#because we’re just supposed to shut up because we’re men and privileged somehow

[fefairys]

transandrophobia is worth talking about. the word transandrophobia does not imply the existence of misandry holy fucking shit can we please move past this idea??? i’m so fucking tired. i’m so fucking tired.

[yet-another-fan-girl9]

Inhuman (2)

Summary: All beings in the universe have a soulmate except for Midgardians. People can hear their soulmate in their heads. For almost five hundred and fifty years, Loki believed that he had no soulmate until 1513 when a Midgardian princess was born. Will fate be kind to them or will the universe tear them apart?

Warnings: violence, language, hella historical inaccuracies (I tried to do research but then got lazy), maybe some AOS season 2 spoilers(?)

Word Count: ~3600

A/N: Not a lot of Reader in this chapter. Please tell me what you think! I love hearing from you guys and it keeps me motivated!

[New York, March 2024]

“We can’t find her,” Steve said as he walked back into the flower shop. Everyone else followed the Captain in.

The flower girl took a quick gasp at the heroes in her shop but Natasha gave her a soothing rub on the back. Nobody wanted to deal with a hysterical flower girl. Luckily, the woman who had killed Anderson hadn’t knocked over any plants in her hurry and the shop was still in one piece. Nat stood up and gave the woman one last look to make sure she wasn’t about to break down again and then the Avengers filed out of the shop.

There was a small crowd when they walked out onto the street. People were taking photos and videos of the ruined cafe. Their phones turned to the heroes, though, when they were spotted.

“Stark, can you get the security video from the cafe?” Steve ordered. “Wanda and I will talk to the baristas. Everyone else either deals with the crowds or examines the cafe.” Everyone nodded and went off to their respective jobs.

Inside the cafe, Anderson lied dead in a large pool of his own blood. Nat started to snap pictures of the bodies and damages. Behind the counter, she found a pair of plastic gloves and made a small show of putting them on. Bucky just picked up the bullet casings with his metal hand.

Nat gingerly moved Anderson’s head to get a clearer view of his neck wound. He had definitely died of blood loss due to the wound which was definitely inflicted by a knife. She looked around the room and her eyes landed on one of Anderson’s goons. A simple, black knife sat in his forehead. Nat walked over to the body and pulled the knife from his head and held it up to show Bucky.

“Think we can run this for prints?” She asked.

“Yeah, there might be some bags behind the counter.” There were. “Have you seen the bullet wounds in each of the security guys? All straight through the forehead.”

“Same with the fourth guy with this knife.”

“There are plenty of bullet casings from the securities’ guns but only three from another. She fired three times, each one hitting its mark.”

“So she’s a good shot,” Nat surmised.

“Are you guys done in there?” Sam asked through the broken window. The two ex-assassins rolled their eyes and joined everyone else outside.

“I got the security feed, obviously, but Cap also got a video from one of the baristas, right?” Tony reported.

“She just wanted to get Steve’s number,” Wanda laughed.

“Okay, we can go back to the compound to compare notes,” Steve suggested.

They all nodded and went back to the quinjet, the sounds of excited civilians and their cameras following them.

🌹

"Please let me come with you to see your home," she begged at the end of one of their meetings. They stood in the forest. Far enough in where they wouldn't be spotted but still close enough to the edge to be safe from wild animals.

"I wish I could. I really do. But I can’t.”

“Why not?” She knew how she sounded. Her mother always warned her against whining. Still, she could not help the doubts clouding her mind. “Are-are you ashamed of me?” Her eyes watered at the thought as her cheeks burned from the absurdity of the question. Of course, he wasn’t ashamed of her. Right?

“I could never. You are perfect.” He kissed the top of her head. “The only thing stopping me is the Asgardians. They disapprove of you Midgardians," Loki explained.

"But I am sure if you tell them I'm your soulmate," she paused.

"I do not think that an Asgardian has ever had a Midgardian soulmate. You are the only ones in the Nine Worlds without soulmates." She huffed and nodded like she understood, although she honestly didn't. "Thank you for being patient. I believe that you will, one day, have the privilege to see Asgard. It is not as beautiful as you."

“I don’t want you to leave me alone here.”

“You will never be alone. I will never leave you, my dear.”

What a load of shit that had turned out to be. It had been so long since Loki had dreamed of her. He supposed that’s what he got for being back on Midgard. He couldn’t think about her. It hurt too much, knowing that he couldn’t have her.

Now, what had woken him up? Oh, the fucking AI. Apparently the Avengers had returned from their escapade.

“Is everyone here?” Stark asked when Loki walked into the conference room from earlier. Why was he always the last one to enter? “Okay, we have some videos to watch. F.R.I.D.A.Y. hit the lights.”

The lights in the room dimmed and Loki sat down at the table. The screen at the front turned on and a security feed began to play. Loki recognized the Midgardian Senator when he entered despite the tinted glasses on his face. Four men followed him in and spread out across the small cafe. He sat down with his back to the camera. The video skipped a couple of minutes and resumed when a woman with pink and green hair walked in.

“That’s obviously a wig,” Wilson snorted.

Loki narrowed his eyes. The woman reminded him of (Y/N) somehow. Maybe the body shape or the way she held herself. It obviously couldn't be (Y/N), though. He couldn’t even see her face because of the hat and camera angle. Loki brushed off the familiarity to the recent dream. He was seeing her in everything.

They talked briefly, but the security feed had no sound. The woman showed the man something on her phone and the Senator put a briefcase on the table. He opened the briefcase and the Avengers only caught a brief glimpse of its contents before the woman turned it to face her. She smiled and dramatically rubbed her hands together.

“What was that?” Thor raised his eyebrow at the screen.

“Probably to get the knife out of her sleeve,” Romanoff said and sure enough a moment later, the woman stabbed the Senator in the neck.

Loki tried to hide his smirk when she removed the knife and the Senator’s blood squirted like a fountain. The four men converged on her and drew their guns. She flipped the table as the men fired on her. Loki found himself rooting for her, even though he knew the outcome. The woman popped up and shot three of the men. Then she threw the knife at the fourth man. Once he went down, the cafe’s window broke and she left the cafe.

“And then we arrived, she ran into the next door flower shop where we lost her,” Stark continued once the video stopped. “The next video is from one of the baristas.”

The video changed and this time it had sound.

“Dude, that’s a Senator or something, right?” one female voice behind the camera asked. The video shook and the Avengers watched the woman walk in.

“I don’t know, shut up.”

“Senator,” the woman said.

The dream must really be getting to Loki’s head because the woman even sounded like (Y/N). Even after all this time, he would never be able to forget what his soulmate’s voice sounded like. Could it be a descendant? A relative? He knew she never had children.

“You can’t possibly be the one I talked to,” the Senator replied. “You’re just a girl.”

“I would have stabbed him too if he said that to me,” Romanoff joked. Maximoff snorted  and nodded in agreement.

“Well of course I couldn’t be. My boss is too busy and smart to meet you in public.” 

The Senator made no sign of noticing her tone, but the Avengers sure did.

She pulled out the phone and showed him the screen. “Now, I’m also busy so if we can get this over with?”

“Sure, darling.” He put the briefcase on the table.

“Open it.”

The Senator followed the order and this time, the Avengers could see the money that filled the briefcase. She nodded and rubbed her hands together.

“Thank you, Senator. That will be all.”

The following chaos ensued and the video stopped when the girls ducked down behind the counter to hide. The lights came back on.

“We have a couple more presentations before we get into the group discussion,” Stark said and the majority of the people at the table rolled their eyes.

“We’re not a fucking kindergarten class, Stark,” Barnes grumbled as he and Romanoff went to the front. The screen now showed various pictures of the bodies.

“We recovered the knife used to kill Anderson and one goon,” Romanoff held up the knife. “We found prints on it, but we found no records to match them.”

“There were many bullet casings on the ground, mostly from the security,” Barnes continued. “Only three came from the woman, I assume. That means she has a lot of practice shooting people in the forehead.”

“Is this the same group that Anderson had hired?” Barton asked. “Cause there were no white roses.”

“We got a closer look at what was on the phone, and it looked like text messages. This was a meeting for the payment. And it seems like this lady is in charge.”

“Thank you, kids,” Stark stood back up with his eyes glued to his phone. “But apparently Senator Anderson’s house was robbed around the same time he was murdered.” He tapped the phone and flicked his wrist and new photos appeared at the front. “They took everything of value and—”

“Left white rose petals everywhere,” the Captain sighed as he studied the pictures. “This white rose organization has been growing under our noses for too long. I think we have to end it.”

They needed time to come up with a solid plan. If they scared them off, it could be years until they had another chance to catch them.

🌹

Thoughts of (Y/N) ran rampant in Loki’s mind. After the meeting, he had gone up to Bruce to inquire about her. She had been a princess, a queen, right? He had to know about her.

“Queen (Y/N)?” Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re asking about Queen (Y/N), eldest daughter to King Henry VIII?”

“Er, she had a sister named Mary,” Loki supplied.

“Bloody Mary?”

“Maybe? Can you just give me a quick Midgardian history lesson?”

“I’m not the most well versed in sixteenth-century English history. Maybe you could search it up online? Or go to a museum?”

Bruce had done a quick search with the help of Stark’s AI and had learned that a museum down in the capital, Washington DC, was having a special exhibit on English history. He had also suggested Thor go along with him. Just in case Loki decided to do something stupid. So now, Loki was being trailed by the very obvious God of Thunder as he walked through the museum.

Crowns, jewelry, and clothes from the sixteenth century were displayed in glass cases as humans milled around reading the descriptions. A tour guide was leading a group of teenagers around, pausing every once in a while. Loki couldn’t get past the group and stuck to listening to the tour.

Fucking finally. They had made it to the monarchs and family trees. Loki could see (Y/N)’s painted portrait. It was an accurate image of her, yet it still could not capture her true ethereal beauty. Delicate white flowers filled the empty space behind her.

“(Y/N) was the infamous Bloody Mary’s older sister and eldest surviving child to King Henry VIII,” the tour guide said to the teens. “Born in 1513, she married Phillip II of Spain when she was twenty-five. After her death, Phillip II would remarry her sister, Mary. She was a benevolent ruler, especially compared to her sister and successor. After her father died in January of 1547, she, along with fifteen others, perished in a suspicious fire that was never solved.”

What? Loki stood staring at (Y/N)’s portrait as the group moved on. The museum must have it wrong. (Y/N) had died seven years earlier in December of 1538. Loki’s mind spun. Was she actually alive for seven more years? Why was the connection shut off? She had to have died that day. It was painful but was it better than him seemingly abandoning her? Because he did abandon her, and his choice haunted Loki ever since.

🌹

[San Juan, Puerto Rico, December 1538]

You could see the land up ahead. It was a vague outline of a coast, but it was more land than you had seen in four weeks. The ship creaked under your feet as Agnes brought you to your new husband’s study. He was going to show you the reason you were sailing across the ocean.

In the study, a strange metallic object sat on a thick cloth on the desk. It was about the length of your forearm and it had many geometric sides, causing it to look bent.

“We found a case of these in Portugal,” Phillip told you. “We managed to get most of them out, but it cost a great many people’s lives.”

“It was guarded?” you asked. The many surfaces were not smooth. You wanted to touch it. When you reached a hand out for it, Phillip grabbed it and pulled you back.

“Not in the way you would think. The men who directly came into contact with them were quickly turned to stone. But when they did,” Phillip opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of parchment, “the strangest symbols appeared on its surface.”

On the parchment, seemingly random lines and ellipsis. You looked at your husband for an explanation.

“The locals told a story of blue angels who fell from the heavens to Earth. Some called them the… Kree? Yes, I believe that was it. We are traveling to Puerto Rico because there are similar stories there. I believe we found where this belongs.”

Loki, you asked your soulmate. Have you heard of the Kree?

“You said there were more?” you asked Phillip while you waited for Loki’s reply.

“Moving more than one is too dangerous. This… object. It is a weapon.”

The sound of ringing bells made both of you look up. You were here. As you were disembarking from the ship, Loki finally responded.

The Kree are a very advanced militaristic race. I know of them, how do you?

Have they ever been to Earth? You looked around at your new surroundings as the warm air tickled your skin.

Not that I know of, but I can do some inquiring. He went silent.

“Right this way, your majesty,” a man said with an accent. He led you to a carriage and opened the door for you.

“Where are we going?” you asked before entering.

“To the site, your majesty,” he replied.

You supposed you were already in your traveling clothes and you didn’t want to get any of your fancy dresses dirty. Agnes joined you in the carriage.

“What did the King want?” Agnes asked. All formalities between the two of you had already been dropped by the third week of knowing each other.

“He showed me this,” you paused. You didn’t know what it was. “It was this object that he believes belongs here or more specifically, where we are going.”

The ride was, thankfully, over quickly, but Loki had not gotten back to you yet. You and Agnes left the increasingly stuffy carriage and watched men with shovels linger around the giant hole in the ground. You walked closer and a tall, thin man with spectacles fell into step next to you. He gingerly held a box in his hands.

“Is it in there?” you asked looking at the box out of the corner of your eye.

“Er, yes. Yes, it is, your majesty,” he stuttered.

“What is going to happen?”

“W-well, a team of men are going to go down and th-they will find where it belongs.”

A man walked up to the thin man who opened the box to display the mysterious object. With gloves on, he wrapped the object in its cloth and removed it. You should be the one to take it. Where on Earth did that come from? You shouldn’t touch it lest you want to turn to stone.

You followed the man with the object as he joined a group of six men with torches, armor, and swords. They began to climb down a ladder that led deep into the ground. You needed to go with them. Why, though?

“I’m going as well,” you turned and began to descend the ladder.

“Your highness,” the tall man rushed to the edge and yelled down at you. “I-I wouldn’t advise—”

“You are not my advisor.”

“Your highness!” Agnes shouted.

“Nobody else follows,” you ordered. “Or tell Phillip.”

The rest of your descent was silent. Goodness, this went down much further than you had thought. The closest man’s torch barely illuminated the rungs where you were. It still felt as if you had made the correct decision.

Loki? Are you there? He remained silent.

Sounds of pained screaming and concerned shouts erupted below you. What now? Then the shouts became more fearful and the sound of metal hitting metal reached your ears. You got to the bottom and gasped when you saw four of the seven men dead on the ground, blood seeping across the ground. One torch was still lit so you picked it up and followed the sound of the last three.

The ceilings were high above you and the walls were solid rock, not dirt as you had first expected. Out of the darkness, a man ran at you, his face contorted in panic.

“Your highness,” he said with an accent. Then he spoke in rapid Spanish as he caught his breath. Someone yelled down the hall and you took a step back. “Run!” the man yelled.

Then another man came out of the darkness and impaled the first with his sword. You jumped back with a small scream and clapped your hand over your mouth. Your breathing was heavy as the second man straightened his back and looked at you with terrifying red eyes.

To your surprise, he didn’t attack you. After a minute of stillness and silence, you realized that he was beckoning to you. You took a tentative step closer and he took one back. You took another step and he moved back again. He wanted to lead you somewhere.

The first place the man brought you was just a few meters down the hall. He pointed to the object on the ground next to a statue. No, not a statue. The man must have touched the object and he turned to stone. You took in a shaky breath and looked at the red-eyed man for confirmation. He only continued to point.

You couldn’t see the cloth it was wrapped in before so you made the insane decision to pick it up with your bare hands. You winced and waited to turn to stone but when nothing happened, you looked at it. The same pattern that had been on the parchment Phillip showed you had popped up, covering the object in a glowing red-orange light.

With renewed confidence, you followed the man through the maze-like halls. The next stop was a large, circular room that was lit from above. A stone pedestal was in the center and when you walked over to it, you saw it held the patterns as well. The walls around the room began to move, leaving you trapped alone in the silent room.

Loki? You couldn’t feel his presence.

The object moved in your hand and you instinctively let it go. It didn’t fall to the ground but floated to the pedestal. Were you shaking? The object opened and started to fold in on itself, revealing rising, dark blue crystals.

Loki, please. Where are you? You felt a tear slip down your cheek and you quickly wiped it away. The crystals began to glow and then a wave of mist exploded outward. It exploded outward and knocked you backward. Loki!

I’m sorry, my brother was bothering me. What���s wrong?

Your breath was quick and it shook in time with your body. I-I don’t know. I’m scared, Loki. Your body tingled and you saw a dark layer of stone spread across your body and around your clothes. Tears freely dripped down your face now. S-something is happening Loki. Please, I’m so scared.

I’m sorry, I can’t do anything.

You couldn’t move and the layer reached your face. You could see it creeping up on you out of the corner of your eye. You were stuck. You couldn’t do anything as your vision was obscured but mentally call out for Loki.

It felt like you were in darkness for hours, but it was probably only a minute. Eventually, the crust around you began to crack and you were able to move your fingers. The stone layer kept falling away and the moment you could, you collapsed to the ground. Silent sobs racked your body.

The walls opened up again and the red-eyed man still stood, waiting.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry until you ran out of tears. You wanted to give up and lie on the stone floor forever.

You knew that something had changed. When you were waiting in the darkness, you knew. You felt empty inside. You knew it wouldn’t work but you still tried to call out to Loki.

He was gone.

He had promised he would never leave, but he was gone.

And you were alone.

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Taglist:

@kaithehero @liliannyah​ @andreasworlsboring101 @oatballsoffury​ @aberrant-annie​ @simplybree​ @adalina-perez​ @emage-king​ @yandereforyou​ @notactiveonmain​ @tvdplusriverdale​

[softestgentlest]

Lily & Harry - high school fanfic

Harry Styles.

Harry fucking Styles.

An egotistical, quick witted asshole with a silver tongue and easy charisma.

He's also irritatingly privileged; not only is he filthy fucking rich, but he's also extraordinarily intelligent, and to top it all off, positively, mercilessly, despicably gorgeous. As if he wasn't already dealt the winning hand, his otherworldly physical attractiveness afforded him the freedom to do whatever the hell he pleased, whenever, and wherever he wanted to do it.

And, of course, in some cruel twist of fate, he most often chose to utilize his influence by victimizing me: Lillian Mercier, a quiet, harmless junior, whose sole desire is to graduate ASAP, so I can move onto Cambridge University by the Fall of next year.

I'm on track to receive my diploma a year early, according to my guidance counselor, but I've got to keep my GPA above a 3.8 at least, if I have any hope of getting admitted into my uni of choice.

My mind is humming, sifting through upcoming exams, assignments, papers that need writing, and a number of other priorities as I open up my locker.

I'm just pulling out my SAT prep book, when a series of excited murmurs echo through the crowded hallway. A girl a few feet away turns, whispering to her friend, "I think my ovaries just exploded, dude. Look at Harry's haircut."

I roll my eyes, swapping the prep book with the AP English text that's currently weighing down my bag. I try to focus on my mental "to do" list, but I'm now annoyingly in-tune with the girl's conversation, unable to block them out.

"I know! How could he have gotten even hotter? And look at his outfit...like, he can literally make anything look good."

"Oh my goooodd dude, he's graduating this year. I honestly think I'll die, like, he's the only thing that makes this school tolerable."

"Shhhh, they're coming over here."

The girls go quiet, and I tense, keeping my eyes trained on the interior of my locker. Harry will be graduating at the end of the year, as he's a senior, and with that knowledge, I feel intensely relieved.

Even if I can't graduate early, he'll be gone, and I'll actually be able to enjoy my senior year.

A smile plays across my lips as I stretch to reach the top shelf of my locker, standing on my tippy toes. I'm 5'3, and these lockers were clearly built by men of average height, with little to no regard for high schoolers of smaller statures.

I know I threw some flash cards up there in the rush to make the bus yesterday, but even when I step up and onto the metal base of my assigned storage space, I still can't seem to-

I gasp, as I lose my footing and fall backwards. Luckily - or, maybe unluckily - my fall is broken by something solid. I hear a soft grunt, and large hands grip my waist, steadying me.

I pant, pressing a hand to my racing heart, when I feel something soft brush against the sensitive shell of my ear, "good morning to you too, clumsy."

I shiver, and pull away, immediately recognizing that deep, accented voice as it burns hotly into my skin.

Do not engage, I mentally remind myself, forcing my trembling hands to occupy themselves with the contents of my backpack.

He tssks, clicking his tongue, "Aren't you going to thank me?"

"Thanks." I concede through gritted teeth.

He chuckles, leaning too close for comfort once again, "it was my pleasure, Lillian." His voice drops an octave on the word 'pleasure,' giving it an unnecessarily sexual undertone, if only to get under my skin.

At the corner of my vision, I see his shadowed silhouette as he leans against the locker beside mine, tall and domineering as ever.

I ignore his presence, slowly zippering up my bag, and securing my lock, before reluctantly turning to face him.

The first thing I notice is the lack of hair. What had once been long, lustrous, chocolaty curls, is now shortened gossamer strands of hair falling over his forehead in a provocative, untidy tumble. The new cut exposes his defined jawline, and those sharp, light catching cheekbones.

As usual, he's dressed to the nines, somehow managing to make his unexpected attire look effortlessly appealing. Today, he's clad in a strange mix of professional, and bohemian pieces: a blue and white checkered wool jacket, a dark pinstriped suit, a red beaded necklace. He's got on bright pink socks, and white loafers, and his signature assortment of rings.

I clear my throat when he catches me checking him out, "Harry, I didn't know you could sew."

He looks perplexed, considering my assumption with furrowed brows, "I can't."

"Oh, then I suppose it was your mother who made that jacket from one of her tablecloths?"

He tilts his head to one side, and runs his fingers roughly through his freshly cut curls, "this," he snarks, smoothing his hands down the woolen fabric, "is a $2,000 jacket, love."

I roll my eyes, hitching my bag over my shoulder, and turn to walk away, only to come face to face with Mitch and Nick, two of Harry's equally asinine friends.

"Excuse me." I prompt. The two boys ignore me, smirking over my head at their scumbag leader.

I huff, turning back around, knowing full well that they aren't going to do anything unless he commands it. "I don't have time for this, Harry." I cross my arms, pursing my lips in annoyance, "I'm gonna be late to class, and so are you."

His mouth curves dangerously, drawing my attention to the pillow-soft push of his lips. "And we wouldn't want that, now would we, Lillian?" he pronounces my name so that it drips from his shapely lips leisurely, provocatively. "What with your big plans to graduate early."

Immediately, I recoil, meeting his expectant stare with wide eyes, "H-how...?"

"Oh, you thought I wouldn't find out?" He pushes off the lockers, Stepping closer, "did you know that you're GPA is just .01 points less than mine?" His voice is honeyed, sickeningly sweet - it sets off warning bells in my head.

I swallow nervously, taking a small step backwards, "I don't see what that has to do with my plan-"

"Oh, but it has everything to do with your plans." Again, he advances, but this time I hold my ground, tilting my head to meet his stare, "you see, we weren't competing before...not really. But, if you graduate ahead of your class and maintain that same GPA, well...Cambridge won't even look at me, regardless of my achievements, because you'll have the edge."

I blink, processing his words, "You want to go to Cambridge...?"

He quirks a dark brow, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

I'm dumbfounded, "But...but I-you...but-that's just ridiculous!" I nearly stomp my foot at the sheer absurdity of the notion, but opt to clench my fists at my sides instead.

He looks utterly amused, and leans a bit closer, a challenge in his eyes: "is that right?"

"Why would you want to go to Cambridge?!" I note how whiny my voice sounds, but I'm too distressed to care.

He's full on grinning now, his emerald eyes dancing with glee. "wouldn't you like to know" He purrs in that slow, sexy drawl, his voice dropping so low that it can only be heard by the two of us.

It is then that the bell rings, shrill and disruptive, tearing me from his trance-like stare.

I realize how close we've gotten, our faces perhaps six inches apart. I can feel the warmth of his body radiating off of him and wrapping around me. Before I can stop myself, I inhale his intoxicating scent: spicy and earthy and masculine, like cigarettes and pine and the leather spines of old books.

For a fraction of a second, my eyes slip shut...he smells so damn good.

Then, just as quickly, I blink, and step back, my heart racing in my chest. I did NOT just...

He straightens, raking his eyes over my trembling frame with an air of affected smugness. Silently, he steps the side, watching me as I collect myself, an embarrassing blush infusing my cheeks.

Slowly, I move down the hallway towards my class, uncharacteristically unconcerned with the possibility of being marked tardy. I can tell that he's following, as students all around turn to stare behind me. We're in the same English class.

My brain seems to have gone into overdrive, conjuring up insane reasons for why I'd smelled him and liked it enough to consider doing it again. Impossible. Harry's a prick. The bane of my existence. Sure, he's wildly attractive, but never have I ever been even remotely interested in him...sexually. So what the hell was that?

Why am I all hot and blushing and trembly? Why?! Especially after he'd dropped the Cambridge bomb! I mean, really? Of all the schools for him to choose, it had to be my dream school. And of the thousands of people I'll be competing with to be admitted, it just had to be him.

Harry's one of the smartest people I've ever met, and he's got the resources and connections to get into any school he wants. The chances of two kids from the same high school getting into Cambridge are absolutely zero, and whether I graduate early or not, Harry's a shoe in for a spot there - he's the ideal student: rich and intelligent and driven, with a shit ton of community service and extracurriculars under his belt, and with a number of published poems and short stories.

He'll take my spot there just by aiming his perfect white grin in the right direction. And if we were both admitted, by some miracle, that would be even worse! 6 more years with him?! I'd die. I couldn't take it. I'd-

"Ah!" I gasp, colliding with a tall boy for the second time today. My books fly out of my arms again, and I fall flat in my ass with a soft yelp of pain.

"Woah! Are you ok?" A voice asks, and I glance up to find a familiar blonde boy looking down at me.

"Um, y-yeah." I say, quickly moving to stand up. Like a gentleman, he reaches down, offering me a hand, and I take it, allowing him to pull me gently to my feet. "Uh, sorry about that. I wasn't paying attention..." I smile sheepishly,

"Oh, no, it's totally fine." He grins back, then kneels down to pick up my books. "As long as your ok."

"Really, I'm fine." I giggle, kneeling down to help. "Your Neil, right? I think we have psych together?"

He hands me my things, standing up, "close! It's Niall, and yeah, 6th period right?"

I nod, "Niall. Yeah, I'm Lily. I'm the one always shouting out the answers and then getting yelled at." I giggle nervously, feeling a little self conscious around this boy with pretty blue eyes and a kind smile.

He laughs, "well, I'm definitely not one to shout out answers. I'm terrible at Psych." He gestures for me to walk with him, and I do, "I'll walk you to your class, just to make sure your alright."

I roll my eyes playfully, but follow, "I already ran into you. Don't let me be the reason that your late to class too."

I lead the way to the English wing, and we joke lightly about our Psych teacher, Mrs. Campbell. By the time we've arrived, the bell has rung, and I know that he's going to be late because of me, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Hey," he calls out, just as I'm about to open the door to my classroom, "maybe you could tutor me sometime? In Psych? You always seem to be yelling the right answers, and I could really use the help..." he rubs the back of his neck nervously, and I can't help but smile at how cute he looks.

"It's the least I can do after running into you." I say, "let's talk in class later?"

"Yeah, sure!" He backs down the hallway, "I'll see you then, Lily!"

When I enter the classroom, there's still a smile on my face, and I quietly make my way to an empty seat in the back. My teacher, Mr. Gray, shoots me an inquisitive look, since I'm not one to show up late to my favorite class, but he doesn't call me out on it.

"Alright guys," he says, "while I was reading you essay submissions from last week, I noticed quite a few spelling errors, so I thought we might have a little bit of a...spelling bee today, just to see where we all stand when it comes to commonly misspelled words." The class groaned collectively, and he laughed, "nothing to worry about. This won't count for a grade, I just want a chance to see where everyone stands. It'll be fun!"

Mr. Gray proceeded to split the class into two groups, and two at a time, he called students up to the board, and in tournament fashion, the winner played the winner from the opposite team. I could tell that he was saving certain students for the end, since they would likely beat out all the competition, thereby depriving their teammates of turns. By the time it got to me, only a few students were left on the opposing team.

"Ok, Kim," he called to my competitor, "your word is Accidentally" Kim correctly spelled two words, and then swapped out with another teammate, Jamie, who only beat me on one word.

"Alright, this is it, guys. Last two. Harry, join Lily up front."

Immediately, my eyes found him, just as the rest of the class turned to watch him rising from his seat. He took a step towards me. Then another. I sort of shivered, watching him move, observing his long legs, slowly closing the space between us with their every measured step. There's something almost feline about it - the way he moves - very masculine...and very...sexual, if that makes any sense at all.

I averted my eyes as he took up the space beside me. Again, the drowsy scent of books and pine with undertones of coffee and tobacco invaded my senses, and I felt my knees threatening to buckle.

"Harry, your word is 'allegiance'"

I felt him smiling, tasted his smooth baritone, skating hotly down my spine: "A-L-L-E-G-I-A-N-C-E. Allegiance."

"Lily, controversy."

I spelled it correctly and held my breath, gazing stubbornly straight ahead.

"Harry, 'immediately.'" He did the same.

"perseverance"

"Accommodate"

"I-N-T-E-L-L-I-G-E-N-C-E, Intelligence." I glanced over at Harry, noting the look of intense boredom on his face as he stared off into the distance. Clearly, this was too easy for both of us.

"Too easy is it, Lillian?"

"Uh, w-what?" I snapped out of my reverie, glancing at Mr. Gray, who looked rather amused.

"If you think it's too easy, we can really put you two to the test. What do you think class?" Mr. Gray looked around, and the class erupted into excited giggles and shouts.

Realizing my mistake, I felt my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment, "oh I-I didn't m-mean to say that um...out loud sir..."

The damage had already been done. Mr. Gray grinned, clearly excited to have piqued the class's interest, "alright then, let's try....sacrilegious."

Harry, looking rather more alert than he had before, turned to look at me, holding my stare even as each honeyed letter fell from his lips "S-A-C-R-I-L-E-G-I-O-U-S" the flecks of gold in his eyes danced, embers crackling, glittering.

"Conscientious, Lily."

"Oh, um..." I quickly averted my gaze, glancing nervously at my trembling fingers, "C-O-N..." my heart wobbled in my chest. What's comes next? "...S-C-I-E-N-T-I-O-U-S, Conscientious." I want this to be over...

Harry chuckled beside me, low and slow. I felt his eyes on me. "bureaucratic." He spelled, quick as a whip, and all eyes were back on me.

"Bourgeoisie." Amidst the nerves and exhaustion, my stubbornness gave way to another correct answer. I won't lose to him. Not this, not Cambridge.

He managed "clairvoyant," "coalescence," and "kaleidoscope." I got through "lachrymose," "mnemonic," and "pharmaceutical," and then, finally, he messed up.

I heard it in his voice first, knew before it happened that I had won. Mr. Gray - once again proving himself to be my favorite teacher- threw "triskaidekaphobia" at Harry, and we both froze.

"T-R-I-S-K....A-D-E-K-A-P-H-O-B-I-A." Harry murmured uncertainly, sounding just as breathless as I felt. The class had gone silent, and I could hear my heart racing.

"Incorrect." Mr. Gray uttered, but before the class could erupt into cheers, he continued, "let me just say, Harry, Lily, that was extraordinary. Really, very good show." He slowly began to clap, and our classmates followed suit, whooping and jeering at Harry good-naturedly.

I turned to glance at him then, not feeling very excited about having won. I couldn't help the little gasp that escaped my throat when I saw his face. He had curved his mouth into a grin, ran a hand through his hair boyishly, a calculated carelessness slackening his features - but I saw it in the way his lips twitched, in the way his eyes glossed over and darkened to muted jade.

He's upset. I realized, moving closer without really thinking about it. He's really, really upset.

"H-Harry?" I heard myself whisper, voice trembling. Everyone had, by now, moved into their own little groups, all talking animatedly about the results of our little duel, so they weren't really paying us any mind.

His smile faltered - just for a moment - "good game." He husked, his voice raw. He held out a hand, quirking a brow, watching me with those expectant eyes.

It was then, in that moment, that I realized, very suddenly, that Harry is...beautiful. Like, proper beautiful, like earth shatteringly, mind numbingly gorgeous.

The realization hit me with such immense force that I had to grab his outstretched hand to keep from crumbling to the ground. "O-oh." My mouth parts on the startled little noise, and suddenly I'm very aware of the gentle press of his cold rings against my fingers, his large hand claiming mine, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he holds me. "Uh-huh." My response catches in my throat and comes out sounding like a strangled hiccup.

Quickly, I pull away, stumbling back a few steps, I tear my eyes from his face, flailing my hands around like a monkey.

What the fuck?

•••••••••

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT A PART 2 💛

[honeymoonjin]

Chapter Ten

Summary: When you hear that your recently deceased grandmother left you her property in her will, at first you think that a dinky old cottage in the middle of nowhere isn’t going to mean much for you. But after spending a night there, you discover something far more valuable than the house itself: a hidden door that leads to another time, the same place but over 200 years in the past. In the late 18th Century, there is a king who will die before his 21st birthday unless you can save him. Will you help him, even if it means leaving your own life behind?

--

In the end, you had to promise that you'd stay a night in the castle before he agreed to stay out of the water. King Jeon tried to talk with you, joke with you, but your mind was whirring.

It didn't make any sense to you. Perhaps that just so happened to be a common turn of phrase in this century - "I'll make him an offer he can't refuse" - but it seemed unlikely. How was it, then, that a man apparently from this time knew a modern-day movie quote?

"Come on, I didn't invite you here to sit all glum like that. What's the matter, my sweet maiden? I would think you'd be happy since you managed to take away all the joy from this trip like you wanted."

Your eyes flicker up to the young man as he stands above you, blocking out the sun. You were shivering and probably looked less attractive than a wet sewer rat, curled up on a rough-hewn picnic blanket. He stood in front of you, practically glistening like a Greek God, looking perfect as always. It made you even more bitter than you already were. "Excuse me for wanting to protect my King. It's not like it's my job or anything."

He scoffs, turning his face away from you in disbelief. "You know, I didn't bring you here expecting that you'd ruin all my fun."

"No. It seems you were expecting me to take all my clothes off and freeze to death in the water." In the near distance, further around the edge of the lake, his guard shot you a warning glare. That man had impeccable hearing, it seemed, and you frowned pettily at the way he shook his head at you, barely focussing on the fishing rod he was working on with the other soldiers. Maybe you should be speaking more politely to the ruler, but you could barely speak at all with your lips going numb and your mind whirring at an alarming pace, trying to work out what exactly was going on.

The man standing in front of you shrugs, runs a hand through his dark locks to squeeze some more water out, and moves to sit beside you. You jump at the sudden proximity of his skin on yours, but the way his arms have somehow been warmed in the sun is a welcome relief to your clammy, goosebump-covered flesh. "There we go," he says simply, wrapping an arm tightly around your shoulders, "I do believe you're so grouchy because you're cold. Perhaps your vital organs are shutting down and your brain is too frozen to see reason. Surely there's no other explanation for why you'd be so rude to your King, hmm?"

You resist the urge to glare at him, too grateful for the warmth he provides. "Sure." You fix him with a curious stare. "How did Jin become your healer?"

He looks down at you, eyelashes clumped into stars that frame his glittering eyes. You become a little lost in those depths, unable to tear your gaze away. "He approached me one day," he answers simply. "A long time ago, when I was barely thirteen. I had technically been King for several months at that point after my mother... passed away, and he told me every good leader needed a man to look out for his health. 'What if danger befalls you suddenly, and you do not have time to seek out a shaman or a healer from his home? A kingdom cannot afford to lose it's ruler so easily.' So, I gave him a place to stay, and he's been loyal to me ever since. In many ways, he raised me. I don't have any family, you know."

Suddenly, your conspiracy theorizing seems far-fetched. "I didn't know that," you answer quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Ah," he dismisses, "we all have our origins. As painful as they might be, they make us who we are today. They give us wings to fly. I do believe I wouldn't be half the ruler I am today without his guidance." King Jeon lifts his gaze to the edge of the water, where the leather-clad guard squeals at a flopping fish his companion waves in his face. "Seokjin and Hoseok. Those two... I owe them everything. It's not easy being where I am. Some days I wish I wasn't at the center of my own universe, you know?"

You think of your own adventures; how much strife they've caused you. The strain on your relationship with Jimin that never existed before, the pressure to impact history itself. "I get that," you reply honestly. "I don't think you should be so hard on yourself. You have two men who love you, and a kingdom of people who are grateful for your reign. All you can do is count your blessings and take things one day at a time."

He laughs lightly out his nose, patting your shoulder absentmindedly. "You, my kind healer, seem to be wise beyond your years. Why is that?"

You hide a grin. If only you knew. "I'll take that as a compliment, I suppose." You can barely stand the way he looks at you now. Like nothing in the universe exists. Like he's watching the sun rise. You break the stare and pick at the tufts of fabric on the felt blanket. "Your Highness, I want to thank you again for letting me work for you. I... I can't really explain, but it's very important to me. So I appreciate it."

He hums, and you can feel the weight of his gaze on you, as much as you stubbornly try to avoid it. "Y/n. Look at me." You glance up quickly and then drop your eyes back down. "That's a royal decree, little madam."

"Okay, fine. But it's not fair that you get to whip out your privileges every time you want something."

He chuckles at you, eyes crinkling in the corners, and you force yourself to keep looking at him as ordered. The you one week ago would only want Jimin to look at you like this, not a random stranger like King Jeon was. The you a week ago would never have this weird feeling in her stomach every time she looked at someone other than Jimin. "Y/n," he repeats, and you can't help but wish he'd say it one more time, "when we're like this, just us two... You don't have to call me Your Highness. Call me Jungkook."

Your eyes widen slightly. You'd never even thought to wonder what his first name is, you realize. Jungkook. It fits him. "Jungkook," you recite experimentally, heart leaping at the bright grin he gives you as a reward.

"Fine, then," he says loudly, breaking the intimate moment between you two, and catching the attention of the other men at the same time, "you've worn me down, you cruel mistress. I suppose we'll head back now, after all. Perhaps our next outing can be somewhere with a little less water, hm?"

A cold shiver runs down your spine when he breaks away from you to stand up, but you mask the odd streak of disappointment with a smile. "Sure."

--

"Woah, this is so exciting! You're basically royalty, Y/n!"

You let out a hearty chuckle at Taehyung's enthusiasm. "Not really." The two of you were in a lushly decorated but fairly small bedroom, the same one you had found yourself in before, when Taehyung had locked you in it. You were glad that this time you were here on your own free will. "Yoongi got the message?"

"Yeah, he's there now. I can't believe you let him go to the future instead of me, Y/n. It's heartbreaking."

Not the most ideal of situations, you had requested that Yoongi sneak through the doorway to your time with the express purpose of sending a text to Jimin that you were sick, and that he at no costs could come out to visit you. Hopefully it would keep him away overnight while you were gone, and you were desperately hoping Yoongi didn't get up to too much mischief while he was there. "Yoongi promised me he'd go straight there and back, no detours. You can't tell me that if you really traveled two hundred and fifty years into the future that you would be able to resist the temptation to explore?"

The boy purses his lips, then lowers his shoulders in defeat with a dramatic sigh. "Yeah, fine, you're right. Maybe one day?"

You can't resist those puppy eyes. "Maybe," you allow. "If I can figure out who the hell is trying to kill the King."

"Oh, yeah!" he gasps, throwing himself into a heap on the bed with a squeak of the springs. "Did you save his life again?"

"That's the thing," you say with a frown, joining him with less energy, "nothing happened. I mean, I did make sure he never really went properly swimming in the first place, so perhaps he really just would've drowned on pure accident, but... I really can't work out what's going on. I had a suspicion, but I'm not so sure."

"Well, what's your suspicion? My lips are sealed, I swear!" You aren't so certain as to the validity of that comment, but you have faith that the only person he'll blab to is the one man who's already in on it.

"Fine. I was thinking it was Jin. Think about it," you protest when he opens his mouth to question it, "nothing happened today, but Jin wasn't there. If it wasn't for me being invited, he would've gone along, and maybe Jung- King Jeon would've drowned because I wasn't there to stop him swimming."

Taehyung frowns, and scoots further up the bed to cross his legs. "It just seems like you don't think Jin is a very good healer. Which, honestly, sure. That could be true. But..." he breaks off into a sigh. "Listen, I so wish this was exciting and dramatic, and there were murder attempts and stuff. But maybe the King's life is at risk purely because we aren't as evolved as you. Maybe there's no ill intention. Maybe this is just the way it is." His eyes lower, and the corner of his mouth sinks. "I've been thinking a lot. About the inevitability of fate. What if we're messing with something that should never be messed with? What if all of this is futile?"

Your nose twitches, eyes stinging slightly. "I don't want to think about that. I need to save him. Someone I love very much will die if I don't. At least, I'm pretty sure that's how this works. Fuck, I wish time traveling came with a manual. This is a nightmare."

He smiles softly at you, and silently leans in to snake his arms around your middle and give you a hug. You blink tears away and pat his back awkwardly, grateful for the contact. When he hears a sniffle, he tightens his grip. "Don't cry," he mutters into your shirt, "everything will be okay. Even if  the King still dies, I'm happy that you came here. For the first time in my life, I have a friend."

"Yoongi's your friend," you answer reflexively.

"Yoongi turned me into a pig. He tolerates me on good days."

You grin, wrapping your arms around him and returning the hug. "Then I guess that makes us best friends. I'm glad you're here, Taehyung. I'm glad I met you."

His grip gets impossibly tight. "Me too."

--

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[melodiouswhite]

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde rewritten - Ch. 33

33. Of kisses and good friends

Utterson awoke earlier than usual. Probably because he was dressed, or because someone else was lying in his bed with him.

He didn't even startle, when his own cerulean blue eyes stared into the sleepy chocolate brown orbs of Henry Jekyll.

“Mornin'”, Jekyll slurred groggily and blushed lightly.

Seemed they had woken up at the same time.

Now that was rare.

Jekyll was not a morning person. He and Hyde had that in common, Utterson supposed.

“Good morning, sleepyhead”, he chuckled and caressed the other's wheat blond hair.

The taller man whined in protest and tightened his hug, when the lawyer tried to wind himself out of his arms.

“Henry, it's Monday morning. We need to get up.”

Jekyll grumbled something that sounded dangerously like “Bleedin' Mondays”.

But before Utterson could scold him, he suddenly remembered the events of last night. As a result, he embraced the other protectively.

“Henry”, he sighed, “I'd love to lie here with you all day, but I can't.”

“Just a few more minutes!”, Jekyll begged and gave him a pleading look. “Please don't leave me alone!”

His eyes were filling with tears of sorrow. So the events were coming back to him.

Utterson hated seeing him like this. But what he hated far more was the cause. If he ever came face to face with the bastard who had done this … he wasn't sure, if he would be able to contain himself. Oh, who was he kidding. There was no way he would be able to.

“I won't”, he promised and caressed his Doctor's face.

In a poor attempt at distraction, he confessed: “Henry … I kissed Edward Hyde last night.”

Jekyll frowned: “I know.”

Utterson blushed in embarrassment.

Oh my God, why did I say this, that just sounded so incredibly stupid, why can't I disappear, goddammit, Gabriel, you bloody idiot, is that the best thing you could come up with, why can't I ever just shut the hell up-

The Doctor was looking at him expectantly, obviously wanting him to say something more.

Had Utterson mentioned that he hated this kind of conversation? Because he did.

“And … uh, I don't regret it.”

“I know that too.”

“You … you're not feeling betrayed, are you?”

Jekyll shook his head. “You're not my property. We're not even real lovers. I have no right to get jealous and sulky, just because I didn't get your first kiss.”

For someone who always kept up a facade in public, he was a remarkably bad liar. At least to Utterson he was.

“Henry, do you remember how much I used to despise him?”

“Of course I do.”

“And the promise I made?”

The blond's frown deepened. “Yes. What are you getting at?”

“It was my choice to kiss him. Do you know what that means?”

Jekyll wondered briefly, but then he seemed to understand.

“Oh …”

He blushed and asked shyly: “May I … kiss you now, Gabriel?”

Utterson smiled. “You have to ask?”

They were both blushing madly, when Jekyll finally – finally! – did what they both had wanted to do for so long.

Kissing Jekyll was different, of course.

Hyde's kiss had been beguiling, intoxicating and full of passion.

Jekyll's kiss was sweet, tender and loving.

In a way, both were his first times.

Utterson felt the proverbial butterflies dance in his stomach and smiled into the kiss. For so long he had dreamed of kissing the blond and now his dream was coming true.

It was wonderful.

He could have stayed like this forever, but that pesky little thing called air got jealous and they had to part.

“I love you”, Jekyll gasped. His brown eyes were glowing with happiness.

The lawyer felt a pang in his heart.

He still couldn't say it back.

He loved Jekyll. More than life itself.

But he didn't love Hyde. Which meant that he didn't truly love the other.

The Doctor guessed what he was feeling.

“It's alright”, he cooed and caressed the black-haired man's cheek. “I can kiss you at last. That's enough for me.”

Suddenly he smirked: “You took a lesson from Hyde, didn't you? You're not nearly as clumsy as you were yesterday night!”

Utterson smirked back. “Oh, shut up. And Henry?”

“Hm?”

“We still have to get up.”

Jekyll groaned and buried his head in the other's shoulder.

“You're a sick, cruel man!”

Jekyll wasn't happy that Utterson had to cook breakfast himself.

“Where is your butler?”, he inquired.

The lawyer huffed: “He found a better paying job and quit. I'm currently looking for a housekeeper, but I can't pay a good wage, because the flat and household appliances, food and clothes already devour most of my income. So I do everything by myself. Besides, my grandmother did teach me how to keep house, so it's fine-”

Before he could continue, there was a rapping at the door.

Jekyll wondered, who it could be. He knew that Utterson didn't receive his clients this early.

Turned out it wasn't a client.

It was Lady Summers, who came rushing in, as soon as the lawyer had opened the door.

She looked completely out of herself, her face was red and she was gasping for breath.

“Good morning!”, she wheezed. “Dr. Lanyon told me what happened! Is everyone- was I interrupting something?”

She looked back and forth between the two men.

“No, no”, Jekyll assured her and stood up. “Do sit down, Milady. You look as if you're about to faint.”

Gratefully the poor Lady dropped onto the chair and struggled to recover her breath.

“My coach is in repair”, she gasped, “So I came here on horseback.”

Jekyll frowned. “You rode all the way here?! In the City of London?!”

“I was in a hurry! Do you think that a Lady like myself would (or could) run through the City?”

“But still … riding a horse through the streets of London?!”

“Shut up and tell me everything!”, she snapped. “I didn't come here for an English breakfast!”

Utterson stepped in: “Calm down, both of you. It doesn't matter. Milady, recover first and then we can talk. Henry is right, you're going to faint.”

“Don't be ridiculous!”, Lady Summers scoffed and jumped up, “I'm not going to pass out from something so-”

But before she could end her sentence, she – oh so predictably – fainted and collapsed onto the floor.

Jekyll shook his head. Women could be so unreasonable sometimes!

“Lay her on the couch and get the smelling salt”, he sighed in annoyance.

The black-haired man obeyed.

They held the smelling salt to her nose and fanned her some air.

Soon her ice blue eyes fluttered open and she frowned.

“Did I actually faint?”, she muttered incredulously. “Well, that is humiliating. I came here to check on you and instead you need to tend to me.”

“Well, you brought this upon yourself”, Jekyll scolded her and she glowered at him.

“May I offer you a cup of tea?”, Utterson asked in concern, “Surely you need some refreshment.”

She smiled. “It would be very much appreciated.”

“Thank you for not loosening my corset”, the Prussian said, when they sat around the fireplace a few minutes later.

“That would have been improper”, Jekyll replied with a frown.

“Not only that. It would have made things worse”, Lady Summers told them and explained. “I have these episodes sometimes, when I spit blood. Right now I'm having one, that's why I'm laced tighter than usual. It helps a little. Better to gasp for air than to spit blood and show frailty in front of everyone. I may not be an arrogant woman, but I'm certainly a proud one.”

Jekyll understood that.

It was similar for him and if he'd been in her situation, he would have done the same.

He was surprised that she even entrusted that secret to them.

She heard his thoughts and chuckled: “I've grown accustomed to your presence in my life, Doctor. You should see that as an honour. Not many of my clients can say that.”

He blushed a little.

A privilege indeed. Considering the Countess had known his friends for much longer than him and Hyde.

“But enough of me”, the Lady continued and her face became sombre. “As I said, when I so rudely barged in earlier – which I apologise for – Dr. Lanyon called me and told me what happened. I immediately dropped everything to come here.”

She sighed: “I'm sorry, if I ruined the morning for you.”

Jekyll shook his head. “It's fine. I would have come to see you anyway and sooner is better than later.”

She pat the space next to her. “Sit with me, you three.”

They joined her on the couch.

“Shall I read your mind, or do you want to talk about it?”, she asked gently.

He vehemently rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I don't think I have the strength to talk about it”, he croaked. “I … I can't. So go ahead.”

He saw the familiar flash run through her ice blue eyes.

They widened in bewilderment and she gasped. She looked like she was going to burst into tears. But somehow she swallowed them. And wordlessly opened her arms.

The Doctor allowed himself to fall apart and sank onto her right shoulder.

“It's okay to cry”, she whispered gently. “Let it out. Pour out all of your hurt, anger and shame. It's alright.”

That did it.

He recalled every single thing that had happened two nights ago.

And Jekyll screamed.

Cried into her shoulder.

Blubbered incoherent strings of words, while the Lady stroked his back and cooed words of comfort into his ears.

He clung to her and drank up her sympathy, like he had never been given any before.

In a way that was true.

This little German-born aristocrat, who was just a few months younger than him, showed him the maternal kindness he had never known.

He understood now, why Hyde saw her as a motherly figure.

Speaking of which, he felt his other half stir within him. But when Hyde sensed that Lady Summers was there, he relaxed. It affected Jekyll as well.

Bit by bit, their grief ebbed away.

Her soft, lisping voice and the scent of chocolate and peppermint were soothing.

Finally, Jekyll was just breathing in and out and leaning into her embrace.

For now he wasn't hurting anymore.

“Thank you”, he breathed hoarsely. “I – we feel better now.”

The Lady smiled and gave him a handkerchief to dry his face. “Anytime, Dr. Jekyll. That's what I'm there for, after all.”

Then her face became sombre again. “Do you mind, if I read your mind again? I couldn't quite catch a glimpse of the culprit.”

“You don't need to”, Jekyll remarked, “I can describe him. I remember his appearance clearly.”

Lady Summers gave him a demanding look.

“He looked a bit like your coachman, but taller – about my height. Wild red hair and freckles. And he had grey eyes and a deep voice. Judging by the accent, an Irishman.”

He puffed his cheeks. “I don't think we should mention his nationality to anyone. Knowing the public, it'll worsen their opinion about the Irish.”

Lady Summers sneered. “It would. They generalise everything. Poor Sean wouldn't be able to show his face anywhere.”

Oh yes. Mr. O'Connor is an Irishman too, isn't he?

“Yes. From Skibbereen, to be exact. He was born shortly after the Great Famine.”

Oh dear.

Jekyll remembered that. He had only been a teenager back then. The newspapers hadn't talked much about it, but for some reason people had believed that the Irish deserved it. That the potato blight and the resulting famine had been a punishment from God.

He himself didn't believe in that sort of thing, never had.

“That's one of the things I like about you, Doctor”, Lady Summers told him, much to his surprise. “I encounter so much racism in everyday life, but not from you. But back to the matter at hand. I would still like to get an impression of him.”

Jekyll consented.

But when she had read his mind once more, her eyes widened.

Then her face distorted in rage.

“Him!”, she bellowed fiercely and jumped up, “That measly piece of dirt! It's bad enough that he has the nerve to even return to England and now this! That's it! I will murder him!”

“Wait! Don't let your anger run away with your senses!”, Utterson cried and grabbed her wrist.

“You know that man?!”, Jekyll cried in bewilderment.

She nodded grimly. “Oh, I certainly do. I may forget a lot of things, but there are two things I never forget: faces and names. I only met him twice, but I will never forget him. And Alma knows him too. She will be delighted to hear that he is back, she has waited to get her revenge for twelve years!”

Alma Donovan … her youngest half-sister … that cross-dressing girl, who warned Hyde – oh my god! She warned us beforehand! How could we forget!? And how does she know that man???

“Who is he?!”, he demanded to know, “How do you and your sister know him?!”

Suddenly a new female voice spoke up: “He's me older brother.”

They all whirled around.

Standing in the door frame to the living room was no other than the young Miss concerned. Her eyes were blazing.

“How did you get in?!”, Utterson asked hotly. “How dare you just waltz into my flat without my permission?!”

The red-head huffed: “Sorry! I wanted to check on you three! Also, you forgot to close the door. Don't worry though, I closed and locked it for you.”

She approached them in a few steps. “So he's back, eh?”, she snarled, “Gotta admit, I didn't see that cumin'.”

Jekyll stared at her. “I remember you!”

“'Course you remember me now”, Miss Donovan muttered. “Should've remembered me warning too. Now it's too late. I mean, I knew ye two would forget it, but still. An' yes, I know. Dunno why it surprises you, I'm a prophet.”

Lady Summers glared at her half-sister.

“Firstly, don't rub it into his face. Secondly, drop that nasty Cockney accent and speak proper English.”*

“Alright, alright!”, the younger groaned in annoyance and (Jekyll couldn't believe his eyes) stuck her tongue at the older!

The Lady rolled her eyes and asked: “Why did you come here again?”

“I wanted to know, if he's okay!”, Miss Donovan spat, “I knew what would happen, but my vision was suspiciously blurry, when it came to the aftermath.”

“Listen, Miss”, Jekyll spoke up in a hard voice, “As much as I appreciate your concern … I don't see, how what happened to me and Hyde is any of your business. And I do not care, whether the culprit was your brother or not.”

He felt Hyde's irritation leak through, but right now, he didn't even care. It wasn't like they were in public. And since this girl knew anyway, there was nothing to lose.

She raised her arms in defeat. “Alright, Jesus! Calm down!”

Then she jumped, like she remembered something.

“I forgot! I brought something!”, she cried (lapsing back into Cockney) and put the bag on the table. From it she got a lot of muffins and a bottle of wine.

“Nothing like treats and wine to forget your troubles!”

Lady Summers frowned. “Alma! It's nine in the morning!”, she scolded.

The ginger shrugged. “So what? Call it eight bells**. Besides, we're four people and it's just one bottle. So unless one of these two gents can't hold his liquor, it's not enough to get plastered.”

Jekyll gave into the insanity and shrugged as well. “Actually, I could use a drink or two.”

“Me as well”, Utterson agreed and stood up to fetch glasses, “Everything is just so horrible right now.”

“You know what? Pour one for me too”, the Prussian gave up, “I haven't had breakfast yet. Perhaps it will relax us all.”

“Wow, this actually was relaxing!”, Lady Summers stated, when they were full.

Jekyll nodded and sighed comfortably. “Yes. I'm feeling so much better!”

“My aggravation is gone!”, Utterson marvelled.

“Told ya!”, Miss Donovan replied merrily. “And you is still sober enough to work! So it's all fair game! You know, sometimes us working class folks 'ave the best ideas!”

Before anyone could answer, there was a knock on the door.

Utterson went to see, who it was.

When he opened, he came face to face with a dishevelled looking, bleary-eyed Lanyon. He was hatless and wearing his pince-nez instead of his shades.

“Good morning, Utterson”, he panted, “I came to see … if Hyde and Jekyll …”

“Come in. We just had breakfast. Jekyll is out right now”, the other said gently and ushered his friend into the living room.

Jekyll stood up immediately. “Lanyon! Good morning.”

“H-Hey”, Lanyon croaked, “I … I just wanted to check … if you …”

Before the taller man could say something, he went up to him and cupped his face in his hands.

“Dammit, Henry”, Lanyon choked, “Can you ever not get hurt! You … you …”

He broke down and wept.

Jekyll smiled sadly and hugged him.

“Shhhh”, he whispered, “Don't cry. I'm messed up now, but someday I'll be fine. Of that I'm sure. Do you know why?”

Lanyon looked up tearfully.

Jekyll looked at all of them. “Because I can be sure that you will always be there. For both Hyde and me. Forgive my soppiness, but … I have the best friends in the world. You all are just so dear to me.”

Utterson felt his heart warm and a stupid grin stretched his lips.

Lanyon laughed hoarsely and wiped his tears away with his sleeve.

Lady Summers chuckled fondly.

Miss Donovan just turned away.

The blond doctor opened his arms widely. “Group hug?”

Everyone except Miss Donovan joined in the hug pile.

They looked at her expectantly.

“You too, Miss”, Jekyll invited her. “You knew that we wouldn't listen to you, but you warned us anyway. And you came to see, if we were okay.”

The red-head shrugged and joined them. “Fine. I hardly know ye, but I'm a slut for group hugs.”

“For the last time, drop the Cockney accent!”, Lady Summers scowled, but her younger half-sister just ignored it.

Utterson didn't know how long the group hug lasted, but it was fine.

Eventually it fell apart though.

Lady Summers grinned. “Now to lighten things up a little further. I just remembered something pleasant we can talk about to finish the morning.”

She tilted her head and looked at him and Jekyll expectantly. “Do tell us about your first kisses. You know I'm weak for romance.”

Lanyon and Miss Donovan smirked at them. “Yes, give us the gory details!”

Jekyll and Utterson blushed bright scarlet.

---

*at first I wrote Alma’s parts in the way Cockney would be pronounced. But when I read it, I decided that it would be difficult to read for non-native English speakers (like myself). So I just implied the accent here and there. Just imagine that she’s using a real Cockney accent.

**Call it 8 bells - Victorian Slang for getting drunk before high noon (8 bells).

[piccolina-mina]

My apologies @witchwolfmouse. I realized I kinda hijacked your post regarding M*ribel:

Y’all there’s room for people to ship Isobel/Maria and there is room for other people to be critical of the ship considering Isobel’s treatment of Maria and how deeply Maria dislikes Isobel because of how she treated Rosa... If you’re going to ship the two of them, considering what’s unfolded between the two of them onscreen thus far, then you’ve got to be prepared for some people not to be about it, especially fans of color and wlw of color and especially black fans who fall into either or both categories.

And I admittedly got in my feelings and droned on more than anticipated, so I made my reply into a post, since it was so long.

I'm ship and let ship. I have been that way from the beginning. The only reason I even became as vocal about shipping in this fandom in the first place was because of how unwelcoming it was for anyone who shipped anything alternative from the canon ships. There should be equal space for shipping and for those critical of it, and for a long time there wasn't equal space just all of one or the other depending on the ship.

Ironically, now it's slightly more equal but ridiculously divisive for silly reasons, but I digress.

I do think that an inability to take shipper goggles or whatever goggles off to actually understand certain criticisms about race and its relation to shipping, fandom, and within the show and how it's handled there has led to a lot of defensiveness by some who only see criticism as negative attacks, then respond in defense, which prompts defensive responses back and a host of others feeling genuinely invalidated and unheard, especially when what they are pointing out is skirted over.

There are genuine people who ship maribel, and hey, if you like it, I love it for you. I don't have to ship it or agree with it, but for those who genuinely love it, more power to them. Flood the tags for them. Make content.

Ironically, that's literally all I personally wanted from the beginning. Diversified content and discussions even if it's not my thing. By doing so, it makes me smile. It's all I ever wanted so it's not a nuisance for me personally.

Plus in this case, while I don't care for Isobel or the ship, I'll never say no to more Maria content. Fk it up!

Regarding M*ribel and discourse. To put it bluntly, and to go back to where some of the original friction and frustration stemmed in this fandom. The beauty of it is how much space there is to discuss in detail all angles of the amazing queer representation which I love, but the inability to discuss the race representation and issues and even the intersectional aspect of race and queerness, not without it always somehow stepping on the toes of queerness.

A wlw ship would be amazing. Hell, if it's done well, maybe this wlw ship could be amazing. Ship away, but also, please, know that someone criticizing it for legitimate reasons doesn't have to mean they are invalidating you or the wlw representation, especially when someone's criticism may be coming at it from an angle of a POC, or WOC, or QWOC who also feel invalidated. Quite damn often.

There are a lot of racial aspects of this show where despite the show's diversity, are very problematic or uncomfortable (a diverse cast does not mean all diverse issues disappear, if anything, it highlights them more so). And fans of color who voice them or have a different take than you should not have to be lambasted because they are approaching something from a different angle you may or may not have the experience with or know about.

LGBTQ fans some of whom may not be of color can look through their lenses of their own representation and what that means good or bad. But fans of color also do the same. We're always going to do the same. We can't shut that off as it's our identity and how we see the world through our experiences. Just like many of you, and those of both do it from both angles too.

There's a heterosexual bias willingly acknowledged frequently in fandom "the straights" or "the heteros" and that's fair and valid. Rarely does anyone enter the space and get pissy about that and not without being checked directly or indirectly. But you can't enter the tag and present something from a POC viewpoint or a WOC viewpoint without being directly or indirectly checked and often by people who honest to goodness aren't in the position to do so and show that based on how they choose to address or frame something.

Why? Why the "I don't see it that way so it must not be true?" Or "prove it or your lying" angle? Why do fans of color--too many to be dismissed as a fluke-- have to explain or otherwise be invalidated? That is what that is. Invalidation.

A racial bias being acknowledged or even a gender one makes people defensive or uncomfortable or unkind. That isn't fair. That isn't awesome.

And it has been a problem for a very long time.

Now if we're talking about m*ribel. Where some may see a wlw ship, a classic enemies to lovers ship, two beautiful women who could be something magical... Maria being in on the alien secret via Isobel... snarky personalities and sniding becoming something deeper ... hot hate sex ... two badass women who have been through some sh!t being a badass couple together... I do get the angle.

Where some people see that, I personally see a ship that makes me uncomfortable. I understand not everyone will see it as I do, and that's okay, as I said, ship and let ship.

But for me, when I think of Maribel, I think of Isobel violating Maria and her mind without her consent. I think of how disturbing it is that another woman did that to another woman without thinking about it as a violation (you don't have to agree, but much like what Noah did to Isobel at more extreme levels, it makes ME think of the rape and power dynamics and abuse dynamics).

I see someone who has had a total disregard for humans outside of her presumed husband violating them at will with powers she has yet to fully gain control of thus putting herself and those she violated at risk. I think of how unusual it is that she doesn't even have friends she hangs out with and doesn't know how to be one, or to be nurturing, or kind, or considerate.

And I don't know if I would like to see her with someone who is snarky and such, but also all of those things too. I see someone who is selfish in general and selfish in all of her relationships, and it's troubling (to me) when someone so inherently selfish is ever combined with someone who isn't because of how draining that is.

And to me, Isobel is the most selfish character with no give, and I don't care for the (far too common) trope of a black woman having to guide her into the light as a project and build her into a better person.

I think of an unfortunate history of women of color being violated not just by men but also white women that goes back centuries.

I see Isobel's total disregard for Maria's life and agency. I see Isobel's sense of entitlement she cannot seem to shake where she thinks she is entitled to Maria's acceptance and attention and her anger that Maria has the audacity to dislike her because apparently people are supposed to like her even when she treats almost everyone terribly. Which is a very subtle but very insidious barely noticeable dog whistle type of example most people of color can attest to as an example of white privilege.

I see someone who has clung to Maria specifically despising her on behalf of Rosa (and maribel shippers are welcome to interpret it as confirmation of a crush or attraction, and they can do so I understand that take, too) so much so that her primary reason for believing that Maria was an evil alien killer was the fact that Maria didn't like her nor as a psychic with legitimate abilities didn't allow Isobel to violate her.

The racial context of that scene alone was bothersome because of two cops jumping to a conclusion and sharing their theory with citizens with no concrete proof before speaking to their suspect (Maria) and using the word of a known racist and an entitled white woman with a grudge (Isobel) to support their theory, which if that doesn't parallel real life and how POC can find themselves at the mercy of the criminal justice system due to this, I don't know what is.

I see a woman who didn't have the slightest grasp of mind violation until she was violated by a brown man (who subsequently ended up being the presumed big bad of the season). That's what I see with M*ribel.

Where some shippers are able to see the chance for more LGBT rep and that's valid. I see troubling racial undertones that genuinely make me almost as uncomfortable as Noah and Isobel, and that too should be valid, and considered, and respected, and not dismissed, or misconstrued deliberately or otherwise.

There should be space for the criticism too, and the different takes, especially takes deeply rooted in another form of disenfranchisement. Just, consider and respect that sometimes. Not all fans of color will have the same take, we're all different people, so no one person can speak for the others, which means sometimes there will be opinions that differ on reasons that relate to race, and that's okay too.

From the first episode until now. Through Maria sidelining, and maricael/miluca shipping, and Malex angst, and Echo obstacles, and Liz decentralization, and the demonization of Noah, and Rosa injustice...through all of, there are things that should be discussed freely without being invalidated, dismissed, or made into something else.

There are many ways in which there will be race perspectives and things fans of color will present and ponder that other fans may not consider at all. And sometimes it will spill into something you like or enjoy, but those feelings especially about something so personal and specific and real ... even if you don't like them, or agree with them, or they make you uncomfortable or defensive, they matter too.

[mxlxdroit]

black sails s1e5

i’m in the public library with my laptop so idk if i’ll finish all of the episode rn but LET’S GO

flint’s a pragmatist, and billy’s an idealist. flint’s explanation of why voicing a captain voicing their doubts is usually a bad idea reminds me of several conversations in battlestar galactica, though bsg tends to favor idealism more than black sails

‘you’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? she’s a witch, who pledged my soul to the devil and anoints me with the blood of infants to keep me safe in battle.’ nice joke, but also good point- sensational stories are likely to be accepted if they’re what people want to believe, and the nature of truth is a complicated thing. also, flint won’t tell his secrets that easily, even to set a rumor to rest.

wowza jack rackham is a skilled con-man! he may be an asshole, but at least he’s confident. rackham, one, former brother owners, zero.

what does mr guthrie think he’s playing at? you can’t just tell people you were nearly arrested if you want to keep your business running

ok i have a prediction- eleanor is going to somehow convince her father/someone else with power and influence to keep the operation running until flint’s mission is over. she’s now literally dependent on flint’s success for the continuation of all of nassau. interesting sociological/economic storytelling- the dependence of the group on smaller internal groups who aren’t necessarily aligned in their goals, but who in actuality depend on each other for their individual and collective livelihood. tragedy of the commons, sort of, in action

flint you sly bastard. billy’s not going to stay afraid of you forever, and by that time, you’ll be in the most critical parts of your quest, and you’ll need his vote to convince your crew to go along with your plans. i really don’t recommend trying to get your way in this manner

the ship’s going to fucking break this is so stupid

ok never mind i guess it’s fine

i like that they show the process of measuring speed

also flint says ‘please’ when giving commands what kind of pirate

so now eleanor is depending on flint so she can pay her debts and honestly for her own personal safety. this is not a good place to be a woman if you don’t have power. i think she’ll be fine, but she’s on thin ice

‘to assume that we’ve seen the last of eleanor guthrie, is well, not to know her’ good judge of character there, mr rackham

[vine guy voice] wow

billy: ‘either we take bryson’s ship, or we’re...’

other guy: ‘i believe the word you’re looking for is “fucked”’

billy: ‘yeah. thank you’ 

are those deck scrub brushes? whatever. billy’s a nerd and i love him

‘for all you virgins in the room, [boarding a ship bow to midship] is also known as fucking suicide’

i swear mr dufray’s actor was in the stargate movie. i could probably look it up but eh whatever (*nope. he just looks kind of like james spader to me ig)

flint’s smile is low-key creepy. don’t like that

gates: ‘i hope you know what you’re doing’

flint: ‘so do i’ - that’s the most doubt flint’s willing to show, and only to gates. i suppose they are about to go try to kill people, so you have to act confident or you’ll lose your nerve, but the repression really jumped out

sniped

sniped

oh and sniped again

:(((

did mr dufray just bite a man’s throat out??

eleanor guthrie: ‘to [my father saying the guthrie trading operation in nassau is over], i have this to say: fuck him, and fuck that’

‘we’re going to re-create my father’s operation here, without my father’ YES!!! it’s going to be difficult, but eleanor really is the person to do it. she has more personal stake in the continued success of nassau than anyone else, and she has the nerve and cunning to do it. i hope it works out, and that these men’s sexism doesn’t stop them from believing in her

mr jeffrey: ‘my men aren’t merchant sailors, they’re hunters’

eleanor guthrie: ‘yes, but they’re bad at it, jeffrey’ she tried earlier to assure them she wasn’t insulting them but the gloves are off now and she’s going in

bryson’s carrying slaves. hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh BAD

bryson: ‘we men of duty must often put our feelings aside’ shut the FUCK up. you do not get to frame yourself in solidarity with a man you are threatening to sell into slavery. mr scott deserves better #1kforever

bryson is a horrible man. there’s been some horrible violence in this show, but nobody else has shown such a disregard for human life.

max ‘chose,’ silver? chose? oh yes, all the wonderful choices she had in life, from the privileged position of a prostitute working in a brothel that services sailors and pirates, whose only way out was though working with you, who faces danger and violence and indignity at every turn, yes, she chose

flint’s been out-pirated. he can’t believe it

and covered in blood, again. occupational hazard... pirates need OSHA. also, thanks to billy for saving flint’s life.

ok there we go! they’re rafted up to a ship with resources they can’t leave without, but they can’t get those resources because they’ll be killed if they do, and now they’re sitting ducks being approached by another ship from the other side. they’re, i believe the word i’m looking for is, fucked.

[quickeningheart]

Ten

   “Hey, you hungry?” Chris asked as he and Chex followed Alley out of the office. “There’s a great bar and grill right on the school grounds. They’ve got the best seafood chowder this side of the country.”

   Alley hesitated. She really should get back to the garage and let Charley know what she’d seen, but she was a bit famished. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and it was already past six o’clock. Her stomach gave a long, low gurgle at the reminder, and she grinned as Chris laughed. “I could use a bite to eat,” she agreed.

   “Then right this way, if you please.” He steered her away from the parking lot and toward another smallish building that was only two stories tall. “This is the Atrium,” he explained. “Well, the first floor of it is the actual atrium; the upper level is offices for the teachers and staff. It’s pretty much the hangout for students. The bar is inside, a few small gift shops, the school bookstore, and lots of seating for just hanging out and relaxing.”

   “Best part of the whole school,” Chex put in. “Although if you plan on drinking, you’ll have to show ID.”

   “I’m only twenty,” Alley admitted.

   “Really? I kind of thought you were older than that,” Chris said, looking surprised.

   “He’s into the older chics,” Chex teased, poking her brother in the ribs.

   “Why? How old are you?”

   Chris looked embarrassed, scratching his head. “Actually, we’re only eighteen. Just graduated high school.”

   Alley’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? I thought you were like my age or something!”

   “You’re only a college freshman, too, right?” Chex wanted to know. “Shouldn’t you be in a higher grade?”

   “I took a year off after graduating to work full-time and save up extra money. And to figure out what school I wanted to attend. I did take a couple of weekend courses at the community college to get in some of my credits and stuff, but nothing full-term.”

   “Hey, that’s fine. In college, age doesn’t really matter. We’re all still consenting adults,” Chris said.

   Chex smirked at him and waggled her eyebrows. “Consenting for what, I wonder.”

   “Aw, shut up, Red. Nobody asked you.” Face flushed, Chris stomped into a dimly-lit restaurant and made his way to the bar.

   Chex laughed. “He’s such a weenie around girls.”

   Alley grinned. “He’s kinda cute, though. For a kid,” she teased, earning a dry look in response.

     ~*~*~*~*~

   The food really was good at the Atrium Grill. Not only the chowder, but the thickest, gooiest grilled cheese sandwich that Alley had ever had the pleasure of biting into. “I’ve died and gone to nirvana,” she sighed, wrapping the cheese that had oozed out of the bread onto her plate around her fork. “What was in that sandwich?”

   “Cheese.” Chex took a bite of her fried chicken.

   Alley snorted a laugh. “Well, duh. I meant what kind?”

   “Not sure. Trade secret, but I’m pretty sure they use a blend,” Chris replied. “And they grill it using mayonnaise instead of butter. Supposed to be healthier or something.”

   “Right. Because six different blends of cheese in a single sandwich is the absolute epitome of health food,” Chex said blandly.

   “How do you know that?” Chris eyed her suspiciously, and she smirked.

   “I have my ways.”

   “You boinked the head cook, didn’t you?”

   “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

   “Actually, I really, really wouldn’t.” He shuddered as Alley sought to hide her grin behind her soda glass.

   “How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching for her bag, but Chris waved her off.

   “Don’t worry about it. My treat,” he replied.

   “Are you sure?”

   “Of course! What kind of gentleman makes a woman pay for her own meal?” He ignored Chex’s derisive snort and flashed a smile at Alley. “I invited you, so I’ll pay this one, okay?”

   She consented with a nod and a smile. “Well, if we do this again, let me pay for you as thanks. Both of you,” she added, not wanting Chex to be left out.

   “Oooo. Friend-zoned!” Chex sang under her breath, earning a kick under the table. She just smirked at her glowering twin.

   Alley bit her lip, hoping she hadn’t offended him, but he gave her another charming smile and pulled some bills out of his wallet. “School year is just beginning,” he said casually. “I’ll definitely take you up on the offer for another meal."

   “Yeah. Me, too,” Chex added, grinning. “You seem like fun. Even if you do look like a Barbie doll.”

     ~*~*~*~*~

   It had grown dark by the time they left the Atrium. Alley had stopped by the bookstore to pick up the last two textbooks she needed for her classes. Chex said her goodbyes before heading toward the dorms, where she was staying. “More privileges of being the dean’s kid. Really cheap boarding, and I don’t have to live at home with the wicked step-mom,” she explained with a smirk.

   “She’s not that bad,” Chris said with a frown.

   “Not to Mr. Perfect Son. But she doesn’t like me very much. I refuse to bend over and kiss her ass.”

   “Well, maybe if you wouldn’t dress like—”

   “Like what? Like someone with her own brain and a willingness to use it?” Chex stopped walking and faced him with a fist planted on her hips. “I’m my own person. I have my own way of living, and there’s nothing wrong with how I dress. You might be willing to let her groom you like a little lapdog, but I refuse. She’s not even our real mom, and she hasn’t done anything to earn the title.” She flipped her cherry hair. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You’re living in the dorms, too!”

   “Because there’s no point in driving to school when we can live right on the grounds,” Chris sighed, clearly used to this conversation.

   “Right, whatever. I’m heading back. See you around, Alley. We should hang out sometime.” She stomped off, skirt swishing.

   “Yeah, I’d like that,” Alley called after her.

   Chris flashed her a sheepish grin, shrugging. “Typical sibling spat. They never last long,” he apologized. “She’ll be over it by morning.”

   “You said you had a step-mom?”

   “Yeah. Our real mom took off when we were just little.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Dad was always busy in the school, so we were mostly raised by nannies. Then he came home one day a few years back and said he was getting remarried. Her name is Victoria. She’s a real classy lady. She comes from money, you know? I guess Dad had met her at some associates’ function raising money for the college. Anyway, I was okay with him getting married, but Chex took it hard. I guess … she was always holding out hope that Mom might come back someday. Or something.” He shrugged again. “We were seven when she left. Chex took it the hardest. Mom hardly ever contacts us. Maybe a birthday or Christmas card here and there. But she made it clear she just wasn’t willing to be a mother. She’s living it up on some tropical island somewhere.” His smile was brittle.

   “I’m sorry,” Alley said softly. “I didn’t mean to pry or bring up bad memories.”

   “Nah. Not your fault. Anyway, guess you should be getting back, huh?”

   “Yeah, Charley’s probably getting a little worried by now.” Alley juggled the books as she fumbled for her keys in the bottom of her bag. Chris pulled his phone out of his pocket, fiddled with the touch screen for a few seconds, and then the camera flash flicked on, effectively giving her light to see by. “They need to install more lights along the walks. Dad’s been after the board to get on that for years,” he complained.

    “The parking lot is lit well enough.”

   “Yeah, but getting to it can be dangerous after sundown. Not everyone around here is as nice as I am, and you’re a really pretty girl.”

   Alley blushed a little, charmed by his fumbling attempts to flirt. “That’s sweet of you, but I can take care of myself. I’ve got pepper spray with me. And I also know self-defense. Dad made me take some classes when I started growing boobs.” She laughed at the expression on his face. “The truck is right … over…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes fell on the pickup. Or, more precisely, on the three very large men who were standing around the pickup, talking amongst themselves. “Aren’t those…?“

   “Limburger's thugs,” Chris huffed. “What’re they doing? Where’s the boss?”

   Alley slowed and ducked behind a large SUV parked in the nearly empty lot, trying to see what they were up to. “Are they trying to break into the truck?” she whispered.

   “No, looks more like they’re keeping watch. Or waiting for someone.”

   “For me to come back?” Alley shifted nervously. “Why would they be waiting for me? They don’t even know who I am.” Unless somehow they’d figured it out … but how would they? She hadn’t given Limburger her name, and there was no reason for him to ask for it. She doubted she even registered on his radar enough for him to get curious. There was absolutely no way he could have figured out who she was in those few brief moments of passing.

   Unless…

   “The truck,” she breathed, smacking her forehead. “It’s got the garage’s name on the doors. He must’ve seen it and recognized the name, and thinks Charley is here. And he’s sent his thugs to wait for her to come back.”

   “Planning on jumping her?” Chris whispered.

   “I dunno. Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a nasty piece of work, from what I heard. And he really doesn’t like her friends.”

   “We should call the police. They won’t touch Limburger but his thugs aren’t off-limits.” Chris pulled his phone out again, but was stopped by Alley’s hand on his.

   “Wait. I think … they’re leaving,” she said, slowly standing up. Indeed, the men had backed away from the truck and were currently sauntering across the lot to a pair of what looked like dune buggies parked in the shadows.

   “Hey, weren’t there three of them?” Chris asked. “Where’d that fourth guy come from?”

   “Who cares? I’m just glad they’re gone.” Alley made a beeline for the truck, only to be brought up short by Chris’s hands on her shoulders, bringing her to a staggering halt. Just as a large, gleaming, vintage 1930s Rolls Royce cruised slowly past them. Alley’s jaw dropped. It would have been a beautiful car … had it not been painted an eye-gouging shade of purple. She knew instantly who it belonged to. To prove it, the car came to a gliding halt and the window rolled down. Alley instinctively held her breath as Limburger’s cold, gleaming eyes met hers.

   “So, young lady. We meet again.” His voice was cultured, refined, smooth as an oil slick. His eyes left hers, darted to the truck she stood only two feet away from, slid back with a raised eyebrow. He said nothing, but his gaze was suspicious. She bit her lip, feeling light-headed from lack of breath, and prayed he’d just leave before she passed out. “Be careful out there,” he warned, a humorless smile tugging at his thick lips. “There may be … unsavory people lurking about.”

   “Thanks for the warning,” she choked out, and let loose the breath she’d been holding when the window rolled up and the car moved on. “Okay, I’m totally freaked out. Are you totally freaked out? ‘Cause I’m totally freaked out,” she babbled.

   “Hey, hey, relax,” Chris soothed, putting an arm around her shoulders and rubbing her arm vigorously. “The creep is gone, we’re fine. Are you okay?”

   “I don’t know,” she groaned, staggering to the truck to lean heavily against the door. She looked it over, checking the locks, but nothing seemed out of place. Then she frowned as she recalled the fourth thug who’d popped up from nowhere, a niggling suspicion forming. “Lemme see that light again,” she grunted, kneeling on the ground beside the truck. “Shine it under here.”

   He complied, and her worst fear was confirmed: Something dark and liquid was leaking in a steady drip under the cab, steadily forming a large puddle. “Holy shit,” Chris breathed. “What’d they do?”

   She sighed. “I’m pretty sure they cut the brake line. They were aiming to murder me. Well, my cousin, anyway.” She flashed him a weak smile. “Still think he isn’t a threat?”

   “I’m calling the cops.” His voice left no room for argument.

   “And tell them what? Limburger has it in for my cousin so he got his goons to sabotage her truck in order to kill her? There’s no proof he had anything to do with it. We didn’t get a good look at those guys, either, so we have no descriptions.”

   “Well, what else can we do?” he huffed, frustrated.

   “Can I borrow your phone? I have to call Charley. She’ll have to come tow the truck back. And she’ll want to know I’m okay.” Alley sighed. “Maybe you should take off. If Limburger figured out I’m related in any way to Charley or the mi--her friends, he’ll be back. And you’ll be targeted, too. Just by association.”

   “If it comes to that, I’m a target, anyway. He’s after this place, too, and I am the dean’s son, after all.” Chris handed her his phone and crossed his arms. “I’m not about to take off on you now. So don’t even bother trying.”

   “Thanks.” She smiled at him gratefully and dialed Charley’s number. “Come on, pick up. Pick up!”

   The line clicked. “Last Chance Garage, this is Charley speaking.”

   “Charley? It’s me.” Alley held the phone away from her ear as Charley immediately started in on her.

   “Where the hell have you been? Do you know what time it is? I mean, I know you’re a grown-ass woman and all but for cripe’s sake couldn’t you at least call and let me know you’re not gonna be home for supper or something?” Charley bellowed.

   “Ma? Is that you?” Alley deadpanned, earning an indignant huff on the other end.

   “I can see now why your mom worries to death over you,” Charley grunted. “You don’t even have a phone! Where are you calling from? And what’s the matter?”

   Alley sighed and rubbed her temple. “It’s a long story. To make it short…” She took a deep breath. “I’m still at the college and Limburger showed up ‘cause he’s after the land and he saw your truck and I’m pretty sure he cut the brake line and I’m calling you from my friend’s phone to ask if you can please come pick me up ‘cause I’m really kinda freaking out right now,” she said in a rush.

   There was a moment of silence. Then, “What?”

   “I said—”

   “I heard what you said. Are you okay? Is he still there?” Charley’s voice radiated genuine concern.

   To her horror, Alley felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes, her emotions dangerously unstable. “No, he’s gone,” she replied, voice trembling despite her best efforts to steady it. “He drove off in that hideous car. His thugs are gone, too.”

   “You said you’re with someone?”

   “Yeah. His name is Christopher Archer.” Alley sniffed and swiped impatiently at her tearing eyes. “He and his sister were hanging out with me today and showing me around. They’re really nice.” She flashed a watery smile at a concerned Chris.

   “Listen, go back inside the school and wait, okay? I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

   “I think…” Alley bit her lip. “He saw me at the truck. I think he’s suspicious about who I am. I’m pretty sure it was you he was aiming to murder.”

   Charley muttered a curse under her breath. “Well, he’d figure it out one of these days anyhow. Just … go inside, and if he shows up again, hide until we get there.”

   “We?”

   Charley chuckled. “The guys overheard. Big ears and all. You won’t keep them away even if you tried. So maybe lose your friends before we show up, yeah?”

   “Yeah, okay. I’ll be in the Atrium. It’s the small two-story near the back of the property.” Alley ended the call and handed the phone back to Chris. “Look, thanks for all your help. You’ve been so great. My cousin is on her way, so if you want to take off now, I promise I won’t be offended or anything.”

   “Pfft. Right. I’m just gonna leave you by yourself after all that?” He shook his head. “Not happening. Come on, we’ll go to the Atrium like you said. I don’t know about you, but I could use something to drink!”

   “Hey now, Mr. Dean’s Son. Aren’t you a little young to be imbibing in alcohol?” She gave him a teasing poke in the side.

   “Who said anything about alcohol, old lady,” he teased back. “There’s a vending machine that sells fantastic hot chocolate. I could really go for a cup. How about you?”

   “In the middle of an August heat wave? On top of all that hot food we just ate?” Alley shrugged. “Sounds like a plan.”

     ~*~*~*~*~

   The chocolate was good, and Alley savored every sip of it as her jangled nerves slowly calmed, but no matter what she said, she couldn’t talk Chris into leaving her alone. Part of her was annoyed (she wasn’t a little girl, for cripe’s sake), but a larger part was relieved by his persistence. She doubted the Purple People Eater would be back, but she felt safer having someone by her side. Even if that someone was essentially a perfect stranger.

   Half an hour passed, and Alley spent the time curled up on a cushy sofa, paging through her textbooks as Chris delved back into his novel. It was quiet, with only a few students hanging around the Atrium. That’s why, when the front doors suddenly burst open with an ear-jarring clatter, Alley just about jumped out of her skin, nearly falling off the couch and dropping her book in the process.

   She looked up, wide-eyed, as a tall, slender man dressed in head-to-toe black strode through the doors, paused to look around, and then honed in on her. He headed right for her, head encased in an oddly-shaped biker helmet. She started to panic, wondering if Limburger had sent someone back for her after all, before she caught a gleam of reflected light, saw the long, metal tail lashing behind him. She relaxed, recognizing him. Stoker.

   She didn’t know where he’d dug up the leather biker clothes, but it was astonishing how different he looked in them. Without the fur and mousy features to distract her, she could appreciate for the first time how built he was, the dark material hugging his lean, muscled body. He moved with purpose, strides smooth and graceful, like a dancer. A traitorous thought worked its way into her mind that, under all the fur, he was really kind of beautiful. And she wondered if all of the mice had such beautiful forms. She hastily banished the thoughts from her mind.

   Chris had put himself between her and the agitated mouse, nearly a head shorter, but still determined to protect her as he faced down the intimidating figure. “Who’re you?” he growled, voice cracking just a bit.

   Stoker just chuckled.

   Alley’s eyes widened when she saw Chris’s hand clench, quickly scrambling up from her seat to grip his arm. She didn’t even want to think of what might happen if he took a swing at the war veteran. She didn’t think Stoker would hurt him, but then again, he was a trained soldier. He might not take kindly to physical violence. “It’s okay,” she said. “He’s a friend … of my cousin.”

   Chris relaxed by degrees, his fist unclenching.

   “Where’s Charley?” Alley asked the mouse, who hadn’t bothered to take off his helmet. All the same, she could feel his gaze on her, assessing.

   “She’s looking over the truck with the others,” he finally replied, voice muffled behind his helmet. “I came to find you. You okay?”

   “Yeah, sure. I’m fine.” She flashed a bright smile, and turned to Chris. “Look, thanks for everything today. I mean it. It was so nice meeting you and Chex. I hope I’ll see you around, once classes start."

   Chris’s gaze slid away from Stoker and he offered a weak grin. “Yeah, same here,” he replied. “We’ll do this again. You know, when things get a little less crazy around here.”

   “Definitely.” Alley squeezed his hand. “Tell Chex I’ll call her sometime. When I get a phone, that is. Maybe you can both come with, help me pick one out? You can show me around Chicago or something, too. And I can buy you lunch like I promised.”

   Chris chuckled, sounding nervous as Stoker cleared his throat and crossed his arms, impatient. “Sounds good. Well…” He shifted, casting an uncomfortable glance at the tense, black-clad man. “Your family’s here, so guess you don’t need me around anymore. Take care, yeah? Hope I’ll hear from you soon. I’m gonna grab another cup of chocolate and head back to the dorm.” He gave an awkward grin, a polite nod to Stoker, and then he turned and walked off.

   Alley released a breath and picked up her bag, cradling her books to her chest. She turned to leave, and jumped when a heavy arm abruptly settled around her shoulders, as Stoker led her gently but assertively out of the building. “Hey, do you mind?” she hissed, red-faced, as she caught the stares of the few remaining students in the building. She tried to balk, but Stoker was stronger than he looked. “I know where the parking lot is.”

   He didn’t answer. His hand merely tightened on her arm, leading her away from the Atrium, and then off the walk and into the darker shadows cast by a towering oak. Only then did he remove his helmet, and she was taken aback by the genuine worry etched across his features. “Are you okay?” he repeated, his voice soft. “Did he lay hands on you in any way?” Under the concern, she heard simmering anger, and she shifted uncomfortably.

   “He didn’t even get out of the car,” she mumbled, looking away from his intense gaze. “It was his thugs that killed the truck.”

   “But he saw you at the truck? You sure he knows you’re associated with us?”

   “I was headed right for it. The lot’s pretty much empty.” Alley shrugged. “I doubt he could mistake which car I was aiming for.”

   He sighed, running his hand over her hair in a soft caress. “Sorry, honey. Looks like you might be involved in this war now, like it or not.” He quirked a grin. “Don’t suppose I could talk you into runnin’ back to Florida now, can I?” He chuckled at the look she gave him. “Didn’t think so.”

   Alley, uncomfortable with his proximity, not to mention the way he kept looking at her, stepped out from under his hand and continued to the parking lot, where she found Charley and the three other mice hooking the pickup onto the back of her tow truck.

   “Alley Cat!” Charley handed the winch to Vinnie and threw her arms around her cousin. “You okay, kid?” she asked. “You sounded really upset on the phone.”

   “Yeah, a little shaken up, I guess.” Alley offered a small smile. “I’m okay now. Chris stayed with me until you came. He’s a really nice guy.”

   “Do tell.” Charley raised an eyebrow with a catty smirk. “Not even started classes yet and already have the boys wrapped around your finger.”

   “Well, that’s nothing new,” Alley replied, earning a laugh from her cousin as she clambered into the passenger seat of the tow truck and leaned out the window. “Was there really any need to bring the entire army?” She gestured to the mice.

   “They were worried. And who knows if Limburger would come back and wait for me to show up, if I really was the target. No sense taking chances.” Pickup secured, Charley climbed into the driver’s seat. “Okay, guys. Let’s head back now. Thanks for coming out with me.”

   “Not a problem, Charley-girl,” Throttle replied. “Glad you’re not hurt, Alley.” He smiled up at her, gave a signal, and the four bikes took off down the road with the tow truck following close behind.

Next

[sophygurl]

WisCon 42 panel MCU’s Black Superheroes

The full title of this panel was Show Me My Respect: A Critical Look At The MCU’s Black Superheroes

The panel description:

Has the MCU done its black characters justice over the last 10 years? Did Disney allow Ryan Coogler to give Black Panther the respect and nuance it deserves? Did the Russo Brothers f*ck up everything in Avengers: Infinity War that the black and NBPOC writers and directors established in building complex characters and storylines? Let's explore this decade-long journey into Phase IV to see how the MCU has and will continue to treat us.

The moderator was Jennifer Cross, with panelists Aunterria Bollinger and K. Tempest Bradford.

Reminder that these panel notes are only my own recollections and the things I managed to write down - my notes are incomplete and likely faulty in places. Corrections and additions are always welcome. Especially please do correct me if I get names or pronouns wrong!

Also I name panelists as that’s publicly available information but not audience members unless requested by that person to have their named added.

[I came into the panel a little bit late, so missed intros and probably some other stuff.]

Tempest was talking about the black best friend trope and that DCTV does this a lot. Rhodey is very underused, and Civil War turned him into the disabled black best friend. 

Jennifer said Don Cheadle deserves better! Iron Man 2 gave complexity to Rhodey and Tony’s relationship and Civil War messed a lot of that up. It also made Rhodey disabled in a super questionable way [I missed some of this statement]. It was a literal cheap shot and felt like Joss Whedon saw him as an expendable character to use to elevate white man pain. Also the fact that Rhodey just automatically sides with Tony - what happened to the tension between them and Rhodey holding Tony accountable for his actions?

Jennifer made an aside to let the audience know that the panelists were going to be using a lot of code switching and AAVE references. She then went on to say “Fuck Infinity War - Russo brothers, take your white man pain to Ralph Lauren and buy some more polo shirts.” (lol)

Jennifer brought up that two black American men go to Wakanda for the first time and said nothing about it. Also they made Wakanda look “dank as shit.” 

Tempest said the amount of Cumberbatch she had to stare at in Infinity War was too much - she skipped a whole movie to avoid him! (me too) One problem with IW was that there were just too many people in it, so they couldn’t properly focus on anyone. 

Tempest added - why didn’t they just ask Shuri to fix things from the start? She was finally going to fix it, but she got interrupted by more man pain! Jennifer added that she loved the “you tried” moment with Shuri. 

Aunterria talked about IW’s short shifting of Wakanda as if they were saying “well we gave you a whole movie - what else do you want?” But also how much worse it might have been if that had been the first introduction to Wakanda instead of coming out after Black Panther. 

Jennifer brought up Winter Soldier and how Sam got to have a whole back story about his PTSD. In IW, we see him helping other people with their trauma but they never address how events are affecting him. She talked about how PTSD varies from person to person, and about how it can affect black people differently, especially.

Tempest brought up the gaybaiting of the series. Jennifer adds that she hates shipping, but she loves Sam and Bucky. 

Tempest said that Sam has more back story than Rhodey in terms of story that isn’t tied to a main white character. She will also never forgive Tony for shooting him in the face in Civil War. Marvel tries with regards to race, but their attempts are inadequate. 

She went on to talk about the character of M’Baku in Black Panther. She has a friend who was initially very upset about the inclusion of this character because in the comics the portrayal is very racist. Then he saw the movie and saw how great the character was. This is what happens when you give black people agency. Ryan Coogler had a lot of freedom in how he made BP.

Tempest added that white directors may try, but when trying to fix race in one area, they often make it racist in a whole other way. She brought up the Mandarin, for example. Why don’t you just ask an Asian person?

Jennifer said she wanted the panel to primarily focus on black people. The MCU fucks up all people of color, but the panel is specifically about black characters. 

She added that she loved watching Rhodey kick Tony’s ass. When he said “you don’t deserve to wear this suit” - it was a calling out of his privilege. She also found it suspect that Rhodey didn’t notice Tony’s PTSD in Iron Man 3. He’s a veteran and a general and would be trained to look for those signs. She said “we’re 10% of the population in LA - find one of us and pay us to fix this stuff.” Especially important to find a black veteran officer to inform Rhodey and Sam’s characters. She no longer trusts white people to write black people. 

Jennifer moved on to Valkyrie. She said she does love Thor because Chris Hemsworth. Also Taiki Watiti did surprisingly well. She loves Tessa Thompson. 

Aunterria talked about her love for Danai Gurira as both Michonne in The Walking Dead and Okoye in the MCU. However, she still falls under the trope of the exceptional black woman giving it all up for a man. 

Tempest countered that saying that Okoye fights for Wakanda over a man. She and T’Challa fight alongside one another and it’s clear that she would do the same for Shuri if she was queen. BP is not just about awesome black men, but black women too. There isn’t enough complexity in the other black characters in the MCU with the exceptions of Heimdall and Valkyrie. Asgard also had random Asian and black characters walking around that are never addressed or explained.

Jennifer loved Valkyrie drunkenly stepping off the ramp. Also the quietness of Heimdall’s character even when had more to do than just standing there. She talked about being a big Norse Scandanavian folklore nerd and said Asgard looks the way it’s supposed to look - it was actually diverse as shit. It took a man of color to finally make it look almost accurate representation-wise. She references the show The Almighty Johnsons as a show about Norse gods living in New Zealand. 

Jennifer wonders if it’s going to take only poc behind the scenes to give us proper treatment. Way down in her soul is an optimist that “no amount of beating with Lucille can shut up” that wants to know if it can happen any other way. 

Aunterria said she’s not optimistic about this. She can’t think of a poc character written by a white person that’s done anything meaningful or purposeful or accurate. 

There is much collective groaning about Iron Fist.

Aunterria talked about making Luke Cage bulletproof but not talking about police violence. Giving black characters powers without engaging in the social issues around them. 

Jennifer said she is mixed about Luke Cage. It’s the embodiment of respectability politics. But there is an effort to show Harlem and the gentrification of it. There’s this idea that poc don’t have any room to make mistakes. BP did so well that Kevin Feige is begging Coogler to come back. 

Jennifer said that she loves the women in LC - especially Misty. There are lots of women who are all different people, all unapologetically black but in different ways. She’s watching it for the women. Praises Alfre Woodard. 

Tempest uses headcanons to make movies better.

Jennifer addressed how Tessa Thompson was the one out of the women in the MCU cast to ask Kevin Feige about them wanting their own movie. Why did the black woman have to be the one to ask for what all these white women have been wanting? Why couldn’t ScarJo take her white appropriating ass up there and ask about it?

Tempest talked about the TV part of the MCU technically being in the same universe. TV shows have to include the big events of the movies but not the other way around. She said she stopped watching Shield when Daisy’s transformation killed the black male character (Trip) for one episode of white pain. Jennifer also stopped watching it in season one.

Aunterria is still watching Shield. She wondered if Trip had been killed because of the possibility of his entering into an interracial relationship. She said there is a new black male character (Mack), but his arc is all about suffering. Last season had a storyline about aliens enslaving white people, which was interesting. But the people of color come to save the white people. Jennifer interjects “Killmonger wasn’t wrong...”

Tempest adds “Joss is the most fuckassed fuckass to ever fuckass.” Jennifer asks what about Stephen Moffat? Tempest said - he’s second.

Aunterria said Shield did make the black man the team leader at the end of this season. Jennifer said - so he has to suffer for his reward now and his reward is to parent a group of white people? That’s even more fucked up!

Tempest said that BP gave her hope. Jennifer said - see, she’s not the only one with optimism. Tempest said that Coogler has some power right now - maybe he can bring in some friends and fix some more stuff.

Aunterria said that being a black writer right now is also hard because there is so much to fix. There is so much shit to work on before you can even focus on your craft - so it’s more work for them.

Tempest said her hopes are with the movies over the TV shows.

Jennifer said - “especially fuck babyvampJessica” (Karen from Daredevil). It’s like the paler you are, the more people will die for you. 

Tempest said - as far as cleaning up, BP didn’t have to do that work because they were starting from scratch. There must be other characters that can be brought into the MCU movies that can be written by black writers.

Aunterria said those do exist, but the funding isn’t there. Tempest - but Gods of Egypt somehow got funding!

An audience member asked about Heimdall and if he would come back. Jennifer said that Idris Elba has said no on that. 

Tempest talked about actors being semi-responsible to the narrative of their characters. RDJ even saying - maybe it’s time for me to go? Jennifer added - and then they throw more millions at him and I can’t be mad about that. Tempest said that we know all those people who were turned to dust are coming back. It was a bold decision to kill some of them - but we need to sunset one story in order to have a sunrise on another. Also - “fuck Thanos.” 

Tempest said that something that ruins a narrative almost as much as white supremacy is the irresponsible choices of actors going on and on - except for all of the cast of BP - they can stay as long as they want.

Jennifer said that with Disney owning Marvel, Deadpool is now officially a Disney Princess (lol).

Tempest said she sat through all of Wolverine Origins just to see Hugh Jackman naked and she is done with Deadpool now.

An audience member asked about the character Cottonmouth on LC. Jennifer talked about him as a complex character bridging socio-economic status’s. She added that if you put trauma in a black character’s history, you need to do it in a way that is not just for show. She said the opposite of the example would be Zoe Walsh.

A member of the audience asked about Lash’s purpose on Shield. Aunterria said he filled in May’s backstory and explains things to us about her that we weren’t getting just from her side. But he was mostly there for gratuitous pain and suffering of a black man and Asian woman. 

Jennifer said the MCU is allergic to black love. “Tweet that.” She wants to see a black male character saving a black female character - not just everyone else.

An audience member asked about Miles Morales. Jennifer said - we’ve had four Peter Parkers in fifteen years! Tempest said Tom Holland is at least finally a good one. Kevin Feige has said there is space for Miles, but she wonders who is going to write him? 

Jennifer closed the panel with a firm statement for the white members of the audience, especially. She said - you will take everything good from our culture and appropriate it, but not our pain. You’ve taken our stuff for fun value and for show, but you don’t address our pain. 

This panel was also livetweeted pretty extensively with #blackmcu if you want more/other perspectives from it. 

[For context, I’m white.]

[esperanzacboronial]

claudia/illness and 20?

Things you said that I wasn’t meant to hear

(Big content warning for child abuse and violence. Also a lot on. Illness dealing with trauma. This prompt absolutely did not warrant this level of angst and yet, and yet. Idk what to tell you man.)

… 

One week to her birthday.

Claudia tiptoes around her.

(She knows.)

She and Charon go out that night without her. She doesn’t ask why. She can think of thousands of reasons she wouldn’t be wanted; it would only hurt more to hear one specified. She sits on the couch and watches reruns of old sitcoms, counting the hours until they come back.

5 o’clock. 6 o’clock. 7 o’clock.  

(They know.)

The jokes don’t make her want to laugh. She laughs anyway. She doesn’t know why. No, she does — because laughing at jokes is normal. She needs to be normal. She needs to be.

(They know. How do they know?)

8 o’clock. 9 o’clock. 10 o’clock.

Sunlight fades into dusk, then night. The light switch remains untouched. She hugs the pillow closer to her chest with quaking arms, unable to move beyond trembling. The screen flickers. Maybe it’s her eyelids fluttering. She isn’t sure. She isn’t sure when to laugh anymore. The sound from the TV set reaches her ears as a vague buzzing.

(How do they know? They can’t know —)

Is it 11 o’clock yet?

She can’t move her eyes to look at the clock.

They should be back by now.

Unless they’re not coming back.

Unless they’re not coming back, because they know.

They know she’s not supposed to be alive.

— But she wants to be. She wants to be. They can’t know that. They can’t.

She needs the laughtrack to guide her. Tell me to laugh. Let me be normal. It’s gone. The room seems dimmer. Someone must have turned off the TV. No one else is there, but someone must have. Claudia, or Charon.

No, they’re not here.

Her breaths come shallow, and she is between gasping for air and holding back from heaving. If she opens her mouth the nausea will win out. It’s dark, and — cold. She doesn’t feel the blanket hugging her skin anymore; soft fabric is replaced with rough hands. So that’s why. Her head is being held under water. If she opens her mouth she’ll choke.

She clenches her jaw and wills herself not to breathe.

One week to her birthday.

She is turning ten.

She’s gathered from books and TV shows that ten is an important age. You’re a big kid now! The double digits! — they always smile. They smile like her parents do; real, genuine smiles.

“It’ll be a great party!”

That’s right, sometimes she tells herself they’re planning a party.

“She’ll never expect it!”

That’s right, everything else is just so she won’t expect. She’s seen it on TV plenty of times. It’s someone’s birthday, and everyone pretends they don’t know, and acts cold towards them, but then in the end it’s all so that it can be a big surprise! There are balloons and a cake, and everyone laughs and sings Happy Birthday.

That’s right, she tells herself as fire eats away at old scars to leave new ones, as hot knives dig under her skin, as her head is forced under water. They let her up just before she suffocates each time, and between coughs she interrupts their prayer to ask: what’s gonna happen on my birthday?

Something very special, they tell her, and for a moment she smiles — in spite of the agony, she smiles. It must be true then; a surprise party. All of this, all these years — for a moment she honestly convinces herself that it really had been for the sake of making this birthday special by comparison.

You’re going to die.

That moment ends abruptly.

It’s truly a privilege.

The happiness your death will bring is insurmountable!

That means it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt — insurmountably. She doesn’t know the word, but her father gestures grandly. It must mean a lot. It’s going to hurt a lot.

Sharpened blades dig into her back. It’s going to hurt a lot. The wall of hope blocking off the pain crumbles. She doesn’t want to hurt. She doesn’t want to die. Her chest constricts, but she can’t open her mouth to breathe. She wants to be normal.

She wants to be human.

Humans get to celebrate their tenth birthday as though it is a milestone on the journey of life.

Gods, she learns, must mark it as the finish line instead.

The people circling her laugh.

Why are they laughing? They laugh. They keep laughing.

“Aw, I told you she’d be asleep. That’s so cute!”

She wishes she could sleep through this. All she can do is scream. Can’t they hear her? She opens her mouth to scream louder, but she can’t make a sound — she’s choking.

“Hey, Charon, could you turn off the TV?”

Charon.

The sound shifts into the upbeat laughtrack of an old sitcom.

Claudia and Charon are home.

More than that — she’s home.

She tries to breathe; she does breathe. In, out, in, out. Cautiously, she opens her eyes. The room is brightened with warm, artificial light. On the screen two men hold casual conversation at a kitchen counter. In, out, in, out. Her throat is dry when she speaks.

“H-Hey —”

(She knows.)

Her bones feel brittle, fragile, as though if she moves they might shatter — but she wills herself to turn her head. Claudia looks almost startled, eyes wide, scrambling to hide something behind her back.

“Illness!” She beams at her. “I thought you were asleep.”

She’s hiding something; Illlness can’t focus on anything else. Claudia never lies. She struggles to conjure a reason she would be lying now, until the worst ones come to her unwarranted. 

Her mother steps into her room with something sharp held behind her back. They say it should hurt more when she does not see the injury coming, but she still does not know if this is true; all pain feels the same now. It just hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. 

“W-What are y-you…”

Claudia lips purse into a frown when she follows Illness’ stare. 

(She knows.) 

“You must have heard us talking, huh? I guess it can’t really be a surprise anymore,” A surprise. “Oh well! I promise we’ll find another way to make it special.”

Something very special. 

Her breath catches in her throat. 

You’re going to die. 

“Do you want another blanket? You’re shivering—”

“I-I’m sorry! I-I’m r-really sorry! I-I… I know I was s-supposed to d-die then but — but d-don’t kill me, p-please —!”

There is a soft thud as Claudia’s hands loosen their grip and drop their contents to the floor. 

“Don’t… kill you?” she repeats. 

(They don’t know.) 

Somehow this realisation is worse. 

She doesn’t like the expression painted on Claudia’s face; her usual mirth replaced by a furrowed brow and wide, worried eyes. She casts her gaze away, because she can’t look at this— but Charon is not a much more reassuring sight. The emotion is more muted on him, as all emotions are, but there is something not exactly blank about his stare. They don’t know — didn’t know.

And now she wishes she could repeal the words she’d spoken.

“Uhh,” She shakes her head, pulling her knees tight to her chest. “F-Forget I said that, it’s, uh — I — I…”

“Do you mind taking those bags upstairs, Charon?”

Her voice sounds too serious to belong to her, and her smile is faint as she watches her brother shut the door behind him. 

“I… I d-didn’t mean to say th-that…”

“I know,” She turns back to face her. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t hear it.”

Illness, unable to bear to watch her expression shift any further from a smile, lowers her head and mumbles: “A-Are you, um, are you angry?” 

The silence following this question is longer than she would like. 

“I am angry,” Claudia says, and she feels her eyes sting. “But not with you, Illness. I’m angry with whoever hurt you enough that you’d say that.”

Those boys had been angry too, when they’d saved her. They’d said: we’re angry at them, not you. They’d echoed those same heroic words, and then they’d died. They had been good people, just like Claudia is — too much like Claudia is. No no no no no.

She shakes her head.

“… it’s… it’s fine, really. It’s o-okay, Claudia, I was just being weird, r-right? It’s —”

“It’s not okay,” she interrupts. “It’s not okay that something happened to you to make you think that— that we’d kill you, that you’re supposed to be dead. Illness, you don’t have to tell me about it, but you have to know that it’s not okay.”

She puts a hand on her shoulder, and Illness does not move, does not look up, does not speak. 

“You have to know that it’s not okay, and it’s not true,” That serious edge to her voice has faded into gentle comfort. “Even if you thought that once — I need you to listen, alright? — even if that was the case, it changed the second you became a part of my world.”

She covers her face, hiding unwanted tears. She isn’t supposed to know— and she isn’t supposed to react like this; with kindness, with compassion. 

“You don’t want to die, do you?”

She lifts her head, smudgy eyes wide with surprise. 

“N-No! No, Claudia, I… I really want to keep living. I-I like being alive, e-e-especially now…”

She always has. She’s always wanted to keep living. She wants it terribly and overwhelmingly and selfishly: she has killed for it, she has put herself through hell for it— and recently it has finally begun to seem worth it. Maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s why this fear grips her more than ever. The thought of losing the life she’d longed for now that she finally has it is unbearable. 

“Right — then there’s no ‘supposed to’ about it,” Claudia tells her confidently. “You’re going to keep living, and, unless you decide otherwise, I’m going to make sure no one gets in the way of that.”

It takes a long time for Illness to regain enough composure to nod, but when she does, Claudia smiles and wraps her arm around her shoulder. They sit like this until her shaking calms and her tears dry up, and then she squeezes her arm and says: 

“Hey, can I show you something? It was gonna be for your birthday, but it’s close enough, right? I got you other presents, anyway!”

Illness bites back her fear, and she leads her from the living room, up the hall to the front door and then out onto the driveway. Her reddened eyes light up at the sight. 

“I-It’s Sharky!” 

“We finished filming so I asked if we could keep him. They obviously weren’t going to say no to Claudia Walken!”

“This is the b-best!” she squeaks between sniffles. “It’s t-too good. Thank you s-so much!”

One week to her birthday. 

— And for the first time in seven years she does not have nightmares about it.