be named. You thought to ask for it, but there was a more pressing issue at hand. “I don’t have a horse. Not since my last one ran off.”

“She doesn’t own a horse,” he said to no one in particular, a moment of exasperation to the universe perhaps, if you had to guess. “How the hell you been getting around? Hot-air balloon?”

“Much less exciting than that, I’m afraid. Trains and stagecoaches. Sometimes I borrow a horse from Ernest. Sometimes I ‘borrow’ from strangers and return their horses before they’re missed.”

“I’m not even gonna pretend all that trouble you put yourself up to makes any sense,” Arthur grunted in response, strapping your bag to his saddle. “Alright, then. Come here.”

You didn’t move. In your hesitation, you considered beginning your rescue plan anew, using the train money to pay for hired guns, which you had wanted to avoid. If the first meeting between the two of you had gone well, the incident in the saloon had gone every bit as astray. But Arthur had intervened on your behalf, which you appreciated, regardless of the issue it had caused. You thought if there was any chance of a man caring whether or not Emma made it back alive, he was it. And there was the small detail of the score you lifted off his hands. You imagined it wouldn’t go over well if you offered it to another group.

Arthur placed the tip of his boot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up and over the saddle. He lowered his hand. This, you accepted with thanks and up you went onto the back of the horse. At this proximity, the scent of soap you’d noticed in the saloon was stronger. You couldn’t remember the last time you met a man who bathed with any regularity, let alone bathed at all.

“Might want to hold on to somethin’,” Arthur murmured. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the cantle as the horse fell into a trot. 

And off you both went, past the gun shop and the train station, the muddy roads shifting into dusty trails the further Valentine receded from view. You were glad to quit the miserable little town if only for a moment, and though you hadn’t any high expectations for your destination, you hoped it smelled better.

“You mentioned you’re taking me to a camp. How big is it?” you asked.

“Suppose you’ll find out soon enough,” came the curt reply. 

“Then, how many people are with you? Besides you and your friend.”

“Ain't you full of questions,” Arthur said. The pistol hidden in your boot felt heavier. It might be enough to fend off several people if they decided to take back by force what they believed to be theirs, but an entire camp? You reprimanded yourself for not thinking this whole thing through.

The horse veered left. Though you sat quietly, your mind was rife with uneasy thoughts. The sun blazed high in the sky, but it would soon begin its descent. You wish you’d asked to meet earlier, having not considered where you would lay your head down tonight, especially if your offer was declined. In all likelihood you’d end up sleeping propped up against a tree in the good company of hungry mosquitoes. Or hitching a twilight ride back to the Saints Hotel with some shifty wagoner. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d done either.

Arthur said something, which you were too deeply absorbed in your misgivings to have caught. You asked him to repeat himself. “I said, it’s not too much further now.” 

The horse picked up its pace. Suddenly you were aware of the soreness in your biceps from straining to grip the back of the saddle. Squeezing your thighs harder to maintain balance, you wrapped your arms around Arthur’s torso. If the unexpected contact startled him, he did not show it.

“I never thanked you earlier,” you said.

“For what?”

“Quieting that fellow back in the saloon.”

“I reckon you could’ve done it yourself. One minute you’re firin’ a rifle in my direction. Next, you’ve gone all feeble and quiet.”

“If I rose hell whenever someone pestered me, sir, I wouldn’t be here to pester you.”

This earned you a laugh. You felt sorry you weren’t able to see it. “It’s Arthur Morgan,” he corrected. 

Arthur Morgan. You’d known to call him Arthur from that friend Marston of his, but now that you knew both names, you thought it sounded familiar. You racked your recent memory for it, coming up empty. It was a common enough name, anyway. 

“You ain’t told me your name,” he added.

“That’s right, Mr. Morgan. I didn’t,” you said. And that was that.

—

“Coming through,” Arthur shouts as the horse slows. You crane your head to see who he’s speaking to when you spotted a man stepping into the clearing, adjusting the bowler hat atop his head with his left hand and swinging a rifle with his right. Your arms slipped away from around Arthur’s waist, back to gripping the cantle for support.

“My my, what’s this? Returning with a girl before the sun goes down,” he says with a wide grin. “You’re getting romantic in your old age.”

Arthur groaned. “Do you ever shut up? You fill every waking moment with your nonsense.”

The grin grew impossibly wider. Tilting his head up towards you and Arthur, you were just close enough to make out this man’s freckles beneath the shadow cast by his hat’s brim. “I’ve plenty of time for peace and quiet when I’m six feet under.”

“Just another reason to hasten you there,” Arthur said, then, softly to his horse, “Come on, girl.”

“He doesn’t really mean that, you know. He loves me,” the man called as you passed by, “Isn’t that right, Arthur? Like an older brother, I’d say!”

The horse stopped at a hitching station just beyond the camp entrance. Off you went from the rear of it, lowering yourself until your boots hit the grass. “Quite the lively introduction,” you said to Arthur.

“That boy is too busy cracking jokes and chasing skirts to do much of anything useful,” he said, dismounting. 

“He’s amusing,” you said. “It’s a breath of fresh air from all the prickly folks around these parts. Look at them wrong and they’ll be twitching for their gun.”

“About as amusing as an insect buzzing in your ear.” Arthur led you to a table, gesturing to the folding stools. “You can sit here a moment. And don’t talk to no one.”

You peered down at the tabletop, noticing copper stains that had long seeped into the wood. “Is that blood?”

Arthur shrugged. “Or you can stand, if that’s your preference.”

You tracked him as he made his way straight to the center of camp, to the largest of the surrounding fixtures, a cream-colored tent that stood proudly over all the rest, watchful. He stopped at the entrance, waiting for the dark figure inside to turn towards Arthur as they stooped slightly, perhaps to grab something. 

The figure emerged finally, joining Arthur outside of the tent’s shade. Sunlight beamed against glittering rings on fingers wrapped around a smoking cigar. You squinted.

Oh God, you thought. That’s Dutch van der Linde. You read about him in the New Hanover Gazette. Your mind ran miles per second as you put bits of information together. You had passed his face on wanted posters during your travels, passed Arthur’s too, lingering above a five-thousand dollar reward for one of the largest heists in Blackwater history. A heist that had seen a dozen or more people dead. And now you were in their camp, a camp that bounty hunters across several states would pay a pretty penny to find.

Those wanted faces turned to you. Arthur waved you over. Your legs grew heavy, rooting themselves to the ground. You had a decision to make.

[ct-7386]

Beans are Spilled

[So, I mentioned this in another post, but I copy-paste threads to a gdoc so that I can keep track of the story, write more coherent responses, and go back and reread at my leisure. Please go read that post, because I'm also using it as a general disclaimer for all the completed threads I'll post as oneshots. If you've reacted to that post, thank you ^^ I've had so much fun with everyone.

Anyway, here is the first thread - both chronologically and the first thread I was a part of.

Please keep in mind that this will have an odd flow to it bc it was written by two people, each writing as their own character. I've done my best to edit for basic mistakes, but otherwise everything is as we wrote it originally.

Authors: myself and @cc1010fox Characters: Commander Fox (them); CT-7386, Commander Stone, Corporal Cory (all me) Rating: T TW: mentions of suicide; depicted depression and anxiety; clones bullying each other; referenced reconditioning and decommissioning

If I forgot any warnings, please let me know ^^

Thank you!]

Commander Stone comms:

"Sir, I have a situation down in Lock Up. Two of our troopers got into a fight with each other, and they won't tell me anything. I know you're busy prepping for that upcoming gala, but..." His grimace is audible, and his volume drops slightly. "I have a feeling this won't be pretty. Can you spare any time for this osik, sir?"

Vod drama sounds like it might be just what he needs to break himself out of the monotony of his current work, so he decides it can't hurt. "I'm on my way." It takes a short while on foot, but he needs the exercise and to expend the energy he, like his vode, was created to have. When he arrives, he's let through without much hassle. After all, he's easily recognizable. "Where's the idiots?"

Stone takes off his bucket and runs a hand over his head. He gestures at two of the holding cells. "Here, sir. When they wouldn't break it up, I had them forcibly separated and thrown in the cells." He steps forward and raps on the dome of his helmet. "Attention, men!"

The clones in each cell snap-to, each with their bucket set to the side on the uncomfortable looking cots.

"Because of your ridiculous behavior, Commander Fox has deigned to address this problem himself." His eyes are narrowed, but there's a tightness around them that betrays his quiet worry. It's just not normal for there to be in-fighting among the older troops.

"With everything the Coruscant Guard has to deal with, you want to add each other to that list?" Fox barks, his tone every bit the reason his men stand at attention when he enters the room. "Who here is going to tell me what's going on first? Because you're both going to, or I'll have you working in such close quarters you won't have a choice but to learn to get along."

The clone in the cell to the right instantly bristles and tenses.

"Work with it?!" He gestures to the wall that separates them. "This shabuir, aruetii, vod-killer!?!"

The entire room stills.

It stills indeed. A vod betraying their own is nigh unheard of, especially in the Coruscant Guard. All they have is each other. Most won't even speak against a vod to save their own lives, even when wrongfully accused.

Fox eventually breaks the silence, looking to the accused, but not speaking to him. His gaze is suspicious, untrusting. Do they have a vod-killer among them? "Those are some heavy accusations, vod. Explain yourself."

The trooper in question stands stiff and almost unnaturally still, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes hyper-focused on Fox's lower face.

"... It was," he finally grits out, "information shared in confidence - a mistake, apparently, and no one's business but my own. Sir. Corporal Cory" - the other trooper, then - "holds a personal grudge against me, and today it interfered with my duties. Not only has he betrayed the trust I had in him, but he could have put the lives of every trooper present at risk."

Corporal Cory looks ready to throw himself at the energy barrier in the door to his cell to confront the yet-unnamed trooper. He is livid. "I betrayed your trust? What about the trust of your vode, huh? What about the ones you -"

At the last second he bites back his words - a surprising show of restraint, given the situation. And yet, every vod in the room feels chills at what the corporal has just implied.

The unnamed trooper swallows and closes his eyes briefly as if to gather himself. "I confronted Corporal Cory," he says quietly, "about his actions. Our argument got... heated. That's when Commander Stone was forced to intervene. Sir."

There's a tired sort of anguished resignation that hangs over the trooper. He's willing to accept whatever his punishment will be if it will keep him from having to relive the past all over again. He just hopes everyone will leave well enough alone.

"You're glossing over pertinent information, trooper," Fox tells him, his tone holding a warning. "Did you kill a vod? Do I need to worry about my men around you?" It's clear he's dodging the subject, but Fox's aim is better than most. He always keeps his eye on the target.

While he may view the vod as a danger currently, there's still no question he would protect him. Vod-killer or not, he's one of the Coruscant Guard, one of them. He just has to know what to do with him, like separate him from the others if necessary.

The look of anguish intensifies for a brief moment before the trooper replaces it with a blank mask. "The only danger I pose is to myself, sir. As for the pertinent information..."

He grinds his jaw, frantically searching for a way to answer the indirect order while maintaining some dignity.

"It was on Kamino," he says at last, voice painfully small; he seems to fold slightly in on himself, as if the weight of his words is almost too much. The trooper swallows. His voice is slightly ragged as he finishes, "It was a - a mercy kill."

There's a moment where the air echoes with the silence, and then he's straightening once again wearing that mask.

"With all due respect, sir, it was a long time ago and has no bearing on the current situation or my performance as a soldier of the Republic. Corporal Cory took the few facts he had and blew them out of proportion." The corporal does look a little guilty. "I will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary for my actions, sir, and for lying by omission, but I request that you not alter my duties in any way. I'm the only clone with my specific qualifications, sir, and my skills are needed in the Senate building almost constantly. On top of that, there are still a couple senators I need to contact to finish smoothing over the ruffled feathers the corporal caused with his... overreaction earlier."

A mercy kill. Questions need to be asked, specifically whether or not the deceased vod requested his "mercy". Otherwise, it was unforgivable, merciful or not. It would be merciful to kill them all, to put them all out of their misery, but it's their choice whether they live or die. Most would rather live so they wouldn't have to be replaced by another innocent vod. They survive and fight through the osik for each other.

Fox wants to ask the question where the others can hear the answer, hoping it will clear it all up, but--

"Senators?" His ire is turned on the other trooper. "You started a fight in front of senators? Do you have any idea what danger you put us all in? Fresher duty. A month's worth. If I hear one complaint, I'll extend it another month." Fox needs the senators to feel safe around them, not wonder when the unstable brutes will snap. The more on edge they are around them, the more likely they will be to have them reconditioned for the tiniest mishaps.

Somewhat surprisingly, the unnamed trooper hesitates slightly and shifts in place. "With - With all due respect, sir, Corporal Cory knows better than to start a fight in front of the senators. He just - I'm a translator, sir, and the corporal interfered with my work and nearly caused a diplomatic incident without really understanding what it was he was doing. I confronted him because he knows better than to interfere with my work yet did it anyway because of our petty rivalry. He didn't - He didn't mean to, not really."

“He knew what he was doing. He knew the senators were there.” It is, however, reassuring that he’s trying so hard to protect a vod. There is definitely more to his background than he’s made known.

The trooper straightens. “Understood, sir. And my punishment?”

He knows he played his own part in this debacle. There were ways he could have deescalated the situation sooner; he could have requested a transfer to another squad when Cory became a problem months ago; he could have not started a fight with Cory afterwards - hell, he could have not told Cory anything. That would have been a fantastic idea.

And now - Now he’ll feel obligated to go to Commander Fox, a man he has barely seen since being stationed with the Guard, and explain this all to him against his own better judgement. What a kriffing disaster.

"An explanation. Whether your past affects your work with the Guard is up to me, not you. Do you understand? We can discuss it in private." Besides, from what he can tell, Cory started the fight, not the other vod.

Fox gestures to his cell, a silent order to release him so they can go elsewhere. He obviously doesn't want to divulge what happened to the others.

Commander Stone follows the silent order and presses a button on his vambrace, and the barrier in the trooper's cell disappears.

The trooper himself snaps a slightly shaky salute. "Yes, sir!" He turns and tucks his bucket under his arm and steps out of his cell, very deliberately not looking at any of the other vode in the room. Then he walks to stand in front of Fox, waiting to be led to - what he sees as - his inevitable doom.

"To my office, trooper. March," Fox orders. In his office, they can't be monitored by curious members of the Guard. At least there's no one in the building brave enough to press their ear to his door.

The trooper quickly marches out of the room, all-too aware of the Commander behind him. He leads the way briskly down the halls all the way to Commander Fox's office where he waits at the door.

His own professional, yet more casual, stride beside him tells witnesses that the trooper is in trouble, a walk of shame. At his door, Fox relieves him of that humiliation, "At ease..." before he opens the door.

Once inside, Fox pries the helmet from his head and sets it on his desk. He then seats himself behind the desk and gestures to the chairs opposite his own. "Have a seat. What's your name, trooper? Do you have one yet?" Not every clone has a name. Sometimes, they're just too attached to their designations and, other times, they just haven't found the right one.

He takes a seat but hesitates to answer the question. "I..." The trooper swallows and looks down at the helmet in his lap. "I go by my designation, sir. CT-7386, or sometimes just 86. I gave up any right I had to a name back on Kamino. I don't -" His voice drops almost to a pained whisper, and he sort of starts to curl around his bucket. "I don't deserve one after what I did."

This vod is not a cold-blooded killer, nor does Fox believe he has it in him to kill a vod without being coerced into it by that vod. The guilt is clearly eating him up inside. The ori'vod, which is what he is to most of his vode, in Fox is making him want to comfort him. He resists the urge to hug him, but not to use his words. "What happened, 86? Look at you, vod. You need to tell someone..."

His eyes snap up to Fox, wide and terrified. "Sir, I - I can't. You would - You would never look at me the same, sir. I'm already isolated from the rest of the Guard, already defective, and now they know -"

86 shudders and curls even tighter around his bucket as if for comfort. It was an order, he reminds himself. This is my punishment, so I just gotta take it. He forces himself to open his mouth and begin speaking even though he refuses to straighten and look at the Commander. 86 doesn't want to see the disgust in Fox's eyes.

"We - We were an experimental batch, sir. The Kaminiise wanted to see what would happen if they tried enhancing our senses beyond perfect hearing and 20/20 vision. Only, because they'd never done it before, a lot went wrong, and they kept us mostly isolated from the others in order to keep studying us."

His breath hitches slightly, and he tightens his grip on his bucket.

"Not all of us survived. We were down to six by the time we learned only I would ever be deployed, the others kept in the labs. And we couldn't - We were afraid. We didn't want to live like that, didn't want to be test subjects, didn't want to live that waking nightmare anymore. So 7301, our second youngest, he came up with this - this crazy plan: stage an accident that would kill us. Only - Only we needed one to stay alive so that someone would remember we had ever existed. They chose -" His voice breaks, and his eyes burn. "They chose me, because I was the only one who could be reassigned and deployed. So I - I sabotaged the program on our training deck. I killed them - all of them."

As he listens, he tries to put himself in 86’s place. The pain he would have felt, not only from the experimentation, but from watching his vode suffer too.

As far as clones go, Fox has always been privileged, selected for the ARC training program, encouraged to embrace his individuality, and given power over his vode. It might be hard at times, but he’s never been experimented on extensively or used as cannon fodder.

Still, he knows what it’s like to suffer, to want to be free from his suffering, and what it’s like to love his brothers so much he’s willing to endure anything for them. If his vode came to him, in pain, desperate for release from this life, would he kill them?

…Yes.

He leans over his desk, that little bit closer to his vod. “You didn’t kill them…You set them free…”

86 laughs bitterly. “Freed them - and enslaved the next poor bastards the Kaminiise decided to continue the experiments on. I know there were others who ‘benefited’ from the results we produced. Freed them?”

Another laugh, though this one he chokes on. He finally looks up, revealing the tears rolling down his cheeks and the absolutely broken look in his eyes.

“That’s not what the ghosts in my head say.”

"Yeah, well, those ghosts aren't your vode. They are thankful." As much as he would love to lay a hand on his vod's shoulder to comfort him, he stays put and lets the sympathy show in his eyes alone.

"You're not responsible for what the Kaminiise do..."

86 shakes his head and scrubs the tears from his face. "I know that logically, but that will never change the fact that my batch was killed by their ori'vod." He sniffs a little and straightens. "Is there anything else you'd like to know, sir?"

"Like they wanted," he insists. It was almost cruel of them to ask 86 to do it, leaving him to live with the crushing guilt. He wasn't handling it well at all. "We don't have any licensed therapists in the Guard, but our medics are willing and able to act as one if you need them to. You also have me. You've really twisted it in your head to make yourself a bad guy when you're not." It's the pot calling the kettle black, and Fox can't see it.

His next huff is supposed to be bitter again, but it comes out just so tired. “With all due respect, sir, I’ve been with the Guard just as long as you have - you’re only a dozen or so batches older than I am, even. This begs a couple questions.”

86’s eyes harden just slightly, more in suspicion and vague distrust than actual anger.

“First, don’t think I haven’t seen just how hard you are on yourself, so, with respect, don’t ask me to do something you wouldn’t. I know exactly how responsible you feel for all of us, and even though I could never imagine the amount of work you’re doing, I know it’s way worse than any of my own problems.

“Second, I’ve managed this long just fine. It took a vod betraying my trust and then having to admit my recurring nightmares under duress for anyone to give a kriff. I don’t see what will change now that I’ve bared my soul.” Okay, that might have come out just a little upset.

“And finally, again with all due respect, but -” His walls once again crumble, eyes bright with tears he refuses to shed, voice hitching with the raw emotion held back purely by strength of will, “why has no one cared before?”

Before Commander Fox can answer, 86 is holding up a hand to stop him.

“No. No, I’m sorry. That -” He swallows, blinks away the shine in his eyes. “I know you’re busy. I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. I know everyone else is busy too. And I work every day in the Senate Building with no one except the natborns; the only time I see vode is when I come back to HQ to sleep.” 86 laughs incredulously. “I don’t - I don’t even know who the medics are? I don’t” - He blinks, brow scrunched in mild confusion and distress. “I don’t think I’ve been to the medbay since our mandatory exams when we were first stationed here…”

Fox doesn't tolerate much blatant disrespect, but he knows what 86 is going through at the moment. When emotions take hold, they're uncontrollable, torturous, until they're finally unleashed like a violent storm. It always ends the same, always. The tears come, shining in his vod's eyes. Again, he's assaulted with the nearly irresistible urge to hold him through it. That isn't Fox, though. He can't risk that sort of bond only for it to be broken by their rank imbalance.

"With all due respect, vod...which is every ounce I've shown you, when was the last time you told anyone the whole story? You hide your pain so well, apparently better than I do," he chuckles, a tinge of bitterness to his laughter, "so how was anyone supposed to know you were suffering? Let your vode know. They will care. They will support you.

If you don't mind, I'd like to recommend our CMO, Paws...and my personal "therapist", Thorn." Yes, he does talk to someone, as much as he's comfortable doing so at least. It helps that they're married in the Mandalorian tradition. "They're both more understanding than you ever thought a vod could be. No matter what you tell them, they'll try to see it from your point of view."

86 blinks, eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stammers, head ducking in shame. If Fox is talking to someone… maybe he should, too. “If you think this is what’s best, I’ll - I can try.”

He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth while he thinks.

"I think... I think I can try talking to Paws? I - I know I need to visit medbay soon, anyway. This one senator -" He stops himself. "Maybe a story better saved for Paws," he mumbles. Yeah. Yeah, he can see what Fox means about talking to someone.

He inhales deeply, closing his eyes and centering himself before releasing the air slowly and steadily.

"I've never told anyone the whole story. Corporal Cory was... He's in my squad. I had a nightmare and woke him up a couple months ago. When he asked me about it, I was... I was shaken." He's ashamed of it, really, but nothing can be changed now. “Without thinking I admitted it was about my batch and how I’d caused their deaths, but that was it. He - He blew everything out of proportion. So, yeah. No one really - really knows.”

Another measured in-out of breath.

“And you’re wrong, sir: I don’t hide my pain all that well.” 86’s smile is wry, his tone self-deprecating. “It seems I’m just really good at hiding myself.” He swallows. “I know I’m not around the vode a lot just by nature of my duties, but - I could have made more of an effort to reach out to them.” He can - He can maybe still try. Maybe. Just - later. When he can think about this all clearly.

Once again he squares his shoulders and straightens. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask, sir? Or have I fulfilled the parameters of my punishment adequately?”

“There’s one last thing I’d like you to try… A mediated conversation between you and Cory. I know he was cruel, but think about what he thinks you did. It’s unheard of. He’s shocked. If he just knew…” he tries. Cory is a vod, so he can’t be completely unreasonable, can he? Honestly, Fox wonders if anyone outside of 86’s guilt ridden mind could possibly interpret what he did as cold-blooded murder. 86 is clearly a victim in what happened too, he just didn’t have the merciful release of death after it all.

That in mind, he really admires this vod. It would be too easy to swallow his blaster, but he’s chosen to stick around and keep his position filled so another vod doesn’t have to suffer through it. After Fixit, Fox knows all of the vode who suffer with suicidal ideation have been struggling to find the strength. He knows because he’s one of them. With 86’s background, he must be so much stronger than all of them, most of which are just victims of Coruscant.

The moment 86 hears Cory's name, he tenses hard. After a long moment he grits out, "As long as you're the one to mediate, sir, I think I can do it. I still - I still wanna shoot him for that stunt he pulled in front of the senators earlier. He could have gotten all of us killed. Thankfully, the senators I was translating for were easily persuaded to ignore the incident," he grimaces.

"Here, there's a good chance he will be shot because someone hates clones so much they can't bear to see us live. You don't want to wonder if your hatred for him was petty when he's already gone, vod. Trust me." It's always the ones who were arguing with the victims that cry the most when they're gone. "I'll mediate."

86 looks away guiltily. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He hasn’t known hardly any of the vode lost to Coruscant, and it’s not exactly a lesson he wants to learn any time soon. He’ll talk to Cory. 86 looks back at the Commander. “If you’re too busy, sir, I’m sure someone else you trust can mediate. And -” He hesitates. “I think the rest of the squad should be there, too.”

“I’ll make the time. You bring whoever you’re ready to tell.” Besides, he already knows what happened, so he’ll be able to correct course if 86’s self-loathing gets in the way and he portrays himself as a heartless killer.

86 honestly feels a short rush of relief at knowing the Commander will be there. Having someone, anyone, standing next to him while he bares his soul to the most recent vode he feels he has wronged will help give him the strength he needs to get through this.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready,” he hedges, “but I - They deserve to know the truth.” The truth of why I’ve basically abandoned them, too. “Just name the time and place, sir. We’ll be there.”

"Will three days be enough time for you to plan your wording?" He doesn't want to rush him, but he also wants to pull it off like an adhesive bandage. Three days just seems like a good in-between. Besides, the longer he waits, the more time he'll have to convince himself it's a bad idea. At least that's how Fox's brain works.

86 nods. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” He’ll need all the time that gives him to think of what to say.

[deiliamedlini]

WIP Wednesday 2

I’m posting two WIPs today because they’re both currently being absorbed into another fic and will never again see the light of day in this form! So here is the second one!

This BOTW scene, but written in a modern fantasy way is: Link is officially named Zelda’s appointed ‘knight’ (but it’s agent because modern).

Goes along with this other earlier scene using the same Link and Zelda where Link saves Zelda from a Guardian with a pot lid (but it’s not a pot lid).  

~~~

“You wanted to speak with me, Father?” she asked politely, not waiting for his permission before taking one of the seats in front of his great desk.

He sat with a stack of paperwork that he pushed to the side while Zelda was here. “There are some things we need to discuss. Things of the utmost urgency. For one, the proposal that Robbie and Purah sent in. I know you had a hand in it, but you cannot be working with them. Not when your time is better spent trying to unlock your powers. That brings me to my second order of business: you must return to the springs.”

“No, father—”

“—Don’t interrupt me, Zelda. You’ll return to the springs and try again. This time, you will not be going with a large escort, but a single guard. An… appointed agent, if you will.”

“And who is this agent?”

“Well, you met yesterday, from my understanding. Send him in,” he called out.

Zelda turned as the doors opened and watched a young man, just a few years older than her, walk in. He was in street clothes, unlike the palace guards. And it only took her a minute to figure out why.

“You! You saved me yesterday. How is your arm?”

He bowed slightly. “It’s well, Princess.”

She turned back to her father. “One of my undercover guards is going to accompany me?”

“He will be in a uniform, not undercover. I pulled him from training for this meeting. Does he look familiar, Zelda?”

“Of course. We met yesterday.”

“No, no, not that,” the king muttered, waving his hand. “Think harder.”

Zelda stared at the man, unsure where else she was meant to know him from.

He was attractive, that much was undeniable. For a moment, she tried to think of magazine covers or advertisements, wondering if perhaps the man who’d saved her had been a world-famous super model. He had a rugged look about him, hard features, a sharp jaw, a piercing in each of his ears. She hadn’t expected him to be quite so tall either. How had she never seen him as one of her undercover guards? Surely she’d have noticed the incredibly attractive stranger following her everywhere.

Intense blue eyes. A stare that was beyond focused. A knit in his brow. 

Tired eyes. A set jaw. Worry lines.

His long hair was tied back into a low ponytail, though his shorter bangs didn’t quite make it into the elastic and fell in front of his face. Under her intense scrutiny, he made a point to push them behind his ears.  

“I’m sorry, Father,” she finally said, giving up. “I can’t place him beyond yesterday’s encounter.”

“This is the Hero of Hyrule, Zelda.”

Zelda’s head whipped toward her father so quickly that she could hear it snap a bit. “Excuse me?”

“The Hero of Hyrule.”

Her eyes went back to The Hero, much slower this time.

The Hero.

“The real one?”

The guard’s head bobbed once, tight and restrained, like an admission he didn’t want to reveal.

“You have the sword? You’re the man who went into that freaky forest and pulled the sword from the stone like? You?”

This time, he looked away, embarrassed. So, her father affirmed that it was him.

There was no sword on his hip though. Only a gun, something that she knew only the most elite of guards carried. It wasn’t a common weapon, and they were still working to perfect its efficiency, but the guards knew how to use it well enough to quickly load, aim, and fire at something to temporarily debilitate it. “Well, do you keep the sword with you? Is it under your shirt or something?”

“Zelda, you’re being unkind,” her father scolded. “Obviously he does not roam around swinging a sword. He’s well trained in—”

“Oh yes, we’ve all heard the stories of how well trained you are. ‘The Hero of Hyrule strikes fear into the heart of the enemies in Labrynna.’ ‘The Hero of Hyrule receives recognition for his acts of selfless bravery in the war.’ ‘The Hero of Hyrule strikes again, saving an entire platoon with his courage and skill.’ Believe me, Hero, we’ve all heard of you.”

“Zelda!” her father hissed. “This attitude of yours is unbecoming a future queen. This is Link Forrester, and you will address him without your snark. He’s to accompany you. Your life is in good hands with him.”

“My life? Am I not just going to pray again?”

The King finally stood up from his desk. “There have been… more attacks by the Yiga Clan. We have received intelligence reports stating that you are a target. I’m so sorry, Zelda, but you cannot be flouncing around unattended any longer. There is too much risk involved. You and Link will be acquainted here for the time being, and when I feel confident enough in his demonstrated skills, I will grant you leave to pray at the springs again.”

“Father, I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve been doing fine with my guards,” she countered, though inside, she was nervous. She was a target? But there was no way she could show her father, of all people, that she was succumbing to another failure. This time, a lack of courage.

“Enough, Zelda. You will not have a say in this. It’s decided. Starting tomorrow, Link will be your new guard. Agent,” he said, turning his attention from his daughter. “You’ve been assigned a new room on the same floor as the Princess Zelda to better accommodate her security.”

“My floor?” Zelda balked. That was taking things too far. A true invasion of personal space. “Is this not excessive? Am I the only one who doesn’t like this? I don’t want this. No. I want to keep my guards. I don’t need the Hero to be my shadow. Father, can we discuss this privately?”

Relenting to just that, King Rhoam nodded. “Leave us,” he said, as everyone behind Zelda headed back outside the room.

It was just the two of them, father and daughter staring at each other in open opposition.

“Father, I don’t understand!”

“What don’t you understand about this? You claim to be such a scholar; figure it out!”

“I’m perfectly happy with my guards! They do such a good job. They’re scarce when I need them to be, and they’re on top of me when I’m in danger. I don’t know why you think it’s safer for me to forsake my trustworthy and loyal companions for him. You’ve heard the stories, same as I have! I don’t want him.”

“Zelda, please,” Rhoam sighed.

“No! You must understand my ire better than anyone! You know how much I’ve struggled to earn the Goddess’ favors, and they will not smile on me for even a moment. But Link,” she spat his name like it was a curse, “is beloved by Hylia and her people. He is lavished with praise and inspires devotion from all who look upon him. The people treat him like he’s a god. The Goddess is likely to choose him as her consort rather than her hero at this point. She favors him enough.”

“Zelda!” Rhoam scolded. “Perhaps if you’d stop insulting the gods, you might earn their favor as well.”

“Please,” she begged as if he hadn’t spoken. “Anyone but him. I’ll dutifully accept any glorified babysitter so long as it isn’t him. Please, Father. Please.”

Rhoam stood and crossed the room, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. As much as he wanted to oblige his only child’s wish, this was not something he could budge on. “He is to be the Hylian Champion in the fight against the Calamity. He has the Master Sword. He is among the most accomplished and decorated soldiers in all of Hyrule--”

“Oh yes,” Zelda interrupted, “Tell me all his accomplishments once more. I’d forgotten them.”

Rhoam shot her an annoyed look. “He is the most qualified to protect you against the Yiga. He will be your partner when the Calamity comes. He can keep you safe from the monsters that are roaming Hyrule. And if you tell me how ‘wonderfully’ you evaded that moblin one more time, I swear to the Goddess herself, Zelda, I will not let you leave this castle.”

With a deep sigh, Zelda knew she was losing. In truth, the time she’d escaped a moblin’s notice while on her own was one of her proudest moments, though she might have used the story one too many times on her father to prove her capabilities. 

“What will happen to my regular guards?’

“They’re needed elsewhere, Zelda. And the Sheikah must return to work on the Guardian project. Let it go all, Zelda. You will not win this one. And you should go talk to him. This will be too long if you ignore him.

Zelda scoffed. “According to the stories, he barely speaks--”

“You speak enough for two,” the king muttered.

“--he’s blessed by every god and goddess in our kingdom--”

“What a horrible thing, to be sure.”

“-- and he’s just so serious! I have never known a thing about his personality, even from the gossip around the kingdom.”

Rhoam placed his hand on Zelda’s shoulder and began to lead her out. “Now you’re going to believe gossip? Surely you of all people know what lies are spread through gossip.”

“Please, Father,” she tried, one final time and with defeat ringing clear in her voice.

Rhoam stopped her at the door. “As your father, I sympathize. As your father, I want you to be safe as well as comfortable. But as King, I must insist you stop fighting me on this matter as my mind will not change. He’s here, and I, the king, will have no lesser soldier by your side given the threats on your life. You will accept this. Now go.”

 Zelda turned with a huff and headed out the door, listening to her father mutter something behind her as she followed the long hallway from his rooms. And immediately, Link was behind her.

“You’re starting now?”

He bowed his head, an apologetic affirmation.

“Ridiculous,” Zelda muttered, heading to her room.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 30

Read on AO3. Part 29 here. Part 31 here.

Summary: Survival, but at what cost?

Words: 3400

Warnings: emotions

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: It's technically Friday right?

I've been done this chapter for days and I've just been sitting on it out of pure anxiety. HAHA. But I did edit it and post it so here you go. Hope you enjoy. It's a bit of a break in some ways, not a break in others. Let me know what you think--I'm ever-molding, ever-receptive!

I love y'all! Stay safe with COVID. <3

You did not remember arriving home, exiting the Audi, stepping out into the searing sun. You did not remember the car ride: a murky journey spent in silence next to your Commander, a sentient shade. You did not remember being led from the balcony down the steps, through the halls, stares sticking to you like sap, stringing syrupy sinews to your skin. You did not remember the moment you stood, or the moment you breathed, or the moment you finally moved. Most mercifully, you did not remember the body--a gruesome, heavy pendulum--as it rocked in the cotton air breeze.

What you did remember was a sharp growl of breath as Johana flung open the front door, eyes rimmed red and burning with the fuel of exhaustion.

“Glad you could make it home, Commander.” She aimed the sword of her stare at you, but it pierced you like rubber. “You must have had a wonderful evening together. Won’t both of you come in?”

You followed him like a zombie, gaze trained on the ground, watching from outside your body as you climbed the steps, crossed the foyer, swept past the kitchen. Tile blurred to wood blurred to a soft Persian pattern. All you could stand to focus on was the wall, the rhythm of your breath, the thump of your still-beating heart.

Unlike hers.

It was only after Johana snapped her fingers in front of your face that you were aware that you’d taken a seat in the parlour room. You’d landed on a dark leather Chesterfield sofa (what was the preoccupation with Chesterfield, in this house?), your Commander and Johana standing at odds beyond the ebony coffee table at your knees. Her arms were crossed. He regarded her like one might regard a swarm of ants on the kitchen table.

“Well?” She looked between you. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Of course, you had nothing to say. So you said nothing. Kylo Ren also said nothing, but his silence was far more unreasonable.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “You can at least bother to explain why you left me alone in the house without so much as a word.”

“I wasn’t aware I owed you my agenda.”

She blinked. “Oh, please,” she replied, “as if I care about your agenda, at this point. What if something had happened while you were gone? To the house?”

Kylo sniffed. “The Knights were present.”

“They’re your men, not Gilead’s. They can’t prevent me from being questioned by the Eyes.” Johana scowled. “They can’t prevent the Council from ordering this house to be torn apart.”

You stared at your hand, at the sprig of cuticle poking from your thumb--you pinched it, tugged it, pain shooting up your wrist. Real, restorative breath would not come to you. Neither would any coherent thought.

“You believe the Council would arrive at my home unannounced. In the middle of the night.”

She blinked, as if he’d asked if she believed the world was round. “After your display with your little slut last night?” she asked, gesturing to you. “I certainly wouldn’t be surprised.”

“She is my advisor.”

Johana snorted. “An advisor to what?” she asked. “Your cock?”

Kylo’s lip curled, and he stepped toward her, shoulders rolling. “Careful.”

She snarled, not budging an inch. “You think that the others don’t see how you look at her?” she said. “You think that they believe your intentions are innocent?” A disgusted, tired laugh escaped her. “Where did you go all night?”

Silence. Kylo was a wolf, thirsty for her rabbit blood. But she wasn’t backing down.

“You never answer my questions,” she said. “Not even after I… I’ve lied for you, taken responsibility for your thoughtlessness, thrown you parties to help with your ridiculously poor public image--”

His fists furled. “None of which I requested.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Her voice was rising. “I did it for you! I did it for Gilead, I--I… I did it for our future!” she said. “One day, we’re going to have a child together, and I want that child to know the Gilead that I know!”

The tear at your thumb split past the nail bed. A child. Your child. Just hours ago you would’ve been sickly elated to be pregnant. Now you wanted to rip your uterus out, barren with bare hands. Gilead was no place to create new life. And Kylo Ren certainly wasn’t the man to create new life with. What had you been thinking? Blood beaded, slipped in a fat drop down your knuckle. It was a relief.

“The Gilead you know is imperfect.” His hands were still balled. “You’re clinging to the past.”

“I’m clinging to what God would’ve wanted!”

“You’re clinging to what Moden Canady wanted.”

Johana’s face tightened, and she sneered, pointing an accusatory finger at her husband. “At least Moden would’ve thanked me!” she said. “Moden would’ve never had an affair with--with some whore, someone disgusting enough to be made a Handmaid to begin with!”

“Johana.”

Flush heat bloomed red at her neck, in her cheeks. “Moden loved me,” she seethed, “he would never have left me alone, he would never have--”

“Enough.”

“--forgotten his purpose as a husband, which is to protect me, to care for me--”

“Enough.”

“--and he never would’ve humiliated me by having some whore wear my old clothes in front of everybody I know!”

A pause. Kylo glimpsed you for only a second--saw your bleeding thumb--but did not respond.

Johana trembled, veins bulging in her neck, and she advanced on him. “Where’s my dress?” When he didn’t respond, she screeched, whirling on you. “Where is my dress!”

You were a statue, a worthy target of her ire, as she lunged and charged you, hand shooting for your hair. Kylo growled, snatched her wrist, and she wailed, jerking back, teeth bared in primal rage. He met her with dispassionate irritation as she twisted, yanked, shrieked in his grip, the rabbit now caged by the wolf.

“Let me go, Kylo!”

She flailed, tried to pry him off, whined as she failed to budge even a single finger. Wrath collapsed into resignation, and she groaned, desperation swelling and dying in her chest, recognizing the futility of it all. Clearing her throat, she took a deep breath, smoothed her hair with her free hand and straightened.

“Commander,” she said. “Please, let me go.”

He did, and she whipped her arm back, rubbing her wrist.

“Your dress has been returned to your closet,” he replied. “Where it belongs.”

It almost sounded as if he’d apologized, though that couldn’t be right. It wasn’t for her benefit, anyway, if he had--but you were still too numb to notice.

Johana blinked, then recovered, crossing her arms. “If you think that fixes anything, Sir, it doesn’t,” she said. “Really, just keep the dress wherever you want it. Throw it out, for all I care. I’m sleeping in the guest room down the hall tonight.” She leered at you. “Enjoy.” Then she turned on her heel and left.

The word enjoy made it seem as if you could imagine nothing better than spending another night with the man who had murdered your only confidant in front of you. Ofarmitage’s betrayal was forgivable--after all, it was your trust in your own Commander that had gotten her killed. The fact was, her only mistake had been that she hadn’t been sleeping with Kylo Ren. You two had been one in the same. Equally enslaved, equally naive, equally expendable. Had Hux gotten his way, you’d be the one with the broken neck.

In a way, you envied her.

Alone in the room with your Commander, you continued to sit, unable--unwilling--to make eye contact with him, studying instead the dry red river that had now trickled to your palm. The air was still, emptied even of awkwardness. There was nothing between you, right now, that you wanted to feel. Behind you, beyond the large bay window, mourning doves cooed their soft, sage song.

He shifted, his gaze razor wire, slicing your skin at the thought of being around him a second longer. Glaring at the floor, you stood, marching toward the exit. Kylo reached for your arm, and you dodged him like he was a poltergeist.

“Don’t touch me!” you spat, shrugging your shoulder as if to banish his curse.

You stalked through the halls and up the stairs, head pounding with your audacity. He didn’t try to follow you, and you were glad. A storm ravaged your mind--what was the point of this, or the point of anything?

Enslaved in the home of malevolence manifested, tainted. Terrorized. Everything and anything turned to sand in your mouth, pouring and pouring down your throat until you choked and sputtered and wept into a soundless void. There would be no reprieve from this, in this future or any other future, not as long as you remained you, stupid and gullible and more craven than shadows in sun.

No saints in Gilead indeed--and next to Kylo Ren, you were the worst of them; he’d held you in his blood-soaked hands and stained you with his sins. You were worse than unforgivable.

You were unsalvageable.

When you made it to your room, you slammed the door, ripped your wings and bonnet from your hair, and threw yourself on the bed, smothering your face with your pillow.

There was no screaming, no tears--you held the pillow to your nose and mouth, sucking in nothingness, willing whatever black wraith that controlled your fate to guide you out of this hell and the next. You had no hope for heaven, you decided, if it existed--you’d been to bed with a barbarian, sought solace in his arms, spoiled your soul under his spell. You deserved nothing but utter damnation.

Another deep breath of nothing, and another, lack of oxygen burning behind your eyes, your lungs starved--just a little longer, and you’d pass out. Yet despite your self-loathing, the base of your brain kicked in, hijacking your intent, and you rolled over gasping, staring at the ceiling as static sizzled in your sight.

As you heaved, seconds tumbled into minutes, the desire for self-destruction crumbling with it. A soft sigh escaped. Killing yourself would do nothing but award Gilead another body. If anything, you would live out of spite, denying it the satisfaction of your surrender.

In fact, you’d do more than live out of spite. You’d do what you promised. You’d get the blade with Snoke’s blood and you’d turn it over to the Resistance the second you had a chance.

The resolution brought a calm to your chest. The rest of the day whittled away as you did nothing but lie in bed, apart from eating your quick lunch and dinner in silence. Neither Johana nor your Commander made an appearance throughout your day and into the night, allowing you some time to process. Staring into your ceiling, you picked at your thumb again, peeling the scab.

It was difficult to put into words what you felt for Kylo Ren, but you knew that whatever it was, it had been unlike anything you’d ever experienced, before Gilead or after. The sexual chemistry was one thing, of course, but there was something greater than that, something almost irrevocable. It was the vestiges of compassion in his eyes, the throttled tenderness in his hands, the buried loneliness, his persistent phantom--the phantom that knew you, too.

More shredding of skin, a rush of release shot through your veins. That was the fact that most attracted and disturbed you, the fact that bound you together, the fact that tore you apart--the fact that in the depths of Gilead’s despair, you’d found each other, seen the other with needle-sharp clarity, both born into an unspoken but magnetic understanding.

You’d peered into the pits of his pain, he’d held you, helpless and fractured. He’d been your savior, your asylum, your normality; you’d grounded him and challenged and incited him. And despite this ethereal intimacy that wove between you--

Kylo Ren had deceived you and bound you to insanity, eliminated all avenues of escape--except through him. He was a beast unleashed, devouring his prey and his protectors alike in a gambit to possess it all. He was agony and rage, seeking a home. Kylo Ren was a man so long tormented by demons that he had finally become one.

And you truly, unconditionally hated him.

You stared at your ravaged thumb through the darkness, your blood black in the moonlight. Crickets hummed in harmony outside. In the hall, footsteps creaked the floorboards. Long, strong strides. Your heart seized, face hot. Your door opened.

Kylo Ren--your mirror, your spectre, your Commander--stepped through and closed it behind him. Under the glow of stars, his beauty was a black hole, celestial and sinister, hauling you toward complete annihilation.

“I haven’t seen you,” he said. “All day.”

“I haven’t wanted you to see me.”

“You’re angry.” He stepped forward, inspecting your face. “Your life was endangered. You know that.”

Sighing, you refused to meet his eyes, focusing on your gnarled cuticle. “You made me watch her die.”

“It was important that they see where you stand.”

You balked. “What? Where I stand?”

“Your importance,” he said. “To Gilead. To me.” He paused. “And that attempts to disrupt that will not be tolerated.”

“But I’m disrupting Gilead,” you said. “You’re okay with tolerating that?” Sitting up, you shook your head. “You know from the party last night that I’m still working with the Resistance. Shouldn’t I be killed?” You pried more dry skin from your thumb--pain daggered up your wrist. “Don’t you want to hang--”

“Stop.”

You frowned. “Answer my question, or don’t tell me what to do,” you replied. “I’m not different than Ofarmitage. I fucked you. I even--” The word stuck in your throat, a rock. “I even cared about you.” You sighed. “She wanted more with her Commander. She did what she had to do to get it.” Your nails were caked with blood. “Just like I did.”

Kylo stepped toward your bed. “Whether or not she is different is unimportant,” he said. “She is not you. She threatened you--threatened me.” He paused. “It won’t happen again.”

Hot indignation coursed through you. “What, so she’s just… a sacrifice?”

He came closer. “She was an example.”

“She was a person!” you snapped. “ She had--she had a life!” Your body shook with anger. “You killed her! And now no one will know. No one will know who she was.” Despair coiled your chest. “I didn’t even know her name.”

Kylo Ren was silent. His gaze wandered the room, lingering on the vacant window, your red cheeks, and settled on the floor, lids falling in a slow blink. He ground his teeth in thought, following the lines of the floorboards, tracking their notches. The knot in his throat bobbed, and he blinked again. A tiny exhale escaped his nose. Slowly, his focus returned to you.

“It’s… unfortunate,” he said. “But if protecting your life means that others die in your place, then so be it.”

You shook your head, folding your arms over your chest. “You don’t get to kill just because it pleases you.”

“Pleases me?” His eyes widened, a nameless turmoil bubbling to life within them. “Little bird,” he hissed, “I have no choice.”

“You keep saying that,” you replied, “but you’re wrong. You’ve had choices this entire time. I’m the one without a choice! I’m the one stuck here, under you!”

He edged closer, tone like a knife. “There is no choice regarding your safety.”

“But people aren’t expendable!”

Kylo Ren pounced, cornering you, fist slamming the wall. “There was nothing to me but Gilead!” His voice was living death. “Now there is you.” His chin trembled, teeth bared. “And I will keep you alive at the expense of existence itself.”

You stared at him--looming over you, agonized anguish behind his gaze--remembering the man you’d seen the night before, the man whose eyes found you when you’d woken in the morning, the man who’d said your name. Then there was the masked monster pulling the lever, the machine who’d massacred his leader’s mansion, the Commander who’d deserted his duty. Kylo Ren was all of these men--and all of them had done all of it for you.

Swallowing, you dug into your cuticle, popping another twig of flesh free and tearing at it. “You disgust me.” You weren’t sure if you were speaking to him or yourself.

A long, slow breath left him, his chest deflating.

“The worst part of this is that I understand why you did it.”

He eased back, looking between you and your mangled thumb. “You do.”

“Yeah.”

You’d kept the Resistance at arm’s length, paying less than lip service, avoiding their inquiries, denying them information that could liberate not just you, but thousands. Even after he’d killed Poe. Your loyalty likely came at the expense of other lives you didn’t know. At the time, it felt like you didn’t have a choice. Who else was dying, now, because of your reluctance? You supposed if you hated him, you hated yourself, too.

“I guess I’m still just… you.”

You drove your nail into your leision, seeking more thin skin, blood smudging your fingers. Having done that, you flayed another layer, twitching as capillaries were rended raw. Kylo sat at the foot of your mattress, watching you work.

“You’re hurting yourself.”

You shrugged. “I could do worse.”

He caught your hand, pulling you from your self-mutilation, and examined it, rotating your wrist. Holding you in his gaze, he brought your bloody thumb to his mouth and pressed his lips to it, a salve of devotion--and then guided it inside, sealing it between his teeth. Your breath stalled, pulse paralyzed as he sucked, tongue sliding up and around the tender wound, cleaning the crimson new and old. Shivers scampered over you, and he purred in soft satisfaction, laving your sensitive pad, dragging his teeth over the knuckle before pulling it free.

“My bed is open to you.” He kissed your thumb again, his affection like anesthesia. “Come lie with me.”

“Lie with you.” The words withered in your throat. No, you didn’t hate yourself--you didn’t even hate him. But this game of hopeless passion had become too deadly, too personal. You were done playing. “I don’t want to.”

He blinked. “You don’t.”

Frowning, you met his eyes, and found a terrified tempest howling behind them. Your hands quaked; you remembered the wisp of him on your lips, dew drops of worship in your ear, the wholeness you’d felt in his embrace. It thrashed in your chest, luminous and blooming into your blood. And you would sooner dessicate your veins than admit it was there at all.

“No.” You tore your hand from him, cradling it to your chest. “I don’t.”

He didn’t move. His eye twitched. “Come.”

“No.” Staring at the wall, you steeled your jaw. “Just… go away. Leave me alone.”

Kylo Ren swallowed, fear a fog in his gaze. With rash-red lips, he murmured your name.

Heat rushed your spine. You shook your head. “Don’t call me that anymore.”

Silence. He shifted on the bed. “Please.”

You speared him with a glare. “Get out of my room, Commander.”

Kylo looked to your hand, still clutched to your heart, and to your face, searching for something in the quiet of the night. Then he stood, staring out into the yard, fingers tensing. After a moment without a word, he turned, opened the door, and disappeared into the hall.

You collapsed into bed, gaze chained to the ceiling. Without him, ache filtered back through your body, your thumb now throbbing in pain. Hot shame streaked through you. Eyes closed, you pressed it to your mouth, futilely trying to taste his lips.

[smokeybrandreviews]

Binary

This started out as a whole thing about Brie Larson. She’s started a YouTube channel and i figured I'd follow it just for kicks. I’m not a huge fan of massive Hollywood stars invading more accessible spaces but, technically, they’re the “You” in YouTube, too. I can’t be too mad at that. Of course Google is going to cater more to their brand, mostly because they bring in the duckets and understand PR so they know ho not to cause an ADpocolypse, but it’s still mad sh*tty. Larson’s first post was just her being goofy, trying to figure out how to even be a YouTuber. You kind of see a side of her that i figured was there, but never really was able to confirm. Brie Larson is the poster child for Millennial geekdom and i find that adorable as f*ck. Which is why i don’t understand the MASSIVE waves of hate she’s getting from the community. Cats are reveling in her perceived failure, it’s actually insane.

Now, before we go any further, i just want to be clear; I am a fan of Brie Larson. I think she is excellent at her craft. Ma is from my hometown and it’s always great to see someone make it out of this cowtown. I believe she has every right to her opinions and the fact that she voices them from such a visible platform, makes her one of the most endearing and real celebrities in an industry maligned by the phony. Brie ain’t quite Russell Brand but she is very vocal about the unjust sh*t she sees and will totally let you know it. That, i think, is why she garners such vitriol. Look, I'm a black dude living in the US. If she gets on TV and says f*ck white dudes, I'm inclined to agree. But she didn’t say that. What she said was there needs to be more voices making film, different perspectives in the arts. White dudes dominate the industry and she’s tired of seeing that movie. I don’t understand how that’s a controversial statement. It’s true. We need more dynamic, more diverse, storytellers making films out in the wild. The thing is, that one statement earned her the ire of every entitled white boy with time and and the internet. These motherf*cker decided to take that personally and we were off to the races.

When Brie Larson was announced as Captain Marvel, i was okay with it. I thought Charlize Theron or Katee Sackhoff would have been a better look but i get it. Larson is young and can portray the character for years to come. Kind of how Florence Pugh is going to take over Black Widow duties from Scarlett Johansson. Pugh can be that character for close to a decade, as can Larson. Once again, however, the interwebs were set asunder with rage and malcontent over the Cap Marvel announcement. It was f*cking ridiculous to me. Sure, she didn’t look the part going into this but neither did Gal Gadot, the latter turned out to be the best thing going in that trainwreck DCEU. Larson grew into the part, put in the work to look the part, and is committed to the role. She did her research, consuming massive amounts of the comics, trying to find Carol’s head space, which was a goddamn feat. Captain Marvel is as controversial as Brie Larson, herself. And it’s just as stupid.

Look, i adore Captain Marvel. She’s my fifth favorite Marvel character after Spider-Man, Doctor Doom, Laura Kinney, and Illyana Rasputin. In that order. Captain Marvel grew on me during the whole Mighty Avengers and Disassembled story lines from years ago. I have no love-loss for Bendis but that cat did wonders for building up more obscure characters, Carol being one of them. I also like what he did for Luke Cage, too, but that’s not what this essay is about. I’ve been a fan of this character since the early 00s and have rode this Carol train for years. I jumped on bored when she was rocking her leotard, which i miss terribly, took my time to dig up the back issues where she was in the original red and blue digs and moonlighted as Warbird for a bit. Then, Marvel Now happened and f*cked it all up. Carol went from this attractive, uber-powered, mess of a woman to a cold, manly, aggressively stupid caricature of herself. The Carol Danvers i had grown to love, with all of her faults and trauma, became some sort of butch nightmare and the poster child for why Woke Marvel was failing. I don’t think that’s fair.

Comic Carol was on her way to becoming a real force in the Marvel universe. She had learned there was worth in her strength, one she had to drag out through deep introspection and an understanding of who she really is. No longer was she just a gender-swapped, copyright placeholder that no one knew what to do with. Now she had agency. Now she was a force. Now she was relevant. Now tore all of that away. After Marvel Now, all of that growth and nuance was thrown out of the window. She became the idealized version of what the SJWs thought a “Strong Woman” should be. Marvel gave her a massive push in an effort to  cater to this burgeoning Tumblr dynamic and it failed miserably. Marvel wanted that Steven Universe crowd and they tried real hard to get it but that sh*t did not work. The changes to the universe weren’t extreme or feminist or PC enough. Courting a fanbase that had no longevity, Carol was sabotaged and thrown to the wolves. That’s the environment we were saturated in when Disney announced Larson as Carol for the MCU. It was a perfect storm of Nerdrage, one that has not died down in any capacity all these years later for either Brie or Carol.

I don’t think the feminist slant given to the Captain Marvel movie was actually such a big deal. I think the vitriol that flick faces stems from the combined maliciousness both the new version of Carol in the comics and Brie Larson, herself, garnered. It’s kind of crazy the massive tantrum everyone decided to throw over this movie. Cats were looking for this thing to fail as some sort of petulant schadenfreude ignoring the fact that this movie wasn’t made for them. As frustrated as i was with the ludicrous discourse, i knew this movie wasn't for me. his wasn’t my Carol and i was good with that. Unlike Marvel who pandered to the trend of PC nonsense, the MCU had a clear vision in mind for the audience they wanted; Young girls. They wanted a character who was strong enough to hang with Thor, stand equally with Iron Man, and have the respect of Captain America. Captain Marvel was the best option. She would be the tentpole hero of the MCU going forward and i accepted that. I went into the film with that understanding and, on my way out, i saw, firsthand, what this movie meant to the target audience. There was a little girl, about nine or so, gushing abut how cool Captain Marvel was. She as ecstatic to see a girl like her, kicking so much butt. In the face of that, every entitled argument you have against the character falls apart in my eyes. Captain Marvel is to young girls and woman, as Black Panther was to us black folk. It’s the same energy.

Do i think the film could have been better? F*ck yea, i do. I think the script should have had one more revision and the directors definitely felt out of place. They’re good at their jobs, they mostly make A24-esque fare, but a massive, multi-million dollar, space epic connected to the most popular film franchise in history? Nah, these cats were way out of their depth. I think Feige dropped the ball on this one, a rare miss. I think Kathryn Bigelow, Patty Jenkins, Lynne Ramsay, Claire Dennis, or  Lorene Scafaria would have constructed a much better film, both visually and narrative wise. I think if the movie was better as a whole, a lot of the controversy and vitriol would have been neutered. Carol is written quite wooden and a little pretentious. The interactions between the supporting cast feels forced. The overall narrative is fine but definitely could have been embellished at parts. Captain Marvel is boring and i don’t know how that happened. You have one of the strongest characters in comics, with a distinct, visually appealing powerset, and you make her movie boring? Really? More than anything, though, is the absolute mistreatment of Sam Jackson and Nick Fury.

The writing reduces Nick Fury, the mind behind the entirety of the Avengers Initiative, to lap boy sidekick in an effort to up Carol’s own stature. That sh*t is poor writing and it’s mad frustrating to see. I hate narratives that have to job established characters, in an effort to push new additions. I just wrote a whole goddamn thing about that with Punchline, Joker’s new “partner”. It’s bogus, cheapening the character and opens up an avenue for bad-faith complaints. Rey Palpatine is another great example. Her entire character is built on the slow, methodical, violent, destruction of the Skywalker legacy. Interestingly enough, that character was launched in the same environment as New Carol so i understand why the movie is the way that it is. I don’t agree with it, but i know why. It was an incredibly poor choice to introduce Captain Marvel in this way, however, and she’s never recovered. Brie has never recovered. You want a 90s buddy-cop space opera? Lethal Weapon with Skrulls and starships? You need your Murtaugh and Riggs to stand on equal footing. That was not the case with this flick. Having Nick Fury job to Carol Danvers for two hours was the wrong way to go about all of this and i think a different creative team could have made something truly excellent.

It’s nuts to me that this is even a thing though. Brie’s personal controversy is so f*cking stupid, i choke every time i think about it. How are you mad she stand up for herself, her gender, and everyone else in a position of persecution? Don’t you want though with a platform speaking up about the inequities of our country? I feel like the same people who hate Brie for her vocal advocacy, are the same people who stan “All Lives Matter” when ever someone says Black Lives Matter. That sh*t feels like the same energy to me. I feel like the criticisms launched at comic Carol have real validity, even if most of them are just whiny man-children who miss the leotard. I miss the leotard, too, but come on? We’re passed that now. I do think, when written well, Carol can be a force in the books. Her run as part of the new Ultimates was pretty chill I think she needs that in order to be her true self, until we establish a true self for the character. It’s weird to say but Captain Marvel, Ms. Marvel previously, has been around for fifty years, and no one has any idea who she is as a character. I think Captain Marvel in the MCU, both the character and film, are hated for the wrong reasons. The fact that no one has any idea who this character is, makes for a lousy cinematic experience. The team put together in an effort to flesh this character out, didn’t have the creative capacity to do so and we were left with little more than PC tropes and Feminist agenda. The MCU let both Brie and Carol down in that regard.

Brie Larson isn’t a terrible person and she deserves more respect put on her name. She an accomplished actress with a bevy of awards and accolades to her name. She’s been in great films like Room and Scott Pilgrim, never once garnering a controversy. The fact that she speaks her truth, a truth the establishment doesn’t want to hear, should not disqualify her talent or the fact that she seems like a really chill person. Carol Danvers is a dope ass character with an amazing amount of potential. When she’s written well and not traded upon for trends, she can have real staying power. Her abilities open up a plethora of interesting, creatively fertile narratives yet to be written. Disregarding her just because Marvel decided to gamble on the pretentious third-wave feminism wave is shortsighted and makes you look like a childish brat. You’re entitled to feel however you want but let’s be clear; Brie Larson and Carol Danvers deserve so much better.

[itsoktheyowedmemoney]

Marinette March Day 15: Support

A/N: A mini crossover with Doctor Who. This idea has been swimming in my mind since last week and I thought it could work for one of this month’s submissions. Takes place post-ML Chameleon and post-DW Resolution.

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Marinette did not feel the cool spring breeze prickle her face as she headed out the school doors, her arms loaded with textbooks. It had been another draining day that left her numb to her surroundings. Despite all her efforts in taking the high road as Adrien advised, Lila’s manipulative habits exponentially grew. Every day she would spew out a dozen or so lies that elicited sympathy or admiration from the class. Marinette wound up as a frequent target where Lila painted herself as the victim of her jealous attacks. As if on cue, the students would rush to console the scheming liar while shooting glares at Marinette and shunning her to her corner seat in the back.

It got to the point where she would often wake up on school mornings filled with dread, like someone placed a heavy object on her chest and pressed down, down, down, squeezing every bit of confidence from her spirit. Tikki was a source of comfort that she could turn too, but there was hardly much the Kwami could do for her in the classroom.

She was tired. She was disheartened. She never felt so alone despite being surrounded by the classmates she once called her friends.

And right now, she just wanted to get back home and finish her assignments, then work on her fashion designs. Or maybe play some Ultimate Mecha Strike IV.

At least she managed to avoid Chloe’s hostility today-

The ground beneath her feet vanished as she stumbled on the edge of a step and sent herself  flying down the stairs. The books she held spilled out of her arms and onto the sidewalk, one which happened to be her sketchpad –Marinette swore she put it in her backpack, just her luck – landed on the shoes of a very haughty blonde teen.

“Watch it Dupain-Cheng!”

Speak of the devil. The universe was truly conspiring against her.

Chloe snatched the sketchbook from the ground before Marinette could reach out for it.

“Still clumsy as ever, there's really no hope for you,” she said mockingly. “It’s a wonder that you can cross the streets in time before the cars run you over.”

“Give that back Chloe!”

Maybe it was because she found out her favorite makeup brand was discontinuing the mascara she always used. Or maybe it was because the newspapers published a detailed article covering an embezzlement scheme that linked André Bourgeois to a handful of top political officials two weeks ahead of the municipal elections. Whatever the cause was, her merciless behavior worsened the past several days.

“Don't tell me what to do! Or have you forgotten you're rightful place?” She opened the sketchpad and flipped through the pages.

“Oh look Sabrina,” she said as she threw a casual smirk at the red-headed girl standing beside her, “Lots of blank pages. Maybe the clumsiness infected her mind and hands too.”

Marinette felt her insides curl up. The stress of Lila’s torment hindered much of her creativity. She only managed to fully finish a few designs when inspiration struck, which nowadays came few and far in between.

Chloe stopped at a page “This one looks nice. The final work should belong to only the best.” She began pulling the edge of the sheet.

“Oi! What do you think you're doing?!”

Marinette looked to her right. A young woman in dark blue jeans and a grey sweater which was covered by a leather brown jacket approached them with an air of authority. She looked to be of South Asian descent and around Nora’s age, perhaps slightly younger. Her hair cascaded past her shoulders, with two bunches tied up in buns that perched on the sides of her head. She stopped in front of them, briefly hesitating as her eyes swept the scene, before steeling herself.

“What's going on here?” she asked calmly, but firmly.

Judging by her accent, she was not a local. The Dupain-Cheng bakery received plenty of visitors near and far for Marinette to gain a general idea of where a person was from based on the language as well as the way they spoke it.

In this woman’s case, definitely British, but unlikely from London.

“Why do you care?” Chloe sneered at her. “You're don't even go to this school, so it's none of your business.”

The older girl remained unfazed by the vitriol, taking a step to position herself between the two at an angle that shielded Marinette from Chloe’s scorching glare.

“I might not be a student, but we’re not on school grounds right now.” She quickly glanced down at Marinette in concern before returning her gaze on Chloe. “That means I have a right to ask. You’re Chloe, aren't you?”

Chloe seemed taken aback for half a second, only to immediately shrug it off.

“Obviously,” she said with a smug upwards tilt of her chin. “It's about time somebody recognizes my importance as the Princess of Paris, unlike some worthless people. They don't deserve to even hear the name Bourgeois grace upon their ears.”

“Everyone is important Chloe. And what you do isn't about what others deserve, it's what you choose to be. So as the mayor’s daughter, why not choose to be kind right now? Can you do that?”

Chloe paused in bewilderment, then threw out a snide laugh.“Ha, as if I’d take orders from someone like you!” she scoffed, “And what sort of nonsense speech was that? Only losers like you and her would waste time believing that type of garbage.”

The woman merely raised her eyebrows a bit. “If that’s your opinion, then I’m sure you would prefer to get on with the rest of your day away from some so-called loser like me.” She flashed a disarming smile that did not reach her eyes. “You two ladies must have something much more productive already planned on a nice Friday afternoon like this.”

Sabrina peeked from behind her friends shoulder “Yeah Chloe,” she chimed in. “We’re going to be late for you manicure appoint-“

“Oh zip it Sabrina!” the blonde snapped. She narrowed her eyes at the other girl, who remained composed, her face a mask of complete neutrality. A moment passed. Finally, Chloe rolled her eyes and released a huff.

“Whatever, it's not like I was going to stay around any longer.” She turned to leave.

The woman cleared her throat loudly and put out an open hand. “I believe you have something that should be returned to its rightful owner.”

Chloe let out a derisive snort and shoved the sketchpad into her hand.

“Ughh, both of you are utterly ridiculous. Come on Sabrina!”

The girl watched the pair go before turning to Marinette, her expression softening.

“Are you all right?”

Marinette nodded. “I-I’m okay.” She was still trying to process what just occurred. No one in recent memory had the guts to stand up to Chloe in that manner. Most confrontations with the mayor’s daughter ended in tears, frustration, or simmering rage. Her defender on the other hand not only got Chloe to back down, but managed to completely draw the ire away from her original intended mark.

The girl kneeled down to her level. Marinette studied her carefully. She had a calm yet steady demeanor, with deep brown eyes that exuded warmth. Marinette wondered if the girl dealt with these sorts of conflicts often. She certainly seemed experienced in facing a bully like Chloe. Perhaps she too was once a victim of one.

“That Chloe has no idea what she’s talking about,” the girl said gently, “You're not worthless or a loser. She puts people down to make herself feel better. You know that, right?

“Of course,” Marinette stammered with a little laugh. “That's Chloe acting like her usual self as expected.”

The girl frowned a bit, her brows knitted together. “Has she always treated you like that?”

“Yeah, but not just me. She acts that way with pretty much everyone. Don't worry, we're used to it.”

“I see...” Her fingers delicately brushed the surface of the opened sketchpad. “Did you draw these? They're beautiful.”

“Y-yeah, thanks.”

“You have a real talent for fashion you know. I believe you’re going be a great designer someday.”

Marinette felt her cheeks redden slightly. “Really? You think so?”

“I’m positive.” She closed and handed the sketchbook back, her dark eyes twinkling like they held some mysterious secret.

“My name’s Yasmin.” The edge of her lips curved upwards into a smile. “But you can call me Yaz.”

“I'm Marinette. Thanks for helping me out back there.”

“Anytime.” She joined her in gathering up the scattered textbooks, then helped her up. “Do you want me to walk you home? I can carry these books for you if you like. They're not too heavy for me.”

Marinette felt a smile grow on her face to match Yaz’s. “Uh, sure!” She pointed to the direction of the patisserie. “It’s that way.”

She hoped Yaz was in no hurry to go somewhere. Papa should hopefully have a fresh batch of cookies straight out of the oven that they could share together.

As they walked side by side towards the bakery, Marinette felt her heart lighten for the first time in a long while.

[keichanz]

Soulmates AU

Because I’m too lazy and tired to think up a title right now.

For the anon who requested prompt number 1 from this post.

Edit: Holy fucking shit there are so many errors and typos please ignore them until I get around to fixing them lmao

Kagome stared down in a mixture of abject horror and absolute elation at the name that had just materialized moments ago on the skin of her right wrist. She was on her way to work on an average Thursday morning, taking the train as she did every day to get to her job as an archery instructor at a special martial arts gym run by her best friend. It definitely had not been there when she’d woken up that morning, and she’d only noticed it because she’d caught a glimpse of black when she’d taken a sip of her Starbucks coffee.

The Soulmate Mark, otherwise known as the name of your Soulmate, only showed up under one condition: you were going to meet them that day, usually within the first hour after it appears. Typically this would be a cause for great happiness and excitement. After all, although everyone is born with a Soulmate, it was still rare that Soulmates actually ended up together because more often than not they lived in different states or even countries. Some received them as young as a day old, while others weren’t lucky enough to get them until they were old and gray. So for it to appear when you’re only in your twenties was a blessing, something to celebrate and remember the day it happened for all of your days.

And usually Kagome would be ecstatic, bouncing off the walls even, and phone everybody she knew…had the name that appeared on her wrist not been in ancient Japanese kana. 

That…wasn’t normal, was it? Kagome blinked down at the characters, able to recognize them for what they were because of her background growing up on a shrine. Her mother’s Mark was in regular Japanese in her deceased father’s handwriting. Sango’s was similar, with her mark being the smooth, elegant characters of her Soulmate’s name in his flowing script. A childhood friend she’d recently reconnected with had gotten her Mark a few months ago in her significant other’s handwriting, also in plain Japanese. 

So why…why was her Mark written in characters that dated back to the Feudal Era? She studied the black ink intently, and found herself actually admiring how it looked. The characters that made up his name were sort of rough around the edges, appearing to be a scrawl more than anything as if written in hasty brush strokes. It wasn’t neat, and yet Kagome had no problem at all deciphering that characters that made up her Soulmate’s name. It was a strange contradiction, and Kagome wondered what the figure the name belonged to was like.

The loud screech of the train braking abruptly brought her out of her thoughts and Kagome blinked again before shaking her head and disembarking. Despite her confusion, elation and slight trepidation, she didn’t have time to dwell on her situation at the moment. Her shift started in half an hour and even though the gym was only a five-minute walk from the station, she needed to prepare for the lessons that day, ranging from beginner to advanced.

Unfortunately, by the time she hurried through the doors of the gym seventeen minutes later due to some unforeseen circumstances including a cyclist, her coffee, and a stained t-shirt, her questionable Soulmate Mark had all but disappeared from her mind as she mentally rolled through the day’s agenda, what needed to be done, what bows she needed to retrieve and lay out for the students who didn’t have one of their own, crap she needed to set up the targets, did the new arm guards come in yet, how many students needed to have their bows already strung, and she really hoped she had a change of clothes somewhere in the archery room. And shit, wasn’t the IT guy supposed to come in today? Damn her stupid computer and its stupid tendency to get stupid viruses! The only thing she ever did on there was play solitaire and go to one stinkin’ website to order more archery supplies! How did it even happen?!

Donned in white judogi with a black belt and talking with her husband and Soulmate, Sango almost missed her best friend’s hasty entrance and distracted rush toward the back of the gym where the door to her archery lessons took place in had it not been for Miroku’s curious raised eyebrow. “Kagome!” she called, jogging over to catch her before she disappeared from view. “Wait, Kagome, I have to tell you—”

“Sorry, Sango, can’t talk, I’m running late today,” Kagome interrupted a bit breathlessly without stopping, failing to notice her friend’s increasingly panicked look the closer she got to the door. “Spilled coffee, gotta change my shirt, lot to do, talk after lessons, okay?” She reached for the knob and yanked the door open.

“Wait! Kagome, listen, do you remember Miroku’s friend—”

“Just send the IT man back when he gets here, thanks San!”

“That’s what I’m tryin—!”

The door slammed shut, Kagome dropped her purse to the floor and then immediately started tugging off her coffee-stained t-shirt, deciding she’d just change into one of the old kosodes she supplied if one of her students desired to wear one during lessons. Most of them were a little too big for her, and smelled funky – she kept forgetting to take them home and launder them – but they would serve her purpose well enough, until she could go home during lunch and change into a fresh t-shirt. And, dammit, she was getting another coffee since she wasn’t able to enjoy her first one this morning. Stupid bicyclist. There were bicycles lanes for a reason…

Kagome dropped the dirty shirt to the floor on her way to the supply closet in the back of the room, snatched a few Kleenex from her desk on her way by to wipe off the coffee residue on her stomach, reached for the door handle—

And froze. Kagome’s back stiffened, her eyes went wide, and the color drained from her face as, painstakingly slowly, she turned her head toward her desk and met the very wide stricken golden eyes of a furiously blushing silver-haired man in her desk chair, one clawed hand lying immobile on the keyboard to her computer while the other hovered over the mouse, frozen in place.

The two stared at each other silently for what seemed like a small eternity, one in increasing mortification and the other with a rapidly growing mixture of awkwardness and embarrassment and had Kagome not been so distracted by the fact that there was a complete and total (but hot) stranger sitting at her desk, she might have noticed the spark of male appreciation in those amber depths. The silence seemed to stretch on forever and in that time Kagome’s face rivaled that of a tomato and still the (hot) stranger didn’t move, didn’t look away.

“…Uh—”

Kagome shrieked, yanked open the closet door and dove inside, slamming the door shut behind her. She heard lurid cursing from the other side as she blindly groped around for a kosode in the darkness and then hastily shrugged it on, effectively hiding the pink lace bra that whoever the hell was out there had gotten good a very good look at. “Who are you and why are you in my classroom?!” she screamed through the door, not quite ready to go out and face him—if he was even still there.

“—Christ—” Well, that answered that. “—I’m the goddamn IT guy,” he yelled back to her then grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “—ears are still ringing.”

“Fine,” Kagome snapped, glaring at the door even though the recipient couldn’t see it. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re in my classroom!”

The supposed IT man swore again. “Sango sent me in to—Jesus, this is stupid, would you come out of there already?!” There was a note of impatience to his voice and Kagome could have sworn she heard a growl.

“You’re stupid,” Kagome muttered petulantly back but reluctantly obeyed, making sure the kosode was tied securely before cracking open the door, peering out, and then exiting the closed in space. She kept her arms tightly folded across her chest as she regarded the silver-haired man with narrowed eyes. He was standing in front of the closet now with his arms crossed over his chest, a scowl on his red face and his golden eyes glaring at her in irritation. Aggravated herself, Kagome was still blushing as she warily asked, “What did Sango send you in to do?”

He raised a brow and snorted. “Keh. Thought that’d be obvious. IT guy?” He waved a hand toward the desk where her computer sat. “I fix computers?”

Kagome’s flush deepened and she murmured, “Oh,” looking a bit sheepish that she hadn’t put two and two together herself but then her earlier ire returned and she glared accusingly at him. “You pervert,” she hissed and he sputtered in what she guessed was disagreement. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?! I can’t believe you just let me—oh my God,” she moaned, dropping her heated face in her hands, embarrassed all over again. The IT guy saw her in her bra. She was going to die.

“I am not!” he protested vehemently, the scowl back on his face and—yes, he was growling, Kagome discovered. What the— “You’re the one who walked in here and started stripping!”

Kagome’s mouth dropped. “Hey—this is my classroom! And it’s not like I expected anybody to be in here! It’s normally empty!” That was when she recalled her best friend trying to tell her something before she’d entered the room, and she’d been in such a hurry to change and get everything prepared for her 9 am class, she couldn’t be bothered to wait and hear her now. Now Kagome was wishing she’d waited to hear Sango’s explanation as to what lie beyond the door to her classroom.

He sneered at her. “Well next time why don’t you listen when someone’s trying to tell you that there’s someone else inside the room you’re going into!”

The archery instructor opened her mouth, closed it, then pouted, annoyed that she couldn’t really argue that point because hadn’t she just told herself the same thing? Still, she mumbled under her breath about rude IT guys and huffily stuck her nose in the air, trying to appear regal and unaffected by it all, but the affect was ruined by the still-going-strong blush coloring her cheeks a vivid shade of scarlet.

The silver-haired man snorted, seemed to relax a little at her apparent defeat – to him anyway – then turned his head, but gave her a calculating, sidelong glance. “Besides,” he muttered suddenly, drawing her narrow-eyed attention. “…S’not like I saw anything interesting anyhow.”

Kagome gaped for the second time in as many minutes and she reacted without thinking, the movement pure reflex. With a cry of outrage she flung her palm toward his face in slap the shit out of him but then gasped when he caught her wrist mid-slap and glowered darkly at her and yep, he was definitely growling.

“Wench—” he started, then abruptly caught himself off as his gaze flicked to the wrist he held in his hand—her right wrist and Kagome gasped when she realized what he was staring at so intently with suddenly wide whiskey-colored eyes. Panicking, Kagome tugged at her wrist, trying to escape the tight grip he had on it, but his hold was firm and it was like he didn’t even notice her valiant tugging, his eyes fixated on her Mark with something flashing in his eyes that Kagome couldn’t quite place. Dread? Fearful astonishment? Cautious hope? Wait, what—

“Kagome,” he suddenly whispered and said woman’s world came to a screeching halt.

Instantly ceasing her attempts to escape his grip, Kagome stared in dawning horror at the man who had probably-most-definitely seen her in her bra and swallowing the suddenly lump in her throat, she dropped her gaze to his hand, drove forward to latch onto his right wrist and yank it up to eyelevel, ignoring his grunt of surprise. Then she whimpered because no matter how hard she tried to deny it, no matter how vehemently she told herself this was not happening, the proof was staring her right in the face: her name in precise blank ink, blazoned across his wrist in clear Japanese—Kagome.

Face pale, heart thundering in her chest, Kagome slowly lifted her gaze up to his face and found him already staring at her, his expression similar to her own. He’d loosened the hold he had on her wrist and he was cradling her hand in his own, his thumb absently sweeping across the Mark that tattooed the pale flesh of her own wrist in ancient Japanese kana—Inuyasha.

They stared at each other silently for an undetermined amount of time, minds whirling, hearts racing until each of their expressions morphed a horrified mask of adamant disbelief, and then they their mouths opened simultaneously and three words fell from two sets of lips.

“Oh, hell no!”  

There is probably definitely going to be a part two. Because this was just too fun to write lmao.

[bryony-rebb]

last minute as usual...

(Posting just in time for me to run and catch my flight home. I’ll try to be more responsible next year @gwsecretsantaexchange... And I’ll try to get the AO3 stuff sorted later.)

Dear Santa, For Christmas I would really love a fic involving the following: Triton Bloom and Duo Maxwell in any situation ever OR Homey scenes of any of the GW parents tucking in their children. (e.g. The Peacecrafts tucking in Milliardo, Relena, or both, The Darlians tucking in Relena, The Blooms tucking in Cathy or Triton, someone tucking in Mariemaia, etc.) OR Someone having to defuse a bomb to save Christmas.

A/N: It’s a bit of a hodge-podge, but Merry Christmas @helmistress​ ! I must apologise for the one-dimensional villains, though. I had some vague ideas for them, but somehow they never materialized on the page. :-/

The house was nearly dark when Une opened the door and stepped inside, but not entirely. The twinkle of Christmas lights lit a path into the living room. And there, she was gratified to find a small plate piled high with gingersnaps (her favorite) and a glass of eggnog -- she sniffed it -- generously spiked with rum.

"Don't mind if I do," she murmured, helping herself to a sip and a snap. After all, it was just after midnight, which made it technically Christmas Day. And after the night she'd had, she felt she deserved a treat.

She toed off her shoes then and there, allowing herself a moment to rub her aching feet and wiggle her toes into the carpet before beginning the trudge upstairs in just her nylons.

At the top of the stairs she paused. There was a light on in Mariemaia's bedroom, spilling out from beneath the door. And, she observed, a flicker of movement. Tutting to herself, she opened the girl's door with the same quick efficiency she might employ in enemy territory and was rewarded with the sight of wide blue eyes blinking innocently up at her.

"And just what are you doing still awake?" Une asked her.

"Reading."

Mariemaia raised her book to demonstrate, a thick hardback that she had to hold open with both hands. Une recognized the tome. It wasn't even fiction, but one of her old textbooks from the Academy. What's more, clearly illustrating that Mariemaia knew full well she was breaking the rules, her reading light was a flashlight propped up against her pillow.

"It's past your bedtime."

Mariemaia had the good grace to look at least a little guilty. "I was conducting an experiment." Une raised her eyebrows expectantly; that promised to be an interesting explanation, at least. "Yesterday at school the other children were discussing Santa Claus. They really seemed to think he might be real. So I wanted to find out if I'd be able to hear if he arrived. And also… I couldn't sleep."

Une understood the subtext of that sentence.

She slipped into the room and took a seat on the edge of Mariemaia's mattress, easing the textbook from the little girl's grasp. "Well, this should certainly do a good job of sending you off to Nod, at least," she acknowledged, skimming the dry paragraphs of military history Mariemaia had been poring over. She wouldn't vouch for the dreams they might induce, though. Setting the book aside, she suggested, "How about a real bedtime story?"

"Do you know any?"

Once, such a disbelieving tone, even from a child, might have stung her. On other days, it might have provoked her. But Une was a different person now. She teased back, "I said it was a real story, didn't I?"

"All right," Mariemaia agreed, settling down into her bed, "I'm listening."

"Once upon a time, there was a…lady knight."

"Oh, no thank you," said Mariemaia, "I'm not interested in knights anymore. I'd much rather hear about what kept you at work so late."

Une let out a tired sigh, but there was an indulgent smile at her lips. "Fine, then," she agreed, "that's what you shall hear."

*

"Man," said Duo, "we just cannot catch a break, can we?"

"It seems not," Trowa agreed. A short distance away from where they huddled loomed the Foreign Ministry building, the subject of their current scrutiny and ire.

Duo scuffed his foot along the ground, kicking up a tiny cloud of de-icing grit from the pavement which drifted over to settle on the patchy snow. He heaved a sigh, his breath frosting in the cold air. "You know, just once, I'd like to have a quiet Christmas. Give that a try. Is that so much to ask?"

Beside him, Trowa raised a hand to scratch his nose, covering a discreet smile. "How come you joined Preventers, then?"

"Sure, sure, real funny. It's just there's this thing I've heard of, called a day off. Apparently people are supposed to have them from time to time. They're supposed to be pretty nice."

"Well, look at it this way. The sooner we take care of this, the sooner you can get back to your…quiet Christmas."

"All right. Run me through it again; how many guys do we think are in there?"

"Intel reckoned about twenty-five, but potentially more than a hundred possible hostages. It's not clear how many people had already left for the holidays. Communication so far has been limited, which doesn't bode well for negotiations having a positive outcome. Most of what we know came from a single security guard before contact got cut off."

"So what's the plan, then, hotshot?"

"Une wants us to sit tight until backup gets here."

"She does, huh? You think she actually expects us to follow those orders?"

Trowa met Duo's eye, a tiny smirk curling at his lip. "Not if she's smart."

"Now that's more like it," Duo crowed with satisfaction. "So come on, what's the plan? You must have one, you're always Mr Prepared."

"I found out about this situation at exactly the same time you did," Trowa reminded him. "There hasn't been a whole lot of time to plan."

"So what are we gonna do then? Make like Heero and wing it?" There was a pause, followed by stifled laughter. Trowa was bent double, literally slapping his thigh with mirth, something which up until that moment Duo had thought to be only a figure of speech. He shook his head. "Really, Tro? Today's the day you develop a sense of humor? That must have been the worst joke I ever made."

Trowa straightened slowly, dabbing his eyes as he recovered from his fit of laughter. "I don't know, I thought it was pretty good."

"Yeah, and I'm sure Une would be thrilled to see you're taking this so seriously."

"I'm serious," Trowa insisted, sounding vaguely affronted at the implication he was anything but. He made a production of arranging his face back into something more appropriate, more serious, and reached into his bag. "There is one other thing. The security guard we were in contact with said the intruders got in under cover as carolers. They were all wearing these." He withdrew a lumpy, festively wrapped bundle and tossed it in Duo's direction.

Frowning, Duo tore into the paper to reveal a sweater much like the one Trowa was wearing, but in red, and patterned with Christmas baubles. "…I don't get it."

Trowa snorted. "It's a Christmas present. For you. From me."

"Oh man. Trowa, I mean, I'm touched. But I feel bad, I didn't know we were doing presents. I didn't get you anything."

"Hey now, that's not true. You gave me your cold just last month, don't you remember?"

"Heh. Yeah, well, in fairness that was more of a re-gift. See, Wufei gave it to me first."

"You also bought me a sandwich a few days ago. And a beer the last time we went out after work."

"What, are you keeping a running tally or something?"

Trowa ducked his head, hiding a grin. "No. I just thought I should…let you know it was appreciated. It's been good this past year, working with you and Wufei. It's been…nice. Having friends."

Duo rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, looking from the sweater to Trowa and back again. "Yeah," he agreed, "it has been nice. Better than I thought it would be, working for Preventers."

"I got gifts for everybody, though, so don't let it go to your head; it's not like you're so special."

Duo laughed and pulled the sweater over his head. "Sure. Of course. You know, it's gonna be a job getting into the Foreign Ministry building wearing this."

"I reckon you're up for the challenge."

*

Trowa didn't try very hard to hide his presence in the Foreign Ministry building, but he didn't have to: the halls were deserted. He had at least expected a little more difficulty from the initial entry, but a broken window had taken care of that for him. The sound hadn't even attracted any notice. He had to think that meant the intruders had, for some reason, decided to completely disable the security mechanisms rather than turn them to their own advantage. That, he thought, was a good place to start. Reactivating the cameras would give him an overview of the whole building and fill in the intel which had been sorely lacking.

Rounding the next corner provided his first encounter with the enemy: Two men, about five meters away, looking very surprised to see him.

The corridor didn't offer much in the way of high ceilings, but no matter. A cartwheeling target was still more difficult to hit than a stationary one, and let him build up some decent momentum.

"What the -"

"Shoot him!"

Too late.

A punch to the solar plexus sent one of the two men reeling, which let him take out the legs of the other. He relieved the downed man of his gun in time to turn it on his compatriot just as the other man was recovering. "Drop it," Trowa told him. The wheezing man did so, his gun clattering to the floor. Trowa retrieved that weapon also, securing it in his waistband.

Then, from behind him, back the way he'd come, he heard something. It was there and gone before he could identify it. Footsteps? But when he looked back, no one was there.

Frowning and vaguely unsettled, he turned his attention back to the two men in front of him. "Where are the hostages being held?"

*

Duo had a passing familiarity with the layout of the Foreign Ministry building, sufficient enough to find his way to two or three key locations blindfolded if he had to. One of those key locations was the break room on the third floor. Throwing open the door, he was unsurprised to find a man wearing a sweater much like his own pouring himself a cup of sludge-like black coffee. Looked like Trowa had been right about the Christmas jumpers.

"Hey, pal, fix me a cup of that stuff, too, huh? I could use a pick-me-up."

The guy cocked his head at Duo uncertainly. "…Vic?"

"Uh, no," Duo admitted. He let his switchblade flick out into his hand and grinned. "But how about you tell me your name?"

The guy's face went white and the mug in his hand dropped, cracking against the countertop on its way to the floor, where it shattered and sent shards of porcelain scattering with a flood of coffee. He started to scramble away, but his feet slipped on the wet floor, and then Duo was right there -- with a friendly supportive arm thrown over his shoulders and a knife at his throat.

"Hey now, what's the rush? We're just getting to know each other. I want to know all about this sweet little setup of yours and just what you're planning to accomplish here."

"I… I…"

"See, what gets me is that we worked hard for this peace, you know? We earned it. So I really want to know what makes you think it's a fine thing for you to walk in here and try to trash everything. And you think I'm just gonna let you?"

Suddenly, a strangled scream echoed from out in the hall, then cut off as abruptly as it began.

The other guy's eyes met Duo's and his face seemed to get even paler, if that was possible.

"Wait here," Duo told him and backstepped his way into the corridor, leaning out and checking both directions. Nothing. Deserted.

He always did have the feeling the Foreign Ministry building might be haunted. Shrugging, he stepped back into the lounge.

*

Duo and Trowa arrived at the central lecture theatre at roughly the same time. "Fancy meeting you here," Duo remarked.

"You got blood on your new sweater," Trowa pointed out, doing an admirable job of looking as if that hurt his feelings.

"It's not blood, it's spilled coffee. It'll wash out. And you're looking a little mussed there yourself. What happened to your hair?"

"I don't want to talk about it." The intrigued look Duo levelled at him promised that he would be talking about it very soon. Trowa cleared his throat. "By my reckoning we're expecting ten to fifteen combatants inside. Our priority needs to be getting the civilians evacuated without casualties. We should try to draw fire to ourselves."

"Yeah, yeah," Duo muttered with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "Two of us against fifteen guys with guns, I'm not liking our odds. Even if they are crap shots. I was hoping we might be able to get some leverage or something, but I still don't even understand what these morons want."

"People don't always have clear motivations. But we can still make a difference here."

"Yeah," Duo agreed, "let's go."

They burst through the doors and separated, diving for cover. There were two men and a woman on guard in their section of the theatre who sent up the alarm. There wasn't much room for maneuver; they couldn't take cover amongst the seats -- the skeleton staff of the Foreign Ministry that had the misfortune of working over Christmas were lined up there in the central rows. Keeping up a steady stream of curses under his breath, Duo managed to take down the man nearest him before getting cornered behind a support column. Trowa appeared to be…somehow using the other man as a springboard in an effort to launch himself up towards the balcony level.

Suddenly a voice from the front of the stage cut through the chaos. "STOP!"

By that point Trowa was midway through the air, so there wasn't a lot he could do to slow down, but remarkably, everyone else in the room went still and there was a blissful moment in which -- for once -- no one was trying to kill them. Duo risked a peek around his column towards the stage.

There was someone else down there, approaching what was obviously the leader of this sorry band of misfits.

It was…

It was Une!

"Not one more step," the man in charge warned her, "I have this place rigged to blow!" He triumphantly displayed the detonator in his hand, with his thumb hovering warningly near the button.

Duo sucked in an alarmed breath.

Up above, without making his movements too obvious, Trowa began to cast about, looking for the potential bombs.

Une was not deterred. True to the man's command, she didn't take a single step -- it was more of a flying tackle. They went down in a splay of limbs and Duo and Trowa watched, impressed, as, following a brief scuffle, Une emerged from the fray, detonator in hand.

She stood up and calmly brushed herself off before announcing, "If everyone could please make their way to the nearest exit…" Then her eyes found Trowa and Duo's and narrowed. "Barton, Maxwell. Your orders were to wait for backup."

"Yeah, but we didn't think you were going to be the backup!" Duo protested. "We were just expecting some doofus."

"Sorry, commander," Trowa spoke over him, offering a crisp salute.

Looking at the orderly procession of people departing the lecture hall, Duo whistled. "Damn," he said, "looks like you just saved Christmas!"

*

"And that," Une concluded, smoothing the covers up under Mariemaia's chin, "is why I'm home so late."

Mariemaia blinked sleepily up at her. "It was a very good story, but did that really happen? How do you know what Trowa and Duo were doing before you arrived?"

Une chuckled. "Is questioning your guardian's honesty the best way to get onto Santa's nice list?"

"No, but… why would I be on there anyway? Besides," Mariemaia added defiantly, "I don't believe he's real anyway. The people at school are all mistaken." She looked up at her guarian anxiously. "Aren't they, Une? He's just… a trick, to make sure little kids behave."

Une found herself unsure of what to say. But it was obvious what all this talk of Santa Claus stood in for, so perhaps it was best if she simply went for the root. "The events of last Christmas," she said, "were not your fault. And while it is important to reflect on our past actions, we cannot allow ourselves to be defined by them forever. We must allow ourselves to grow past them. Do you understand? I know that you're sorry for what happened-"

"But that's just it, though," Mariemaia interrupted with a cry. "I'm not sure that I am sorry!"

"What do you mean?"

"If Dekim and I hadn't… If we hadn't fought, then I wouldn't be here with you."

The way Une's heart caught in her chest at those words was unexpected, but enjoyable. She reached for Mariemaia's hand and gave it a squeeze. "That's different," she said. "I'm not sorry you're here with me either. I'm very glad. And I wouldn't change that for all the world."

At last, Mariemaia appeared mollified. She settled back against her pillow and smiled. "Goodnight, Une. Merry Christmas."

"Goodnight." Une leaned in and pressed a kiss to Mariemaia's forehead, expecting her daughter's eyes to be shut and ready for sleep when she drew back. But instead, the little girl was once more looking at her suspiciously.

"Is that eggnog on your breath?" she accused. "I left that out for Santa."

[smokeybrand]

Binary

This started out as a whole thing about Brie Larson. She’s started a YouTube channel and i figured I'd follow it just for kicks. I’m not a huge fan of massive Hollywood stars invading more accessible spaces but, technically, they’re the “You” in YouTube, too. I can’t be too mad at that. Of course Google is going to cater more to their brand, mostly because they bring in the duckets and understand PR so they know ho not to cause an ADpocolypse, but it’s still mad sh*tty. Larson’s first post was just her being goofy, trying to figure out how to even be a YouTuber. You kind of see a side of her that i figured was there, but never really was able to confirm. Brie Larson is the poster child for Millennial geekdom and i find that adorable as f*ck. Which is why i don’t understand the MASSIVE waves of hate she’s getting from the community. Cats are reveling in her perceived failure, it’s actually insane.

Now, before we go any further, i just want to be clear; I am a fan of Brie Larson. I think she is excellent at her craft. Ma is from my hometown and it’s always great to see someone make it out of this cowtown. I believe she has every right to her opinions and the fact that she voices them from such a visible platform, makes her one of the most endearing and real celebrities in an industry maligned by the phony. Brie ain’t quite Russell Brand but she is very vocal about the unjust sh*t she sees and will totally let you know it. That, i think, is why she garners such vitriol. Look, I'm a black dude living in the US. If she gets on TV and says f*ck white dudes, I'm inclined to agree. But she didn’t say that. What she said was there needs to be more voices making film, different perspectives in the arts. White dudes dominate the industry and she’s tired of seeing that movie. I don’t understand how that’s a controversial statement. It’s true. We need more dynamic, more diverse, storytellers making films out in the wild. The thing is, that one statement earned her the ire of every entitled white boy with time and and the internet. These motherf*cker decided to take that personally and we were off to the races.

When Brie Larson was announced as Captain Marvel, i was okay with it. I thought Charlize Theron or Katee Sackhoff would have been a better look but i get it. Larson is young and can portray the character for years to come. Kind of how Florence Pugh is going to take over Black Widow duties from Scarlett Johansson. Pugh can be that character for close to a decade, as can Larson. Once again, however, the interwebs were set asunder with rage and malcontent over the Cap Marvel announcement. It was f*cking ridiculous to me. Sure, she didn’t look the part going into this but neither did Gal Gadot, the latter turned out to be the best thing going in that trainwreck DCEU. Larson grew into the part, put in the work to look the part, and is committed to the role. She did her research, consuming massive amounts of the comics, trying to find Carol’s head space, which was a goddamn feat. Captain Marvel is as controversial as Brie Larson, herself. And it’s just as stupid.

Look, i adore Captain Marvel. She’s my fifth favorite Marvel character after Spider-Man, Doctor Doom, Laura Kinney, and Illyana Rasputin. In that order. Captain Marvel grew on me during the whole Mighty Avengers and Disassembled story lines from years ago. I have no love-loss for Bendis but that cat did wonders for building up more obscure characters, Carol being one of them. I also like what he did for Luke Cage, too, but that’s not what this essay is about. I’ve been a fan of this character since the early 00s and have rode this Carol train for years. I jumped on bored when she was rocking her leotard, which i miss terribly, took my time to dig up the back issues where she was in the original red and blue digs and moonlighted as Warbird for a bit. Then, Marvel Now happened and f*cked it all up. Carol went from this attractive, uber-powered, mess of a woman to a cold, manly, aggressively stupid caricature of herself. The Carol Danvers i had grown to love, with all of her faults and trauma, became some sort of butch nightmare and the poster child for why Woke Marvel was failing. I don’t think that’s fair.

Comic Carol was on her way to becoming a real force in the Marvel universe. She had learned there was worth in her strength, one she had to drag out through deep introspection and an understanding of who she really is. No longer was she just a gender-swapped, copyright placeholder that no one knew what to do with. Now she had agency. Now she was a force. Now she was relevant. Now tore all of that away. After Marvel Now, all of that growth and nuance was thrown out of the window. She became the idealized version of what the SJWs thought a “Strong Woman” should be. Marvel gave her a massive push in an effort to  cater to this burgeoning Tumblr dynamic and it failed miserably. Marvel wanted that Steven Universe crowd and they tried real hard to get it but that sh*t did not work. The changes to the universe weren’t extreme or feminist or PC enough. Courting a fanbase that had no longevity, Carol was sabotaged and thrown to the wolves. That’s the environment we were saturated in when Disney announced Larson as Carol for the MCU. It was a perfect storm of Nerdrage, one that has not died down in any capacity all these years later for either Brie or Carol.

I don’t think the feminist slant given to the Captain Marvel movie was actually such a big deal. I think the vitriol that flick faces stems from the combined maliciousness both the new version of Carol in the comics and Brie Larson, herself, garnered. It’s kind of crazy the massive tantrum everyone decided to throw over this movie. Cats were looking for this thing to fail as some sort of petulant schadenfreude ignoring the fact that this movie wasn’t made for them. As frustrated as i was with the ludicrous discourse, i knew this movie wasn't for me. his wasn’t my Carol and i was good with that. Unlike Marvel who pandered to the trend of PC nonsense, the MCU had a clear vision in mind for the audience they wanted; Young girls. They wanted a character who was strong enough to hang with Thor, stand equally with Iron Man, and have the respect of Captain America. Captain Marvel was the best option. She would be the tentpole hero of the MCU going forward and i accepted that. I went into the film with that understanding and, on my way out, i saw, firsthand, what this movie meant to the target audience. There was a little girl, about nine or so, gushing abut how cool Captain Marvel was. She as ecstatic to see a girl like her, kicking so much butt. In the face of that, every entitled argument you have against the character falls apart in my eyes. Captain Marvel is to young girls and woman, as Black Panther was to us black folk. It’s the same energy.

Do i think the film could have been better? F*ck yea, i do. I think the script should have had one more revision and the directors definitely felt out of place. They’re good at their jobs, they mostly make A24-esque fare, but a massive, multi-million dollar, space epic connected to the most popular film franchise in history? Nah, these cats were way out of their depth. I think Feige dropped the ball on this one, a rare miss. I think Kathryn Bigelow, Patty Jenkins, Lynne Ramsay, Claire Dennis, or  Lorene Scafaria would have constructed a much better film, both visually and narrative wise. I think if the movie was better as a whole, a lot of the controversy and vitriol would have been neutered. Carol is written quite wooden and a little pretentious. The interactions between the supporting cast feels forced. The overall narrative is fine but definitely could have been embellished at parts. Captain Marvel is boring and i don’t know how that happened. You have one of the strongest characters in comics, with a distinct, visually appealing powerset, and you make her movie boring? Really? More than anything, though, is the absolute mistreatment of Sam Jackson and Nick Fury.

The writing reduces Nick Fury, the mind behind the entirety of the Avengers Initiative, to lap boy sidekick in an effort to up Carol’s own stature. That sh*t is poor writing and it’s mad frustrating to see. I hate narratives that have to job established characters, in an effort to push new additions. I just wrote a whole goddamn thing about that with Punchline, Joker’s new “partner”. It’s bogus, cheapening the character and opens up an avenue for bad-faith complaints. Rey Palpatine is another great example. Her entire character is built on the slow, methodical, violent, destruction of the Skywalker legacy. Interestingly enough, that character was launched in the same environment as New Carol so i understand why the movie is the way that it is. I don’t agree with it, but i know why. It was an incredibly poor choice to introduce Captain Marvel in this way, however, and she’s never recovered. Brie has never recovered. You want a 90s buddy-cop space opera? Lethal Weapon with Skrulls and starships? You need your Murtaugh and Riggs to stand on equal footing. That was not the case with this flick. Having Nick Fury job to Carol Danvers for two hours was the wrong way to go about all of this and i think a different creative team could have made something truly excellent.

It’s nuts to me that this is even a thing though. Brie’s personal controversy is so f*cking stupid, i choke every time i think about it. How are you mad she stand up for herself, her gender, and everyone else in a position of persecution? Don’t you want though with a platform speaking up about the inequities of our country? I feel like the same people who hate Brie for her vocal advocacy, are the same people who stan “All Lives Matter” when ever someone says Black Lives Matter. That sh*t feels like the same energy to me. I feel like the criticisms launched at comic Carol have real validity, even if most of them are just whiny man-children who miss the leotard. I miss the leotard, too, but come on? We’re passed that now. I do think, when written well, Carol can be a force in the books. Her run as part of the new Ultimates was pretty chill I think she needs that in order to be her true self, until we establish a true self for the character. It’s weird to say but Captain Marvel, Ms. Marvel previously, has been around for fifty years, and no one has any idea who she is as a character. I think Captain Marvel in the MCU, both the character and film, are hated for the wrong reasons. The fact that no one has any idea who this character is, makes for a lousy cinematic experience. The team put together in an effort to flesh this character out, didn’t have the creative capacity to do so and we were left with little more than PC tropes and Feminist agenda. The MCU let both Brie and Carol down in that regard.

Brie Larson isn’t a terrible person and she deserves more respect put on her name. She an accomplished actress with a bevy of awards and accolades to her name. She’s been in great films like Room and Scott Pilgrim, never once garnering a controversy. The fact that she speaks her truth, a truth the establishment doesn’t want to hear, should not disqualify her talent or the fact that she seems like a really chill person. Carol Danvers is a dope ass character with an amazing amount of potential. When she’s written well and not traded upon for trends, she can have real staying power. Her abilities open up a plethora of interesting, creatively fertile narratives yet to be written. Disregarding her just because Marvel decided to gamble on the pretentious third-wave feminism wave is shortsighted and makes you look like a childish brat. You’re entitled to feel however you want but let’s be clear; Brie Larson and Carol Danvers deserve so much better.

[auburnfamilynews]

Julie Bennett-USA TODAY Sports

Auburn’s offense was unstoppable Saturday night.

Auburn’s offense broke out in a big way Saturday night against the hapless Kent State Golden Flashes. Does 400+ yards on the ground and 50+ points mean everything is good and we can expect offensive fireworks from here on out? Of course not. But not doing so would have spelled disaster.

How Auburn went about doing their damage is worth exploring. The Tigers offensive attack looked very different from the one we saw the last time Auburn was in Texas. It featured a lot more gap concepts and a running threat at QB. I think Malzahn has a better understanding of what Auburn can and can’t do heading into this weekend’s SEC opener.

Let’s explore....

Auburn has started slow offensively the first 2 weeks of the season. In fact, they have been slow to start all four halves heading into last week’s contest having gone 3 & out on three of their first four opening drives. None resulting in any points of any kind.

That changed Saturday.

The Tigers looked to establish the rushing attack early but more interestingly was the type of rushing threat they wanted to show. Late in that drive Auburn broke out the Zone Read once again with great success.

Nix is reading the defensive end on the far side of the field. That defender is purposefully left unblocked. If he hangs out wide then Nix gives this to Boobee who will run behind his offensive line blocking Inside Zone. If he pinches in, as he does on this play, Nix keeps it and goes outside for a big gain.

Also notice Matthew Hill up above. He’s running a little bubble and that occupies the Nickel defender. As a result, there is no one within 10 yards capable of tackling Nix. Some nice blocking by Shenker down the field allows Nix to get a few more yards.

The Tigers use pace following Nix’s first big pickup and run the same concept the opposite way. Again, the DE crashes inside while the overhang defender follows the bubble action. Nix makes the right read and gashes the Golden Flashes again setting up first & goal.

If it ain’t broke, why fix it? Auburn goes to the read zone well a third time. However, on this play, notice how the DE hangs wide. Nix might have been able to beat him to the endzone but makes the wise choice to hand it off. The safety is also not crashing hard downfield in case Nix decides to keep this and go wide. As a result, Boobee can get into the endzone before either can make a play.

What really stands out about those 3 plays is the fact that Auburn is able to basically remove two defenders by not blocking them. That gives Auburn a major numbers advantage and is a great way to attack stacked boxes. My guess is if that overhang defender doesn’t chase the bubble Nix has the freedom to throw the ball to Hill who will have a blocker ahead of him. Auburn used this concept some with Jarrett Stidham but without the QB keeper option (at least from what I can remember). Adding the QB’s feet as a weapon essentially makes this a modern day triple option attack.

Auburn’s offense went back to work on drive #2 again relying on the ground game.

Auburn has two H-Backs on this play presenting Kent State with a heavier front. The Tigers are running Split Zone with Jay Jay Wilson slicing across the formation to block the backside defender. Front side, Sharp does enough to get his DE out of the play while Harrell teams up with Kaleb Kim to drive the defensive tackle out of the play. Mike Horton almost drives his man straight into the running lane but is able to remove him just as Boobee arrives. Sharp’s man has a shot at Whitlow but he runs through the arm tackle and breaks free for a big gain.

Two plays later this happens.

Whitlow looked noticeably winded on the following play and is stopped for a one yard loss. Auburn then does something incredible. They rotate in a fresh back for their tired one. The very next play goes for a touchdown.

This is a better look at the play. Auburn is running GT (Guard-Tackle) Counter which has become a staple of the 2019 Auburn rushing attack. It’s a new wrinkle that Kenny Dillingham has brought to this offense and one that Auburn appears to be executing very well.

The way GT Counter works is the play side offensive lineman (in this case Jack Driscoll, Mike Horton and Kaleb Kim) all zone block to the left giving the impression Auburn is running Inside Zone that direction. Meanwhile, the backside lineman (Bailey Sharp and Marquel Harrell) pull around into the vacated B-gap. Harrell is responsible for the first man he sees which in this case is the DE. He flattens him while Sharp leads Martin into the hole. If the linebacker hadn’t blitzed himself out of the play then he would have fit on said backer. Instead, there is just green grass ahead of Martin who makes one move on the safety and takes it to the house.

After a 3 & out where Boobee Whitlow dropped a big play on the wheel route, Auburn’s offense gets back on track. Some nice runs by Whitlow gets Auburn into Kent State territory which is when Gus dials up a shot.

Auburn is actually showing Inverted Veer in the backfield where Bo Nix would read an interior defender to decide whether or not to give it to Shaun Shivers or keep it himself up the middle. Cam Newton used to wreck defenses with that concept. Here though it’s used as play action. Eli Stove is running what looks like a 15 yard out while Sal Cannella follows him on a skinny post. The cornerback stays outside picking up Stove while the safety stays deep in case Cannella is running a vertical. So when Cannella breaks inside he’s wide open.

Nix makes the right read but seems to short arm the throw. Sal does a great job slowing down, adjusting to the pass thrown behind him and making the catch. If Nix hits him in stride this might be a touchdown but the big play does set Auburn up inside the 10.

On the previous play, Nix draws Gus’s ire by not cutting up field after keeping the ball on the zone read. Here, he makes the right decision stretching it out wide behind Anthony Schwartz’s block.

It’s fun seeing a true dual threat QB running this offense again. Keep doing it Gus!

Auburn finished the 1st half with a punt and a field goal. With the game a little closer than anyone would like, Auburn’s offense would look to get things rolling once again to start the 2nd half.

Here’s that same zone read play we highlighted on the first drive with a slightly different wrinkle. Nigh is lined up as an H-Back to the play side opposed to being on the line as a tight end backside like before. That would give Nix a lead blocker if he decides to pull it. But the same principles hold true. Nix is reading the end man on the line of scrimmage. If he chases Whitlow, Nix will pull it with the option to hit Stove on the bubble or keep it himself.

The read on this play is a bit muddied due to the blitz. Nigh picks up the 2nd blitzer but let’s the first one through to be read. Nix smartly gives it seeing all the traffic outside and Whitlow does a great job cutting back into the area vacated by the blitz. A big gain for the Tigers.

This was my favorite play from Bo all night. Watch his eyes when he initially drops back. He’s looking to the left where he has two wide receivers, doesn’t like what he sees and quickly gets his eyes over to Schwartz all before he hits the end of his drop. On the throw, he plants his back foot (a problem earlier in the night) and delivers an on target laser to Anthony Schwartz who somehow comes down with it despite the heavily taped hand.

I thought against both Oregon and Tulane, Nix made a lot of decisions pre snap on where he was going with the football or staring down his #1 man hoping to see him get open. Saturday night, he did a much better job moving defenders with his eyes. Once he gets more consistent with his footwork and stops rushing some throws, you are really going to see him make some big plays through the air.

Auburn scores on GT Counter again just the opposite direction. What I want to call out on this score though is the insanely wide splits Auburn is deploying up top. The Tigers have trips to the far side of the field but none of them are inside the far hash. As a result, Kent State’s defense is forced to commit three defenders outside that hash. A 4th, the deep safety, gets caught watching that action and as a result, when Whitlow breaks through the line of scrimmage there is literally no one there to stop him.

Auburn used those same wide splits on Martin’s earlier score as well. That’s something to keep an eye on this weekend.

On Auburn’s ensuing possession Gus Malzahn decides to plant the dagger. Up to this point, Auburn had run on all but two plays. As a result, Kent State’s secondary had their eyes firmly planted in the backfield and were coming downfield hard. Auburn’s coaching staff noticed and drew up a way to punish them.

FLEA FLICKER!!!

Watch both safeties come flying into the picture with the initial hand off to Martin. Eli Stove bluffs like he’s going to block the safety which lulls the cornerback to sleep. Right before he reaches the safety he breaks up field and the Golden Flashes have no shot at catching him. Nix takes some air out of the ball to make sure he doesn’t overshoot Stove and the Tigers put 6 on the board.

We have officially reached garbage time and Auburn’s 2nd team offensive line is in the game.

The first play proves quite successful. The Tigers are again running GT Counter with wide splits up top. Bailey Sharp and Tashawn Manning both do a great job washing their men down. Jalil Irvin and Brodarious Hamm pull around and fit on the two remaining defenders while Shivers runs through the would be tackle of the backside linebacker. Great first play for this 2nd unit.

No surprise to see Joey running the read option. With Kent State in an odd look up front (meaning 3 down lineman), Gatewood is actually reading the outside linebacker. That backer sinks in so Joey keeps it and gets around the end for a very nice pickup. Great job by Gatewood.

One thing that has really jumped out with Auburn’s freshman QBs is they may not always make the right decision but they are always decisive. You don’t see them freeze or seem unsure. Here, Joey wants to pull this ball and hit Farrar on a quick hitch to counter attack the blitzing CB. However, the S is aligned so closely that he’s easily able to get over top Farrar. Also, the blitzing CB is right in the path of the throw. So Joey gives him a quick pump, tucks it and goes.

Again, both of these young QBs have made and will continue to make mistakes. But it’s encouraging to see them play with such confidence and make quick decisions when facing live fire. They will only get better with more reps.

Gatewood’s first touchdown of the night comes on QB Power which he decides to stretch out wide. I don’t believe there is a read on this play otherwise a give to Hill would have been a touchdown. Doesn’t matter because Gatewood quickly sees there’s no one with outside contain and follows Hill into the endzone.

Harold Joiner made his first appearance as a ball carrier on the final scoring drive of the night. Unfortunately for him, Gatewood was in keep mode at that point.

So I don’t think this is the right read here from Joey. Again, with the odd front he’s reading the backer who stays wide and appears to be spying on Gatewood. Notice how Joiner had a lot of running room if he had been given the ball. Instead, Joey keeps it and just straight outruns the defender to the sideline for the big gain. Would have been nice though for Joiner to get an explosive play on the ground himself but whatever...

Gatewood’s first pass attempt of 2019 goes short of the endzone. Jay Jay Wilson comes on a short drag route and with all the defenders hanging out in the endzone, Gatewood makes the right decision to hit Wilson over the middle and give him a chance to break a tackle and score. It doesn’t work but it was nice to at least see Joey get a chance to throw the football (my only major complaint about the game).

Gatewood’s final score looks a lot like the first one. Once again, no one has outside contain so Joey breaks this wide. Give Matthew Hill a lot of credit for having his head on a swivel and finding someone to block. Not sure if that guy would have caught Gatewood but it’s nice that he didn’t have the chance.

Obviously, it is highly unlikely Auburn drops 50+ on Texas A&M this weekend. They will face a much more stout front 7 in an unfriendly stadium but I think Auburn at least heads into College Station with a better understanding of what it can do. Expect the Tigers to use a lot of gap run concepts, give Nix the freedom to keep on the zone read and some deep shots off of play action. Will it be enough to get the W? No idea but I am hopeful next week we have a handful of scores to break down following another gutsy win in Texas.

War Eagle!

from College and Magnolia - All Posts https://www.collegeandmagnolia.com/2019/9/19/20873772/2019-touchdown-auburn-kent-state-edition-boobee-whitlow-kam-martin-bo-nix-joey-gatewood

[ethelbertpaul444-blog]

Nicki Minaj and the Abusive Stan Culture Epidemic: Where Do I Draw the Line?

We have went to do something about the stans. At their most benign, they’re ruffling. Their hyper-devotion can reach them insufferable little adherents to whatever or whomever it is they fawn over, be it their favorite preserving creator or a movie right they’ve been immersed in since they were aged sufficient to zip up their Yoda pajamas. But the most difficult various kinds of stans swing their fandom like a sword, ready to cut down anyone that sweeps their fave. It doesn’t matter if an external infidel has besmirched the name of their elected deity or if some unworthy dreg is subverting their beloved institution from the inside–the stans will swarm and sting, and you will feel every bit of their ire. Of track , nothing of this is news. Much has been written about internet bother, stan culture and how they affirm a certain harmful socialization that’s occurred online. It’s a odious combination of wish-fulfillment and syndicate mentality that had now become normalized after years of watching it devolve into the kind of digital blood athletic that leads to celebs or those who have flouted against a celeb having to leave social media absolutely. The ultra-devoted fanbase has been around for decades, but in the age of social media it’s mustered into something much more aggressive and abusive than a teen idol fanclub of yesteryear. The most obvious recent example came politenes of Nicki Minaj, her cadre of superfans (” The Barbz “) and a Toronto freelance journalist who dared express their views about a popular master. Pop culture scribe Wanna Thompson became unintentionally prominent in July when she tweeted out a essay of Nicki Minaj’s contentious antics in the lead-up to the superstar’s again-delayed album Queen . ” You know how narcotic it would be if Nicki bring out ripen material ?” predicted the tweet from Thompson.” No dazed shit. Just wondering on past relationships, has become a boss, afflictions, etc. She’s touching 40 soon, a brand-new direction is required .” Nicki apparently appreciated the tweet, took special exception to being referred to as” stroking 40 ,” and launched into an acidic denunciation over what was fairly innocuous evaluation. Thompson would subsequently screenshot a direct message she received from an indignant Nicki Minaj. ” When ya ugly ass was 24 u were propagandizing 30? I’m 34. I’m touching 40? Lol. And what does that is therefore necessary to do with my music? Eat a dick u hating ass hoe ,” Minaj DM’d Thompson on Twitter.” Got the gut to have a trini pennant on ur sheet. You must not have heard the Pinkprint. Or lozenges n tonics, Bed of lies, save me, my recent peculiarity with Alicia keys, Tasha cobbs. Just say u resentful I’m rich, acclaimed rational, moderately and start! But wait! Leave my pellets! Tired of u sucking them .” Once Thompson announced the screenshotted send, Nicki’s swarm jumped. They provoked Thompson across every social media platform, and even texted her cellphone. They encountered Instagram pictures of her daughter. Thompson lost an internship for a music blog and numerous targeted the paw at Minaj. Meanwhile, her superfans assaulted the 26 -year old in every digital platform they could occupy. ” Hello, unemployed gloom skin pitch-black guttersnipe bitch ,” read one e-mail from a fan designated as willam daish to be submitted to Thompson.” Why is it that it’s always the dark bitches that are so jealous and full of bitterness. I anticipate the only solution for you is to kill yourself. You are too poisonous for the world and for your child .” In a recent Rolling Stone story about The Barbz, a Nicki superfan identfied as “Ayan” acknowledges that this kind of over-the-top piety can go too far–but seemed fluffy on just where the line is: ” Where do I draw the line? I signify, extinction is certainly a little bit too far. I feel like that is a little bit more far. However, I likewise have that devil’s advocates mindset where the line is never more far for the person that is coming at the personality. Why is it that when the fan of that notoriety is reacting that the line is becoming too far? I tend not to touch on category either, fatality and all that kinda nonsense, but I can definitely receive where they are are coming from when they do touch on those things, because everyone has their different boiling point and is it OK? No. Do I understand where the hatred is coming from? Most surely .” This kind of hyper-defensiveness isn’t limited to pop wizards. There is a same allegiance presented to popular recreation symbols of all kinds. Granted, the spirit behind the opposition of those movie/ comic book/ video game fanbases is less about protecting the beloved practice from detractors, and more about harassing anyone allowed to join the hallowed franchise’s family tree–especially if the outsider is non-white and/ or female. In June, it was reported that Star Wars actress Kelly Marie Tran, who plays Rose Tico in The Last-place Jedi , deleted her social media chronicles following months of online persecution from the franchise’s more obsessive and abusive followers. The backlash stimulated Nerds of Color to mobilize for Tran at Comic Con in San Diego. When the brand-new trailer for the upcoming Teen Titans movie debuted at Comic-Con in late July, actress Anna Diop was the target of an ugly prejudiced resentment online from a host of Teen Titans devotees. Diop was subjected to malevolent statements on Instagram and ongoing harassment on Twitter. She addressed the comments via a now-deleted Instagram post: ” Too often social media is abused by some who find refuge in the obscurity and withdrawal it plies: misused as a tool to persecute, defamation, and spew hatred at others. This is weak, terrible, and a direct reflection of the abuser. Racist, derogatory, and/ or callous commentaries have nothing to do with the person on the receiving tip of that ill-treatment .” It’s become increasingly outraging to witness as it thrives more permeating by the day. The teen hotshots of a live-action Kim Possible reboot were persecuted for not according the cartoon personas’ physical dimensions to some supporters’ penchant. Future’s “FutureHive” once was believed to have spoofed the domain to onetime competitive rapper OG Maco’s site. And every week a new “stanbase” is going to great lengths on social media( and beyond) to raze some perceived “threat” online. So what do we do about the stans? Your guess is as good as excavation. “Stanbases” have become the most difficult various kinds of internet subculture over its first year. Kudos to those co-stars, producers and purveyors who won’t allow their colleagues to be targeted by the nasty and anonymous online. In the case of aces like Nicki, loudly and consistently denouncing online provocation would go a long way toward at least describing a line for the persons who come at your uber-famous feet. Recognizing that not every critic is your person foe and no longer fanning the flames with hypersensitive overreactions wouldn’t hurt, either. But ultimately, this is about people taking some broth of themselves and their behavior. We all enjoy what we love. But going to campaign over it with strangers–especially with the force of an continual online provocation expedition is currently conducting en masse — impels you an obsessive abuser who maybe should be swiped with a restraining order. You’re a digital stalker in the name of celebrity. And that’s a nice fucking pathetic concept to be. Read more: https :// www.thedailybeast.com/ nicki-minaj-and-the-abusive-stan-culture-epidemic-where-do-i-draw-the-line http://dailybuzznetwork.com/index.php/2018/09/15/nicki-minaj-and-the-abusive-stan-culture-epidemic-where-do-i-draw-the-line/

[ethelbertpaul444-blog]

Nicki Minaj and the Abusive Stan Culture Epidemic: Where Do I Draw the Line?

We have went to do something about the stans.

At their most benign, they’re ruffling. Their hyper-devotion can reach them insufferable little adherents to whatever or whomever it is they fawn over, be it their favorite preserving creator or a movie right they’ve been immersed in since they were aged sufficient to zip up their Yoda pajamas. But the most difficult various kinds of stans swing their fandom like a sword, ready to cut down anyone that sweeps their fave. It doesn’t matter if an external infidel has besmirched the name of their elected deity or if some unworthy dreg is subverting their beloved institution from the inside–the stans will swarm and sting, and you will feel every bit of their ire.

Of track , nothing of this is news. Much has been written about internet bother, stan culture and how they affirm a certain harmful socialization that’s occurred online. It’s a odious combination of wish-fulfillment and syndicate mentality that had now become normalized after years of watching it devolve into the kind of digital blood athletic that leads to celebs or those who have flouted against a celeb having to leave social media absolutely. The ultra-devoted fanbase has been around for decades, but in the age of social media it’s mustered into something much more aggressive and abusive than a teen idol fanclub of yesteryear. The most obvious recent example came politenes of Nicki Minaj, her cadre of superfans (” The Barbz “) and a Toronto freelance journalist who dared express their views about a popular master.

Pop culture scribe Wanna Thompson became unintentionally prominent in July when she tweeted out a essay of Nicki Minaj’s contentious antics in the lead-up to the superstar’s again-delayed album Queen .

” You know how narcotic it would be if Nicki bring out ripen material ?” predicted the tweet from Thompson.” No dazed shit. Just wondering on past relationships, has become a boss, afflictions, etc. She’s touching 40 soon, a brand-new direction is required .”

Nicki apparently appreciated the tweet, took special exception to being referred to as” stroking 40 ,” and launched into an acidic denunciation over what was fairly innocuous evaluation. Thompson would subsequently screenshot a direct message she received from an indignant Nicki Minaj.

” When ya ugly ass was 24 u were propagandizing 30? I’m 34. I’m touching 40? Lol. And what does that is therefore necessary to do with my music? Eat a dick u hating ass hoe ,” Minaj DM’d Thompson on Twitter.” Got the gut to have a trini pennant on ur sheet. You must not have heard the Pinkprint. Or lozenges n tonics, Bed of lies, save me, my recent peculiarity with Alicia keys, Tasha cobbs. Just say u resentful I’m rich, acclaimed rational, moderately and start! But wait! Leave my pellets! Tired of u sucking them .”

Once Thompson announced the screenshotted send, Nicki’s swarm jumped. They provoked Thompson across every social media platform, and even texted her cellphone. They encountered Instagram pictures of her daughter. Thompson lost an internship for a music blog and numerous targeted the paw at Minaj. Meanwhile, her superfans assaulted the 26 -year old in every digital platform they could occupy.

” Hello, unemployed gloom skin pitch-black guttersnipe bitch ,” read one e-mail from a fan designated as willam daish to be submitted to Thompson.” Why is it that it’s always the dark bitches that are so jealous and full of bitterness. I anticipate the only solution for you is to kill yourself. You are too poisonous for the world and for your child .”

In a recent Rolling Stone story about The Barbz, a Nicki superfan identfied as “Ayan” acknowledges that this kind of over-the-top piety can go too far–but seemed fluffy on just where the line is:

” Where do I draw the line? I signify, extinction is certainly a little bit too far. I feel like that is a little bit more far. However, I likewise have that devil’s advocates mindset where the line is never more far for the person that is coming at the personality. Why is it that when the fan of that notoriety is reacting that the line is becoming too far? I tend not to touch on category either, fatality and all that kinda nonsense, but I can definitely receive where they are are coming from when they do touch on those things, because everyone has their different boiling point and is it OK? No. Do I understand where the hatred is coming from? Most surely .”

This kind of hyper-defensiveness isn’t limited to pop wizards. There is a same allegiance presented to popular recreation symbols of all kinds. Granted, the spirit behind the opposition of those movie/ comic book/ video game fanbases is less about protecting the beloved practice from detractors, and more about harassing anyone allowed to join the hallowed franchise’s family tree–especially if the outsider is non-white and/ or female.

In June, it was reported that Star Wars actress Kelly Marie Tran, who plays Rose Tico in The Last-place Jedi , deleted her social media chronicles following months of online persecution from the franchise’s more obsessive and abusive followers. The backlash stimulated Nerds of Color to mobilize for Tran at Comic Con in San Diego. When the brand-new trailer for the upcoming Teen Titans movie debuted at Comic-Con in late July, actress Anna Diop was the target of an ugly prejudiced resentment online from a host of Teen Titans devotees. Diop was subjected to malevolent statements on Instagram and ongoing harassment on Twitter. She addressed the comments via a now-deleted Instagram post:

” Too often social media is abused by some who find refuge in the obscurity and withdrawal it plies: misused as a tool to persecute, defamation, and spew hatred at others. This is weak, terrible, and a direct reflection of the abuser. Racist, derogatory, and/ or callous commentaries have nothing to do with the person on the receiving tip of that ill-treatment .”

It’s become increasingly outraging to witness as it thrives more permeating by the day. The teen hotshots of a live-action Kim Possible reboot were persecuted for not according the cartoon personas’ physical dimensions to some supporters’ penchant. Future’s “FutureHive” once was believed to have spoofed the domain to onetime competitive rapper OG Maco’s site. And every week a new “stanbase” is going to great lengths on social media( and beyond) to raze some perceived “threat” online.

So what do we do about the stans? Your guess is as good as excavation. “Stanbases” have become the most difficult various kinds of internet subculture over its first year. Kudos to those co-stars, producers and purveyors who won’t allow their colleagues to be targeted by the nasty and anonymous online. In the case of aces like Nicki, loudly and consistently denouncing online provocation would go a long way toward at least describing a line for the persons who come at your uber-famous feet. Recognizing that not every critic is your person foe and no longer fanning the flames with hypersensitive overreactions wouldn’t hurt, either. But ultimately, this is about people taking some broth of themselves and their behavior. We all enjoy what we love. But going to campaign over it with strangers–especially with the force of an continual online provocation expedition is currently conducting en masse — impels you an obsessive abuser who maybe should be swiped with a restraining order. You’re a digital stalker in the name of celebrity. And that’s a nice fucking pathetic concept to be.

Read more: https :// www.thedailybeast.com/ nicki-minaj-and-the-abusive-stan-culture-epidemic-where-do-i-draw-the-line