#i just have to live with that. you and university policies are the reasons i have to live with that

[aromacaque]

genuinely what do professors even expect mentally ill people to use as a reason/valid excuse? like i'm sorry i didn't finish the assignment for the class that i am paying for and it's causing detriment to my own well being over you, and now you're scolding me for it, i'm not even trying to come up with some fabricated excuse or anything i'm just honestly telling you i didn't do it. why? didn't have the energy. why? i'm not telling you that in a class full of people that can overhear our conversation. why? oh, well i'm definitely not telling you in the crowded hallway that gives me significantly less privacy than the classroom. WHY? because i didn't have the energy!!! i don't know. i just didn't do the fucking assignment man. i don't have anything else to say.

[afloweroutofstone]

Hiii, I am curious to learn more about your personal politics. Are u socialist of democractic socialist? Do you reject Marxism–Leninism? Are you more of a reformist of revolutionary?

Over time I've moved away from talking about my own ideology on here for a variety of reasons (I have lots of disparate influences and there's no label I 100% identify with, everyone loves to start heated fights on here, it seemed a bit self-absorbed, etc.) But considering that it has been years since I've really made any attempt at laying out what my viewpoint is, it might make sense to do so again.

There are three terms you could fairly use to describe my views:

I am a democratic socialist because I think that the people should be able to collectively decide upon their shared fate, and that democracy is superior to both political dictatorship and capitalist oligarchy. (See Eugene Debs, Michael Harrington, etc.)

I am a liberal socialist because I believe that socialism is the logical extension of historical liberalism as an attempt at liberating people from existing hierarchies and authoritarianism. (See Carlo Rosselli, John Rawls, etc.)

I am a social democrat because I believe that the potential for successfully achieving transformative change through aggressive action within the presently existing system is drastically larger than the potential for a successful proletarian revolution, mass insurrection, etc., etc. (See Eduard Bernstein, Jean Jaurès, etc.)

This all puts me very firmly in the reformist camp of the reform vs. revolution debate. I would not consider myself a Marxist, although there are ways in which Marx's thought has influenced my own both directly and through the thought of others in the broader Marxist tradition.

In further detail:

I am a market socialist who believes in a large welfare state that provides for everyone's basic needs from cradle to grave; workplace democracy through widespread cooperatives and strong labor unions; progressive reforms to redistribute wealth more evenly; full employment; the reorganization of the global economy to eliminate present injustices; the diminishment of corporate power; strategic public ownership in certain key sectors; and the provision of opportunities for everyone to live their lives in the way that they desire.

I am a democrat who believes in an equal opportunity for everyone to influence public policy, including the periodic chance for the people to freely select their own leadership from amongst a variety of different choices, without unfair restrictions, corrupt financing by the wealthy, domination of the process by a political elite, or external interventions.

I am an anti-militarist opposed to armed conflict in any and every scenario where it can be avoided; an anti-imperialist opposed to the abuses of all powerful governments which take advantage of others and impose their will upon them; and an internationalist who believes in a democratic system of multilateral diplomacy and equitable exchange in which all countries can resolve their differences peacefully and cooperate for the common good.

I am a progressive who believes in an egalitarian culture that values every single person equally, abolishes rigid social hierarchies like patriarchy and white supremacy, welcomes immigrants, embraces secularism to separate church from state, and provides for the full rights and liberties of all peoples.

I am a civil libertarian who believes in the universal right of all people to fundamental liberties (speech, belief, protest, press, association, etc.) and protections from authoritarianism (privacy, government transparency, a fair legal system, limits to detention, humane treatment of prisoners, rule of law, anti-discrimination policies, demilitarized state security forces, etc.)

I am an environmentalist who believes in a just transition that ends our dependence on fossil fuels and establishes a green economy that minimizes (and even reverses) the damage of climate change; ensures clean air, water, and land; preserves natural ecosystems; and provides for everyone's needs in a sustainable fashion.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Canada, Truth & Reconciliation, & Indigenous Games

Hello friends,

Today (September 30th) is the National Day of Truth & Reconciliation in Canada. It is a very recent holiday in this country, and it’s also very important to me. I want to spend some time today telling you about it, and then (since this is a ttrpg blog) directing you to some indigenous storytellers and designers that deserve a spotlight for various reasons.

I am not Indigenous. This information is a collection of knowledge that I have gained through university coursework, personal research I've undertaken, and relationships I've cultivated with indigenous friends who have taken pains to educate me and highlight how these issues have personally affected them. I am aware that the summary I'm providing is incomplete, and there may be elements that I don't fully understand the implications of.

If you are Indigenous, please keep in mind that this post may recall some painful and personal moments of history for you. Proceed with caution. The shout-outs to indigenous creators can be found after the heading “The Storytellers.”

The Truth.

Canada has been engaged in a cultural genocide of its indigenous peoples since European settlers started the colonization of the country. This genocide had many avenues, including the creation of the Indian Act, the relocation of many Indigenous peoples to restricted Reserves, and a disturbing trend of missing and murdered Indigenous women. For the purposes of today however, I’m going to stick to just talking about Residential Schools, and the impact they had on Indigenous families and their children.

Residential schools were designed to “kill the Indian” and “save the child”, in the words of John A Macdonald, the prime minister who authorized their creation. They were designed to sever Indigenous children from their culture and raise them in a Christian, colonial context. These residential schools were harsh, forbidding Indigenous children to speak their mother tongues, cutting their hair, and forcing them to learn skills considered “useful”, in the language of the colonizer, away from their parents. The schools were also hotbeds of abuse. Alarming numbers of children fell ill and died at these schools - the death toll to this day is unknown. From April 1, 1920 to some time in the 1990’s, residential school attendance was mandatory for Indigenous children from the ages of 7 to 16.

The Sixties’ Scoop is a reference to a mass kidnapping of Indigenous children in the 1950’s and 60’s, who were forcibly removed from their homes and “adopted” into non-Indigenous families. While the last residential school in Canada closed in 1997, Indigenous children still make up over 50% of all children in private foster care, despite only accounting for just over 7% of all children under age 15 in Canada.

The Reconciliation.

Reconciliation is a goal prompted by Indigenous groups and elders. It is a choice that promotes "balance and harmony," a way of life that encourages coexistence, according to the words of one residential school survivor, Hereditary Chief, Dr. Robert Joseph.

In 2007, The Indian Residential Schools Settlement came into effect, offering compensation to survivors of many residential schools.

In 2008, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada was officially launched, intended to be a guide for the Canadian government to help establish lasting reconciliation. This commission was a way to formalize a method of collecting data, and it also had the responsibility of developing a list of recommendations for the country of Canada to follow, in the goal of pursuing a relationship between the Indigenous peoples of Canada and the government of Canada.

In 2007, Cindy Blackstock, a First Nations (Gitxsan) activist launched a court case against the Canadian government, for under-funding social services provided to children living on First Nations reservations. This was in regards to Jordan’s Principle, a child-first Canadian policy that is meant to ensure that First Nations children have equal access to all government funded public services as other Canadian children. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission made the respect of Jordan’s Principle one of its 94 Calls to Action for the Canadian government.

The Canadian Human Rights Tribunal became involved in 2016, when they found more alleged breaches of the Canadian Human Rights Act in regards to Jordan’s Principle. As of September this year, the Federal Government is still attempting to dismiss human rights complaints regarding the use (or, in fact, neglect) of Jordan’s Principle.

Canada’s history of residential schools and use of the foster care system has grievously wounded Indigenous families and children. The disruption of family life and the forcible removal of children from their culture has created legacies of loneliness, pain, and suicide. Indigenous people today can trace their own familial wounds to the legacy of residential schools and the lack of resources provided to them from the government. The National Day of Truth and Reconciliation is a day to remember this legacy and provide a space for education, but it isn’t enough.

You can learn more about this day and the history behind it by visiting the National Centre for Truth and Reconciliation Website.

You can also watch this 18-minute Youtube video about Residential Schools, or We Can’t Make the Same Mistake Twice, a free 2 & 1/2 hour documentary about Blackstock's continuous fight regarding caring for children using Jordan’s Principle.

I also recommend 21 Things You May Not Know About The Indian Act, by Mary-Ellen Kelm and Keith D. Smith, which breaks down some of the key elements of the Indian Act for everyday person.

So, how do we connect this to ttrpgs?

When it comes to the milestones that have been achieved in Canadian history, those milestones have been made because we listened to Indigenous voices. The recommendations made by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission that have been followed are having real and positive effects for Indigenous peoples in Canada. Listening to the stories of Residential School survivors has been integral to the processes recommended and undertaken by the Canadian government.

We need Indigenous stories. We need Indigenous storytellers.

The Storytellers

Coyote & Crow.

Coyote & Crow Games is a tabletop games publisher, primarily focused on the tabletop roleplaying game, Coyote & Crow. This is a world and game whose design team is fully Indigenous, from various First Nations people groups across North America. Coyote & Crow is a futuristic game about a land untouched by colonization, a land changed by a series of climate events that have changed the geographical and social landscape. It involves supernatural powers, a completely unique form of civil organization, and a unique d12 dice pool system

In a recent update, Connor Alexander, as the face of Coyote & Crow, announced some business decisions that include a creation of a consultant branch of the company, to provide professional consultation services for other creative endeavours that are looking to include Indigenous Representation in games.

What I love most about Coyote and Crow is that it’s a world where Indigenous creators have been given full reign over the ways they are represented in the fiction, and it provides a unique social and political imagining of society that pulls from many First Nations cultures. It’s refreshing, it’s exciting, and it provides a lot of guidance for non-Indigenous players so that they can engage with the world in a way that’s respectful.

Wendigo Workshop

This is a small team based in Quebec, Canada. I’m not entirely sure whether the team is fully Indigenous, but there are Indigenous creators as part of the team.

Currently the Workshop is working on a number of different games, including… Anomaly Hunters; a monster hunting ttrpg built on the Breathless SRD. Arkelon Chronicles; a science-fantasy ttrpg surrounding the discovery of an Alien ruin. Last Hope; a Caltrop Core game about magical girls fighting to protect the world while balancing their student lives.

Bramble Wolf Games

@sahonithereadwolf is an Indigenous creator based in Appalachia looking to make games that mean something. I found out about him through his game Exceptionals, a game about community, activism and kinetic eye beams. It’s inspired heavily by X-Men, but instead of telling superhero stories, it’s more about the fostering of a community outside of the systems created and enforced by colonial governments.

Sahoni is also currently working on a game called Protect the Sacred, a game inspired by Indiana Jones, but focused on the protection and preservation of monsters and artifacts in the interests of the cultures that have been stolen from by colonial powers. The game is about your relationship to your culture, and resistance to fascism - and you can get sneak peeks to this game through Sahoni’s Patreon.

Both Protect the Sacred and Exceptionals involve character creation that requires players to answer questions about who they are, what they do, and how they affect the community around them. They both recognize the community around you as integral to your success, and I think that this point of view is such an important concept to consider when using games as an art form that can expand your social imagination.

Also...

There is a consultancy service in Alberta, Canada called Pe Matawe Consulting, which is not focused specifically on ttrpgs, but does provide consulting for various creative endeavours. They provide consulting services as well as workshops, with the goal of providing a broader understanding of Indigenous culture and folklore.

[moondrafts]

Living with children

── Gon and killua as roommates .ᐟ.ᐟ

note: just finished crying for an hour because I have to do a stupid essay and I am so stressed It wasn’t only until I actually stepped outside(yes, I do go outside.) for the first time in days did I realize I think I can do this but oh well that’s my problem lol once again, ladies and gentlemen, have a great day <33

⤷ it was simple graduate, university and get out, but no, you just had to get accepted into one of the most prestigious universities, the world had to offer, and you weren’t a fan of moving halfway across the world for education, but safe to say you just had to

⤷ It wasn’t like you didn’t like the male species. You just didn’t like certain type of guys and that itself just wasn’t in the cards for you when you somewhat got to your dorm and had to see a shirtless white hair, dude(I mind you with abs—)

⤷ you’re soul left your body when you figured out that you weren’t Bunked with females no you were with guys they weren’t that bad. It’s just one acted like an absolute sweetheart while the other acted like a absolute ass it was no wonder when you discovered they were best friends

-And over these last few months you had to develop rules and that was a nightmare

— the no shirt policy it was no secret that guys walked around with no shirts on, but this was your home to so you invented that every time you saw your roommates without their shirt on, you would just ambiguously throw their shirts at their faces and one was not pleased while the other was just nice about it

“Hey Gon—ow!”

“put a shirt on nobody wants to wants to see your abs at 3 AM and particularly not me so please put the shirt on”

“why don’t we all just calm do—ouch!!”

“ don’t think you’re safe either”

…

“you have a date? That’s surprising.” Kil commented in his signature, the detesting tone, although there was no real surprise in his tone, but only irritation you couldn’t help but wonder why because he was doing perfectly fine two minutes ago because he was playing on his switch

“do you really think I can’t get no bitches?” you snapped back turning your head towards him, as if it was an instinct of all people in the world you couldn’t help but wonder who hurt this guy cause why was he insulting you at this time of hour

“Can we not? It’s 10 at night People are sleeping…” gon asked nobody in particular he was exasperated. No, he was exhausted from hearing your voices but he couldn’t do anything. He was your roommate and to be Frank. He just didn’t want another World War III.

“short answer, yeah” Kil smirked nodding his head in the way that he only showed you and only pissed you off more. He was mean he really was and the only reason that kept you from punching him was the no violence policy strangely gon invented

‘Does this dude really wanna see Jesus earlier?’ You mentally asked yourself because now you was subconsciously clenching the plastic water bottle in your hand in the way that made it break in half and subconsciously triggered probably another World War III

“Okay..Kil please state why you don’t want (name) to go on this date because clearly you are showing too much aggression..” Gon announced trying to mediate the situation, but he only made it worse like everyone appreciates your efforts, but it only makes the situation rest. Good job though good job.

“it’s simple really.. she can’t hold a normal conversation without plainly lashing out the guy at this point she’s going to scared to do the way with how scary and hideous she looks, and don’t forget the tantrum issues..” kil stated bluntly as he can feel your gaze, and it was not pleasant as he just stated facts, not truths but facts but no, it was just insults because every time he opened his mouth he just had to insult either you or any other person besides Gon

You didn’t act on violence because that would be childish, but instead wordlessly, you just walked to your room and shut the door

He made you feel small but now he just insulted you you would’ve thought he was actually being mean if he wasn’t trying to prove a point but no, you can’t understand men because they are just plain complicated or downright stupid in the way they communicate

“you just fucked up.. dude she isn’t gonna cook us dinner..” Gon complained now that’s what he was worried about dinner. It was hilarious. They just upset their roommate and he was worried about fuckin dinner. Classic avoidant.

“i’ll take care of that. We can just order takeout and sure I upset the hag. It’s fine. She’s a psycho. Her mood will switch and tomorrow she won’t be mad at us.” Kil mumbled as he knew this time, he was going to have to leave to takeout at your door because was he going to let you starve? no but he did blatantly insult your life so might as well get you your favourite right?

because after all he succeeded in proving his point, not that you suck that social interaction but he made you miss that date, didn’t he?

it was his way of saying that that guy wasn’t good for you because of course did he stalk the guys page?yes, was he going to ever tell you that? no

And besides

He and gon collectively agreed that they both dead ass wouldn’t let you go on any dates

Because why would they let go of what was already theirs?

And it wasn’t until you had somewhat come out of that room to get a glass of water. a small takeout bag and a small bouquet of flowers sitting on the ground in front of your door 

With a note that said “sorry for being absolute a dick the flowers were gon’s ideas not mine”

You smiled

But why the hell would they get your flowers?

You were so dense it’s not as if your roommates had feelings for you or something.

©𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒔 2025

[under-loch-n-key]

Hi everyone. Obviously everyone has seen the news and read the polls and obviously you can tell that we’re likely cooked.

For some reason our country wants to elect the Mango Menace and his gaggle of orange stained goons once again.

I am terrified for myself, my loved ones, my country, our climate, and just everything.

However, I’d like to tell the LGBTQIA+ community these things because I know we are terrified right now.

What happened today, it’s devastating. It angers me too. Some of my closest family voted for that horrible man. I don’t think I can look at them the same way anymore. Especially, when they hold no guilt or remorse about it even after I explained his policies to them. What do I know, I guess.. 🤷🏻‍♂️🙄

However, as a queer, trans man in this little community, I want ALL of the LGBTQIA+ people who will see this post to know that things will be alright. We all have each other. We know we exist here in the states even if none of us have met. We EXIST.

Just because those orange stained dunderheads want to silence us doesn't change the fact that we exist. We do. We always will. Bigotry cannot fight facts and science. We'll always exist. The only time trans people won't exist is when the human race dies out. Even then, we have other animal species that are queer and trans. No matter what, we will always exist in nature. They cannot change that. They cannot take that from us. Do not lose hope. Even though it's really fucking hard not to.

Do not lose it. The fact that you and I exist is a beacon of hope to another trans and queer person. We exist. None of us want to be left here alone. So we must go on. We must continue to exist. Things WILL be okay. I'll always keep fighting and living for you and every one of my trans and queer brothers, sisters, and siblings.

You existing and simply being here is a beacon of hope to me. Someone who has understands how I'm feeling. Someone who is LIKE me but so different at the same time.

In the grand scheme of the universe, we are very small. However, even though it's small, the fact is that it EXISTS. It's so fucking small in this big void of the cosmos but we're here. We're made of similar components as stars, ones that had to die for us to exist.

I like to think of the sky as when humanity was truly equal. When we were just atoms in the big ol' void, ya know? We didn't fight. We didn't give a shit about all of this stuff. We were allll different types of stars and matter. We were all random as hell, but we just WERE. We coexisted peacefully together in the universe.

Now that those stars are dead as a door nail and some dumb fishy bastard decided to get curious and walk on land, we're all human. Humanity fucking sucks ass sometimes but it's also such a beautiful fucking thing. No matter what happens, a part of us will always exist.

Our existence is embedded in the universe. Nothing can change that. So, please keep living. Be safe, but keep living. Always keep fighting. We belong here just like anyone else.

You belong. You are loved. You are cherished. You are noticed by me and other people here. We all understand each other. So keep going. Again, one day we will all have a better tomorrow. I swear to fucking god or whatever the hell is out there, if anything, however it's unlikely, I will ALWAYS keep fighting for you and WITH you.

Every protest l attend. Every petition I sign. Every time I vote. Every time I go to pride. Every time l simply leave my home as I am. I am doing it for you and all of us. Our people WILL have our damn tomorrow. I'm sick of us not having it. I swear to you we will. So, again, please keep going. Keep fighting. Keep living. Exist. Your existence may be a threat to some bigoted fucker but your existence is precious to someone else. Please do not let them take your right to exist away from you. Keep going.

We’ll have a better tomorrow, the one that we deserve eventually, but we just need get through the hard, bumpy, dirty road first.

Again, we will be okay. Everything will be okay. We’ll get through it. Yes, unfortunately, we will likely see suicide rates and hate crime rates go up and that's disgusting and just all types of awful and depressing. It angers me beyond words.

However, we are strong.

We shouldn't have to be strong though.

What we should be and need to be is loved, accepted, warm, fed, have shelter, and are safe.

For now though, we remain strong. You will always have a place here.

You will live. You will not die, hun. I know the thought creeps in and believe me, I understand. Those thoughts creep in for me too, but we must learn to try to control them. If there's anything I know about us trans and queer folk it's that we're strong, feisty, kind, very sexy, and cheeky as hell. So, if we live, we live because it's our damn right and to be spiteful. We do not owe the people who want to harm us our lives. We just don't. We deserve healthcare. We deserve to love and get married.

We deserve to grow old.

You will grow old. You will be able to go on those trips you've always wanted. You will be able to have that cheesy romance you've always wanted, if you are someone who is wanting a relationship.

You'll be able to sit down and watch your favourite movie. Why? Because you stayed. You didn't give up. Ever. We will always exist.

We will ALWAYS live.

Being transgender has existed before humans even walked this earth and it will still exist when all of us book our holy bus tickets and the blessed holy tax collector comes to collect our debted souls. No matter what, we will live on. They can silence us all they want and erase whatever the fuck they want but that doesn't mean that it's the truth. We're HERE.

We've been here since forever ago. Those Cheeto dusted dunderheads cannot change that. Like I told another person here, other animals and even plants are trans and queer! We've always been here. That won't change, hun.

Everything WILL be okay. We'll always survive and live on. Look at how far we've come in these past years. Many of us thought that we'd be gone already but here we are, two trans people typing away in comment sections on an app where middle age men get off to octopus porn and neko ladies in Japanese school girl outfits because men. and welcome to the internet, I guess. Lmao.

Everything will work out on way or another. We'll have our tomorrow, hun. For now, we gotta buckle down because we're in for a bumpy ride but hey, thankfully on bumpy you have those moments where ya hit the bump just right and you're like

"WOAH, HELLO!- mister bump, you better watch yourself, you saucy boy~ You can't be doin' that. You better take me to dinner first." Lmao. Okay, on a more serious note, we just gotta buckle down together and get through this bumpy ass dirt road because after awhile you make it through that rocky dirt road in the woods and come out to feel smooth pavement again. It'll be alright. We just need to band together and make it through. We all are always stronger together. You're not alone, my friends.

You're talkin' to a guy who has the personality of a gay muppet with a big mouth. I'm shocked nothin�� has happened to me yet with my yappy ass screeching and getting over 80+ gay people to start baa-ing like sheep at a bigot at last year's pride event, but that's a wholeeeee different situation.

My point is, we'll be okay. We'll make it through.

You'll survive. You have me. You have everyoneeeee here and on other social forums. Sure, it's not the same as in-person interactions but it's somethin'. It’s better than nothing I guess. If we’ve gotta go stealth mode eventually and make secret groups for us trans and queer folk, then so be it.

Just do whatever you feel you need to do to keep yourselves safe.

We'll have a better tomorrow. We just need to keep pushing through this rough shit. We'll get out of the woods and onto smooth pavement with open skies eventually.

Continue to exist. Fight. Be safe, but live. Live for yourself, fellow trans people, and simply for spite.

Fuck bigots. Not actually though. Like DON'T fuck them. Who knows where they've been. But fuck them. They're not worth your life. Their bigotry is not worth your life. Live because it's your right.

Those guys are all so far up Donald Trump’s ass he fired his doctor and hired his supporters to give him a colonoscopy.

So, live long. Live for love and live for spite, my friends. We'll get through this.

It’s Trump 2: Electric Boogaloo. SPOILER: The first movie sucked too. They even tried to make a third one — Mango Menace Strikes Back! We didn’t want to come to the theatre to see the second one but it was a class field trip that most of America signed for us. So, we’ve allll got no choice but to go on the trip to the cinema.

Anyways, things will be okay. We’ll make it through. We’ll out get it figured out. We always do. We’ll take care of each other. Everything will be alright. 🤙🏼💛⚧️🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️✨

(Sorry for typos and repetitive speech- it’s 4:14 a.m. EST. 😭😭)

[bearimba]

Ok wait I have vague GIG(G)S ideas:

Impulse: an Experienced Ghost Hunter(TM)!

He worked for whoever the in-game company is (they don't have a canon name as far as I'm aware?) for a while before going independent.

Accidentally made a pact** with a demon during his early days and is now racing to reverse it before he dies and his soul gets eaten

Something about the pact gives him plot armor so he's lowkey immune to dying (yes this is counterproductive. no I don't know why/how this works yet. probably something happened to make the contract go awry)

Surprise surprise, making deals with a demon goes against company policy, but breaking the pact like they want would also probably kill him. He makes a get-away by stealing their van, and since he's got the equipment and skills for it, he continues ghost-hunting to make a living while on the run.

He also offers services as an electrician on the side just for extra cash, which is great because faulty electronics is often a sign of EMF stuff.

He gets little demon horns? Maybe? It's for the vibe (and maybe a tail too, to hold his lighter with)

The cheat sheet is just a journal (or maybe a collection of journals?) full of notes he's taken over the years

Skizz: a literal and metaphorical angel*!

For backstory and world-building reasons I haven't figured out yet, he forms a sin-eating pact** with Impulse, and that's why they stick together (besides the fact they enjoy each other's company, of course).

He's a tradesman on the side just like Impulse, but he does more home-repair and carpentry stuff.

All his clothes are torn-up because he keeps dying in stupid ways, but he hasn't replaced them yet because he insists it makes him look cool.

He's in charge of taking pictures because his ✨angelic presence✨ counteracts the EMF stuff that messes up the camera. They used to have a much nicer one that wasn't affected by EMF back when Impulse first started, but they managed to break it and haven't been able to afford one like it since.

Honestly I don't have enough headcanons for him yet and it makes me sad :(

Gem: a totally normal… individual!

You heard of not-deer? Yeah, it's kinda like that >:]c Has she been replaced? Was she once Gem but has been transformed into something else? Has she always been this way and no one noticed until now? Who knows!

She and Grian met in middle school while causing trouble in the same arts class and have been buddies ever since.

She liked to spend a lot of time in the woods near her home partially due to a casual interest in botany and partially because she and Grian could get up to shenanigans without getting caught. Even when they moved to a different country for college (it was the only university they could find that offered decent programs for both architecture and medical science, not to mention his cousin offered to let them stay at his place rent-free), she enjoyed driving out to the nearby national park to hang out. That park was also her last-reported location before she went missing.

If you look too close, there's subtle details that hint that something's not quite right---eyes that reflect light, limbs that are a little longer than they used to be, very sparse blinking, and a smile that's a little too wide...

Grian was going to be her first victim. He was an easy target, after all---unlikely be missed under the right circumstances, and scatterbrained enough to fall for her tricks---but there was never a good time to strike without blowing her cover. Eventually, the cravings for human died down completely, and she (mostly) forgot he was supposed to be her meal instead of her best friend.

She likes to study other people and mimic their behavior, and she's gotten a lot better at it than she used to be when she first reappeared.

Imp and Skizz both realize there's something off about her, but she's not exactly aggressive or anything, so they just let her be. It doesn't help that whenever they try to question Grian about it, he insists there's nothing wrong.

She usually stays in the van because for some strange reason, the ghosts don't like to appear when she's around.

Although she didn't get to study anything in-depth, she does have more medical knowledge than the rest of the crew, and getting her to help is cheaper than going to a doctor.

Grian: a blind clairvoyant!

Despite Gem's disappearance, Grian managed to pull himself together enough to continue college in the fall. But about halfway through his degree, Jimmy pulled him along to study in a supposedly haunted part of the library because no one else would bother them there, during which the whole building experienced a blackout. The staff fixed it quickly enough, but when the lights came back on, Jimmy was confronted with a knocked-out Grian. For the rest of the semester, he'd be plagued by headaches, insomnia, sleepwalking outside and sleeptalking about the moon and eyes, paranoia, periods of amnesia, and other symptoms that almost made him drop out of college.

Ever since, he's had has this uncanny intuition for when something's about to go wrong and often suddenly knows things without any explanation as to how. Skizz swears it's like he's got eyes in the back of his head or something.

When Gem popped up right after he graduated and suggested to him that they leave on a long roadtrip, he wasn't really in a state of mind to question it. He just thought it would be a good chance to get his head on straight, and strangely enough, just being near Gem helps him to think much more clearly. He just assumes it's because they're such good friends.

He gets possessed at Point Hope, and although the crew manages to exorcise him, he still occasionally gets the urge to set sail and never come back. He's also noticed a lot more mollusks in strange places since then, though surely that must be unrelated...

Scar: a lovable salesman!

He's also considered an angel*, and he definitely likes to play the part to sell his wares.

The GIGS crew buys their supplies from him since certified sources are rare and trustworthy vendors are even rarer. Scar is still a pretty shifty guy, but he hasn't let them down yet---killing off his customers beloved friends would be bad business, after all!

He lives on the road just like GIGS for his own reasons, so they have to arrange to meet with him way both they run out of supplies.

His previous life is a well-kept secret, but he had an interest in the occult even before he became an angel. He claims it was to contact his old pets from beyond the grave, but unsurprisingly, no one quite believes him.

He loves to make outdated references, but no one knows if it's because he's that old or he's just a nerd.

Sometimes he'll join the crew on an investigation for fun, but he dies more often than not, and recovery is so inconvenient that he doesn't like to be on-site very often.

The crew:

They mostly deal in ghost identification, but they do offer extermination for an extra fee. It's more expensive than companies that specialize in extermination, but that's just the price for convenient/speedy service.

Each person has an unofficial role with Impulse as the ringleader, Skizz as the photographer, Gem as the man in the chair, and Grian as the odd-jobber. Of course, everyone has a little experience with everything, but they're most comfortable like this.

They all live in the van, and will usually stay in a town for anywhere from a few days to a couple months depending on how much work is available.

They tend to stay nights at motels and the like, but when money's short or there's nowhere to stay nearby, Imp and Skizz usually sleep in the cab of the truck while Grain and Gem get to camp in the back with sleeping bags.

Pay is split five ways: each member gets a set stipend for personal stuff, and the rest goes towards "work expenses" such as food, motel fees, gas, and the occasional treat for a job well done.

Other appearances:

Pearl, a mysterious woman with a wolfish grin and strange knack for attracting the supernatural.

Jimmy, Grian's well-meaning cousin who accidentally gets Grian possessed, freaks out when he goes no-contact on a sudden "road trip" with someone who's been presumed dead, and then nearly dies himself after an investigation gone wrong.

Lizzie (Jimmy's cousin on the other side) and her husband Joel, who contact GIGS for help and are surprised to find two old acquaintances among them (which is how Jimmy finds Grian again).

Ze and his new colleague Sneeg, two employees of Imp's old company that they run into at a haunting that got double-booked.

BDubs ("is that even a name?" "shut up. like you can judge, Mr. 'my-name-is-Grian-not-Grain.'" "yeah--- well--- at least I'm not named after some stupid stars!"), a very concerned patron who insists on supervising the investigation and gets roped into helping.

Ghostie-ghoulie stuff:

The supernatural is common enough to be recognized but isn't typically considered a part of everyday life.

"Ghost" refers to any supernatural creature that forms from human souls, which mean their appearences and attributes can vary just as much as human personalities. However, their traits can be greatly affected by the circumstances in which they were created (aka how a person died), so there's enough commonality to classify them.

Just like any other being, ghosts need energy to function. They absorb this energy in the form of heat and expel it and electromagnetic radiation. If they output enough of this radiation, they can create EMFs that can be detected by readers. This is also why haunted areas tend to be cold and events/hunts can be tracked by spikes in EMF levels.

If ghosts aren't formed enough enough energy to subsist right off the bat, they can wither away without intervention.

Most ghosts the GIGS that exist are fairly new, so they aren't strong enough to kill anyone. It usually takes at least a year of residence for enough EMF to gather for them to mess with the environment, and even longer to cause events. However, the older a ghost is, the more its sentience slips away.

The reason ghosts kill can vary wildly and may even depend on the type of ghost. Some ghosts are simply territorial, some hold grudges towards the living (though they aren't always aware enough to realize what/why), and some even want to possess the living.

Possessions are incredibly rare because it takes an immense amount of energy to possess someone, but most ghosts are no longer sentient to want such a thing by the time they've amassed enough power. Possession of a living body is even harder for the exact same reason.

*Angels and demons don't actually have anything to do with Christian mythology. Unlike other ghosts, neither are fully dead. The link between their soul and body is just messed up, though due to the rarity of both entities, how exactly this occurs is severely under-researched. For demons, their soul has been banished from their body (the still-functioning body is called a zombie and can be killed to destroy the demon), and their creation typically happens within an abundance of "bad energy" (ex: violent murder). On the other hand, angels are permanently bonded to their bodies and are created in the presence of "good energy" (ex: heroic sacrifice). They can also be killed by destroying their bodies, but unlike demons, the fact that their soul remains inside the body means they're able to regenerate even though the scars always remain. Both entities can rot (not age) to death within the average human lifespan but can prolong the wait by consuming energy, and both tend to have very clumsy/uncoordinated bodies due to the messed up soul link.

**Also, although it costs demons a lot of energy to form a pact with humans (and again, the manner in which a pact is formed/maintained is unknown), the fulfillment of a contract will grant them much more power than they out into it---it's bascially an investment. Angels can do a similar things called "sin-eating" but it works in reverse: it takes a little energy to make the pact, but the fullfilment will drain them greatly (no I don't exactly know how this works yet either. but it sounds cool so I'm keeping it >:]c )

[joaofelix70]

MISS DIPLOMAT & MR. CHARMING |

dominik szoboszlai x female reader.

author's note: this handsome man's living rent-free in my head. he's a freaking masterpiece. talented, funny, charismatic, attractive. i watched interviews, tiktok videos made by supporters and much more to understand a little bit of his language, personality and what he does towards friends and loved ones. laughed a lot! i made my homework as a writer, hope you enjoy it! (compliments and any kind of retributions are more than welcomed).

summary: your job is involving the commitment of unify the population and create interrelations to another countries, using the eurocup qualifiers and the hungary national team executions. you just didn't expect to fall in love with the no. 10's captain player.

words and characters: 1,811/11,223. it was three days working too hard on this story. i'm begging for your consideration, lol.

────

sports diplomacy: it's the unique power of sport to bring people, nations, and communities closer together via a shared love of physical pursuits. this responsibility is the reason of a transition between strangers to connected individuals, advancing foreign policy goals and augmenting sport for development initiatives. the complex landscape where sport, politics, and diplomacy overlap become clearer, as do the pitfalls of using sport as a tool for overcoming and mediating separation between people, nonstate actors, and states. the power of sport has never been more important. so far, the 21st century has been dominated by disintegration, introspection, and the retreat of the nation-state from the globalization agenda. in such an environment, scholars, students, and practitioners of international relations are beginning to rethink how sport might be used to tackle climate change, gender inequality, and the united nations sustainable development goals, for example. to boost these integrative, positive efforts is to focus on the means as well as the ends, that is, the diplomacy, plural networks, and processes involved in the role sport can play in tackling the monumental traditional and human security challenges of our time. credits: international studies association and oxford university press.

────

MLSZ (hungarian football federation) ──

new training ground at telki.

"i can't believe that being in places like this made up my most theoretically utopian childhood dreams. what a progress in front of me!" you still witness exciting moments where you pinch yourself, trying to believe in the reality that surrounds you: visiting the new training center of the players who are just a few meters away from you, getting ready to represent an entire country.

"your presence is our privilege. a voice of the spread of eurocup to our nation, right here…" the technical director gives you deference, obtaining a measure of humbleness and respect by you.

"the honor belongs to me in its entirety. grateful for having me, sir. while the view is immersive and captivating — my fervent congratulations to everyone involved — could we retreat from the pleasant glass-enclosed room and see everything closer, on the outside? please? i will never get used to this atmosphere." you pour politeness and charisma to the staffs around you, being directed to the proximity of the field and saluting the employees who pass through your path.

meet dominik — your szobo — instigates the nostalgic combination of detailed moments in which your thoughts display as photographic retrospectives. you're incapable to oppose the little enthusiastic laughs, fidgeting the rings between your fingers and avoiding possible suspicious glances from others. however, for you, this wouldn't actually work. the lives of you both are correlated, but different.

the training session is finished. clapping your hands and celebrating the performances, you greet the athletes and recognize some familiar people. nevertheless, reality slows down after those dark woody eyes capture through your soul. his arms tattoos are glorified by the sun's rays, the same illuminated smile is offered to you: that one you got during the very first time you saw him — instantly knowing he made you testimony the accuracy of freedom, catharsis and emotional amorous complement. that he'd be the one to introduce you what you never experienced, what you thought you'd never receive or deserve. what love truly is. when you were novices in your actual professions, not even imagining the future gifts of your unreal purposes.

"there you are!" intimately, dominik points at you, being reciprocated by vibrant nods and your old sort of secret — not that mysterious or serious — handshake. "még mindig emlékszel rá? (still remembering it?). you're a real one!"

"hogy tudnám elfelejteni? alábecsülsz engem. (how could i forget it? you're underestimating me)". your defensive actions demonstrate purposeful falseness. masking any sensitive, verbal or figurative communicative fragment from him is a difficulty that makes you give in over time. honestly, you never complain about this. it's like he wants to understand the factors and layers of you.

"a te kézfogás fickó. ne merészelj lecserélni engem. (your handshake man… don't you dare to replace me)". a shameless wink is send to you, butterflies acquiring space in your stomach.

"és hivatalosan is a szavamat adom rá. (and you officially have my word on it)." your gloss is pigmented against your fingers while you raise it up, displaying an oath, wondering if szoboszlai comprehends that his replacement in your life would be blasphemous.

"diplomata kisasszony, (miss diplomat)…" the hungarian fingerprints are shared and you recognize the sign to hold them, ready to perform your typical fashion icon moment. "gorgeous as always. go ahead! you know what to do!".

amusement surrounds you with the nickname's citation. although, you could feel some curious glances, from the outsiders, about the intimacy between you and him. "i appreciate, our top-class national bless…" you move your body in rotations to exclaim the outfit's characteristics, lifting your feet to show off the specificities of your heels. "how is your hair so well-groomed after sweating, though?" your arms cross and you raise an eyebrow in questioning, trying to hide your fascination.

"thank you, my number-one fan, but don't change the subject. finish our inside joke, c'mon!" dominik grabs his water bottle and spreads the cooling liquid on his forehead, wiping the glowing droplets across his face as he lifted his jersey high enough to exhibits his fortified abs.

your attention is directed to any surrounding scenery, throat being piked. szoboszlai pretends he doesn't notice, preventing to embarrass you.

"alright, alright! you've won, bájos úr… (mr. charming)". your final comment escapes as, practically, a whisper. you can't control the shy laughter, coupled with the considerable redness invading your cheeks.

"that's the secret to make my day!" using his tongue to reproduce a sharp noise, he matches your humorous reactions. "would you like me to show you the infrastructure changes? i'm just gonna take a shower!"

"i've already been granted a tour around here, but in case you insist…" during the dialogue, some athletes cross your space, wishing them good luck for the competition. your concentration on the activity is significant, at the point that dominik's silent admiration goes unnoticed.

"i mean, you know me! i'm gonna insist anyway, so…" he reaches your captivity, bringing you jollification.

"i'll rate you as a personal tour guide. now, go there!" jesting each other, you both exchange exaggerated reverences, like a challenge of who makes the most chaotic one.

────

walking around the area, various subjects are explored, informations entrusted. you ask and are updated about his ethereal younger sister.

portraits of the generations are framed. you magnifies his presence in celebratory pictures, dedicated to find him in the memories and achievements on that wall. pride shines from you and the hungarian finds it lovely.

"you know i'm a sucker for accents… they're much more than mere verbal characteristics, they're stories: life experiences, marks and scars. identities and cultural integrations." the topic is random. through generalized opinions, you're explaining conceptions and dominik is retaining mental observations. he exalts every scrap of your identity, like a faithful worshiper.

"basically, you're admitting being enchanted by my accent. i can see the stars in your eyes. a win is a win!" szoboszlai and his frequent attribute to physical touch, tickling your ears and playing with them. it doesn't bother you, actually: adoring the affection exuded by you and him. you feel like a little girl dealing with your one and only love.

"it's beautiful, how can you blame me? and hey, i know mine's making you grin too." he holds your arm, shivers running down your spine, the two of you being euphoric in the midst of your own enthusiasm.

"putting me against the wall? okay, hum… what were you saying before?" he's changing the subject and you have a natural wit to boo him. lifting his shoulders as a surrender, the hungarian focuses on the specific loose strands of his simple bracelet, which you get used to help him tie it again, willingly.

"trying to avoid the truth? fine! let me take care of you while i talk about my admiration towards globalization and communication. like, with every fiber of me…" you accept the conversation's direction and utter a 'voilà' towards the accessory's new appearance.

"that's why you're the best person i've ever seen doing this job." dominik compliments you, an act full of honesty.

"thanks a lot, mate. but which job? as your bracelet helper or my real one?" you provide tenderness, looking amused.

"i mean… both of them." szoboszlai chuckles, revealing courtesy by your continuous helpfulness.

"literally? because i know you know a lot of people. you're so young and already is the national team's captain." you nudge him in a form of tease. he's a starboy, it's undeniable.

"flattered! literally, thought. you were born for this, believe me." vulnerability collides to you, as his words are deliberated: emotions embracing you and warming your insides.

"dominik szoboszlai, my dear friend, you're gonna make me cry, right here. i'm sorry, i need to do it…"

innocent satisfaction builds strength over you and executes unthought-of approach to the tangibility of your gratitude — his colony enrapturing your sensitive olfaction — in the most out-of-control way. the sounds reach your hearing: a choir of angels singing hallelujah. he reciprocates the contact, laughing at your juvenile excitement. joining him and doing the same thing, harmonizing the triumph. in the separation of the touch, you both remain close to each other and the hungarian doesn't miss the opportunity to feel the softness of your side face, caressing the skin. appreciation and satisfaction invade your structure, delighting on the palm of his hand.

"just a dear friend? why are we pretending all this time?" dominik's reading you. the intimidation at the sight of him overhanging you is paralyzing. you don't usually back down, but in that instant — superior than your most repressed desires — your gasps are escaped.

"who is putting who against the wall now?" insisting and failing on your witty answers, shyness and uncertainty corrodes you.

"please, look at me! i'm not kidding anymore." his voice is questioning, intrigued — contradictorily vulnerable and calm — your rationality being fragmented, fragile.

"you know i'm not the kind of woman you're surrounding by, domi. i'm not an influencer, bikini model. i'm not a public figure. i don't live for the cameras and gossip platforms. i live to work hard. i didn't achieve any of this with some type of perk. my routine and your routine are based on traveling..." who could deny it? szoboszlai's always been all that you see. it's much more than a mere passion. your attraction to him is magnetic, intense, vivid. consequently, terrifying.

"i'm just asking for a chance, (your nickname). i don't lie when i say i've never met someone like you. i may be surrounded by a crowd and you'll still be the one to steal my attention, because nobody compares to you."

your eyelids are closed and the exhalation of his sigh penetrates your lungs with the numbing breath of life you've never experienced before. it's happening: the rare situation where thinking carefully about the pros and cons is unworthy, dumbness. your decision is made and the privilege's resolution unify your lips. the beginning demonstrates slowness and patience — the intensification through the concluded wait of the longed-for reality, transforming light and magical kisses into open mouths discovering each other and witnessing the endearment that both offer — hairs, necks, shoulders and waists captured.

"you're the first to create a meaningful presence in my mind and heart. i want you to be the last one too. i love you, kincs (my treasure). i'm finally brave enough to demonstrate it with no fears." dominik's forearm covers your upper torso. your back against his chest, noses resting on each others. rejoicing at the miraculous, incomparable circumstance.

"i love you, drágám (my precious). you're finally mine and it was so fucking worth waiting." his whisper: the living proof of celestial existence.

"how blessed we are…" intertwined bodies, coalesced essences. solitary melodies turning into the sweetest and most complete symphony.

[aerofae]

Giggle Bats (Angst AU) - Snippet 2

AU context here

Tim.

Bruce didn't know what to do about Tim.

It pained him to admit—which is why he never did to anyone but Leslie—but it was the truth. Each one of the boys had been through Hell. Each one carried the burden of traumas heavy enough to bring even the most war-torn veteran to their knees; let alone children (all under the age of seventeen at that). Death, torture, starvation—enough to drive anyone beyond mad. And in Tim's case, he feared that the boy was mad.

In the months that the boys had been living in Wayne Manor they've made such awe inspiring progress. Jason had made himself comfortable both in the library and under Alfred's wing in the kitchen. Dick was learning to manage his anger and to take time for himself (even though he and Bruce still had moments of parental power struggle from time to time). Dick had even enrolled in school, setting a promising example for the others (Jason was ready to join at the beginning of next semester and Damian was nervous but excited over the idea of Kindergarten next fall). Damian was learning that it was okay to just be a kid. But Tim? Bruce didn't know how to reach Tim.

Tim never fought over going to therapy. He kept up with his journal just as Leslie had asked. He came to (most) meals and put in an effort to prove he had eaten at least half his plate. The whole family was learning sign language so that he could communicate without causing more damage to his throttled vocal cords (and he was learning fast). But otherwise? Tim was—Tim was just there. Always watching. Always keeping to himself. Always with that blank look in his eyes and face devoid of emotion. Bruce wanted to say he was observing. He remembered the Tim Drake of this universe being a curious, far-too-adventurous-for-his-own-good child. A child unafraid to sneak away from his parents at Wayne Manor galas to break into the library and rifle through the ancient books (Bruce had let him keep a particularly aged book on criminology, too impressed by the boy's knowledge, stealth, and audacity to take it back when he caught him). Bruce now regretted not taking the time to get to know his neighbors and their curious son. Maybe he could have learned something from his timeline's Tim that would help break the boy's Joker induced trance. Any guidance Bruce could have learned was buried within the the Drake plot of Gotham Cemetery.

“Tim?” Bruce knocked carefully on the door. There were a number of rules within the manor. Two of the top-most rules were no locks, no closed doors. Not yet at least. The emotions and conditioned instincts of the boys were simply too risky still. The last thing he needed was for one of them to sneak out to the city on their own for whatever reason. He had sensors on each one of their windows of course, but he knew better than to doubt their training. Any one of them (Damian included) could easily bypass the sensors one way or another. An open door policy gave Bruce peace of mind. He could check-in on them easily and make sure they were still in their beds at night (if they weren't in his or each other's). There were exception of course, but overall door were kept open. Even Bruce's. Tim's breaking of this rule was enough to put Bruce's anxiety on edge.

Bruce knocked again, a little louder this time. “Tim,” he spoke gently through the door, “I'm coming in, okay?” Bruce twisted the knob and was relieved that the door opened with no resistance.

Bruce poked his head partway in first, looking to the bed. No Tim. Just the neatly made and tucked sheets Alfred had fixed this morning. Bruce opened the door enough to step inside. “Tim? Damian said you stole his markers. You're not in any trouble, bud. I just want to...” His words trailed at the sound of a sniffle, “... talk... to you...”

He followed the sound of the whimpers. Whimpers mixed with painful stifles of laughter—a sound Bruce was tragically familiar with now. He found Tim curled up around his arm in the en suite bathroom. Damian's markers were scattered across the floor and sink. Most notable with the uncapped black marker that Tim had tried (but failed) to scribble out his mirror with. The marks and smears it left on the counter suggested the marker had been thrown down in a fit of frustration. The mirror was a concern to bring up to Leslie of course, but not as pressing as the concern Bruce had for the boy's manic protection of his arm. Tim had it pressed so tightly between his legs and chest that it was concealed entirely. Fearing that Tim was applying pressure to a wound, Bruce quickly got on the floor beside him and scooped Tim into his lap.

“It's okay. You're okay, Tim. Everything's okay. Deep breath. Deeep breath...” Bruce's heart pounded as he rocked the boy gently in his arms. Tim's sobs gave way to a fit of wheezing, manic laughter; then back again to wails of agonized sadness. Fits like this were what made Bruce concerned that he wasn't equipped to handle Tim's needs—but he had promised Jason. Swore to Jason. No hospitals, no wards—nothing remotely resembling Arkham in any way—just home and family.

“No doctor is going to use him as a case study,” Jason had said, “He's not some prize winning research paper! He's my brother! He needs us not them!”

The words echoed in Bruce's mind as he continued to rock Tim in his arms. Us not them. Us not them!

Bruce kissed the top of Tim's green haired head. “It's okay, Baby Bird, it's okay. Take some deep breaths for me. In and out, okay? In and out—here, follow me. Ready? In—and out. In—and out. Good. Good. See, you're getting it. In and out. In and out.” Bruce patiently guided Tim through the fit until his breathing became less frantic and the sporadic fits of laughter gave way entirely to whimpers. Eventually, the stiffness of Tim's body would begin to subside and the boy would sink his weight into Bruce, exhausted. “There you go. Keep breathing, Baby Bird. Keep breathing. I'm going to look at your arm, okay? I just want to make sure you're not hurt.”

There was no resistance. No fight at all as Bruce carefully pulled Tim's arm back from his chest. Bruce had braced himself for blood—some type of wound. Hell maybe even a burn—but when he had finally managed to see what Tim had done—with Damian's markers... “Oh... Oh, Tim...”

There was no trance behind Tim's eyes. There was no numbed silence of emotion on his face. What Bruce saw for the first time since taking Tim in—it was agony. Raw agony. A cruel mixture of sadness, grief, injustice, and everything in between. Bruce's first glance of the boy who had surely been just as inquisitive and adventurous—just as bright and brilliantly minded as his Drake boy had been—the boy he had been too late to save. Tim was there. Tim Drake was there in his eyes, begging to be seen. Begging to be rescued.

“I-I want to be normal again!” Tim croaked through his tears and mutilated vocal cords. “I-I just want to be—normal—a-again!”

Bruce understood now. It pained him to no end.

There, on Tim's arm... The skin that the Joker had bleached ghost white—Tim had taken the marker closest to his former skin tone and had tried to scribble it in.

[mikuyuuss]

I personally think that, Mitsuri was always meant to be somewhat conventionally/stereotypically attractive, except that she still isn't conventional enough by the settings standards.

I'm just basing this from my own personal experience, but from where I'm from, reputation matters, and that includes your outer appearance. It's definitely a lot looser now, but there are still times where some people have specific expectations for women. Sometimes it's not enough to be girly and feminine, you have to be a specific kind of feminine. Sometimes It's also not enough to be conventionally pretty. It definitely helps, but if people notice something odd about you, they will gossip about it.

Having natural black hair is also still a thing. Some people were very judgemental when I dyed my hair pink/red. I was also forbidden in certain gatherings bc some of them have a random policy against hair color, so much that I had no choice but to wear a black wig. Some universities also forbid dying hair in bright colors. A lot of the reasons for this is that it just looks bad to them, and it looks "cheap". It ruins their pristine, uniform image.

I think that’s why Mitsuri’s design is built around her hair. I guess some asian cultures still see brightly dyed hair as some sign of rebellion and non conformity. While my experience isn't as bad, I can only imagine that it must be a lot worst for Mitsuri. Maybe she's only slightly weird by today's standards, but she's a woman living in Taisho Era, so I believe the expectations for her might have been stricter.

That's why I think that in a way, Mitsuri being stereotypically attractive works. I think It shows that the expectations for women are just that specific and narrow, that even though she's already very feminine and checks off a lot of the list, it's still not enough. People think that, her appetite, strength and her hair already stand out too much. By their standards, She's already too weird.

I'm sure everyone is familiar with the phrase "The nail that sticks out gets hammered down."

It also makes sense why she would join the corps. Aside from her wonderful family, she must have felt so stifled by her environment. She must have felt that no matter how hard she tries, she will be forced to hide every little thing that makes her unique. But in the corps, they are fellow misfits not as bound by norms and conventions, so she joins them, because they can appreciate her just as she is.

[slytherinspired]

Yet - A Remus Lupin Imagine (smut)

Following the same story and universe as Tell Me About series! Here I am... 10 years later?

Remus stood before the counter, his hands trembling with a desperation he struggled to suppress. His clothes, worn and faded, hung loosely on his frame. His voice, when it came, was loud yet strained, as if it had been dragged from a place of deep frustration. The clerk in front of him sat behind a towering mahogany desk, her fingers moving in swift, precise gestures, as though casting spells without a wand. Her face was pale and angular, softened only by the shadow of dim candlelight that flickered along the Ministry’s endless corridors. The clerk was dressed in the neat, sober attire of Ministry officials, a crisp grey uniform with silver buttons that reflected the cold, bureaucratic glow of the room. Her brown hair was pinned back tightly, not a strand out of place, except for a thin streak of white that curled at her temple. 

“You don’t understand!” he shouted. The words felt twisted, as if they fought to balance on the edge between civility and rage. The witch behind the counter flinched but remained still, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk. She had no more to offer him than the faint apology etched into her expression. “I need to work.” 

He needed the money. That need pulsed in the room like a living thing, thickening the air between them. But all she could offer was silence, her eyes downcast, her hands empty. Papers floated softly to her from unseen corners, filing themselves with barely a flick of her wrist. Behind her desk, a charmed quill wrote furiously on a long parchment, recording the day’s tasks with an efficiency that bordered on eerie. 

“Like I told you –” she said, “Mr Collins needs help with his books, but I don’t have anything else right now for you.” 

Remus shook his head. “Mr Collins won’t work with me. You know it.” 

There it was—unspoken but palpable. The reason why each request was met with hesitance, each job prospect slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. He didn’t need to say it aloud anymore; the label had been burned into his very being. Werewolf. In the wizarding world, it was more than a condition—it was a curse. Few wanted to hire a werewolf. The fear lingered in every interaction, no matter how mundane. The Ministry had their own discreet policies on “dangerous creatures”.  

“I am sorry, Mr Lupin.” Her voice was smooth and low, tinged with the practiced indifference of someone who had seen many come and go from the Ministry’s endless halls. Her brown eyes showed nothing but disinterest. “Just come back next week.” 

“I’m here every week,” he sighed, “asking you for work, and each time it is the same. Why don’t you send me an owl if there’s something in the meantime? It would spare me from having to come here and bother you.” 

The witch raised her eyebrows and smiled mockingly. “Oh? And to what address should I send it?” 

She knew too well he didn’t have an address. He lived in his damn car – had been living in it for months now. The Ministry’s endless red tape, combined with the stigma of his condition, had shut every door before him. Each job interview, each opportunity, crumbled the moment his lycanthropy was mentioned or even hinted at. It was as if the wizarding world had no place for him outside the fringes of society. 

He turned away without bothering to say goodbye. There was nothing for him there. 

Finding work in the Muggle world had proven just as impossible. At first, it seemed like an escape—no one in the Muggle realm knew about werewolves, and the Ministry couldn’t interfere as easily. But even there, he couldn’t outrun his condition. Each month, as the full moon approached, he would feel the familiar dread tightening in his chest. He couldn’t just call in sick for three days without raising suspicion, and disappearing every month had quickly made him unreliable. Employers grew wary, questioning the strange absences. He had been let go from more jobs than he cared to remember, dismissed for being "untrustworthy" or "inconsistent." 

Remus had been careful with the modest inheritance his parents had left him, stretching every Galleon to make it last. For a time, it allowed him to rent a small flat near Diagon Alley, a place where he could be somewhat connected to the magical world. But even that fragile stability crumbled after two years, when Mrs. Daisy, his elderly neighbour, had complained to the landlord, claiming she didn’t feel safe living next door to a werewolf. No one had said it outright, but the eviction notice came soon after. 

Afterward, he managed to find a tiny studio in London, outside the magical community, but the rent required sterling pounds, not Galleons, and even without his affliction, finding work in the Muggle world have proved nearly impossible without the proper credentials. He had no Muggle schooling, no tangible proof of any experience, and no one was willing to take a risk on a man with an incomplete story. For a brief spell, he worked at a small café, washing dishes in the back, but his frequent absences around the full moon quickly made him expendable. “It’s just not working out,” his manager had said, barely meeting his eyes as he handed over the final pay check. 

After that, it had been a string of odd jobs—cleaning homes, scrubbing cars, whatever he could find that didn’t require questions or paperwork. But even those jobs dried up after a few months, the repeated absences stacking up like a curse he couldn’t escape. It didn’t matter how hard he worked or how much he tried to hide his condition; sooner or later, the same pattern emerged. He’d disappear for a few days, recover in secret, and by the time he returned, the whispers had already started. They always ended the same way: with him packing his few belongings and moving on to the next temporary refuge, the shadows of his secret following him wherever he went. 

But then, happier days came. And he embraced them as much as he could.  

Mr. Collins had been one of the rare few to take a chance on Remus, inviting him into his home with little fuss or prying questions. The old wizard had an impressive collection of books and papers in desperate need of organization, and Remus had relished the work. The house itself felt like a sanctuary—a sprawling estate tucked away from the bustling wizarding world, with its heart being the grand library that stretched wall to wall with ancient tomes and fragile manuscripts. For six peaceful months, Remus had lived there, surrounded by books, his evenings filled with the quiet companionship of Mr. Collins. They would often sit by the fire, sipping tea or scotch depending on the mood, talking about the wizard’s past adventures and far-flung travels. Remus had almost allowed himself to believe that he had found a place where his affliction didn’t matter. 

Everything changed overnight. 

The trouble had started with a routine trip to the Ministry to pick up his Wolfsbane Potion. With the full moon only days away, Remus needed it to maintain control during his transformation. But that day, there had been none. The Ministry’s supplies had run dry, and in a rising panic, Remus went to every apothecary in Diagon Alley, pleading for them to brew it for him. The answer was always the same—there was no Wolfsbane to be had, not until a delayed shipment of rare herbs arrived. Desperation clawed at him as the full moon loomed closer. 

When the night finally came, Remus did the only thing he could—he locked himself in the cellar beneath the guest house on Mr. Collins’ estate, far away from the main house and anyone who could be harmed. He chained himself tightly, trying to prepare for the agonizing transformation. But without the Wolfsbane, Remus knew that the wolf was savage, uncontrollable. As the change tore through his body, so too did the creature’s instincts, stronger than any chain he had prepared. The bonds snapped, and the beast roamed the grounds, its hunger and rage unleashed. The wolf howled to the moon, its cries cutting through the still night air as it hunted the estate, searching for prey. 

Mr. Collins’ housekeeper had been outside that night, restless and unable to sleep. She had been wandering through the gardens when the wolf appeared, a massive shadow with glowing eyes. In a split second, it lunged. Only the quick intervention of Mr. Collins, who had been awakened by the howling, had saved her. He subdued the wolf before it could do any real damage, but the incident left its mark. 

The next morning, Remus awoke in human form, bruised, aching, and filled with dread. He didn’t need to hear Mr. Collins' words to know what was coming. When he entered the kitchen, his pay was already waiting for him on the counter, along with a leather trunk packed with his few belongings. On top of the trunk rested a book from Mr. Collins' private collection—Remus's favourite, one he had admired during his long nights in the library. The wizard had even engraved the trunk with Remus’s initials, a final gesture of parting kindness. 

Beside it, a note in Mr. Collins’ elegant script read simply: Thank you for your service. 

It was over. Whatever peace he had found there was gone, lost in a single night. 

When Remus came back to London, the weight of his situation bore down on him like a suffocating fog. He needed a place to live, but the few Galleons he had saved were barely enough to cover the cost of a small studio, let alone food and the Wolfsbane Potion that he relied on every month. He ran the calculations over and over in his head—if he paid for rent, he’d only have enough to survive for a couple of months before everything dried up. 

That was when he met a young wizard at the Leaky Cauldron, selling an old, battered car for next to nothing. The decision had been easy. The car was cheaper than rent, and living in it meant he could stretch his money long enough to eat and scrape by while searching for work. So, Remus took it, and for two months now, the car had become his home—an old, rusting shelter parked in the backstreets of Muggle London. But work never came. Not for someone like him. 

Each Friday became a routine of survival. Remus would head to the Leaky Cauldron, where the kindly innkeeper allowed him to sit down with a free bowl of soup and a cup of tea. Sometimes, if the inn wasn’t fully booked, he was even allowed to use one of the rooms to take a hot shower, a luxury he was rarely afforded. Those brief moments of warmth and comfort were fleeting, but he clung to them like a lifeline. 

After his shower, he’d walk back to the Ministry, heading straight to the Wizarding Work Bureau, where hope flickered and died week after week. Every Friday, he found himself standing before the same brown-haired clerk. And every Friday, her reply was the same: nothing new, no work available. The expression on her face was always tired, indifferent. Remus couldn’t blame her—his situation was just another file in a growing stack. Another life falling through the cracks. 

He’d leave the bureau and step into the great hall of the Ministry, watching witches and wizards bustling about their business, oblivious to the fact that his world was crumbling. He wondered sometimes if he could even blame them. After all, his affliction was real, dangerous, and he understood their fear. But understanding didn’t make it easier to live with. He had grown thinner, his clothes hung loosely on his frame, and his face had become gaunt, his eyes shadowed by dark circles that deepened with each restless night spent in the backseat of his car. At just 28, streaks of grey had already woven through his hair, and he looked older than his years—like the ghost of the man he had once been. 

He was about to leave the Ministry, ready to disappear into the crowded streets once more, when something stopped him. A glimpse of black hair. For a moment, he thought he was imagining it—his tired mind playing tricks on him—but then he saw her again.  

Eliana. 

It all came rushing back to him in an instant, as if the past had never let him go. Eliana had arrived at Hogwarts during their sixth year, transferring from an old, distinguished town in Italy. Her beauty had been striking—impossible to ignore—and it wasn’t long before she caught the attention of everyone. Sirius, however, had despised her from the moment he noticed the colour of her tie. Ellie and her younger sister had been sorted into Slytherin. But Remus had seen the look in his friend's eyes, the disdain that masked something deeper.  

It wasn’t just the house she’d been placed in; it was the undeniable pull she had over him. She was one of the most captivating girls Remus had ever laid eyes on, and though Sirius never admitted it, Remus knew he felt the same. They had fought constantly—Sirius and Eliana—bickering in the halls, trading insults in class, to the point where even the professors made a point of keeping them apart. 

But everything shifted that summer. Sirius had run away from his family, severing ties with the House of Black once and for all. When they returned to Hogwarts for their final year, something about him had changed. Remus noticed how Sirius’s silver eyes lingered on Ellie now, no longer filled with resentment, but something softer. By Christmas, they were holding hands, sitting together at meals, whispering in quiet corners. They were inseparable, and it wasn’t long before everyone was talking about how perfect they were for each other—two rebels who had found solace in each other’s arms. 

Everyone agreed they were made for each other—everyone except Eliana’s family. Her parents couldn’t accept that their eldest daughter, heir to an old and revered lineage, was in love with the disowned son of one of the most infamous wizarding families. The Blacks may have been prestigious, but Sirius’s rebellion had tarnished their name in the eyes of the pure-blood elite. Yet, despite the tension, Eliana stood by him. She had promised that one day, she would confront her family, make them understand. But that day never came. 

Everything fell apart. Darkness had crept into Sirius’s world, and when Remus told Eliana what he had done, to Peter and James – and Lily, the crimes he’d committed, she refused to believe it. She couldn’t. They fought—terribly, violently—words flung at each other like curses. A month later, she disappeared. Without a word, she left, and no one knew where she had gone. Remus had tried to reach her, sending letters to her parents, even tracking down her younger sister, begging for answers. But there had been no replies, just silence. A year later, he found out her family had sold their house in London. Ellie had vanished from his life, as though she had never existed at all. 

She left the Ministry, and Remus followed, keeping his distance, too afraid to call out, too afraid to shatter the fragile image of her that had lingered in his mind for years. What if she wasn’t the same? What if the Eliana he remembered—the one who had disappeared so suddenly—was gone, replaced by someone colder, more distant? Her hurried steps echoed in the quiet streets until she reached the door of the Leaky Cauldron. Remus watched from the shadows as she slipped inside. He hesitated for a moment, then followed. 

She made her way to the bar, her movements quick and deliberate. He stayed back, watching, listening, his heart hammering in his chest. He heard her voice, unmistakable even after all these years. 

“Fire whiskey, please.” 

That voice—it sent a shiver through him. It was hers, no doubt about it. He could have recognized it anywhere. 

He stood at a distance, watching as she downed the glass in one swift gulp, her fingers gripping the empty glass as if trying to hold on to something far more elusive. 

“One more,” she said, her voice steady, but there was an edge to it—something raw and unguarded. 

The bartender frowned but obliged, pouring another glass. She tossed it back just as quickly. 

“In fact,” Eliana said, placing a piece of gold on the counter, “just give me the whole bottle.” 

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Careful with that,” he warned. “It’s strong.” 

She scoffed. “Strong is exactly what I need right now.” 

She grabbed the bottle and turned—only to find herself face-to-face with Remus. Their eyes locked. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, suspended in the charged space between them. The bottle slipped from her grasp, but before it could hit the floor, Remus caught it with a quick flick of his hand. 

“Careful with that,” he echoed the bartender's words, offering her a small, shy smile as he handed the bottle back to her. 

Eliana stood there, stunned, her expression unreadable. She blinked, seemingly unsure of what to say, then turned back to the bar, grabbing an empty glass. After a long pause, she took a deep breath and finally spoke. 

“Shall we... sit?” she asked quietly. 

Remus frowned, feeling a twinge of disappointment. He hadn’t expected her to rush into his arms, not after everything, but he hadn’t expected her to be so... indifferent. They found a quiet, dimly lit corner, away from the crowd, and sat down. The air between them felt thick, like an unspoken question hanging there, unanswered. 

“I didn’t know you were in London,” Remus said, breaking the silence. His voice was softer than he intended, as if he feared that if he didn’t speak, she might vanish again. 

“You weren’t supposed to know,” she replied, pouring the fire whiskey into two glasses and sliding one toward him. 

He took it, feeling the warmth of the liquid as he sipped, the heat spreading through his chest. “How long have you been here?” he asked. 

“I arrived yesterday,” she said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” 

Remus frowned. “Do you come to London often?” 

Her eyes stayed fixed on her drink. “First time in five years,” she muttered. “I wasn’t supposed to ever come back.” 

That, he had guessed.  

“So, why are you here?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the years between them. 

She took another sip, her gaze distant. “It’s Clara’s birthday. I came to visit her.” 

“Clara’s in London?” Remus was genuinely surprised. Eliana’s younger sister had left the city around the same time she did. 

“She’s been here for two years now,” Eliana replied, finally looking up at him. “She studied healing in America, but she got an opportunity to be a resident at St. Mungo’s.” 

Remus felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t known. He’d never seen Clara in all this time, never even heard whispers of her name. 

“Usually, she comes back to Italy for her birthday, but this year she’s on call, so I thought I’d surprise her,” Eliana continued, her voice quieter now, as if the weight of everything was pressing down on her. 

“And you?” Remus asked, his voice low. “You’re in Italy now?” 

She nodded, but there was no warmth in the gesture. He had thought she had returned to her family after leaving London, but he didn’t know where nor did he have the means to search for her. Over time, he had accepted that she was gone, that she didn’t want to be found. 

“I looked for you,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The first year. I wrote to your parents. They sold the house, and I couldn’t find where you had gone. I wanted to write, but—” 

Eliana reached out, her hand resting on his. The touch was sudden, unexpected, and he nearly flinched from the warmth of it. He hadn’t felt her touch in years. 

She used to be so kind to him. They’d study together when Sirius was too tired to care. They’d spend whole nights in the library, preparing for the next test. Often, they’d compare their answers and have burst of laughs. And when she had guessed his condition, she never pulled back, on the contrary, she used to help him and the boys prepare for the full moon. She took care of him after, bringing him hot chocolate the following mornings after a transformation.  

“I left for a reason, Remus,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of something final, something unspoken. “I didn’t want to be found.” 

“Why?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly. 

She looked away, her fingers slipping from his hand as quickly as they had touched it. Remus could see the hurt in her eyes, the grief she had carried for so long. She had been mourning—Sirius, their future, everything she had lost—but was it enough to leave without a word? Was the pain of losing Sirius worth abandoning everything else? 

She didn’t answer the question burning on his lips, but she took his hand, her touch soft, hesitant. “I never meant to hurt you,” she whispered. 

He knew she had been angry—angry with him for not believing in Sirius’s innocence, for standing against her when she had tried so hard to defend the man she loved. Their last conversation had been bitter, sharp words exchanged like hexes. She had called him a horrible friend, accused him of betraying Sirius’s memory, of believing that his best friend could be capable of murder and treachery. And he, in his grief, had thrown her words back at her, refusing to believe that she could still defend the man who had killed Peter, who had betrayed James and Lily’s trust. Who had made his own godson an orphan.  

Remus shook his head, squeezing her hand gently. “I didn’t mean to either.” 

She laughed softly, but it was a sad, hollow sound. She pulled her hand away, running her fingers nervously through her dark hair. “I didn’t plan on seeing you again,” she admitted. “I wasn’t supposed to be here.” 

“You must have known I wasn’t far...” he replied quietly, studying her face, trying to read the thoughts behind her guarded expression. 

She shrugged, her lips curving into a faint, almost wistful smile. “To be honest, Remus, I thought you’d have left London by now. You never liked it here.” 

She was right, of course. He had always craved the quiet solitude of the countryside, the peace it offered compared to the chaos of city life. But circumstances had tied him to this place. “I don’t really have a choice at the moment.” 

Eliana’s gaze flickered with curiosity, but she didn’t push. She could see the weariness in his face, the gauntness in his frame, and he didn’t want to burden her with the details of his life. Not after all this time. 

“So,” he said, changing the subject as he poured them another round of fire whiskey, “what are you doing now, back home?” 

She hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her words. “I’m a barrister,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. 

Of course she was, Remus thought. She had always had a fierce sense of justice, always fighting for the underdog. It seemed fitting. She studied him with a small, knowing smile. “It suits me, don’t you think?” 

She had not been able to fight for Sirius.  

Remus smiled back, but there was something faint about it, as if he couldn’t quite summon the warmth he used to feel. “And are you happy?” he asked, his eyes falling to her left hand, where he had noticed the glint of a ring earlier. 

Eliana glanced down at the ring, as if surprised to see it there herself. “Yes,” she answered softly. “I am.” 

“He’s a lucky man,” Remus said, his tone genuine, though there was a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. 

Her expression faltered for just a moment, her gaze clouding over with something unreadable. 

They talked for what felt like hours, dancing around the past, avoiding the name that hung between them like a shadow. They didn’t dare speak of Sirius, both too afraid that the mention of him would reignite the pain and bitterness that had driven them apart all those years ago. Eliana tried, more than once, to ask about Remus—how he was really doing—but it was clear she already knew. She could see the struggle etched into his skin. 

At one point, she offered to order dinner, but Remus refused, his pride too strong to accept her charity, especially from her. He could feel her pity, and he hated it. The night wore on, and eventually, Ellie glanced out the window, watching as the sky darkened and snow began to fall, dusting the streets in a soft, silent white. 

“I should go,” she said, standing up reluctantly.  

Remus rose with her. “Let me walk you outside,” he offered. 

She shook her head. “There’s no need.” 

But Remus reached for her hand, and she let him take it. His eyes locked onto hers, his voice low and serious. “If this is the last time I see you, Ellie, at least let me walk with you. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye last time.” 

She hesitated, then nodded. 

Outside, the air was crisp, the snowflakes catching the glow of the Christmas lights strung along the street. The festive scene felt oddly out of place, the cheerful lights at odds with the heaviness between them. Eliana walked beside him in silence for a while, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. 

“Are you living far from here?” she asked, glancing sideways at him. “I’m just around the corner. Maybe we could walk together?” 

“I’m fine,” Remus said, offering her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

She stopped, then, looking up at him with concern. Before he could protest, she stepped into his arms, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. He rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume, a familiar comfort from a time long past. 

“I can’t shake the feeling that you’re not,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Her green eyes shimmered with tears, and for a moment, Remus felt something in him break. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he said lightly, scoffing to cover the ache in his chest. He pointed to the old red car parked just a few feet away. “I’ve got all I need.” 

Eliana pulled away from him, frowning as she walked up to the car, her brow furrowed. “Is this... yours?” 

“Not bad, eh?” Remus said with a laugh, trying to brush it off. 

But it was absurd. She came from a world of wealth and privilege, and here he was, trying to play off the fact that he was living out of a beat-up car. 

“Well, it’s got style, I’ll give you that,” she said with a soft smile, but then her expression shifted. She peered through the windows of the car, her face growing serious. 

“Remus,” she asked, her voice quiet, “are you... living in your car?” 

He sighed, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “It’s just temporary,” he said, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them. 

Eliana stepped closer, her hand finding his once again. Her face was filled with concern, the same look she used to give him at Hogwarts, whenever she worried for his well-being. 

All those years, always worrying about him. 

And here she was, still doing it. 

She wore the same worried look when Sirius would show too much affection towards her in front of him. She always glanced at Remus, a quick look to make sure he was alright. And every time, he ignored it—ignored that pitiful gaze he despised so much. 

“Let me show you something,” she said, her voice soft but firm. 

She took his hand, and together they walked through the blurry, illuminated streets. The night felt strange, the lights of the city glowing brighter than usual, casting everything in an almost dreamlike haze. They stopped in front of an old Victorian building, its weathered brickwork speaking of better days. Without a word, Eliana opened the front door, and Remus stepped in, his heart heavy but his feet following her without hesitation. 

The entrance led through a narrow, dimly lit hallway with a winding staircase, where the sounds of distant conversations echoed faintly from above. Inside, the flat was modest but charming. Tall sash windows framed the streets below, and the living room, with its classic crown mouldings, felt warm despite the unused fireplace. Wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet. 

“Clara’s rented this place when she came back to London,” Eliana said as she flicked on the lights with a casual wave of her hand. “But she moved in with her partner six months ago, so now she just uses it as storage. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s comfortable.” 

“It’s nice,” Remus murmured, still standing in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

Ellie frowned and gestured for him to come in properly. “Please, make yourself at home.” 

Remus cleared his throat and stepped further inside, still cautious, as if he were afraid he might knock something over or leave a mark where he didn’t belong. Eliana removed her black cloak, revealing an all-black outfit underneath. The simplicity made her seem almost otherworldly in the soft light. 

“There’s a small living room here, the kitchen’s just over there,” she said, pointing to a tiny space to her right. “An office through that door, and a decent-sized bedroom next to it. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall.” 

As she spoke, Remus couldn’t help but wonder why she was describing all this to him. This was the kind of flat he couldn’t even dream of renting. He wasn’t sure why she had brought him here—until he felt something cold press into his hand. Looking down, he saw a key. 

“What—” 

“Clara’s moving to France in a couple of months,” Eliana explained, cutting him off before he could protest. “There’s still two years left on the lease, and it’s a nightmare finding someone reliable to sublet. The owner’s a witch who only rents to people like us. It would be a waste to leave it empty when I know you could use it.” 

Remus shook his head, immediately trying to hand the key back to her. “I can’t accept this. It’s a kind offer, but—” 

“But what?” she interrupted; her tone sharp but not unkind. “It’s almost winter, Remus. You can’t live in your car. I won’t allow it.” 

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping before he could stop it. “You haven’t cared where I’ve lived for the last five years. Why now?” 

The words sounded harsher than he had intended, but he couldn’t take them back. 

Eliana didn’t flinch. She didn’t even seem angry, just... resigned. “I understand why you’d feel that way,” she said softly. “I know I’ve hurt you, but believe me, Remus, I didn’t want to leave you behind like that. It wasn’t just my choice.” 

“Then why did you?” His voice was low, but the question cut through the space between them like a knife. 

She sighed, running a hand through her long hair. “I was angry. Angry that you could believe such awful things about him.” She didn’t dare speak his name. “I needed you to fight with me, to at least give him a chance, to hear his side of the story. And when you didn’t... I felt like I was losing everything. You didn’t just turn your back on him—you left me alone too.” 

Remus closed his eyes for a moment, trying to stave off the familiar sting of guilt. It was the same argument they’d had all those years ago, and yet here it was again, haunting them both. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t the friend you needed. I’m sorry I abandoned you.” He held out the key again, offering it back. “But I can’t accept this, Ellie. I don’t need your pity.” 

She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “Pity?” she echoed. “Is that really what you think this is?” 

What else could it be? 

“You’ve always tried to protect me,” Remus said quietly, his voice strained. “Even back at Hogwarts. I know you knew... how I felt.” 

He hesitated, but there was no need to finish. She knew. She had always known how he felt—how much he wished she didn’t love Sirius the way she did. And how much he wished Sirius didn’t love her back just as fiercely. They were soulmates, and it had always crushed him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. 

“This isn’t pity, Remus,” she said, sitting down on the couch, her fingers pressing into her temples as though she could push away the weight of the conversation. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “It’s care. It’s love. I can’t stand the idea of you being homeless, living in your car. I had no idea things were this bad.” 

Remus sighed, his exhaustion overwhelming him. He sat down too, sinking into the cushions beside her, his body heavy with the burden of everything left unsaid. 

“Has it been this way since I left?” she asked, her gaze fixed on him. 

He shook his head, not wanting her to carry the full weight of his struggles. But he didn’t have the strength to lie, either. The truth was somewhere in between, and as they sat in the quiet flat, the years of pain and silence between them felt heavier than ever. 

“It was fine for a while,” he began, hesitating. “But being what I am… you know. People fear me. They’re right to.” 

Eliana edged closer, her expression softening as she reached for his hand. “No one should fear you.” 

Remus gave a hollow laugh. “I’m a monster, Ellie. Quite literally.” 

Her hand moved to his chin, gently turning his face toward hers. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “You are not a monster. You’re the kindest, most thoughtful person I’ve ever known.” 

“Kindness doesn’t matter much when I turn into a wild animal every full moon,” he muttered, eyes drifting to the window. “Even with wolfsbane, I’m just a shadow of myself, too drained to do anything but exist.” 

His gaze traced the night sky, as if searching for answers in the stars. “It’s coming again… two days from now. I’m already worn out. Everything hurts.” 

Eliana’s voice broke as she whispered, “I’m so sorry.” A tear slipped down her cheek. 

“It is what it is,” Remus replied, standing slowly and moving toward the door. 

“Stay,” she called after him, her voice trembling. 

He paused, eyes closing against the weight of her plea. 

“Please, Remus,” she said again, stepping closer. “Let this be your home, just for a while. Let me give you a chance to rest, to not worry about where you’ll sleep tomorrow.” 

His heart clenched painfully. He turned to her, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “There’s only one thing I want, Ellie,” he whispered. “Don’t leave. I can’t be alone anymore. I need a friend.” 

He broke down, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. Eliana was at his side in an instant, pulling him into a tight embrace. 

“I can’t stay, Remus,” she said softly. 

He looked down, his heart sinking further. He knew she had a life elsewhere, with someone waiting for her. Someone she loved. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice hollow. 

Ellie gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t want to see you again,” she admitted, her gaze locking with his. “I was terrified of this moment…” 

“Am I that frightening?” he tried to joke, though his heart wasn’t in it. 

She traced the scar on his face with a gentle touch. “Not at all,” she whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss on his cheek. “You’re everything but.” 

Her hand lingered on his skin, their faces now inches apart. Remus felt the pull, the uncontrollable urge rising within him, the wildness that came with the moon. But he fought it, grounding himself in the moment. 

When she kissed his other cheek, the rawness of it nearly undid him. Her breath warmed his neck, and before he could stop himself, he leaned into her, eyes closed against the flood of desire. 

“Ellie…” he murmured, his control slipping. 

“This is the last time we’ll see each other,” she whispered against his skin. “Don’t ruin it.” 

Her hands found his bare skin, fingers tracing the edge of his shirt, moving lower. His mind spun. He felt as though he were betraying the memory of his lost brother, but the weight of her closeness, the tenderness he had craved for so long, was too much to resist. If pity was all she had to offer, then maybe… maybe it was enough. 

The memory of one past night haunted him—one of those memories that never faded, no matter how much time passed. It was their last year at Hogwarts. The entire school had descended on Hogsmeade for one last wild celebration, all the houses mingling, no divisions, no rivalries—just freedom and exhilaration. Remus had felt it too, for a while, but exhaustion caught up with him before the night was over. He decided to return to the dorms early, slipping away unnoticed, or so he thought. 

He hadn’t realized that Sirius and Ellie weren’t with the rest of the group when he made his way back to the Gryffindor Tower. He had planned to take a long bath and go to bed, hoping to escape the noise and chaos that usually drained him. 

But when he opened the dormitory door, something stopped him cold. 

There, pinned against the wall, was Eliana. Sirius was with her, moving against her, his breath heavy. Her hands had been tangled in his hair, her back arching into him as if seeking more. Remus had frozen. Sirius’s trousers were bunched around his ankles, his shirt barely covering his body, and Ellie—her clothes had been dishevelled, exposing enough for Remus to know what was happening. 

He had been wanting to turn around, to give them their privacy, but something held him in place. Ellie’s eyes met his. For a heartbeat, he was sure she saw him. Her lips parted, and for that brief moment, he swore there was something more than surprise in her gaze. Was it… desire? For him? 

No, he had imagined it. 

Shaken, he had flown back to the common room, trying to focus on a book, anything to erase the scene from his mind. Half an hour later, Sirius and Ellie had reappeared, laughing as though nothing had happened. Sirius joked about Remus turning in early, while Ellie said nothing, avoiding his gaze completely. He had never brought it up. He convinced himself it was a trick of the light, a figment of his imagination. Surely, she hadn’t seen him at all. 

And now, with a broken heart and trembling hands, he gave in.  

She was kissing him, and as he pressed his body against hers, he couldn’t help but recall that night—couldn’t help but recreate the image of her against the wall, except this time, it was him pinning her there. His breath came ragged in her ear, and he fought to keep control. He had imagined this for so long—what she might taste like, how her body would feel wrapped around him. 

Ellie unbuckled his belt, her hands steady, as his trousers fell to the floor. When she pulled off her shirt, revealing herself to him, he couldn’t breathe. She was perfect. More perfect than he had ever dared to imagine. 

For so long, he had envied Sirius, envied him for knowing her in ways Remus never would. But now, with her in front of him, he felt a shame deeper than anything he had known. 

But the desire, the wildness in him, wouldn’t be silenced. He bent to kiss her skin—her lips, her neck, her collarbone—his breath hot and uncontrolled. He wasn’t a man anymore. He was something primal, something desperate. Ellie tilted her head back, and he slid his mouth lower, removing the last barrier of clothing between them. 

When his lips found the warmth between her legs, her quiet moan broke the silence, sending a shiver down his spine. She grabbed his hair, pulling him closer as his tongue moved between her folds, tasting her. She moaned again, her fingers gripping him tighter, and for a moment, he forgot everything. Forgot who he was, forgot who she was. All that mattered was the taste of her, the feel of her skin under his tongue. 

He could stay like this forever, he thought. But the ache between his own legs, the pressure building inside him, refused to be ignored. He stood, lifting her in his arms, carrying her to the couch. Ellie’s legs parted without hesitation, inviting him in. He saw that same look in her eyes—the one he had seen all those years ago. Perhaps, he hadn’t been imagining it after all. 

His breath hitched as he nudged at her entrance, and when he pushed into her, they both let out a gasp—surprise and pleasure all at once. He moved slowly at first, trying to remind himself to be gentle, to be soft. But he couldn’t hold back. Not with her. He wanted to feel her completely, to lose himself in her warmth. 

Her moans grew louder as he quickened his pace, the sound of his body moving against hers driving him to the edge. She arched beneath him, her breasts rising and falling with each thrust, and he was lost—growling low in his throat, forgetting everything but this moment, this need. 

Her legs wrapped around his waist as he pounded into her, harder now, his humanity slipping away. And then, he felt her tighten around him, her body trembling with the release he had been chasing.  

With her eyes closed, he wondered for a moment if she was thinking of somebody else, of him or the man that awaited her back home. 

But Ellie whispered his name in a breathless gasp, and it was all he needed. He followed her over the edge, spilling into her with a moan, his body shaking from the force of it. 

For a moment, the world stood still. 

As the last waves of pleasure faded, Remus pulled away, his mind reeling. What had he done? His heart pounded in his chest, guilt flooding him as he ran a trembling hand over his face. He wasn’t meant for this—not with her. Not with Ellie. Not with the woman who had once belonged with his best friend. 

Eliana leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, her voice soft and broken. “I would have loved you so much, Remus… if I hadn’t loved him.” 

“I know,” he whispered, his chest tight. 

Her words hit him harder than he expected, words he had longed to hear but never allowed himself to hope for. He had known, from the moment they met, that she would always belong to Sirius and Sirius to her. But to hear her say it—it tore him apart. 

“In another life, maybe,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. 

He let out a bitter chuckle. “Maybe.” 

“I wanted this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I hope you did too.” 

He looked at her, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She was beautiful, even in her sadness. But it wasn’t him she loved. It never would be. 

“I wish it had been you,” she whispered, her voice cracking.  

“But it’s him,” he replied.  

“It’s always going to be him,” she whispered with a trembling voice. 

He nodded, understanding in the pit of his stomach. “I get it.” 

Ellie touched his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You deserve to be loved, Remus, if only you could see yourself the way I see you.” 

Remus closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. It was selfish to want more from her, to ask her to stay. He knew that now. He’d never have her fully, but this—this was something. Wasn’t it better than nothing? 

“One day, you’ll meet someone,” she said softly. “Someone who will love you completely, without fear or hesitation. Please, don’t push them away when you do.” 

He let out a hollow laugh, the same words James had told him countless times. It had never felt true, and it didn’t now. No one would accept him, not as he was. But he nodded, if only to make her stop crying. 

Ellie kissed him once more, her lips lingering for a moment longer than before. “I don’t think our paths will cross again,” she whispered, tears spilling down her face. “It’s better this way.” 

Remus shook his head, his heart aching. His eyes pleaded with her. “This is goodbye, then,” he said, his voice breaking. 

She nodded. “This is goodbye.” 

Defeated, Remus rested his head against the cushion, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing second. The weight of exhaustion settled over him like a thick blanket. He felt her arms around him, warm and familiar, offering a fleeting comfort. Ellie’s embrace tightened gently, and she pressed a soft kiss against his cheek, lingering just long enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. 

For a moment, the world seemed to quiet, and he let himself sink into that small, stolen tenderness—something he knew would soon slip away. 

“I’m sorry you lost the love of your life,” he said, the words catching in his throat. 

Remus quietly surrendered to the sleep that had been tugging at him for too long, its embrace pulling him deeper into a long-overdue rest. As the weight of consciousness slipped away, he felt himself sinking, drifting into the quiet abyss where exhaustion finally gave way to peace. 

When Remus woke the next morning, soft sunlight filtered through the window, casting a golden glow across the room. The duvet from the bedroom had been gently draped over him, a small gesture of care left in the silence. The apartment was still, empty. 

Ellie was gone. 

Rising slowly, he walked to the kitchen, where a folded note lay beside an envelope. His chest tightened as he opened it, reading the words in her familiar handwriting: 

“You’re sorry I’ve lost the love of my life, Remus. But I’m sorry you haven’t met yours.” 

He hesitated before opening the envelope. Inside, the key to the flat rested, cold and waiting. Etched into its surface was a single word: "Yet." 

[transmutationisms]

hi caden i know this is advice but u seemed willing to help anons cheat academia stuff before <3 i am currently fucked in terms of getting into the ivory towers* womp womp. it's fine bc most of what i want from academia isn't really limited to academia, except for one thing which is institutional credentials/library access :(

i know that there's: cold emailing current authors, requesting specific files on online sites, requesting library borrows as an independent researcher (least likely to work :(), and spamming (smartly) the limited digital scan requests that some libraries offer. but other than those options, is there a way to get something close to actual institutional access? do i rlly just need to hunker down and make enough copyright-hating twitter mutuals that happen to also be an academic and beg for their login accounts

*yadda yadda it's bc i have a cruddy online masters and no bachelors <- unfixable i fear. i guess i could grind like. self publishing essays and making industry connections and funding small anthropological or historical research projects on my own and Then applying for a masters (which i think im gonna have to pay for lol) and even then it's probably a low chance of acceptance innit?

piracy? i mean i'm not discounting the value of institutional access but i have it & still get most of my stuff illegally lol. directory of open access journals also has some stuff tho they aren't flagship journals, and a jstor free account gives you two articles a week or something like that. mostly i use anna's archive and stc, most non-academic interlibrary loan won't have the subscription money for journals but you can check if your libraries are funded better. borrowing credentials doesn't always work because the schools typically have a policy against & will flag you based on location data lol. i get caught in that just using a vpn. it's worth trying tho

i would not under any circumstances advise anyone to try being an actually independent scholar it's impoverishing and an incredible amount of work for basically no pay reward or recognition. when academics use that ohrase it typically means someone who has a job paying their bills fulltime, often adjuncting or as university staff but could be something else, it's not that they're actually living off the proceeeds of their scholarship. research is basically not profitable in itself outside the infrastructure of an institution or lab paying you im so sorry. it's not absolutely impossible to get into an ma program with no ba but it is hard and will depend on how old you are and how much career experience you can reasonably put up on your cv. some departments might be willing to just have you audit some core undergrad classes but this is something you would have to meet with them and discuss on a case by case basis. my blanket advice will also always be don't pay for grad school in the 'academic' disciplines (lib arts, sciences, anythig that's not a professional degree with a guaranteed job path you have a clear way of entering) these aren't useful degrees for much else at the entry level and universities will bleed you dry on tuition alone

[feedists4progress]

Food is one of the most universally beloved things on planet Earth. Aligning a presidential campaign with it is smart for all the obvious reasons, but for the Harris-Walz ticket, it’s also a signal. The rhetorical challenge of progressivism is that it is by nature abstract: It imagines a world that does not yet exist, rather than advocating to return to some previous version of the one we know. [...] In foregrounding food, Harris and Walz are making theirs the candidacy of terrestrial pleasure and straightforward abundance.

The governor of Minnesota and possible future vice president’s hotdish recipe is, uh, a lot. It involves, among other things, whole milk, half-and-half, two types of meat, three cups of cheese (specifically Kraft), nearly a stick of butter, and a full package of Tater Tots. It is gluttonous, deeply midwestern, and, I am sure, delicious. Indeed, Walz won the Minnesota Congressional Delegation’s hotdish cook-off in 2013, 2014, and 2016.

Tim Walz loves food. He loves corn dogs, and the all-you-can-drink milk booth at the Minnesota state fair, and—I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this—dunking cinnamon rolls in chili. He gets excited about soda. He posts pictures of his sandwiches.  He loves to eat so much that people on X are already writing short-form fan fiction about it. Throughout his political career, but especially recently, he has gone out of his way to talk about food, the fattier and folksier the better. Last week, in a discussion with CNN’s Jake Tapper that was ostensibly about Joe Biden’s mental fitness, Walz recounted receiving a call from the president while eating the Minnesota delicacy Juicy Lucy, a hamburger stuffed with cheese. The next day, he posted on X about a different award-winning hotdish recipe of his, this one involving two separate kinds of canned soup.

We are witnessing what might be the most food-centric presidential campaign in American history. Kamala Harris is, by all accounts, an exceptional and enthusiastic home cook, and has made cooking part of her political brand—surely an intentional calculation, given the negative connotations that might arise when the potential first woman president openly embraces domesticity. In 2019, she offered an off-the-cuff lesson in turkey brining while getting mic’d up to go on television: “Just lather that baby up,” she said, eyes bright. The next year, she started an amateur cooking show; on it, she cracks an egg with one hand and bonds with Mindy Kaling over the fact that their parents both stored spices in old Taster’s Choice jars. She laughs a lot in the kitchen.

Unlike her running mate, Harris seems unlikely to throw four kinds of dairy in the oven for dinner—she’s a Californian, and she cooks like one: swordfish with toasted cardamom for her pescatarian stepdaughter, herb-flecked Mediterranean meatballs on an Instagram Live with the celebrity chef Tom Colicchio. But she’s not immune to the humble charms of ice cream, gumbo, Popeye’s chicken, red-velvet cupcakes, or bacon, which she describes as a “spice” in her household. She comes off as sincere in her love of food but discerning in her tastes. When a 10-year-old recently asked her at an event what her favorite taco filling was, she answered with the kind of absorbed expression that she might otherwise display when explaining foreign policy on the debate stage: carnitas with cilantro and lime, no raw onions.

Invoking food on the campaign trail is a cliché for a reason: Eating is an easy and extremely literal way to prove that you are a human being. But the Democratic Party has not always been great at it. In 2003, John Kerry visited the Philadelphia cheesesteak institution Pat’s and asked for a sandwich not with the traditional Whiz, American, or Provolone, but with Swiss. If voters needed proof that he was something other than the eggheady elitist they thought he was, this wasn’t it: In Philly, Swiss is “an alternative lifestyle,” The Philadelphia Inquirer’s food critic, Craig LaBan, said at the time. One does not get the sense that Walz or Harris would stride into Pat’s and ask for Swiss—not because they’re self-consciously avoiding a gaffe, but because they have deep respect for America’s foodways and are interested in enjoying food however it is meant to be enjoyed.

Their approach makes a marked departure both from the Obama era—what with its well-meaning but not entirely fun focus on childhood obesity, and its notorious seven almonds—and from the current leaders of the Republican Party. Donald Trump doesn’t really talk about liking eating; he does, famously, consume a lot of fast food, but that is reportedly because he’s afraid of being poisoned, not because fast food tastes amazing. His most well-known food tweet—“Happy #CincoDeMayo! The best taco bowls are made in Trump Tower Grill. I love Hispanics!”—reads like an obligatory plug rather than an earnest celebration of the way the taco bowl itself looks, smells, and tastes: all business, no pleasure. Meanwhile, Trump’s running mate, J. D. Vance, says he loves Diet Mountain Dew, but he seems mostly to be mad about it. To the degree that he has gotten specific about why he likes the beverage, the praise is purely functional: “high caffeine, low calorie.” The primary message here is that food is the site not of delight and togetherness but of anxiety and alienation, or utilitarianism at best. It’s all a little, well, weird.

Food is one of the most universally beloved things on planet Earth. Aligning a presidential campaign with it is smart for all the obvious reasons, but for the Harris-Walz ticket, it’s also a signal. The rhetorical challenge of progressivism is that it is by nature abstract: It imagines a world that does not yet exist, rather than advocating to return to some previous version of the one we know. I find it telling that Walz keeps using the word joy when he talks about the campaign and about his running mate. It’s an uncomplicated message, one that’s even more concrete than Barack Obama’s hope: Hope is the future, but joy is the present. It’s cold milk on a hot day; a perfectly cracked egg; a steaming casserole dish full of God knows what, enjoyed at a crowded table. In foregrounding food, Harris and Walz are making theirs the candidacy of terrestrial pleasure and straightforward abundance. It’s simple, really. —Ellen Cushing

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Steven Beschloss at America, America:

It’s been hard to take off a few days—or even a few hours—since Donald Trump stepped foot again in our White House. But I would be wrong to urge you to take time off to manage the madness and distress of this dark chapter, then burn out myself. This week is spring break at New York University where I teach journalism students, so I’m taking a few days away and trying to not get swept up by each new desecration. In the meantime, I want to share with you this essay from January 27, just one week into the accelerating destruction by a man who acts more like an arsonist than a president. With the mounting examples of cowardice since then—of people and organizations bowing down—it’s important to reassert the need to oppose this cruel and dangerous regime. I stand by what I said two months ago: We must refuse to be complicit. The more you give in to Trump, the more he will take. And, I wrote, “going along with even some of Trump’s policies in order to minimize the damage represents collaborating with a man bent on the destruction of American democracy and aiding his effort.” This has become increasingly clear. So is the need to fight back, as I concluded here, “against the dark tide of oligarchy and authoritarian corruption and criminality—or we will sink like a stone.” This takes courage—and it will take us sticking together, supporting each other, protecting each other, and recognizing our collective power to withstand Donald Trump’s fascist agenda.

Anyone who’s spent time with an abusive narcissist understands the dilemma: If you just go along to get along, you’ll never escape their grip. And if you confront them, they will do anything they can to make your life a living hell—until you get away or they leave forever. America is trapped right now in this ugly nexus, thanks to millions of Americans who identified with Donald Trump’s anger and hatreds or didn’t comprehend the dangerous choice they were making.

But we have a chance to overcome this dark chapter with a clear, fearless opposition. That will require elected officials refusing to work with him and abandoning the idea that collaboration is the only way they can mitigate the damage he will cause or accomplish something themselves. The more they give him, the more he will take. The more they communicate that they accept his dominance and respect his power, the more he will exploit their vulnerability, particularly because he sadistically relishes harming and demeaning others.

[...]

Donald Trump doesn’t care about or respect laws. He doesn’t care about or believe in American democratic values and principles like equality, diversity and justice. He rejects free speech and despises the peaceful assembly of those who disagree with him. He is bored by the details of policy and governance, belittles the value of expertise, only wants attention and spectacle, and is determined to surround himself with sycophants who will bow down to him. He doesn’t care about or comprehend the pain he causes other human beings. He is more than ready to use political violence to get what he wants. He will never make an effort to unify the nation. He will never rely on inspiration, only stoke fear, seek to intimidate and threaten violence. He will never work to gain the trust of the majority. Is this an American president? Are we obliged—are elected Democrats obliged—to treat such a man with respect? This is the person who pardoned over 1,500 convicted felons who attacked the U.S. Capitol; just this weekend he invited the remorseless Oath Keepers founder Stewart Rhodes—freshly released from prison and his 18-year sentence for seditious conspiracy—to appear behind him in a Nevada rally. Should Democrats find ways to work with Trump or oppose him at every turn? Is there any reason to believe he will do anything to make lives better rather than commit acts to glorify himself and enrich himself and his billionaire cronies by stealing from the wealth created by hard-working Americans? As I see it, going along with even some of Trump’s policies in order to minimize the damage represents collaborating with a man bent on the destruction of American democracy and aiding his effort. I understand the decision of 13 Senate Democrats (many from border states) to sign a letter to Majority Leader John Thune, offering to work with him “in good faith” to craft border security and immigration legislation. But do they really think Trump will ever work with them in good faith, especially as he’s focused on mass deportation, building a wall (again) and demonizing refugees and Democrats? As the transgressions and degradations and the acts of corruption and criminality mount—and, yes, they already have been at an alarming pace meant to shock the unsuspecting—we should demand that Democratic leaders and anyone who is committed to overcoming this dark chapter in our history refuse to work with this regime. That will become even more important as he is surrounded by dangerously reckless cabinet secretaries and others in leadership positions motivated to carry out his agenda, satisfy his hunger for vengeance and dismantle the very government programs and agencies they have sworn to serve. Soon the deeply unfit Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth will likely be joined by the retribution-minded Kash Patel at the FBI, the Putin-supporting Tulsi Gabbard as the Director of National Intelligence and Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. “running” Health and Human Services. But Trump isn’t waiting for their arrival. Late Friday night, seeking to consolidate his power and get rid of independent watchdogs, the White House fired 18 independent inspectors general working in nearly every cabinet-level agency. This purge makes it easier for Trump to install loyalists who will be less likely to question fraud, abuse or other ethical lapses.

Steven Beschloss is 100% correct in his latest piece.

[florencemtrash]

Hummingbird: Chapter Five

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

Warnings: Violence and injuries

You blinked back into your apartment at the end of your nightly patrol, swearing out loud as you began the arduous process of peeling your suit off your sweaty body. Bruises in all stages of healing littered your body like a Pollock painting - purple, blue, yellow, and pink marks spreading up and down your skin like they were living creatures.

You sighed in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting for the shower water to heat up enough to loosen your tight muscles, and twisted your body, looking and pulling at the marred skin. 

Miguel wouldn’t be too happy about this… not that he would ever have a reason to look at you naked. The thought alone made you blush furiously.

Miles had been away touring colleges across the Northeast and left you with the task of managing his Spider-duties. It hadn’t been so terrible the first two nights - the minor criminals of New York City were hardly prepared to handle anyone with your powers (like the armed robber who was shocked beyond measure to find his gun had disappeared from his hand). The following nights not so much. Word had gone around that Spider-Man was MIA and criminals minor and major jumped at the chance to unleash their plans. Coffee and spite fueled you through the following week, but there was only so much coffee you could consume in a day after averaging 2 hours of sleep a night. 

You would have asked Miguel and the others for help, but there was a strict no interference policy when it came to non-anomalies. Sure, Miguel would have bent the rules for you, but it wasn’t anything you felt comfortable with. Everyone knew he treated you with a special care that sometimes warmed your heart and sometimes set you on edge - always visiting you in the med bay for the most minor of injuries, finding some excuse to track you down in Spidey HQ when you visited, and even going so far as to ask the cooks to add a special edition item onto the regular menu after you’d gushed about it to him at lunch (Peter was the one to tell you).

It also didn’t escape your notice that he kept you from the most dangerous missions, or waited until the last second to call you in for help.

Terco idiota.

You groaned when you stepped into the steaming shower, grateful for the hot water that ran rivers down your back and swept away the exhaustion the night had brought. When you were finally clean and comfortable in your pajamas you sank onto the floor in your living room, pulling the battered and familiar sketchbook forward on the coffee table. One of the many benefits to being an honorary Spider-Person was that the physical exhaustion of superhero duties helped quiet your mind enough to consistently finish your art projects. And every alternate dimension you visited opened up a whole new world of creative possibilities - quite literally. Still… you’d caught yourself drawing the same thing (or rather person) over and over again recently.

You worked for a couple of hours, one ear honed in on the stolen police radio propped up on your tv stand alongside your suit. Mercifully, even criminals needed sleep and you drew uninterrupted until the first rays of dawn started to spill over New York, skyscrapers casting long spindly shadows over the grid. 

When morning came you finally dragged yourself into bed for a few hours of blissful sleep leaving behind the soft images of Miguel littered on the coffee table. One day he’d just entered your life and never left, slowly invading every corner of your mind until a week without him felt like a shoe that didn’t fit. 

Miguel’s eyes flickered over to you when you blinked into existence beside him, empanada in one hand and a water bottle in the other. His heartbeat picked up, then slowed down, relaxing into the newer, steadier pace of life that you brought him.

“¡Buenos díaaaaaas!” You said in a sleepy singsong voice, dropping the empanada into his lap and jumping on the desk. It wasn’t uncommon for you to stop by his office and make sure he was eating regular meals, although sometimes you would just blink food onto his desk with a post-it note affectionately commanding “Come, pendejo” whenever you visited Spidey-HQ.

“You look tired.” Miguel said, smiling softly as you took your usual spot. He allowed himself to sink into his chair, gazing at you with a love neither of you had the courage to talk about yet.

“So do you.” 

“Yes, but I always look tired.” He said with a slight quirk of his lips. You made a little hmmmph sound in agreement, taking a deep sip of your drink.

“Miles is away so I’ve taken on his patrol shifts. I don’t know how you Spider-people manage to do this AND still have full time jobs. I feel like I’m barely keeping up.” 

Miguel perked up. You hadn’t told him that you were expanding your superhero duties in Miles’s absence.

“When will he be back?” His eyes focused on you, taking in the faint bags beneath your eyes and the droop of your shoulders with concern. He stood up and moved closer to you, leaning down on arms that bracketed your crossed legs. The smell of coffee and cream was bitter and sweet in the space between you, mixing with Miguel’s own spiced cologne. It warmed you up from the inside out until you wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in his arms.

“Next Sunday.” You groaned and settled for leaning your forehead on his shoulder as you tried to ignore the pounding of your heart, “It’s probably a good thing. If he ends up leaving New York for school, I’ll have to pick up his duties.” 

The stolen look of adoration he gave you was replaced by one of confusion and surprise. He’d forgotten that Miles would be graduating next year and going to college.

A New York City without Spider-Man seemed so… wrong. Across countless universes it was always New York City, or some version of it, and Spider-Man. NYC and Spider-Man, Spider-Man and NYC. 

You sat patiently, waiting for Miguel to shuffle through his thoughts like he always did, carefully organizing them with the precision and practice of a scientist. 

“I could… I could help out if you ever needed it.” He murmured softly, leaning into you and finding comfort in your closeness.

You jerked up so quickly you nearly smacked into his nose, “Did I just hear the Miguel O’Hara suggest breaking protocol?” You teased, poking at his firm chest.

“Well, I-” Miguel lost his words and his cool, color faintly brushing against the tan of his cheeks. He liked having you sit so close to him, no trace of wariness in sight. In the months you’d gotten to know and work with one another you’d learned to grow around each other as tightly as two plants climbing a garden trellis until he didn’t know where he started and you ended.

Memories, painful and sharp, slammed into him - the last kiss he’d given his wife before he ruined everything. The look of terror on Gabriella’s face before she splintered into nothing. And here he was again, jumping at the chance for a future with someone he didn’t deserve. Had he learned nothing after losing everything? 

“No,” He shook his head, “You’re right. It was a stupid idea.” He said stoically and stepped away.

“Hey,” You whispered, grabbing his hands when he pulled back. He was entering that dark place again. He hardly talked about his old life except as a warning to Spider-Society members. He believed he was a walking, talking cautionary tale - nothing more than a sense of duty kept him from spiraling down into a sea of terrible memories that would tear him apart.

“It wasn’t stupid. It just means you care.” You said, and felt some relief when Miguel squeezed your hand back, “I can handle it, Miguel. I promise. You won’t be able to get rid of me that easily.”

Miguel’s breath caught in his throat. He knew you meant it jokingly but the words still hit a sore spot. 

He didn’t want you to go. If he had control over the powers that governed the multiverse he would ask that you stay with him here forever. He would court you properly instead of dancing around the issue of your growing feelings for one another. He would hug you and kiss you and ask you to spend the nights with him…

Al carajo. He swore and gave into one of his safer desires.

Without warning he closed the distance between you two, slipping into the space between your legs and pulling you against his chest in a bone crushing hug. It was the most contact you’d had with each other since the collider explosion. You melted into his touch, gripping him almost as tightly and getting lost in the smell of coffee and cinnamon.

“I’d like to have you around if that’s alright.” He said softly into the crown of your hair.

You smiled, “Yeah. That’s alright with me.”

“Hey Miss Y/n?” You jolted awake at your desk where you’d drifted off during free period. 

Miles smiled apologetically from the door with Gwen at his back who waved and grinned at you. 

Oh thank god he was back. You thought to yourself, running a hand through your hair to fix it. 

“You know you’re allowed to call me by my first name, right?” You said with a stretch of your back - the sound mimicked a glow stick so much you were surprised you didn’t begin to shine with neon light.

“Yeah, but it’s weird to call an old person by their first name.” 

Gwen smirked at Miles as he dropped his bag off at an empty desk.

“Old?!” You said incredulously, “Miles, how old do you think I am?” 

He froze like a cat that had just knocked over a glass cup, “Uh…….”

“Oh this should be good,” Gwen quipped, sinking into a chair and propping her feet up on the back of Miles’s chair.

“I-I mean,” Miles stuttered, “Like forty-”

“FORTY?!”

“Thir-Thirty-Thirty-three?” He stumbled over his words, heat rising into his cheeks and coloring them a deep plum.

“I’m twenty-eight!” You said, throwing your hands up dramatically. 

“Whoops.” Gwen chuckled. You tipped your head back and laughed, momentarily forgetting the last two weeks of crime-fighting exhaustion.

“How were the college tours? I want to hear everything. Was Princeton all you hoped for?” You leaned forward in your seat, propping your chin up on woven fingers.

“Princeton was fantastic!” Miles said, dragging his chair over to sit closer to your desk, much to Gwen’s chagrin as she lost her footrest, “It looks like something out of a Harry Potter movie. And their engineering building was just-” Miles continued to gush over the schools he’d seen, pulling up photos on his phone of Princeton, Harvard, Columbia, Brown, URI, BU, Northeastern, and a slew of others.

You hung onto his every word, his excitement so infectious that even Gwen abandoned her spot to share Miles’s seat and hear the stories she’d no doubt heard before. 

“I loved Berklee,” Gwen jumped in, pointing out a photo of her and Miles smiling in front of their admissions building.

You tilted your head to the side, “You visited colleges in this universe?” 

She blushed, “Miles’s parents let me tag along for part of the trip so I had to pretend like I was looking at colleges myself.” 

“That makes sense.” You said, noting their closeness and the stolen glances they shared when they thought you weren’t paying attention. “Well, I’m glad the trip was a success!”

“I actually wanted to ask you something, Miss Y/n.” Miles said nervously, straightening up in his chair, “Would you be willing to write me a recommendation letter? I know you’re busy and all but-”

“Say less!” You said with a glowing smile. 

“Really?!” He brightened up.

“Of course! Who else would be better suited to the task than me?! I mean, probably someone with more writing experience, but I would be happy to do it.” 

“Thank you so much!” He quickly pulled out a resume from his backpack and a list of schools he was planning to apply to, sliding them across the desk with relief now that the anxiety of asking had fallen off his shoulders.

The three of you dove into a conversation about college (you had MUCH wisdom to bestow upon them… art college had taught you many lessons), Spider-duties, and life in general. At the close of the school day, Gwen followed you home, a regular occurrence after you’d offered up your apartment for her to crash in whenever she visited your dimension. She always had a change of clothes folded in your dresser and a toothbrush in your bathroom.

You groaned when you were shaken awake from a deep sleep. Gwen hung upside down from your ceiling already in her spider-suit, pink-tipped hair tickling your nose.

“What-what the- JODER!” you shouted, blinking off the bed and landing on the floor with a groan. There were still moments where you didn’t have complete control over your powers. “¡Carajo!” You hissed in pain and picked yourself off the floor, “Gwen, what the hell?”

“Anomaly in Times Square. Miles is already there and needs backup.”

Shit shit shit. You slapped yourself awake and scrambled to grab your newly mended suit from the closet. 

“What are we dealing with?” You shouted as you ran out of your bedroom, slapping on your watch and hearing Miles’s voice ring out from it.

“Dude’s sparkling like a firecracker on Chinese New Years!” His panicked cries rang out, “He’s going after-” Miles’s voice cut out after a strike in the chest fried his watch.

From your apartment window you could see the lights of the New York skyline flicker and crackle like tv static. 

“You ready, Gwen?” You asked, holding out a hand.

Gwen ignored the hand and jumped onto your back, wrapping her lean arms around you for dear life, “Oh god I hate this so much.” She said, squeezing her eyes as you teleported them all the way to Times Square.

It was always harder blinking with a passenger in tow. The collider explosion had changed you on a molecular level in such a way that blinking through space felt as natural as passing through a doorway… for others not so much. Traveling across New York City with Gwen felt like dragging a thick strand of yarn through a tiny needle.

Bright lights exploded out of billboard signs, cascading over you in a burning rain of color. You threw an arm around Gwen as she reoriented herself, pushing her down behind a flipped cop car as a bolt of electricity sailed past your ear crackling with heat and energy.

“You don’t remember me do you, Spider-Man? Not important enough for you?” A voice boomed out, tinged with the power you felt during thunderstorms.

“For the third time, I have literally never met you in my entire life!” 

“You’ll remember me. They’ll ALL remember me when I’ve taken everything from them.”

“Shit.” You and Gwen said in unison before leaping into the fray. 

You made quick work blinking the few people who remained huddled in buildings and under rubble to safety a block away.

“Sorry, sorry. Sorry!” You apologized as people dropped to the floor after being blinked, unused to the feeling of teleportation.

The lights blinded you constantly, blue electricity zipping across the ground like animals on the hunt. You teleported across Times Square, narrowly dodging lightning strikes that raised the hair on your head and arms and teleporting buses, cars, and concrete over the man’s head. He kept up with your attacks, jumping to safety or simply blowing the vehicles up with his power.

Maybe this was what having a Spidey-sense is like? You thought to yourself as you knocked Miles out of the way of a well aimed strike, using the taste of metal in the air as a sign that he was powering up. 

A bolt caught you in the chest, sending you crackling through the air. You landed in a smoking heap by the gutter, groaning as your watch smarted and burned on your wrist. You wrenched it off with pain shooting up the side of your ribs. 

So much for calling for backup. You swore inwardly as Gwen cried out, tossing her own smoking watch onto the ground as she picked her way out of the rubble of broken billboard screens. There would be no calling Miguel until this was over and done with… if you ever got a chance to call him. The safety net you’d always had fell away from your feet, leaving you buzzing with anxiety.

“Throw the cage!” You screamed at Gwen. She jumped and arched through the air, throwing a device no larger than a coin and watching it stick to the ground beneath the man’s feet. 

He thrummed with the energy of New York City’s power grid, drinking it in through his skin like a sponge. The shield sprang to life, closing in on him with precision and accuracy. You let yourself breathe a sigh of relief as he quietly looked at his new cage. The high strung buzz of power in the air dissipated, no longer called to him from behind the holographic barriers.

The man quietly pulled off his hood, revealing blue skin cracked with the movement of electricity shooting through his veins like blood. 

“Wait, NO!” Miles shouted, “It’s not going to work!”

“You really think this can hold me?” He grinned, white eyes haunting, “Think again.”

He pressed the palms of his hands against the barrier and you all watched in horror as it blew apart in his hands. 

“SHIT!” Miles yelled, throwing his hands up to block the light that exploded outward. 

You ducked down behind an overturned bus, feeling the sharp pricks of debris falling down on your back and singeing the fabric. 

Times Square was once again alight with electricity and light, and the electric man stood at the center of it all, drawing in power and watching with delight as block after block of neighborhoods went pitch black. Helicopters flew overhead, spotlights zigzagging over the ground. You watched, powerless as he aimed one finger at a helicopter and shot it down to the ground. Miles and Gwen lept into action, working in tandem to weave a net strong enough to catch it as you continued to distract the villain. But you were slowing down, exhaustion creeping into your bones. 

Another shot to the shoulder slammed you into a brick wall, body flickering in and out of existence as you struggled to blink yourself away. You fell to the ground in a crumple of limbs.

A boot pressed down between your shoulder blades, heavy and bruising. You screamed when a burning hand grabbed you by the back of your suit and hoisted you into the air. Blue eyes, cold and unfeeling bore into your own. 

“You didn’t need to get involved.” He said, his hands beginning to light up dangerously. “I’m sorry this has to happen. But you’re not going to stop me. No one is going to stop me.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” You said through gritted teeth.

Every dimension was different and every dimension left its mark on its inhabitants like a key to a home or a postal code. It was how the Go Home Machine was able to send people back where they belonged. 

“You think you could ever do that?... I think you could.” Hobie had said about the Go Home Machine. You’d scoffed and brushed it off at the time but… there was no time like the present.

You squeezed your eyes shut and grabbed a hold of his arm.

You drew on every inch of your power, searching throughout the multiverse for something that felt like home to this person until… 

You got a match.

“What-what are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” You opened your eyes and gasped. The man’s body was slowly breaking apart like the static on old distorted TVs. He tried to get away from you, struggling against your iron grip as you held on for dear life, pouring your power into the action of forcing an unwilling person across the multiverse.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Dimension.” You growled, finding yourself back on solid ground as his legs went, then his lower torso. His face and arm were the last to go, mouth frozen in a silent scream, leaving you clutching empty air.

Miles and Gwen gawked at you from twenty feet away as the lights of the city slowly shuddered back to life, a stillness and unnatural quiet falling down on the city that never sleeps. 

Your knees buckled beneath you and they shouted your name. 

The last thing you saw were the blurry outlines of Miles and Gwen running towards you before your head hit the ground and the world went black.

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

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Author's note: Annnnnnnd here's Chapter Five! Thank you all for reading and sticking with me and my chaotic posting schedule. I hope you enjoy!

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[tovibeornottovibe]

Notes on the Night Court

a/n: I wrote this from Merrin's perspective, but it has only very brief mentions of her relationship with Azriel. Honestly, I just wanted to solidify Merrin's voice in my head. Her opinions are not necessarily mine, of course. This is an in-universe critique of Rhysand's policies towards the Hewn City, and I am aware that is a super niche subject lmao. You could probably file this under Inner-Circle bashing, but it's not really, and it's not anti-Rhysand either. uh, enjoy this little weird thing I wrote because I like world building [1.7k words]

warnings: none, I think?

Prefer to read on Ao3?

Supplementary: On the Hewn City

A note from the editor:

In this short essay, a prominent member of the Inner Circle of the Night Court—who identifies herself as the wife of the Spymaster and Shadowsinger, Azriel—describes her discomfort at the treatment of the people in the Hewn City. Though little is known about her, it is generally accepted that she hailed from the Winter Court and lived in Velaris during Amarantha’s rule. She was a prolific writer, though many of her works are only mentioned in others'. Very few of the originals still exist. Certain names of people and places have been censored and/or obscured (such as the exact district of the Hewn City she refers to, which has since been suggested to be Codeoen) by the editor-in-chief of The Hebdomadaire, an independently financed journal in Velaris which was known for being provocative. It was published a month before the High Lord’s historic meeting with the Court of Nightmares’ nobility. 

On the Hewn City

Presumably, reader, you have never been to the Hewn City, under that mountain which did so inspire Amarantha and causes such distress to its citizens. I’m afraid we must acknowledge that it exists in its current form because our High Lord handed control of it over to the worst members of the previous High Lord’s council and maintains the Steward’s loyalty by violence and threat. Sporadic visits remind them that they are beneath those of us who live in the Court of Dreams and they should be thankful that the High Lord has granted them even that stale and repugnant air of the City etc. etc.

Perhaps we could reason that they deserve their place. They are all wretched and Velaris is too good for them, that sort of thing. I seriously doubt anyone would say something like that about the High Lord’s cousin, Morrigan, or any of the newborn children who have no choice but to grow up perceivably cruel like their parents did.

For a time, I lived in the Hewn City with a friend, before she brought me to Velaris, and there I was a teacher in one of the poorest and least noble areas of the Court—having not a mark to my name myself. I primarily taught literacy to children no older than eleven, though there were times when I was employed to care for those older than that in a more private context. There was very little money in the district and as such both my wages and prices for food were low; we should note that I did not buy anything but food. I never spent money on clothes or drink. No one was flush enough with cash to do so, and those who did walk the streets in something other than slightly tatty corduroy either had it taken off them or were dismissed as criminals who gained the money selling out their neighbours to the High Lord’s Spymaster.

Azriel, who I of course know and treasure the company of now, was the subject of children’s fears and nightmares. I found it a rather callous way to get them to behave, and never used stories of him dragging children from their beds and taking them to the dungeons below our feet as a way to discipline them. In fact, the children I worked with were nothing but pleasant. They had their issues, usually stemming from poverty-induced hunger, difficult family situations as a result of the lack of employment and/or protections for those who were lucky enough to have jobs, and were brash enough that any governess in Velaris would dismiss them as delinquents. They generally did not understand that I was an immigrant. As far as they were aware, I grew up just like them. At first, their parents had a tendency to distrust me for it, but why wouldn’t they? Their community was and is so insular and so exploited that they have a general distrust for anyone, let alone someone they were trusting to care for their children.

During the day, though the meaning of that word has somewhat been lost in the Hewn City, the adults in this district were often looking for work as cleaners or domestic servants of the wealthier fae who lived near the Royal Palace—which I visited only once. If they were in work, it was likely they were part of the crews which were digging out new room for residents, lower into the mountain as specified by the Steward (and High Lord, presumably). It is horrible, rough work which clogs the lungs and damages muscles because they are not given enough breaks. I went down with the workers once and was privileged enough to be able to swear it off for the rest of my life. Most of us who live in Velaris would not survive much more than a week on the dig sites, but they do it everyday and have been for decades now. Sometimes, they would fall in with the criminals who steal petty jewellery from homes in the noble areas, or else take jobs to beat on debtors, because the dig sites and noble homes are always oversubscribed for workers.

Prostitution, which I mention because we are predisposed to assume that this is the main mode of females making money in places like the Hewn City, was not such a big business in the area I lived in. Most females are married very young and their husbands are possessive enough that they forbid it. Female liberation movements have not made their way down into the Hewn City. Everyone is more concerned with putting food on the table and I dared not try to introduce them to it either. The idea has a certain superiority-complex to it which made me uncomfortable. I’m of the opinion that, soon enough, there will be some kind of grassroots organising of people, workers, females, perhaps just of the poor, who will start to withdraw their work and lobby for better conditions. Having met the High Lord, even as the brother of my husband, I am not convinced he would be susceptible to their demands. We have argued about the Hewn City rather tirelessly.

When contemporaries have some article about the Hewn City published in a journal which is only read by people who already share whatever tedious opinion they have, they tend to have this air of superiority to them. For example, Mr. [____] wrote only last week in the [____] about the conditions in the Hewn City, decrying the lack of sunlight, the hunger, the poverty and so on with the tone of a particularly insufferable priestess preaching chastity to young girls at school. Why he found it fit to condescend people he has never met, and will not read what he writes, I do not know. He also spends a disproportionate amount of time comparing courtesans in Velaris with ‘whores’ in the Hewn City (and he uses different names for them because he is, presumably, deeply uncomfortable with admitting that they do the same job for the same people. The word ‘whore’ is, of course, heavily loaded in Velaris in any case). One has to wonder how much time he spends in pleasure halls.

Fundamentally, fae like Mr. [____], and perhaps you count yourself as one of them, don’t understand the Hewn City. Propaganda, for that is what articles like his are, whether he intends it or not, is designed so you don’t think about whether it is right that the Hewn City exists in its current capacity, or at all. Before Velaris was revealed to the world, you might have been able to justify it. The walls of Velaris had not been breached in five-thousand years and everyone—rightly—chalked this up to the reputation the Night Court maintained as a brutal place, even worse than that of Amarantha and her disciples Under the Mountain. It was a foreign policy which protected Velaris at the expense of the Hewn City, and it worked. Now, there is no conceivable reason that we continue to treat them as though we are still employing this policy.

Who are we fooling? I’m not naïve to the fact that the Inner Circle do bad things for the right reasons, and I am in favour of that. Is how the people of the Hewn City live for the right reasons? Do they deserve the poverty and the hunger that Mr. [____] so publicly despises with no consideration for why these conditions exist at all? Should we doom the children I taught to a life where they have to choose between equally and unfathomably evil work by virtue of where they were born and nothing else? When you can put faces to nameless people you say deserve their plights, you would find it difficult to say the kinds of things that Mr. [____] does.

And to those who would lay blame at the Steward, or perhaps the nobles who pay their servants so little, I would ask you: who put them there? Who actively refuses to regulate or introduce labour laws? Why should they pay any more than what is required of them to avoid charges of slavery—and I would argue that the hours they work are akin to it—when they have no concept of work anyway? 

Charging my brother-in-law with negligence is a serious accusation, and one I am not sure I am brave enough to make. I would, however, urge him, as I have done in person and as I am forced now to do in writing, to go to the other half of his court, and go not as a High Lord, but as the male I know him to be. As a brother, a father, and a husband. If this does not change his mind on certain policies of his, I would find myself struggling to reconcile the version of him that I have met and the male who allows his people to suffer abominably without reason. 

[tanadrin]

i think you can make a plausible argument that it was the cultural reaction to 9/11 that killed the star trek franchise for a long time. without rehashing the politics of the 00s too much, there were two possible reactions to something like 9/11, what we might term the "oklahoma city" reaction and the reaction we actually got. 9/11 could have been viewed as a major tragedy but ultimately a criminal act, one which had to be dealt with by the civil authorities like the mcveigh bombing or other notable incidents of deadly terrorism on US soil prior to that date. instead though it was largely conceived of as a foreign military threat, encouraged no doubt by an administration that wanted to pursue a more vigorous foreign policy, and we got, well--*gestures at the first two decades of the 21st century*

this really soured the national political mood--it made the cultural zeitgeist one of paranoia and violent revenge fantasies. it gave us 24, and Taken, and while I'm not sure it's wholly responsible for the reboot of BSG (there's a throughline there with Ronald D. Moore's other work) it certainly contributed to an environment that was receptive to it. and i think in that environment 90s end-of-history optimism about the future, though it should have been a welcome corrective to all that cynicism and paranoia, simply felt like an anachronism. enterprise did last a few years, but only four seasons in total, the shortest run since TOS. the only movie we got in that era before the big hiatus was Nemesis, a movie about terrorism and a foreign threat that just felt kind of weird and incoherent.

and that was the problem for star trek in that era: if you take the utopianism out of roddenberry's future, you're not left with anything interesting. utopianism is the whole justification for these guys exploring space and going boldly and whatnot, the whole reason why the federation is worth rooting for over any of the other guys. i think a big reason the jj abrams movies fail to have any real substance is that they try to make star trek an action-adventure thing, when that was never its strong suit--indeed, TOS fight scenes are notoriously bad!--and it really took until discovery before people were willing to make star trek qua star trek again.

but even then, there's a degree of pessimism at the core of (some of) post-hiatus star trek that sits uncomfortably with the show's original utopian vision. some of this is just the usual metastasization of conceits that worked better as one-offs or very sparingly at most, comparable to the way the borg got beaten into the ground by voyager. but the heavy reliance on elements like section 34 and the mirror universe and the postapocalyptic future and the crapsack alpha quadrant of picard all to me speak of a certain yearning for utopia--a nostalgia for the utopias of the 90s--but much greater cynicism about the relevance of utopian fiction to our day-to-day lives.