#also explain the whole wheelchair statement

[adelacreations]

I'm just going to say this and let's make one thing clear:

Everyone has a chance to grow HOWEVER this is real life, not fanfiction. People have a right to warn people about their behaviour. And people have a right to stay away from people who do and say bigoted things.

Need I REMIND everyone we all went through something where everyone pieced together how awful, manipulative and bigoted Apple was really. But originally everyone though "She was nice"

And if you're going to wag your finger and complain to give someone a space to grow.

You do it.

But also that's very dog whistle of you. It's the same speech from racists and like minded people who have preached that black people that we should teach them how to be racist.

Yall I don't think I have to tell you that some of us are not going to spend the time and energy to justify our EXISTENCE to someone. And when it's obvious that someone doesn't wanna change.

You have to be intolerant to the intolerant not the other way around

[sonkitty]

The Sideburns Scheme Post #92

(For reference: The Sideburns Scheme)

Crowley, Good Omens 2, Episode 6, Every Day, message

...

Sideburns Check

The sideburns are long, probably longest-length. The blocking of the scene makes it hard to confirm if they are longest-length for the whole scene or not.

...

Brighter Red Streak Check

The above image is brightened some to show the streak better.

The more saturated red streak of hair can be found.

...

Hairstyle Changes

The sideburns have lengthened a little. The top hair looks not quite as strong in its tilt to the right and as though tendrils are starting to form and separate themselves.

...

Earthly Objects

(For reference: Earthly Objects)

We start off with another clue that Crowley wanted to be first when it came to using the Heaven elevator and that might somehow matter. He leads the group of 4 angels behind him as he enters the bookshop. We are reminded that the doors have been open since while Crowley was in the elevator going up and of the window that was broken. That broken window is still broken so still effectively open too.

Of those 4 angels, Muriel ensures themself to be last on entry.

The initiating set described below is a guess of course.

Saraqael has created a ramp that Crowley uses. While his shoes are understood to be touching the ramp, the direct touch is not seen. Saraqael's wheels of their wheelchair behind Crowley are. As such, the group has a physical earthly object touch with a wheelchair using a ramp. That's point #1 of the initiating set.

Crowley has a question set of, "Hello? Anybody here?" That's point #2.

Aziraphale enters the area and is leading a different group, this one being Gabriel, Maggie, and Nina. He says, "You came back." That's a statement of place as his Hello to Crowley. That's point #3.

The angels enter the bookshop. Muriel quietly closes the doors without anyone asking. Since I think the doors being open when and while they were is important, I further suspect the timing of this closure and who is doing it is also important.

Crowley touches Shax's shoe while Shax is on a couch. He asks a question with, "What did you do them all?"

With Crowley naming Hell aloud, three demons from Hell appear. They are Dagon, Furfur, and Beelzebub.

Beelzebub creating fire with their arrival probably earns the Hell group an earthly object touch for their entry.

Dagon's idea of a Hello with a statement of place is to say, "We are at war!"

Muriel is seen taking an interest in a book.

Beelzebub activates some lightning to wake up Shax. Shax is shown to touch the couch and be touched by nearby books falling, then joins the rest of the Hell group.

While Muriel is still taking an interest in a book, the other 3 angels that entered together engage in self-touches with their hands simultaneously.

Crowley calls Aziraphale by name and brings up the cardboard box that he has been thoroughly ignoring while in the bookshop throughout the season. As a reminder, the storming out sequence in episode 1 is a deception where Aziraphale pretended to be Crowley, leaving the box untouched and unquestioned.

Aziraphale has a question with, "What box?"

Crowley has a name and a number by saying, "The one Gabriel arrived with."

Uriel asks, "Gabriel? He's here?"

Gabriel says his own name. Of note, the name "Jim" doesn't come up, and it won't come up again for the rest of the episode.

While Crowley explains about the hiding miracle, Aziraphale touches the box as he retrieves it.

Then Crowley has a touch on the box. After the box is turned over, Crowley ensures that his right thumb and thumb tip are visible but avoiding a touch on the box. I've speculated it could be a clue from Crowley that the message on the cardboard box might have been different the first time Gabriel arrived.

Beelzebub has a touch on the fly before passing it over to Gabriel.

Gabriel then opens the fly, as instructed.

...

Time to pay attention to the pockets.

The Tied Hands are very likely to be retied while Crowley enters the bookshop. He has two extended index fingers. His watch is ensured to be visible. He aligns his thumb joints with his jacket. He has self-made pockets.

Saraqael ends up visually pocketed between Michael and Uriel.

The scene establishes that Crowley and Aziraphale maintain having their sides switched with Crowley being on Aziraphale's right, instead of Aziraphale's left.

Because these two keep to such framing, that then allows Maggie and Nina to be visually pocketed by two angels, Aziraphale and Gabriel.

I can't find any Overhead Lights for Crowley.

There does appear to be something happening with Overhead Lights for Gabriel, who is on the verge of recovering his memories.

Before Crowley turns over the box, his watch is ensured to be visible, and he is understood to have his tongue touching his cheek from inside. As a reminder, this snake demon can do really weird things with his tongue, and he had various self-mouth touches during the ball invitations.

When Crowley turns over the box, that helps give his Belt Head a moment to be seen with the box covering Crowley's mouth in the process. After that, Crowley is managing how much of that box covers up parts of his tie, including the clasps and tassels. Those are the thumb joints and thumbs of his Tied Hands.

Because the fly passes between Crowley and Aziraphale, that gives it a moment to be pocketed between them.

...

Story Commentary

(For reference: Bookend Buddies - Crowley and Muriel (Part 2))

Because of Muriel shifting attention to a book, Muriel and Gabriel continue to avoid any interaction with each other throughout the season.

Aziraphale looks in the direction of where he expects the fly to be before Beelzebub summons the fly to them.

As Gabriel recovers his memories, a lot of the first season of Good Omens is shown in quick speed, including scenes that did not actually have Gabriel.

Mainly though, we are being informed of three particular memories of Gabriel with Beelzebub. The third of those memories has the matchbox that has been featured in the three matchbox Muriel scenes earlier in the season.

...

That's it for this post. Sometimes I edit my posts, FYI.

...

Main post:

The Sideburns Scheme

[emophil1981]

New Student

I was sitting in the auditorium of my university. It was the first day of the new semester. Nearly everybody was chatting before the beginning of the lecture to bring each other up to date on what happened during the summer break. I wasn’t talking to anyone I just sat there and was typing away at my computer. I was sitting in the front row, my usual place during all lectures I attended. Normally I was alone in that row, because none of the other students wanted to sit there.

Then I saw him for the first time when he entered the auditorium. It was a rather strange sight. He must have been in his late teens or early twenties. He had a stylish haircut, I guessed his hair was dyed black from the looks of it, he had two snakebite piercings in his mouth and he wore a band shirt and a black skinny jeans. But what was really special about this young man was that he had no arms and no left leg.

He was sitting in an electric wheelchair, his right foot was resting on a special foot control which was mounted on the only footrest the wheelchair had. He was barefooted and I spotted that he wore two toe rings and also a wrist (or rather ankle) watch. On the back of his wheelchair mounted on his backrest was a small rainbow flag mounted with the white lettered word „PRIDE“ written over both sides. I was stunned, I was gay but also a devotee, meaning I like guys who miss some of their limbs.

This young triple amputee guy, dressed like a metal band fan- or skaterboy was pushing all my gay buttons at once. I actually got hard right there when I saw him maneuvering his wheelchair to the end of the first row, just a few seats away from me. I was intrigued would he remain in his wheelchair? He stopped his wheelchair a few paces beside the front row. Then he put his right foot in front of his chair and stood up. He made two small hops to balance himself. It was funny how he outstretched his two small armstumps to help him achieve that. It was quite adorable. I noticed, that the left leg of his trouser was just cut off and not sewn shut as a kind of rebel fashion statement I guessed. He looked around. Then he caught my eye and smiled at me.

„Hi, is the seat beside you already taken?“ he asked in my direction looking directly at me. His voice was smooth and had a nice deep timbre. „Ahm…no. It’s not taken, you can sit here if you want.“ I answered a bit nervous. „Thanks. I have just one favor to ask you for. Could you get my laptop out of my bag at the back of my wheelchair please. Normally I can take it out myself, but it takes some time and the lecture is starting shortly. Would you be so kind and help me take it out?“ he just put on the biggest boyish smile I have ever seen on a grown up man’s face. Right there, I fell in love for this cute amputated scene boy.

„Of course, no problem at all.“ I said, stood up and got his laptop out of his wheelchair bag. I put it up on the table in front of the seat right beside mine. „Is that ok so?“ I asked him. „Yes thanks!“ he said and then he started to take small steps into the first row and hopped to the seat beside me. He sat down and then he put his right foot up on the table and opened his Laptop. „I am Brandon by the way, thanks again for helping me.“ he stretched out his foot towards me and I took his right foot in my hand. The sole was only slightly damp his whole foot was rather smooth and soft. I was nearly shaking while I hold his foot. „I am Tom or Tommy, whatever you like.“ I said and shook his foot.

„I changed here over the summer. My parents moved here.“ Brandon explained to me. „Are you from around here Tom?“ „No I am living in the student dormitories. I have a single room, just got it this semester.“ I actually don’t know why I told him, that I had a room for myself. „Cool, so no parents controlling you or siblings to bother you, you are your own master so to speak of.“ Brandon commented with a smile. „Yeah, you could say that.“ The Professor came in and the lecture started.

Brandon followed the lecture quite attentive, like me. He typed on his Laptop pretty fast by using his second toe while the big toe was stretched apart. He was nearly as fast as myself with 10 fingers it was pretty amazing to watch actually. His left leg stump was sometimes twitching and flailing on the seat, I saw that out of the corner of my eye. At the end of the lecture we were given a partner task by our professor. Before I could say something, Brandon told the professor: „Sir, Tommy and I are partnering for that homework assignment.“ He pointed with his foot at me and him in quick succession to emphsize his point. The professor looked at him and just nodded in our direction.

He looked at me, „Awesome, we are going to work together Tommy. Listen, this is my number. I suggest we meet at your dorm after the lunch break. Ok?“ he was speaking so fast I nearly couldn’t keep up with him and his thoughts. In his foot he was holding a piece of paper containing his mobile number. I took it. He seemed so excited about this that I was wondering if he might also had a crush on me. „Oh…ok. So we meet at my dorm. It’s at Dormitory B, Apartment 202. But I don’t know if there is a lift for you.“ I told him. Brandon just smiled. „If not, I am always in need of some training. See you later.“ and with that he hopped back to his wheelchair and left the auditorium in his power chair. Seeing him hopping around was somewhat sexy I thought. His arm stumps and his leg stump were bouncing slightly up and down while he hopped around. I am honest with you, that made me a bit hard.

When I came back to my dorm room, I started to tidy up my room a bit. I wanted to make a good first impression on Brandon when he visited me later today. I looked at my wall, where the huge rainbow flag was hanging. We hadn’t talked about our sexual preferences yet and I hadn’t asked him about his gay pride flag on the backrest of his wheelchair. But if he would see the flag when he came over later it would be pretty obvious that we both play for the same team I thought. I was excited, Brandon would be the first real amputee I would meet who also happens to be my age and who looked pretty hot too. I set up my laptop on my desk, so that we could start right away to do our homework.

I had just finished setting up my laptop and then I walked downstairs into the lobby to wait for Brandon. Because our dorm wasn’t wheelchair accessible I thought I should at least help or rather support him to get up to my room. I had changed into some shiny basketball shorts and a T Shirt with the mascot of my old Highschool printed all over them. I was wearing a pair of white socks and a pair of Adidas slides. I sat down on some of the couches in the lobby and waited for Brandon to arrive.

With me in the lobby were some of the other guys living at the dorm. They were chatting loudly with each other or watched TV on the plasma TV that was mounted on the wall of the lobby. I saw him in his wheelchair driving up to the entrance of the dorm. Someone was just leaving our dorm and hold the entrance door open for him, so that he could enter the lobby with his power chair. Brandon looked around and when he spotted me he smiled.

„Hi Tommy, so good to see you.“ he greeted me by waving with his right foot. „Hi Brandon, good to see you again. Shall we go upstairs?“ „Oh yeah, I would love to see your man cave up there. Nice outfit by the way and cool school mascot. I love tigers. Ours was quite lame, it was a beaver.“ he laughed and pointed to the mascot on my shorts. „Well I never was that much into sports at school, but I liked the style of our mascot. So thanks for the compliment. Your outfit is cool as well, by the way.“ I said. „I try to look as sharp and cool as I can manage. It helps sometimes to break the ice, because it’s not that common to see someone like me, you know, a triple amputee with only one leg left.“ He blushed which I thought was kind of cute. I noticed that some of the other guys were starting to stare at Brandon and some were whispering with each other.

„So shall we go upstairs to my room then and start to work Brandon?“ „Sure thing.“ he said and followed me with his power chair to the staircase. „So no lift just as you told me at our lecture right Tommy?“ „I am afraid so yes, this is not one of the newer and more accessible dorms. Are you okay with going up the stairs on your own?“ Brandon laughed. „You are so sweet to worry about me Tommy. See, I have been like this for nearly 5 years now and I have learned to find my way around. But thanks for being so concerned about me.“

Brandon parked his wheelchair beside the stairs and then he did the same thing as in the auditorium. He stood up and found his balance with two small hops. Then I saw for the first time, that he wasn’t wearing his toe rings and his watch. „Please don’t tell me that your room is at the top floor of the dorm.“ Brandon said and smirked while he hopped to the bottom of the steps. „Oh no, it’s on the second floor. So, no need to worry about much more stairs then one flight of steps, Brandon, that ok?“ I asked him somewhat concerned. „Yeah that’s totally fine.“

I watched him as he leaned with his left side against the wall of the staircase. The side where he was missing his leg. It was really interesting to see how skillfully he steadied himself with his left arm stump against the wall while at the same time he hopped up the stairs one by one. He was quite fast too. „Your good at this“ I said to him from behind. „Thanks, years of practice and some pretty nasty falls too made me quite the pro in going up stairs on one leg.“ he answered. At the top of the stairs he waited for me. He looked so hot standing there on his one bare foot. „My room is the third one on the right to your left actually.“ I said and Brandon started to hop in that direction.

When we came to the door of my room, I opened it with my key and let us in. „Nice, thanks for letting me in.“ „You’re Welcome.“ I took off my slides and walked to my desk chair. „You can sit on the bed if you like, Brandon. I think that’s more comfortable.“ He hopped over to the bed, turned around and sat himself down. He folded his bare foot in front of him. Brandon glanced at my gay pride flag and smiled. „That’s the confirmation then. You are gay like me, aren’t you Tommy?“ „Well guilty as charged your honor.“ I answered shrugging my shoulders and grinned at him. „So shall we start with our homework? We can talk after that and perhaps order something to eat.“ Brandon suggested. „Good Idea, let’s start.“

We were working for two hours straight and finished our tasks in no time. He not only looked adorable, Brandon was also smart as hell I thought. When we finished sending the email to our professor with the task from my laptop, Brandon stretched out his foot and scratched his nose. „Ok so now, ask me.“ he said suddenly. „Excuse me?“ I said. „Tommy, you stared at me right when I came into the auditorium this morning and you watched me nearly the whole time during our lecture. So just ask me how it happened. Ask me how I, Brandon Taylor, lost my arms and my left leg.“ I was stunned. He caught me, but he didn’t seem to be angry at all.

„Well…ahm…what happened?“ I asked him.

„I was stupid. Just stupid. It happened a few years ago I was in highschool and a pretty normal kid, I loved to skateboard. It was a bet I made with some of my Skateboarding friends. In my hometown there is this huge and pretty steep hill. A narrow and curved road is leading up there. I made a bet, that I would beat my friends in going downhill on that road on my board and I would be the first one down at the bottom of the street. We started the race and I was in front. Unfortunately a garbage truck was driving up at the same time we where racing downhill. It hit me and my arms and my left leg got crushed. When I woke up in the hospital I was like this. And I can tell you physical therapy was one hell of a long road to go. But at the end I made it and I can live quite independently now.“ I was shocked. I looked at him and in fact I had to fight with tears. „Oh Brandon. How old were you?“ „I was 17 years old, I am 21 now. But I am used to, well, being me if you like. Oh and before you ask, I was already out to my family and friends as being gay with 15. They all supported me.“ he was sitting there on the bed and looked at his toes, while he used them to play with the duvet. „And I have one last question for you Tommy.“ I was locking eyes with him. „Tommy, are you by any means possible a gay devotee?“

I started to breathe heavily, I was shocked, but like being in trance I answered him, I whispered: „Yes, yes Brandon I am a gay devotee!“ I looked at my socked feet and I started to sob and to cry. „Oh god, I am so embarrassed. Brandon I am so sorry, you must hate me right now. Please…I…I don’t know what to…“ Brandon robbed to the top of the bed by propelling himself with his right foot. „Tommy, shhhh, it’s alright.“ he patted me with his bare foot on the cheek and he lifted my chin up with his toes so that I was looking into his face. „Tommy, look at me. It’s ok, I am ok with devotees, I am not offended that you find my missing limbs attractive. On the contrary, I like the idea, that I have that mesmerizing effect on you.“

„Really, you are not mad at me?“ Brandon shook his head. „Come here.“ Brandon put his foot softly behind my head and pulled me towards him. It was our first kiss. He tasted nice, like a mix of peppermint and lemon. I moaned into the kiss. When we finally broke up our kiss, he smiled. „So, we are finished with homework. We are in your room, no one disturbs us here, which is really awesome by the way, and we are two gay young men who are totally into each other, so come here on your bed and let’s make out Tommy.“

Brandon robbed up against the wall behind my bed by using his foot, he was smiling coyly at me and tapped with his foot beside him on the mattress. I was standing up from my desk chair and walked over to the bed. I climbed up on the mattress and crawled on all fours to him. I snuggled up to him on his right side and started fumbling with my own fingers. Looking down shyly at my own feet. Brandon started to rub his right foot against my left foot. I literally froze, when he touched me there. „Tommy, you have to relax, everything is alright! You are still so tense.“ said Brandon and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek, he smiled at me. Why was this guy always smiling at me in this angelic fashion?

„Let’s start to get you undressed then.“ Brandon proposed. I watched him how he used his foot to peel my left sock of my foot. It was so fun to watch his dexterous foot and toes at work. „It’s amazing how adept you are with that foot of yours. It must have been hard to learn to use your foot like a hand, Brandon.“ „Mhm…my first physical therapy trainer really was a bitch! She outright tortured me with all those training sessions, but I am glad she did. In the end, this is all I have left and I can use it as a replacement for my hand today.“ While he talked, Brandon had managed to peel of my second sock also. They were lying crumbled up at my feet. Brandon took one sock in his foot and put it to his nose, he took a deep breath „Tommy I like that your socks are all sweaty and dirty they smell so nice. I want to unpack you, like the present you are to me today Tommy.“

Brandon turned sideways. He leaned back slightly and I watched him as he stuck his foot in the waistband of my shiny shorts. He closed his eyes slightly and looked quite concentrated while he took of my shorts with some effort. I lifted my legs from time to time to assist him, but I wanted him to do it on his own. I didn’t wear any underwear so I blushed when he looked at my half hard penis for the first time after he managed to take off my shorts. „Oh, I like what I see already.“ said Brandon, gave my penis a playful little notch with his toes and I just giggled. He just smiled.

„Can you help me a bit Tommy and lift up your arms? I want to free you of that t shirt.“ „Yes of course.“ I lifted my arms and Brandon took off my t shirt in one go by holding the seam between his toes and then he lifted the t shirt over my arms and my head. I was sitting on my bed stark naked, undressed by the most hot triple amputee I have ever met. He looked at me longingly and bit his lip. „God, you are so gorgeous Tommy.“ I blushed. „I don’t know if I am that gorgeous Brandon.“ „No you are definitely pretty and hot.“ I looked at him and he smiled again. „It’s unfair, you are sitting there fully clothed and I am naked. I would love to unwrap you too.“ „Then come here.“ I kneeled beside Brandon and started carefully to undress him. First I pulled of the black skinny jeans. Brandon was wearing a black boxershorts under his jeans, there was a bulge in it. Then I took off his t Shirt. I first saw his two short armstumps. The left was slightly longer than the right, but both were very short. At the tip there were small scars on both of them.

The surgeons did a good job I thought. I started to take off his boxer shorts. His penis sprang to attention. „Oh there is someone excited.“ I said. Brandon smirked and looked down at his hardon. I started to touch Brandon’s stumps. He closed his eyes and he moaned contently. „Does it still hurt?“ I asked him while I stroked his arm stumps. „No, not anymore, Tommy. Go on, that feels so nice.“ He pulled his right leg up and tried with his toes to grab the duvet to release some of his tension.

„I would like to make you happy Brandon.“ I started to grab his Penis. „Oh God, Tommy, yes, please make me happy!“ I started to rub his penis. Slowly at first and then faster and faster. I was using my other hand to touch his leg stump. It was as if his stumps lead a life of their own. They were twitching and flailing, while I masturbated him, I loved to lock at them. Brandon closed his eyes and bit his lip. I stopped stroking him. He looked anxiously at me. „Is something wrong Tommy?“ I smiled at him. „Are you into ass play?“ Brandon looked me deeply in the eyes and smiled at me. „Oh yes totally.“ Brandon said. I fetched my dildo from my closet and a tube of lube.

I smeared some lube on the dildo and then on the Anus of Brandon also. His small hole puckered in anticipation. „You ready?“ I asked him softly. Brandon nodded and he stretched his leg to his right, so that it wasn’t in my way. He looked so vulnerable in front of me, he shrugged his armstumps. I started to insert the dildo slowly into his hole. He inhaled sharply. But I continued. When the dildo was immersed fully into his hole, I stopped. Then I started to move the dildo in and out. „Oh god, Tommy, that is awesome, please fuck me!“ Brandon shook his head in pure bliss as I fucked him with my dildo.

When I found the ideal speed, to fuck Brandon, I then started to rub his penis again. „Mhmmm, that feels so good. Ahhh Tommy, it is so hot!“ I looked him in the face. I wanted to see Brandon’s cum face. I wanked him faster and faster. Then I felt his dick pulsating in my Hand. I stroked him one last time. „Ohhhh, I am cuuuuuummmmiiiing!“ he screamed. I hold his dick in my hand directing upwards. He shot four huge loads of cum, all over him, then it was oozing out of his piss slit, flowing over my hand.

Brandon huffed and he was shivering from lust, his stumps twitching uncontrollably. I patted him on the chest. „It’s alright. You’re done.“ I smiled and snuggled up to him. „Thanks for this first round Tommy, I think it won’t be the last.“

„No certainly not.“ I said.

[lavendelhummel]

Last week I saw Sophie Okonedo in Medea. It was very exiting!! Two (2) people asked me to share the experience, and one of them I have already told all this, but maybe someone else, who can’t go there, wants to read my random thoughts. For me it was a spontaneous, lucky chance, that I had, just now as it is playing, a little more time and someone to offer me a spot in their bed for the first few nights and one on their floor for the remaining ones, so I could go to England/London ;)

These are just my personal thoughts, in a weird order, and I really don’t know if they have any value for anyone, and this is full of spoilers of course!! Actually, it’s just one giant spoiler.

First of all: Needless to say, all above, that Sophie Okonedo was amazing and so good I forgot I came to see her, because there was only Medea and I was sad afterwards not having seen Sophie, even if I technically did. And I had goosebumps.

•        I really liked the Sunglasses, she wore in the beginning (it was a modern element in a not particular modern setting, the other clothes were pretty neutral and they used very few accessories (something I always like in plays) and this was so useless, only used for her first sentences and then sitting there for the rest of the play! So really a statement and very fitting to her performance, the scene and the way her emotions got dealt with. Also looked very good on her.)

•           There was a disabled actress in a wheelchair, something I had never seen before in theater. She was good, too, everyone was.

•           The women of Corinth were portrayed in a cool way. It had already said on the internet, when booking that the audience would be the women of Corinth, and I thought, this would either be very good, because it can (and was!) be done very well, but audience interaction etc. can also be very weird and not work out. This was not weird and even if I had read it, I was surprised, and it created a very nice atmosphere. I liked how the three different women were not empty chorus characters as in the book, they each had a different personality. I liked especially the one that seemed a bit like Medea’s therapist.

•           Her emotions get explained (but not in a boring monolog way, well in a monolog, but a well made one) better in the beginning. It could also be that I just didn’t understand the book as well, but I found her situation and her character and way of dealing with everything much clearer here, even if I hadn’t thought it unclear in the book, but this was… better? It set the scene and the character very well.  

•           Same with her reasoning throughout the whole thing, I didn’t always follow on every thought of hers while reading, but when Sophie played her in this version all her motivations were understandable.

•           I liked that they brought up the fact that she is in a foreign country + that she can’t go back (because of all the normal things that happened already) a lot. It made sense and was important for her character and the whole conflict, but didn’t get touched on as much by Euripides originally

•           It was cool, how her having certain medical knowledge and having helped people with it, was considered dangerous and dark and evil by certain characters, well Creon (that stinky Whitecloak), the Middle Ages are saying hi ;) especially nice, because she does use this knowledge for evil later, muhhahahah.

•           In general I liked most/all changes made. Which is a high compliment, because I usually find something to complain about.

•           Except: The guy walking in circles around everyone (stage is round and surrounded by the audience, pretty cool!). I liked that there was only one actor playing all the male characters, as they never appear at the same time, because I like it when there are small casts and he did it really well, the differences in the characters and you could see hm preparing for the changes, impressive! Because he was constantly on stage. Because when his characters were not in scene, he was walking creepily around everyone the stage, which was weird and annoying. But the friend I went with had a cool interpretation for this afterwards: He, as in all the men, were watching her and circling her, like birds watching their prey, as they cast her, the powerful woman out.

•           I didn’t even mind the use of the fog machine, something I usually hate and complain about a lot in plays. I don’t like it, but here it fit! It was good. The scene was good and the fog was not just to have weird, fancy something’s, but was just nice. I don’t know. I didn’t mind it.

•           I liked Medea’s outfit. In the beginning a sweater and a skirt, neutral, but very casual like pajamas, as she was wallowing

•           Then she changed into the black dress, again neutral, but looked very good ;))) Because she in this dress… well there are photos. Looks good.

•           Then there was one more change to er appearance in the end and that was the blood. All over her hands and face and it did have a certain something. I liked it. Yep.

•           The way she portrayed the deep satisfaction as the nurse tells what happened at the palace! The way she enjoys it! Her fascination at her own crimes! Delicious.

•           I liked how they were addressing the justice question in the whole story. They were really talking about how this is unjust, and it is, and since those plays are so much about morality, it was very important. Also having grown up with complicated siblings, justice is my favorite topic.

•           I also liked that they addressed the practicality of it all. Of really practically, where can she go, what is her backup plan now, how does she feed her children??  

•           And the reality of the history of a fallen out relationship. The relationship between Medea and Jason was not just on paper, you could sense that there was something, that they once had something and that they were in the process of redefining it. That was great.

•           The best moment for me was without doubt when it was over. I mean that was the worst, because then it was over :(. But to watch Sophie switch from Medea to herself, the way she couldn’t smile and looked shocked at the applause for a moment. Like she came up from diving. And then she did smile and (omg, she smiled!!!!) you could see she had to force herself at first, because she was still a little in the killing-mindset, but then once she started it turned to her own genuine smile and it was as if a switch had been turned. Immersive. I mean, obviously that’s how acting works, but it was so deep with her. And you could see it in her face and there were those acting feelings on her face and it was a small but powerful moment.

•           But speaking of that I had a little theater culture shock. First of all, I wasn’t aware how big the theater culture is in England/London. It’s just a mainstream thing, people talk about it, there are lots of theaters in the streets. That is so cool! I was so impressed and liked talking about theater with my friend (who does it professionally, ok) but also random people so much! Here it’s a rather niche old people/nerd thing. So cool!!! I miss doing more theater a lot and seeing this was great. But along with it being more mainstream came also that you apparently don’t dress up? Here you dress up for theater, so I did even after my friend told me I didn’t have to, but I did bring my dress, so. And then there was the ending. I’ve only ever experienced long rounds of applause, the actors coming out many times, again and again and people clasping for a long time if they liked it. But this was at most a minute? Like a little clasping. They bowed, went and came out just one single time to bow again. I had never seen it this short even in far worse plays and it made the whole thing pretty abrupt for me because I was expecting it to go on for longer. I was also disappointed, because I wanted to see Sophie for longer, than a few seconds as before she hadn’t been herself but Medea. Then again, we were in the afternoon show, maybe that’s one reason for it to be shorter.

•           Speaking of afternoon show, obviously there were only old people in the audience (and us and I was sitting very far away from my friends). But the old lady next to me more or less also came for Sophie. Well, at least she said to me, this actress was very good, she had seen her in Cleopatra (!!!!!! Omg, I wish! That must have been amazing!!!). And I was like… I know. I came a pretty long way just to see this play. Because she’s in it. The old man in front of me was reading a book while the play had already started. Rude?? I mean, I had a book on my lap as well, obviously, but that was my emergency book and for before /after the play, because I sat really far away from my friends and there is usually a waiting period and it stayed closed the whole time, and most certainly during the play. Why??

•           It was of course a little sad that she didn’t have a sword. In the book she does. It’s not on scene, but it’s said. And I would have liked to see Sophie Okonedo with a sword. I did go to the UK for this, so could have at least given her a sword. Hm.

•           Aigeus is somewhat gay coded. And obviously stupid. Which could be a dangerous mix, but was hilarious (I thought), because I felt it was implied as if his childlessness is because of hid gayness and he just doesn’t know that there are two different set of genitalia needed to make a child happen and was genuinely confused that he was sill childless edit all the gay sex he might have had.  And when Medea promised to cure him, it did have the vibe of her then later just planning on educating him, which I thought was funny and also better than in the book where it sounded as if she was going to sleep with him.  

•           My friend liked how much we were made to hate Jason. He really felt it and I know what he was talking about. It was the general vibe and then there were two things he said that were just such asshole moves. But yeah, I was so clear, that while Medea is the one to do the most evil thing ever, Jason gets the hate from the audience on purpose. Because none of those two are good people.

•           My friends, who, again, I did not sit with, and again the stage was round, said, Sophie was looking directly, very intensely at them, into their eyes very often, that’s so cool. I am jealous, she did not look intensely in my direction :(.

•           Oh, and the children themselves! They did appear early on, which made the weird objectification vibe from the book nonexistent. And the way they were incorporated was good too! I personally could also have imagined it with them not appearing at all until as dead corpses. But I also had wild theories while reading, that the theater-academia friend I went with said weren’t even that bad, about the whole play actually being about abortion (there were a few quotes, that make it not that far off!) or maybe the kids being newborn babies, twins, and she having postpartum psychosis/depression and hormones in general and thus going on a killing spree. Because in the book her mood swings are quite something! This was better in this play, as I said, her emotions and revoking were better to be followed. This doesn’t add up, because she has killed before the story already starts, but would be interesting. Anyways, the kids do appear multiple times and are more involved and it wasn’t bad, actually worked quite well!

So, it was a good play, a great play. I felt as if I couldn’t remember much afterwards and was terribly disappointed it was over, but that’s on me. Sophie was amazing and I love theater.

My friends, who are a little better equipped for reviewing (one is as I said in theater research, and the other has lots of smart thoughts usually), said they would tell me their thoughts after more processing, so maybe in a few weeks. If that happens, I can add it to this list.

[mikmakersss]

Happy to help!

Today's shift is a memorable one for me. I was at the kiosk waiting for passengers to come in to check-in when Thomas came and asked us students if anyone of us knows how to speak in Tagalog. I then raised my hand cause I am the only filipino on that shift.

He asked for my help to talk to the old lady on a wheelchair in the assistance line. The lady seemed very hard to understand because of her age and also she is I think suffering from a condition somewhat like schizophrenia. At first, Thomas is asking for her old passport just to verify her identification aside from her new passport. She told me that she already shredded her old passport because she have a new one. So I asked if she has any identification card or birth certificate in her bag. She said she have it so then she gave me the permission to open her bag. Until I found that she still have her old passport with her which she told awhile ago that she already shredded. I totally understand that things and statements like this might happen especially if the passenger is on their grey years. they might potentially forget things which is out of their control.

After that, Thomas asked me to stay a bit longer since the old lady does not have the e-travel. (E-travel is a form that needs to be answered online from passengers who will be travelling to Philippines). The old lady gave me the permission to hold her phone and scan the e-travel form. I asked her personal details but she does not have any email. Since the old lady does not have any companion, Thomas asked her if there is anyone that we can contact to help us answer the e-travel form. She gave us the phone number of her grest grand niece and Thomas asked the details he needed to finish the e-travel.

Few minutes after, we successfully registered her for the e-travel. Now it's time for her to check-in. The thing is that, she only paid for the bag fee from Sault St. Marie to Toronto for 2 luggages but her Toronto to Hongkong - Hongkong to Manila is just booked for economy light which means, she can only bring 1 pc of 23kg luggage with her. The lady keeps on insisting that she paid 3,000cad for the whole trip. We called her great grand niece and asked her if she can help her great grand mom to pay for the other luggage. She seemed off because she told to me and Thomas that she will not help because her great grand mom has money.

On that point, I felt very sad for the old lady. She opened her wallet and showed me that she only have few money with her. One lugggge from Toronto to Manila costs 285 cad. The thing is that, she needs to check in again from Manila to Bacolod which is her final destination with Philippine Airlines and we are not sure if she still needs to pay for one extra luggage.

This is the time that I became emotional.. but I didnt show it to the old lady. I talked to Thomas and I said I will just pay for the other luggage of the old lady. Thomas said No for some reason that he explained which I understand. I just really feel bad for her because we've been there dealing with it for around 40 - 50 mins.

Boris came and asked for my help to translate his explanation on why she needs to pay for another luggage. The old lady got nothing to do but pay the 285 cad with her own last money. I really feel bad because I am thinking if she needs to still pay for her lugagge with her connecting flight with Philippine Airlines she does not have any money anymore.

I am just emotional when it comes to seniors. Eventually, the old lady keeps on saying Thank you. Thomas told her, "don't thank me.. Thank her (pointing me) because she helped you a lot. (with a smiling face)". 😊

[lag1995-fics]

Hi!! May I request a dadneto fic of them calling each other dad and son for the first time? 🥰

Of course my love I’m a total sucker for dadneto. ❤️❤️❤️ I hope you enjoy

Dad.

Summary: Peter didn’t need a dad and he was sure Erik didn’t want a loser like him for a son. His father had already had the perfect family and had them snatched from him. Peter like he usually is was wrong.

Warnings: Peter has low self worth and anxiety. There’s a bit of angst but nothing heart wrenching. I don’t even think I cursed this time but I might have.

Pairing: there isn’t one just some good old fashioned father, son bonding. Maybe Cherik if you squint and turn your head to the left.

Words: 1408

Masterlist

Rules

——————————————————————————

Peter had been avoiding Erik like the plague since the older mutant had moved into the school to help with construction. Peter may be twenty seven but telling someone they missed out on twenty seven years of their child’s life wasn’t an easy thing to do. Peter knew if he couldn’t tell the man at the end of the world then it probably wasn’t going to happen.

His issue was he had already opened his fat mouth to Raven who kept trying to trap them in a room alone together. She had even gotten Charles in on it. Sure Erik had a right to know he had another child but it shouldn’t be Peter's responsibility to inform the man he had a child much less adult twins. His mother had really dropped the ball on that one.

Peter was content to just continue living his life as if everything was the same as always. He didn’t need a dad, he was a grown ass man at this point. He was afraid the information would only make Erik even more depressed. He had seen a picture of Nina in his snooping and he had determined that the tiny girl was everything he wasn’t.

She was beautiful with a tiny freckled nose and big blue eyes. She couldn’t be a loser like her big brother who up until a couple of months ago had still been living in his mother’s basement. Why would Erik want someone like him in his life much less as a son.

“Peter you’re spiraling” The professor's voice echoed through his head and Peter groaned frustrated. He pounded on his ear like he had water caught inside.

“Peter you should tell him I can be there with you if you’d like” The professor's meddling voice came again causing Peter to lose that round of Ms. Pac-Man.

“You see Professor, I would do that but I know he doesn’t want a loser basement dweller for a kid.” Peter shot back turning up his music even louder letting the voice of his generation sweep over him. David Bowie was a king and nobody could tell him otherwise.

“Peter, you aren’t a loser, you took on Apocalypse by yourself and lived to tell about it, rather loudly I might add. You also are starting a teaching position here in the fall. You are such a good kind hearted person don’t degrade yourself that way.” Charles scolded. This was an ongoing argument between the two men and it never seemed to change his mind.

“I mean, is a P.E. Teacher even a real teacher Professor?” Peter asked.

“Physical Education is a very important role in children’s lives”Charles retorted to the unconvinced twenty-something. Peter could feel the frustration bubbling up inside him. He jerked in surprise when his watch that was laying on the side table forgotten began to vibrate. He snatched it clasping it around his wrist taking deep even breaths just trying to calm down.

So he inherited more than just the x-gene from his father. He had a secondary mutation, that was just great. He would have to be even more cautious than he already was. He knew Raven would try to trigger this in front of Erik if she found out. Which she would with her brother being a freaking mind reader.

***

“I need all staff members to my office for a staff meeting” Charles' voice echoed loudly in his head. He zipped to the office finding that Charles and Erik were already there. He should have taken his time and the tension could be cut with a knife.

“Peter, how are you? I haven’t seen you around much” Erik greeted the silver haired mutant politely.

“Oh you know I’ve just been around” Peter waved him off and he could feel the professor’s eyes burning into him like Scott’s lasers.

“Peter did you know that Erik will be staying on a our new foreign language professor?” Charles asked and Peter could once again feel the frustration start to bubble up.

“Really? I thought the government gave you an island or something?” Peter asked pointedly, ignoring the professor’s smug grin.

“Well I decided that I should stay, one thing apocalypse was right about was mutants needing to stick together” Erik explained and Peter was suddenly regretting taking this job.

“Isn’t it delightful Erik is fluent in so many languages German, Russian, French, Spanish, and even Polish. Peter isn’t your mother originally from the Ukraine?” Peter wanted to glare at the older man but couldn’t...not without giving himself away at least.

“No she’s originally from Poland she moved to the Ukraine after being liberated with my ciotka” Peter bit out unknowingly feeding Erik valuable information.

“You are Jewish?” Peter wanted to run, he supposed he had Jewish blood he had known his father was Jewish.

“Romani” Peter answered shortly, trying to hint that he didn’t want to talk about it. He also wasn’t technically lying to be Jewish your mother technically had to be Jewish.

“And your last name is Maximoff?” Peter could feel the anxiety build up in his throat cursing his seventeen year old self for dropping the fact that his mother quote “knew someone who could control metal”.

Erik began staring hard at the boy taking in his features. He began to see a resemblance to Magda, his ex wife. He tried to explain it away he was probably Marya’s child, but how likely was it that Marya would give birth to a child with a mutation. He knew that Django and her husband didn’t have any mutation that he knew about.

Erik’s calculating gaze only served to push Peter that much closer to an anxiety attack. He could feel his already swift heart rate pick up even faster with his emotions. He could feel the cool metal of the watch hum and he fought the anxiety. The last thing Peter needed was to give Erik another clue. Controlling metal would be like a neon sign yelling I’m your son.

“Your mother was her name Marya or Magda?” Erik asked, still studying the nervous man. With his mother’s name all the metal in the professor’s office began to hum and vibrate. Peter began internally cussing as Erik’s eyes went wide. He started to bolt out the door but was held in place by his watch and the zipper on his jacket.

“Peter�� was all Erik could say and suddenly Peter began to wonder if the professor hadn’t called the staff meeting and only let him and Erik know. That was something he should have expected from Raven not the professor. It seemed being a meddling meddler ran in their family.

“Uh yeah?” He nervously rubbed the back of his neck trying to get the metal in the room to stop vibrating.

“Your mother, her name was Magda” Erik remarked, it was a statement not a question. He couldn’t help but wish the Wanda was here with him. She had always been the smarter twin.

“Ummm yeah” he confessed. Erik’s face looked like a cross between anguish and pure joy. Anguish that he had missed so much of his child’s life and joy that he had been reunited with said child. This was Anya’s baby brother and Nina’s elder brother. Erik knew that he would protect Peter with all of his might from now on. Erik would not waste another moment.

“My son” Erik’s voice was thick with emotion as he started down his adult child. Peter went to look at Charles for help but cursed when he saw that the wheelchair bound man had excused himself without Peter or Erik noticing.

Erik staggered forward wrapping his arms around the man and Peter melted. Peter may not have needed a father but that wasn’t to say he didn’t want one. He had always craved male companionship, he had always looked forward to visiting his aunt and uncle as a child. This was different though this man was his father, something his uncle Django tried to be for him but never really could. Erik’s hug was warm and safe and strong and he suddenly felt like he was fifteen years old again.

“Dad,” he muttered, finally squeezing the older man back fighting back tears. He had thought Erik would be angry, that he would think that Peter was trying to replace Nina. Erik wasn’t angry though, Erik was relieved he had his family. His family might not be whole but at least he had part of it.

“You have my mother’s eyes” Erik informed him, as he pulled back to further examine Peter’s face. Peter had always thought that his eyes were a dull brown, he had always wished they were bright like his mother and sister’s were. He supposed this was better, if he had his grandmother's eyes that meant that a part of her lived on.

Peter knew that he needed to inform Erik of Wanda, but that could wait a few more moments. For now all Peter wanted to do was soak in his father’s acceptance and love at least for a moment

Thank you please feel free to request.

[amphibious-entity]

TMBS Book 1 Brain Dump

~An Embarrassingly Long Post~

I don’t know why I’m writing this or why I’m so determined to do it. Maybe to finally assume my true form and become a mega dork on main, or maybe just for fun!

This is basically a compilation of all the main points running through my head after reading The Mysterious Benedict Society (2007) for the first time. Rather than posting a ton and spamming the tag, everything’s here in one neat package! (hopefully this gets it all out of my system rip)

Contents:

The Book Itself

The Book Itself, for real this time

The Characters

A Funny Parallel

The S.Q. Section

Lines & Scenes I Liked

Spoilers abound!

The Book Itself

Upon acquiring the first three books (don’t judge me pls), I was surprised at just how long they are. Like, they’re still pretty light being paperbacks and all, but these books are hefty lads.

The first book has this Disney+ Original Series circle thing printed on it, which is kind of unfortunate. Regardless, I love the cover illustration and yellow is actually my favorite color :D It made me weirdly quite happy whenever I saw the book lying around in my room

Also, it’s really cute how there’s a letter from Mr. Benedict at the end! (It only reveals that you can find out his first name if you “know the code”, meaning the bit of Morse printed below the summary on the back.) Shock and horror, though, as I realized I’m starting to recognize some of the letters

The Book Itself, for real this time

It’s wonderful how the tone of the book really shone through to the show adaptation. Something about the deliberateness of the aesthetic, from the set designs to the fashion to scene compositions, that really sells that particular style— like it’s very clear that this story is being told to us, rather than one we’re seeing unfold, if that makes sense.

Where that narration style stood out to me the most was the first chapter. We are told (rather than shown) how Reynie gets himself to the point of the second test, and there’s this whole twisty time maneuver for that whole sequence of events that’s really interesting

A super secret fun fact about me is that I wanted to be a writer when I was younger! So this particular balance of show vs. tell is really neat, since it runs counter to my own tendencies. The sheer amount of commas in every sentence is also kind of comforting, since Ahah, I Do That in those few serious-ish attempts at writing lol

Overall this book’s style reminds me a lot of Roald Dahl’s books, which are very nostalgic for me :D The whole “kids are more competent than adults” angle helps a lot too haha

The Characters

Oh boy here’s where I get a little bit critical! Overall I did really like this book!! it’s just that that expresses itself in all this weird “”analysis”” lol

Reynie - much better in the books than in the show

It’s sort of a lukewarm take but I feel like show!Reynie is kind of boring? He doesn’t have a lot going on flaw-wise, and obviously since he’s the protagonist he can’t have too many weird traits or else the kids watching can’t project themselves onto him as easily

(I call it the difference between an aspirational protagonist and a vessel protagonist. Going off of the Roald Dahl vibes, think Matilda vs Charlie. show!Reynie is more of a Charlie)

Thus when we get to see him really struggle with the Whisperer and doubt himself it gives him a lot more dimension, at least in my opinion

It is a federal crime that the white knight scenes were not adapted into the show

Sticky - my son

I’ve long held to no one besides myself and my long suffering sister that Sticky is The Best Member of the Society

He happened to hit a lot of the Bingo squares of Stuff I Like In Characters: glasses, anxious, nice :), kind of a coward but ultimately is there for his friends, etc

For some reason I don’t talk about him nearly as much as you-know-who, but I love him just as dearly

Kate & Constance - I don’t have much to say

Kate is really interesting in this book! I like how we get to see more of her depths, in particular that one passage about her belief that she is invincible being the only thing that keeps her from falling apart? :c

Also her constant fidgeting is relatable lol

Constance is somehow a lot more tolerable in the book. I think I’m just one of those people with no patience for small children, unfortunately lol

(Some of) The Adults

It’s interesting that they had such an offscreen presence for most of the book. Giving them more time was probably one of the stronger changes of the show

However if that decision was made at the expense of the white knight scenes I think the choice should have been clear

I like the way Rhonda and Number Two are written

Milligan always on sad boy hours 😔✊

The “mill again” passage is touching but kind of messes up the pacing of the getaway, at least for me. Maybe I should read it again to make sure I didn’t miss something

Miss Perumal is much better in the show. We see so little of her in the book she doesn’t function well as an emotional anchor for Reynie, imo

The Institute Gang

Jackson and Jillson serve their purpose well, and Martina was surprising to say the least. I like the direction they took her in the show! I can’t imagine how funny it must have been to watch the tetherball subplot come out of nowhere lolol

These sections were written out of sequence, so random tidbit I couldn’t fit in The S.Q. Section: I like how he stumbles over his words. relatable

Mr. Curtain

While I think I know why they decided to not give Curtain the wheelchair in the show, we were totally robbed of Actor Tony Hale’s performance for the reveal during the final confrontation

Speaking of the wheelchair, it’s such a powerful symbol of his need for control or rather, his fear of losing it

The Contrast between him and Mr. Benedict. This point is expanded on in A Funny Parallel

Mr. Benedict

Oh boy, Mr. Benedict… How do I say this

I find it hard to trust Mr. Benedict, unfortunately

I mean to say, I do in the sense that I know he would never hurt the kids, thanks to knowing that a) this is a children’s book series and b) the meta (tumblr) states that he is really nice and lovable and stuff, but seriously. Why do the kids trust him at first?? I probably missed something somewhere

I like to think I’m an optimistic person, but unfortunately I’m also super paranoid. The premise of “a bunch of vulnerable orphans team up with a strange old man” is just so odd to me I don’t know how to explain it

I don’t know!!! I really want to trust Mr. Benedict

One of the strengths of the show is that we get to see him more often, and thus he gets to acknowledge more often that the plan is weird and that he feels really badly for putting the kids in danger and that he’s trustworthy and genuine

But his lack of presence for most of the book just makes him into something of a specter, invisible and unknowable, speaking only in riddles from across the bay

Which is why the white knight scene is so important!! I loved that scene ;-;

Because here’s an actual emotional connection! We can actually see it happening, rather than only being told that it exists

Reynie asking for advice and receiving encouragement, in words that demonstrate that Mr. Benedict actually cares about him and worries about him and agghh

It is a federal crime that the white knight scenes were not adapted into the show

But overall this whole issue didn’t ruin my enjoyment of the book at all! It’s just ->

A Funny Parallel

Okay, ready for my biggest brain, hottest take ever??

Mr. Benedict and Mr. Curtain…. are… the same

I mean obviously not entirely, given that one is benevolent and kind and the other is… Mr. Curtain

But seriously. Genius old man seeks out children (mainly orphans) to enact a plan. Said children often end up incredibly devoted to his cause and deeply admire him this is a little flimsy

Undoubtedly that’s intentional and is supposed to show the difference between them, like some kind of cautionary tale? “Let yourself be vulnerable and let others help you, lest you turn eeeeviiillll”

I guess that’s where the aforementioned epic contrast comes in. You get Mr. Curtain, strapped into his wheelchair and hiding behind those mirrored sunglasses, terrified (but unwilling to admit it) of ever showing the tiniest hint of vulnerability, vs. Mr. Benedict, who can let himself fall knowing that someone will catch him :’)

Anyhow I have nothing against the parallels, I just think it’s funny

The S.Q. Section

The S.Q. Quarantine Thread so it doesn’t leak out everywhere else <3

I’d like to meet the emo angstlord genius who read this book and decided to make SQ into Dr. Curtain’s son. What in the world

Okay I should probably preface this by saying that I absolutely adore both book!S.Q. and show!SQ with all my heart. Somehow, despite being a completely different character in both mediums, he has managed to be one of the best characters in either and certainly one of my favorites (besides Sticky of course) in the entire franchise, despite the fact that I’ve only read the first book/watched the show so far. I am confident in this statement.

But seriously! How?? Why?? I could probably write a whole other essay about why show!SQ is such an interesting character, and the change works so incredibly well. I’m just. Baffled

Okay, focus. book!S.Q. is such a sweetheart, oh my goodness. Like, 100% one of the most endearing characters in the book. Poor guy. I don’t even know where to start!!

He just seems to be a genuinely good guy at heart, despite being technically one of the bad guys. He’s genuinely happy for Reynie and Sticky when they became Messengers and helped Kate when she “fell” and was concerned about Constance when she looked sick and how he was in that meeting with Mr. Curtain and Martina?!!? aaahhhhghgh ;-; he just wants people to be happy TT-TT

Comparing him against literally every character at the Institute is probably what makes him so endearing tbh. When everyone else is so awful to the kids, it really makes him stand out. Like a cheerful little nightlight in the worst, most humid and rank bathroom you’ve ever been in

It’s kind of pointless to theorize about a book series that’s already concluded (I think?) but. Is the implication of S.Q.’s forgetfulness supposed to be that Mr. Curtain used him in brainsweeping experiments somehow? The timeline probably definitely absolutely doesn’t line up but like. How did he get to being a Messenger being the way he is now, given how cutthroat the process is? And then of course Mr. Curtain keeps him around as an Executive because he’s fun to mess with and presumably his loyalty. I’m very curious as to how their relationship develops in the other books, if at all. Those are probably where the seeds of the “let’s make them family” logic were planted

But wouldn’t it be hilarious if the reason we don’t know what “S.Q.” stands for in the books is that he just. Forgot

Another thing that occurred to me. Given that he and the other Executives were Messengers at some point, what were their worst fears? What is S.Q.’s worst fear?? Inquiring minds need to know

One last horrible little anecdote: I was thinking about book!S.Q. while eating breakfast, as one does, and suddenly it hit me.

I want to believe The Author Trenton Lee Stewart had the name for a character, S.Q. Pedalian, and was like, “Hm! What sort of quirky trait should this young fellow have?” Because, of course, in this style of fiction every character has to have at least one cartoonish or otherwise distinguishing trait to stand out in the minds of children. (For instance, Kate has her bucket, Sticky has his glasses, Constance is angry, and Reynie is Emmett from the Lego Movie)

Anyhow, he looks around the room, searching for inspiration. Suddenly he comes across a jumbo box of plastic wrap. Completely innocuous in design, save for one line of text. 300 SQ FT.

“…large… S.Q. …feet? THAT’S IT!” i’m sorry

Lines & Scenes I Liked

In no particular order!

Sticky quotes Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Evil combination aerobics/square dancing in the gym with the Executives

Everyone being happy at the end :’)

Everyone partying after Sticky reunites with his parents, and later finding Mr. Benedict asleep at his desk from the moment they shook hands :’’)

Literally any scene with Sticky in it

Any time Kate says “you boys” or “gosh”

[“Um, sir?” S.Q. said timidly, raising his hand. “A thought just occurred to me.” / Mr. Curtain raised his eyebrows. “That’s remarkable, S.Q. What is it?”] clown prince of my heart </3

S.Q.’s determined monologue about searching for clues after he bungled up the first time

Literally any scene with S.Q. in it (please refer to The S.Q. Section)

Reynie trying to resist the Whisperer.

[Let us begin. / First let me polish my spectacles, Reynie thought. / Let us begin. / Not without my bucket, Reynie insisted. He heard Mr. Curtain muttering behind him. / Let us begin, let us begin, let us begin. / Rules and schools are tools for fools, Reynie thought.]

NO MORE HURTIN’ WITH CURTAIN

Milligan showing up on the island!!

Remember the white knight hhhhhh

“controle”

A Super Secret Bonus Section

I would be extremely surprised if anyone read through all the way down here lol. Regardless, here’s a little acknowledgements section :D not tagging anyone since I don’t want to bother all of these people

Special shoutout to tumblr blog stonetowns for unknowingly yet singlehandedly demolishing my reluctance to read the books by posting a ton of cute quotes. Thank you for your service o7

Thanks to the two OGs that liked the post I made right before this one, for being my unwitting enablers and for sticking around despite being a) technically an internet stranger (hello!) and b) someone I haven’t spoken to irl in literal years (hey!!)

Last but not least thankz 2 my sister for putting up with me ranting about the book when I first got it and for asking about “CQ” sometimes lol. (i desperately hope you’re not reading this orz)

[lovemeleo]

ok.... hear me out.... evgeni having to get his wisdom teeth taken out and being scared for the procedure and jackson comofrting him (also evgeni on anesthetics afterwards because I feel like that would be really funny)

(also I love your writing so much you're just amazing thx bye)

omg anon! I got so excited when I saw this prompt, I shared it with the whole SW discord server. Such a fantastic idea, and I hope I do it justice! I’m so glad you enjoy my writing, you’re so sweet! Hope you enjoy this fic xx

credit to @lumosinlove for the SW world and of course Nado & Zhenya 

if you’d like to check out my other nuny fics, here are the links:

- Cuddles with Love

- Remus finds out

- A New Dream Come True

- I’ve Got You

- The Same Brainwaves

- All You Need

cw: anesthesia, talking about medicine and dental work

***

“Zhenya, you’ve gotta get out of the car.” Nado said, his head resting on the steering wheel. The only answer he received was a lot of grumbled Russian that he didn’t understand. 

They had been sitting outside the oral surgeon’s office for 20 minutes. Luckily Jackson had planned in advance, getting them there an hour early. He knew Zhenya was nervous, it had been obvious since he made the appointment a month ago. Jackson could see the slight tremble in his boyfriend’s hands as he gripped at the sleeves of his hoodie.

Jackson reached over, resting a hand over Zhenya’s, “Baby, it’s going to be okay.” He murmured softly, rubbing his thumb over the frayed sleeve edge that covered Zhenya’s knuckles.

“Don’t want to go to sleep,” Zhenya whispered, turning his hand over to intertwine their fingers together. He had been putting it off for awhile now but the pain was getting too bad, struggling to sleep some nights.

Squeezing his hand, Jackson leaned over and resting his head on the taller man’s shoulder, “I know, babe. But it’ll be quick, they’ll sedate you and then when you wake up, it’ll all be over with and we can go home.”

Zhenya took a deep breath as he looked out the window, “Ok, let’s go. Before I lose confidence.” He said, quickly unbuckling his seatbelt and jumping out of the car. Jackson scrambled to follow him, grabbing his keys and phone before running to catch up to Zhenya who had already made it to the door.

After getting checked in, they sat down in the waiting room. The only sounds were Zhenya’s foot tapping nervously on the floor and the quiet music that played over the speaker. Jackson was thankful for that. If there were any type of dentist machine noises, Zhenya would’ve probably booked it right back out to the car.

Less than fifteen minutes later, a doctor came out the door, “Evgeni?” Zhenya’s hand tensed on the arm of the chair before he nodded.

“It’ll be okay, Zhenya. I’ll be waiting.” Jackson murmured, squeezing his hand before letting him go. He watched as Zhenya followed the doctor back, glancing back before the door closed behind them. 

And then he waited.

Around half an hour later, a nurse came out, “Hi, are you here for Evgeni?” She asked, glancing down at her clipboard.

Jackson was up and walking over to her before she finished, “Yeah, that’s me. Is everything okay? Is he okay?”

“Of course. Everything went very smoothly. He should be ready to go within the next couple minutes. We should get back there, he was already asking for you.” She explained, leading him back to one of the rooms.

Before she opened the door, Jackson could already hear Zhenya talking. He couldn’t help the smile that spread on his face.

The nurse opened the door, “Evgeni, I found your Nado for you, hun.” She said, leading Jackson into the room. 

Zhenya turned from where he had been rambling to the doctor in a wheelchair, his chubby cheeked face lighting up, “Котенок! You’re here.” He said. Or at least that’s what Jackson thought he said. He had ice packs strapped to either side of his face, gauze filling his mouth. And fuck, Jackson still thought he was cute as hell. 

“Of course I’m here, Zhenya. Told you I’d be waiting for you.” Jackson said with a smile.

Zhenya smiled, his head flopping slightly to look at the doctor, “видеть? я говорил тебе. I told you. He’s so good.” 

Chuckling softly, the doctor nodded, “Yes, I believe you, Evgeni.” He replied before looking at Nado. “I’ve prescribed him ibuprofen and Vicodin, which you can get from the pharmacy before you go. He can have one of each right away together, but after that it’s one pill of Motrin every six hours and one pill of Vicodin every 4 hours. It’s okay if you don’t remember all this, it’ll be on the bottles and the paperwork. Give us a call if he has any problems, okay?”

“Sounds good. Thanks so much for taking care of him.” Jackson said, shaking the doctor’s hand before he began pushing Zhenya down the hall.

Zhenya stared up at him the whole time, which was fairly comical as he couldn’t close his mouth, but he was still smiling, “Котенок. Hi.” Zhenya mumbled around the gauze.

Running a gentle hand through his hair, Jackson smiled as he made his way to the pharmacy, “Hi babe. You doing okay?” 

“So good. Took nap, now I see you. So good.” Zhenya said with a shrug, his head lolling to the side. Once they got to the pharmacy, Jackson parked Zhenya next to one of the chairs. A hand grabbed his wrist before he could walk away though.

Jackson turned to see Zhenya’s pouting face staring back at him, “I need to go get your medicine, Zhenya.”

To Jackson’s horror, tears started welling up in his boyfriend’s eyes, “You go? You leave me?” Zhenya said, his grip falling from Jackson’s arm.

Squatting down in front of Zhenya, Jackson took his boyfriend’s hand in his, “Hey, don’t cry, babe. I’m right here. Not going anywhere. I’ll bring you with, okay? Please don’t cry.” He blurted out, pressing a kiss to Zhenya’s knuckles.

Zhenya sniffled, his free hand coming to rub at his eyes, “Promise?” 

“Of course, I promise. I got you, Zhenya.” Jackson said quietly. He pushed the wheelchair up with him to the Pharmacy pick-up desk, parking Zhenya right behind him so he could get the medicine.

Just as he was about to hand the pharmacist his card, a large hand grabbed at his butt, making him let out what could only be called a squeak. Quickly whipping his head around, he gave Zhenya a dirty look, “Really?!” 

Zhenya looked completely nonplussed as he leaned back into his wheelchair with the approximate of what Jackson would call a smirk if his face wasn’t so swollen, “What? You put it in my face, how can I not?”

Letting out a sigh, Jackson handed the card to the pharmacist who was now trying to hide their smile. They handed over the bag and finally they were off towards the door, “Do you think you can walk to the car? Or do you want to use the chair?”

“Can I walk? Of course I can walk.” Zhenya said with a huff, carefully pushing himself off the chair. His legs wobbled a bit but after a second, he got his balance, giving Jackson a wide grin. “See? I’m strong. I did so good.”

Chuckling softly, Jackson put the chair back before wrapping an arm around Zhenya’s waist to lead him out, just in case, “Yeah, Zhenya. You did great.”

Zhenya seemed to take Jackson’s arm around his waist as a come-on because the other man felt a hand slowly creeping its way down to the back pocket of his jeans.

“Zhenya, not while we’re trying to walk.” Jackson said with a laugh, squeezing the taller man’s side.

Humming to himself, Zhenya rested his head on top of Jackson’s, “Nutty taught me word for this. Cake. You have nice cake.” He punctuated his statement with another squeeze.

At this point, Jackson was just trying to get them into the car, “Thanks, babe. That’s very nice of you to say.” He said, opening the passenger side door before helping Zhenya in, getting him buckled in. He quickly got in on the drivers side and they were finally heading home. 

Zhenya’s hand made its way over to Jackson’s leg as he drove, his fingers drawing shapes into the material of his pants, “I love you, you know, Котенок?”

A soft smile spread on Jackson’s face as he glanced over at his boyfriend, reaching down to squeeze his hand, “Yeah, Zhenya, I know. I love you too.”

The giant soppy grin was back on Zhenya’s face as he leaned onto the headrest, “I’m cuddle you when we get home. All day.” 

Well. How could Jackson argue with that?

[imlostinsantacarla]

@namjooniewifeu99: Thank you , i would like a Jacob x reader where he like you head over heels with Bella but he imprints on the reader and he tries to deny his imprint , or something in those works can it be angst with a fluff ending

(a/n: heya hun! i apologize for this taking hundreds of years for me to get around to and finally post. i hope you enjoy what i have come up with, please let me know what you think! thanks so much for requesting and supporting my blog. enjoy! - admin kat 🌙❣)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Title: You’re Not Good With Weird and I’m Not Good With Fate (Jacob Black x Reader)

Summary: Being best friend’s with a teenage shapeshifter hasn’t been the easiest thing for y/n to have adjusted to, but they have adjusted far better than the pack originally thought they would. Yet when Jacob starts to avoid y/n, the answer they receive is certainly not the one that they were expecting.

Word Count: 4,372

Warnings: Angst, fluff, Jacob being a dick, imprinting, billy interrupting y’all, let me know if there’s anything I’ve missed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The news of your best friend being a shape shifting werewolf had left you almost gasping for air on the spot, like a fish having been plucked viciously from water. Anxiety pulsed and rippled through your entire being as the animal before you (which had replaced your Jacob) stared into your bewildered wide eyes with his own bulbous orbs. Your heart was palpating so wildly in your chest that you swore that any minute now it would leap from your rib cage and out onto the dull grass of Billy Black’s lawn. There was an intense feeling of nausea that swirled in your stomach, desperately climbing up your throat which made you feel lightheaded.

“Y/n?” Sam inquired softly, hands raised gently above the sides of his head as though he were surrendering to you. “It’s alright. No one’s going to hurt you.” His voice was soothing, crumbling deeply like the flickers of a log fire turning darker as it’s flames died down to charcoal embers.

“Sam, she looks like she’s gonna puke. You think she’s gonna puke? I hope she doesn’t. I’ve got a weak stomach.” Jared complained distastefully, lips turned down at the corners in a deep frown. “I think I’m gonna throw up now.” He continued, hand on his stomach and brows furrowed.

“Will you shut up, Jared? Nobody cares! Y/n literally looks like she’s about to turn on her heels and start running for the hills.” Paul quipped irately, shaking on the spot.

“Both of you, shut up! That’s an order.” Sam barked over his shoulder at his fellow brothers, voice booming, alarming you out of your shocked state.

“What the hell?” You murmured with furrowed brows, swallowing thickly once again as another wave of anxiety washed over you. “Jacob? Y-you just turned into a dog... a very, very large dog! This is insane.” Your eyes scrunched up as though shutting them as tightly as possible would make this entire scene vanish in a puff of wispy grey smoke. Yet when you opened them once more, the wolf was still in his place, staring at you with pleading orbs. 

The entire world that you had grown up knowing came crumbling down at your feet, leaving displeasing confusion in it’s wake. And unfortunately, that was the late time you’d seen Jacob Black.

---

Ominous charcoal clouds packed themselves over the small town of Forks, not a strange occurrence on a Saturday afternoon. Your head was still numb, lacking the ability to focus on even the most simple of tasks. However, here you were, damp hair clinging to the sides of your face as you sat in the drivers seat of your car, wedging your key into the ignition, twisting it and as if by magic your car rumbled to life. The heating blasted through the vents at a whirring pace, but comforting against your cold wet skin. It had been a week since the fiasco in his fathers back yard, and another two weeks since you had gone to visit him to apologize for not taking the news of his newfound abilities lightly, explaining that you had needed some time to get your head around the whole ordeal. You weren’t exactly great with weird.

“Hey,” you hummed shyly after having tenderly pattered up the steps of Emily’s front porch, your presence instantaneously noted by the pack of boys and one girl. You had been met with wolfish grins and a massive dose of teasing that you had definitely not missed. Jacob’s brothers and sister welcomed you back with open arms, relieved now that his depressing inner monologue would silence itself out, replacing itself with it’s usually sunny spell.

Jacob on the other hand had appeared intensely bitter, his hulking back still turned to you, indicating that his feelings were hurt. But you knew that a little bit of TLC and a civilized chat would get his walls to come down. “Can we talk?” You’d inquired sheepishly whilst having stuffed your hands into your back pockets - a nervous habit -.

“What’s there to talk about?” Poison seeped from his mouth. ‘Ouch! He’s definitely still mad.’ you had contemplated this time and time again, but it still didn’t dissipate the intense sting his tone of voice created in your heart.

Paul and Jared murmured something, eyes plastered on the pair of you as Embry had placed a bet with Jared over who would win. Leah promptly swatted the back of their heads at such a lightening pace you’d believed you’d dreamed it up if it wasn’t for the trio having clutched the rear of their skulls.

“You know that’s not true, Jake. We can dish it out for everyone to see right here, right now or we could go and talk somewhere privately.” You’d sounded more miffed than you’d thought you’d been originally. Confrontation, particularly in front of others always made you feel on edge and Jacob knew that.

“Wouldn’t you-” Jacob had spun around on his toes, deep eyes lit on fire with a flame that truly could have scorched you, though as soon as the look of indigence had clouded his complexion, it had vanished as though he’d suddenly choked on his words. He stared at you like he’d just seen the sun for the first time, which made you feel a little uncomfortable.

“Wouldn’t I what, Jacob?” You quipped perplexingly, arms folded neatly over your chest, brows raised in question. But he never answered, just gaped at you with that same love-struck complexion. Everything seemed to slow down between the pair of you, as though the gawping eyes staring at you both didn’t even exist.

A clearing of several throats had pulled the pair of you out of your dazes. The others boys were grinning something awfully mischievous at you both, which only spurred on your bewilderment. “Will you two love birds just get a room already?” Jared tipped his head back in exhaustion.

“No, you don’t have to worry about that because I’m leaving.” Jacob spat that same venom from before. And before you were even aware of it, Jacob had pushed past you and was down at the end of Emily’s garden that lead into the thick shrubbery beyond. And the teenage boy was gone.

A low whistle sounded from behind you and embarrassment radiated from your entire existence. ‘Maybe this had just all been a mistake.’ You kept telling yourself.

In the early days of this turn of events, you hadn’t been the least bit surprised when you had phoned him and he hung up when he heard your voice. Although Jacob was sweet and happy most times, obviously this physical change had left him in some form of anger-induced turmoil, which had only amplified when you had rejected him initially. But now enough was enough. Two weeks was long enough for him to mope about like a petty child. You were through with this.

The drive to La Push was a route that you swore to your friends that you could accomplish safely even blindfolded and the winding roads slick with black ice. You had been there and come back so frequently over the course of three years that it now felt like a second home to you. The pack had welcomed you with their taunting remarks and surprisingly you have become one of them, - despite the fact that you were only a frail human being -.

Determination sunk into your bones the longer that you drove, your previous numbness and apprehension having dissipated. Before long you were pulled up along the side of the road just in front of Jacob’s home; and with how dark it had been all day, you could scarcely tell what time it actually was. Yet nevertheless, you practically heaved yourself out of your car and into the pouring rain. Billy had already seen you pull up from the rickety window of his living room and whilst you neared towards the door, he opened it, allowing a yellow wash of artificial light to cascade in the deepness of early evening. “He’s not here, y/n.” the statement was cold, accompanied by an even more acerbic facial expression on his countenance. This made you feel unwelcome, causing you to wonder what in the world Jacob had told his father to make him use that kind of tone with you. Billy had always been quite chirpy and carefree around you in the past.

��Yeah, I don’t by that, old man.” Your brows furrowed as you muttered the words at him with equal matching coldness. “That’s what you said on the phone yesterday evening when I heard Jake call after you in the background.” You grumbled sarcastically, pushing past Billy. You trailed with you an ocean-full of water into the tiny home, which Billy also did not seem surprised about. In fact, now that you were indoors, you could tell that he appeared as though he had expected you to show up sooner or later.

“Well, haven’t you got me sussed out then.” Sarcasm mixed with a simper. Two traits that obviously Jacob had inherited from his father. But that didn’t stop you from storming through the little house and bursting through Jacob’s bedroom door to find that his closet of a bedroom was uninhabited. You had barely even noticed the squeaking wheels of Billy’s wheelchair. “Just like I said, y/n. He’s not here. But from the looks of your face, I’m bagging on the idea that you won’t be leaving any time soon.” he added wryly, ancient black eyes staring up into your own. “At least do me the favor of taking you jacket and shoes off.”

As if on cue, the back door of the Black’s residence opened, revealing Jacob Black’s towering frame which squeezed in through the small opening. Had Jacob grown in the past two weeks you hadn’t seen him? The boy was blissfully unaware of your presence until he looked up to find yourself and his father frozen on the spot. A flash of surprise dawned across his countenance as he took in your disheveled and wet appearance. The puddle of water at your feet made him snort, he knew he’d be the one cleaning that up once you left. “Hey Jake!” Billy grinned widely at his son. “Y/n just dropped by.” He stated it so obviously and nonchalantly it almost made you cringe. You had to hand it to the old man though, he really could make anything awkward sound causal.

Yet this only appeared to spur on Jacob’s rotten attitude.

"Yeah, I can see that.” He muttered bitterly, his great stature weaving around you and towards his room as though you just some obstacle in his path. A nuisance. Again, no matter how many times he used that same tone on you, it always seemed to sting just as bad as the first time. Yet now there seemed to be a dull ache in your heart, as though it were shattering into a billion pieces. Through the dull ache lit a searing fire of irritation and bitterness, creating a sour taste on your tongue and a distasteful whirlwind of anger flooded your system so intensely that your eyes began to water.

“What the hell is your problem?!” You snapped, following after Jacob. Your arm reached out and attempted to wrap around his bicep, but he only continued forward as though he did not notice your touch.

“Y/n...” Billy warned from behind you both but you paid little mind to his warning.

“Do you think I deserve all of this, Jake? How was I supposed to take the news of you turning into a giant freaking werewolf? I’m not Bella!” You hissed through tightly gritted teeth, your fists tightly balled indignantly at your sides, fingernails almost piercing the delicate skin of your palms, which gave you a sensation to ground yourself on.

A scoff emitted itself from Jacob’s mouth and you could practically hear his eyes rolling in his skull. “Yeah, well at least Bella didn’t avoid me for a whole week like a damn baby.”

“Yeah, you’re right Jake! You doubled that yourself.” If he wanted to play this childish game of hurtful words, you were game to jump right in, regardless of whether or not he would turn into a werewolf in front of you. With the way that your anger continued to fester in your veins, you genuinely felt like you could take him on at this point.

"You know that was different, y/n. I was trying to protect her.”

“Yeah, protecting her. What a load of crap! You’re the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever met in my damn life.” Your voice reached a volume it had never reached prior to this point and it almost scared you out of your menacing stupor.

“Hypocrisy,” the word left his mouth acerbically as his larger frame began to shake undoubtedly and his breathing altered itself to a quicker pace. “You know, I don’t get why you’re so mad at me for avoiding you. Do you not like the taste of your own medicine?”

“Taste of my own medicine?!” You practically shouted. “Again, how was I meant to take the news that you turn into a giant wolf, Jake? I’m not like Bella, I don’t do weird!”

“Then maybe you should leave.” He spat over his shoulder at you. The look in his eyes seemed to show more animal than human as he trembled violently on the spot.

“Leave? Jake, why’re you pushing me away like this? I get it, okay. I was an ass for avoiding you but I needed some time and space to get my head around the fact that you and your friends shape shift!”

Silence rung from him, he shut his orbs tightly, attempting to steady the rage bubbling within him through deep breaths. “You should really leave, y/n.”

“No! No, I’m not leaving until you tell me why you’ve been avoiding me for the past two weeks, Jake. This has more to do with me having taken your shift badly. What happened at Emily’s when I tried to talk to you... when you turned to look at me, it was like you’d seen the sun for the first time in your life. Like-”

“Like what?”

“Like you actually gave a damn about me! And now- now you’re just being an ass. You’re running away from me and I think it’s got something to do with that time at Emily’s.”

Once more, silence hovered over the pair of you, which only indicated to yourself that you had hit the hammer on the nail with doubtless precision.

"Why don’t you just tell me what’s really going on?” You practically pleaded, fingers winding their way around his big wrist. His skin was burning hot, but you refused to let go.

“You wouldn’t understand, y/n. You don’t do weird, remember?”

“Why? Because I’m human? Let me try to do weird for once! I’m learning to...” You hummed under your breath, voice catching in your throat. This felt helpless to you. “Jacob, I don’t want to run away from this any more. I’ve come to terms with what you are and I’m staying, regardless of what you assume I think and feel about you.” It was tender the way that you spoke, an ardent edge that breathed forgiveness from him. You really did want things to work out between the pair of you. All of this arguing and avoiding made your heart ache for your Jacob.

"It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s because I literally hate the fact that I love you so much and you’ll never love me that way back.” There was so much defeat weighing on him that his head and shoulders slumped forward. He still hadn’t dared to face you, though the tremors running up and down his limbs had halted to a soft and slow vibration. He was cooling off. Finally.

In all honesty, this had definitely not been what you were expecting to come flying out of Jacob’s mouth. It left you silent and dumbfounded, mouth dry and agape. “Y-you l-love m-me?” You stammered breathless, fingers tightening around his russet wrist.

“See? This is exactly the reaction I was expecting!” His defenses came clamoring up in order to keep you out. It was exhausting trying to swim against the torrential waves.

"No, Jake, shut up for once! What do you mean that you love me?”

“Just forget I said anything...”

“No!” You tugged on his wrist harder, alerting him finally that you were touching him. He turned to face you, large deep eyes staring into yours with a pained expression. Being this horrible to you, pushing you away was also causing internally emotional damage to him also. “I’m not gonna forget what you said. Jake, you owe me an explanation. I don’t know what happened in the space of these past two weeks you’ve been avoiding me, but being away from you has been painful. It’s like I’ve been drowning without you. The whole time all I kept thinking is that I’d done everything wrong.” You hadn’t even realized there were tears in your eyes until they spilled over and down your cheeks. You batted them away impatiently with your free hand, anger now directed at yourself. “I’m so sorry for- for not having taken your shift well and for freaking out the way that I did. I’m just not good with surprises. But I just wanted you to know that I’ve never stopped loving you and I never will. I’ve always loved you, Jake.”

Awe struck itself across Jacob’s face as he stared at you whilst you cried in front of him. His head cocked to the side momentarily as he blinked a few times. He certainly hadn’t expected that! What did you mean you loved him? How could anyone love him when even he hated the fact that he turned into a werewolf? This didn’t make any sense to him, but it did fit together nicely with what all the other members of his pack had told him.

You were his imprint and these entire two weeks he had been avoiding something he simply could not avoid. Man, he suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of guilt bombard his heart and stomach, leaving him nauseous and unsettled. He’d really put you through the ringer for the past fortnight when really all you had done is react like any sane human would have. He even knew that he’d have reacted as you had. Even when he had shifted for the first time, mixed with all the pain and terror was the thought that he was truly going insane, so in the end, the boy couldn’t blame you for not handling things as well as Bella Swan had. Bella had been immersed in the world of the supernatural far longer than even he himself had. She’d always been odd like that, a danger magnet. The way you had reacted was simply rational, a logical factor of your fight or flight mechanism having kicked in.

The large calloused pads of his thumbs dotted and then pressed softly under your eyes, swiping away your tears with the delicate movement of a feather. “I don’t know what to say...” He stated just above a whisper before he sat on top of his small bed, his chocolate orbs now staring up into yours. Naturally he pulled you into his lap, his embrace hot as you tucked your face into the crook of his neck, the heat of his russet skin drying your tears instantly. “Don’t cry. Please? I hate it when you cry.” He pleaded into your shoulder, hands finding their way underneath your raincoat. He made quick work of rubbing your back soothingly, an action that he knew helped to calm you.

“I’m just not good with the idea of fate and soulmate stuff, y/n.” He hummed sincerely against the fabric of your jacket as he brought you much closer to him. The feeling felt warming, as though you were finally back home. It caused your heart to skip a beat and a sob to rake through you. This felt natural, as though it all made sense to you now.

Since no answer fell from your lips he continued, “I know this is gonna make me sound nuts but- oh hell!” He sounded conflicted as he pulled back from you, his nimble fingers finding their way underneath your chin and tenderly pushing your face up so you could see his reddened face. “Every wolf has what you call a soulmate somewhere out there in the world, but it’s not exactly guaranteed that we’ll meet them. Cheesy I know.” Jacob half smiled at you whilst your brows furrowed in confusion. “From what Sam and Hared have explained to me, it’s called imprinting. When we imprint on someone, it’s like- like you said earlier, we’ve seen the sun for the first time. That person we imprint on becomes our whole world and reason for existing. We have this unbreakable bond with said person. It’s impossible for either the imprint or the imprintee to reject one another. In fact, it’s actually quite painful.” He sighed out, eyes suddenly having dropped their gaze from yours.

“What does that mean?” You inquired softly.

Jacob grinned halfheartedly before he looked into your eyes again. “It means, y/n,” his face leaned closer to you, only milometers away. It left your head swimming with excitement. “that we’re soulmates.”

"Me? I’m your soulmate?” You gawked at him, your pointer finger pointing at your heart. Jacob’s chest rumbled with laughter, your confusion making you appear cute.

“Yeah. And it’s a new thing for me too. I’ve never really believed in fate, hence why I’ve been avoiding you for two weeks. I just hate not being in control of myself. I mean, I never meant to hurt you, you have to know that. You do, don’t you?” He inquired candidly, eyes meeting yours once more and you nodded softly. “Good, because if you didn’t I’d have to kick myself again.”

“You’re mad that I’m your soulmate?”

“Imprint. You’re my imprint, y/n.” Jacob grinned widely as though the sun was gleaming in his bedroom once more. “And yeah, to be truthful, I was. But that’s only because I didn’t want to face it.”

“And now? Do you not want me to be your imprint?”

“Of course I do! I was just being petty. You’re not good with weird, and I’m not good with fate.” To that he rubbed his neck sheepishly, causing you to grin widely and giggle.

“You know, for a six foot seven inch teenage boy who’s built like a tnak, you really have a fragile ego.” This made Jacob tip his head back and laugh in even more abundance.

“Alright, I’ll take that one. I do kinda deserve it.”

“I mean, you really were an ass.”

“Yeah, and so were you.”

“Touche.”

A comfortable silence enveloped you both as you silently grinned down at your fiddling fingers. This whole experience left your mind fuzzy and your belly full of fluttering butterflies. “So does this mean we’re okay not? No more avoiding each other like we’ve got the Black Plague?”

“Yeah, we’re good. No plague included.” He stated with a breathy chuckle, his forehead leaning against yours. His hands trailed down to your hips, thumbs brushing underneath the hem of your shirt in a reassuring gesture.

“Good.” You sighed in relief, smiling like you’d suddenly won the lottery. That’s when you finally took note of how alarmingly hot he was. “Jake?” Concern laced your tone.

“Yeah, y/n?”

“Is it normal for you to feel like you’re on fire all the time?”

“Yeah, that’s unfortunately a wolf thing.”

“Well, that’s certainly gonna come in handy during the winter if I do say so myself.”

Again, as though he could not stop himself, Jacob snickered, wrapping his russet arms around your waist securely, bringing you into his front once more for a tight embrace. This felt like the best feeling in the world, being in his arms. Home. It felt just like the home you’d always dreamed of since you were a little girl. Your orbs began to flutter shut tiredly as your fingers brushed against the base of his neck, the tips fingering through the short hairs on the nape of his neck, a gesture of forgiveness. Peace radiated off of the pair of you as though nothing else mattered in the world. Surely nothing could ruin this moment.

Suddenly, the door nudged open, revealing Billy Black. As if on cue, embarrassing painted evidently on your expression, you flinched out of Jacob’s arms and landed on the bed next to him. The entire movement left him confused until he stared at his father in the doorway with the smuggest grin smacked straight on his face. “Hey, y/n, I see you and Jake have made up. I hope that means that you’ll be staying for dinner. I’ve made my famous spaghetti: It’s a family secret, passed down from generation to generation.” The way this old man was capable of reacting so calmly to any situation was almost laughable.

“S-sure!” You hummed whilst Jacob scoffed beside you, muttering underneath his breath about how spaghetti hardly dated back far enough and wasn’t culturally accurate for it to be true. You pinched Jacob’s arm softly, to which he laughed at.

“Great! Because while you two had your little fiasco I was in there finishing it all up. It’s ready now.” And to that he twisted his wheelchair around and made his way to the living room. “Jake, do you mind plating up the food? Also, can you wipe up that puddle of water on the floor so y/n doesn’t slip?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jake muttered brazenly, his orbs rolling as he got up off of the bed and followed after his father. You grinned to yourself for a moment as you watched Jacob dash to the bathroom to grab a towel and mop up the water you’d left in your wake of chasing him down earlier that evening before he made his way into the kitchen to dish up some plates of Billy Black’s Famous Spaghetti.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

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[paullicino]

Ten Years

Taken from my Patreon.

Ten years is a long time. It’s long enough for many things to change, but also long enough for everything to remain the same.

I remember ten years ago as if it were yesterday, as if it passed by in the blink of an eye, with light and shadow, textures and taste all as familiar as ever.

A morning after. Shocked faces. A phone call. Events barely believable, yet all too real.

Ten years ago, my then partner and I were living in a top floor flat off Tottenham High Road. It was sweltering in the summer and the downstairs neighbours played dance music at four in the morning. But the views out the back bedroom window were of valleys of rooftops, sprouting television aerials and summited in the winter by the briefest dustings of snow.

The sun was for the front of the flat. The moon shone into our bedroom.

I remember that sunlight in the afternoon, sparkling through the shifting foliage of the tall trees outside. And I remember summer most of all. August.

We had a tap. A faucet. A great, overwrought thing that our landlady was obsessed with. It was the best tap ever, she said. It was large, curved and heavy, the pharaonic headdress worn atop a newly-fitted kitchen of which she was so proud. Wasn’t it exciting that we had such a good tap?

We just wanted our bed repaired. Our home wasn’t finished when we moved in and we slept on the sofa for weeks. When the mighty tap was finally installed, it was too heavy for its fitting. It teetered. Along with poorly-mounted cupboard doors with handles that prevented other cupboards from opening, its practicality was an afterthought.

The walk up Tottenham High Road took me to the only two locations I ever really visited, the supermarket and the job centre. The supermarket provided us with affordable food (though I’d watched the price of many staples almost double over five years) and the job centre provided me, an unemployed person, the money with which to buy that food.

The job centre, which was now extra special and had been rebranded Job Centre Plus, did not provide anyone the means with which they could get a job. It spent almost all of its time providing people with unemployment benefits. Most of the thousands of Tottenham residents who poured through its doors would’ve taken a job if they could’ve found one, but the listings at the centre itself were usually out of date, irrelevant or in some other way misfiled. Most employers don’t want to list their vacancies at the Job Centre Plus because they don’t want to employ the kind of people who go there.

Out of the Job Centre Plus and the supermarket, which one do you think burned that August?

I have written before about my strongest memory of the Job Centre Plus, but here it is again. It was of an old foreign woman and her daughter trying to speak to a clerk. The old woman didn’t speak English, so her daughter was attempting to explain that the woman was looking for work and thus registering as unemployed to gain unemployment benefit. The clerk was trying to explain that the woman was too old to work and should also be on disability benefit. The daughter was trying to explain that they had tried to navigate those systems and that they were obtuse and broken. Her mother just needed money. To live.

(Ten years before, in the summer of 2001, I’d first looked at the cost of moving out. I looked at rents around my Hampshire town, at the cost of housing and at the wages I needed to earn. England was expensive, I decided. It sure cost a lot just to live.)

Everyone was trying to explain everything. The job centre mostly wanted to give people their money and get rid of them, because there were many more lined up behind.

My strongest memory of the supermarket was of the man outside with no legs. He sat there panhandling in his wheelchair almost every day of the year. Britain had just launched its latest Astute-class nuclear submarine, each of which costs over one and a half billion pounds, but it was still a country where a man with no legs had to beg outside a shop.

I thought about that man long after I left Tottenham. I think about him here, now, ten years on.

My partner went abroad to see family and I spent some of the summer restarting my career as a freelance writer. I was fortunate with the connections and opportunities that I had, none of which would ever be found at a job centre, and I spent a lot of my time writing either to find work or simply for practice. I was writing on the night my street burned.

It began before dusk and I came home to find enormous police vehicles parked outside, the sort that are mobile command headquarters. Chains of armoured riot vans surged north. I heard there’d been a protest outside the police station and that a car or two had been burned. I checked the news occasionally. It didn’t have much to add.

Police vans kept coming, though all other traffic had stopped. The roads were closed, blocked by the police, and the latest news told me that petrol bombs had been thrown and a bus set alight. The reports were sparse.

The police in England are really good at responding to riots. They turn up in great swathes, on horses, in vans, or on foot and armed with batons and shields. They have all kinds of exciting equipment to help them. A year before, they’d kettled schoolchildren protesting the huge increase in university tuition fees, surrounding and slowly crushing hundreds of them in Trafalgar Square and on Westminster Bridge. Footage emerged of them beating the shit out of kids or dragging people out of wheelchairs. Here they were now in Tottenham, ready for more.

I kept trying to find news. The police had cordoned off most of the High Road, which meant the journalists that were arriving had no ability to find what was happening inside the riot. Distant footage of fires was the best most of them could provide. As I remember it now, the BBC had one van inside of the police cordon and couldn’t broadcast out because its dish had been damaged. I also have memories of a single journalist, almost in the thick of a mob, asking rioters to give them a moment to explain why they were protesting, or wondering why on earth they might want to block a BBC camera crew who were trying to film them.

What an inane question.

I found the news I wanted. I found it via Twitter and social media. And it was terrifying.

Broadcast news had described a riot not unlike any other. But the still relatively new sphere of social media was overflowing with witness statements, photographs and the kind of low-quality video that phones captured back then. People across Tottenham were panicking as they described growing crowds on the High Road burning not only vehicles, but also shops and businesses. They were breaking into commercial properties. They were looting. They were starting more fires. This had begun half a mile away from my home and it was spreading outward. The post office burned. Landmark businesses burned. Local shops burned and, with them, the flats and homes located above.

The updates kept coming and it’s almost impossible for me now to try to describe to you not only the sheer volume of panic and distress that waterfalled down my feed, but also the sense of utter hopelessness that came with it. People beyond the High Road described not just the violence spilling into their streets, the fights and the hundreds of looters, the fires and the damage, but also how there was no one who could stop this. No emergency services responded. Their phones went unanswered or the lines were jammed.

I read update after update that echoed the same, basic fact, something which I still struggle to comprehend even now, something I’d describe as barely believable: No help was coming.

But the social media updates kept coming. Looters were turning up with empty vans and loading them up with everything they could take. Buildings were being destroyed. A whole estate was being evacuated.

The news provided by the BBC and its peers remained limp and languid, so I spent all night reading these updates, discovering more nearby shops were being gutted, or how the retail park near me was looted to the point of emptiness, and I watched as even my own view out the window became broiling crowds of countless restless and angry people. I remember one man walking off into the darkness with brand new flatscreen televisions under each arm, the police vans now long gone. The night was regularly punctuated by shouts, screams, thumps and sometimes what might have been explosions. The sirens were always distant. The helicopters came and went.

I don’t know where the police cordon had gone. It felt almost as if they had given up and let Tottenham run rampant.

The sun came up and from that back bedroom window I saw smoke rising. I hadn’t slept. The news was full of irrelevant speculation and so, at five-thirty, I put on my shoes and walked the High Road. What I saw was barely believable. Sometimes I met the stunned gazes of other people doing the same, sometimes I avoided any eye contact. I have kept a diary for a long time now and this is what I recorded (slightly edited):

“This morning at about 5:30, as the sun rose, I tried to wander through Tottenham to take some pictures. It became one of the scariest walks I've ever taken.

The atmosphere was tense and unpleasant. Columns of smoke snaked upwards and the High Road and several other streets were blocked off or packed with police vehicles, many more of which were endlessly arriving, some from as far away as Kent.

The nearby retail park was littered with debris and many of its shopfronts were smashed. Groups of people, perhaps gangs, loitered everywhere. While some areas were busy with police officers, others were neglected and patrolled by hostile looking young men.

I didn't end up taking many pictures. I kept moving. Depending upon where you walk, Tottenham looks like a cross between a blitz bomb site and the mess after a chaotic festival.

Something still feels very different. Tottenham has hardly been rosy at the best of times, but today the sunshine can't seem to dispel a strange chill in the air. I myself can't stop thinking of all the homes that burned last night. It might not be immediately obvious to many people, but above a great deal of those shops set ablaze were flats, often family homes for very poor people. Many of those who had little now have less.”

A day after those first riots hit Tottenham, they went nationwide. London wasn’t done and, for a week, many major cities in England played host to their own riots. Tottenham was totally locked down, but it was far too late. The disorder had moved elsewhere.

I remember telling a colleague I worked with that I wouldn’t be finishing something that weekend. He laughed at the news and imagined it would all blow over. He was from a much wealthier background.

Then, everyone started trying to explain everything.

The BBC caught up with events the way a great-grandparent catches up with technology, fumbling and frowning. Goodness me, they said, in their middle class, broadcast-trained voices, and they joined in with the three broad lines of discussion that emerged. One asked how this could happen, one asked why this had happened, and one was about how this would never happen again, because the law would be firmer than ever, the punishments and prosecutions authoritative and absolute. The police were ready for more. They were going to get water cannons. I imagine those work particularly well on kids and wheelchairs.

There was a lot of talk about punishment, including from the Prime Minister, who decided to stop being on holiday in Tuscany only after England’s third night of rioting. I wonder if he had imagined it would all blow over.

Sometimes there was talk involving the people of Tottenham themselves, but it was more likely to be talk about them. A lot of people in Tottenham are Black and have families that trace back to the very first Windrush immigrants of the late 1940s. One Black Labour MP said it was important to talk about their experiences in London, their economic situation and their history of treatment by the police. After all, the spark that had set these riots alight was a protest outside the police headquarters, subsequent to the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan, a Black man, something that called to mind a similarly suspicious death of a Black woman that also precipitated Tottenham’s 1985 riots.

For some people, the discussion became about how Black people had started the riots and been the chief participants. This wasn’t reflected in anything I saw either on social media or with my own eyes, in person, on the night. But nobody was stopping to ask me what I thought or what I saw.

Not long after that first riot, my partner called me to check I was okay and to ask if those barely believable things she’d seen on the news were really as bad as they seemed. They were. I rode the bus up the High Road on my way to Wood Green, then later to Walthamstow, both of which offered me temporary job centres that took the overspill from ours, thoroughly gutted by fire and then looted of all of its copper piping. The bus crept past burned-out shops and homes. I don’t know where those people have gone.

Later that year, my partner and I discovered that our income was low enough that we were eligible for housing benefit. It took us so long to try to apply for it that we moved home before any progress was made. When I found enough work to support myself, I visited the job centre to sign off, as we called it, to close my file. I asked a woman at reception what I needed to do. “Nothing,” she said, as the line behind me wound down several stories of stairs and out into the grey autumn street. “Just stop coming. Stop coming.”

Winter came and things rustled in the walls. There was a long, tall hedge along the High Road and I would look out the window to see men using it as a urinal. I only had to live in Tottenham for around a year and a half and I have good memories from that flat, but I also remember a stifling and sad place to live, from which I was lucky to move on. Tottenham was never my home and I never had to stay there, but I certainly feel that I came to get a sense of the place.

After moving out, our ex-landlady complained that we hadn’t left the oven as clean as she would’ve liked. She hiked the rent 9% while we were staying there. She never fixed anything that broke and provided excuses instead of solutions.

I found more work. I taught games and narrative for a semester at a small institution in East London. One of the things I asked my students to consider was the stories and the experiences of people who weren’t like them. I asked them to share how often they had been stopped and randomly searched by airport security. “Not just at the airport,” one student reminded me. “On the tube. On the street.”

My life continued to improve in many ways, but I still remembered the man in the wheelchair. The BBC and many other media outlets continued to talk about poverty and race, but not always to poor people or to people who weren’t white. In 2014 I wrote On Poverty and one of the most surprising responses I repeatedly received from people was “I had no idea that it was like this.” A friend of mine tried to apply for support for chronic health problems and documented her many struggles, including being required to explain exactly how many times a week she suffered from migraines (“You said it was two or three times a week. Well, is it two, or is it three?”). The news regularly reported growing homelessness, rising use of food banks and the inevitable deaths of people who weren’t just failed by broken systems, apathy and a lack of understanding, but also simply too poor to be alive.

I feel like some of the people I knew didn’t like how I kept returning to these topics. I feel, even more, that they didn’t at all understand. I remember some of these people waiving off the Brexit referendum as it approached, certain the country wouldn’t vote to amputate itself from the European Union. I don’t think they understood and I don’t think they’d seen the unhappy England that I had, both as a child and as an adult. I think they’d only seen, and been, very comfortable people.

I think these people would call themselves open-minded, progressive and keen to make the world better. I’m sure they could explain those views. At length.

If I think of those people now, I’m quite sure they are all still very comfortable, ten years on. I also think there is still a good chance that man is sat in that wheelchair outside of that supermarket, though he could also be dead by now, again simply too poor to be alive. No longer able to watch the sun sparkle through tall trees, see roofs dusted with snow or catch the moon peeping through his bedroom window.

Such things aren’t for poor people. We still get frustrated when we give them benefits or find out they own mobile phones.

---

Ten years on, Tottenham is almost a dream, a memory where the details have faded and the edges have softened. I have moved countries, had the privilege of travelling through work, enjoyed many different creative opportunities and benefited from free healthcare that has addressed difficult, long-term health issues. I have rationed my life according to a tight budget, but I’ve never had to face the overwhelming, unending hardships of others that I’ve shared neighbourhoods and postcodes with. I cannot ignore these people because they have so often been one street away, visiting the same shop or riding the same train. They are not an abstraction, they are right there, ready to tell us all about their lives.

Ten years on, Tottenham has one of the UK’s fastest-growing rates of unemployment, the latest statistic in the region’s long history of joblessness and poverty. Many of its residents, like poor people across the country, live paycheck to paycheck, at risk of financial ruin should they experience a single upheaval. Ten years on, the most reliable predictor of success and financial stability in the UK (as in many developed countries) is now considered to be the circumstances of your birth. The idea of social mobility is more irrelevant than ever, with much of your destiny decided before you are even born. Ten years on, almost a quarter of the population of the UK lives in poverty.

Ten years on, continued austerity, government apathy and cuts to social services has meant that, yes, ten years really is enough time for everything to stay the same. Without change, the problems people face become generational, systemic. Some people tell me that the 1980s were like this for certain families, regions, populations. I didn’t know. We were doing okay. Perhaps I didn’t get it, didn’t notice it, didn’t want to think about it.

Ten years on, Mark Duggan’s family filed a civil claim against the Metropolitan Police and were awarded an undisclosed sum, after his death was officially ruled a lawful killing in 2014. Lawyers for the Duggan claim commissioned this in-depth report on the shooting, which illustrated many problems with the official police version of events.

Ten years on, the UK government is trying to curtain the right to protest. It commissioned a review that concluded that the country has no systemic racism. It wants to limit the powers of the Electoral Commission and has considered conflating the concepts of whistleblowing and leaking with spying, meaning those who leak information could be treated as criminals. It is increasingly intent on punishing those who might express dissatisfaction.

And ten years on, as we all know, wages have not risen to match the rising costs of rent, food, utilities or transport. It sure costs a lot just to live.

Finally, in 2018, the UN Special Rapporteur on Poverty and Human Rights visited the United Kingdom and did speak with many of its poor. The resulting exhaustive and damning report concluded that “statistics alone cannot capture the full picture of poverty in the United Kingdom” and that “much of the glue that has held British society together since the Second World War has been deliberately removed and replaced with a harsh and uncaring ethos.” It described harsh, ill-conceived and out-of-touch support systems devised and doubled down on by a government that not only failed to understand poverty, but that couldn’t even measure it accurately. It also predicted that these things would only get worse, and without any consideration of the effect of extraordinary events, such as a global pandemic.

The government described the report as “barely believable.”

I don’t think any help is coming.

---

There’s a question that sometimes bounces around social media and it asks people this: “What radicalised you?” As if there was some moment that changed a person’s political beliefs and rearranged their perspective on the world.

Here’s the thing. I feel like my perspective is from the floor, skewed and sore after I fell between two stools, always unable to find an identity amongst wider British culture. I grew up too comfortable, too spoiled and too well-spoken to call myself working class, but I was easily alienated by schoolfriends with multiple bathrooms and university-educated parents. My interests and my sentiments aren’t supposed to be working class, but many of my life experiences and even philosophies are. I know what it’s like to memorise Shakespeare and to explain themes in Romantic-era art, as much as I know what it’s like to fight government systems that are ostensibly supposed to help, to be unable to afford your own home, to walk into a supermarket and look at staple foods you still can’t afford. You think about Descartes and then you think about which dinner provides the cheapest way to keep your body alive.

When I was a kid I remember going to friend’s houses where they were too poor to clean the carpet, or seeing them lose a parent to lung cancer, or the time someone showed me a gun hidden in their brother’s car. As an adult I wrote to my politicians to ask them what they were doing about poverty, about education, about the cost of living. I went to protests and signed petitions and supported charities both practically and financially. I suppose I was trying to articulate some of the skills I’d learned from in some situations to articulate the experiences I’d had in others. Surely you have to do something.

I both resent and appreciate aspects of both classes and I imagine I’ll never work out who I am or what I’m supposed to call myself. But I do know there are vastly different worlds and vastly different experiences within British culture and that many continue to be overlooked even when in plain sight. And it’s what I find most frustrating.

If there was one thing I learned, if not one thing that radicalised me, it wasn’t simply that poverty never goes away, it’s that it always needs to be explained. There are always, always people who don’t get it, who don’t notice it, who don’t want to think about it or who will puzzle over it from a distance as if it were some transient mirage they can never hope to touch. Those in power will continue to make decisions about poverty that they do not experience, in spite of the fact that making financially comfortable people the authority on money is like making able-bodied people the authority on wheelchair access, like making men the authority on women’s bodies, like making white people the authority on racism.

And so, ten years on, here I am again, writing about Tottenham, about class, about poverty and about ignorance, and only from a slightly different angle. I will write about these things more, not least because I’ve already started another work on these themes, but mostly because I will always need to. I don’t imagine that, during my lifetime, the explaining will ever stop. I don’t imagine that our societies will give up on punishing people for being poor in a world where it is so often simply too expensive to be alive. And I don’t imagine I will have any more patience for people who imagine it will all blow over.

I refuse to let you middle-class your way out of this.

I don’t have any solutions to these enormous and complex problems. I don’t have exhaustive lists of who exactly to blame or where precisely everything has gone wrong. But here’s what I believe: If we don’t talk about poverty, and if we don’t listen to those caught inside of it, it will never go away, and there will be infinitely more Tottenhams.

[mae-gi-writes]

And You Should Live | Changmin/Q [Part Two]

Athlete Changmin au! In which you and Changmin teach each other how to live again.

Genre: angst, tearjerker, fluff

Part One | Part Two

--

The few months that the ex-athlete spends confined in hospital are definitely some of the most challenging weeks you've had by far. It takes patience and acceptance of his new body, of the way that he is now going to live his life, and it's easier said than done. A psychiatrist checks up on him every week but his complaints are verbal and abusive, not one to hide his discontentment. There is no sign of his father, though his mother drops in once a week at most to bring some spare clothes and wheedle a few responses out of him, in vain.

He cries the first time he sees himself in the mirror, hair all dishevelled, stubble forming over his chin, skin all grey and pale from months of no sunshine. And you stand behind him that day, heart breaking in tine with his as the pained sobs falling from his mouth bounced throughout the room. He cries without relent this time as your hands tighten their grip on the handles of his wheelchair, helpless to his pain and desperate to somehow make it right in any way possible.

The next day, you bustle in with a comb, some shaving cream and a pair of scissors. 

“No,” is Changmin’s reaction, as with everything you’ve once introduced to him. You’re now used to his reticence and instead shove his hands away from you, a measley attempt to stop your advances. Instead, you threaten to attach his arms at his sides if he doesn’t cooperate and with a few more grumbles under his breath, he settles back against his pillow like a sulky child. 

“I can’t believe this,” he mumbles through closed lips as you dabble some shaving cream over his face. Mind you, you’ve definitely never done this on a man before and so you dip your head closer to his face, teeth nibbling onto your lower lip as you focus on spreading the cream evenly across his jawline.

"I swear, Y/N, if you cut me--”

“Oh shush,” you wave his protests away before drawing out the razor you’ve slipped into your pocket. Then, you gingerly lean down once more to slowly slide the device at the edge of his jaw. 

Feeling his orbs on your face, you can’t help but spare him a quick glance only for your eyes. They’re dark maroon, so dark you can barely make out his pupils from his irises, and they reflect an intensity that somehow makes your insides squirm and your heart to speed up--

“Ouch!” he cries out and you jump back in surprise, eyes flying wide open with panic, “fuck! Did I hurt you?!” You dab at his skin in search of a cut, “shit, I’m so sorry--”

Changmin’s giggle bursts through his mouth and it takes you a few seconds to realize that he’s only pulling your leg. Your hands drop to your sides in growing annoyance, “you!--”

“Sorry, it was all too obvious that you’ve never did this before,” Changmin’s eyes crinkle up into crescents. It might be the first time you’ve seen him laugh with such purity, and you can’t help but stare at the dimple forming on his cheeks, at the way his whole face lights up like a Christmas tree.

And then, you blink and let out an exasperated sigh before you shove his shoulder, “you’re such a dick,” you mutter as you resume shaving him. 

“Sorry,” he keeps on giggling, “you should’ve seen your face.”

"Keep that up and I’ll make sure you have no hair left on your scalp.”

You decide to move on to his hair a few days later just as he is being wheeled back in by the said psychiatrist. You bow to him, cheeks involuntarily rising when his gaze meets yours, a tender smile dancing across his lips.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Y/N,” he says.

“You’re the one who’s always busy, Sangyeon,” you grin back.

“Ah yeah. Especially during exams season. A lot of students drop by,” Sangyeon nods at Changmin, “well, I’ve leave you two to it then. Maybe we can catch up over coffee sometime Y/N.” 

“That’d be great!” 

You don’t realize that you’ve still got a stupid smile on your face until Changmin lets out a snort, “you look ridiculous.” 

Scowling back at him, you lift the scissors up threateningly, “keep talking and I will make you bald, Changmin.” 

" You like him? He's such a dork," Changmin continues without relent as you wheel him to the washroom, " And you know what? He smells really bad if he doesn't wear perfume."

"And how would you, of all people, know that?" your fingers comb back his hair to tie it up into sections, eyes clashing with his in the bathroom mirror.

"Because I smelt him once when he came from the gym."

" That's just how humans work," you retort with a Scoff," also, I don't think you should be the one to talk, considering you were an athlete."

"That's different! I was training!"

" You're not denying the fact that you smell bad too though, without deodorant."

"Oh yeah?" He sniffs, "well I ain't got any deodorant now. Smell me, go on."

His statement is so outrageously crazy that you burst out laughing and soon enough he joins in so that you giggle like two schoolchildren sharing mischievous secrets. Ruffling your fingers through his hair and combing it through with water, your fingers proceed to measure how much hair to chip off.

" can I trust you with that?" doubt coats Changmin's voice.

You scoff in return as a large clump cascades down his shoulders and makes him yelp, " Don't worry, I won't murder you. If that's what you were thinking about."

" Well I can't help but think about that now."

The blossoming friendship is inevitable. After all, you were almost the same age and had fallen into a complicity, having spent so much time together. So much so tha the man would outrightly refuse anyone else's help albeit the fact that you had only told him good things about your colleagues.

When his discharge came around - a little too soon for your liking if you were being honest with yourself- he'd requested for your presence on the evening before his departure, where you had brought along some cookies that your little brother had made the night before.

"I can't eat that," Changmin crinkles his nose, acting exactly like one of those pompous arrogant kids that had more money in their wallet than they had brains.

You push it towards him nevertheless, "just try it."

" I told you, I can't eat that."

" Why not?"

"Because-" his words die halfway through his throat in realization and it dawns on you that it's probably something to do with his previous diet.

But you don't have time to find a proper response before his hand snatches one cookie up and shoves it in his mouth, head turned away to avoid your concerned gaze.

" It's good," is his response after a beat of silence, and you smile.

"So what do you plan on doing when you get home?" you lean your head onto your palm, a soft yawn falling from your mouth.

" Haven't figured that out yet. Probably lie around feeling sorry for myself," he shrugs nonchalantly, but you know it's far from that, " smoke up. I never got the chance to try. Might as well start now."

You find yourself rolling your eyes at him. Then, out of the blue, he suddenly catches you off guard.

" You always ask me about myself. But now that I think about it," he tilts his head sideway. curious," I don't know much about you. Actually, I don't know you at all."

That's it. That's the moment your heart constricts and your throat closes up so that you choke on air. You don't look at him, quickly finding interest in the mold growing at the corner of the room while you mutter out that there is nothing to tell.

You know he's not dumb enough to fall for your lie, because he repeats the question, a glowing glint of curiosity in his eye.

So you tell him. In the simplest words possible, you tell him. About how normal you are, really normal. About your average grades, your small group of friends, your family of five that you cherish with all your heart. And about the scars that line up your thighs like a row of soldiers, the time where you had almost given your life away due to the unexplainable sadness consuming you from the inside.

When you're done you can barely look at him. Your hands find comfort in the folds of your white nurse pants and suddenly you can feel the scars glowing with heat, searing hot against your now sweaty palms.

It's still as fragile as ice to be talking about this memory in particular, and you're not even sure why you've suddenly divulged it all to the man sitting before you.

"That explains a lot."

Your eyes flutter up to his, surprised at his statement.

His gaze is strong as he holds yours, " about the way you care about people... about me."

" I know what it's like," comes your mumble," to suffer in silence."

A comfortable silence fills the gap in the room and despite the chilly coldness of the walls, your cheeks feel warm, entire body suddenly bathed in heat as a result of Changmin's subtle compliment.

Which is why you almost yelp when heat engulfs your hand. Blinking down just in time to feel Changmin's fingers give yours a gentle squeeze, your heart suddenly grows twice-fold through your chest.

" Thank you," you look up at him as he murmurs and you swore his face has never seemed so gentle.

"You don't -" your throat runs dry, " there's no need to thank me. It's not something to be thankful for."

"Oh don't go all poetic on me," Changmin rolls his eyes though his hand, you notice, makes no move to retract.

Not that you mind.

" You'll still visit," you chew on the inside of your cheek as gently, Oh so gently, his thumb starts a slow brush against your knuckles, "right?"

His orbs crinkle into a soft smile when you peek at his face, " Missing me already? Y/N, you used to hate my guts."

You mutter that you still do, which earns you a playful shove before another round of laughter ensues. And then he’s pulling you into his chest in a hug that leaves your insides tingling and your body suddenly erupting as if a troop of butterflies have decided to make their way from the top of your head down to the tip of your toes. And though you know that tomorrow will never be the same, you try to hold on to the warmth blossoming over your heart and the delicious fuzzy scramble inside your stomach that makes smiling a little easier.

He tucks your head underneath his chin, hands coming up to stroke your back in comforting circles. It’s a friendly hug, no doubt, one that is as innocent as the baby born a few seconds ago in the adjacent room. Yet, you wonder whether Changmin can hear how fast, how hard your heart is beating at this very instant.

You pull back slowly after a moment while averting your gaze, your hands still entangled together like a flurry of mixed-up jigsaw puzzles that somehow fit so right. 

"Here," taking your hand in his before motioning towards the pen attached to his medical clipboard, you watch as he scribbles a bunch of numbers," Now you have my number. So you have no excuse."

"Is that a threat?" you can't help but smile.

He grins back, dimple showing, " if that's what it takes to make you talk to me."

-♡-

Your shifts at the hospital without Changmin are void and empty now that he's gone. The first time you walk in to see an unfamiliar face in the space that Changmin was supposed to be, something almost akin to pain twists inside your chest and you swivel around almost instantly, excusing yourself as bile crawls up your throat.

It's normal, this is what hospital life is about. You constantly meet people, bond with them, only to have them walk out the door as abruptly as they had come.

And yet, there's a sense of haunted expectation that follows you around Wherever you go, as if you're bound to eventually bump into the said man at any moment. Sometimes, you catch yourself getting glimpses of his face amongst the crowd. One might have his nose, or the same undercut he sports ( the result of yours truly 's doing) or even the same tonal inflection that gathers your hopes up, only for it to deflate once you realize it's not him. It never is.

You cave in one night as you gaze at the array of numbers that will bring you to his voice, deciding on impulse as your fingers fly across the keyboard.

"Hello?"

His voice is deeper than in your memories, rough, like he's just awoken.

Your fingers tighten onto the device, "Hey. Remember me?"

You hear a sharp intake of breath, "It took you this long to call?” he accuses and you can already picture the narrow-eyed stare he throws you, that some glower that you always laugh at instead of being offended.

That becomes your new normal, calling him day and night and in-between shifts. Sometimes he’d send you messages during the day, little highlights of what he does. He tells you about how his parents are literally breathing down his neck every second of the day, how his rehab sessions are getting harder and harder that he almost wishes he could give it all up. He doesn’t mention going out or meeting friends, and something inside you can’t help but twist in concern at his dismissive tone. 

"How about prosthetics?” you ask unsurely, fearful that he’ll retract back into his shell the moment you mention it.

And you’re right. He’s quiet for a few long seconds that pass by like an eternity. So you hurriedly add, “you don’t have to answer that. It’s not my problem after all--”

“I have,” he cuts you off, “spoken to my physiotherapist about it.” 

Your chest gives a small lurch of anticipation, unconsciously pressing the device closer to your ear, “what did he say?” 

“He thinks I still need a little bit more strength. I used to train everyday, so all my muscles were suddenly atrophied the first few months I spent in hospital,” Changmin replied as he shifted on the other end of the receiver, “but if I keep it up, he said he’d send in a request for me to be on the waiting list.” 

“That’s wonderful Changmin!” Hope flared through your chest and warmed your heart as though you’ve just drank a cup of warm tea, the grin on your face almost as bright as the sun itself, “oh that’s good news! Maybe you’ll be able to walk again! Maybe--” 

“It’s not that easy,” Changmin hurriedly says in response and is it your imagination or does he sound a little...embarrassed? “I mean, even with the prosthetics, he said it would take some time for my own body to adjust.” 

While you haven’t seen his face for so long, there is a sense of comfort that washes over you whenever you speak to the said ex-athlete. It’s like this silent cord of communication that comes to life whenever you talk and laugh and giggle about life in general. You find yourself craving for his phone calls every day, your heart dropping in disappointment when he tells your that he’s too busy, only to flutter in exhilaration whenever you see his name flashing across your phone screen. It’s bad, that your happiness depends on a young man who’s clearly already starting to build his own life away from you, away from those damned hospital walls that everyone hates so much, but while your mind keeps on reminding you that maybe it would be wiser to take a step back, your heart aches to hear Changmin’s soft alto, if that’s the only thing that will soothe over the pain of his absence.

"So now that you’re out of the hospital, you don’t even visit?” you once tell him off. It’s true, that he has not dropped by once over the past five months after being discharged. 

Guilt resonates in his voice when he answers, “sorry, Y/N. I’ve-- I’ve been busy. And my parents--you know, they’re not that keen for me to go around by myself yet.” 

You tut at him but decide to let it go. The only memory you have of his parents is the one conversation that haunts you till this day forth. You can’t imagine how it must feel to live in a home where the ones who supposedly love you the most are the ones who believe you’ve lot your ability to walk just to spite them.

October slowly moves in to November, before November falls right into December, who trickles in with the gift of snowfall. You catch yourself gazing out of the window at the slowly drifting snowflakes more often times than not, the sense of melancholy bringing you back to your school days whenever you spot young children playing in the yard. Patients come and go, ones that you get along with, ones that are still a pain in the butt up until they’re getting discharged. Soon, you count the days till your internship is going to be over and dread slowly fills you at the prospect of having to go back to school, to go back to the life of book and spending countless hours cooped up in the library. 

Your friends throw a party on the eve of Christmas, but when you invite Changmin to come along, he is quick to dismiss your invitation with an excuse that he’ll feel like the butt of a joke and besides, who wants to sit there and watch all of you have fun on the skating rink? 

“But I’ll stay with you,” your protests are drowned out by him adamantly shaking his head, the shadow on his face evident even in the pixelated screen of the video call. 

“No way,” his jaw clenches, “no way. I’m not going out there just so that people can feel sorry for me.” 

“Okay,” you pause, “but Changmin, we haven’t seen each other since you got discharged. What happened to us meeting each other often and keeping in touch?” 

“We are keeping in touch,” he protests even when his eyes slide away from the screen.

You shake your head with a sigh, “fine. Be that way. I’m just trying here, but that’s not a one-way street,” and you cut the call before waiting for his answer.

Mood ruined, you are clearly not in your right state of mind the moment you show up at the skating rink. Still, you make an effort. And with your friends’ naked excitement and jovial cheerfulness, it’s hard to keep sulking in a corner. The lights hanging over the trees adorning the skating rink are twinkling red and gold and shimmering green, bouncing off the ice and creating such a magical atmosphere that it is hard to keep the grin from breaking across your face. 

Until Chanhee, one of the mutual friends that had tagged along, tugs you away to give you a gift. You blink down at it, confused as to why this young m decked with numerous admirers --  was giving you a gift as though you knew each other.

He seems to read what’s on your mind, for he quickly lifts his hands in surrender, “It’s from Changmin. The one from the track team?”

The name clogs up the back of your throat. Changmin?

“You--” Your mind reels in shock. You blink, “you know him?” 

“Not really. He just dropped by, said to give this to you.” 

"What?" You swivel around to scan the perimeter, "where? Where is he?"

"He's not here--"

But you are already halfway across the rink, striding with such purposeful speed that no one has decency to stop you as you hurry, legs burning with effort, until you turn on the corner of the road.

Nothing.

Your chest heaves. He was here, you know he was. He just doesn't want to see you.

That thought alone makes your heart ache.

When you get back home to finally open his present that night, your breath catches in your throat the moment you open the box to see a pair of earrings, simple yet elegant musical notes dangling from their hangers. They are beautiful, exquisitely so. It makes your heart pound, your stomach blossom with a troop of butterflies as you wonder at the thought of Changmin picking out a pair of earrings especially for you. That idea alone makes heat flare through your face.

A card had fallen out of the gift wrap and you gingerly pick it up from the floor, eyes scanning the words scrawled on the inside:

"Since you've been a good listener to me, I thought of gifting your ears. Thank you for these past few months. I'm sorry for not having the courage to face you yet. I'm sorry.

Love,

Changmin."

Tears sting the corner of your ears and you brush them away hastily with the back of your hand, his voice resonating through his words with such a vivid picture that your heart aches at the prospect of having just missed him. If you had been a few seconds early, he might’ve still been around and maybe, just maybe, you’d have the chance to catch a glimpse of his face, to allow yourself to gaze at those deep brown eyes that -- once foreign -- felt like falling into a galaxy of stars in the world that defines Changmin. 

As if upon mere reflex, you don’t even think twice before dialling his number.

He picks up after the second ring. 

“You,” there is so much restrained emotion in your voice that it feels clogged coming out of your mouth, “I don’t get it. We haven’t seen each other for six months. That’s almost half a year. What happened to ‘let’s stay in touch and that you’ll visit?’ “ 

It’s not fair for him to fall victim to the built-up frustration swimming in your stomach for months. But your mouth is like a dam that suddenly bursts and the words come rushing out of you faster than you can blink. 

“You can’t just walk into my life and walk out of it as if the time spent in hospital meant nothing to you. If that’s the case, then why even bother answering my calls then? Why not just cut me off altogether? It’s not fair Changmin,” you swallow thickly, “It’s not fair. You’re not the one that gets to choose when we see each other, or when we don’t.” 

There’s a pause where you catch your breath, and when he speaks next, his voice is rough, laced with remorse, “I’m sorry, Y/N.” 

You breathe out shakily, “why?” Your nose feels stuffed and you’re pretty certain it’s glowing red, “do you not want to see me? Is that it? Why don’t you just say so--”

“I do want to see you, Y/N. Just--Just not--” he chokes on the last word, “not now.” 

“Why?” 

The silence that follows hangs between you both like a bubble threatening to pop, held with a string of tension so high you feel goosebumps explode across the back of your arms. 

And then, just when you think that he is too much of a coward to actually say something in his defence, his alto resonates through the receiver:

“Do you trust me?” 

Your mind pauses. You digest his words. Do you? 

It takes a moment of hesitation for you to murmur your agreement.

“Then, please don’t question whatever’s happening, whatever I’m doing right now,” he inhales, exhales softly, before repeating, “please.” 

And you’re not really sure why, or how, you still have faith in this relationship of yours that you’re not even sure where to classify it. You just nod and murmur out, “okay,” all that while silent tears are paving trails down your cheeks to dribble along your chin. 

You just hope that whatever his reason is, he better have a damn good one.

-♡-

You wait. 

And wait. 

You keep waiting.

The new year comes and goes by without much excitement. February is a spring breeze filled with valentine cards and balloons popping up at every corner of the street. March is wet and full of rain showers, so much so that there is not one day you don’t come home soaked to the bone and shaking like a dog. 

After your argument on Christmas eve, you decide to do what’s best for you, which is protect your heart at all costs. Tossing away the hope that maybe there might be something akin to romance blossoming between the two of you, you focus instead on the new semester as well as the troubles and stress that come along with it. Through it all, you keep a constant stream of chatter between you and the said young man, whom you’ve learnt has taken up French lessons online to stimulate his brain and now can fully move around in his wheelchair without any assistance. 

“Look,” Changmin said once when he’d swivelled the camera around to show you how he’d managed to get himself into the garden, “I barely had any energy in my arms when I first left the hospital. Now, it’s as easy as walking.” 

The smile on his face was as pure as sunshine and your gut felt weird knowing that you were in the same city and yet could not, for whatever of his personal reasons, see him face to face. 

The physicality of him is a void in your life you had patched up with a flurry of activities to keep your mind busy. Whenever you catch yourself daydreaming of the possible what ifs surrounding this young man, you’d throw yourself head first into any activity -- literally anything -- to keep your mind off; accompanying your mother to the grocery store for instance, or helping your dad mow the lawn. Maybe it’s just a coping mechanism until you crash headfirst into a wall and realize that running away from your problems isn’t going to cut it. But for now, you’d accept this gladly as your fate. 

The most you get of him is through video call, not that this can compare to actually seeing him physically in real life. But hey, you’re taking what you can get at this point. It makes you grow closer to each other, communicating every day about everything and anything. Though the physical distance has never seemed so huge, you can’t help but feel like these past few months you feel like you’ve grown even closer to the man in the wheelchair on the other side of the screen, heart warming and cheeks flushing deep red whenever you catch yourself wistfully daydreaming of encountering Changmin again after so long.

You’re not even sure where the time goes but no sooner are you done with your final semester of University that a year has passed. A year since you’ve met Changmin, a year since your internship that seems to have opened your eyes to see the world in a whole different perspective, as if you’ve been blind up until now.

A whole year and you still haven’t seen nor hide or hair of the said young man.

That ultimately changes one day.

You’re to attend the Children’s Day event at the hospital which you’ve interned at that day. Decked in a pair of loose khaki pants and a white shirt, you’ve tied your hair up in a bun for the occasion and trudge to the hospital doors with your worn-out, red converse. 

That’s when you hear a voice. You hear him, calling out your name.

You freeze for a moment, mind going in a mental frenzy as you try to hold yourself together. This has happened all too many times to count, where you’d turn around so fast expecting to see Changmin’s dimpled smile greet you-- only to end up grinning at a random passerby instead.

But then his voice resonates louder, stronger. Curling through the air and shattering through reality like a bass drum: 

“Y/N.” 

Slowly, like you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff, you turn around. Your eyes settle across a familiar face, features that you’ve endlessly traced god knows how many times in your dreams and almost on instinct, a scream dies at the back of your throat while you stumble back in shock, blinking furtively and trying to make sense of the reality before you.

Because there, with that same dimpled smile and those brown eyes curved into crescents, sits Changmin.

“Wha--” you don’t know what to say, precisely why you stop yourself mid-way through a sentence. You’re not really sure if you’re dreaming or not, thumb instantly pressing down against one of your fingers in case this might be a dream.

But the sting is all too real and you can’t help sucking in a breath, stunned into silence.

You gawk. He stares back evenly, a lingering smile dancing on his lips.

Changmin, your mind screams. Changmin. 

He’s here. Right here within an arm’s touch. 

You don’t think. You can’t even breathe for a second. 

Your feet stumble, as if attracted to him like a magnet. Heart beating in the back of your throat. 

“You--” your throat is clogged as if you can barely breathe and in response the young man only chuckles, the laughter resonating through your ears and reminding you of all the reasons why you’ve held on so tightly to him for all these months. Tears gather at the corner of your eyes and you don’t even bother to stop them cascading down your cheeks. Instead, you take your time to analyze his face, to trace the contour of his lips an the edge of his nose with your maroon orbs like a parched woman taking a first sip for the very first time.

When Changmin speaks next, his alto is a soft murmur, “surprise?”

“You--You--” you want to say something, anything. But the only words that manage to make it out are, “You’re here.” 

“Yeah,” he replies softly, “I’m here.” 

The urge to hug him suddenly overtakes your body and you move forward as if on instinct, until he stops you with a lift of his hands. 

“I can explain,” his eyes flutter down for a moment, before going back up to meet your brown orbs, “why I never asked to meet up, why it seemed like I never wanted to see you.” 

Confusion flits across your face, causing Changmin to let out another chuckle, more nervous this time, before his hands went to press down onto the handles on each side.

And then slowly, as if you are staring at some kind of miracle of some sort, you see him lift himself up on his legs. 

And then he stands. On his legs.

He’s standing. 

Changmin is standing. 

A breath escapes the back of your throat. Your heart almost drops to your stomach. What?

“Wha--” orbs flickering back and forth between his legs and his face, your brain goes into overdrive at the sight before you, “How?”

The Changmin, who had almost given up on life the moment he was wheeled inside the hospitals. Changmin, who had tossed any help away as though they were only nuisances in his life.

This Changmin was now standing before you on his own two feet and grinning from ear to ear as if he’d never been happier in his entire life.

“Prosthetics,” he explains then, even though you’ve already managed to put two and two together, “I didn’t want you to see me...in such a state. I wanted to make sure I could walk, by the time I saw you again,” he bites down onto his lower lip, “so it took a little more time than expected. That--” he inhales shakily, closing his eyes for a second, before gazing straight into yours with such an intensity it makes your heart stutter, “that was the promise I made myself.”

“But--how--That must’ve--” you can’t seem to find coherence in the tangled knot of thoughts in your brain, “that must’ve hurt--”

“You said so yourself,” he murmurs, taking a shaky step towards you. Then another, and another. Until he’s now just at arm’s reach, “that I need to start living.”

“I--” you swallow thickly, “I--Changmin, I don’t know what to say--”

“Then don’t say anything,” his hands come up to cup your face, “just kiss me.” 

And his mouth is claiming yours before you can even respond, moving with such an intensity that your surprised gasp is drowned out by the sensation of warmth blossoming over your chest. He kisses you with an almost desperate need , mouth moving at a pace that leaves your thoughts dizzy, your breaths uneven and your chest tight with fluttering butterflies while his hands find purchase at your waist to pull you even closer, so close you can feel his hard frame against your curves. 

Your eyes flutter open when you part momentarily, lips still hovering over each other and foreheads pressed. Gazing up into those dark pupils of his, so tender and intense at the same time, a sob echoes through the back of your throat without meaning to before you bury your face into his neck in a mixture of shame and embarrassment of being seen in such a weak, shaken-up state. 

You feel his hand rub comforting circles over your back in a gesture of comfort, of reassurance. That only makes you sob a little harder, clutching onto him with a feline’s grip as if you fear he might vanish the second you blink.

“Y/N,” Changmin’s soft alto reaches your ears, “Y/N, it’s okay.”

It is only when his legs shake that you take it as a hint that he shouldn’t be standing too much. Wiping away your tears with the back of your hand, you quickly help him back into his chair as you’re met with another of his wide grins that takes years off his age, “sorry,” he says, “I’m not really supposed to stand for too long. It’s only until recently that I managed to stand on my own.” 

“And yet you were showing off,” you remark with a roll of your eyes.

“I wanted our first kiss to be a good one." 

Something about his abrupt confession has you redden down to the tips of your toes, heat tingling like electricity down your back while his hand grasps yours to tug you closer. You look down at him and wonder where all the pain has gone, for it seems like Changmin's voice is free from the tension, the earlier pain that had deeply etched grooves onto his features.

But it's not there anymore. His expression ie clear, pure joy glistening through his eyes. You wonder briefly what changed and you can't help but ask, not even bothered by the cold nipping at your fingers.

His eyes soften at your words as his thumb traces random circles over your knuckles, "nothing changed. I just decided that I wouldn't be that person who spends his days being depressed and sad all the time."

"Does it hurt?" You motion towards his legs, "how did you even do it? I know of patients who did the same treatment. It's not easy, you have to go through rehab--"

"Which I did. I took all the pamphlets you gave me, signed up for counselling and physiotherapy. Went everyday until I had blisters along my thighs. It was hard, I almost gave up," he shakes his head, the memory causing his face twist in a slight grimace, "but I wanted to show you. I wanted to show you that I could do it. Y/N, I don't think I've ever been that desperate before. You know that one race you want to win? It felt like that. Like my life depended on it."

His eyes are so intense it makes your breath catch in your throat. Your entire chest constricts. He continues:

"I just wanted to prove to you that I was capable of doing something like that. And along the way, I guess I just felt like...like all this, this felt like living."

And it is. Gone is the weight that bears down on his shoulders. Changmin looks like he's finally breathing again, like he set himself free from the cage of his own mind.

Pride swells within you. It's amazing how far he's come from the broken mess he once was and tears prick ay the corner of your eyes.

Softly, he tugs you down onto his lap and you don't even fight it, allowing your body to give in to the warmth emanating from his chest and the feeling of his face so close to yours.

H pushes away a strand of hair from your forehead, curling it behind your ear. His maroon orbs meet yours, warm and swimming with affection, "I missed you," he murmurs huskily, causing a flurry of tingles down your spine.

"I--" your eyebrows knit together as all the time spent alone comes rushing back to you, "I missed you too."

His thumb rub circles over your cheek, "I’m sorry, I didn't want to hurt you."

"No, it's fine," you pause, hands tightening over his shirt, "I can understand."

"I didn't want to disappoint you--”

"I know.” 

“--And I didn’t want you thinking I was a coward. Or pathetic.” 

“I know, Changmin.” 

A sigh escapes his lips before he buries his face into your neck, breathing in your scent. You shiver in response and heat flushes through your neck upon feeling his lips ghost over your skin, "Am I forgiven then?" He murmurs.

"I guess you are--" the words die halfway up your throat when he presses the softest peck against your pulse point. Breath quickening, your body instinctively tenses as you ask, "what are you doing?"

"Nothing,” you don’t have to see his grin to know it’s there, imprinted on his face. But at this very moment, not even an inch of your brain cares, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him as close as you can. Changmin takes a shaky inhale at your touch as his own hands flutter down your back, the softest of caresses up and down your spine as you hold each other in the coldness of the hospital parking lot. 

"I’m not letting you go again,” the murmur falls past your lips before you can stop them, but you don’t even have time to ponder over the cheesiness of your statement that Changmin’s arms wind so tight around your middle that you are pulled close, his hard frame against your curves. 

You swallow, eyes locking in silent conversation, though it’s not quite silent since the love shining through his maroon orbs is as clear as crystal water. 

He nudges his nose against yours, “I could say the same for you.” 

You smile as he steals another kiss from your lips, not caring that your bodies are freezing, not even thinking about how ridiculous you must look sitting on his lap in the middle of the hospital parking lot.

All you know is that Changmin-- breathing and alive and filled with so much life and energy and hope -- has made his way back to you. And that you’re not about to let go. 

[shadowhunterlegend]

The Theft's Captive: A Star Wars Story

=======================

Please note: This is the first time I'm posting some of my writing online. Let me know what yall think :D

When Carly, a smuggler dealing in information, gets captured by the First Order, she has no way to escape. After months of compliance she has gained some of General Hux's trust, giving her some freedom on Starkiller base.

Warning or triggers: Mentions of heart/medical conditions that cause episodes

=======================

Pride swelled in her chest as she reached the entrance to the base before the Captain. She had been surprised when her request had been approved to take the speeders out for a spell, she was a prisoner on Starkiller base after all. Finally she would get some fresh air. Her cooperation had definitely made a difference. 

She made a sharp turn at the entrance before bringing the speeder to a hault. Even though the icy wind cut through her during the excursion, she couldn't be any warmer. She pulled off her helmet revealing the proud grin on her face. She was glowing despite the cloud cover and snow, a result of the thin layer of sweat she had built up.

The thrill of the race mixed with the pride of winning caused her heart to race at an alarmingly elevated rate. She ignored the beeping of her wristband that she had been instructed to wear, ever since her last adrenaline episode. Her zombie-like state with the addition of her somehow escaping her cell alarmed General Hux and Captain Phasma especially. If Ren saw her in such a state or out of her cell, after numerous guard rotations and extra security measures, he would be the one to blow a gasket this time around. No, the wristband was a wise decision with little to no protest on Carly's part. 

Her heart pounded in her chest and pulsated in her eardrums. This was exhilarating! She beamed when the captain arrived shortly after. "I told you I wasn't planning an escape," Carly jested. Her statement caused Phasma to chuckle. "I should have taken your word for it."

They both dismounted their speeders with Carly practically bouncing with every step. Her pupils had already dilated from the excessive adrenaline her body created. Her skin was tinged with a pink tone caused by her rising heat level along with the adrenaline. Phasma failed to notice these factors but the beeping caught her attention almost immediately, which was still unbeknownst to Carly. "How amazing was that? And in the snow no less. I guarentee that I would have hit a tree if it weren't for the handling on these bad boys," she chirped before she noticed Phasma's attention focused on her wrist. "What is it?" She asked but before Phasma could reply the medic and scientist from before burst into the hanger, sprinting the whole way, syringe and medkit in hand. The heart band wouldn't be successful without their help. Carly's glowing eyes and bright face beamed even brighter once the two entered the hanger. "I didn't expect to see you two again so soon. You must have heard about my outing with the captain. Wait, how did you know-" she was cut off by the medic taking hold of her wrist in order to turn Carly's arm over and inject the syringe. The scientist focused his effort on using an additional heart monitor and data pad to check her vitals and compare it to the wristband's readings. The both of them were panic stricken. Their breathing still hadn't evened out after their run from the medbay, most likely. "What are you two doing?" Carly questioned. However, the question fell on deaf ears as both ocupiced themselves with her wellbeing. "You two responded quickly," Phasma noted, almost as if wanting them to explain their quick actions. "Captain, we apologize for not greeting you sooner. We responded as soon as the data pad sent out its warning," the scientist replied, still testing the readings to see if the device hadn't malfunctioned. "Ms Johnson, we are on orders to escort you to the medbay at once," the medic hastily interjected. "But why?" Another question that wouldn't be answered as the medic shined a small flashlight into Carly's eyes. "On whose orders? I was to supervise her," Phasma questioned, suddenly suspicious of the timing. The pair looked at one another before replying in unison, "General Hux, Captain." 

Phasma nodded. "Very well. I will escort you to the medbay," Phasma spoke to Carly. Carly only blinked in response especially after she had the small flashlight half blinded her. The medic spoke up once more while leading Carly by the arm, "Ms Johnson, it would be best to refrain from walking too fast. We don't want you getting worked up any further."

"Worked up?" Her face was etched into confusion, "Are you kidding? That was a blast! I can't remember the last time I took a ride on a speeder!

And why are we going to the medbay? I feel fantastic." Her words spilled from her mouth a mile a minute as her adrenaline levels spiked even further from remembering the exciting experience. The panic in the medic and scientist's eyes grew as the wristband beeped louder and faster. Phasma tried her best to take control of the situation by egging Carly on to walk toward the medbay, which was working, only for a short while unfortunately. Both the medic and scientist stayed on either side of Carly, the medic tightly grasping the medkit and the scientist with his eyes focused on the data pad. Phasma instructed Carly to focus on breathing rather than rambling on. They all strutted through the corridors of the base with small clusters of stormtroopers moving aside when they noticed the frantic specialists and especially their captain. They would give her a curt nod or a simple "Captain" as they proceeded to move out of the way.

Carly's brain ran a mile a minute. Keeping quiet helped with the breathing, however, the amount of thoughts racing through her mind made her head spin. The addition of the adrenaline made her feel sick to her stomach and only caused her body temperature to spike further. The medic and scientist gave each other a weary look. It's as if they had a brief telepathic conversation before the medic declared, "Let's take a rest. You should sit down over here, Ms Johnson. Edwin will bring you a wheelchair to take you the rest of the way." She helped Carly move over to a bench in the corridor while Edwin had already rushed off to get the wheelchair. "That's it. Nice and easy now," the medic soothed as she assisted Carly in sitting down. Carly gave a delirious nod before resting her head back on the metal wall behind her. "Will she be alright?" Phasma asked, an underlying tone of concern and slight panic evident in her words. The medic crouched down next to Carly, opening her medkit to retrieve another syringe. "The sooner we get her to the medbay the better, Captain. I can't be certain right now if she will be alright. Could you please help me remove her jacket?" The medic's honesty surprised Phasma. Phasma sat next to Carly, leaning her forward slightly in order to free her arms from the sleeves. Carly's head ragdolled forward over the captain's shoulder in her delirious state. "Why remove her jacket now? The last syringe you put in her wrist," Phasma observed. The more answers the better in the event that she would have to fill out an incident report. The medic signed and explained, "She's starting to overheat. Notice how the veins are becoming more prominent and her skin is turning red. The jacket could also make her feel restricted and, in her current state, the panic will only make the situation worse. A sedative will at least bring down her heart rate."

"Won't that effect her medication you gave a short while back?" After successfully removing the jacket, Carly was placed against the wall again. The medic administered the injection. This in combination with the cooler surroundings caused Carly to let out a relieved sigh. "Thank you, Captain. No, luckily it won't cause any issues. Ms Johnson here already explained what can and can't be used in different situations." 

Just after the process had been completed, Edwin came around the corner, wheelchair at the ready. "Edwin, what are her readings?" The medic questioned immediately.

Edwin took out his data pad scanning over the new information. "I don't know what the hell you did but her heart rating is slowly stabilizing," Edwin replied, giving off a sigh after his frantic sprint down the corridors. The medic was relieved at the news.

"Let's get you into the chair," Phasma said to the sweating mess sitting next to her. "Did you hear me?" Carly ran a shaky hand over her face, blinking a few times before nodding in response. Getting her up and into the wheelchair proved quick and painless, thankfully, which made the rest of the journey to the medbay easier.

[hecohansen31]

Royally Savage

Ivar x Princess! Reader (Modern AU)

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

It’s been a long time I know, and this is... kind of... not the best that I could come up with... but I have been slowly coming up with more and more ideas (I have one half-written, although I am probably going to involve a few new characters).

But I wrote this for @youbloodymadgenius​, since she was nice enough to buy me a few ko-fis and I felt like this is just the least that I could do to return the favor!

I hope you’ll like this!

And if anybody is wondering: this is indeed a continuation to ‘Royally Screwed’!

As always, if you like/want to see more content, don’t forget to share your feedback through either comments or writing something in the reblog option.

SUMMARY: Galas can be insidious shits for sure.

WORDS: 1,9 K

WARNINGS: Incorrect Royal Etiquette, Ableist Insults, People Being Stuck Up, Slight Dirty Talk (do not read it at work...).

Life as the soon-to-be-prince of a small country wasn’t as easy as all those princess movies made it seem.

Even more when your legs weren’t properly working.

A way that (Y/N) had to say that he was ‘a fucking pathetic cripple’.

Not that he even thought that his princess was able to say and utter those words.

She wasn’t certainly completely unknowing of all the curse words of the world, and in fact, she could probably curse in five different languages, but he doubted that she had enough cruelty to properly do it.

But that night she had proved him wrong.

That same night when he was boring himself to death, straining his new braces, to stand up and welcome the guests at the charity ball her father had organized a month before their wedding, suggesting they took this as a ‘way to warm up before the marriage, understanding what a public marriage might entail’.

Which was a way to get Ivar to understand that he wasn’t just made for all of this.

And that he should have left his sole daughter and heir to the throne, alone.

Except he was stubborn but (Y/N) was even more stubborn.

But she was still standing beside him, smiling at the thousandth guest with an unfaltering smile in some kind of horrid nightmare of organza that felt too heavy to carry around and Ivar had a few doubts that she would have been able to properly sat down in a chair.

And that sight never failed to remind him that it was all worth it.

That his princess was definitely worth it and her father could just go to hell, alongside everybody who said that they just wouldn’t have made it.

“… we have just a few more” muttered softly (Y/N), as she finally noticed the death stare with which Ivar had welcomed the sleazy guest that had dared to send a slight look at your cleavage, quite more conservative but yet…

… creeps were everywhere.

“… hold on, sweetheart”.

He felt himself melt inside so deeply that he couldn’t help but shiver lightly and when she backed up her soft look with a smile, he felt his heart speeding up in a way that he wouldn’t have thought possible a long time ago.

But now it happened daily.

“Believe me, I could stand another thousandth more” he shot back, as he puffed his chest, making her laugh loudly, a bit snoring in that adorable way that was completely and utterly not-princessy like.

The side that he had helped you develop, before they had both chosen to go back to her native country.

“… but that doesn’t mean that you should” she mumbled, before lightly raising the monstrosity she called ‘gala dress’, scandalously showing him her beautiful ankles and the pointy high heels she was wearing “… and also I just want to personally sit down, these traps are killing me”.

“I’ll massage your feet if we manage to get through the next five guests” he promised her, making her smirk softly, as she pushed the dress down and turned with a bright and renewed smirk on her face, gently linking their arms at the elbows and leaning in for what looked like a chaste kiss, but appeared to be more.

“… or I could keep them on for a little bit more…” she mumbled deviously and for somebody who knew the perfect and utter etiquette, she dared on continuing deviously “… meanwhile we are in bed… together”.

“Don’t give me these suggestions, if you want to get some sleep tonight”.

“… oh I am trembling already…” she shot back with a fake higher pitch, but moved a bit further away from him to welcome softly an older couples which called her by a sweet nickname, and although she was extremely polite, Ivar knew that by her glance…

… she had no clue who they truly were.

And he couldn’t blame her.

On his first social outings there he had been introduced to more people than he could ever remember…

But who truly seemed to trouble his princess was the man that came forward after the older couple, in an elegant smoking that suited him like a second skin, bringing out the perfectness of his healthy body and he had something royal just to look at.

An obvious show of dominance in his movements, as he puffed his chest forward as if he was some kind of bird trying to court ‘his princess’.

He was used to boys swooning onto her in America, with her pretty accent and the elegant touch you always had even in your club clothes.

But she just had that melting look for him and he never felt like she might change him for a cooler version of himself.

And neither should have this dude.

And yet the slight light of recognition in (Y/N)’s eyes was bright.

“… (Y/N)” he didn’t mutter her title and with the way her eyes reciprocated the glint in his eyes, although with a more casual and calmer note, he didn’t need to.

“… it has been a long time since I last saw you. You went to America and… poof you disappeared”.

His English was perfect and tasted of many schools spent to make it perfect till he managed to sound like he came straight from Oxford.

“I just lost the sense of time, there” her words were cordial, although cheerful and with the way your whole pose tightened itself in the ‘pretty princess’ ‘ one matched with a look of pure cordial coldness “… too much fun and too many programs”.

And Ivar knew that she wasn’t in the slightest at ease.

“I wonder why” his tone instead was a calculated cheerfulness that reeked of royal fakeness.

He definitely didn’t like this guy.

“… when I went there, I just saw badly-dressed people with horrible manners” and he shot Ivar a look as if to say that he should have taken offense to what he said.

And he wasn’t in the slightest sorry for making him feel that way.

Honestly, Ivar wouldn’t have felt sorry for throwing a punch on his way.

“Are you sure that you visited the right part of America?” (Y/N)’s tone was politely saying ‘fuck you’ and the beautiful royally looking man seemed to take it personally with a light scoff that he matched with a smaller smile “… I found it quite interesting and very useful to understand many things”.

And with ‘many things’ she turned to look to Ivar, with those love-sick eyes that he knew he returned whenever they were together and he felt the need to hold her close, gently cuddling her to his chest.

She had discovered that America was interesting, meanwhile he had started believing in love.

The gesture of turning to Ivar, brought him immediately in the conversation which meant that he had to also endure his fakest smirk towards the royally scorned man and gently offered him his hand.

It wasn’t proper etiquette but as (Y/N) had explained to him, charity galas, even more the ones that were opened to celebrities all over the world, were more relaxed occasions, allowing for less formal etiquettes.

But the stuck-up idiot ignored it.

Well, he was definitely being ruder.

And (Y/N) bumped in.

“Might I present you my fiancé, Ivar Lothbrock?” she presented him softly, as she moved to hold onto his arm to make even clear their relationship, which Ivar enjoyed immensely, since he was a little touch-starved…

… just a tad.

“… this is Reginald III Montwald, he is a duke of my kingdom” everything in her words was meant to undermine him.

To keep that pure male arrogance in check.

“I actually… I actually have to say that I am far more than a duke, owning a few lands all over the world…” he was fighting and trying to attract somehow Ivar’s princess’ attention, not that she even was tempted to fall in it.

Honestly (Y/N) looked bored, but she didn’t hold back.

“I thought that you had been prohibited from using those possessions, since they belong to another side of your family”.

She had managed to hit a sore point and Ivar had to hide a small smirk in your neck as he gently moved to give it a small kiss, to give her a bit of his own courage and to thank her for the exciting show.

It was scandalously wrong for them to be so all over each other in public, but he honestly couldn’t care less.

It made him feel damnably good to know that she’d choose him over and over again.

And then Reginald Mont-I-Have-Something-Up-My-Ass hit a sore point as well.

“I also didn’t think that you’d dump me for a cripple”.

Ivar was kind of used to the whole ‘cripple’ thing.

It wasn’t anything that he could hide, and he had collected quite a few annoying nicknames over the course of the years that he had passed in his wheelchair and later on in his braces and crutches.

He had a few favorites.

Certainly, because in the end there wasn’t much that he could do, aside from letting it pass through him.

The bad taste in his mouth still lingered.

But with (Y/N) by his side, he felt like it was just an aftertaste.

And her lips always had a better taste.

Aside from punching people.

Not in front of (Y/N), still.

Also because she honestly looked like she might punch Reginald in the face.

The royally asshole was looking at them both with a smirk that expressed how much satisfaction he felt at the ignorant statement he had just muttered, as if he should have been proud of his idiotic humor.

And (Y/N) wasn’t pleased with it.

Maybe pissed even more than Ivar who was used to it.

“… I dumped you because you were a fucktard who couldn’t even move his ass to pour himself a glass of water without asking for his ‘servants’, as if we are back in Victorian England and not in fucking 1998”.

Her tone was meant not to attract anybody, but it cut right into whatever little dignity Reginald still held up.

“… and there are a few million reasons that I am sure that the medias would love to pick onto, wouldn’t they?” and she turned to the reporter that was basically waiting for her time to shine, a bit bored in a small gala where everything was going ‘oh so well’.

She would have been happy to have an excuse to talk about the drama that was slowly unfolding.

Reginald did try to hold up and say something to fight back.

But (Y/N) disregarded him completely turning away from him, as her hold onto Ivar’s arm became tighter and her soon-to-be-princess swore that he stood taller with the renewed pride he felt at his beloved’s fierce behavior.

Her father had had a million doubts about them, and Ivar would be lying if he said that he didn’t share a few, because (Y/N) was out of this world.

A damn princess.

And he wanted him, a pathetic idiot with anger issues.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t say how much all her love was starting to convince that maybe… just maybe he was worth of her grace.

In any other occasion he wouldn’t have been happy of having been babied like that.

But right now, he felt like he was on top of the world.

And he was definitely going to make (Y/N) keep those pretty pumps in bed.

And use that smart tongue onto him.

 ---

Taglist:

@guiltyfiend​

[bumblebee-moreno]

I just wanna make a quick post about interacting with kids, because people on here seem to not know how kids work. (quick note before I start though: this is all spoken from my experience in working with kids--I do not have children of my own. I volunteer every year at an elementary school, working closely with younger kids who are struggling with learning certain subjects but don’t necessarily qualify for special ed (COVID has put a pause on this but I fully intent to resume as soon as it is safe to do so.) I am also a facilitator for a support group through a nonprofit--I’m part of the team in charge of facilitating the middle school group (ages 11/12-14). I didn’t really want to make this post because a lot of people get offended by these viewpoints, but the more I observe how kids are being treated by the adults in their life, the more I realise I need to say something.)

***I encourage you to reblog and add your own thoughts: I want to have an open discussion about this. 

Ok, first of all: Kids are a LOT smarter than you think they are. 

The problem is, they don’t know how to communicate and apply this yet. Calling them dumb and treating them as if they have nothing to offer conversations doesn’t support their development at all; in fact, it is one of the easiest ways to discourage a kid. This doesn’t mean turn off your filter and talk to kids the same way you’d talk to your friends. It just means, genuinely listen to their perspective and allow them to be part of intelligent conversations. Kids can’t learn responsible, mature ways to communicate if you don’t give them the opportunity to try it. 

One city in Colorado did a project that got kids involved in city development. In fact, this project was so successful that they are still continuing it! The classroom I volunteer in did a project inspired by this a few years ago. The first grade classroom was tasked with creating a city that could be applicable to real life. Their only restrictions were that they had to include four things: recreation, housing, jobs, and education. How they did that and what else they included was up to them. They were allowed to be as creative as they’d like. 

The teacher, other volunteer and I expected the city they made to be something out of a fantasy world. What we saw, though, was absolutely incredible. 

The kids created a detailed park complete with a pond for wildlife, a pool for recreation, walking trails, parking, wheelchair ramps, disability accessible bathrooms, community gardens, playgrounds designed specifically for younger kids, and another for older ones. They included apartment buildings and bus stations. They added traffic lights to intersections and lowered speed limits nearby their school. They made several large public schools, as well as a college (which they insisted, unprompted, was low-income accessible. They made a hospital and a fire station. 

Their instructions were only to create a city with only four boxes to check. They weren’t required to do any more than build the layout of it. But when we asked them to give us a tour of their city, they not only told us what each building was: they described laws that protected minorities. They told us about what roles people would have in their city, including the roles of kids.

No, it wasn’t to the great detail and precision that an adult could. Yes, there were many holes in their creation that would cause problems in the real world. They obviously weren’t thinking in terms of budget or government restrictions. But in a way, that made their ideas so much better. They weren’t tied down by the expectations adults had. They added features that we’ve been fighting for for years, such as basic accessibility, both physical and financial (such as their insistence about free college education).

Kids’ lack of experience doesn’t make them stupid. In fact, I believe it’s part of what makes them so smart. They observe the world around them and aren’t seeing things in terms of criticism and limits. They see something that needs to change, and they aren’t afraid to come up with creative ideas to make that change.

Talking at kids doesn’t do shit.

Telling a kid to do something or not to do it is probably the quickest way to encourage them to do the exact opposite.

But you know what I’ve found works almost every time? TWO WAY CONVERSATIONS!

Saying “don’t talk to people like that” is a very easy way to not change behaviour. Rather, help them understand why they shouldn’t talk a certain way. 

When working with young children, I usually start off with saying “When you said [x], my feelings were hurt because...” And then they usually figure it out for themselves that they said the wrong thing. 

This works so much better because:

1) the kid doesn’t get defensive. When you scold them for misbehaving, they quickly learn to guard themselves from that. When you can calmly explain to them what was wrong about that situation, they’re less likely to try to protect themselves from your words: because they won’t need to.

2) They learn exactly what was wrong about what they said. When you just tell them they’re wrong but refuse to talk to them about how or why they did something hurtful, they can’t always take it the right way. When a kid says “you look dirty” and you tell them that’s rude, they don’t understand why. In their heads, that may have been them trying to say you have mud smeared on your pants, or you have food spilled on your shirt: they may have just been trying to help you. When you explain to them exactly what about that statement was hurtful, and perhaps offer a kinder way to say it, they’ll recognise their mistake much quicker and remember it better.

3) They’ll learn how to express their own feelings in a much more healthy way. Kids learn from their surroundings. When you snap at them for making a mistake, you teach them to do the same. Then, later on down the road, you may hurt their feelings, and they may lash out at you. When you teach them to communicate more openly, they’ll learn how to address their problems in a productive manner.

4) It gives them the opportunity to problem solve. When you say “this hurt because” instead of “you’re wrong”, it allows them to come to the conclusion that they made a mistake on their own. It’s basically the child-equivalent of providing someone with sources to try to disprove them. Except when it’s taught from a young age, they’ll learn to accept the criticism instead of attack it.

On a related note, when you see a problem coming up repeatedly, or a child is growing upset about something: Share your feelings about the situation, ask them to share theirs, and then help them come up with solutions.  

Mistakes are healthy

Stopping a young person from making a mistake isn’t always helpful. Obviously, if they’re about to hurt themselves or others, stop them. But if it’s a little mistake, let them make it. And then talk to them about it. Help them come up with ways to first fix this mistake and then to avoid making the mistake again in the future.

It conveys the message of “you’re human and mistakes are normal: I’m here for you.” instead of the message of “You can’t do anything right, just let me do it for you.”

You can’t learn and grow as a person if you’re never allowed to put yourself out there and make mistakes. Give young people the chance to try things themselves: but make it clear you’re here for them when they need support. 

Listen to them.

This piggybacks off of a lot of what I said above, but listening to kids is important. 

When a teenager says they need help, it’s far more effective to ask them how you can help them than it is to tell them why they’re struggling and then refuse to help them solve it. I can’t tell you how many kids I’ve had reach out to me saying they feel alone because of this. They’ll come to me saying that they went to their parent to say they feel depressed (or even are on the brink of hurting themselves in some way), only to be met with “well you should think about how I feel” or “you’re just being dramatic.”

When a kid says something hurt them, LISTEN TO THEM. Kids’ feelings are every bit as complex as those of an adult. You don’t turn 18 and suddenly have a real brain with real emotions. You have that your whole life; humanity doesn’t come with age. experience based decisions do.

And, spoiler alert: kids know themselves better than you do. No, this doesn’t mean when your 11 year old refuses to eat vegetables or brush their teeth, you can shrug and say “well they know themselves best”. This means when they try to share how they’re feeling (ESPECIALLY when they’re sharing a feeling about something you did), listen to them and try to compromise when it’s reasonable to do so. If you hurt their feelings--apologise. If they feel like they deserve more freedom, offer up ideas for how they can earn your trust. 

TL;DR: Kids aren’t brainless creatures you can ignore and wonder why they aren’t becoming functional adults. They don’t lack intelligence: they lack a method to communicate that intelligence

Treating kids like adults (in an age-appropriate way) gives them the opportunity to learn the skills needed to act like adults when they’re thrown into the real world. You can’t treat them like they’re dumb their whole life and then ask why they’re not succeeding.

[toutorii]

Shirou laid his head down on his clasped hands, leg bouncing. His uncle patted his shoulder before he left to check up on his other students in the hospital. That was twenty minutes ago. The heart monitor being the source of the boy’s comfort and insanity. The constant beeping assuring him that his sister was still alive and with them, but also a looming threat that he could lose her at any moment. He wished that his brother could be there with him, to say something comforting or make a joke, or even to give him some fresh air. But that was impossible, the minute his elder brother breathes in the general vicinity of the hospital, police, and heroes would go haul him off to Tartarus.

His thoughts got interrupted by his sister scrunching up her face, interrupting her sleep. Shirou rushed to grasp her hand, and assure her that she wasn’t alone. Her eyes slowly opened and rested on her brother next to her. Shirou swore that she looked like an angel with the way the light-framed her hair and face. She made a little pout, and proceeded to say,

“It’s no fair that you’re such a pretty boy. Give me some of that,”

And for the first time in what seemed like weeks, Shirou’s chest grew tremendously lighter, laughter tickling this throat as he let out a small chuckle. The anxiety dispersed as he knew that his sister would be alright.

Honoka looked around the room, “So I see that my fire didn’t go haywire while I was asleep”

Shirou shook his head. Grateful that his sister hadn’t lost control of her powers while unconscious again.

“You just missed Shouta” The words sounded gravely, the lack of use taking a toll on his speech.

“Hi yes, I'm Shirou and I have been smoking for fifty years.” She joked, mimicking Shirou’s raspy voice. Before he could protest she continued, “But I missed Shouta? Darn…. Has anyone else been to visit?”

“Toshinori popped in for a little while with Midoriya, but they’re all heading back to school now. All that's left is us, Mirio and little Eri.” Honoka’s eyes lit up at the mention of the little girl’s name. Shirou knew how much she cared for her, and was glad to see a sparkle in her eyes for the first time in ages. “She’s alright, only needs a little more monitoring to make sure her powers don’t freak out again.”

And with that, they left the conversation and sat in comfortable silence. Shirou every once in awhile rubbing his thumb against the coarse burnt skin of Honoka’s knuckle, noting the way she looked longingly at the once smooth and healthy skin.

Three months. Honoka had been gone for three months. The overuse of her quirk being the reason her skin was set ablaze, and yet the reason it healed so quickly as well. It was so ironic Shirou could do nothing but laugh grimly when he heard the doctors explain the situation.

The sound of his sister’s voice shook him from his thoughts, “I heard the doctors saying that there was a high chance that I would never walk again,” Shirou squeezed her hand, his chest becoming tight as she continued, “but there's still a chance that I will walk again, right?’ Her voice broke at the end of her statement, tears filling her eyes.

Shirou gently caressed his thumb over her knuckle, trying to think of a way to reassure her without giving her false hope. Honoka noticed his dilemma and looked down with a sigh. The older of the two panicked, he didn't want to give her false hope, but he didn’t want to crush her spirits either. So instead he directed the conversation elsewhere. They talked about the leaves changing colour outside her window, about how he was doing with school and his internship, they talked about everything but their brother and the whole rescue mission. Eventually, a nurse came in and told Shirou that visiting hours were over, so he slung his bag over his shoulder, kissed Honoka on the head, squeezed her hand, and left the hospital room. The fact that she would break down and take down her strong facade after he was gone broke him. Nonetheless, he kept walking.

A few weeks later, the doctors had run various tests and determined Honoka’s powers stable. The therapy sessions she had been going to had helped her tremendously. Even if she still had relapses and her moments, she could function in society. So the doctors wanted to get her back on her feet as soon as possible, to try and have her be able to walk.

“Ms. Takahashi you need to take a break,” the doctor said while reaching her hand out to the collapsed girl. Honoka swatted her hand away, pulling herself up with the parallel bars determined to walk at least a meter more. Her legs had other plans and immediately gave out, causing her to fall again, prompting the doctor to again say, “Mr. Takahashi, you are taking a break, you won’t get anywhere collapsing.” At this point Honoka started to tear up with frustration, her legs were as useless as a charger that didn’t charge. They had been working for a month and so far she couldn't walk three meters without falling, and that's with her leaning on the bars like her life depended on them.

“...why?” the young Takahashi choked out.

“Why what, dear?”

She punched the cold, smooth floor, “Why won't the damn things do their job? I haven’t made any progress in a whole month? Why?”

“Ma’am, you're making incredible progress, these things just take time,”

“I-” the doctor interrupted her again.

“Listen to me. You haven’t given up yet, have you? You are so strong, and I don’t care if you can barely walk two meters, that is progress.” Honoka sniffed and looked at the woman. “Remember when we started? You couldn’t stand without collapsing out of breath.” The woman grabbed Honoka’s hands, “That's called progress”.

“Name….”

This took the doctor by surprise, “eh?”

“What- what's your name? I- I never g-got it”

“Giran, but you can call me Mai if you want.”

“Only if you quit with the Ms. Takahashi stuff,” Mai smiled and nodded her head.

Honoka then hoisted herself up from the ground, arms shaking and sweat covering her face, declaring that she wants to try once more. Mai sighed in disapproval, saying how she should rest, but Honoka ignored her with a look of determination.

<><><><><><><><><>

Resting in her hospital bed, a nurse knocked announcing that there was a visitor. Honoka looked towards the door, wiping her eyes. She told the nurse to let them in, curious to see who visited her. The door opened revealing a small gray-haired girl. Honoka immediately made herself look more perked up to not worry the young girl.

"Eri! What brings you into here?" Fake a smile, fake a smile, fake a smile-

Eri pulled herself onto the bed and sat next to the older girl's legs. Fiddling with her hospital gown she said, "Deku and Lemillion gave me a tour of your school yesterday," Midoriya and Mirio "And they talked about a festival..." Honoka cocked her head to the side, confused about her hesitation.

"Do you not want to go to the festival? If so that's perfectly alri-"

Eri shook her head, "No that's not it...." she took in a breath, "I was wondering if you are going to the festival......."

All air left Honoka's lungs at that moment, all her attention focused on not conveying any of the panic going on inside her. Could she go to the festival? She still got tired wheeling herself from her room to the exercise area. How could she manage to survive a whole-

"Yeah. If you want me there, I'll be there." Fake a smile, fake a smile, fake a smile.

Even if she didn't smile at those words, Eri visibly perked up, making Honoka's inner turmoil just a little more bearable.

<><><><><><><><><><>

Knees slamming onto the smooth tile took the rest of the pink-haired girl’s strength. Mai rushed to help her get into the wheelchair.

"Well, Ms. Ta- I mean, Honoka. You have been making amazing progress building your strength back up. I think we should call it a day for now though-"

"No." Honoka interrupted. "The festival is in a few days, I have to be strong enough to get through the day."

"But Honoka, you were severely injured. You can't expect yourself to be up and walking just a few weeks after you were healed"

She knew this. She knew that it would take a miracle for her to be walking by the point of the festival. It didn't stop her from trying though. Before, she would have laughed at the challenge. Ignoring anyone who would tell her that she couldn't do it. But Honoka soon learned that girl was dead, and she might never come back. Even so, the desire to see Eri happy motivated her to keep going. Nothing mattered to Honoka except seeing that girl smile.

"You still have a few days to keep building your strength. Don't get too upset." Mai said, trying to comfort the teenager. Honoka nodded and slowly wheeled herself out of the room.

<><><><><><><><><>

Shirou walked up to the gray door with "Takahashi, Honoka" written on it. Lifting his hand to knock before hearing his sister's voice. She was talking to someone else, the doctor, Shirou assumed. He waited until a tall man who looked oddly like Yoshi in a white coat walked out of the room. The pink-haired boy walked into the hospital room with the flowers in hand. He smiled at his sister, put the bouquet on the table, and sat in his usual chair next to the bed. Noticing his sister's lack of cheer worried the boy. So he grabbed her hand, gently rubbing her knuckle with his thumb. He knew that if she wanted to tell him what happened, she would say.

"The doctor said that I wouldn't be able to grow my wings back. They're gone. Forever. I-" she broke down into tears, gripping her brother's hand. Shirou was still processing the information. His sister? Having her wings taken from her? Suddenly anger flared up in him. Honoka had already been through enough, that angered him, yes. But what actually riled him up is that he couldn't do anything to help her. He was useless, a word he was becoming extremely familiar with recently. His sister's quiet crying reminded him of what was important at that moment. So he just let her cry and express all the emotions she needed until her tears had run dry. When Shirou got ready to leave, Honoka was passed out, the emotional rollercoaster taking a toll on her. So he just smiled sadly at her, kissed her forehead, and squeezed her hand gently. Wishing he could take away her pain and endure it himself.

The next morning Honoka was awakened by a nurse telling her it was time to get ready for the day. This greatly confused Honoka, because, for the past seven weeks, all she has done was eat, go to therapy, and watch tv. Only after the nurse brought in some clothes for her to wear did she remember what day it was. She carefully pulled on the jeans and sweatshirt, still sore from the therapy session the day before. She looked over at the flowers Shirou brought, all nice and put into a vase. She wanted to properly thank him for the gift when she saw him again. Sliding off of the bed into the wheelchair beside her, she texted Mirio, asking him where to meet up. He replied quickly telling her that a car would pick them up in front of the main entrance. With the newfound information, she wheeled herself to the elevator.

"So Eri, are you excited?" The cheerful blonde asked once they got into the car. The young girl just nodded her head, squeezing Honoka's hand. The older girl looked towards her senior and nodded. They both were determined to make this one of the best days in Eri's life.

<><><><><><><><><><><>

"Are you not going to see the performance Noka?" Eri asked when she realized that the pink-haired girl wasn't following them into the concert venue.

"I'm afraid that this wheelchair would get in the way, besides, Mirio can only hold one of us at a time." Honoka answered, "But don't worry, I'll be able to watch it from up here."

That seemed to be enough to persuade her to go with Mirio, as she took his hand and walked into the packed room. Honoka stared at the two, wishing she could go with them.

When the concert started, Honoka was in awe. The music brought up so many emotions that she didn't know were buried. Sadness, frustration, but also inspiration and happiness, were all things that she felt during the performance. By the end of the song, her emotions were so fried that she could only stare at the stage. Only when a little hand touched hers did she snap out of her shock.

She turned her head towards the person beside her and was greeted with a bright, smiling face.

"Noka! Noka! Noka! Did you see? The singer? She was like waaah," She raised her hands above her hands, "and- and the dancers were like woosh!" She started spinning in a circle, "And the sparkly dude was like nyooom!"

Honoka let out a laugh. A real, genuine laugh. A sound that no one had heard in ages it felt like. All the stress, anxiety, and sadness were all expelled from her chest. She smiled at the girl. Not a fake smile like all the other ones. No, this was a real smile. A smile that the eyes crinkled and just radiated pure joy. Eri climbed into Honoka's lap, and when she did, she was met with a bone-crushing hug. In Honoka's mind, if Eri could be happy, then there was hope in this world.

The rest of the festival went by smoothly. Eri wanted to do absolutely everything it seemed like. She dragged Mirio, Honoka, and later Midoriya and Shirou, to all the stalls that the different classes set up.

When they got back to the hospital, Honoka changed back into her hospital gown and got into her bed. And for the first time in months, she went to sleep without any fears of tomorrow.

Writing tag list: @kingdoms--night--star @jovialnoise

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

What do you think of this 'gay characters should be played by gay actors' insistence anytime there is a queer character ? I feel like it is a bit absurd because then one could also say that ' straight characters should be played by straight actors and also it denies the the existence of closet.

Hi anon - thanks for this ask - I’m going to answer it twice.  First I’m going to ask the question you actually asked and then I’m going to send this ask to myself agian and talk about what I think is an interesting follow-up - notwithstanding what I think - what do I think are the implications for Harry and this movie of the fact that some people obviously do think that.  

So I don’t think that gay characters should be played by gay actors. I disagree with the idea that would suggest that gay actors shoudln’t play straight characters (negotiating oppression isn’t some sort of level playing field where all rules have to work both ways).  But I do think that anyone who says that they do is not being honest about what they actually want, because there’s a silent ‘out’ in the statement that they refuse to acknowledge.  

I don’t think that social media discourse suggesting that gay actors should play gay characters is helping either queer representation, or queer performers.  And this is quite specific, I do think that the demand that trans actors play trans characters, and disabled actors play disabled characters has helped both representation and performers.  And I’ll try and explain why.

People who argue that gay actors should play gay characters aren’t necessarily explicit about why, or what their logic is. I feel like often underlying the discussion there’s an appeal to the idea that everyone has already agreed that oppressed and marginalised characters should only ever be played by oppressed and marginalised people.  And I just don’t think that’s true - politically or artistically.  I think the relationship between experience and representation in art is really messy and there are lots of possibilities and is best left that way.  Any one person’s experience of oppression is always really specific - and it’s never going to exactly match the characters. Art is always about both similarity and difference - and I don’t agree with treating huge areas of art as illegitimate.

There is a much narrower claim - that focuses not on the art itself, but it’s production - and as actors as workers.  I’ve heard this expressed in various ways, but for the purpose of this post I’m going to render it: ‘Until Stephen Hawking can play Harry Styles, Harry Styles shouldn’t be cast as Stephen Hawking’.  Now obviously Stephen Hawking was not an actor and is dead.  But the point is that it’s seen as possible for non-disabled actors to play disabled characters and not the other way round.  But that’s a decision people have made - it’s not an absolute statement.  It’s possible to imagine a world where a wheelchair user with motor neuron disesase would play Harry Styles - and in that world it would be much less of a problem if Harry Styles played someone with Motor Neuron Disease. 

The point here is to really focus in on the industry.  It’s not some kind of absolutist argument about the only valid form of art - it’s an argument about discrimination within the industry. Trans actors, disabled actors, and Actors of colour are generally very restricted in their parts - and under those circumstances Trans characters, disabled characters and characters of colours should not be played by cis, non-disabled, or white actors.

(To just take a quick dive into how important the specifics of oppression are to my understanding of these questions - that’s not the only reason why white actors shouldn’t be cast as characters of colour.  Blackface is a tradition where white actors performing roles that were racialised have been used to mock and degrade PoC and their cultures. White actors playing people of different races can’t be extracted from this context - and therefore will continue those oppressive dynamics).

Anyway if we go back to question about queer actors, we instantly see that they’re in a very different position from other oppressed groups.  In particular, gay actors have also been able to play straight male hearthrobs.  Rock Hudson spent his life playing Chris Hemsworth (is Chris Hemsworth straight - he came to mind as a hearthrob who sleeps with women.  Sorry if I’ve missed something).  Is it necessarily a problem if Chris Hemsworth plays Rock Hudson?

The issue with gay actors getting parts has never been about their sexuality per se - it’s been about the closet.  I think there is every reason to agitate for a wider range of parts for out gay actors, but I don’t think demanding that ‘gay actors play gay roles’ - is a suitable to response that the difficulties that out actors face. 

There are other problems with the demand as well - I feel it really falls down when considering the reality of the industry and often is based on the idea that every straight actor is Tom Hanks.  I saw this argument made about Uzo Aduba playing Suzanne on OitNB once.  Which suggests that someone thought that it was appropriate for casting directors to ask about the sexuality of people who had two screen credits for a recurring role. (There’s another whole aspect to that when it comes to TV.  I can’t remember if there was any comment about Suzanne’s seuxality in the pilot, but characters grow and evolve over time - and it would be incredibly limiting if writers could only explore non straight sexualities if actors who played the parts were themselves out).

I’ll add one more thought - random people on the internet demanding that art is only valid if gay actors (with a silent out) play gay characters is a very different matter from queer people making art deciding that a particular project needs out actors.  The people involved in The Boys in the Band have talked a lot about everyone involved being out actors.  I think that’s a really cool aspect of that particular project - I don’t think it’s the only way to make art. And there’s a really crucial difference between the random demands of people who have nothing to do with the industry - and the way people talk about these projects.  The ‘out’ is absolutely not silent, when it comes to Boys in the Band.  Everytime anyone involved in that project talks about the sexuality of the actors they talk explicitly about the actors being out.  And to me that’s a really telling difference.

If I was going to say what I’ve said here in fewer words (not my speciality I know!) - I’d say that I think that the demand that gay (silent out) actors play gay characters doesn’t just ignore the structure of the closet in Hollywood, but entrenches it. Unlike other forms of oppression, demanding that gay actors play gay characters is not necessarily an act of solidarity with gay actors. Pretending that gay actors and out gay actors are identical categories helps enforce the celebrity closet.