#casually reblogging an open woop

[lustresky]

kahit ‘di mo alam [james ‘bucky’ barnes x f!filipina!reader]

summary: After an emotionally taxing mission, you and Bucky share some stories— and maybe also some leche flan along the way.

wc: 5200ish. (might have went to town on this one.. haha woops)

themes: angst (i need to chill tf out i’m sorry:’’/), some fluff ig, happy but kind of ambiguous ending (mayhaps a sequel....), mention of ptsd/trauma, hydra being shitty, bucky trying his best to comfort reader (this is my first time writing him so sorry if he’s kinda ooc..), filipina!reader, also kinda cliché idk

a/n: psa, i do not know how to bake. all i am is your typical filipina girl who has a soft spot for bucky and also thinks that there needs to be more poc centered readers. that is all<3 thanks to @ panlasang pinoy for da leche flan recipe lmao. also! title is a song by december avenue, which i think fits this story. check it out if you want!:]

requests are open! & pls don’t forget to like and reblog, thank you! c:

You hum quietly to yourself, beating the yolks with a silver balloon whisk that Tony had.

Out of all the things that you would never have thought Tony would own when you first joined the team, a full on expensive ass baking set was on the top of the list. Hell, you don’t even think that he’s ever opened the oven door before; but then again, the guy’s loaded, so maybe it wasn’t really a smart idea to wonder what he did or did not own.

Whatever— you thought to yourself. Pondering about what the billionaire did with his money wasn’t really what you should be focusing on right now, anyways.

You continue with the repetitive motion of your hand, stopping once the eggs were smooth. Gradually, you add the condensed milk, followed by the regular milk and then finally, a few teaspoons of vanilla extract. You mix the concoction once more, your bottom lip caught in between your teeth as you focus on the task at hand.

You didn’t hear the gradual shuffling of feet into the kitchen, nor the opening and closing of the refrigerator door; and so you were startled out of your concentration when Bucky Barnes himself ended up in front of you, a bowl of oatmeal in his hands as he positions himself properly on the island chair.

He doesn’t greet you— and honestly, you weren’t expecting him to anyways. You two were never really close; acquaintances at best, with how high both of your walls were built.

You really only knew Bucky from what Steve had shared. You knew that he was part of the Howling Commandos, that he’s Steve’s life long best friend, that HYDRA had brainwashed him and used him against his own will...

Even just thinking about that acronym still makes bile rise up in your throat.

HYDRA had also imprisoned you, beat you, used your body for their own gain. Your stories were similar. Two unwilling and unlucky humans— taken against their own volition, experimented on like a pack of mouse labs, memory and history wiped out to store target information…

You take a breath, trying to steady yourself.

Baking had been the only thing that you remembered from your past. As much as HYDRA tried to erase your history, the memory of your lola’s kitchen came back time and time again, relentless and the only sense of soundness that you found yourself with. The cartons of eggs, the measuring cups, the light dusting of flour all over the table, the rays of the hot afternoon sun peeking through the curtains, the smell of the freshly baked pandesal wafting through the air…

It was comforting, sometimes it was the sole thing that made you calm down. The only pleasant memory that you had left of the simple life that you barely remembered, but greatly missed and longed for.

Hence, before you knew it, you were in the spacious kitchen of the compound; making leche flan to calm your nerves and trying your best to forget what had just happened a few hours ago.

The mission had ended with the team’s victory, sure, but you don’t think that you’ll ever forget the image that had seared itself in your mind. You desperately wanted to forget the sight of Bucky, vulnerable as he lay on the ground with his metal arm torn off of his body, right before an enhanced individual gave him a powerful blow square on his abdomen.

Blood had spluttered out of his mouth, red, bright, coating the brick walls that you were both enclosed in. The mission should’ve been simple: break in, grab the information needed, and then bring said information back. There should’ve only been a few guards. It should’ve been a quick mission— but the sight of Bucky being plummeted with no remorse brought you back memories. Memories that you had tried so desperately to forget.

You bite your bottom lip harder, unintentionally gripping the bowl and whisk in your hands tighter as your arm mixes faster— faster and faster until you suddenly find yourself with a splatter of batter on your cheek.

You groan. Nice one, Y/N, you thought.

You hear a small snicker in front of you and you look up, embarrassed and annoyed. Bucky just stared back at you, a hint of a smirk on his face.

Taking a quick but good look at him, you notice that he had cleaned himself up. His hair was still damp from a shower. It was wavy, pulled back into a small ponytail behind his neck. His face was clear of soot and blood, and he no longer wore his combat outfit.

You can’t help but flicker your eyes over to his left arm, familiarity getting the best of you. You know that you should be rational, but you still feel your shoulders sink as your gaze missed the glint of metal that you were accustomed to.

Bucky senses your wandering eyes. He shakes his head, head dipping back into his bowl of oatmeal. “It isn’t your fault.” He mutters, voice raspy.

You huff, setting down the metal bowl on the marble counter with a bit too much force. You take off your apron and with it, you hastily wipe the splashed part of your face clean; or at least, as clean as you can without a mirror.

“No,” You argue, feeling your throat tighten as the memory and your emotions flashed through your mind once again. You ball up the now dirty apron, throwing it onto the counter. “It is.”

When you had seen him lying on the floor, taking hits every single second, you were unable to move. You had felt helpless, weak... cowardly. It was dumb. You were an Avenger, for Christ's sake. Your life was plenty of danger— seeing people getting hurt had never shook you so hard to the core before. Hell, you survived HYDRA.

Yet the memories were enough to make you freeze up.

Thankfully, Steve had showed up right before the enemy had landed his final blow. If it wasn’t for him, you highly doubted that Bucky would’ve been sitting in front of you right now, casually eating his oatmeal as if he didn’t almost just die a few hours ago.

When Bucky tilted his head up to look at you, ready to retaliate, you stood your ground and stared right back at his light blue eyes. Neither of you said a word.

You were angry. Mad. Furious. At Bucky? Maybe. Him dismissing the fact that you almost let him die and treating your mistake lightly was a thing in its own, but fuck. You were mad at yourself.

You feel incompetent. Useless. You almost let a teammate die, even if physically, you were completely capable of saving them. You drop your head down, unable to continue looking at someone whose life was in your hands just a few moments ago. A life that you were fully capable of protecting, but couldn’t, just because of some stupid fucking memories coming back to haunt you.

Before you know it, a hot tear ran down your cheek— and you hurriedly wiped it away with your arm. Now isn’t time, you hiss at yourself. Baring vulnerability in the middle of the kitchen? Ha. you thought to yourself.

Pathetic.

You grip the edge of the marble tiles, steadying yourself and trying to control your breathing. In and out. In and out. One, two. One, two. It was shaky at first, but after a few seconds of repeating the exercise, you managed to get a loose grip on it. Just enough of a hold to straighten your posture and set aside your mixture, before bolting away from the kitchen and into your bedroom a few doors down the hall.

Once inside, your resolve crumbles. You didn’t even have time to lay on your bed, your legs just giving up and leaving your body down on the carpet. Fresh hot tears ran down like rivers on your face, your nose stuffed, your eyes blurred. Your lungs heaved, just trying its best to give you enough oxygen, but you’re sniffling, your throat’s dry, and your mind’s weary and everything just feels like absolute shit.

You don’t remember how long you had sat there, your legs against your chest, head in your knees and hands on the back of your head as the rest of the water in your body leaves in tears.

You hate feeling like this. Emotional, vulnerable, sensitive… You aren’t supposed to be like this. You have a job. You can’t let your own personal problems get in the way of accomplishing what needed to be done. There isn’t any backing out in what you’re doing. There isn’t a delete nor reverse button. If you fuck up, you fuck up, and that’s that.

Your bedroom door suddenly opens, the unexpected sound making you flinch. Fuck, you forgot to lock it.

Still, you hold your head down against your knees. You don’t want to see anyone right now, you don’t even think that you have any energy left to make a proper conversation. Your throat’s dry, your nose is stuffed, your eyes are sore. You absolutely feel like shit.

The intruder continued their pace, before stopping in front of you. You hear a shuffling of legs, and something being set on your nightstand, until you feel a warm hand lay itself on the side of your left leg. They gave you a couple of soft pats.

From your position, you can’t really see who they are; you had a gut feeling that it was Wanda— but then again it can also be Nat. Or maybe even Steve.

Whoever it was, you know that they’re just trying their best to help, and you appreciate their concern, truly, but you just don’t think you’re capable of talking about something so close to your heart with someone else.

At least, not right now.

Except, you also know that they wouldn’t leave without any verbal cue, and so you force a smile, a truly fake and horrible one as you lift your head up to try and convince whoever it was who decided to check up on you that you’re fine, thanks, and that you just need some space— but as soon as your eyes focused on the person in front of you, your act drops, as the one who you expected the least stared back.

Before you can even ask him to leave, he beats you to it. “Here,” He says, getting up on his knees and retrieving the bottle of water that he had placed on your night stand. “Drink this.”

Wordlessly, you comply. The quench of the water on your tongue clearing your head, hydrating your body back.

Eyes glued to the carpet, unwilling to look anywhere else, you pass him back the glass. Bucky takes it and places it back to where he had originally put it.

He clears his throat. “Listen, Y/N… I— I know that we aren’t really… we aren’t really on the best of terms but— if you want to talk about it, I’m all open ears— but if you want me to leave and forget about this, I’ll head straight out the door.”

“I just—“ Bucky continues, and although your eyes were still fixating on the tufts of wool of your carpet, from the corner of your eye you could still see him shuffle awkwardly on his kneeling position. “I just want you to know that I’m here for you. We all are.”

You… didn’t really know what to say.

Here Bucky was, a soldier, another person who had undergone through HYDRA’s torment, someone whose walls have since been taller then, a teammate who you respected but aren’t close to— hell, barely even really friends with; offering you comfort, a place to vent, a shoulder to let your head rest.

As much as you barely knew him, you feel a pull in you to let him stay.

Bucky, however, takes your silence as refusal. Your eyes catch his legs unfolding from their position, straightening out as he stands up. He doesn’t say anything else as he turns towards the door.

“No, wait—“ You croak, cringing mentally at your voice. Looks like the water didn’t do as well of a job as you thought did. Letting out a much needed sigh, you finally let your gaze strike his, and once it made contact, you saw him. Clearly.

His eyes are cloudy, concern evident in his features. His dark brows are furrowed, lips set in a straight line.

You muster up some courage, and whisper, “Stay.”

Bucky’s expression flickers for a moment, concern turning into total surprise for just a millisecond, and if you had more energy you would have maybe laughed— but you didn’t. Instead, you cast your eyes back to the floor as you hear him shuffle back to you.

He sits to your left, legs crossed, arm on his lap. He doesn’t say anything for a while, the sound of your breathing and his being the only sounds filling your bedroom for a few minutes.

It wasn’t exactly a comfortable silence, some awkwardness from you both definitely seeping through... but nevertheless, your eyes start to get heavy.

Bucky, somehow sensing your current situation, clears his throat— effectively gaining your attention. Your head snaps up to meet his eyes.

“If you want… you can, you know…” He gestures to his right shoulder with his hand. He doesn’t continue his sentence, knowing that you had caught on to his proposition.

Too tired and sleepy to say no, you let out a breath and say fuck it.

You shuffle closer to his body, and as you lean your head down, a wave of fatigue washes over you. You hear Bucky inhale a breath as you finally drop, the left side of your face colliding with his shoulder.

As much as your body was pleading for you to simply close your eyes and just… rest— it still feels too awkward to do so. The silence is deafening, and as much as you appreciate Bucky lowering down his walls just a bit, you can’t help but let the next words tumble out of your mouth;

“What was it like in the ‘40s?”

You feel him stiffen beside you, and for a moment you worry that you had asked for more than you can chew, but within the next second Bucky lets out a small chuckle. He shakes his head slightly, a few strands of his freshly washed hair subsequently grazing over your face. It tickled.

“It was…” He starts, seemingly finding the proper words to say. “It was definitely a different time.” He concludes, sounding nostalgic and full of wistfulness.

His voice: deep and gravelly, began to lull you to sleep. You’ve never heard him quite like this before, often, his words were quick and precise and straight to the point. Never full of sentiment, never so… warm.

You want to hear more. So you hum in response, wanting to know more about his old life, urging him to go on— and go on he did.

He talked about the memories that Shuri had helped him remember from his time in Wakanda. His secret rendezvous, his childhood with Steve, their adventures and misadventures. He went on, his own memories making place in your own mind and pushing aside the ones that had you freezing up before. The ones that had broken you down are now being replaced by silly anecdotes, wistful memories and nonsensical stories.

Without even noticing it, you find yourself asleep on his shoulder, a small smile on your face as Bucky recounts another thought from the past.

You don’t know how long you had fallen asleep, but the crank in your neck was enough to tell you that it might have just been a bit too long. Your bottom aches, sore from the not so cozy flooring, and your back definitely needs to be stretched. Your body hurts, but at least your chest feels lighter.

You lift your head up from Bucky’s shoulder, feeling him flinch from your sudden movement. His head pulls back from its resting place on your wall. He looks back at you, confused.

He meets your eyes, and it seems that he had just woken up as well… had he fallen asleep too?

Bucky just continues gazing into your eyes, and you can’t help but just… stare back. Thankful for his comfort.

“I…” You whisper, about to thank him, until you remember the dessert that you had just hastily cast aside before bolting to your bedroom. “The leche flan!” You cry out, worried— fuck, if you leave it out for too long it could spoil!

Bucky, however, became even more confused at your outburst. You calm yourself down for a moment, letting out a sigh.

“My— uh, my dessert.” You explain, embarrassed. “It could spoil if I leave it out too long— I need to… I need to get back to it.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, thankfully understanding your dilemma, giving you a nod. So you lift your body up, stretching it just a bit, your bones popping themselves back into place.

You’re almost out of your door when you hear footsteps from behind and to no surprise you see Bucky, hair disheveled and lounge clothes wrinkled. You fight an urge to giggle. The all powerful soldier, looking all messy and drowsy... It’s definitely a sight to behold, maybe even a precious one at that.

He runs his hands through his hair, loosening his ponytail and settling his hair tie around his wrist with one hand. You try to ignore the way his fingers easily managed to do that. “If… I mean if you need a hand… I can— help?” He suggests, voice dropping to an unsure whisper by the end of his sentence.

You feel your mouth pull into a small smile, and this time, you let it do so. “Sure.”

So to the kitchen both of you went, a comfortable silence and understanding settling between you two. You quickly spot your metal mixing bowl from before, alone on the island counter. A relieved sigh falls from your lips as you peek an eye into the container to see the mixture untouched.

“So…” You start, grabbing the apron that you had thrown onto the counter in a fury. You don’t bother with getting a new one— it’s only slightly dirty, anyway. You put it on, tying it around your waist and patting it down slightly in less than a second. “Let’s get you an apron, shall we?”

You open the cabinet in which you keep the aprons and pick one up at random, giving it to Bucky with one hand— your back still turned away from him— as you use your other hand to close the door. When you turn back to face him, a complete look of hesitation is on his face.

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

Bucky clears his throat. He looks up at you, and then at his arm, sheepishly. “Can you…?”

Eyes widening, you quickly nod, ashamed that you had forgotten about something so important. “Yes, of course.”

You walk to his side, grabbing the piece of cloth on his hand and positioning yourself behind him. “Here.” You say, grabbing the bib part and looping it around his neck. You brush his hair out of the way, inadvertently appreciating its softness, as the neck ribbon then lays itself properly against his neck. “Arms up.” You order, Bucky complying instantly. Taking the other two pieces of ribbon by his side, you wrap it around his waist and tie it by his back with a small little bow, tightening it just enough for it to not fall off but still be comfortable. “There.”

“Thanks.” He mutters, turning around to face you with a grateful smile, hair swishing as he did so. You smile, but then you realize that he should probably tie it just so that it won’t get dirty or in the way.

Before you know it, you ask him, “Want me to tie your hair, too?”

Bucky’s eyes widened, and upon realizing what you had just said too, your eyes did the same. Was that too much? You quickly open your mouth, desperately trying to apologize. “I’m just— it could get dirty or in the way if you don’t… and doing it with one hand must be…” You explain, inwardly cringing at your own words and not even trying to finish your statement.

Thankfully, Bucky quickly catches up to what you were trying to say. He flashes you a reassuring grin. “I would appreciate it, doll.”

You tried to ignore the butterflies swarming in your stomach at that little nickname.

Getting the hair tie from his wrist, you desperately ignore the way your hands brushed against his. You angle your body towards his back once more, raking your hands softly in his hair, grabbing it gently and putting it into a comfortable ponytail.

“Thanks again,” He turns around to face you, gratitude clear in his eyes. You just smile back at him, feeling the heat creep up to your face. Thank God your skin doesn’t easily show colour.

You had never been this close to him before— and the bedroom incident (You had decided to label that... ’moment’ in your mind like that as of right now.) just a few minutes ago didn’t quite count as you weren’t looking at him, nor were you a hundred percent conscious during that encounter.

Before things get even more awkward, you quickly turn your body back to the kitchen island. “Well then— let’s continue with this, shall we?” You announce, wanting to just calm your feverishly beating heart and the rise of heat in your cheeks. Maybe agreeing to let him bake with you isn’t as good of an idea as you had thought.

Bucky just gave a hum as a response, and so you went about and explained to him each and every step that needed to be done. Thankfully, you had already finished mixing up the batter, and so now all you really had to do was heat up the sugar, pour the batter into the moulds, and then steam it all up. Just three more steps and you’re done.

“So,” You start, grabbing the metal containers that you had already pulled out from the cabinets before you had started. “This—” You lift one up, pointing at it with your index. “Is called a llanera. What we’re basically going to do is pour some sugar in it, heat that up until it’s nice and brown and syrup-y, and then we add the batter. Got it?”

“A yah-neh-rah?” Bucky asks, rolling the word over his tongue, getting the feel of it. You smile at his well-executed attempt.

“Yep,” You reply, placing the mould down onto the counter. You grab the sugar jar and a tablespoon, dipping it into the container and sprinkling a generous amount all over the metal container. “Actually— I’ll heat up the sugar and then you can pour the batter in, that sound good to you?”

Bucky just gave a hum once more, signalling his approval of your plan.

After about two tablespoons, you put it aside and walked towards the stove top, Bucky following beside you in earnest with the metal bowl containing the egg mixture in his arm. Turning the dial up, you put on an oven mitt as you wait for the range to get hot enough; and once it does, you hold the metal tin a few centimetres away from the top of the burner. Within minutes, the sugar caramelizes, turning into the familiar, brown syrup.

The scent that then fills the kitchen is heavenly, pure sugar wafting through the air. You hear Bucky sniff, and you let out a smile, happy that he liked it too.

You place the hot tin onto a cooling rack. “Your time to shine.” You smile up at Bucky, motioning for him to go ahead and pour the batter in.

With a gentle and cautious hand, Bucky slowly tilts the bowl into the mould, the creamy mixture pouring itself out. After a few seconds, you say, “Okay… that’s good— you can stop now.” He swiftly follows your instruction, stopping when there‘s only 2 or more so centimetres left in the pan before the batter touches the rim. He looks up at you, expectant.

Before you know it, the thought passes by your mind. How cute.

Biting your lip, you set aside the flutter in your stomach. You give him a huge grin. “That was great,” You praise him, genuine pride rushing through you. “Now let’s finish the other ones, shall we?”

Bucky and you then continued on, filling the rest of the llaneras up. It was a pleasant experience, discomfort and awkwardness not present at all while both of you worked on your respective tasks. It was… soothing, you could say.

“Nice!” You cheer, clapping your hands together as Bucky finishes filing the last of the moulds, setting down the empty metal bowl in the sink right after. “Now, let’s cover it with aluminium foil and then we can steam it and eat it.” You grin up at Bucky, who simply nods back at you.

You grab the aluminum foil, eyeballing the sizes for each of the containers. It doesn’t really matter anyway, they just had to be big enough to cover the pans. Within a few, quick minutes, all of the llaneras were ready to be steamed.

Opening up the steamer, you place three of the moulds in— mentally telling yourself that you should ask Tony to buy more steamers so that you can simply just cook the next batch of leche flans all at once. You then close the handle, setting it on medium heat and the self timer on. “There.” You announce, hands unintentionally going to and resting at your hips, proud.

You face Bucky, who seem to be just as proud as you are. It seems like he had something on his mind, though, and so you tilt your head. Curious. “Something on your mind?” You ask.

He hums, hand going back to scratch the nape of his neck. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to…” He starts, giving you a reassuring smile to show you that he meant it. “But… how’d you learn how to bake?”

Your breath hitches in your throat at his question, caught off guard as the answer flashes in your mind. To say you were surprised was an understatement. You had assumed that he would ask you when the leche flan would be finished— not about your… past.

Though, you figure that he deserves to know about your history, now that you basically know all about his own. He had recounted his entire life to you just an hour or two ago, after all. It’s only appropriate that you share some of your own life with him back.

You let your hands fall from your waist, resting them in front of your stomach as you fiddled with them as you compose your answer. “Well—“ You start, taking a deep breath. Bucky, patiently, urges for you to go on with a small nod. “I don’t— I don’t really remember much from my past… just a few memories here and there.” You take a pause.

“But— there had always been this one memory, which… always stood out from the rest.” You bite your lower lip, the recollection taking place in your mind, making you smile. “I was in my lola’s— my grandma’s kitchen, dough in my hand and flour everywhere and we were—“ You feel your throat tightening up, making you take another pause. Bucky, still as patient as ever, gives you a small smile and wordlessly urges for you to go on. “We were making pandesal… a type of bread…” You continue, smiling, remembering the sticky hands and the rays of the hot southeast sun passing by the blinds. “It was a calm afternoon… just me and her, baking...”

“That’s all I really remember of her, and so I… every time I feel overwhelmed or every time I’m having a bad day I just— bake.” You conclude, looking up at him. There was more to the story, more that you have yet to tell him, memories that are still hard to share; but even with the small piece of it leaving your chest, your whole body feels lighter, grateful for having been listened to.

Bucky just stares back at you, respect evident on his face, a small smile still on his lips. “I’m… thankful that you shared that with me, Y/N.” He says, and as your name rolls off his tongue, you can’t help but smile back.

You were about to say something, but the moment was cut off by the steamer's angry beeping. You let out a small giggle as you see Bucky flinch. “Well— let’s check up on those lil’ things, shall we?”

Opening up the steamer and waving the steam away from your face, your mouth waters at the sight before you. They looked perfect.

Quickly grabbing a serving plate, you take one of the tins out and place it upside down on the ceramic— it would probably be even better if you let it cool down first in the fridge, but you can hardly wait. You give it a couple of taps, stopping once you hear the familiar ‘plop’ sound.

You take off the llanera, and a pristine and perfect looking leche flan greets you back. You hear Bucky hum in approval beside you as you take out a fork, getting a slice. Turning to your side and raising the utensil up at him, you ignore the slowly rising heartbeat in your rib cage as you muster up the courage to say, “Want the first bite?”

Bucky seemed to be taken aback at first, and for a moment you fret that you might have overestimated and overstepped your boundaries, but a small nod from him eases your worry. Lifting it up to his mouth, he lets you give him the slice. You decide to ignore the intimacy of the moment, as is the heat in your cheeks; instead focusing on his expression.

He doesn’t show nor say anything at first; and you furrow your eyebrows. Was it too sweet for his taste? Had you accidentally let some egg whites mix in with the yolks?

Before you have the chance to ask him what he thought of it, Bucky swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as his lips curled into a huge grin. “Damn... that’s really good Y/N.”

Relief rushing through you at his approval, you laugh, happy that he likes it. Not wasting another second, you open your mouth and give yourself your own slice; savouring the creaminess and sweetness of the desert. It tasted heavenly.

Looking back at Bucky, you startle yourself out of your sweet paradise as he stared back at you. Light blue— almost cerulean— eyes gazing back into yours.

“Thank you.” were the only words out of his mouth, but that still didn’t stop your heart from fastening it’s pace nor the butterflies from welcoming themselves into your stomach.

His deep and raspy voice clearly enunciated every single emotion, and you know, deep in your heart, that he wasn’t just talking about the dessert.

You smile back at him, eyes crinkling, as you say, “You’re welcome.”

[walkingshcdow-a]

🔥 gimme the salt on poto

Satly Saturday | Buckle Up. | Accepting!

Do you want ALL THE SALT or just some of it? Because i feel like I could write a dissertation on everything wrong with PotO and, more specifically, the Phandom and be only a diploma shy from my doctorate. 

One of the things I’m incredibly angry about is that it is still an “unpopular opinion” that Meg Giry is anything but blonde and white. In the novel, she is described as “swarthy” with dark hair and eyes, but even if that were not the case, who does it harm to headcanon her as a WoC? I think it is much more damaging to ascribe white traits and white traits only to her, not only because in the Leroux text, she is not white, but because other interpretations of PotO, whether they be the stage show or a roleplay portrayal, should be more open to diversity in general. The world is diverse. And the world was diverse in the 19th century. Historians, novelists, and filmmakers tend to whitewash history and create a false monolith of Europe and the Americas, except when it furthers a particular narrative (typically revolving around the American South, even when the American South has no bearing on a story, like PotO, which takes place in a different country altogether). It’s disgusting. 

The thing that gets me, though, is that the Phandom largely just accepts that Meg Giry is white and blonde. That’s the way it is in the stage show and since stage shows (and their subsequent film adaptations) are visual mediums, whereas novels rely on imagination, it’s “easier” to use images from the show to make aesthetics, fan art, etc. about Meg. It’s pure laziness most of the time; ignorance in other instances. This, to me, is dangerous in a different way than adamantly demanding Meg Be White for thinly veiled reasons tied up in racism. We know the latter is wrong. We take people to task on the latter. We demand more and better from our fandoms than casual, but intentional, racism. When it’s unintentional… or when it’s intentional because 99 percent of media including Meg Giry whitewashes her, we still hit that like button or that reblog button, instead of demanding better from our fandoms. I’m not calling for people to spam content creators with vitriol over their blonde, cherubic Meg Girys. I am calling for people to create more black Meg Girys, more Asian Meg Girys, more Jewish Meg Girys, more Latina Meg Girys, more Middle Eastern Meg Girys. Take what precious little Leroux gave us about her and expand your interpretation. Be kind to interpretations that are racially/ethnically different than the norm, or even than your own. The headcanons someone is posting about a Romani Meg Giry might be their way of connecting their own heritage to the text, of seeking representation that was hinted at in the book and destroyed in later interpretations. The fan art of a black Meg Giry might be a young woman’s way of seeing herself or her friends or her sisters in an art form (ballet) that has traditionally been unkind to WoC. Meg as a woman of color is so important - especially when you dare to mash up Leroux with ALW because the traits they each give her, when put together, create a complex and nuanced young woman that anyone might be happy to identify with. Whitewashing her takes that opportunity away from fans, especially young fans, who do not otherwise see themselves reflected in this beautiful melodrama. Ad who wants to be the gate keeper to a world of fun and joy? The ones we should be taking to task are the casting directors of PotO productions - especially in the US and UK, since those shows are most widely seen and publicized. Not just the ALW show (although I do hold the ALW show responsible for whitewashing Meg in the first place), but future productions of PotO by other creators. 

I also think that for people who aren’t fans of Meg, who don’t pay her much mind, don’t understand why this is such a contentious issue for those of us who love her, whether we love her from Leroux, Webber, or another iteration. For me, the version I take issue with is the ALW version… largely because I believe ALW Meg to be a composite of Meg Giry, La Sorelli, and Cecile Jammes from the Leroux novel. You see traits of each woman reflected in ALW Meg. She’s aged up, perhaps not prima ballerina, but a principal dancer. She’s superstitious, but level-headed. Kind, almost maternal, but bubbly and fun. She’s bold and fascinated by the strange goings-on around her. If ALW had wanted to give her the blonde, blue-eyed good looks of a Barbie Doll, he would have done better to name her after Jammes, who has a peaches and cream complexion in the novel. He could have even named her after Sorelli, though this move would have been more difficult, since Sorelli was a principal dancer and not the daughter of one of Erik’s employees. No. He chose to name her after Meg Giry and elevate her to secondary character status. The least he could have done was make her look the part. It would not have been the first time a principal cast member in an ALW was a PoC. Ben Vereen played Judas in the Broadway debut of JCS. So, why so scared to cast a black woman (or, really, any WoC) as Meg Giry? Come on, ALW. Would it have been so hard? It could have started the conversation about race in period dramas or the conversation about racism in the fine arts (especially ballet) twenty or thirty years earlier. And even if it didn’t, PotO would still be the beautiful leviathan it is today. 

Of course, I know that in a post-LND world, a lot of people have bigger complaints about Meg Giry’s treatment in modern stagings. I agree with them - the characterization of Meg Giry in LND is painful to watch. It’s inconsistent with what we know of her in the original show; it certainly is divorced from the novel in all ways. The flaws with Meg’s character in LND have nothing to do with the fact that she’s made into a sex worker (although that choice is questionable from a narrative standpoint, not a moral one. What does it add to Meg’s arc that she sold herself to help buy Phantasma? The implication that we’re meant to see her as lesser than Christine for it is the real moral quandary, But I digress). Rather, the flaws with Meg’s character stem from her being inconsistent with all previous and recognizable versions of her character and with the anti-feminist need to pit two women, who were previously the best of friends, against each other over a man… Not even a man who treats one or both of them right… like… it pits two best friends against each other over an abusive narcissist. It does no characters any favors, least of all poor Meg, who is made out to be needy, jealous, emotionally unstable… It does a poor job getting from Point A to Point B. 

This bastardization of Meg’s character would probably seem like a great bullet to dodge, insofar as representation goes. I think it would be absolutely disgusting to cast a black woman as LND Meg, due to all the negative stereotyping that would end up clouding even the best performance. However, LND was not the commercial or critical success ALW hoped it would be. Not even close. It underwent a lot of rewritings, still was not highly successful, and (by and large) disappoints both fans of the original story and newcomers to the PotO story. It is nowhere near the cultural phenomenon that PotO is. And so, then, again I ask - why have we not seen a WoC in the role of Meg? It’s only very recently that we’ve seen PoC in the roles of Christine, the Phantom, and Raoul. Meg is still depicted as white. I’m hoping that the trend of diversifying Broadway is more than a trend, but instead a cultural shift in how Broadway appeals to the masses. I hope to see a WoC play Meg (and Madame Giry, who I’ve neglected to mention until now, woops) within my lifetime. 

Honestly, I think that I only really started thinking about this critically two years ago when my Salt Squad and I got talking about representation in the Phandom, particularly in the RPC. I was rereading Leroux at the time and meditating on Kay (as one does) in my spare time and it occurred to me that if I wanted to see some change in the Phandom, I had to be a part of the side I wanted to see prevail. I had to be some of the change I wanted to see in the Phandom. So I took up Meg as a muse. I’m starting to see more and more racially diverse Megs in the Phandom and that thrills me. I want to @fillescharmxnt because her Meg is what I aspired for mine to be in so many ways. There are plenty of other fanartists, fic writers, and aesthetic makers who are doing such great things with recontextualizing Meg Giry for the 21st century.

I do want to include this disclaimer, though: just because someone is roleplaying, writing, drawing, headcanoning Meg as white, doesn’t mean that their ideas are without merit. There are plenty of very talented artists, writers, and bloggers who depict Meg as white. My goal is not to shame them - a lot of them do great work, both from a technical and emotional standpoint - but rather to invite them to the conversation about Meg Giry, race, and representation. I urge these fans to challenge their notions about Meg Giry and to be open to accepting ideas that are different from theirs. Even those of us who HC Meg as a WoC enjoy and support content with blonde Meg (like… can we talk about the Brazilian actress with the freckles?!). All I ask is that fans of white Meg Giry enjoy and support content with black/Asian/Jewish/Romani/Latina/Middle Eastern/Other Meg Giry in return. 

Fans can question the media they consume. Fans can challenge the media they consume. But at the end of the day, it is the media that we create and ask to be created that make the most difference. The only way media gets created is if there is a demand for. Be willing to demand a more inclusive, more historically accurate depiction of Meg Giry and you will be rewarded with a creative explosion of fan created content.