#‘they taught me to live not as a spectacle but as myself’

[grelleswife]

In the end, this truly was our Phantomfam Phriday.

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

tags: gojo x f!reader, bridgerton au. (unedited) word count: 1.29k

it seems as though lady whistledown had taken a liking to you. born out of a prestigious lineage, your name was untainted, holding no negative connotation other than the envy your perfectness shone over anything.

like a porcelain doll, as the queen has once referred to you as on your first visit.

your mother and grandmother before you married as 'pure' with little to no scandals involved, yet it was your mother in her time who caused the biggest uproar in suitors to pursue her. even today, you had grown up with maids, nannies, and people well acquainted with your mother, and your mother at times who would share details over her diamond years. 3, to be exact.

now you felt an obligation to live up to the family name, to honor the work your mother has preserved before you so that you could comfortably live a life with no shame, and you swore that you would do the same for your own children.

if, you decided to bear them.

tonight, you stand in a glorious dress, embedded with the stones your mother and trusted modist claimed to make you look radiant. yet that seemed to be the opposite for you. 4 dances have occurred in your presence and only one man approached to talk to you. the worst thing was that he was unsuitable, and your mother had to intervene, breaking apart the association and taking you to another.

"he was boring," you whisper shouted at your mother who eyed you, aware to not make a scene as you stopped by a secluded balcony. "it seemed everything I told him, he would restate it or make it obvious. it was like talking to myself! if I wanted to, I would have sought company from my mirror."

"how frustrating." you nod in agreement with your mother.

"have all good men gone to waste mama?" you ask, stress and tears welling in your eyes. "If this is the first man I encounter, I cannot bear to think what the rest of them might be like. Or is it I am just ugly?"

"hush, child." your mother holds your shoulders, then cups your cheeks. "you're not acting like yourself tonight. don't let one bad apple ruin your basket. you are young, gifted, and come from a name. you are something because you came from me. have I not taught you well?" she caresses your arm in comfort. "come, wipe those tears that are threatening to fall. you will cause a scandal on your own if you are seen crying tonight. let's find you an honorary man."

that night you only danced with two men. they remained respectful, yet not enough to provoke intrigue in you. though you would never outwardly admit that to your mother, at the end of your second dance, you went for a beverage. opting for some time for yourself.

"I couldn't help but wonder if you were running from that man after that dance, or if the conversation was that good you needed to excuse yourself for a beverage." the voice snickers, standing beside you, "he was terrible, right?"

"I wasn't, I was just dehydrated." you remark, careful with your tone as you defend your doings. as you stand beside him, you cannot see his face as he is taller than you. lifting your head up would raise even more spectacle as you saw one woman and what appeared to be her sister point at you with the mysterious man at your side.

"so do they just dehydrate fair maidens now? seems like a trick to get you to marry the first man you see,"

you don't answer him quick enough.

"lord higurama is a good choice. he has a fair name and a inheritance to obtain, however, be wary of his drinking problem. heard he leaves bars at ungodly hours of the morning with holes in his pockets."

you can't help but gasp softly, almost in disbelief as the man beside you spoke so poorly of the men you danced with. it might have been a given that you needed to get out of here after those girls pointed at you with shock on their faces. have you just ruined your reputation?

"I respectfully fail to see how that is any of your concern, sir." you state, imposing a formal limit, "I have no desire to engage in talk if it pertains to stain the reputation of others."

"please," you hear him snort beside you and you freeze, feeling yourself slightly become smaller. "his reputation is done for. I'd be doing you a favor

"and your reputation, good sir?" you counter, but when you hear silence from him, you fear you have crossed the line. it isn't until you are pulled by mother you see this man. white hair adorns his features while stunning blue eyes decorate his face. the hold your mother has on you let's you know to stand well, and be presentable.

"Lord Gojo," your mother bows, slightly forcing you to bow with her, "what a pleasnt encounter to find you here. my condolences to you and your family after your father's passing."

"lady levington, you are too kind." he man before you bows, offering your mother a charming smile you can't help but hold back a jaw drop at his sudden charming behavior. "I assume you are enjoying your time at the final winter's ball?"

"indeed," your mother smiles charmed, "we were just enjoying our time at the ball. this is my daughter, lady levington. she is of the age to begin looking for a suitor," your mother states, "wouldn't you agree?"

"well I find it difficult to believe that your daughter will struggle to find a suitable partner given her agreeable nature," your jaw slightly clenches, "I suppose you have a large list of eligible bachelor's for your daughter?"

"oh yes," your mother smiles, "but I tell my daughter we must select carefully. it is growing rather difficult to choose an honorable man for marriage, yet modern problems always continue to arise with the passing of time. wouldn't you agree?"

"I couldn't have said it better myself," he smiles, "finding a husband has been growing to be tedious by the years, yet that is why we must be careful in selecting. london is unfortunately filled with lots of ineligible bachelors starting off with lawyers with questionable drinking and spending habits. a poor reflection on our society, wouldn't you agree?"

"it is unfortunate indeed," you mother sighs softly, "but we shall look carefully to ensure a positive outlook for the future."

"that is always a pleasure to hear," smiles gojo, offering a bow. "if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way. it has been a pleasure to find you in good health, madam. and the best of my wishes to your lovely daughter as well."

after some concluding exchanges, your mother stands proudly with a smile on her face. "you will not believe who we just spoke to." she says, moving you away from the drinking station. "we must bid our farewells and leave as soon as possible."

"why?" you frown, "the dance doesn't end until-"

"-we've already met an eligible bachelor," your mother smiles, "you should've seen the look on everyone's faces. you will surely draw attention now, my dear."

the following day, you wake up to the following news from lady whistledown, having written an article about you.

"at the winter's ball, lady levington's beauty could be seen from a mile away, drawing the attention of lords. standing with such poise and grace, lady levington has proved herself to start off as an indestructible force with honor as her first name. will she perhaps be named diamond of the season? or indestructible diamond?"

[velvet-vox]

INDOCTRINATION F####NG SUCKS

AND WHY IT HARMS ART TOO.

The title is self-explanatory yet it cannot overstate the massive damage and impact that culture, society, and any other type of long term influence has on the human mindset and its artistic output.

You may be thinking, what is this post talking about? Well let me explain.

You see, the thing about me is that I tend to enjoy more complex stories with complicated characters and dynamics, but not in just the political, real world type of way like Arcane politics, I am towards the type of stories that allow for good characters to remain good and for the status quo to change in a substantial way; for antagonists to be complicated while not having them all be morally grey but showing that even the more seemingly black and white ones are not just pure evil atrocities and are still worthy of a shot at redemption; to not have said redemption be served on a silver platter but not just permanently locking people out of society just because they required said society to invest too much time and effort in helping them become the best version of themselves, because unfortunately, despite the opposite being also true, we are not born equally and some people are going to struggle more than others due to things outside of their control like their personality type and lack of mental fortification.

I want balance in storytelling! Not just gore or wholesome, not just morally grey or black and white, not just big spectacles and pause moments, but all of those combined in ways that force me to reflect on the media I consume and the way I consume it, to dig further in the limits of artistic expression and the classification of art as a whole.....

And indoctrination just ruins all of that, period.

We all, from a young age, are conditioned to uphold certain standards and to not challenge said standards in fear of being cast out by the people around us and the world we live in.

Art, as a medium, should be used to counteract the rigid lines of thinking that we're asked to uphold, but unfortunately, even if just subconsciously, the harmful, more strict lessons that we learn growing up still make their way into our works because of the mass consumption of simplicity we endured in our childhood.

From a very young age we are taught simple, clear cut definitions of right and wrong, and then we are subsequently told to simplify all of our real world problems into easily computable boxes so that we can be more efficient at our job, from moral decision making down to choosing what to eat for dinner; the adults tell us that it's ok to ask questions when in reality we're often punished or ignored for asking them and we all grow to internalise a passive acceptance of the status quo because that's what the status quo taught us to do in the first place.

I wanted to write this post because I was getting angry at myself for screwing up my own ideas due to my pathological need to divide right and wrong into easily checkable boxes and thus creating issues of the "these two ideas cannot interact or mix with each other anymore because of the way I segregated them" kind. I am always afraid of punishing my villains too much and not punishing my heroes enough and it's very hard for me to find that balanced middle ground that all works of art should strive to achieve; and then I realised: the problem has less to do with me and more on the unfortunate mindset that I internalised in my youth that keeps popping back up slowing down my output for thought provoking stories.

Admittedly, this is a larger issue that (contrary to what our collective nurture has drilled into our heads) cannot be easily resolved and probably requires a vocal discussion of some kind since typing can be extremely tiring and doesn't have the same engagement value of a dialogue, I'm very sorry if you found this post amateurish or you think I haven't conveyed my ideas well enough, I hope someone with a cleaner picture can show me what I got wrong and would like to share their opinions with me.

[nicklloydnow]

“Millions of eyes, I knew, had gazed at this landscape, and for me it was like the first smile of the sky. It took me out of myself in the deepest sense of the word. It assured me that but for my love and the wondrous cry of these stones, there was no meaning in anything. The world is beautiful, and outside it there is no salvation. The great truth that it patiently taught me is that the mind is nothing, nor even the heart. And that the stone warmed by the sun or the cypress tree shooting up against the suddenly clear sky mark the limits of the only universe in which "being right" is meaningful: nature without men. And this world annihilates me. It carries me to the end. It denies me without anger. As that evening fell over Florence, I was moving toward a wisdom where everything had already been overcome, except that tears came into my eyes and a great sob of poetry welling up within me made me forget the world's truth.

It is on this moment of balance I must end: the strange moment when spirituality rejects ethics, when happiness springs from the absence of hope, when the mind finds its justification in the body. If it is true that every truth carries its bitterness within, it is also true that every denial contains a flourish of affirmations. And this song of hopeless love born in contemplation may also seem the most effective guide for action. As he emerges from the tomb, the risen Christ of Piero della Francesca has no human expression on his face—only a fierce and soulless grandeur that I cannot help taking for a resolve to live. For the wise man, like the idiot, expresses little. The reversion delights me.

But do I owe this lesson to Italy, or have I drawn It from my own heart? It was surely in Italy that I became aware of it. But this is because Italy, like other privileged places, offers me the spectacle of a beauty in which, nonetheless, men die. Here again truth must decay, and what is more exalting? Even if I long for it, what have I in common with a truth that is not destined to decay? It is not on my scale. And to love it would be pretense. People rarely understand that it is never through despair that a man gives up what constituted his life. Impulses and moments of despair lead toward other lives and merely indicate a quivering attachment to the lessons of the earth. But it can happen that when he reaches a certain degree of lucidity a man feels his heart is closed, and without protest or rebellion turns his back on what up to then he had taken for his life, that is to say, his restlessness. If Rimbaud dies in Abyssinia without having written a single line, it is not because he prefers adventure or has renounced literature. It is because "that's how things are," and because when we reach a certain stage of awareness we finally acknowledge something which each of us, according to our particular vocation, seeks not to understand. This clearly involves undertaking the survey of a certain desert. But this strange desert is accessible only to those who can live there in the full anguish of their thirst. Then, and only then, is it peopled with the living waters of happiness.

Within reach of my hand, in the Boboll gardens, hung enormous golden Chinese persimmons whose bursting skin oozed a thick syrup. Between this light hill and these juicy fruits, between the secret brotherhood linking me to the world and the hunger urging me to seize the orange-colored flesh above my hand, I could feel the tension that leads certain men from asceticism to sensual delights and from self-denial to the fullness of desire. I used to wonder, I still wonder at this bond that unites man with the world, this double image in which my heart can intervene and dictate its happiness up to the precise limit where the world can either fulfill or destroy it. Florence! One of the few places in Europe where I have understood that at the heart of my revolt consent is dormant. In its sky mingled with tears and sunlight, I learned to consent to the earth and be consumed in the dark flame of its celebrations. I felt. . .but what word can I use? What excess? How can one consecrate the harmony of love and revolt? The earth! In this great temple deserted by the gods, all my idols have feet of clay.” - Albert Camus, ‘Lyrical and Critical Essays’ (1967) [p. 103 - 105]

[jacob-in-taiwan]

August 3 - Fo Guang Shan Monastery

Today’s trip to the Fo Guang Shan Monastery was very special for a number of reasons. The first one was because we were able to meet Yeh Laoshi’s mother! She has been volunteering at the monastery for over thirty years, and apparently it's a place Yeh Laoshi spent a lot of time at as a kid. That alone was enough to make this a special experience, but we also were given some special tours that we normally wouldn’t get because of the connections we had. 

After arriving at the monastery, we were then guided to the main shrine and meditation hall. This was such an amazing building to look at. The designs and architecture were so brilliant. It pains me that I couldn’t take pictures of the interior, because it was so amazing as well, but I wanted to respect the rules set on us. Inside the meditation hall we were given the opportunity to say a prayer and present a flower in front of three giant shrines of Buddha. I can’t remember the number that we were told, but there were also thousands of smaller Buddha statues that took up the entire walls in the room. 

After leaving the prayer room we were taught how to properly participate in the silent lunch. It was really interesting to learn the whole process of how everything had to be done. At first it seemed a bit overwhelming, but once we were actually in the dining room it wasn’t so bad. I didn’t make any mistakes at least, so that was good enough for me. 

After lunch we hopped over to the Buddha museum to see what it had for us. The major spectacle of course was the 108-meter-tall Buddha statue. The view of the statue combined with the eight pagodas that lined the path leading to it was one of the most impressive I had ever seen. We took a lot of pictures and as we walked towards the museum we learned along the way. Eventually we made our way to the top of the museum where we got a calligraphy lesson. I’ve never done calligraphy seriously before and I’ve only ever written chinese characters a handful of times, but I still think I did pretty good for myself. Yes, all we had to do was trace the lines, but for someone who is as bad at art as I am it was pretty good. 

After that we were allowed to roam the museum freely. I spent the hour we had checking out a few other exhibits and walking down the opposite side of the path from where we came. In no time at all it was time to say goodbye to the monastery and we were on our way back to the hotel. 

Today was special for a lot of reasons, but I had my own personal one as well. I’m not a religious person myself, but I spent almost half my life in a Christian school. I went to church every wednesday, had religion classes, said prayers before meals, and so on. That is to say, christianity is something I’m very familiar with. Buddhism, on the other hand, is something I almost know nothing about. Outside of pop culture, entertainment media, and one book I had to read freshman year that briefly talked about it, I knew basically nothing. One reason I was really excited to come to Taiwan was to learn about all the religions that exist here, Buddhism included. Today was so much more than learning about the religion though. Instead, I was able to live it. The main shrine room was where everyone says their morning and nightly prayers, and I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to say my own. For lunch, I was able to eat with the monks and nuns in the way that they do. It was amazing to be able to draw upon my own lived experiences with a completely different religion and see how they were the same and different. 

[ammg-old2]

When I arrived in Moscow in February, the initial media circus had passed. Bryan Kohberger had been arrested six weeks earlier for the murders of four students—Kaylee Goncalves, Madison Mogen, Xana Kernodle, and Ethan Chapin—and the judge had placed a gag order on everyone involved in the case. The news trucks would return once the trial got under way, but for now things were relatively quiet. (Kohberger chose not to enter a plea last month, in effect pleading not guilty.)

I’d been drawn to the town, like everyone else, by the eerie facts of the murders and the still-eerier profile of the suspect, a former criminology student at nearby Washington State University. The details already in circulation were chilling. A car resembling Kohberger’s white Hyundai Elantra could be seen on surveillance videos driving by the house several times shortly before the attacks. Police linked his DNA to a leather knife sheath left on a bed, and his phone history suggested that he’d been near the house 12 times in the preceding months. Once I got to Moscow, however, I found myself fixating less on the crime than on its aftermath—the wreckage left behind when the media and the sleuths had cleared out.

Located on Idaho’s eastern border, Moscow is known around the state for a certain mountain-hippie vibe. Students joke that the town is permanently “stuck in the ’70s.” It has a lively folk-dance scene and an independent theater that shows classic horror films. Main Street is lined with brown-brick buildings that house quirky small businesses including Ampersand, a purveyor of boutique olive oil, and the Breakfast Club, known for its “world-famous cinnamon roll pancakes.”

But even months after the murders, the town seemed traumatized. No one wanted to talk about the case, on the record or off. When I introduced myself as a reporter, people recoiled. My efforts to talk with the victims’ neighbors were met with exasperation and anger. At one door, I found a sign that read simply, WE HAVE NO STATEMENT. LEAVE US ALONE. Eventually I resorted to writing apologetic notes with my phone number and leaving them on windshields and doorsteps. Nobody called.

At the offices of the University of Idaho campus paper, The Argonaut, I found a masthead’s worth of student journalists glumly disillusioned with journalism. Months of unseemly behavior by a scoop-desperate press corps had dimmed their view of the profession. They’d seen cameramen hide in bushes on campus, and reporters try to sneak into dorms. They’d seen TV correspondents shout hostile questions at teenagers still processing their classmates’ deaths as if the kids were prevaricating politicians. In one notably unsavory episode, a tabloid photographer tracked down one of the roommates who’d survived the attack that night and took paparazzi-like photos at her parents’ house for the Daily Mail.

Abigail Spencer, a reporter for The Argonaut, told me that she was struggling to square the heroic stories she’d learned in journalism classes with the reporters who’d invaded her campus. “We’re taught they’re all Cronkite,” she said. “They’re not.”

Haadiya Tariq, who was the paper’s editor, told me the rude behavior had helped her understand the wider antipathy toward the press. “No wonder people hate you,” she sometimes found herself thinking. She was alarmed by the extent to which professional news outlets appeared to deliberately stoke the online ecosystem of conspiracy theories about the case. The TV-news bookers always seemed so nice and thoughtful when they were asking for interviews. But once the cameras turned on, Tariq told me, the questions were invariably aimed at getting her to theorize about the murders in a way that might get traction in the true-crime forums. Experiencing this had helped her understand why so much of the coverage felt “weird or inaccurate or sensational”: “It is 100 percent trying to feed the audience, which is the internet sleuths,” she told me. “That’s kind of the dirty secret I’m starting to realize.” Perhaps more disturbing than the vulturous reporters or the vortex of TikTok speculation was the way the media and the sleuths seemed to encourage and sustain each other—their priorities converging in a vicious ouroboros.

Meanwhile, some unlucky Moscow residents were still struggling to reassemble their lives after becoming main characters in murder-related conspiracy theories. Rebecca Scofield, a history professor at the University of Idaho, was suing the TikToker who’d accused her of plotting the students’ murders because of a (completely fabricated) love affair with Kaylee Goncalves. (The TikToker denied any wrongdoing, and police have said that Scofield was not a suspect.) Friends of a recently deceased Afghanistan veteran were fending off ghoulish speculation on social media that he was involved in the crime.

Jeremy Reagan, a law student who lived in the victims’ neighborhood, became a target when he gave a handful of TV interviews about the murders. Sleuths studied his body language and parsed his facial expressions.

“It reminds me of Ted Bundy when he would talk about murders,” one observed.

“Very disconcerting,” another said.

Soon, they started mining Reagan’s Facebook profile for clues. A bandage on his right hand was treated as especially incriminating—how did he cut himself? Same with a four-year-old Facebook post that mentioned a rave. “Guys at raves ‘chase women’ and ‘do drugs,’ many things to note,” one sleuth deduced. “The girls partied, he mentioned that. Did he try to party with them? Did he actually party with them? Was he turned down by them?’”

Reagan, hoping to clear his name, volunteered to take a DNA test. The police never named him as a suspect. But the online sleuths kept digging—even contacting his friends for intel—and the menacing messages from strangers kept piling up. Reagan started carrying a gun.

“Just having it on me gives that extra sense of security,” he said in a cable-news interview. “Especially now, where the cybersleuths may or may not come.”

[ideal-girl]

Mandy from Totally Spies may have not been a genius, but she was skilled in the art of lying. She expertly played the role of the high school queen who followed the latest trends, dated the hottest boys, and had the classic rivalry with the popular rival girl and her posse, dishing out insults along the way. No one could tell of her extreme loneliness due to neglectful parents that cared more about money than giving their daughter attention. As well as the friends who she knew only followed her

Have you (or anyone reading this) ever read Tiqqun's Preliminary Materials for a Theory of the Young-Girl? The book came out in 1999, but was republished in 2012. I've read it before, more than a few times, and I appreciated it.

It talked about an incoming time, where the personal identity will have been successfully commodified and commercialized, where everything about someone soon just becomes the end result of shopping spree. The Young-Girl is a self-objectified spectacle, and she will bring changes that this world may not be ready for.

That's what Tiqqun said, anyways. 

I appreciated this book because it taught me about myself, and guided some of the decisions I made after reading it. Yes, I self-objectified as a teenager (and as an adult too), and I was made into a spectacle by a man who I used to trust and who trafficked me for years, starting when I was newly 14. I'm not going to trauma dump here because this isn't the appropriate time or space (lol), but I wanted to acknowledge why I made the decisions I did at the time (and now). It's also the main reason why I love Mandy, and why I identified with her as a child, teenager, and even as an adult now (even though I also adore Sam, too).

There were quotes in Preliminary Materials for a Theory of the Young-Girl that reminded me of her. 

"The Young-Girl sees herself as the holder of a sacred power: the power of commodities." (pg. 28) 

Also...

"The Young-Girl always-already lives as a couple, that is, she lives with her image." (pg. 59) 

And...

“The Young-Girl lives at home among commodities, which are her sisters.”    (pg. 89)

Mandy is lonely. 

She lives with herself and with her things, but not with parents or true-blue friends. This would indeed be very difficult for anyone to surmise because of how she leads (or performs) her life. I almost admire that part of her, but it actually makes me feel sad to realize that my favorite girl has probably been suffering on the inside for a very long time. I resent that Mandy performs her life to suffocate the sadness she feels about her parents' neglect, and the latent rage she has for her effectively exploitative friends. Still, I like this portrayal of her inner turmoil. 

[sarcasmgal-blog]

I graduated high school in Toronto Canada in 2002. I remember growing up with the word "gay" being almost constantly used as a slur, or "that's so gaaayyyyy" as an insult. I quite honestly did not have any fucking clue what it meant. Certainly before I was in high school, same sex romance Just Didn't Happen. I was a baby aroace and didn't see romance at all except for the Popular Kids change partners every few weeks starting in like grade 4 or something, completely mystified at the spectacle. I had crushes on popular celebrities (like I thought they were cool so I said I had a crush. I imagined we'd like, hang out and read or something. No fucking clue).

I went to an arts high school, like you needed to audition to get in. I met the first out gay people at that time and how I found out they were gay? I bought the first Rufus Wainwright cd and had it, and one guy was like oh hey you're cool with the gays. I'm like sure! No idea what that means but I like hanging out with you 🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️.

I learned about transness from Sandman comics, but the way Wanda's story is told it's not like Mr. Gaiman comes out and says "now that is why you should listen to trans people and support them!!" CAUSE THAT IS NOT HOW PEOPLE TALKED IN YHE FUCKING 90s!!!!!!!!!! I never learned the correlation between the "that's so gaaayyyyy" insult to actual gay people who preferred same sex partners (literally, no fucking clue. What the fuck was going on in that wee brain, past-me??) So I somehow never learned to be homophobic somehow (like obvs I needed to unlearn the socially-implanted stuff cause of the perniciousness of it all, but I never had a moment's pause if someone came out). I did feel weird about wlw people (which I know now is related to being found attractive myself. Cause, aroace spec here with no language to understand or figure out what that really meant. Wheeeee) but felt bad about that reaction and made sure to avoid making people feel uncomfortable around me. But again, not like there were a lot of actually Out People, IN A FUCKING ARTS SCHOOL.

In university I took some sex and gender studies courses and saw documentaries about trans people, and a person felt fully comfortable in that class of very leftist/pro-LGBT+ people to stand up and call all trans people disgusting). Like. Early 00's at that point. I remember just feeling confused because I just watch people go from depressed and unable to function to actually feeling joy in their lives because of being able to change an aspect of their identity. I could not and still cannot fathom how it is bad to be trans.

We get better when we talk about these issues, listen to people who have different experiences, support each other as human beings. The trans people who were growing up in the 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s either didn't know how to describe their experiences because WE DIDNT TALK ABOUT THESE THINGS or hid it as much as they could so that they could live. When we have a homogenous idea of personhood, people who cannot fit into that image are made to feel Wrong or Broken. And we're taught to conform. And we do it to stay safe because we all know what unconformity gets you.

If you're like the guy in OP's tweet up there, *you're* the reason you didn't know any out trans people. You were the ones out there beating up those "gay kids" because they had to be shown the error of being different. You were the ones bullying kids until they committed suicide. Maybe fuck off forever if you think you were right for doing such things.

I graduated high school in 99.

There was a student at our school named Wayne.

Wayne was gay. It was obvious. He was unable to stay in the closet even if he wanted to. To make matters worse, he was also Black. From a bullying standpoint, that was not a great combo. Both Black and white students made fun of him relentlessly. He was ostracized from the only community that may have given him protection. Only us theater kids stuck up for him, but not to significant effect.

Wayne was bullied so much that at one point he finally snapped and attacked his bullies with a lunch tray. I was actually seated in perfect line of sight and just sat there chewing my soggy fries in stunned silence. It didn't even seem real as I was witnessing it. The image of him wailing on his main bully as the food on his tray flew off is permanently logged into my long term memory.

The bully he attacked had blood all over his face and went straight to the nurse. Other than superficial cuts, he was not injured.

Before the attack, Wayne went to teachers for help. He went to guidance counselors for help. He went to the principals for help.

He did all of the things you were supposed to do. No one helped him. They wagged a finger at the bullies and warned them to stop.

Wayne's lunch tray melee was the only thing that worked. His bullies stayed far away from him. But a week later Wayne was expelled and the bullies were given no punishment.

So... no.

No one in my school talked about being trans.

Because the only way to survive being openly queer was to bash people with a lunch tray.

[sciencestyled]

Samson and the Starry Skedaddle: How a Biblical Strongman Found His Stellar Calling

In the not-so-distant past, before the age of telescopes and space probes, I, Samson, renowned for my extraordinary strength and flowing locks, found myself entangled in a rather bizarre, celestial escapade. You see, it all started on a seemingly ordinary day, with the sun hanging lazily in the sky and my trusty donkey by my side.

I was in the midst of my usual routine, flexing my muscles and pondering over the mysteries of life, when a group of eccentric astrologers from a faraway land approached me. They were on a quest, they said, to uncover the secrets of the stars, but were sorely lacking in muscle. Naturally, they had heard of my legendary strength and sought my help in constructing the largest, most magnificent observatory the world had ever seen.

Intrigued and always up for a challenge, I agreed. We embarked on this astronomical adventure, collecting massive stones and towering timbers from the ends of the earth. Under my guidance and brute strength, we erected a colossal observatory, its towering walls scraping the heavens.

One clear, starry night, as I gazed through the enormous lens, a remarkable sight caught my eye. A star, which had been a constant twinkle in the night for as long as I remembered, began to swell and pulsate. Mesmerized, I watched as it expanded, its light intensifying to a blinding brilliance. And then, with a burst of light that lit up the night sky, it exploded in a magnificent display of cosmic fireworks – a supernova, the astrologers exclaimed in awe.

This celestial spectacle ignited a burning curiosity within me. How could a star, so steadfast and unchanging, transform into such a spectacular, fiery display? The astrologers, with their scrolls and star charts, tried to explain, but their words were as foreign to me as the distant stars themselves.

Determined to unravel this mystery, I embarked on a quest of my own. With my donkey as my steadfast companion, I traveled far and wide, consulting wise men and ancient scrolls. I learned of the stars' lifecycles, their fiery births in the nebulae, their steady glow as they fuse hydrogen into helium, and their dramatic demise in a supernova – an explosive end that scatters the seeds of new stars across the galaxy.

As I delved deeper into this cosmic saga, I found parallels between the lives of stars and my own tumultuous journey. Just like these celestial beings, I too had my moments of brilliance and downfall. My strength, once the source of my pride, had been my undoing, much like a star that burns too brightly and too fast, only to meet a spectacular end.

But the most profound revelation came when I learned that the elements that make up our very being – the iron in our blood, the calcium in our bones – were forged in the heart of exploding stars. I was, in essence, made of stardust. This realization filled me with a newfound respect for the stars and a deep sense of connection to the cosmos.

Emboldened by this knowledge, I decided to pen down my thoughts and observations. I wanted to share the awe and wonder I had experienced, to bridge the gap between the heavens and the earth. Thus, "When Stars Collapse: Samson’s Explosive Overview of Supernovas" was born – a tale of cosmic strength and power, from a man who had known strength and power all too well.

So, there you have it – the peculiar and unexpected path that led a biblical strongman to become an unlikely chronicler of the heavens. A journey that taught me that even in the vast, mysterious night sky, there are stories of resilience and strength echoing through the ages, much like my own.

[nadiegesabate1990]

I gave my foot a wrench

In this photo I was about 25 years old. I started skateboarding to try to reach the limits of my physical resistance. I didn't want to compete with anyone. I just wanted to shape my body and test my balance, which I don't have; I'm not balanced at all.

I took advantage of the city's good times. It was quiet and calm with lots of shops. And at night, early morning, it becomes a desert. There is almost no one to get in the way. But today I understand the social changes that have taken place in this poor and rotten world.

The word that best expresses my experience is 'playing'. And as you get older the bringing changes over time. And I didn't work either. I didn't have money to travel. And life started to become more and more boring. Therefore, my desire to escape the internet for a while increased. At the time I was free and had the desire to live new experiences. People are like that in the world, individualists, I did things alone. You can't imagine the amount of things I've done myself.

And when I got really injured, there was no one to take me home, so I thought, 'In the old days there weren't all the facilities we have today, I'll survive'. Skateboarding at the time was very important, it taught me that, to be myself.

But I still prefer physical activities, running and listening to music. And I realized that many people are attracted to me. Then I had the brilliant idea of cutting my hair short, making myself ugly, and turning into a man. A boy. And they feel angry and say; Don't cut your hair, let it grow or they'll look sad.

But today I have a different perception of what the body is. I started running, cycling, running twice a week) and getting my body healthy.

I do resistance tests, I eat a lot of organic food, I do muscular and physical exercise to make it through Sunday, sometimes six or seven singers' albums, dancing for ten or more hours.

And I will train regularly during the week to respond to the challenge that these tests represent.

When the concert seasons begin (rock in rio) we will hear the most successful singers in the world. The spectacle with thousands of people, marking the full maturity of music's greatest artists.

In other words, let's learn how to jump, jump from show to show. The essential thing is to consciously expose yourself to danger.

These courageous performers of live shows thus feel the emotions normally absent from their daily lives, without having to reach the limit of physical resistance.

This desire to feel danger is related to the production of endorphins in the body, which can constitute a mechanism to compensate for everyday problems.

And fantasy and art really have no limits, when it comes to having fun! And if you don't go, you will be the biggest loser, it will be you.

And these shows constitute the perfect setting and more and more people are organizing trips to regions that have not yet been invaded by tourists.

Many people defend and worry, above all, about the growing number of practitioners who go to shows after shows, who are not content with following their favorite artists, they have to follow them, oh, that's shit.

[laura-apexart]

DAY 8 7.15.23

CrossFit 

Nervous because I have never done anything like this and don’t lift weights, have a fragile back, can barely do a push up and I get there early and it’s high intensity, big muscles, lots of weight etc. I start plotting my exit but then the owner is so kind and accommodating that I convince myself to stay and try it.

J and M and their dog bought the studio from an American in 2012? And while M taught the class, J helped modify the workout for me, bc it was my first time, so intense but exhilarating -I could feel how sore I would be the next day. 

I’m destroyed -what a wild culture of support and encouragement--everyone cheers each-other on -but very extreme. I like the idea of getting strong and pushing myself physically but this was another level. Weight lifting, pull-ups (modified using rings) laps around the block, more weights and ring pull-ups followed by lunges around the block etc. after I felt exhausted but energized and took my time to walk home while eating fresh fruit -mangoes and pineapple from a street vendor. 

 In the afternoon I traveled south west by bus to The Botanical Garden of Bogotá, “officially named the José Celestino Mutis Botanical Garden in honor of the astronomer and botanist José Celestino Mutis, whist is a center for research, conservation and dissemination of the diversity of plant species in Bogotá, the capital of Colombia.”

The ticket line was long and when I entered the garden it took me a while to find the location of talk/workshop I was assigned to join. With the help of one of the women who worked at the gardens she lead me to a talk that took place in an indigenous house structure called La Maloca where The grandfather of the children who survived in the Amazon plane crash spoke on the importance of indigenous knowledge of animals and plants (distinguishing poisonous and edible, which ones provide the most nutrients, how to build structures etc) -the reason that these children were able to survive for 40 days in the jungle feeding themselves and avoiding being killed by poisonous snakes and jaguars etc was because they had this knowledge through lived experience and practice. He also stressed that something like 60 percent ? Of the Amazon was still unknown/undiscovered. It was all very surreal and wild. Later I went back and re-read all the articles about the plane crash and search for the children —this one was particularly informative https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/27/world/americas/children-rescue-plane-crash-colombia.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare

I am not sure if it was the workshop called "Miradas bioculturales, consumo consciente" that was on my calendar but it was special to hear this man speak. In the center of the structure was s small smoky fire that smelled very good, small stools where positioned in a circle for visitors of the garden to sit around. He was wearing a parrot feather headdress and when I arrived (a little late bc I got lost-the gardens are huge!) he was in the middle of speaking and then his phone rang and he picked it up and the whole thing felt very anachronistic. The women who brought me announced that I was American and didn’t really speak any Spanish and I sat down and then two people in the group waved me over to sit next to them so they could help translate for me. This has been a consistent experience for me and I feel bad that I do not speak or understand but also so grateful how generous and patient everyone is with me and willing to help, and maybe it’s ok to just accept the help. 

There was an exhibition of Bromelias, a showroom which was pretty funny-felt like a beauty pageant for the plants that were all lit up and arranged with fabrics draped around them etc. beautiful, but domesticated and a spectacle. I guess I left too quickly because the security guard escorted me back in and led me to a guide who spoke English and wanted to make sure I really appreciated the display. 

Then I walked around the "Tropicario" which was an incredible series of glass greenhouses /architectural structures with spiraling walkways that ascended as you moved from structure to structure, housed all sorts of plants endemic to Colombia and the Amazon ecosystem-mangroves, trees with massive root systems that have adaptive qualities that help them survive climates where most other plants would die. The text between spaces also told the story of climate crisis and myth of  el dorado -the quest for gold/fortune that led to exploration, exploitation, colonial extractive practices, industrialization (I am surely being reductive and oversimplifying here). While the captions within the exhibit emphasized The many ecological properties of each plant as well as their function and use for indigenous cultures, magic and ritual, craft -weaving, for baskets, fishing nets, houses, clothes etc there was also the story of how that knowledge is increasingly becoming lost-because of globalization, pharmaceutical industries—the use of medicine and drugs replacing plants etc. and here I was walking through a biodome in a Petri dish -in this display of knowledge and contained but living and growing matter. 

I stayed until about 4:30 and then got very hungry. I went home to rest before going back out to the Jorge Eliécer Gaitán Theater to see The Adventures of Pinocchio !

Staged At public theater where I heard the bagpipes outside a couple days before. I arrived at 7 which was good because it was free so there was a very large crowd and long lines for the 8pm show. It was a very Creative staging that took place inside the belly of the whale —tarps and industrial black trash bags or plastic, dramatic dark lighting 

Great physical performance and costumes

Nice Dramaturgical move to have different performers put on the Pinocchio nose when they tell their stories based off of the real testimonies collected by the Truth Commission—stories collected by human rights groups of the innocent victims of war/drug crimes. 

Clearly a political story, with violence and corruption woven into the cast of characters and staging—

Left at intermission bc I was waking up at 5:45 to climb montserrat. 

Then waited for a cab for 40 min which was disappointing and frustrating bc I could have finished the play and felt exhausted and drained and upset that I couldn’t just hail a taxi or walk and didn’t feel great at that your taking the bus because the walk to the bus was too far away and not so great at night.

[chaosheadspace]

Okay, anon, I hope this scratches your itch. Just for info, this is after they took care of good ol' Burgess and left with all of their lovely children to go live in a big cottage of their own. I wanted to say small cottage. But. Loads of kids, so. Um. Anyways.

Cws the same, mpreg, omegaverse, GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF CHILDBIRTH

"Hob," Dream says impatiently, "go take a nap."

"Are you sure?" Hob stalls. "I know how hard it is for you when you're this far, you should not—"

"You really don't, Hob," Dream interrupts him gently. "Go. I will be fine."

And because Hob is, at his core, there to serve his husband, he goes and naps.

He wakes three hours later, the soft afternoon sun creeping over his face, well-rested and content. He goes and searches for Dream, and finds him leaning on the sill of an open window in the hall, wearing only a robe, looking into the garden. The heavy fragrance of the flowers is wafting through, the sunlight hitting Dream's face as he gently, slowly sways his hips to help with the pressure on his pelvis.

He rests inside himself, exuding beauty and calmness despite how tired he must surely be. He's beautiful, and as Hob slowly approaches, not wanting to disturb him, he takes a deep breath and starts to hum. It's a deep, monotone sound, beginning quietly and barely getting louder, going on and on and on until Dream needs to breathe again.

"Dream?" Hob asks, placing his hands on Dream's hips, squeezing inwards, massaging the two spots next to his spine with his thumbs, like Dream had taught him months ago.

"Mmmh. Hello, Hob," Dream greets him, closing his eyes. "It's good that you're awake. If you hadn't been, I would have woken you in a minute." He's still so calm, so grounded. Hob can't quite believe it, not when what he thinks is going on is true.

"I have sent Robert and the others to your parents for a sleepover, like they offered," he continues, confirming what Hob suspects. Dream is in labour. A thrill and a huge amount of adrenaline runs through him all at once.

"How long—" Hob asks.

Dream hums and begins to sway his hips again, stretching his face into the sun. Then he says, "about an hour before I ordered you to nap. I need you at your best. So do not berate me for it."

Hob soothingly runs his hands up Dream's back, then down again. "I wasn't going to. You know best what you need. I trust you."

Dream straightens and sighs. "Good. I believe I want to take a walk in the garden. I already sent for the midwife, I believe she is already setting up. But there is still some time."

Hob wordlessly offers him his arm. They walk around the garden, slowly, sometimes stopping. Whenever Dream needs to, they step off the path, so Dream can feel the grass under his feet as he sways in Hob's embrace.

After about half an hour, a woman with spectacles in white garb and an apron walks into the garden, carrying a bag, and watches them for a few moments. Then she sits down on one of the benches.

Lucienne. Hob was there when Dream chose her, refusing to consult the physician that was with him the three times before, hired by Burgess.

"You will leave me to my own devices," Dream had told her sternly, one hand protectively splayed over his belly. "You will let me do as I please and see fit unless there is danger to myself or the baby."

Lucienne had snorted. "Sure. It's the best way, anyway, at least according to my twenty years of experience in this job. You'll hear no argument from me."

Dream had hired her on the spot, and Hob had been there every time she'd visited since. She doesn't interrupt them now, content to read her book and letting them be until she is needed. Hob is thankful at Dream's behalf, and sick with adrenaline and nervousness on his own.

No, he needs to keep it together. For Dream. Now he's got the chance to be there for him, like he wanted but couldn't before.

Dream's humming grows deeper and louder, holding on longer than before as he stands and digs his fingers into Hob's upper arms, his head resting against Hob's chest as he sways like a tree in the wind, like a wave. He needs to catch his breath twice now, when he hums.

They pass the bench in the middle of the yard again and Dream stops, sinks down on all fours with Hob's help, his arms resting on the seat of the bench, and stretches. Hob offers him some water from the table beside it, and Dream drinks greedily.

His hums turn into an open-mouthed sound, gravelly rolling out of his throat, his knuckles white as he grips the back of the bench. He's out of breath now, when it stops, and he motions for Hob to press against his hips again. Hob holds onto them as hard as he can, petting Dream's back and hair in between.

Lucienne appears at his side like a ghost, placing her bag beside the bench, in close reach, and kneels down, too.

"Not yet," Dream murmurs, slightly hoarse, "but you may check. If it would ease your mind."

She nods, and then her hand disappears beneath Dream's robe. Dream whines and grips Hob's leg. Then Lucienne says, "whenever you are ready, Dream. Do what feels right."

Dream nods. As the next contraction shakes through him, the sound he makes breaks off half-way into a punched out oof and then there is a splatter of water on the grass. "Hob—" he says, his eyes going wide, and then he screams.

It's a sound ripped out of the depth of the earth, and despite having heard it before, it shakes Hob to his core. Dream is a trembling, taut line, his head hanging low, the wood of the bench creaking under his fingers. Then—nothing.

Hob frantically sits down, pulling Dream's upper body into his lap.

"Dream, breathe," he says, as steady as he can manage. "Look at me. At my mouth. Breathe."

Dream slowly, slowly lifts his head, his body still trembling, and looks at him with glassy eyes. Hob takes one of his hands, holds it to his chest, and takes a deep breath.

Dream inhales like he'd drowned and then breathes again, with Hob, eyes trained on his lips, until his body wrings his breath out of him again with another scream. He clutches at the back of Hob's shirt, tugging it down forcefully until it almost chokes Hob and the first button rips off under the pressure.

Hob breathes with him again, endearments and praise knocking against his heart, but he doesn't speak them, because Dream needs to breathe, so Hob has to breathe. This is the work Hob can do for him, painfully little, and he will do so as long as Dream needs. Forever, if need be. Hob hopes for Dream's sake it will not be forever.

There's a ripping sound, and Hob can see that Lucienne has resolutely cut away the bottom of Dream's robe. Just as she catches Hob's eye and nods, Dream starts to scream again, deep and low, digging bruises into Hob's hips and they get lost in the ebb and flow of Dream bringing life into the world.

It goes on for some time, maybe a minute, maybe eternity. Lucienne has coaxed Dream to lift his knees during a break so she could place a blanket and then a mat under him.

And then Dream suddenly doesn't need Hob to breathe anymore, panting hard and fast, every short exhale a whine, and all the words that had stoppered Hob's throat come tumbling out.

"So good, Dream, so brave, so brave. My love. So strong, the strongest, oh Dream…"

Dream raises one trembling hand, still panting, panting, and smacks at Hob's face. Hob shuts up, holding onto Dream's shoulders instead. Dream nods weakly.

A strained grunt works itself from deep inside Dream's belly, and then he sags forward into Hob, boneless, trusting him to hold his full weight. Hob panics.

"Dream? Dream! Are you alright? Lucienne! Is he–"

Then many things happen at once. Hob looks up, seeking reassurance from Lucienne. Lucienne laughs, probably at him, and there is another sound, like a mewl, coming from Lucienne' hands, in which—

Hob feels like his brain is broken. He can't think. His face is wet. Dream groans, lifts his head and then his whole body and turns, slumping back against Hob's legs, accepting the baby Lucienne holds out to him, their baby, and—

Hob sobs. He doesn't know what to do with his hands so he places them in Dream's sweat soaked hair, softly scratching over his scalp. Dream's head is resting against his belly, Hob's legs framing and holding Dream's body. His cut-off robe hangs open, and on his chest lays their daughter, if Hob has heard Lucienne correctly through the warbling in his ears, smeared yellow and red, her skin pink, her black hair plastered to her tiny skull. She's still connected to Dream, and drowsily blinks to reveal summer sky blue eyes. She's perfect. Dream is perfect. Sweaty and exhausted and perfect and beautiful, smoothing one slender finger over a tiny eyebrow.

Breathe, Hob tells himself. Breathe. She's soft and crumpled, made to be held and squished. He can't stop looking. Now she's shaking her head against Dream's chest, her pink mouth wide open. She slowly stretches a leg, clumsily pats about with one arm, until her searching mouth finds Dream's nipple. She latches on, closing her eyes, relaxing again with a huff. Annoyed, Hob thinks, his heart drenched in syrupy fondness.

Dream sighs and snuggles back into Hob. He lifts one arm in a vague gesture with a groan, but Hob understands. He stretches and takes the glass of water from the table, the tremble in his fingers so awful that he spills it over his hand and arm. He refills it, carefully, and then holds it to Dream's lips so he can drink.

After emptying the glass, Dream says, low and hoarse, "thank you." He sighs again. "For being there."

"Yes, yes," Hob says, nonsensically, his words hacked off by the love in his heart and the tears in his throat. "For you. Always."

"Regardless." Dream looks down again. "Thank you."

Hob leans forward, just a little bit, and draws a finger over their daughters wet head. "Remind me again," he whispers. "I can't think right now."

With a hand on his neck Dream draws his head down and places a kiss on his cheek. "Ophelia," he says. "This is Ophelia."

They sit, Lucienne taking care of Dream and quickly checking Ophelia, and watch their daughter drink, and then sleep. Hob rearranges his life in his head once again, like he did four times before, his heart growing yet for another child. He can't wait. He can't wait to show her to the others, to watch her feed, and sleep, and walk the halls to calm her down. He wonders whom she takes after, Dream or him, or if she's her very own person. He shakes his head. Of course she's her very own person. He's being silly.

"Will you hold her?" Dream asks after a while. "I want to wash, I think. And. We need to get out of the sun."

"I—can I?" He can't fathom that Dream would would let go of her, would really let him—

Dream snorts. "I don't know, can you? Would you rather Lucienne take her?"

"No, no, no," Hob says quickly. "But what about you?"

"I believe Lucienne will aid me. Won't you?"

"Certainly." She nods at Hob. You should take your shirt off. She will be calmer that way."

Hob unbuttons his shirt and then takes his daughter from Dream, carefully, reverently. She does not wake up, only grunts and fists a hand in his chest hair. She's so small, Hob's hands almost swallowing her as he holds her.

Lucienne pulls Dream to his feet, slow and careful, and then supports him as they make their way to the house. Hob follows. He sits down on their bed and looks at Ophelia, feels her tiny, quick breaths, her soft skin against his rough one when she shifts. He wonders what she dreams of, if she dreams at all. Maybe of darkness and warmth and soothing voices. She smells of milk and warmth, and of gentleness, and Hob feels a fresh wave of tears drip down his cheeks and on his chest as he rubs his thumb over Ophelia's back.

Dream comes back on unsure legs, leaning on Lucienne, and gets on the bed beside Hob, leaning against the headboard, carefully avoiding to sit down on his bottom properly.

"You are very good at this." Dream pats his arm reassuringly.

"I am? I'm not doing anything," Hob says, not convinced that Dream is honest with him. He's not—is he? He's never done this before. He wasn't allowed.

"Yes, you are," Dream says again. "And I am rather hungry. Is there food?"

Hob holds Ophelia as Dream eats, first a broth with dumplings, and some meat, and then what looks like half a bread, tearing it to pieces and drawing them through butter before he stuffs them into his mouth with a moan.

Lucienne helps Hob to put a diaper on Ophelia and wraps a blanket around them both before they sit down again. "I will stay for a few days," she tells them both. "I'll check up on you, but please wake or ask for me whenever." Then she leaves to give them a bit of privacy.

At last, picking his way through some fruit, Dream regards Hob again. "You need to eat, too. And drink some water."

Hob opens his mouth as Dream nudges it with an apple slice, chewing as he watches Ophelia stir and wriggle, mouthing through his chest hair. "Sorry, love," Hob coos, "I haven't got what you're looking for there. There you go."

"As I said. A natural." Dream takes her out of his arms to feed her, shoving the board with the leftover food in his direction. He guides her face and grunts in discomfort as she latches, and then falls silent. Hob watches them, absentmindely eating what's left. He still cannot believe it, not really, has to kiss Dream's forehead and nose and chapped mouth, has to touch Ophelia's squishy little feet and her cheek and her hands to convince himself this is real.

Afterwards, he holds her again as Dream rearranges himself, burrows himself down into the covers and yawns. Pillowing his head on Hob's thigh, he watches as Hob carefully swaddles her and holds her to his chest again. "If you're tired just put her down," he tells Hob. "She won't break, and she'll certainly wake us if she needs something."

They have put the crib next to the bed, on Hob's side. He insisted, and Dream was very willing to let him. Hob shakes his head. "Not yet," he says, soft, pleading. "You sleep. You've certainly earned it, my love."

Dream laughs, the rumble of it emphasised by his hoarseness. "This is the first time you've called me love since she was born. Should I be jealous?"

Hob takes his hand and kisses it. "Absolutely. She's my new favourite." Then, quieter, "Go to sleep, my darling."

Dream hums and closes his eyes. He's asleep within seconds. Hob watches them sleep, two of the six great loves of his life, the evening light wandering through the room. He's had a three hour nap, he can stay awake for a bit. And tomorrow, he will bring home the other four. They would be very cross if they were cheated out of their time with their grandparents, new sibling or not.

chaosheadspace's addition....fucking supreme. I am going feral. Furthermore, my brain has once again been taken over by this au.

For some reason I am convinced Alex just "has to go" (cough cough) on some important business trip with Paul towards the end of Dream's pregnancies. The first time everyone could write it off as unlucky timing buy the third time it happens everyone knows it's deliberate.

Alex and Dream might behave at social events but to everyone who works at the manor it is obvious the two don't exactly like spending more time together than strictly necessary for keeping up appearances.

Everyone can agree it's a dick move for Alex to not be there for the birth of "his" children (the staff are 99% sure that Dream/Hob and Alex/Paul is what is happening here) but both Dream and Alex ignore it. The idea of Alex having to care for Dream close to & during labor makes both of them break out in hives, no thank you. Hob can take care of that.

Maybe Alex promotes Hob to Dream's personal assistant or something to keep up appearances. He is being such a good husband by making sure Dream has someone there for him when he himself is unfortunately indisposed (Lucienne is Dream's p.a. in a business sense here).

While Alex is off to France or something (where he is definitely not having an insane amount of sex with Paul while they wait for news of the baby's arrival), Hob and Dream get to be together.

Dream might not have had someone there to comfort him through the morning sickness but at least he gets to have someone there to dote on him and massage his aching back for those final weeks when Hob's pup is big and heavy.

When Dream goes into labor, Hob is there to take care of him and the kids, juggling holding Dream's hand and playing with the kids and reading them stories before bed. Afterwards, when Dream is tired and sore, Hob will be there to take care of him and the newborn, as well as to keep the older children occupied so their dad and little sibling can rest.

[ for someone who loves angst I sure am a sucker for the comfort part of it ]

- 🍃

Ahshdhfjgm yes perfect! Another lovely anon had a similar idea of Hob becoming the go-to guy when Dream is labour because the Burgesses aren't there/dont care, and I think its wonderful!

It's fantastic news for Hob because he gets quality time with Dream in those precious final weeks before the new arrival, and he actually gets to be one of the first to hold the baby! It almost makes up for all the time they have to spend apart. He absolutely dotes on Dream, and soaks up all the time he can get snuggled up with the older children plus the newest little one. Side by side or in his lap it's impossible not to notice that they're his kids, every single one of them. And honestly he'd love them just the same if they weren't his, because they came from Dream. The most beautiful, precious person he's ever met. How could Hob fail to love him and his babies?

[widowsbite3]

I Will Love You Either Way

CW: Major character deaths. I really didn’t mean to make it this sad...enjoy! 

It had all started when we were kids. Introduced from the beginning with ulterior motives that at the time we could never even fathom, never truly understand what the implications of a friendship could mean… I remember the young boy I fell in love with, named after a star that paled in comparison to his brothers own namesake. Always trying to prove himself, always trying to be perfect no matter how unobtainable perfection was. But that was the point, wasn’t it? If perfection was the expectation and yet still viewed as unobtainable, we would be trained to fight and claw till the very end to reach it, as if we were all racing to see who could jump off the edge of the cliff first.

He was a brilliant boy, the one I was lucky enough to love, minded his manners, spoke perfect English and French, and followed every demand his parents made to a T… and yet, I could see the stars glowing light fade from his eyes a little more every time we were pushed together. I didn’t think much of it, my own light fading as the days passed and the weight we carried grew. There were expectations of pureblood children especially those of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, and as a future Black myself, I knew that if I were to be allowed to continue loving the second in line to be heir, I had to also meet those expectations and more.

It was those expectations that would be our downfall. They would eat away at our souls until we felt like husks dragged along by pride and pressure. Eat away at our very being until all we had were the tears we shed in the darkest of nights where no one could hear us. At times I allowed myself to drift away from the world, imagining what it would be like to rebel, to run away and be a complete stranger in a world that did not know our names. I watched in jealousy as other girls giggled in the halls, and gossiped about the most mundane of topics. I dreamed of a life where love held no motives, and didn’t come from a contract between meddling parents.

Then, it all came crashing down in a spectacle that I would remember with vivid dread. What made one’s entire life immeasurably better, sentenced my own to death. Sirius Black was sorted into Gryffindor. Regulus Black lost all boyhood, and any chance at a future escape, and I lost any dream of being a stranger in passing to all those that crossed my path. We were merely 10, but I suppose fate doesn’t much care about age.

The next year we found ourselves in the very situation that graced Sirius with a chance at something better, and doomed us to a fate we would never survive. I could tell Regulus was nervous, though to all others he looked the epitome of a son to a Sacred 28 family. Tall posture, hair perfectly styled, robes new and custom, and yet his eyes were a shade darker than they should have been, his jaw clenched just slightly as it tended to in stressful situations, and his family ring twisted just so as if he had been spinning it while lost in his deepest and darkest thoughts.

I brushed my pinky against his, softly interlocking my own just under his ring. Unnoticeable to all but him, stoic to all but me. Names began to be called, and much too quickly came the surname Black. With his back to me I spared a glance to the table donned in students sporting red and gold, my eyes sweeping over the throngs of students until I landed on the boy in question. Sirius Black had a hopeful look to his face. Gone were the days where he hid behind a mask we were all taught as young purebloods, gone were the hopes that he would ever live up to his parent’s wishes.

The hat’s hesitance left a hush over the crowd. Would another son from the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black be sorted into anything other than Slytherin? Just as the tension seemed to reach an all-time high the hat opened its leathery mouth and gave its cry,

“SLYTHERIN!”

I let out an imperceptible sigh, thanking any deity listening for allowing a single moment of grace in our lives. I followed soon after, and though the hat seemed to debate between houses, I knew there was only one house I could ever allow myself to be sorted into.

“SLYTHERIN!”

I made my way to the table, sitting next to Regulus and once again interlocking my pinky with his own in a symbol of solitude and support. We knew what it meant to carry the green and silver colors, we knew that there would be no turning back from this point on, we knew that we had just sealed our fate.

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

Years passed, sides were drawn, and the boy I loved became the official heir to the House of Black, myself officially being announced as his betrothed. We both knew what side of the war we would be forced to, and we both played the role of blood-purist children well. No one had a single doubt that we believed that those of lesser blood did not deserve the same as those who were pure and no one would think twice if we did not join in the open mocking of those students. Regulus and Admara, too pure and prideful to give even a second of their time to those less worthy.

What people didn’t see, could never see, were nights hidden away in the room of requirement, surrounded by muggle classics detailing love, loss, and tragedy. So perfectly mirroring our own lives that we were entranced by the idea of possibly getting a happy ending, lost in the dreams that we dared never to speak so as to not create any real hope. On the outside, we were the perfect example of pureblood children that every Scared 28 family demanded, on the inside we were scared children, shackled to a boat that was about to tip over the waterfall.

It was that summer that we knew our excursions would have to end. An exact year from the day Sirius had run, Regulus was ambushed as soon as he walked through the front door of 12 Grimmauld Place and “graced” with the dark mark. While he could not do much from within the walls of Hogwarts, we all knew what his mark truly meant. He was the proof that the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black had not fallen, he was the living proof that the Black Family would side with the Dark Lord and forsake their oldest son, he was the proof that they would sacrifice their lineage to the cause…and sacrifice they did.

Regulus was a talented wizard, powerful in the best of ways and logical at the best of moments. Though no one was surprised by this revelation as he had received top marks in all his classes, it proved useful to the Dark Lord and furthermore, his cause. Regulus was one of few to don the Dark Lord’s mark, and no one questioned why. He seemed to be the perfect death eater. Fierce on the battle field, cruel in his intentions, and sharp in any meetings held. It was when he came home that his true thoughts broke free, no longer on display for all to see, to judge, he would fall to his knees on the cold linoleum of our entryway, sobs wracking his frame and sick falling from his mouth. Despair swept our home like the plague and we were left to wonder if this was simply how pureblood marriages went. Perhaps grief was as normal an emotion, as expecting perfections from one’s heirs.

Once again, a found myself begging to any deity listening that they give us a chance to be better, to live for something more than the desolation that had sunk into our weary bones, for a chance, any chance, to be more than the expectations set on us from the time we were born. I should have known that begging fate for help would only end in misery.

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

“They’re called horcruxes,” Regulus sat with his head in his hands folded nearly in half in his armchair.

“The Dark Lord has split his soul to become immortal?” My voice was no more than a whisper, the room tense and heavy with the realization of what we were facing.

“Yes.”

The single word response held the weight of the world as understanding washed over me.

“You want to stop him…” Regulus’ eyes met mine, deep pools of grey staring at my own expression.

“Yes.”

The silence stretched, a battle being conveyed with no more than long looks, and weary sighs.

“Then I suppose, we should figure out where to start,” I held my chin high daring him to disagree.

“There is no we.” His utterance was met with a withering look.

“There is nothing without the both of us.” He stood from his chair crossing the room with powerful strides and grasping the sides of my face in desperation.

“I can’t lose you…” His voice cracked, his fingers resting at the nape of my neck.

“And I can lose you? Regulus, listen to yourself?! I will not sit at home, while you go out trying to be the hero your brother always wanted you to be! I will not sit here and pretend that this is just a way for you to do your part in defeating the Dark Lord!” I pushed him away, my desperation making way for the anger consuming me.

“Then what is it Admara?! Tell me, since you seem to know everything!” His once gentle hands were clenched into fists. His eyes showing another emotion where the emptiness had long since taken residence.

“What is it? What is it?! It’s Regulus Fucking-Black thinking he has something to prove! It’s you believing that dying a martyr will make your brother love you again! It’s you giving up everything we have worked so hard to maintain, throwing away your life so that you do not have to live with the consequences of finally breaking away from this dreadful life that we both hate!” My chest rose in anger, my words sinking deeper than a serpent’s fangs in its prey.

“Is that so bad?” His words were barely audible, his voice cracking with the regret that had wholly consumed him since the dark mark had been seared into his flesh.

“Only if you don’t take me with you. Regulus, I love you. I have loved you since we were children running around in the gardens of the Black estate. I have devoted every speck of my soul into loving you. I can’t lose you.” My own voice cracked, tears welling in my eyes as I stared at the broken man before me.

“We’ll die. If not by trying to destroy the horcruxes, then as punishment for turning against the Dark Lord. We will be traitors to the cause, Admara, we will lose everything, our lives included.���

I took his hands in mine, smiling as tears rolled down my cheeks.

“I will love you either way…”

And love him I did, as mere months later I sank into the cold water of a lake surrounded by cave walls and inferi. I looked to the boy I loved with all my heart and soul being pulled down right next to me, and in our last moments interlocked our pinkies as I had when we were just 11 and nervous for what the future held. With one last breath I closed my eyes and dreamt of a world I had almost forgotten, one where we were simply strangers to all those that passed us, one where we could love freely with no expectations, one where myself and the boy I loved could finally find peace and marvel at the brilliance of the stars. 

[blackwoolncrown]

”This essay has been kicking around in my head for years now and I’ve never felt confident enough to write it. It’s a time in my life I’m ashamed of. It’s a time that I hurt people and, through inaction, allowed others to be hurt. It’s a time that I acted as a violent agent of capitalism and white supremacy. Under the guise of public safety, I personally ruined people’s lives but in so doing, made the public no safer… so did the family members and close friends of mine who also bore the badge alongside me.

But enough is enough.

The reforms aren’t working. Incrementalism isn’t happening. Unarmed Black, indigenous, and people of color are being killed by cops in the streets and the police are savagely attacking the people protesting these murders.

American policing is a thick blue tumor strangling the life from our communities and if you don’t believe it when the poor and the marginalized say it, if you don’t believe it when you see cops across the country shooting journalists with less-lethal bullets and caustic chemicals, maybe you’ll believe it when you hear it straight from the pig’s mouth.”

>>Copied here in case anyone gets paywalled when they click the above. The full article is...a lot.<<

WHY AM I WRITING THIS

As someone who went through the training, hiring, and socialization of a career in law enforcement, I wanted to give a first-hand account of why I believe police officers are the way they are. Not to excuse their behavior, but to explain it and to indict the structures that perpetuate it.

I believe that if everyone understood how we’re trained and brought up in the profession, it would inform the demands our communities should be making of a new way of community safety. If I tell you how we were made, I hope it will empower you to unmake us.

One of the other reasons I’ve struggled to write this essay is that I don’t want to center the conversation on myself and my big salty boo-hoo feelings about my bad choices. It’s a toxic white impulse to see atrocities and think “How can I make this about me?” So, I hope you’ll take me at my word that this account isn’t meant to highlight me, but rather the hundred thousand of me in every city in the country. It’s about the structure that made me (that I chose to pollute myself with) and it’s my meager contribution to the cause of radical justice.

YES, ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS

I was a police officer in a major metropolitan area in California with a predominantly poor, non-white population (with a large proportion of first-generation immigrants). One night during briefing, our watch commander told us that the city council had requested a new zero tolerance policy. Against murderers, drug dealers, or child predators?

No, against homeless people collecting cans from recycling bins.

See, the city had some kickback deal with the waste management company where waste management got paid by the government for our expected tonnage of recycling. When homeless people “stole” that recycling from the waste management company, they were putting that cheaper contract in peril. So, we were to arrest as many recyclers as we could find.

Even for me, this was a stupid policy and I promptly blew Sarge off. But a few hours later, Sarge called me over to assist him. He was detaining a 70 year old immigrant who spoke no English, who he’d seen picking a coke can out of a trash bin. He ordered me to arrest her for stealing trash. I said, “Sarge, c’mon, she’s an old lady.” He said, “I don’t give a shit. Hook her up, that’s an order.” And… I did. She cried the entire way to the station and all through the booking process. I couldn’t even comfort her because I didn’t speak Spanish. I felt disgusting but I was ordered to make this arrest and I wasn’t willing to lose my job for her.

If you’re tempted to feel sympathy for me, don’t. I used to happily hassle the homeless under other circumstances. I researched obscure penal codes so I could arrest people in homeless encampments for lesser known crimes like “remaining too close to railroad property” (369i of the California Penal Code). I used to call it “planting warrant seeds” since I knew they wouldn’t make their court dates and we could arrest them again and again for warrant violations.

We used to have informal contests for who could cite or arrest someone for the weirdest law. DUI on a bicycle, non-regulation number of brooms on your tow truck (27700(a)(1) of the California Vehicle Code)… shit like that. For me, police work was a logic puzzle for arresting people, regardless of their actual threat to the community. As ashamed as I am to admit it, it needs to be said: stripping people of their freedom felt like a game to me for many years.

I know what you’re going to ask: did I ever plant drugs? Did I ever plant a gun on someone? Did I ever make a false arrest or file a false report? Believe it or not, the answer is no. Cheating was no fun, I liked to get my stats the “legitimate” way. But I knew officers who kept a little baggie of whatever or maybe a pocket knife that was a little too big in their war bags (yeah, we called our dufflebags “war bags”…). Did I ever tell anybody about it? No I did not. Did I ever confess my suspicions when cocaine suddenly showed up in a gang member’s jacket? No I did not.

In fact, let me tell you about an extremely formative experience: in my police academy class, we had a clique of around six trainees who routinely bullied and harassed other students: intentionally scuffing another trainee’s shoes to get them in trouble during inspection, sexually harassing female trainees, cracking racist jokes, and so on. Every quarter, we were to write anonymous evaluations of our squadmates. I wrote scathing accounts of their behavior, thinking I was helping keep bad apples out of law enforcement and believing I would be protected. Instead, the academy staff read my complaints to them out loud and outed me to them and never punished them, causing me to get harassed for the rest of my academy class. That’s how I learned that even police leadership hates rats. That’s why no one is “changing things from the inside.” They can’t, the structure won’t allow it.

And that’s the point of what I’m telling you. Whether you were my sergeant, legally harassing an old woman, me, legally harassing our residents, my fellow trainees bullying the rest of us, or “the bad apples” illegally harassing “shitbags”, we were all in it together. I knew cops that pulled women over to flirt with them. I knew cops who would pepper spray sleeping bags so that homeless people would have to throw them away. I knew cops that intentionally provoked anger in suspects so they could claim they were assaulted. I was particularly good at winding people up verbally until they lashed out so I could fight them. Nobody spoke out. Nobody stood up. Nobody betrayed the code.

None of us protected the people (you) from bad cops.

This is why “All cops are bastards.” Even your uncle, even your cousin, even your mom, even your brother, even your best friend, even your spouse, even me. Because even if they wouldn’t Do The Thing themselves, they will almost never rat out another officer who Does The Thing, much less stop it from happening.

BASTARD 101

I could write an entire book of the awful things I’ve done, seen done, and heard others bragging about doing. But, to me, the bigger question is “How did it get this way?”. While I was a police officer in a city 30 miles from where I lived, many of my fellow officers were from the community and treated their neighbors just as badly as I did. While every cop’s individual biases come into play, it’s the profession itself that is toxic, and it starts from day 1 of training.

Every police academy is different but all of them share certain features: taught by old cops, run like a paramilitary bootcamp, strong emphasis on protecting yourself more than anyone else. The majority of my time in the academy was spent doing aggressive physical training and watching video after video after video of police officers being murdered on duty.

I want to highlight this: nearly everyone coming into law enforcement is bombarded with dash cam footage of police officers being ambushed and killed. Over and over and over. Colorless VHS mortality plays, cops screaming for help over their radios, their bodies going limp as a pair of tail lights speed away into a grainy black horizon. In my case, with commentary from an old racist cop who used to brag about assaulting Black Panthers.

To understand why all cops are bastards, you need to understand one of the things almost every training officer told me when it came to using force:

“I’d rather be judged by 12 than carried by 6.”

Meaning, “I’ll take my chances in court rather than risk getting hurt”. We’re able to think that way because police unions are extremely overpowered and because of the generous concept of Qualified Immunity, a legal theory which says a cop generally can’t be held personally liable for mistakes they make doing their job in an official capacity.

When you look at the actions of the officers who killed George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, David McAtee, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Eric Garner, or Freddie Gray, remember that they, like me, were trained to recite “I’d rather be judged by 12” as a mantra. Even if Mistakes Were Made™, the city (meaning the taxpayers, meaning you) pays the settlement, not the officer.

Once police training has - through repetition, indoctrination, and violent spectacle - promised officers that everyone in the world is out to kill them, the next lesson is that your partners are the only people protecting you. Occasionally, this is even true: I’ve had encounters turn on me rapidly to the point I legitimately thought I was going to die, only to have other officers come and turn the tables.

One of the most important thought leaders in law enforcement is Col. Dave Grossman, a “killologist” who wrote an essay called “Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs”. Cops are the sheepdogs, bad guys are the wolves, and the citizens are the sheep (!). Col. Grossman makes sure to mention that to a stupid sheep, sheepdogs look more like wolves than sheep, and that’s why they dislike you.

This “they hate you for protecting them and only I love you, only I can protect you” tactic is familiar to students of abuse. It’s what abusers do to coerce their victims into isolation, pulling them away from friends and family and ensnaring them in the abuser’s toxic web. Law enforcement does this too, pitting the officer against civilians. “They don’t understand what you do, they don’t respect your sacrifice, they just want to get away with crimes. You’re only safe with us.”

I think the Wolves vs. Sheepdogs dynamic is one of the most important elements as to why officers behave the way they do. Every single second of my training, I was told that criminals were not a legitimate part of their community, that they were individual bad actors, and that their bad actions were solely the result of their inherent criminality. Any concept of systemic trauma, generational poverty, or white supremacist oppression was either never mentioned or simply dismissed. After all, most people don’t steal, so anyone who does isn’t “most people,” right? To us, anyone committing a crime deserved anything that happened to them because they broke the “social contract.” And yet, it was never even a question as to whether the power structure above them was honoring any sort of contract back.

Understand: Police officers are part of the state monopoly on violence and all police training reinforces this monopoly as a cornerstone of police work, a source of honor and pride. Many cops fantasize about getting to kill someone in the line of duty, egged on by others that have. One of my training officers told me about the time he shot and killed a mentally ill homeless man wielding a big stick. He bragged that he “slept like a baby” that night. Official training teaches you how to be violent effectively and when you’re legally allowed to deploy that violence, but “unofficial training” teaches you to desire violence, to expand the breadth of your violence without getting caught, and to erode your own compassion for desperate people so you can justify punitive violence against them.

HOW TO BE A BASTARD

I have participated in some of these activities personally, others are ones I either witnessed personally or heard officers brag about openly. Very, very occasionally, I knew an officer who was disciplined or fired for one of these things.

Police officers will lie about the law, about what’s illegal, or about what they can legally do to you in order to manipulate you into doing what they want.

Police officers will lie about feeling afraid for their life to justify a use of force after the fact.

Police officers will lie and tell you they’ll file a police report just to get you off their back.

Police officers will lie that your cooperation will “look good for you” in court, or that they will “put in a good word for you with the DA.” The police will never help you look good in court.

Police officers will lie about what they see and hear to access private property to conduct unlawful searches.

Police officers will lie and say your friend already ratted you out, so you might as well rat them back out. This is almost never true.

Police officers will lie and say you’re not in trouble in order to get you to exit a location or otherwise make an arrest more convenient for them.

Police officers will lie and say that they won’t arrest you if you’ll just “be honest with them” so they know what really happened.

Police officers will lie about their ability to seize the property of friends and family members to coerce a confession.

Police officers will write obviously bullshit tickets so that they get time-and-a-half overtime fighting them in court.

Police officers will search places and containers you didn’t consent to and later claim they were open or “smelled like marijuana”.

Police officers will threaten you with a more serious crime they can’t prove in order to convince you to confess to the lesser crime they really want you for.

Police officers will employ zero tolerance on races and ethnicities they dislike and show favor and lenience to members of their own group.

Police officers will use intentionally extra-painful maneuvers and holds during an arrest to provoke “resistance” so they can further assault the suspect.

Some police officers will plant drugs and weapons on you, sometimes to teach you a lesson, sometimes if they kill you somewhere away from public view.

Some police officers will assault you to intimidate you and threaten to arrest you if you tell anyone.

A non-trivial number of police officers will steal from your house or vehicle during a search.

A non-trivial number of police officers commit intimate partner violence and use their status to get away with it.

A non-trivial number of police officers use their position to entice, coerce, or force sexual favors from vulnerable people.

If you take nothing else away from this essay, I want you to tattoo this onto your brain forever: if a police officer is telling you something, it is probably a lie designed to gain your compliance.

Do not talk to cops and never, ever believe them. Do not “try to be helpful” with cops. Do not assume they are trying to catch someone else instead of you. Do not assume what they are doing is “important” or even legal. Under no circumstances assume any police officer is acting in good faith.

Also, and this is important, do not talk to cops.

I just remembered something, do not talk to cops.

Checking my notes real quick, something jumped out at me:

Do

not

fucking

talk

to

cops.

Ever.

Say, “I don’t answer questions,” and ask if you’re free to leave; if so, leave. If not, tell them you want your lawyer and that, per the Supreme Court, they must terminate questioning. If they don’t, file a complaint and collect some badges for your mantle.

DO THE BASTARDS EVER HELP?

Reading the above, you may be tempted to ask whether cops ever do anything good. And the answer is, sure, sometimes. In fact, most officers I worked with thought they were usually helping the helpless and protecting the safety of innocent people.

During my tenure in law enforcement, I protected women from domestic abusers, arrested cold-blooded murderers and child molesters, and comforted families who lost children to car accidents and other tragedies. I helped connect struggling people in my community with local resources for food, shelter, and counseling. I deescalated situations that could have turned violent and talked a lot of people down from making the biggest mistake of their lives. I worked with plenty of officers who were individually kind, bought food for homeless residents, or otherwise showed care for their community.

The question is this: did I need a gun and sweeping police powers to help the average person on the average night? The answer is no. When I was doing my best work as a cop, I was doing mediocre work as a therapist or a social worker. My good deeds were listening to people failed by the system and trying to unite them with any crumbs of resources the structure was currently denying them.

It’s also important to note that well over 90% of the calls for service I handled were reactive, showing up well after a crime had taken place. We would arrive, take a statement, collect evidence (if any), file the report, and onto the next caper. Most “active” crimes we stopped were someone harmless possessing or selling a small amount of drugs. Very, very rarely would we stop something dangerous in progress or stop something from happening entirely. The closest we could usually get was seeing someone running away from the scene of a crime, but the damage was still done.

And consider this: my job as a police officer required me to be a marriage counselor, a mental health crisis professional, a conflict negotiator, a social worker, a child advocate, a traffic safety expert, a sexual assault specialist, and, every once in awhile, a public safety officer authorized to use force, all after only a 1000 hours of training at a police academy. Does the person we send to catch a robber also need to be the person we send to interview a rape victim or document a fender bender? Should one profession be expected to do all that important community care (with very little training) all at the same time?

To put this another way: I made double the salary most social workers made to do a fraction of what they could do to mitigate the causes of crimes and desperation. I can count very few times my monopoly on state violence actually made our citizens safer, and even then, it’s hard to say better-funded social safety nets and dozens of other community care specialists wouldn’t have prevented a problem before it started.

Armed, indoctrinated (and dare I say, traumatized) cops do not make you safer; community mutual aid networks who can unite other people with the resources they need to stay fed, clothed, and housed make you safer. I really want to hammer this home: every cop in your neighborhood is damaged by their training, emboldened by their immunity, and they have a gun and the ability to take your life with near-impunity. This does not make you safer, even if you’re white.

HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE A BASTARD?

So what do we do about it? Even though I’m an expert on bastardism, I am not a public policy expert nor an expert in organizing a post-police society. So, before I give some suggestions, let me tell you what probably won’t solve the problem of bastard cops:

Increased “bias” training. A quarterly or even monthly training session is not capable of covering over years of trauma-based camaraderie in police forces. I can tell you from experience, we don’t take it seriously, the proctors let us cheat on whatever “tests” there are, and we all made fun of it later over coffee.

Tougher laws. I hope you understand by now, cops do not follow the law and will not hold each other accountable to the law. Tougher laws are all the more reason to circle the wagons and protect your brothers and sisters.

More community policing programs. Yes, there is a marginal effect when a few cops get to know members of the community, but look at the protests of 2020: many of the cops pepper-spraying journalists were probably the nice school cop a month ago.

Police officers do not protect and serve people, they protect and serve the status quo, “polite society”, and private property. Using the incremental mechanisms of the status quo will never reform the police because the status quo relies on police violence to exist. Capitalism requires a permanent underclass to exploit for cheap labor and it requires the cops to bring that underclass to heel.

Instead of wasting time with minor tweaks, I recommend exploring the following ideas:

No more qualified immunity. Police officers should be personally liable for all decisions they make in the line of duty.

No more civil asset forfeiture. Did you know that every year, citizens like you lose more cash and property to unaccountable civil asset forfeiture than to all burglaries combined? The police can steal your stuff without charging you with a crime and it makes some police departments very rich.

Break the power of police unions. Police unions make it nearly impossible to fire bad cops and incentivize protecting them to protect the power of the union. A police union is not a labor union; police officers are powerful state agents, not exploited workers.

Require malpractice insurance. Doctors must pay for insurance in case they botch a surgery, police officers should do the same for botching a police raid or other use of force. If human decency won’t motivate police to respect human life, perhaps hitting their wallet might.

Defund, demilitarize, and disarm cops. Thousands of police departments own assault rifles, armored personnel carriers, and stuff you’d see in a warzone. Police officers have grants and huge budgets to spend on guns, ammo, body armor, and combat training. 99% of calls for service require no armed response, yet when all you have is a gun, every problem feels like target practice. Cities are not safer when unaccountable bullies have a monopoly on state violence and the equipment to execute that monopoly.

One final idea: consider abolishing the police.

I know what you’re thinking, “What? We need the police! They protect us!” As someone who did it for nearly a decade, I need you to understand that by and large, police protection is marginal, incidental. It’s an illusion created by decades of copaganda designed to fool you into thinking these brave men and women are holding back the barbarians at the gates.

I alluded to this above: the vast majority of calls for service I handled were theft reports, burglary reports, domestic arguments that hadn’t escalated into violence, loud parties, (houseless) people loitering, traffic collisions, very minor drug possession, and arguments between neighbors. Mostly the mundane ups and downs of life in the community, with little inherent danger. And, like I mentioned, the vast majority of crimes I responded to (even violent ones) had already happened; my unaccountable license to kill was irrelevant.

What I mainly provided was an “objective” third party with the authority to document property damage, ask people to chill out or disperse, or counsel people not to beat each other up. A trained counselor or conflict resolution specialist would be ten times more effective than someone with a gun strapped to his hip wondering if anyone would try to kill him when he showed up. There are many models for community safety that can be explored if we get away from the idea that the only way to be safe is to have a man with a M4 rifle prowling your neighborhood ready at a moment’s notice to write down your name and birthday after you’ve been robbed and beaten.

You might be asking, “What about the armed robbers, the gangsters, the drug dealers, the serial killers?” And yes, in the city I worked, I regularly broke up gang parties, found gang members carrying guns, and handled homicides. I’ve seen some tragic things, from a reformed gangster shot in the head with his brains oozing out to a fifteen year old boy taking his last breath in his screaming mother’s arms thanks to a gang member’s bullet. I know the wages of violence.

This is where we have to have the courage to ask: why do people rob? Why do they join gangs? Why do they get addicted to drugs or sell them? It’s not because they are inherently evil. I submit to you that these are the results of living in a capitalist system that grinds people down and denies them housing, medical care, human dignity, and a say in their government. These are the results of white supremacy pushing people to the margins, excluding them, disrespecting them, and treating their bodies as disposable.

Equally important to remember: disabled and mentally ill people are frequently killed by police officers not trained to recognize and react to disabilities or mental health crises. Some of the people we picture as “violent offenders” are often people struggling with untreated mental illness, often due to economic hardships. Very frequently, the officers sent to “protect the community” escalate this crisis and ultimately wound or kill the person. Your community was not made safer by police violence; a sick member of your community was killed because it was cheaper than treating them. Are you extremely confident you’ll never get sick one day too?

Wrestle with this for a minute: if all of someone’s material needs were met and all the members of their community were fed, clothed, housed, and dignified, why would they need to join a gang? Why would they need to risk their lives selling drugs or breaking into buildings? If mental healthcare was free and was not stigmatized, how many lives would that save?

Would there still be a few bad actors in the world? Sure, probably. What’s my solution for them, you’re no doubt asking. I’ll tell you what: generational poverty, food insecurity, houselessness, and for-profit medical care are all problems that can be solved in our lifetimes by rejecting the dehumanizing meat grinder of capitalism and white supremacy. Once that’s done, we can work on the edge cases together, with clearer hearts not clouded by a corrupt system.

Police abolition is closely related to the idea of prison abolition and the entire concept of banishing the carceral state, meaning, creating a society focused on reconciliation and restorative justice instead of punishment, pain, and suffering — a system that sees people in crisis as humans, not monsters. People who want to abolish the police typically also want to abolish prisons, and the same questions get asked: “What about the bad guys? Where do we put them?” I bring this up because abolitionists don’t want to simply replace cops with armed social workers or prisons with casual detention centers full of puffy leather couches and Playstations. We imagine a world not divided into good guys and bad guys, but rather a world where people’s needs are met and those in crisis receive care, not dehumanization.

Here’s legendary activist and thinker Angela Y. Davis putting it better than I ever could:

“An abolitionist approach that seeks to answer questions such as these would require us to imagine a constellation of alternative strategies and institutions, with the ultimate aim of removing the prison from the social and ideological landscapes of our society. In other words, we would not be looking for prisonlike substitutes for the prison, such as house arrest safeguarded by electronic surveillance bracelets. Rather, positing decarceration as our overarching strategy, we would try to envision a continuum of alternatives to imprisonment-demilitarization of schools, revitalization of education at all levels, a health system that provides free physical and mental care to all, and a justice system based on reparation and reconciliation rather than retribution and vengeance.”

(Are Prisons Obsolete, pg. 107)

I’m not telling you I have the blueprint for a beautiful new world. What I’m telling you is that the system we have right now is broken beyond repair and that it’s time to consider new ways of doing community together. Those new ways need to be negotiated by members of those communities, particularly Black, indigenous, disabled, houseless, and citizens of color historically shoved into the margins of society. Instead of letting Fox News fill your head with nightmares about Hispanic gangs, ask the Hispanic community what they need to thrive. Instead of letting racist politicians scaremonger about pro-Black demonstrators, ask the Black community what they need to meet the needs of the most vulnerable. If you truly desire safety, ask not what your most vulnerable can do for the community, ask what the community can do for the most vulnerable.

A WORLD WITH FEWER BASTARDS IS POSSIBLE

If you take only one thing away from this essay, I hope it’s this: do not talk to cops. But if you only take two things away, I hope the second one is that it’s possible to imagine a different world where unarmed black people, indigenous people, poor people, disabled people, and people of color are not routinely gunned down by unaccountable police officers. It doesn’t have to be this way. Yes, this requires a leap of faith into community models that might feel unfamiliar, but I ask you:

When you see a man dying in the street begging for breath, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a mother or a daughter shot to death sleeping in their beds, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a twelve year old boy executed in a public park for the crime of playing with a toy, jesus fucking christ, can you really just stand there and think “This is normal”?

And to any cops who made it this far down, is this really the world you want to live in? Aren’t you tired of the trauma? Aren’t you tired of the soul sickness inherent to the badge? Aren’t you tired of looking the other way when your partners break the law? Are you really willing to kill the next George Floyd, the next Breonna Taylor, the next Tamir Rice? How confident are you that your next use of force will be something you’re proud of? I’m writing this for you too: it’s wrong what our training did to us, it’s wrong that they hardened our hearts to our communities, and it’s wrong to pretend this is normal.

Look, I wouldn’t have been able to hear any of this for much of my life. You reading this now may not be able to hear this yet either. But do me this one favor: just think about it. Just turn it over in your mind for a couple minutes. “Yes, And” me for a minute. Look around you and think about the kind of world you want to live in. Is it one where an all-powerful stranger with a gun keeps you and your neighbors in line with the fear of death, or can you picture a world where, as a community, we embrace our most vulnerable, meet their needs, heal their wounds, honor their dignity, and make them family instead of desperate outsiders?

If you take only three things away from this essay, I hope the third is this: you and your community don’t need bastards to thrive.

RESOURCES TO YES-AND WITH

Achele Mbembe — Necropolitics

Angela Y. Davis — Are Prisons Obsolete?

CriticalResistance.org — Abolition Toolkit

Joe Macaré, Maya Schenwar, and Alana Yu-lan Price — Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect?

Ruth Wilson Gilmore — COVID-19, Decarceration, Abolition [video]

[poppinisperfection]

Cool. || Peter Maximoff x Reader pt. 1 ||

Peter Maximoff x fem!human!Reader

(Y/n) is history teacher.

Requested.

Word Count: 3543

Notes: Peter acts a little strange in this, he's not being cold on purpose - so keep that in mind. Let's all presume (Y/n) is an independent woman who doesn't let an aloof guy ruin her day 💫 it's more of an introduction, so sorry if that dissapoints y'all. I hope you enjoy this extremely long piece of writing, let me know what you think. Requests are open 🙌

Taglist: @amourtentiaa @scorpionchild81

Masterlist

I flicked the indicator, as it clicked rhythmically and signaled my next turn. Grasping the steering wheel tightly, I wondered whether the direction I was heading in was the right one. My eyes drifted down to the small business card that was beginning to wrinkle from the amount of times it had been read and re-read.

‘Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Center, Westchester County, New York’

With a deep breath, I pushed my foot gently on the accelerator and turned the wheel - solidifying my decision. I drove down the graveled driveway as the evening sun pierced through the acres of fields and forests that dotted the landscape. This place was unlike any school I had ever seen. I had taught at various institutions of all kinds during my training, but something about this place was like something out of a fairytale or Jane Austen novel.

The old academic building grew closer as I prepared to slow down my vehicle and stop at the entrance. I peered around, trying to see if there was any places dedicated for me to park; but as far as I could tell, this was the only appropriate place for me to stop. 

I pulled out my key and felt the car’s engine fade to silence. I didn’t notice how comforting the gentle grumbles of the vehicle had been until they were gone. Now, all that was left was my mind and the thousand worries that crashed around inside it. I'm not a mutant, but I often wonder if being anxious about everything is some sort of weird useless mutation that I unfortunately had. 

Before I could become consumed by my menial fears, the vintage wooden doors opened up as if on cue. A man in a chair wheeled out as his familiar face smiled at me, and I was honestly quite awe-struck by his sudden appearance. I had spoken to Professor Charles Xavier on the phone before (for the job interview), and I had watched him on television a few times, but something about actually being near him was so incredible. This man changed the lives of so many people, possibly even the world.

I took a deep breath in and returned the kind smile, opening my car door and placing my feet onto the ground - the gravel crunching underfoot.

"Professor Xavier, it's so good to meet you." I spoke nervously, unsure of what I should do with my posture. Should I shake his hand? Should I high-five him? Should I bow? Okay maybe those last two were a bit far-fetched...

"The pleasure is all mine, (Y/n)." A voice rang through my head, as if it were my own thoughts speaking to me. But I recognized the voice, a smooth English accent that belonged to the world's most famous telepath.

"Incredible..." I breathed. Some might find it intrusive or freaky, but I was quite honored and honestly dazzled by his abilities. A figure appeared behind the wheelchair-bound man, distracting me from my child-like awe.

"Don't be a such a show-off, Charles." my attention turned to a tall man wearing a pair of glasses and a smart checkered shirt. "Good Evening, I'm Hank McCoy." he piped up cheerily, holding out his hand for me to shake. I absentmindedly took it, a bit starstruck by the world-renowned engineer, scientist, blue-furry man, and genius.

"(Y/n) (L/n)." I eventually spoke up, causing Hank to raise an eyebrow at my words.

“’(L/n)’? You're the new history teacher?" I nodded at his question, "Oh wow, you came so highly recommend that I presumed you'd be a bit more... experienced?" he chose his words carefully as to not offend. I know that most people picture an old greying woman who wears outdated fashion when they think of a history teacher...

"Oh, I'm young, I know." I explained with a bashful chuckle. 

“Hank, you of all people should know greatness is not defined by age.” Charles turned to his colleague. 

“I read that you graduated Harvard at 16.” I blurted out. 

“15, actually.” McCoy mumbled humbly. Xavier gave a satisfied smile as his point was proven. 

“(Y/n) here was top of her class, and I have no doubt that she’ll be a wonderful addition to the school.” the wise mutant stated, assuring Hank and giving me a boost of confidence. “Come inside, Hank can carry your bags for you, won’t you?” the professor inquired cheekily as McCoy threw him a look of slight distain. 

“Somedays I wish I wasn’t born with super-strength...” the academic man shook his head - the comment laced with light-hearted sarcasm - before heading to my car and pulling out my two bags, not even giving me a chance to politely object to the offer. 

“Ignore him, he’s just grumpy because he’s not on the mission.” Professor Xavier chuckled, turning his wheelchair around and beckoning for me to follow him inside. 

“I only trust myself to pilot that beauty.” Hank mentioned wistfully, probably referring to his famous aeronautical creation.

“’The mission’?” I questioned with intrigue, trailing behind him and entering the grand entrance.

“The X-Men are on a routine escort mission for the President at the moment,” my attention turned away from the antique décor as I choked on my breath slightly at his words. Of course I had heard of the famous troop of mutant heroes, but it just suddenly became so real. I was living where the X-Men lived. You know, the same X-Men that saved the world from complete destruction. “I was hoping they’d be here to show you around - but duty calls.” Charles finished. 

“Oh of... of course, duty...” I managed to mutter out eventually, earning a slight laugh from the Professor. He didn’t need to be a telepath to read my mind right now. I was so obviously astonished at the whole situation. I couldn’t believe that I was finally here, after months of thinking, considering, and second-guessing. I knew it was a risk, and I couldn’t even return to my parents if it failed.

Let’s just say that my folks weren’t very supportive of my decision to teach at a 'mutant mansion', as they would call it. Maybe it was stubbornness, maybe it was bravery; but I ignored their advice and became determined to come to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngers. Now it was my only chance, since my family won't be welcoming me back anytime soon.

I followed Charles around, as he showed me all the rooms and explained some of the history as Hank make the odd comment or interjection. Most notably that the house was actually only a few years old, owing to the fact that the school had been blown up and rebuild a year ago. That was a fact that I could’ve gone without knowing. All I could do was hope that it didn’t blow up again, or at least not when I was around anyway. 

"Your classroom will be right next to the library," Xavier motioned towards a pair of wooden doors that lay open for students to walk freely into, "and feel free to check out any of the books as well - I have a few secret shelves for teachers, with some unregulated research papers on pre-20th century mutations, if that sounds interesting to you?" he added with a playful smile, as I nodded my head in admiration. This place sounded like an absolute dream, and I've only been here for less than an hour.

-------

As we strolled (and wheeled) down the wooden hallways, I noticed the students disappear one by one. By the looks of it, the early night had truly set in, and the majority of children were either in their rooms studying or hanging out in a common area.

"I suppose there's nothing more we can show you until the class starts tomorrow morning, I was really hoping that the team would be back by now..." Xavier gave a short sigh and furrowed his brows slightly, "But I suppose I've prolonged your tour as long as I could. Perhaps Hank, you could show (Y/n) to her room and she can rest in preparation for tomorrow." his smile returned as he asked his colleague for another favor. McCoy nodded his head and gave me a polite smile, still carrying around my bags from earlier. Maybe he didn't anticipate the Professor giving such an expansive and detailed tour of the mansion, so the bags must've been getting burdensome at this stage.

The spectacle-wearing teacher walked ahead of me and strolled towards the grand staircase that lead to the upstairs area (which we had previously travelled to earlier, but it's mainly bedrooms that we couldn't intrude into). I trailed my fingers along the carved bannister of the staircase, admiring the craftsmanship. Considering the school had been blown apart; this place looked as though it was straight out of a historical drama. The Professor could've went for a more modern update, like the ones you see in magazines and government buildings - but something about the simplicity of 1980s architecture just seemed cold and clinical. I'm glad they kept the historical charm alive.

"So you're really not, well, you know..." Hank broke me out of my daydreaming as he turned his head slightly and paused at the top of the steps. It took me a second to register what he was asking, but then it hit me.

"A mutant? Oh," I gave a meek smile before answering, "No I'm just a regular 'homosapien', completely boring." my sentence ended with a light chuckle at my own expense.

"Then you'll be the first non-mutant teacher here, you're making history." McCoy replied with zest as he began to walk down the hallway again.

"I thought I was supposed to teach history, not make it." I chirped from behind him, earning a snort and chuckle from the nerdy fellow (I know, I know - I'm a superb comedian).

As we passed by the student rooms, I could hear the various sounds emerging from behind their doors. One was gossiping loudly to their friends, another was blasting ABBA and singing along, and I could've swore that I heard some quiet sobs escaping through the keyhole of one door. My face fell into a frown as we passed by, and Hank paused slightly, before turning to me.

"That's Sophie Smith's room, she's homesick a lot." he whispered to me, his features showing concern. "You might have her for a class, so maybe keep an eye out if she's struggling." Hank suggested, as my heart went out for this student. I gave him a nod before we continued on our neverending journey towards my room.

Eventually, we stopped at the end of a corridor and my guide dropped my bags carefully on the wooden flooring. He twisted the door knob with one hand, and I watched as the door opened and revealed my bedroom.

"’Home sweet home’, as the saying goes." Hank uttered with a light tone. I stepped into the room and took my bags from the floor, carrying them in with me.

"It's so..." I breathed, observing the room.

"I know, we were supposed to get the curtains changed last month, but there was a mix-up and it's been dela-" he tried to explain, but I cut him off.

"Oh no! I was going to say, 'It's so perfect'." I clarified, brushing off his embarrassment at the state of the curtains (which were beautiful anyway). I stepped forward and placed my bags at the end of the bed while gazing at the beautiful room. This place was growing on me more and more with each minute that passed. 

“I’ll let you get settled in for the night then, there’s a copy of your timetable on your desk - it has all the information you’ll need for classes and etcetera.” Hank gestured to the neat pile of paper sheets on the wooden desk, “There’s always food in the kitchen, feel free to eat whenever and whatever you want.” he added, as my attention turned to my empty stomach. I will definitely be visiting the kitchen after I get settled in. 

“Thank you, for everything.” I beamed, unable to truly express my gratitude. He returned the smile and nodded, before shutting the door and returning to his business. As soon as his footsteps disappeared, I fell flat on the quilted bedsheets and sprawled out, giving out a pent up sigh. It was the kind of sigh that released anxiety and replaced it with assurance. From the looks of it, things were going to be alright - and there was nothing more satisfying that knowing you made the right decision. 

My brief escape into my feelings was cut short, as my stomach audibly warned me that it was running low on fuel. I turned my head and looked over to the beside alarm clock, reading the time; ‘8:24p.m.’

“Hmm,” I mused as I considered my options, “I should probably read you first...” my eyes drifted to the timetable that sat untouched on the desk. My belly did not agree with this decision, as it grumbled once more. “Okay, alright... yeesh.” I placed a hand against my abdomen, trying to settle the noise. “Food first, read later.” I threw my legs over the side of the bed and resolved to make my way towards the school’s kitchen. 

-------

Finding the kitchen was no problem, as the Professor showed it to me at least three times earlier. I guess he really was trying to stretch that tour out as much as possible. A few of the older students who were hanging around glanced at me as I entered the room. I couldn’t tell if they knew I was a teacher, or if they just thought I was a new student; either way, they didn’t stick around to find out. The group of teenagers grabbed their snacks and left the room once their privacy was interrupted. Honestly, I just think they were gossiping about some pop music band and didn’t want a stranger listening - so I didn’t mind their swift exit. It left me with some privacy as well, which was nice. 

I noticed a small radio sitting in the window sill, and decided to switch it on to break the silence. A static noise rang out as I extended the antenna and turned the knob carefully. Soon a voice grew clearer, and I had reached a station playing something. I just let the song play out, since I didn’t want to bother with searching the airwaves for something else. 

I stepped over to the pantry and surveyed the contents carefully. I was starving, but I couldn’t figure out what for. I picked up a loaf of bread and placed it on the counter, deciding it would have to be a PB & Jelly sandwich. Grabbing a plate, I began to craft my makeshift dinner. Absentmindedly, my head began to sway gently to the tune that played through the tinny radio speaker. It was one of those cheesy love songs that are always playing these days. There was something so catchy about those songs, and instinctively I began to mouth the words and drift into an MTV daydream. 

My brief escape from reality faded away as I noticed a clinking noise coming from the glass and cutlery. It was almost like an earthquake, but I knew that New York was unlikely to experience that kind of disaster (well I hoped so, at least).

A bright light shone outside the window, and I stepped closer to peer out. The basketball court had opened up and revealed a massive basement beneath it. A few seconds later, a black jet descended gracefully from the dark sky and lowered itself underground while the whole mansion trembled with the power it created. I swiftly grabbed the jam jar as it almost slipped off the edge of the counter, and stared in awe. 

“So that’s where they keep it...” I breathed out as the basketball court returned to its normal state, as if nothing had happened. I stood in wonder for a few seconds, still holding the jar tightly in my hands. That was probably the most of the X-Men I’d be seeing tonight. I’m no expert on presidential mission debriefing, but I presumed the team of elite heroes wouldn’t be mingling with the common folk upstairs for at least an hou-

“Ugh, this song’s a real bummer.” 

I nearly jumped out of my skin as a voice suddenly quipped from beside me. My attention hastily turned to a combat uniformed young man - quickly flicking through the radio stations. I stared at him, half confused and half terrified of his sudden appearance. Slowly I began to recognize his features; silvery hair, aloof attitude, and of course, the recognisable X-Men uniform. 

“Hey - you’re that guy...” I tilted my head slightly as I spoke without thinking. In a split second, he appeared at the fridge wearing an entirely new outfit, this time more casual. The music had changed to something more rock-y and alternative, matching his aesthetic. I was almost certain of it. I couldn’t remember his name, but I’ve definitely seen him with the X-Men on the news. I was almost certain of it.

“Nah, you’re thinking of a different guy.” he responded without second thought, while lifting out a can of some kind of soda. I felt my mouth contort in confusion, bemused by his comment. 

“I...” my thoughts paused to phrase my words correctly, “You were just wearing an X-Men uniform, you’ve got to be him.” I managed to retort, causing the confident fellow to raise an eyebrow. With the blink of an eye, he had disappeared from my sight again. 

“So, you don’t even know his name - and you’re convinced he’s me?” the silver-haired guy stated nonchalantly from behind me as he sipped on his drink. I gasped and grabbed my chest in surprise, not expecting him to sneak up behind me like that. I gave a sigh and prepared to answer the question. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” I closed my eyes and wracked my brain for a moment, “Peter, right?” I sighed, finally recalling the speedy mutant’s name. I looked up at him and expected some sort of witty remark. Instead, he just stared at me for a few seconds. I avoided his gaze awkwardly and looked down at the jam jar that still sat in my hands. Clearing my throat, I placed it carefully onto the counter beside me - trying to distract from his sudden silence. 

“Oh.” I mumbled at the change of topic, “I am. Only arrived here a few hours ago. The Professor showed me around earlier, with Hank, I saw all the classrooms and it was really quite-” I harped on, “I'm sorry, I'm rambling..." my voice lowered, as I watched the casual fellow open up a bag of pretzels and munch on them absentmindedly. He gave a soft chuckle at my apology.

“So, you’re new here?” for the third time, he appeared in a different location, leaving me to turn around one more time. He faced away from me, opening a drawer and surveying its content silently. 

"Cool." he replied simply, placing a few more pretzels into his mouth.

"Cool." I repeated gently, trying to decipher his aloofness. This 'Peter' was blunt, distant, and almost cold. It was as if I had offended him somehow. I stared at my surroundings for a brief moment, before deciding to get off of the wrong foot.

"I'm sorry if I was rude earlier; or was it that I couldn't remember your name?" I tried to find the reason for his indifference, wringing my hands with nerves. Peter raised an eyebrow and scowled slightly at my question.

"Rude?" he asked with a shocked tone.

"Yeah, I thought I offended you?" I explained.

"Nah, nah, we're good." he shrugged my theory off and zoomed over to the bin, throwing the crumpled wrapper in it. "I gotta go now, X-Men stuff." Peter turned to me and excused himself. I gave a soft 'oh' in surprise, and held out my hand for him to shake (just a teacher habit, I guess).

"Nice to meet you anyway, Peter." I smiled at him. The silvery guy just stared at my hand and then looked back up to me - but for some reason, avoided my eyes.

"Cool." he said again, before disappearing from sight; leaving me standing there, alone, holding my hand out for no one. Slowly I lowered my wrist and cleared my throat.

"Cool..." I said to myself, still entirely confused by the interaction. My attention quickly turned to the change in music. The radio suddenly shifted from the grungy tunes, back to the end of love ballad that I was listening to earlier. He must've changed it back. I tilted my head and stared at the little radio in the window, listening and thinking.

Maybe he wasn't as cold as I thought. Maybe I'll try and get a better conversation from that silver-haired boy tomorrow. Maybe I'll get that handshake from him. Maybe.

Still, the only thing that matters right now is that I eat that PB&J sandwich.

-------

[kikilefangirl]

Worthy of Admiration

Bucky Barnes x Reader

(Word Count: 1644)

As you pulled up to your apartment complex, nothing was seemingly out of place.

Miss Marcia sat next to her open window watching the neighborhood kids run through the grass. Suge and his boys from down the way whistled as you walked past. The usual.

But as soon as you made it up the steps, you paused. Something didn’t feel right. You were suddenly more aware of the knife burning a hole in your pocket.

“Monty!” You called out and he came almost immediately.

“Take these to your Mama, tell her it was no problem.” You said. You didn’t hear his reply.

You hand him your grocery bags, never taking your eyes off of your apartment door further down the hall. You take light, cautious steps. Turning your key with one hand, you rest the other on your knife.

As soon as the door clicked, a metal hand reached for your throat. You sidestepped, feeling the air whizz past you. You lunged at your attacker, but he was fast. His flesh arm reeled back, landing a harsh blow to your side. You slashed his forearm before he could get to you fully.

It caught him off guard long enough for you to kick him in the ribs. It gave you just enough time to retreat to your kitchen. A collection of knives and guns awaited you.

You were prepared for a moment like this.

You focused your energy, calling out all the weapons in your possession. A dagger whistled towards you and you caught it in mid-air. A dagger to go with your knife. The metal man was on you, his gun in hand.

You threw the dagger, digging it in his shoulder. As soon as you let it fly, you focused on his gun, you could feel its mechanics and jammed it from where you were.

Your knife clattered to the ground in the process, though. Hand to hand then. A block. Metal hand incoming. Dodge. Dishes and plates rocked and clashed all around you.

You matched his pace blow for blow. Learned his movements. He favored no arm or leg, not even the metal one. Military grade equipment. Very well trained.

You noticed the details. You were holding your own against the stronger, faster, bigger man solely because of the details of his weaponry. That was your mutation. Weapons. The strategy was purely years of training.

Then you slipped up. The sound of children laughing and running up and down the hall took you by surprise.

No, don’t come up here, you wanted to scream.

As soon as your attention drifted from him, the man seized the opportunity. He had his hands on your throat. You were slowly sinking and black spots dotted your vision.

Just then, another man busted through the door, and pushed your attacker off of you. The two wrestled on your living room floor, but you couldn’t keep your eyes open.

Then everything went black.

                                                        ...

“A fake ID, no prints, and an arsenal of weapons in every room.” Natasha sounded off. She stared at your sleeping form through the observation deck in the Tower’s Med Bay.

Bucky frowned at that. The mystery woman he’d gone after and attacked as the Winter Soldier. The details were fuzzy, but he remembered some parts. From what he gathered, she lived completely off the grid. For good reason if she had Hydra out to get her.

Tony swaggered into the room, and made a beeline for Steve, whose worried gaze alternated between Bucky and the woman. He was used to the stares from everyone; he deserved them.

“Spangles, for some reason Terminator over there-,”Tony gestured to Bucky on the opposite end of the room, “almost you know, to our Jane Doe and here’s the best part, minimal damage.”

His words hung in the air, and Bucky drew his lips in a tight line. He found his own gaze drifting towards her, full of concern. He rubbed his temple.

“What are we looking at, here?” Steve let out at last. Bucky scolded himself for not asking that question himself.

Reality sunk in when no one could answer him.

                                                        ...

“You took a lot of hard hits, yesterday.”

At the sound of the deep voice, your eyes fluttered open against the harsh white light. Hospital. You tried to sit up all the way, but a metal handcuff bit into your wrist. You grimaced and finally looked up and the man.

You tried to scramble backwards at the sight of your attacker, but you were still cuffed.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The man backed away and held his hands up.

You made no moves, but watched him carefully. His metal hand was still very much a threat. You ghosted a hand over the bruise it gave you. You took a ragged breath and licked your lips. Chapped. If not for the morphine drip, everything would hurt. Nope. You were in no condition to deal with the outside world. If you left, now, you were as good as dead.

“My name is Bucky. I’m sorry I attacked you,” He started.

It seemed genuine, but as you thought back to Metal Man, you realized who he was and why he was so familiar. The Winter Soldier. Hydra. You tried not to make a face.

“I wasn’t in control of myself. You’re safe, you’re at Avengers’ Tower.” He said frantically.

Holding your body weight up for so long on your own was beginning to take a toll. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. You swallowed hard. It hurt the roof of your mouth because it was so dry, like sandpaper.

You spied a glass of water on the nightstand next to you, so you reached for it. You came up short, but luckily enough Bucky picked up on your actions. He handed you the water and helped you get back in the bed.

You guzzled it down as soon as it touched your lips. Not long after did a familiar voice chime in.

“Well shit, I thought I taught you better than this.”

Both your heads snapped up to see none other than Nick Fury at the door. In a flash, a butterfly knife was sailing through the air. You willed it away from Bucky’s head, and chose to lodge it on the handcuffs.

The chain snapped and you sat up. The pain in your ribs flared, but at least you weren’t chained to the bed anymore.

“Wanna trade, old man?” You said, rubbing your wrist.

Fury let out a laugh and squinted with his good eye. You picked up your clothes, and scoured through the bag they were in.

“And you two...know each other?” Bucky jumped in.

“Oakland. I was seven. Mutants don’t get to live squeaky clean, especially young black ones.” You told them.

You soften at the mention of your younger self. How young and vulnerable you were when Fury found you. You’d been on Hydra’s radar ever since, running ever since.

Your grip on your bag of clothes tightened. You’d had a run in with the Winter Soldier before. You got lucky, back then. And again, it seemed. You bit your lip.

To his credit, Bucky noticed your change in mood.

“Stay here.” He suggested. You met his apologetic eyes. He was serious about you staying, and making up for what he did.

“If I wanted to be a part of a group, y’all wouldn’t be my first call, no offense.” You said. Fury scoffed and his good eye narrowed into a slit. He didn’t comment, though.

You were a mutant who wanted to live your life on your terms, not as a spectacle. You let out a sigh.

“When the doctor clears me I’ll be a ghost.” You stated. You were more so talking to Bucky than Fury. He knew full well you weren’t a team player.

“Next time don’t get rusty,” He called out, tossing you a wad of cash. You nodded in thanks, but Fury just waved his hand and walked out. That was just how he was.

It was just you and Bucky, again.

For how massive he was, the man had an innocence about him, it was almost childlike. But there was years worth of weariness, too. And guilt. A product of Hydra, and decades of a corrupted purpose as the Winter Soldier.

You decided Bucky was a weary man who was doing his very best to live in spite of it all.

“Cheer up, comrade,” You told him with a hand on the crook of his neck, “You’ll still have me for a few more days. Until the doc clears me.”

You shot him a dazzling smile and laughed to yourself when he turned a bright pink. He stammered through his reply so much you felt bad, and let him be.

But as he got up to leave, his eyes dulled. He really wanted you to stay and redeem himself for his actions. You couldn’t say it wasn’t admirable.

You twirled the knife in your hands, in one combination after the other. Bucky had blown up your hiding spot. Hydra was without its best asset and would probably be gunning for new ones. People like you.

You clicked your tongue. You could do with a life fully funded by Tony Stark himself, in the most secure building you’d ever been in.

“It’s too hot out there for me, right now. I might need a place to stay until it’s safe to move.” You said.

Bucky nodded and gave you a small smile.

“Can I ask your name, now?” You blinked at the question.

You’d lived so long without anyone, that you hadn’t even considered revealing any true information about yourself. No introductions, no goodbyes. Bucky could probably relate to that.

“Y/N.”

It felt good to say your name out loud. You surveyed the room around you. The faces of the men and women pretending they weren’t watching your exchange with Bucky.

You tilted your head and surveyed your new knife. Your nostrils flared at your collection left behind in your apartment. Oh, you’d be staying alright.

Reeling back you threw the weapon at your observation window. Successfully sticking, the knife was directly in line with Tony Stark’s head, if not for the window.

“Stark! I want my knives back!”