#it was different when we had 30 of us and I was in charge of the kids the whole time

[nejackdaw]

Thinking about that time in our first campaign my character's dad (adoptive, a very important baron) almost died.

Apparently, he was supposed to. He was not supposed to survive contact with the lich. Don't even ask me how or why we got to the lich, genuinely all I remember is panicking because all of a sudden he had like five hit points and as the party schemer I had two thoughts that erased my awareness of everything else: (1) MY FUCKING DAD (2) THIS LICH IS GOING TO KILL US.

See, my job is finding ways to get us out of things, and as a wizard, I was well equipped to handle that. Except thought one, "MY FUCKING DAD," took priority over EVERYTHING ELSE. My little wizard was orphaned and down his only brother. This guy was all he had. His whole world. World's #1 dad.

... And the lich almost one shot him. He was collapsed on the ground and struggling for breath. This did not register as a cinematic moment to me because I was PANICKING. We roll initiative.

The lich rolls highest. I'm frantically looking through my notes to see what's available to me. Tries to kill me, too. Counterspell.

My turn. Throwing ALL CAUTION to the wind, plan only vaguely half formed, I run up to the baron and tell the DM I'm going to drag him back to the party.

"Your speed is halved from carrying him. You can't make it in 15 feet."

There's dead silence. Everyone is waiting for my response. Seconds of silence. "What are you going to do?" (DM speak for "please hurry up.")

"... I'm a tabaxi. I can make it in 30."

I double my movement speed and drag him back there anyway, to the confused relief of the party. Our sponsor (MY FUCKING DAD) is safe for right this second, but how are we going to fight a LICH?

"Anything else?"

"... I have a scroll of teleport in my bag. And I'm within 10 feet of everyone." Most importantly, I'd DUCKED BEHIND A WALL OF BARRELS AND CRATES so the motherfucker couldn't see me to counterspell.

There's dead silence for a few moments. The voice chat proceeds to blast my eardrums with excited cheering and laughing. The DM and I both pull up the spell. "Roll for it. Where are you going?"

"Home."

I roll a 99. We vanish from the lich's lair and are deposited, battered, bleeding, without guidance, in the charred, crumbled ruins of what had been the baron and I's residence. (It had not been that way until very recently. It was news to me.) There's relieved silence. There's an emotional reunion in what remains of our living room. I cast Tiny Hut in a defensible corner of the ruins after we all chat and we get what sleep we can.

(The DM would later confess that the baron wasn't supposed to survive and he had to change his plans now lol. We were supposed to be cut off from all resources at that point. My dad showed up in the final fight since he'd survived TWO murder attempts [ig the BBEG was the third lmao] and, well. I schemed then, too.)

[itstimeforstarwars]

Get out of family drama this holiday by simply falling asleep at the kitchen table.

[carmenized-onions]

I Want To. | Wellness Check

logline; Such is life, you go from not being needed at The Bear today to being more needed than you ever have been.

[!!!] series history, this is the fourth; First, Second, Third

portion; 4.7k+

possible allergies; a dash of Tony's former paramedic background (and just medical shit in general) in this one, so, a sprinkle of post-trauma stress (and her usual yikes psyche). Mikey comes up a bit, as usual! despite the ops, we ball.

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (pretty unavoidably gendered episode, mb non-fem folks)

we'll talk after babe, have a good time w/ this one.

Falling asleep was easy— par for Carmen fighting to keep his 6:30 am alarm on. When he finds out you don’t have a plug on his side of the bed and he has to charge his phone on your side, he turns it off. Cute.

Well, there’s also the part where you had to ask if he was okay because it sounded like he wasn’t breathing and it turns out —He was not breathing— He then pointed out that it sounded like you weren’t breathing —You were not breathing— Both of you thought the sound of your lungs would bother the other, so you opted not to use them at all. Turns out, counterproductive; you notice each other’s absences pretty well.

But besides that, it's easy. Carmen isn’t an awful bedfellow. He’s not super shifty, he doesn’t tug the blanket, he doesn’t roll all the fucking way over to your side, or anything like that. He’s honestly concerningly still. Is he annoyed that you’ve gotta toss and turn a little to get comfortable? Probably. He's probably dreaming of you exploding right now, he’s so annoyed. He didn’t make fun of your ages old build-a-bear plush nor it’s Cubs jersey, so that was nice. Pity, probably.

...If Carmen wasn’t here, he knows he’d be stirring and kicking and probably sleep-walking to his oven to light it on fire. But he is here. Where kicking would hurt. Where stirring would wake you. Where a fire would cause more anxiety than relief because all your plants and projects would die. Where you washed his hair and told him that taking care of people doesn’t feel like a lot of work to you. Was it not a lot of work, to take care of his brother? Was it worth it, to you? Probably not. How could it be?

He wills his body to not fucking move because if he does it's going to ruin everything. He's going to ruin everything.

He wakes up at 6:30 on the dot, alarm or no. He’d be concerned if his body functioned any differently. But he can’t get to his phone while you’re sleeping in his way and you’re so comfortable. You’re clutching a bear that’s undeniably on a losing team and you’re at peace with it. He’s trying not to make a metaphor out of this in his mind; alas, it’s already there. The only thing he can do is go back to sleep and dream about killing the teenage boy in his head before he can escape again and call you pretty.

It's around ten when you wake up, you try not to wake him when you turn to grab your phone, but the split second of motion makes him flinch like he’s about to get jumped. “Relax!” You hiss, but like, soft, whispered. “I’m doin’ the fuckin’ Wordle, not smothering you with a pillow.”

“You do the Wordle?”

“Oh, fuck you—”

“The first fuckin’ thing you do in the morning is the Wordle?”

“And I do the Crossword too, bitch, what of it?”

“…I like Connections.”

“I fuckin' hate Connections.”

“Alright, damn!”

The Chicago accent in both of you is stronger in your rasping morning voices. As is the laughter. You roll onto your stomach to get closer to him and let him see your screen. Neither of you have entirely woken up yet and that means it’s the perfect time to do a puzzle. If you don't focus on this puzzle right now, you fear you will get too comfortable in this idea of domesticity.

“C’s in the right place. Nothin’ else though.”

He’s the one that figures out its Cumin. You pretend not to be mad about this. You’re furious. Of course, it’d be a spice on the day Mr Food Guy sleeps over. Bullshit.

When you finally sit up, stretch, and say, “I’m just gonna shower real quick ‘nd—”

He’s at a breakneck speed to reply, “I’ll make breakfast.”

“Oh, you cook all the fuckin’ time, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You blink, then shrug, the man likes to cook, c’est la vie. “Who am I to refuse?”

He looks far too happy about this, as though he’s won a lottery. A lottery of manual labour. He rolls out of bed, grabbing his back pack stuffed with yesterday’s clothes before leaving you to your own devices. In a literal sense, too, since you get a text. Ugh.

‘Gigi called in, can you reach?’

You would prefer not to reach, but this is capitalism.

‘When's the shift?’

‘6:30 to 12:30’

Why couldn’t something else at The Bear be fuckin’ broken today?

‘yeah i can reach’

‘that’s my girl, red tops today, see u’

You have also won the lottery of manual labour today. Look at you and Carm, luckiest people alive. Something like that. Alright, go shower and be normal about the fact that there’s a Michelin Star Chef making you breakfast in your kitchen. And he’s prett—

“You make your own bread.”

“I do.” You sit at your own little breakfast nook, waiting to be served. Towel hung around your neck post shower. You’d offer to help, but based on his urgency to cook for you, it’s gonna be a no. Plus, the gift on the table you’ve got for him is going to piss him off enough, can't poke this bear too much. He's already given you a mile. Too many idioms.

“I like to think in another universe I am a homesteader who makes her own soaps and renders tallow n’ shit. But I settle for growing basil and making sourdough in my shitty little Chicago apartment for now.”

“I like your apartment.” He hums, though amused. He turns and sets your plate—the one black plate— in front of you with a small smile. This smile immediately falls when he pushes the plate towards you and you push a travel bag of toiletries towards him.

“Fuck is this?”

“I don’t want to hear any complaints, Irish Spring.”

“How d’you know I use Irish Spring?”

“It’s all five of your routine, it’s going to be pungent— Now listen.” You pick up the bag; you’d dug through your sink cabinet and found a dollar store pack of plastic travel bottles, unused from cancelled trips of yesteryear. You've decanted your own products for him. It's fine, you buy jumbo sizes anyways...

“Shampoo, conditioner, face wash—They’ve even got labels.”

He takes the bag from you, setting it down on his side of the counter, begrudgingly. Though he hasn’t particularly paid it much mind, tunnelled on something else entirely, “Do you not like Irish Spring?”

"I didn't give you a body wash, you can still use it for that one purpose."

"Yeah, but do you not like Irish Spring?"

"...I think it's fine."

“Fine?”

“I’m more of an Old Spice fan.”

“You don’t deserve breakfast—” He pulls your plate, you pull it back.

“All I said—” “Thinkin’ I smell like shit—” “Did not say that—!” “Just cause you use the fruity stuff—” “I smell good! Deny that I smell good!” “You smell fine.” “Wowww—Whatever, do the thing.”

“Bruschetta with a breakfast twist.” Ah, that makes him give you the plate back. His kink is explaining food. “Sourdough toasted, topped with fresh basil—”

“Courtesy of me.”

“Courtesy of you, yes. Tomatoes, bacon glazed in balsamic, and you didn’t have parm so I used feta. And then, y’know, over medium egg on top.”

“You’re very good, Carmen.”

“Oh, I—Uh—” You haven’t even tried it yet. You’re telling him he’s good for the sake of the effort he’s given alone. He needs an antacid. “Thank you.”

It’s redundant to say his food is good. But what else can you say? It’s a fucking perfect open face sandwich. But he’s eating it with you, and half of it’s your own handiwork, and all of your pantry, so you leave your praises purely reaction based, unsaid.

You're honestly a little distracted, reading too hard into the act of him giving you the black plate and taking one of your shitty plastic ones for himself. Time to talk.

“Itinerary for today?”

“Gotta talk chaos menu with Syd before opening, then, well, running the restaurant all night… And then I’ll—I’ll go home.”

“Yeah? You can come back here, if you want to.” Thank God you took a bite in time to hide your selfish disappointment. It’s good for him to go home, but then he’s not here. Real Catch-22.

He shakes his head, “I think I’m good now. Thanks, though. What’s—What’s uh, your plans for today?”

“I’m gonna drop you off wherever you’re going, n’ then I’m gonna go shopping for Syd’s gift—”

“It’s her fuckin’ birthday or somethin?” It’s a delight how immediately panicked he is by this. You're also thankful because he's so distracted it means you won't have to tell him the rest of your plans for today. You'd like to keep that life separate. For as long as possible, at least.

“Nono, it’s just, I didn’t get her anything for her opening night and I wanna change that. I’ll get you something too.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” The very idea of waiting for his response is freaking you the fuck out, so you’re quick to clear your voice and add. “I’ll give you my number, in case you end up needing to crash.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Ey, text me your invoice too.”

You take both your cleared plates to the sink, and the lie is swift. You've gotten a lot better at that, in the past year.

“Oh no worries, your sister already covered it.”

It is 6:30 and your life is over. Kidding. Unless? You dropped off Carmen at the train station hours ago and, to use his words, ‘it’s hit’. He’s at The Bear and there’s nothing for you to fix there— So you’re not.

You’ve only been there like three times and yet it started to feel… Like your thing!

Like, like you’d just come in everyday and… Dunno, fix something... But it’s not like they’re gonna have a crisis everyday. Especially not ones that Fak can't handle himself if needed— There's no way he's gonna last at hosting, anyways. You’re now realizing the unrealistic dream— Possibly more unrealistic than homestead you.

Speaking of, Homestead You would probably throw up, if she saw the you you’re looking at in the mirror right now. You look good. Objectively, you know you look good. The mug is stamped. Your pants are black, high-waisted, and give you an ass. The bright red leather corset top is… Chafing, but it looks good! It's a sweetheart neckline so you have to take off your long rope chain necklace from Mikey and shove it in your pocket— Which is fine and doesn't feel bad at all. And listen, listen, being an on-call bottle girl is good money!

And you might get put on bar tonight! You don’t know for sure if you’re gonna have to juggle around lit up bottles for a bunch of fucking geezers!

...

God, fuck, it’s 10:20 and your life is over.

This group of geezers have been fucking annoying and fucking Cherry wouldn’t get off fucking bar even though you literally covered for her last week and these stupid grandpas asked if gratuity is included— No fucking shit! Did you take their card and put a 40% tip? Yeah, maybe. Fuck them! They’re too fucking rich to notice! And they took three hours to leave! Gonna bash this champagne bottle over his bald fucking—

“Ey! That’s a face I remember.”

You hear your name— Not Tony, not Chip, not Cousin. Your name.

You turn to see, oh fucking hell, let God kill you—

“Uncle J!~ Good to see you!~ What a surprise! It’s Jack, here.” Jack of all Trades. It was cute at the time of sign up. Your smile is bright, fake, strained, and beautiful.

“Been too long, really.” Cicero isn’t a bad guy—Correction: Cicero isn’t a bad guy, to you, but as Mikey once put it, he’s a fuckin’ ball buster and in your case, you’re one of the few people beneath him that he asks favours from. Always wants free labour and your expertise. And he always has a habit of asking for favours the second you need one back. But you don’t need one right now! So it’s fine! Everything’s fine!

“Do your Uncle a favour,”—Fully not your Uncle—“Could you pair me and my friends here with a good red?”

You let it go that they’re having fish and asking for a red. Stupid thing to get hung up over right now. You make a commission of it anyways; you just pick the most expensive bottle. He won’t know the difference. The Bear would know the difference. Carmen would notice the difference... Alright, relax.

While pouring glasses, Jimmy whispers to his compatriots and one by one they all peel off. It is almost alarming how quickly this group of men turn and leave without a second thought, taking their glasses with them.

You raise your brows and look at Cicero. “Ah. This is the moment where I sit?”

He nods, gesturing to the booth. “This is the moment where you sit.”

You slip into the booth, sitting across from him. “What do you need?”

“Right to the point with you.”

“I hate suspense.” You shrug.

“You liked Mikey.”

What the fuck?

You bite your inner cheek, hard. “Don’t say that shit.”

“I liked him too,” He says it solemnly, like your mutual grief is a proper apology. He takes a long sip of his stupid red wine. “Did you hear? Cousin Vinnie and Mira are gettin’ hitched, finally.”

“I have no fucking idea who Vinnie and Mira are.” You take the glass when he hands it to you, taking a sip. Small. You gotta drive home, after all.

“Really? It’s a big wedding—Destination too, in New York—”

“I hate to remind you, but I was friends with Mikey, not his family.” Not his biological one, at least. The Beef, sure. But you literally only met his siblings two days ago. “What’s a wedding gotta do with me?”

He bristles, and finally cuts it short. “Around three hundred guests, seven-hour shift, open bar—” “Oh, for fuckssake—” “Listen—”

“It’s an easy gig, I’ll fly you out for it, it’s a month and a half away, you’ll get to attend a big fuckin’ Italian wedding— Which will be a shitshow, certainly, so free entertainment; and Michelin Star level catering, kind of.”

You squint. Kind of? “You got Carmy in on this shit?”

“You know ‘em?”

You nod, pressing your elbows on the table, “We’ve recently become acquainted. What d’you got on him for him to cater a wedding?”

“He’s eight-hundred grand in the hole.” “Fuck!” “He gets thirty off for catering. Smart boy, said yes.”

Christ, you massage the bridge of your brow with one hand and pull out your phone with another to check your calendar, you might as well see if you can even entertain the idea. You don’t need a favour right now, maybe you can bargain and get him to actually pay you for it, this time.

“I dunno, Uncle J…”

Oh.

28 unread texts from Syd.

3 unread texts from an unknown number— Probably Carmen.

9 missed calls from Syd.

Uncle Jimmy, always, always, has a fucking way, of asking for a favour when you need one…

You slam your phone, screen down on the table, straightening your posture in your seat. “I have demands.”

He motions for you to continue, taking his wine glass back. “You always do.”

“You and your friends are gonna tip a hundred percent tonight.”

“That why you give me a 2016 Fisher?”

“I like to think ahead.”

“Smart girl.” He shrugs, palms of his hands out. Which means yes.

“If Uncle Lee comes up to the bar I’m throwing a fork at him and leaping over the counter.”

He chuckles, “Thought you 'didn’t know family'.”

“I remember what I'm told.”

His amusement fades quickly, remembering first hand. He nods. “…You’re allowed to jump him if I’m watching first.”

“And you’re friends with my boss, right?”

“We’re acquainted.”

“I’m gonna punch out now and you’re gonna smooth that out for me.”

He perks up, amused, glancing at your phone, “Somethin’ come up, Chip?”

“Don’t call me Chip.” He wants to poke at you, just a little bit more, but there’s a rattled look in your eyes that he’s so rarely seen that he lets it go.

He waves his hand, shrugging, “Be safe. I'll send you the details. December wedding, remember.”

At the end of the day, Cicero isn’t a bad guy to you, someone who loved his nephew as much as he did.

You’re running to your car while you dial back Syd. You don’t have time to read the texts, all you need to know is that it’s an emergency. She picks up just after the first ring.

“Syd what the—” “Code blue!”

You almost fall on your face and eat asphalt. For a flash, you’re in the back of an ambulance being handed a defibrillator at the age of 22, surrounded by faces just as scared and young as you. Then you’re back in the parking lot, slotting the key into your car door because the fob doesn’t work. It’s never worked.

“S-Someone’s having a fucking heart attack!?”

“What?!”

“That’s what fucking code blue means!”

“Oh my god! Sorry! No, I was just saying the thing that scares doctors the most!”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ scared Syd!” You slide into the driver’s seat and slam your car door shut. You take a deep breath, white knuckling the steering wheel. “…I’m-I'm sorry for yelling! Where are you, what’s going on?”

“The—The Bear, the restaurant.” The second you have a location you’re revving off.

“Nat locked herself in the office—” “Like trapped?” This shit again?

“No, no— Like she locked herself in— She did this like two hours ago and I thought she was just taking a breather— But we’ve closed and, and like almost everyone left and she’s still not coming out— And she blocked the door inside— and— And I think she’s trying to hide that she’s basically shrieking in pain every five minutes.”

You take a long time to register anything she’s just said. Her tone is as panicked as you feel on the inside. You’re only now registering the ambient yelling of Richie and Carmen in the background.

“…Did—Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah Syd, I’m just thinking.” You don’t step on the gas on purpose, it just happens. “A pregnant woman is screaming in pain— in intervals— behind a blockaded door?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Have you called an ambulance?”

There’s a much more distinct yell in the background from Richie, “No cops!”

Then from Carmen, “No coverage!”

“Yeah…” Syd shakily continues for them, “The insurance is a problem, and Richie said— Motherfucker—” You hear a muffled scrap over the phone before Richie continues on for Syd.

“Er, yeah, Cousin, Sugar keeps yelling that she’s fine ‘n blocked the door, if we call the cops they’re gonna ram that shit down and take her to the loony bin.”

“That’s not— That’s not what paramedics do.”

“That’s what they all do.”

“Richie, y’know, I was a paramedic, right?”

“…You a fuckin’ fed, Chip?”

“Richie, if I was a fuckin' narc you would be in prison by now. I, I— I'll be there in like, like eight minutes, everyone stop fucking yelling at Sugar!”

You’re there in four. You almost rear end someone and you run every yellow you get but you’re there in four. You don’t park properly in the back, you just drive your car in and turn it off in the middle of the lot. You don’t bother to be let in, you just punch the code in as you remember it. As Natalie told you.

“Oh good you—Oh my, God?” Syd is no better than a man in this moment, going from grateful for your presence to being one intrusive thought away from whistling.

You did not have time to change out of your ...outfit and someone has been hogging your Carhartt. You pass Syd quickly, waving a hand in front of her face. Goddammit, why do your boot heels have to have that incredibly satisfying femme fatale click right now?

“Alright— Relax—”

“Holy shit, Chippy!” Richie was yelling at Sugar through the door along with Carm, but once alerted to your presence is now snapping his fingers. You'd describe him more as impressed than actually attracted to you. “You clean up!”

 “Cousin, are you—” He grabs Carmen’s face, turning it to you— Carmen does of course, immediately slap Richie’s hand away which of course, means they just start smacking each other's hands. Like preteen girls. “Ey, get the fuck off—” “I just want you to look at a pretty girl, Cousin—!” “Stop fuckin’ touchin’ me!” “Are you looking!?” “I—”

“Everyone shut the fuck up!”

You silence the room. You’re thankful most of the staff has left by now since it’s well after close. It's just Carmen, Syd, Richie, Tina, and Fak for some goddamn reason...You can't be mean you're handymen, you have to stick together.

“I look different from the usual jumpsuit, yes, we get it, can we move on? Pregnant woman?”

Syd is the first to speak, “…Were you on a date, though?”

You blink and roll your eyes all at once, twisting your head to her, “Syd—”

“It’s good to see you getting out there, baby.” Tina, deeply unhelpful in this moment, puts a hand around your shoulder. Oh to have a mother’s judgment when she’s not even your mother.

“O-kay!” You drag on the ‘kay’, clapping your hands together, “Everyone, just get your thoughts out in the next five seconds and then we’re moving on.”

“Chippy, I cannot believe you’ve held this out on me—” “—I meant it like-like a concerned, did we interrupt your date—” “—The red is unbelievable on you, Cousin!” “I need you to teach me how you do your makeup—” “Can you— can you yell again—?” “Fak!” “Oh, so that’s too much?”

A cacophony, it continues on. Your eyes glaze over, and you’re waiting for Sugar to let out a scream so everyone remembers the fucking point of being here. But then you look at Carmen. Everyone’s pivoted from staring at you to yelling at each other. But Carmen; Carmen is still looking at you. Stupid soft scary eye contact. And his voice is so much quieter than the yelling but it’s the thing that you hear anyways.

“It looks tight.”

There’s a possibility that when you killed the teenage girl inside you that you also killed the feminist. Because there’s a small sub-sect of you that’s upset that he’s not objectifying you right now. That his vision is focused on you. Not the changes. He doesn’t seem to look at you any differently than when you’re wearing a jumpsuit and utility belt, covered in toilet water. This should not be annoying and yet it is.

“It is.”

He nods, eye contact unshifting, unblinking, “You wanna change?”

“Maybe after we find out whether or not your sister is in labour.”

He nods. He takes a second but he nods.

You approach him, rather, the door, knocking gently. Everyone quiets down.

You clear your throat, and once more, the persona is put on, you’re a paramedic, putting on that soft but firm reassuring authoritative tone. “E-M Rescue, I got a call for a wellness check on Natalie Berzatto?”

“Tony—” A groan of pain behind the door, “I am perfectly well! Everyone go home!”

You grimace, you motion with your hand for Fak to hand you a screwdriver— He keeps one in his breast-pocket, even when wearing a suit. Hey, you should start doing that.

“Nat, I’m a paramedic— Or I was—will you please let me in?”

“I don’t— Fuck! —Need a paramedic!”

“Never hurts to do a check-up, Nat.” You speak calmly, like you always did. “Listen, lover, if you don’t open the door, I’m gonna have to take it off its hinges, and we're gonna lose medic patient confidentiality.”

When she doesn’t reply after a good beat, you start to unscrew the top hinge; she can hear it, “Wait, wait, wait— Fuck-Fuck— I’m opening it!”

There’s another series of pained groans as she exerts herself to open the door, and once she does, it’s only by a crack, to look at you and you alone. She’s absolutely been crying. She speaks in a whispered tone. “Just you.”

You nod, handing the screwdriver back to Fak without breaking eye contact with her. “Just me.”

She cracks it open just enough for you to come in. And so, you do. Everyone is, for the first time, too worried about her shutting down to interrupt or yell a complaint.

You close the door behind you, pressing your back to it. You note the toppled over chair by your feet that she must’ve blocked it with. Plus the puddle of amniotic fluid beneath her. Oh fuck.

...

“You wanna talk or do you just want me to check your contractions?”

“I’m—” She shakes her head, covering her face. She half sits on the desk. “I’m fucking— I am not ready for this.”

“Yeah.” You nod. You’re not here to convince anyone they’re ready to be a fucking mother. But you’re here to listen, certainly.

“She’s gonna hate me.”

“Who?”

“Her—!” Her voice is choked, another contraction. You’re silently taking the time in your head. She points to her stomach.

“And— And we just opened, and— And I’m gonna have to go on maternity leave, which is the last fucking thing we need and— and— If I could just fucking keep her in!”

“Natalie.” You put a hand on her shoulder, she finally looks at you. “This is happening.”

“Not help—fu—ll.”

“I know it’s not. This is scary and there are no take backs—” “Very unhelp—”

“Nat, your daughter wants to meet you.”

You squeeze her shoulder; she looks like she’s gonna cry all over again for a completely different reason. “She probably won’t hate you. Who’s to say. But I know you’ll love her. And that’s enough, isn’t it?”

She nods, emphatically, but something is still bothering her. You squeeze her shoulder again. You whisper, so even if everyone’s ear is pressed to the door— Which you doubt, she’s screaming after all, they won’t hear.

“Carmen will still know you love him, even when you're not here.”

She immediately goes for a hug, you reciprocate with a shuddered ease. She sniffs, head on your shoulder. She stays there for a while before letting you go, nodding. “Okay.”

You hand her the tissue box next to her on the table, she takes it thankfully, crushing it in her hand. Another contraction. Oh, that couldn't have been more than 2 minutes. Oh fuck.

You kneel down in front of her, and you’re simply no longer in your body as a person but just the paramedic. You could not be more thankful that she’s wearing a dress today. Awkward requests of spreading legs and pulling off underwear aside, Natalie’s daughter does in fact really want to meet her. Oh fuck.

You look up at Natalie, between her knees, you speak cool, professional. “You’re crowning. This is gonna have to happen here. I'll have someone call your husband.”

You’re so calm that it doesn’t give Natalie the feeling or need to freak out, she just breathes. “Okay. Okay.”

You stand upright. “Do you prefer this office or somewhere else?”

“I can’t— Move.”

“Makes sense. Makes total sense. Okay. I’ll go get everything we need, I’ll be right back. I might send some people in, okay, love?”

She just grunts in reply, nodding, now that she’s not in as much emotional pain, she can entirely focus on her brutalizing physical pain.

“Oh, hey, I know—” You grab her purse, pulling out her phone and ear buds, handing them to her with haste, your calm demeanour is faltering just a bit. “Listen to some music, loud, y’know, chill…” You put the pods in her ear for her. She’s again, in too much pain to tell you to fuck off, and just plays her music loud.

You softly open the door, smiling just a bit too much as you leave, and very softly close the door behind you. Looking at the motley crew before you, your persona immediately falls apart. You really only wanted her to play music so you could scream. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“What’s happening, she good?” What a sweet, stupid brother, Sugar has.

You purse your lips together, eyes wide, shaking your head. “She’s going to give birth in like— Maybe six minutes. Max ten.” Everyone goes to speak in an uproar of panic, and then you slap yourself in the face. Hard. That stuns them silent.

“Alright!” You press your hands over your eyes, “Tina!”

She’s been around this block before, “What do you need?”

“Can you go sit in there with her? Tell her all the breathing exercises and shit? Keep her calm? Coming from you it won’t seem so—”

“Condescending as fuck?”

“Yes, exactly, can you?”

“Gotchu, baby.” She claps your shoulder when she walks past and into the office.

You clap hers in tandem, “Thank you, Mama—Okay, Richie!”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna need you to call Nat’s husband—”

“Why do I—”

“Because you’re a fuckin’ dad, Rich, and he will need you!” You’re yelling all pissed, snapping your fingers at him, but he does light up when you say it like that. “I don’t care if he wets his fuckin’ bed, tell him to get here!”

He salutes, walking off, “Aye aye, Cap’n Chip.”

You shake off the sting in your hand, God, you really did slap yourself too hard. You turn to the next targets. “Syd, Fak.”

Syd responds hesitantly for the both of them, since Fak is silently enjoying your colonel persona a little too much. “…Yes, C-Captain?”

“I need towels, a lot of clean towels— cloth ones, like sanitized clean— Warm half in water— And then I need a clean sheet— A table cloth or something, I don’t fucking care, something clean and big that you’re fine destroying. I need sterile sheaths, Syd you get those— Other than that, however they get to me, I don’t give a shit— Just scrub in before you touch anything!”

They almost knock into each other the way they run so fast. You yell after them. “Get the big sheet first, she needs to lay down!”

“Yes, Chef!”

You take a deep breath before moving your gaze onto Carmy. The screaming lead EM in you melts off your shoulders, just for the second.

He asks before you can even say anything, “Yes, Chef?”

“I need you to scrub in and get me gloves and an apron—” “On it, Chef—” “And you’re gonna sit in with me for the birth of your niece.”

He cringes, not to refuse, but just the mounting reality of the situation is dawning on him. His sister is going to give birth to his niece in their shared office of his high-class restaurant within it's first week of open.

But you then tag on, “Carmy, she needs you— Frankly, I’m not the one giving birth but fuckin' I need you. T-There.”

He softens instantly, like tranquilizing— Well, a bear.

“Yes, Chef.”

I know the opening probably feels so far away by now, but i do want to note that Breakfast Bruschetta is my own recipe that I used to make like every fuckin' day pre-employment. It's so goddamn good. I highly recommend it, babes. It's balsamic with brown sugar dissolved, btw, Carmy's just a quick explainer.

I wrote like a solid 75% of the labour sequence before deciding it just needed to have the breathing room of it's own chapter, so until next time for that one bbs. But I'm excited for it! And also dreading it! A lot of hard conversations combined with giving birth = nightmare to write, but well worth it, i think. Speaking of: I don't believe at the end of Season 2 that Sugar is at the end of her term of 36 weeks, but in our case here, she is. I'm very much so not interested in a very scary premature birth for our girl!! She's okay!! Dw!! I just wonked with time a little, hope that's okay.

And hey, look at that reveal! Bartender/Sommelier was code for bottle service-- Which is a very respectable career, btw, don't get it twisted-- I was critiquing it only in the way I would critique literally any other job: Misery Under Capitalism. And now we've got that fuckin' wedding in the future midst! Ah!!

Anyways please send me your thoughts ad nauseam, I reload my activity feed every 3 seconds to see what you guys are thinking. If you reblog, tell me what you think in the tags!! Yell at me in the replies!! Send an anon in!! I don't bite, I swear <3

Next Part

[shouldprobablybereading]

AITA for taking an overseas position without consulting my wife?

Throwaway in case my wife sees it.

I (51m) was recently offered the job of my dreams, it came out of nowhere but fits with everything that I have worked towards for the last 30 years. Really the opportunity of a lifetime and will allow me to actually make a difference. However I would be required to move out of the country very far away, with limited ability to travel back and forth. At first I was ecstatic and said yes pretty much immediately, but when I was speaking with my colleague on zoom he kept telling me that I was getting in over my head. And then my recruiter seemed to think it was weird how quickly I agreed.

My wife (47f) and I have been fighting a lot more lately. She keeps complaining that I am not involving her enough in my life and gets annoyed when I spend time with my friends. I’m starting to get the feeling she resents me for never becoming as successful of an engineer as she wanted to. Which is ridiculous since the truth is that she simply never had what it took, and I don’t think it’s fair for her to be angry at me. She also gets angry with me when I tell her this, for some reason. If I tell her about the job offer I am sure she will go crazy.

Thing is, if I don’t take this position I know they are going to ask my brother (47m) instead which I am certain would be a disaster. He is really successful in our field, but he is reckless and throws himself into things head first. With a skull thick enough that I would not be surprised if he could survive a rockslide. It feels like I have been babysitting him since we were children and I am scared of what he would do without my direct supervision. If they put him in charge I am sure it would burn to the ground. His wife died a while ago and he did not take it well, so he and his boys (13m & 17m) have been staying with us for a while to sort things out. Which is actually a reason why I am not as comfortable leaving, you see I am not comfortable with how much time my wife and he are spending together. They were friends before me and my wife met, it was how we were introduced, and while they never dated I am also not an idiot. You do not keep friends of the opposite gender and bring them to parties without there being some interest. I am afraid that if I leave they might start something.

My children (28f) and (21m) are both adults, so they are no real reason for holding me here. I have paid for both of their college educations as well as my son’s wedding last year. So clearly I have done everything that is expected of me. I would have done the same for my daughter, but she seems hellbent on getting her PhD and seems to get upset whenever I suggest that she should try to settle down. Which is actually really annoying because if I am actually leaving then I need her to have a husband who I can leave the family company to, as my son is the only person I know who is potentially more of a loser than my brother.

I don’t think I have done anything wrong, but my coworkers do not seem to agree. So am I the asshole? I just want to make a difference and be away from all of this mediocrity.

[fatehbaz]

Travel back [...] a few hundred years to before the industrial revolution, and the wildlife of Britain and Ireland looks very different indeed. 

Take orcas: while there are now less than ten left in Britain’s only permanent (and non-breeding) resident population, around 250 years ago the English [...] naturalist John Wallis gave this extraordinary account of a mass stranding of orcas on the north Northumberland coast [...]. If this record is reliable, then more orcas were stranded on this beach south of the Farne Islands on one day in 1734 than are probably ever present in British and Irish waters today. [...]

Other careful naturalists from this period observed orcas around the coasts of Cornwall, Norfolk and Suffolk. I have spent the last five years tracking down more than 10,000 records of wildlife recorded between 1529 and 1772 by naturalists, travellers, historians and antiquarians throughout Britain and Ireland, in order to reevaluate the prevalence and habits of more than 150 species [...].

In the early modern period, wolves, beavers and probably some lynxes still survived in regions of Scotland and Ireland. By this point, wolves in particular seem to have become re-imagined as monsters [...].

Elsewhere in Scotland, the now globally extinct great auk could still be found on islands in the Outer Hebrides. Looking a bit like a penguin but most closely related to the razorbill, the great auk’s vulnerability is highlighted by writer Martin Martin while mapping St Kilda in 1697 [...].

[A]nd pine martens and “Scottish” wildcats were also found in England and Wales. Fishers caught burbot and sturgeon in both rivers and at sea, [...] as well as now-scarce fishes such as the angelshark, halibut and common skate. Threatened molluscs like the freshwater pearl mussel and oyster were also far more widespread. [...]

Predators such as wolves that interfered with human happiness were ruthlessly hunted. Authors such as Robert Sibbald, in his natural history of Scotland (1684), are aware and indeed pleased that several species of wolf have gone extinct:

There must be a divine kindness directed towards our homeland, because most of our animals have a use for human life. We also lack those wild and savage ones of other regions. Wolves were common once upon a time, and even bears are spoken of among the Scottish, but time extinguished the genera and they are extirpated from the island.

The wolf was of no use for food and medicine and did no service for humans, so its extinction could be celebrated as an achievement towards the creation of a more civilised world. Around 30 natural history sources written between the 16th and 18th centuries remark on the absence of the wolf from England, Wales and much of Scotland. [...]

In Pococke’s 1760 Tour of Scotland, he describes being told about a wild species of cat – which seems, incredibly, to be a lynx – still living in the old county of Kirkcudbrightshire in the south-west of Scotland. Much of Pococke’s description of this cat is tied up with its persecution, apparently including an extra cost that the fox-hunter charges for killing lynxes:

They have also a wild cat three times as big as the common cat. [...] It is said they will attack a man who would attempt to take their young one [...]. The country pays about £20 a year to a person who is obliged to come and destroy the foxes when they send to him. [...]

The capercaillie is another example of a species whose decline was correctly recognised by early modern writers. Today, this large turkey-like bird [...] is found only rarely in the north of Scotland, but 250–500 years ago it was recorded in the west of Ireland as well as a swathe of Scotland north of the central belt. [...] Charles Smith, the prolific Dublin-based author who had theorised about the decline of herring on the coast of County Down, also recorded the capercaillie in County Cork in the south of Ireland, but noted: This bird is not found in England and now rarely in Ireland, since our woods have been destroyed. [...] Despite being protected by law in Scotland from 1621 and in Ireland 90 years later, the capercaillie went extinct in both countries in the 18th century [...].

---

Images, captions, and all text above by: Lee Raye. “Wildlife wonders of Britain and Ireland before the industrial revolution – my research reveals all the biodiversity we’ve lost.” The Conversation. 17 July 2023. [Map by Lee Raye. Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[crownprincesspb]

IMPORTANT EDIT: We love Deacon because he tried.

This edit is my baby please watch, even just the last 30 seconds.

Since this episode came out on FP, I’ve been wanting to make this edit. Every arc, from when Bronze had a one on one with Deacon, to being lectured by Buddy, I’ve said how I loved that Deacon’s struggles with the helper key wasn’t just a “one and done thing.” One heartfelt talk, and suddenly the problem is fixed was not the case here. Despite saying he appreciated the role after sick day, he still used the hero key in the Book of Deacon. Even though he understood the importance helper key, he couldn’t let being the hero go completely. Not when his desire to be a hero was rooted in wanting things to be different for himself. After all, we as humans don’t change our beliefs and desires as soon as we learn they might not be the best, we continue exploring, and it changes gradually.

Even after he got his Prince outfit, and was heroically riding a horse, Deacon says he is happy to help. The helper is a hero in their own wright. Thank you for showing this truly brilliant learning curve Punko.

I hope in season two he continues to be not just a helper to Chase, but a helper to himself by taking charge of his future. By doing so, he will become the hero he needs.

Behold, Deacon’s helper character arc edit.

I have been absent from Tumblr as of late to keep things spoiler free for y’all, had to post this though!

[thecurioustale]

My Thoughts on Jenny Nicholson and the Star Wars Hotel

I watched Jenny Nicholson's four-hour "The Spectacular Failure of the Star Wars Hotel" video essay that YouTube showed me recently but which till now I couldn't bring myself to construct a day around. She's in great form here, and I'm pleased to say I go back as a fan of her work all the way to her Friendship Is Witchcraft days. (Blows my mind that she voiced all Mane Six characters, and others, so well.)

Anyway, long story short, Disney built a Star Wars hotel at Disneyworld in 2022 that was themed as a voyage on a spaceship, then proceeded to charge thousands of dollars per person per night, the most expensive publicly-available Disney theme park hotel experience by miles and miles, and then closed the hotel in 2023 after having spent hundreds of millions of dollars. Jenny went into the experience as a member of the core target demographic and spent four hours talking about all the ways it was an underwhelming or outright disappointing experience.

Her video reminded me of Hasbro's own misadventures in corporate greed with Magic: The Gathering, which has suffered in recent years from price increases, disengagement from the fan community, and a huge proliferation of product spam—i.e. more products overall, more ways to buy a given product (e.g., the proliferation of different boxes, which eventually killed the original draft booster box that had powered Magic for 30 years), and more variants of individual cards within and between products.

Hasbro and Disney are very similar in the economic space they operate in, and also utilize similar business strategies. Disney is essentially the S-tier megacorporation to Hasbro's B-tier, and we have seen many of the same corporate trends play out in both companies.

When it comes to Disney theme parks, they have massively increased ticket prices over the years, well beyond the rate of inflation, and have also implemented advance-scheduling systems for faster access to rides that has made the process of exploring a Disney theme park much less spontaneous and a lot more regimented and stressful.

Disney realized, years ago, that their limited number of theme parks—they only really have two, not counting the various sub-parks: Disneyland on the West Coast and Disneyworld on the East Coast—together with Disney's entrenched status as a cultural icon with lots of goodwill and brand recognition among the public, are vastly underserving public demand, allowing them to inflate the price of a single trip almost arbitrarily, well into the four digits—or even the five-digits if you're taking the family and spending several days.

The Star Wars hotel was Disney's "Magic 30": a product so ludicrously expensive as to incur immediate and universal condemnation by their own fans. It's clear to me what Disney was doing: They'd happily turned the conventional price knob up and up and up for years. Now they wanted to experiment with a fundamentally more expensive product class, basically five to ten times more expensive. They wanted to see if the market could support it. Because the growing disparity of wealth in America, together with America's obscene wealth as a nation relative to the rest of the world, means that it's definitely possible: There are definitely millions of people out there who could book a stay at the Star Wars hotel if they wanted to. And Disney was like "Let's see if they will."

And you know what? I think it could have succeeded. Because there really is an obscene excess of wealth in this country, even though most of us don't have any access to it. And we are a culture whose zeitgeist is ever ravenous for the next big, flashy experience.

But instead the venture failed spectacularly. Why? Because such reckless corporate greed is, itself, usually a sign of deep organizational rot and incompetency among the board and executive leadership. In other words, their hotel failed for the same reason they tried building it in the first place: Disney has grown stupid.

The way it failed, going by Jenny's video, is down to two independent reasons:

An outrageous degree of "penny-wise, pound foolish" thinking;

A fundamental failure to anticipate the comfort and pleasure of the guest.

The former is the more obvious of the two, and what really stood out to me as emblematic of it in this whole boondoggle were two simple thing: 1) The hotel rooms didn't have complimentary Disney+; and 2) the free loaner umbrellas for hotel guests visiting the Star Wars Land in Disneyworld were either so worn-out or so shoddy to begin with that, unless it was a big coincidence, both Jenny's and Jenny's sister's umbrella failed while in use. This was in the context of Disneyworld's most expensive customer experience ever, by a lot, and Disney was nickel-and-diming them. Jenny's video goes into a great depth of detail on the dozens if not hundreds of corners they cut; it was basically everything but the food. The result was an antagonistic relationship between Disney and their hotel guests where almost everything interesting cost more money (usually a lot more money) while almost everything included in the main ticket price was of cheap quality or stingy in its allotment. Every aspect of the whole process, from the scammy vibes of booking a room in the first place, to the pathetic after-care for customers who reported a problem after their stay, was likely to leave a sour taste in the customer's mouth.

When you're paying the most expensive prices in the history of a product category, you really just need to be given an up-front price that includes all or nearly all of it. You'll know what you're in for, and you can make an informed decision, and then it's really just down to the host to provide an experience and level of service that matches those high dollar outlays. But instead, as Jenny pointed out, it's like you're dealing with Spirit Airlines, where you're gonna pay a fee for literally everything beyond sitting your body quietly on the airplane.

Mind-boggling hubris. Disney needs to be broken up for the monopoly that it is, and this is just one more example of how convinced of their own inevitability and supremacy Disney has become.

The other main failure on Disney's part is the subtler one.

Jenny focused on how the Star Wars themed choose-your-own-adventure game, which was at the heart of the hotels' central conceit of "live your own personal Star Wars story," was irreparably dysfunctional. Not only was the app, through which most of the "experience" was conveyed, horribly designed; and not only were the tasks delivered through this app mostly busywork to anyone other than young children, consisting of little more than walking around and scanning inanimate objects; but the storyline's entry points and decision points were completely impenetrable through reasonable means, to the point of seeming arbitrary. Jenny proactively tried and failed to get into her preferred storyline; then tried and failed to get into any storyline; then was automatically sorted into one the next morning; and ultimately ended up having only one (dubiously) interactive story experience over the whole weekend.

She talked about how the tightly-regimented and incredibly full schedule was so mentally and physically draining that on the final night she fled her dinner table fearing she would vomit and had to stand in her hotel room staring at herself in the mirror for a while, to understand her illness (which turned out to be stress-induced exhaustion) and center herself.

She talked about how she didn't get to see a much-coveted music show during dinner on her first night because she was seated behind a giant column.

Really, these things are manifestations of the larger and more fundamental failure on Disney's part to anticipate the comfort and pleasure of the guest, as I put it.

As I was watching her video, two thoughts came to me in this vein:

First was that this whole experience really needed to be "playtested," as we might say in Magic. I mean, I'm sure there nominally was, but whatever playtesting they did was completely ineffective. Good playtesting would have brought most of these issues to light.

Second was that the Disney of today has completely lost touch with the namesake of their industry: hospitality. This would never have happened at a new luxury resort by an established world-class hotelier a century ago. Because they understood the basics. Little things, like hot towels.

I could tell just from Jenny's video that this whole hotel was decided from the top-down by soulless, disconnected corporate suits who blatantly disregarded whatever good suggestions I'm sure the Imagineers® came up with. For the failures to be as expansive and ubiquitous as Jenny's video documented, no doubt the institutional rot extends down at least as far as the project manager level, if not down to individual Imagineers® and beyond, but there have to be at least some good ones, and clearly they were overruled early and often. Whenever Disney's leadership was faced with a decision between anticipating the comfort and pleasure of the guest, and saving a couple bucks on a guest who was literally laying out several thousands of dollars to be there, leadership chose the latter.

They were so arrogant that they believed, without noticing or questioning it (unless Disney's leadership is in fact cartoon evil), that they would tell the customer what constitutes a good experience, and the customer would pay top dollar for it. And so you get a guest experience where customers who are actively trying to pick a given storyline can't get any storyline and are later seated for the dinner show behind a giant fucking column.

It's sad, and we should all be glad that their hotel failed. Not that Disney is likely to learn the right lessons from their failure, but the long-term solution here is for leisure dollars to be directed toward other companies. For the several thousand bucks that Jenny paid, she could have had a true luxury vacation in most parts of the world—and for longer than two nights.

One thing that I noticed during the four hours of her video was that Disney, or at least the people in charge of developing this hotel, didn't seem to understand what constitutes an enjoyable story experience. I am forgiving of the low level of complexity in the various puzzles, since the public is famously stupid plus a lot of these guests are going to be children. But there was so little imagination in the actual plot beats: Chewie sneaks in, gets arrested, and busts out. You get to help some Resistance fighters smuggle their luggage. Like, it's insipid. I mean, ultimately, most pop storytelling is insipid, but what I mean is that the dressings were insipid too. Dressing a story up is what makes stories great, at least at the mainstream level. There was no pomp and flourish; no clever interweaving; no electric events that put people on the edge of their seats. Just walking around on your phone for two days scanning crates and occasionally being in the same room while somebody busts Chewie out of the clink—assuming you even make it to the story events in time, since they often fired early.

The whole thing smacks of rule by committee, too many cooks, and suits suits suits all the way down.

I think it's a sign of the times that this is happening. We are once again in Robber-Baron territory in this land. The big corporations and the oligarchs who run them have become so obscenely rich and so utterly disconnected from ordinary life, and their corporate cultures have become so masturbatory and so officious, that they are increasingly creating products for idealized, phantom audiences. They increasingly don't understand real people or real life.

And we can and should bring the weight of the government down on them, more to break up monopolies and allow new and established competitors to seriously challenge them than to actively punish these companies for making money, but even more so we just need to spend our dollars elsewhere. I mean, I'm speaking hypothetically here; I am poor so none of this even applies to me in the first place.

Hence why, even after inflation, this is still just my two cents.

[chaotic-toasters]

It's Different With You

Frida Maanum x Reader

------------------

"Y/NNNN," Frida whined quietly. "Y/NNN- Y/NNN—"

"What, Maanum?" You groaned, rolling over to face your girlfriend as she poked at your sides. "It's too early."

"Morning, elskling," she smiled, wiping the frown off your face with a kiss to your jaw. "It's 10:30, and I missed you. I've been up since eight."

You rubbed your eyes. "But I'm right next to you?"

"I wanted to talk to you," the Norwegian blushed as you reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Besides, we have to get ready for training."

You pulled her into you, wrapping your arms around her and burying your head i to her neck. "No. Sleep."

"Elskling—"

"What time is training?" you murmured.

"At 11:45, w—"

"What time is it now?"

"Ten thi—"

You grunted. "I only need twenty minutes."

"But babe—"

Your girlfriend's protest fell on deaf ears. You were already asleep, snoring into her neck like a baby.

------------------

"Hey, Katie, hey, Stina," you smiled at your's and Frida's best friends as you walked into the changing room, hand in hand. "How's it going?"

"Good, thanks," Katie raised her eyebrows. "Had some fun last night, Frida? Ye' look tired."

"N-no!" Frida stammered, hiding her face into your shoulder. "I just—"

"She woke up early instead of sleeping in like a sensible person," you snickered, setting your stuff down in your cubby. "Now she's tired."

"Be quiet," Frida complained, smacking you on the back of the head. "I needed time to get ready."

You looked at her strangely. "Why? You look pretty as it is."

Kyra fake gagged. "Get a room."

"You're sweet, Y/N," Steph smiled approvingly, side-eyeing Kyra. "Ignore this little pest, her single ass wouldn't know what love looks like."

"Hey!"

-----------------

"Elskling! Elskling!"

You jolted at the sudden yelling, head whipping around to where your girlfriend was charging straight at you. "Frida? What's the matter?"

"Be my partner!"

You were a sucker for that face. Her eyes wide and innocent, dimples on full display as she grinned.

"Okay, okay," you agreed, kissing the top of her head. "Come on, my love. Don't keep the gaffer waiting."

As the two of you passed the ball back and forth, working on first touches, Frida started talking about what she and Stina had been up to over the weekend.

You totally zoned out, half-focusing on the ball and tunnel visioning at Frida. Some of her blonde hair had fallen out of its ponytail, perfectly framing her face and making her look even better than usual. She used her hands as she talked, muscles flexing in her training top as you shamelessly ogled her.

"-abe? Babe?" Frida snapped her fingers in front of your face. "Are you listening?"

"What? Yeah," you shook your head, blinking rapidly as you realized everyone was taking a water break. "I was just thinking about something."

The Norwegian squeezed your hand. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

You practically melted, hand shaking as you grabbed your water bottle from the cooler. "Y-yup."

"Oi! Lovebirds! Kyra's right, get a room!" Katie shouted. "Disgustin'!"

"As if you don't do worse with Caitlin!" You fired back. "She asked you a question the other day and you almost fainted."

Katie tackled you to the floor. "This is slander!"

You wrestled about, pulling her into a headlock. "It's only slander if it's not true. But it is."

She growled, trying to wriggle free. "Yer' a little shite, Y/L/N."

"No I'm not!" You scoffed. "Frida, tell her I'm not!"

Frida said nothing, averting her eyes.

"Frida!"

--------------------

"You're so mean to me, Frida," you whined, sitting down in your cubby. "I compliment you all the time and then you don't back me up."

"I'm sorry," she pressed a kiss to your lips. "I still love you."

You grunted. "Hmph."

"I love you," she kissed you again, pulling you closer. "I love you."

"Y/N, what have you done to Frida?" Stina joked. "Frida hates PDA. She didn't even want to hug her exes in public when they dated."

"I don't know," you smirked. "Frida, what's with the sudden change?"

Frida blushed, mumbling, "It's different with you."

Your shit-eating grin grew impossibly bigger. "Want to share with the class?"

Frida's face turned even redder. "No."

"Are you su- OW!"

Frida glared at you, hand dropping from the back of your head. "Just because I love you doesn't mean I won't smack you for being stupid."

You sulked. "Awww."

Does this make sense? I think not

[piarelei]

Date Night

Can be read as a sequel to Bullseye, but doesn't have to be.

Jake slid onto the passenger seat and the leather gave a squeak of protest under him. Bradley gave him a bordering-on-nervous smile. Jake was too floored with how out of character it felt that he barely reacted when he was greeted with a kiss. This was incredibly unusual. 

“Ready?” asked Bradley. 

Jake hummed, trying to settle in his seat. He refused to feel nervous. 

“Right. Let’s go, I made a reservation for 7:30.”  

Jake affiliated the noose that tightened around his throat to hunger. There was no other reason for it. 

The restaurant was beyond nice. Jake was always impeccably dressed, but he felt decidedly out of place trailing after Bradley. Their waiter brought them to a linen-draped table and handed them menus printed on a single sheet of paper. Jake looked up with some alarm, only to find Bradley already mesmerized into his own potential order. 

The table between them was akin to a sea of loneliness. 

“This is not working.”

Bradley looked at him with a bone deep shock. 

“I’m not talking about our relationship. I’m talking about this,” he twirled his finger around, designating the room at large. “I’m missing something.” 

Anger rose on Rooster’s face like a bloom at dawn. “This is a date.”

“Yes. But this is not the sort of date we go on. Honestly, I’m surprised you would choose something like that. Feels awfully heteronormative coming from you.”

Bradley pulled a face. It didn’t hide the sudden blush heating on his neck. “I suck your dick. There’s nothing heteronormative about it.”

Their waiter popped over at this exact moment. He was too polite to say anything, but his gaze held multitudes. “Have you chosen what you would like to start with?” 

“We’ll take two Old Fashioned, thank you.” 

Bradley frowned but didn’t correct him. Once the waiter left with their orders, he leaned over. “I don’t even like Old Fashioneds.” 

“Both are for me. You prefer to drink with your meal anyway.” 

Bradley sighed. “This was not what I envisioned.”

“And what did you envision?” 

“I don’t know. I thought you would be pleased. Less aggressive.” 

Jake crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, feeling too defensive. “Listen, I struggle to understand why we’re not making out on my couch right now.” 

The waiter dropped off their drinks and offered to take their order. Jake let Bradley take charge of his meal. 

Bradley stared at him. “Is it so awful for me to do something…” He winced. “A bit romantic?”

Jake did his hardest to keep his face neutral. It didn’t work, Bradley frowned at whatever he saw in his eyes. 

“Right. This was fucking stupid. Come on, I’ll pay, let’s go.” 

Jake couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t relieved by that, but he also knew that he couldn’t afford any broken china in their relationship after a five-months-long distance.

“Bradshaw, sit down. We’ve been dating for nearly a year. We don’t do this sort of thing.”

Bradley shrugged. “Maybe we should.” 

“Well, I wasn’t under the impression that there was anything wrong with the way we were.” 

Bradley kept quiet. His expression remained stiff. 

Jake leaned back, an idea percolating suddenly. “Are you about to propose?” 

The immediate panic was a relief. “Jesus, no. That would be fucking crazy.” 

“Right. Okay. Well?” 

Bradley looked away, toying with one of the Old Fashion he had appropriated. He sighed, giving in. “It’s just a thing my parents did. Mav told me he used to babysit me all the time so that my Dad could bring my mom to this semi-fancy restaurant she loved. I just thought it would be nice to have this with you.”

Jake softened, then felt a thick surge of guilt take place up in his throat. It felt incredibly selfish to have opposed Bradley every step of the way when he had wanted to do something nice, even if it was different from what they were used to. To what Jake needed. 

“I’m…” He battled with it a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to this sort of dating.” 

“That’s my fault too, then.” 

“Fuck off, Bradshaw, you’re not my first boyfriend.” 

“Hopefully, I’m your last.” 

Jake’s words were robbed from his mouth for a good second. “Sounds a lot like you're proposing to me.” 

Bradley leaned back, familiarly smug. “Maybe I should.” 

Jake was grateful to see their waiter coming to keep him from having to say anything incriminating, like yes.

Didn't really have any time before today and worked up a quick thing, more of a character study than anything else. Hoped you enjoyed. Show some love with a reblog baby ♥

[ittybittyremy]

bells hells' points about the archheart conversation (c3e108)

I organized everyone's points so that it would be easier to analyze them

This may look a little messy so sorry in advance

Note: I am only including the conversation and not anything afterwards (i.e. Braius' interaction with Asmodeus)

Conversation starts at 3:19:30 on Beacon

Chetney

Reminds the team that there is another god who has a similar opinion to the Archheart

Reminds the group that the last bit of the lock on Predathos shared a similarity with the Divine Gate. He wonders if they break down the gate, would it pull the pin on Predathos, keeping them back for a bit. And if that was the case, it could be fair game

Agrees with Orym's “I don’t know that we need to decide that we have to throw the switch instead of him when we at least have a chance to cut off his hand before he pulls it”

Asks Imogen and Fearne “I’m not Ruidusborn, so it’s not really up to me. How do you feel about the notion that one of you or both of you could be asked to be a vessel? Where are you? How are you feeling about that?”

Says “I don't know” at Imogen's “but there’s no way I’m more powerful than some of the Exaltants up there already”

Thinks it’s crazy that the gods could see BH as their last ditch effort

Says “right” (Regarding Braius’ “At the end of the day, whoever succeeds, whoever has power, whoever accomplishes their goals, they can make things right. You have to win first”)

“The weird part is all these different parties have the same goal, to push the reset button, to grab the reins. We all have different perspectives. The Unseelie want the chance to do it and wipe the slate but they want to be in charge. Ludinus, same thing, but he wants to be in charge. I’m not saying we’re wrong. I think we’re better, but we’re really no different.”

“I was asking if he had talked to Ludinus or done this before, like a catalyst, like a voice in your ear. I don’t know”

Feels like they’re having their strings pulled

Thinks that they should talk to the Matron because “conversations are important. Everything breaks down when people don’t talk.”

Laudna

“I really liked [the Archheart]”

“The other scary thing is if he’s sending Ruidusborn to their deaths, is he testing the boundary or are they testing who’s powerful enough to possibly take Predathos into them?”

Agrees with Dorian's view that releasing Predathos is inevitable but wanting to be there when it happens

Mentions that the Matron may be the one that has similar ideas to the Archheart

Wonders if Ludinus will be successful in broadcasting the gods destroying Aeor

Thinks there’s a chance that the gods strike back if the broadcast is released as there powers wanes

Reminds the group that Archheart said “a second Calamity”

Reminds Imogen that she’s very capable when she says “but there’s no way I’m more powerful than some of the Exaltants up there already”

Thinks that “being Ruidusborn doesn’t necesarily gives them godlike or god eater powers…”

“If it’s not [Imogen’s] mother, it’s probably one of the two of you. And that makes my stomach turn”

Doesn't think the gods are a monolith

“We’re the worst. Like just kind of in general, like we are a bunch of fuck-ups. We’re kind of the worst. Strangely, I think that’s the quality that everyone sees in us that makes us the best for this job” (Regarding Orym saying that the gods could see BH as their last ditch effort)

Agree’s with Chetney's “I think we’re better, but we’re really no different [from the others who want to release Predathos]"

“We learn more everyday. We’re still on this journey. No decisions have been made. We’re not speaking in absolutions.”

Thinks the RQ ”has a reason to take all of this very personally more so than any of the others”

Dorian

Thinks that Predathos being released is inevitable. He would rather be there when it happens

“Cowards are often honest” (about the Archheart)

Wonders if there’s a chance that the gods strike back if the broadcast is released as there powers wanes

Nods at Orym’s “Ludinus is at the end of the road no matter what.”

“Faith’s a hard thing to let go of” (regarding Imogen’s “but a lot of people on this world depend on [the gods]”)

“It’s hard to believe but there is real evil in the world. I’ve seen it. Not everything deserves a second chance… But maybe you’re right, I wish you were. I wish the world were the way you saw it but it’s got to be done, but that’s not a chance I’m willing to take either” (in regards to Fearne saying that Predathos potentially being good)

“I think Predathos is a weapon. Do we want to have the power to wield it? I don’t know. But I trust us more than anyone”

“It was so ugly the way we did [the mission], but we did do what we came here for.”

Asks Chetney if he thinks “we’re getting our strings pulled”

“I think (the Raven Queen) is motivated by fear as well. I would imagine if you could see the future, the one future you couldn’t see is the future where the gods come to an end.” (Going under the assumption the she can see the future)

Braius

He saw the deal as the vessel “being” Predathos

Makes an affirming sound at Orym’s “it can end at job one, if you do it successfully”

Doesn’t think they went to far with the mission. “We’re on a mission to save the world. Some stuff is going to happen. It’s all in service of a greater good”

“At the end of the day, whoever succeeds, whoever has power, whoever accomplishes their goals, they can make things right. You have to win first”

Fearne

“The deal is that we would [release Predathos]”

Thinks most of the world believes in the gods

“What about the other gods? What if they have different ideas?”

Wonders if we should get the opinions of other gods

Thinks the Archheart seemed tired

Doesn’t answer Chetney’s question about how she feels about potentially being a vessel

“I mean, listen, If it’s something that’s got to be done. It’s got to be done. Personally, I think- I don’t know, I think if something is captured up there, this Predathos. Does it make us any better that we’re keeping him caged up just to save other people and other things?”

“What if [Predathos] just want[s] to go back and be with his family?”

Agrees with Dorian's “Not everything deserves a second chance.” (regarding Predathos)

Strongly agrees with Imogen’s “What the Archheart is trying to convince us to do is the exact same thing that everyone else is trying to do.”

Imogen

“[The Archheart] made some really amazing points”

“Do we really want to follow?”

The deal is that we would still wake up Predathos. That’s the deal they want; wake up Predathos.”

She highlights that the people who believe in the gods wouldn’t get what they want

“The Archheart made it pretty clear that taking Predathos would be [deadly]”

Thinks the Archheart seemed tired

Agree with Ashton’s “I do think that most scenarios in this current situation lead to just the worst that we can imagine”

Agrees with Orym’s “Ludinus is at the end of the road no matter what.”

“I haven’t really thought about it yet, Chet. I’ve been of the notion that I don’t want to let Predathos free. I know so many people disagree with what the gods do, and so many in our group do. But a lot of people on this world depend on them. To throw that all away seems callous.” (When Chetney asked about how she feels about potentially being a vessel)

Wonders if they went to far with the mission

Agree with Dorian’s “Faith’s a hard thing to let go of”

“It’s not like, you know, their faith would be shattered because they don’t know. Their faith would be shattered because their gods abandoned them. Their gods would have run away from them in their time of need when all of their Ruidians or Reilorans are destroying their lands and demons from the depths are breaking through portals. I don’t know what will happen, to Orym’s point. So I don’t know how I feel about back that play up. But I think if it’s going to happen, if it has to happen, if there’s no stopping it, if it comes down to it and he’s coming out, then I would gladly step up and at least try. But there’s no way I’m more powerful than some of the Exaltants up there already”

“I think us (Fearne and Imogen) combined, there might be some hope”

Wonders if Predathos could be like Gloamglut. “He’s just young”

"Well, I kind of sensed him. He wants to eat” (Regarding Fearne wondering if Predathos just wants to go back to his family)

Thinks that they should talk to the Matron of Ravens to see what she has to say

Agrees with Dorian’s “It was so ugly the way we did [the mission], but we did do what we came here for.”

“What the Archheart is trying to convince us to do is the exact same thing that everyone else is trying to do.”

Wonders if the RQ knew her champions would become the catalyst for the key

Orym

“We’ve yet to see one thing that proves to us what will happen after that thing is let loose. We’ve had people tell us it will be fine, we’ve had people tell us it would be destructive. We’ve had a god tell us to fight. We’ve had a god tell us to burn it all to the ground.”

He wouldn’t risk it because he doesn’t think anyone, including Ludinus, knows what will happen when Predathos is let free

Disagrees with Dorian statement of “I think it’s coming, one way or the other, and I’d rather be there when it does”

Highlights that they’re making a play for Ludinus because taking Predathos on would be deadly

Acknowledges that the gods may have different ideas

“It’s a big coin toss, guys”

Agrees with Dorian’s “There’s no one I trust more than us”

Thinks that “Ludinus is at the end of the road no matter what.”

“I don’t know that we need to decide that we have to throw the switch instead of [Ludinus] when we at least have a chance to cut off his hand before he pulls it”

Thinks that it can/could end with cutting Ludinus’ hand before he pulls the switch “if you do it successfully”

“There’s nothing saying that you have to flip that switch and turn reality upside down. None of you can tell me what will happen if one our friends does what Ludinus wants to do. None of you have any evidence, proof. Intuition doesn’t cut it. Your gut does not cut it. You are putting the population of this world at risk. So I hope you are all fucking sure at the end of the road. I’ll be there to get you there. I’ll stand by your side. I will do my damnedest to keep you all alive. But don’t let it be a coin toss or ‘let’s see what happens,’ because you just don’t know”

“I also just over the last months have the feeling that we’re walking some line and that’s why so many of them are paying attention to us. Maybe they see us as a last ditch effort”

“It is, but it’s uncanny.”(Replying to Chetney’s “it’s crazy” that they’re the gods’ last ditch effort)

“No one said it was going to be easy” (Regarding Imogen asking if they went too far with the mission)

Ashton

“It’s a deal I can get behind”

“Everyone gets what they want”

Does not think most of the world believes in the gods, just “a lot” of them do

“They get to live” (In response to Fearne talking about other gods having other ideas)

They trust Archheart the most (of all the gods) because “he’s the only one who had clear misgivings. Everyone else was hand wringing. He was the only one who was actually - He was the only one with a big picture”

Trusts Archheart because he sees them as a coward. He thinks cowards are honest

“Big coin” (when Orym says that it’s “a big coin toss”)

Feels that they would know if Ludinus was broadcasting the Gods vs Aeor already

“I do think that most scenarios in this current situation lead to just the worst that we can imagine”

Says the they trust Imogen and Fearne (after Laudna reminds Ashton of the potential second Calamity)

Thinks that “it should be us”

Agrees with Orym’s “Ludinus is at the end of the road no matter what.”

“Job one. [Ludinus] doesn’t touch the switch” (Regarding Orym's “I don’t know that we need to decide that we have to throw the switch instead of [Ludinus] when we at least have a chance to cut off his hand before he pulls it”)

Responds to Orym’s “don’t let it be a coin toss” (Regarding releasing Predathos) with “Well, then we’re very lucky that we no longer have anyone who believes and puts their faith in a coin toss” and leaves

[romana-after-dark]

Our Gentle Sins: Part 13

Thank you so so so much to @plasticbabies for making this beautiful header!!!! we finally have a good one!

Dark!Logan Howlett x fem!reader

Series Masterlist : Main Masterlist : Logan Masterlist

Spotify Playlist

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Buy Me A Coffee : Kofi : Go Fund Me

Chapter summary: Past. Dolly is a part of a family. Present. Seeing Stevie

Warnings: This fic features non con, pregnancy, and themes of religious trauma. I will not be saying everything that happens to warm you, by clicking read more you are prepared for extremely dark themes and that you at 18+. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

a/n: PAST is a short chapter. the floor of the next few chapters is.... bad?? so im trying to chop it all up the way its best but its so hard trying ot match themes up with the before and after ;-; so im sorry. I feel like this chapter was boring.

Before

You tried, he really fucking tried to go back to normal after that, but ever since kissing you, feeling you body… things became more charged than normal.

You sat closer to him now, his body warm and inviting and buzzing with energy with everyone piling into the media room to watch a movie. Earlier today, Remy came into your room while you taught, trying to rally everyone together for a movie night.

*

You hear the door creek and glance over, smiling when you see Remy’s black and red eyes popping through the cracked door. Waving him in, you continue with the lesson. At 6’1 but not built too wide, Remy would not be out of place in your height school class seats…

Unfortunately, he was sitting in on your small elementary class.

Most mutations manifest with puberty, but some, especially second generation mutants, have the x gene activated much earlier. Your class was small, small enough you usually had to figure out how to teach content at 3 different grades at the same time… You couldn’t have a whole class just for the one 1st grader. When Remy came in, you were getting ready to read a book. You explained that each of the grades would have an assignment based off the book, and what each grade should be thinking about during the book, but to try and concentrate on the story first and foremost.

“I’ll be doing a think-aloud, so I will be modeling to you how readers think through books as we go.” You don’t have any degree, but you've been doing research on how to be an effective teacher.

Remy listened intently, looking like he’s about to REALLY enjoy the story, but you have some mercy. His legs look like they are losing circulation.

“Okay friends, how about we read the book on the carpet.” The kids erupted into cheers. “IF we can show Mr. LeBeau out best quiet feed and listening ears, okay?”

It was not very quiet, but they didn’t run.

“Mr. Lobo!” Said Micheal, not watching where he was going. “Are you and Miss Palmer in wuv?”

Remy bursts out in laughter, while your face burns red, quickly apologizing to Remy and trying to quell the kids. 

“No!” Another kid, Katy, piped up. “She loves Mr. Howlett!”

Remy was no help, your handful of students arguing that you were in love with “Mr. LeBeau”, “Mr. Howlett”, “Mr. Summers” and even one kid asked about “Miss Grey”, which felt like the start of a very convoluted love… square?

“1, 2, 3, eyes on me!”

The children chimed back. “1, 2, eyes on you.”

“Okayyyy” You cleared your throat. “You guys don’t need to worry about who loves who. Me and Mr. LeBeau are just friends, and he is going to model good listening for me.”

30 minutes later, Remy did not model good listening, but he did at least help the younger kids with their assignment, so there was that.

“You’re a pain, you know that?” You tidy up before heading to the high school English room. This room was used for most subjects so the elementary school so most of your kids just stayed in the room coloring or reading or talking.

“A pain in your ass?” He whispered, and you gasped in response, smacking him with crumple cardboard paper.

“Hey! I whispered!” But he stopped swearing. “I wanna have a movie night with all of us, are you in?”

As much fun as it sounded, big groups of friends still made you nervous. Remy was friends with everyone, and although no one had treated you badly, there were people you knew still thought you were weird. They weren’t wrong. Moreso, it was hard with a large group of people who all were friends together. Then there was you. Last week's dance was enough for a little while. “Whose all coming?”

“Well, Logan of course, but I think he’s assuming you’ll be there.” He answered, and smirked at your little smile. “Kurt and Ororo said yes, Hank said maybe, you know how he gets caught up in his work, and I’m gonna invite Scott and Jean after you tell me yes because you love me so much????”

Your head sank a little at that. You liked Scott a lot, and Jean was always kind to you. You had no reason to dislike them…

“I don’t… I don’t think I can make it. Papers to grade and all that…”

Remy’s face crumbled. “Why? What? Too many people? I’ll uninvite everyone!!  I’ll grade all the papers! Pistache, you’re the one I actually want there!”

You don’t know what to do with that. You knew Remy loved you, and that he was your good friend, but you weren’t used to someone choosing you first.

“It’s just… Well, don’t uninvite people, that’s crazy.”

“But I want you to come! What is it?”

He was too loud, some of the kids were trying to eavesdrop (nosy little things. You loved ‘em.) so you pull him off to the side, talking quieter. 

“It’s just… Scott…”

Remy frowned at that, a little concern on his face. “What, has he given you problems? I thought he’d be understanding, knowing he knows what you-” But then he stops himself.

You almost missed it. Pinching your brows, you shake your head, “N-no, Remy, he’s fine- he- it’s Logan and Scott, Remy, come on. The fight?”

He relaxed. “Oh. Well, aren’t they over it?”

Over it? You don’t think they’d ever be over it. There was never friendship, never something to rebuild, only jealousy, anger, and a little bit of attempted murder. 

You sigh, pinching your brow. “Remy. Logan tried to kill him. Scott keeps accusing him of abusing me. Logan slept with his wife. Scott accused him of m-o-l-e-s-t-i-n-g Rogue”

“Wait, what?”

“I can’t expect them to get along. And if Jean’s in the mix I- Remy, why would you want to invite all three of them?? Are you trying to start another fight?” The tone was harsher than you wanted it to be, but you’d had an intense week, and he gave you a piece of information you weren’t sure what to do with.

Your friend in front of you completely deflated, his normally happy face falling and his red eyes looking down. “Yeah, you’re right… I didn't think it through…”

You instantly felt bad. How could you be so mean to Remy? Sweet, sweet Remy? Remy who’d been there for you though it all. “I know. You’re friends with everyone, so you want everyone to be friends. I get it. I’m sorry.”

Remy gives you a small smile, seemingly recovered. “It’s alright, Pistache. What if I just don’t tell Scott and Jean? Or we could just watch something together? I uh… I heard from Rogue today. Got a letter and it… wasn’t very long, is all. Bit worried she’s forgotten about me in her grand adventures.” He gives a little laugh, but it’s nervous.

You consider the people coming, and decide it’s a small enough group. And Logan will be there, so you won’t be alone.

“Yeah, the movie sounds fun. Thanks for inviting me, Remy.”

*

You leaned against Logan, snuggled up to him comfortably as everyone found their spots. Kurt poofs in front of the large TV, see’s you in Logan’s arms, and his yellow eyes light up. “YAYYYYYY! Darauf habe ich gewartet!!” He teleports to you and Logan, squeezing both your cheek, poofing onto Logans shoulders to hug his whole head, then to behind the couch where he gave you a hug that clearly respected your personal space stuff.

“What are you on about, elf?” Logan pretends to be grumpy, but other than Wade, Kurt is his best friend.

He’s standing in front of you two again, grinning wildly and you can see his sharp teeth. “You two!” He gestures. “I’ve been knowing something is going on between you! Liebe, nein? I’m so happy it had finale happened!”

Morph threw a popcorn kernel at him. “Nothings happened yet. They are in denial.”

“We’re not in denial!” Logan barks, but he’s blushing. “We’re just…” he looks at you. “Taking it slow…”

“Oh.” Kurt’s shoulders drop. “Then… wat eez all dis?” He gestures to Logan’s arm around your shoulder.

You giggle. “Well, like he said, we’re not in denial.”

Kurt observes you for a second. “Mph. Well, dis eez… embarrassing for me, ja?”

You were about to protest when when Remy throw a pillow at him, yelling something about sitting down and shutting up. Kurt BAMF’d away, and reappeared on the armrest next to Logan.

“Dis guy.” Kurt gestures to Remy, whispering a little too loud. “Get’s broken up with vone time and he’s a mess.” He shimmers down between the arm rest and Logan, forcing the wide older man to scoot himself and you over, muttering, ‘well excuse me, I guess.’. Kurt settles into his spot opposite you, next to Logan. “Meanvile, I get broken up with, MANY TIMES! Including by him, and wat do I get!”

“We weren’t dating!”

“But you like to say I love you during sex, no? Oh, Kurt! Mo linm twa!” he mimicked, but the humor was in his voice, as it was in Remy’s as he retorts.

“At least I don’t pray the Hail Mary after sex!”

“At least I know the Hail Mary”

“I’m Cajun, do you really think I don’t know basic catholicism?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I just have catholic guilt about.”

“You could use a little guilt, mein freund.”

“I’ll leave that to Scott.”

Hank slaps the armrest of his seat. “If we’re not actually going to watch a movie-”

Remy and Kurt laugh, and Remy starts the movie.

As you watched, you couldn’t help think about how good life had gotten. A peaceful, easy feeling comes over you as you listen to Kurt and Remy whisper to each other the whole time, Logan telling them to ‘shut the hell up or I will stab you.’ Morph loudly booing the cheesy sex scene, and Hank letting all of us know what is impossibly and unrealistic in the movie. Things were good.

There was, however, a gnawing piece of your mind… it reminded you what Remy said. Scott knows. Scott knows what you’ve been through… or what you’ve done, you didn’t let Remy finish.

You’d figured Charles had told Scott at least a baseline of what you’d experienced. Scott was his man on the ground, the one who had these day to day interactions with you, the staff, the teens. It made sense, and you didn’t expect the top teacher and school leadership (and basically the HR department) to NOT know one of his staff was severely traumatized. 

You’d JUST told Logan what you’d done. You’d told Remy last month. You just wanted them and Mr. Xavier to know… had he gone and told Scott you were a killer? Did people other than Scott know?

After

Jean was all ready at the table when Logan brought you in, gently laying you down on the bed for Jean to examine.

“What happened?” She asked, frowning as she looked at your slightly bloodied face. The cabinet hit your forehead and nose.

Logan began to answer. “She hit her face on-”

“I was asking Miss Palmer.”

Scowling, Logan shut his mouth. “I… I slipped on water cleaning up from the party. My face hit the cabinet.”

“Did you fall?”

“No, I caught myself. Or- I think Logan caught me? It’s kinda hard to remember.” It was fuzzy, honestly. You’d thought he hit you, the ghost of the slap still stinging your cheeks… but that was probably something else.

“Yeah, I caught you.” He strokes your cheek, soothing the leftover pain there.

Jean does her work, informing you that you were mildly concussed.

“You’ll need to rest. No work for a few days minimum.” She raises an eyebrow at you. “No repeats of when you got sick and refused to tell anyone until you passed out. You’re going to take off the rest of this week.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she points a finger with a slight smile. She’s tired, but her bedside manner is compassionate. “No. We can shuffle a few things around. Wade can take over a few simple classes while he’s here and move those teachers to your kids, and Hank can easily slide back into teaching English. Well, maybe high school and middle. I can handle the littles.”

She turned to Logan.

“Logan, I don’t think we can get you off that long, but we’ll get you off a few classes so you can look after her. I’m sure Wade will be happy to teach gym, and Professor can take on history. Next week is finals anyway, so I know you guys have a lot of study periods planned.” She touches your shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

You nod, but there’s a more pressing issue. “And Stevie?”

Jean smiles. “He’s doing fine. Don’t take aspirin as it could cause bleeding but tylenol is okay for your head pain. Stay hydrated, nothing caffeinated.” She types everything up for you, then prints it out. “Here’s a care plan, but know I’m right here if you need me.” 

“Thanks, Jean.”

Logan gave a nod. “Yeah, thank you. I know you were in bed.”

She closed up her laptop. “Not a problem. Now, I know you’re seeing a regular doctor, and that’s okay… but I thought… if you’d like, I could share what I saw when I checked on Stevie.

You blink. “You mean… like an ultrasound?”

“Kind of, but much more clear. It’ll be almost like you’re there with hi-”

“Yes!” You’re so excited you almost forget any fear or pain.

Logan nods his head, eyes wide, and takes Logan’s hand before laying her other one on your stomach again. Suddenly, her mind’s eye was your own, and you could see him. You little baby asleep in your stomach, and it was like he was in a pool of water; not quite totally clear, but not blurry either. It was incredible.

You begin to cry.

“Go get your girl to bed, Logan.”

*

Logan laid you down on to bed after having you drink a bunch of water. “Wake me up when you need to pee, okay?”

You don’t look at him. “Okay.”

There is a short pause. “Hey.” Logan cups your face, bringing it to you. “It was an accident, okay? Just an accident.”

And all you can do is give him a smile, because you don’t know what option you have. “I know. I’m kinda tired, Lo. Can we talk in the morning?”

He gave a sad smile back. “Yeah dollface, we’ll talk in the morning. You’ll see. It’s all be better in the morning. I’m gonna step out for a sec, but I promise I’ll be here if you need me, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Goodnight, baby doll.” He kisses your tummy. “Goodnight, Stevie.”

*

Logan’s head was reeling. How did that happen? What the hell even happened? He hurt you, he hurt you, his pregnant fiance, his sweet, loving girl, carrying his child. What if something had happened to Stevie? Jean said he was fine…. But what the fuck did she know? Nothing! That bitch and her smug attitude. Stupid fucking cunt. She was probably just lying, trying to sabotage him. Not wanting to have his baby wasn’t enough. She can’t let him be happy. She won’t let anyone else have his baby. She’s just as bad as Scott, stupid mother fucking pansy ass shithead. Couldn’t fuck his wife right then got mad she needed someone else to satisfy her. Must’ve learned how to take it up the ass like he’s always dreamed and won her back, now he can’t let him be happy.

They are out to get him.

Logan needed to clear his head. He needed to let it out.

He needed insight from someone who, while being God perfect idiot, had a strangely good sense of the world. Sure, he didn’t understand what the fuck the mouth was talking about half the time, but Wade understood the world in a way Logan couldn’t.

When Wade answered his door, he was in a hello kitty t-shirt. That was it.

Logan only paused a moment before saying. “Meet me in the west lounge in 5?”

“Hell yay!” Wade sleepily cheered. “I’m on my way!” He began stepping forward, but Logan stuck a hand out to shove him back, He glanced down to his dick, then back up. “Pants on, Wade.”

*

An hour later, Logan had spilled it all. The slap, the… sex he might have been a little forceful on, how Stevie’s conception was from that… half drunk, he let it all out.

And for once, the merc with the mouth only had 4 things to say.

“Jesus fucking christ, Logan.”

Okay, next chapter we see logan baring it all and i think??? I think we see what triggered logan into the assult

ugh its soooo hard to plan i keep changing the outline so much. This series has given me the most problems out of every series ive written! and ive written many ;-;

Anyway guys im talking to a guy and he knows x men stuff and is chronically online like me and i realllllly like him we met on hinge bc he made a Jim Croce reference which if you know me you know i looooove old music!!! heres too hoping!

I sent him my x men restaurant au bc he's familiar with fanfiction! he really enjoyed it :))) Im taking requests for the restaurant au drabbles!

I also started a romcom/omegaverse/enemies to lovers Logan x reader! Im leaning into the goofy and silly bc too much dark i think isnt good. dark fics help me work through things but too much is.... too much. Im not in a great place mentally rn so i dont wanna linger you know?

I also want to just highlight my go fund me bc im once again struggling greatly to pay for school and im just... so close .;-;

@multiversed-daydreamer @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @del-ightfulling @miraclesabound @hindi-si-ikay @samsamsantos @madamerubrum @shybluebirdninja a @hornystan @rogueinmymind @accountforreading123 @yawnetu @princessanglophile @and-claudia a @new-genesis100 @teaganthemorningstar @oldloganslittleslut @zaggprincess2 @bugsinmyeyez @groundclueless @cosmolight @nonamevenus

[andhumanslovedstories]

I feel like there’s a lot of talk of the mean girls culture of nursing, like nurses who bully other nurses, and while I know that happens, I’ve never actually experienced it. I can’t speak to how other nurses interact with patients when I’m not there—this post is not about nurse-patient relations, this is about nurse-nurse relations. And there’s been times I’ve been frustrated with my coworkers for not answering call lights goddamn it yall just gonna let it beep forever because it’s not your patient???? Sorry got sidetracked. Coworkers are still coworkers.

But overall, when I reach out for help, I get it. I’ve never had any of those nightmare scenarios where patient safety is compromised because the nurses hate each other. Usually it’s the opposite. The other day, I went over to a different unit than the one I was on to get advice about helping get a very painful cancer patient up from a low seated position, and the charge of that unit and another nurse came over and helped me with a difficult hoyer lift. That’s what got me thinking about this. They spent 30 minutes on a floor that wasn’t even theirs, giving help they didn’t have to (I could have muddled my way through it, it just would have sucked for the patient and me) but they were like “oh we just had a similar situation last week, let’s do it!!” And it’s not the first time this has happened! There’s been multiple times when I’ve gone over to a speciality floor for advice and instead have just got a whole nurse following me back.

Maybe it’s cause I’m in float pool and I don’t have a home unit that I notice this so much, because I constantly have to ask for help from someone I don’t know, and I constantly get that help. And since I’m so often in that position, I try to offer a lot of help, which makes people I think want to offer to help me, and so on and so forth, a snake eating it’s own tail but the snake is called Team Healthcare.

The end of this post is that while I was writing it during a slow period of the shift, a nurse came up to check in if I was doing alright and if I needed help with anything. And I was like “girl I’m literally on my phone sitting with my feet up, do YOU need help?” And she was like “nah I’m also good” and then a call light went off, and both of us looked at each other without getting up to answer it, and then thirty seconds later, someone else got it, and look I’m actually in no position to judge my coworkers for anything ever.

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

10:30 ー NANAMI KENTO. and the dark awaits us all around the corner; but here in our place, we have for the day, can we stay a while and listen for heaven?

“I can feel you looking at me.”

“How do you know? Your eyes are closed.”

A brown eye opens to see you, unsurprisingly, resting your chin on your palm. Guilty as charged, you’ve been watching him. “I can’t truly enjoy our joint day off if I don’t look at you lovingly before you wake up,” you grin and despite your boyfriend’s best efforts, he chuckles lightly. “It’s Sunday,” you remind him unnecessarily with a giggle. “The world works differently on Sundays even if you’re a big bad jujutsu sorcerer with a world record of black flashes.”

“I regret letting you and Gojou meet,” Kento’s tired sigh only makes even more laughter bubble from your lips. You don’t know many people from the sorcerer life Kento told you about, but Satoru is a riot. Any choice of confections and the white-haired man will quickly divulge all the stories he has about Kento’s teenage years. Part of you is certain he’d do that even if sweet treats weren’t on the table though. “Have you been up long?”

You shake your head before falling back onto your side, “not too long." It's rare Kento has time to himself from his work as a sorcerer. It's complicated but you can understand the gist of it. Curses don't stop and thus, neither can he. You'll treasure the time he does have, at least.

You have been ever since he told you the truth about his job. What being with him would entail. He said it wouldn't be fair to keep it from you began getting serious.

It's only a matter of time before Kento retires and he can rest as much as he deserves. Malaysia. We should go on a trip soon. He's always wanted to go.

A comfortable silence falls over your room as you look at each other with a pair of matching smiles.

"Good morning," the blond's voice rumbles with a tired but satisfied hum. He reaches out a hand and you meet it halfway.

You kiss the back of his knuckles before pressing your lips to the tips of his fingers. "Morning," you whisper before holding his hand to your chest and twining your fingers.

You close your eyes and lean into his warmth. I never knew I could love somebody this much. The world is cold and cruel but Nanami Kento is proof that, despite that fact, there is still warmth and beauty to be found in it. "Let's just stay in bed today."

"And abandon our plans for brunch?"

"Yes," you say resolutely. There's no where you'd rather be than at home with your boyfriend.

Kento's thumb brushes the side of your fingers, "I normally wouldn't fight against staying in but it would be rude to the employees if we didn't go in for the reservation."

"Okay, okay," you groan. This is what happens when you make reservations and you're not selfish enough to inconvenience restaurant staff. "You take your shower fir-"

When you open your eyes, Kento is gone and the vibrant color and warmth of your room went with him.

The bed feels too large for one person.

Your hand isn't covered by another a few sizes larger than your own; it isn't engulfed in a palm that is a strange dichotomy of rough and soft. Instead your hand is in the open and bare, save for the ring gracing one of your fingers.

Finding it was an accident during a manic cleaning episode a few days prior. Kento had it hidden away neatly in a cupboard you almost always forgot you had.

Ah.

Reality sets in and your giddy smile drops.

Right.

1 WEEK AGO. OCTOBER 31, 2018 ; 23:15 ーThat's the time Itadori Yuuji tells you three words that destroy the center of your universe.

“Nanami is dead.”

Yuuji can’t look you in the eye when he tells you this, he can't bring himself to look. His fists shake at his side, but he forces himself to stay still awaiting your reaction. You're quietー too quiet. He closes his eyes to brace himself for whatever your reaction will be.

"It's my fault. I'm sorry. I couldn't..."

Will you yell at him?

Will you rightfully bring your hands down to strike him?

Or will you merely sob and have it haunt him for the rest of his days?

Nanami's gone and there's nothing of him to bring back for you.

"You've got it from here."

The least Yuuji can do is tell you what happened to the man that would never return home to you. Not even in pieces. There are so many bodies that can't be identified. So many people who will never go home to their families. Families that will never see their loved ones again.

He can't tell all of themー but Yuuji can at least tell you.

There's movement in front of him and Yuuji welcomes however your emotions have chosen to manifest. Yet when he feels your arms wrap around him, his eyes jolt wide open. "He saved you, didn't he?" Your voice is soft, melancholic. Sadness clings to your tone but he can't mistake the blithe and relief mixed in it.

"He saved you, didn't he?"

"I-" Yuuji's cracked lips feel even drier. "But I-"

"Don't ever apologize to me for living," it's the angriest you've sound since he stepped foot in your house and even then it's a delicate anger. "Kento saved you because he believed in you, I believe in you too. There's nothing for me to forgive."

The warm tones of the apartment you once shared with one of the greatest individuals Yuuji's ever known is beginning to blur. "I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore. I can't ever protect anyone that I want to save. Nanami should be here-"

At those words, you hug him even tighter. "I know that man better than anyone," you tell him firmly with that knowing tone all adults possess. "Kento didn't regret anything and I know he would do it all over again. I'm happy and blessed that I was able to fall in love with someone with such a big heart. So trust me when I tell you that Kento adored you and he would happy you're alive. I'm happy your alive. It's the job of us adults to worry about you troublemakers. So please, don't blame yourself. Kento would want you to hear that."

When the tears spill and the sobs rack his body, Yuuji feels resentment more than grief. All the while you hugged him tightly, rubbing circles into his back. You who should be crying right now if anything. You who should be angry at him.

He wants you to be angry at him.

"Why can't you just be mad at me?" Yuuji whimpers into the crook of your neck.

You kiss the side of his head despite how undoubtedly gross it must be from the sweat and blood and dirt its collected over the night. "Because I love you, you silly boy. Me and Kento."

That's what breaks him the most.

.

“Are you sure you don't want to spend the night?" Your expression is one of concern as you both stand at the door. "I can whip up something while you're in the bath. I'm sure I can find something of Kento's that you can fit."

Yuuji's grin is weak but he shakes his head, "it's okay. I've got a ride back to the school. They're probably sick of waiting for me."

With a smile and a final exchange of farewells, you close the door with a sigh. Yuuji is a strong kid, you know that much. Still that doesn’t stop you from worrying about him. I hope he takes everything I said to heart. Even just a little, bit by bit, until the boy is able to believe your words fully. You know the man you love, Kento wouldn’t have regretted anything.

I should have tried a little harder to convince him to stay for at least a shower and dinner. That driver could have waited a few more minutes. Or I could have invited them in to eat as well. You press your forehead against the door, welcoming the coolness on your skin. You’ll check on Yuuji tomorrow you think as silence truly settles over your apartment.

It's in that silence that you finally notice the shaking of your hands. No they've been shaking the entire time. You're thankful Yuuji was too distraught to notice.

He's gone, that's all that had been racing through your mind when those three words left Yuuji's lips.

I can’t let this poor boy see me cry.

It wouldn't have been fair to him. He blamed himself enough, you could see the self-hatred all over his face.

Don't cry.

Don't cry.

It’s simultaneously a relief you can’t hear Yuuji’s footsteps anymore as much as it fills you with further dread.

Kento isn’t coming home.

Your chest heaves dryly as quiet gasps slip from your lips and your knees buckle.

He's gone.

He's gone.

He'sgonehe'sgonehe'sgonehe'sgoneー

Your throat clenches as a sob finally escapes your throat.

"Kento..."

[thescarletnargacuga]

BULLSEYE

A CANON TIME CAPSULE AU SHOWTIME ONESHOT

AU credit: @mangotangerinepastry @the-amazing-digital-time-capsule

Caine is blowing off some steam at the Capsule's shooting range. Pomni joins him, curious how he has such good marksmanship. Can he teach her?

WARNING: mention of PTSD

~~~

BANG!!

Caine pulled the bolt on the M1903 Springfield rifle, discharging a .30 bullet casing and readying the next shot. He focused down range through the scope.

BANG!!

He narrowed his eyes. Each shot was a memory. Another target. Another kill. Another enemy destroyed. He pulled the bolt, throwing another case.

BANG!!

The shots were tightly grouped in the center. This was a very dead soldier, but he had be sure. He pulled the bolt.

BANG!!

He readied the final shot the fastest, pulling the trigger less than a second after the firing chamber was closed.

BANG!!

Caine stood up straight and ejected the final casing. The target down range no longer had a center. Not a single shot went astray. He took a deep breath, putting away the foul wartime memories. A guest had really pissed him off today and he resorted to shooting the feelings away, despite the fact that the loud gunshots always took him back to the trenches.

Caine could feel someone's eyes on him. "Anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare?" He set the rifle down and turned to see Pomni peeking from behind a tent flap.

"Sorry. I just, um...heard the gunfire and I thought all the guests were gone for today so I wanted to see what all the noise was about." Pomni stepped out of her hiding spot. Her posture was sheepish, but she made eye contact with Caine.

"The guests are gone. Finally. I was using the range. It's one of the few things I get to do for fun around here." He almost looked away from Pomni. She was one of the few that would look directly at him. Most people couldn't stand the look of him. Too strange. Too unusual. So he found it mildly intimidating that she'd not only look at him, but even smile sometimes. It made his chest feel weird.

Pomni saw the downrange target. "Did you do that? That's incredible accuracy."

The compliment nearly went over his head. Of course he did that. He's the only one here. Wait a second- "Thank you." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "I've....had a lot of practice."

"I can only imagine, considering you've been here the longest. Have you tried the other weapons?" Pomni thumbed at the rental counter, where an NPC clerk stood lifelessly at the register.

"No, I prefer this model."

Pomni looked over the Springfield. "You made those shots with this? It doesn't look like it would shoot straight if you took it to church."

"This was top of the line!" Caine said indignantly.

Pomni smirked. "It makes your skill all the more impressive."

Caine's defensiveness deflated immediately. "I- um..." There she went, making his chest feel funny again. For once, he was at a loss for words and he was grateful Kinger wasn't here to witness it.

"Can you teach me?"

Caine blinked. "What?"

"Can you teach me? We have nothing but time and learning a new skill would be a great way to pass it."

Caine knew all about that. In his time in the capsule, he's learned everything from being ambidextrous to sewing to art to different languages. "Alright." He showed her a magazine of five .30-6 bullets. "Ammunition." He picked up the rifle with one hand and showed her how to load it. "Goes here." He opened the firing chamber. "When you pull back on the bolt, It releases the expended casing and loads the next bullet. Push forward and fully lock in place before firing."

Caine pressed a button and his target was charged out with a new one before handing Pomni the rifle. She took it with both hands, surprised by its weight. Caine stood close next to her and showed her how to properly hold that rifle. "Basic safety. Always keep the barrel facing down range or at the ground, even when unloaded. Never put your finger on the trigger until you're ready to fire."

"Okay." Pomni started to feel nervous. The gun was a real weapon and it was really loaded. She was almost afraid it would go off on its own unexpectedly. Caine's guiding hands on hers helped her nerves.

Caine was in full instructor mode. He tiled the barrel up to align the sites. "To aim, use the scope by lining up your dominant eye with the tip of the stock. Don't put your eye right up against the scope. That's a good way to blind yourself."

Now Pomni was actually nervous. Her rapid heartbeat made the gun tremble.

Caine placed a hand on Pomni's upper back. "Lean into the shot when you fire and keep a firm grip. The rifle will kick back some." He double checked the firing chamber. She was loaded and secured. "Fire when ready."

Pomni took a minute to get a feel for the sight and tried to line it up with the center of the target. Her finger grazed the trigger, half expecting it to go off immediately, but it actually took some effort to squeeze.

BANG!!

Pomni hadn't realized she had been holding her breath until she gasped. She lowered the rifle and squinted to see where she hit. There was a small hole in the top center of the target.

Caine's brow raised. "Not bad. You were dead on, just a little high. Want to try again?"

Pomni felt a little adrenaline rush and nodded excitedly. She brought the rifle back up to aim.

"You're forgetting something." Caine smirked.

Pomni furrowed for a second. "...oh!" She pulled open the bolt and the expended casing clattered to the ground. She pushed it back in and carefully locked the firing chamber closed.

"There you go. A few aiming tips: keep both eyes open, this will reduce eye strain." Caine reached around and tapped next to her closed eye, she opened it in response. "You did good holding your breath before firing, but don't hold it too long. The faster your heart beats, the harder it is to aim."

"Yeah, I noticed." Pomni laughed anxiously. "First time jitters."

BANG!!

The shot went wide right, hitting the edge of the target. Pomni lowered the rifle, disappointed.

"That's alright. None of us are Annie Oakley the first time." Caine consoled. "Rest your arms when you need to. Holding the rifle up like this for long periods of time will make your muscles shake if you're not used to it."

"Right." Pomni racked the next shot, doing it much smoother this time.

Caine watched her each time to make sure she was doing it correctly, but the determined tone in her voice with how quickly she set up the next shot was doing strange things to him. He mentally reprimanded himself for such thoughts and focused on Pomni's aim, his face right next to hers. "A little more to the left. Up a degree. There. Now, breathe in."

Pomni inhaled. She could feel her heart in her ears.

"Fire." Caine whispered.

BANG!!

A hole was in the bottom of the center. Pomni smiled brightly. "I did it!"

Caine found her excitement contagious, smiling with her. "You did it. Very well done."

Pomni set the rifle down. "I think that's enough for me for now, but thank you so much for this. I can see why you come here. It must be rather nice to imagine guest faces on those targets."

Caine chuckled. "It's a guilty pleasure. And between you and me." He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I imagine BUBLE too."

Pomni giggled. "Give him two between the eyes for me."

"Yes, ma'am." Caine picked up the rifle, racked the next shot and fired. Then racked and fired again in rapid succession. Both shots hit dead center.

Pomni's jaw dropped. "How- now you're just showing off." She crossed her arms.

The rifle's barrel smoked from use as Caine cleared the final casing. "Maybe." He said coyly.

~~~

A/N: I'm on a time capsule kick lol

[kamisatomay018]

Happy New Year, Mrs. Neuvillette!

Lots of fluff, new year special fic!

Neuvillette x fem! Reader

“My love, you look simply divine tonight..” you heard your boyfriend’s deep and soothing voice say as you turned around, feeling your heart skip a beat seeing him in an elegant suit, his long hair flowing freely. You blushed and approached him, fixing his tie and kissing his cheek. “Thank you Neuvi, and trust me, you look so heartbreakingly handsome..” Your sweet dragon tilted his head in slight confusion, not understanding your words of endearment correctly. “Heartbreakingly? Why my dear, I never wish to do that to you..” Your sweet laughter echoed through the room as you felt your heart melt, making you kiss his cheeks again. “Aawww don’t worry Neuvi; it’s just an expression! I know you’d never break my heart!”

He smiles in relief, holding your hand and kissing your palm. It was a habit he had developed ever since you started dating. “That puts my heart at ease Mon Amour. Now then, shall we get going? It is 11:30 pm.” You nodded excitedly, holding onto his arm which he held out for you. Archons, he was such a gentleman. As you both stepped out of the Palais Mermonia, your eyes shone brightly as you viewed the glittering city of Fontaine, everyone excitedly waiting for another new year. Festive lights adorned the city as people were out and about, mingling with friends and family. You and Neuvillette were headed to the Opera Epiclese, where he had stated he wished to show you a surprise. You thought that he must have prepared something for new year and nothing more, but soon you’d find out that you were very wrong. Tonight was going to change your life.

You both boarded the aquabus and chatted merrily with the melusine in charge of the trip. The best part about the aquabus in your opinion was the spectacular view of Fontaine it provided, the bright moonlight illuminating on the surface of the oceans as the atmosphere was simply stunning. Fontaine was so different from your home, that is Liyue, yet you had no problem whatsoever in adjusting thanks to the brilliant man seated beside you, your hand safely clasped in his. You were one of the many adepti in Liyue, who had fought alongside Rex Lapis in the archon war. However as time went by, the Liyue you knew and loved also changed as all the adepti departed to Juyeun karst, knowing their protection wasn’t needed. When the news of Rex Lapis’ passing spread, you knew that your millennia long contract with him had come to an end, and although you still held deep love for Liyue, you were no longer bound to stay there and protect the citizens. With Rex Lapis, blessing you departed from Liyue to fulfil your desire of exploring Teyvat, and soon reached Fontaine.

Who knew that you would end up meeting your soulmate and stay here forever? Meeting Neuvillette was purely coincidental, for he had first laid eyes on you when you were tending to the wound of an injured melusine, using your healing powers to ease her pain. When he saw you he instantly knew you weren’t from Fontaine, and he was completely awestruck by your beauty and kindness. And then, when you turned around to lock eyes with him, your entire world changed as a delicate red string appeared, wrapping around your ring finger and his, connecting not just your bodies, but also your souls together. Neuvillette on the other hand, instantly felt his draconic instincts telling him that he had found his mate, and the magical red string that he saw further convinced him of the same, although he did not completely understand what it was. That was the day you both pledged to love one another endlessly, and you chose to settle down in Fontaine, for you really did not have anyone else to go back to in Liyue. 4 years had passed by already, and your bond with Neuvillette had only grown stronger. You both were devoted to one another, your love deeper than any oceans in Fontaine. Sure it was a little tricky to get used to living in a city as developed as Fontaine, but Neuvillette’s unwavering support helped you through it all.

“Dearest, are you alright?” Your beloved’s voice snapped you out of your memory lane, as you noticed the worried expression on his face. “Oh? Oh yes of course love, forgive me, I was just reminiscing about our past.” He lets out a soft chuckle, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. “Ah I see, is it perhaps you miss your home? If you wish, you can go visit Liyue any time you want dearest.” You shook your head, resting it on his shoulder. “No neuvi, that’s not the reason, I’m quite alright. Besides, I have no one to visit in Liyue really..we adepti are not that close with one another anymore..”

Sensing your slight sadness, neuvillette gently squeezes your hand, holding you close. He knew of your past, and he knew that you missed the way adepti used to be close with one another before the archon war. Now times had changed, and with it so had the bonds you made. “Know that my love for you is unchanging and eternal Mon Amour. I am with you, always.” You looked up at him with those beautiful eyes of yours, your delicate features being adorned with that pretty smile of yours his heart went crazy over. “I know Neuvi, which is why I wish to stay here with you. You make me the happiest, and as long as I have your support and love, I don’t need anyone else!”

He chuckles sweetly, hugging you close to him, thinking to himself- Dont you worry mon amour, I’m going to make you so happy tonight. Eventually you both got off the aquabus, holding hands as you walked down the pathway towards the Opera Epiclese. “The city looks so beautiful tonight Neuvi, we can sense the joy in the atmosphere! It’s really so lively!” You said, admiring the way people were so cheerful and happy. “Believe me my dearest, the city’s beauty is nothing compared to yours..” and there we go, he managed to make you blush yet again! Giggling shyly, you shook your head, making him chuckle too. Eventually you two reached the fountain of Lucine and Neuvillette left your hand, walking forward. With a snap of his fingers, the water in the fountain started glowing beautifully, the plants and flowers around you both gleaming and shining due to the existing water droplets on them. It looked absolutely magical, making you feel like you were in an enchanted fairy tale.

“Oh my..neuvi this is…oh wow..” you really had no words to describe it, the gleaming water droplets seeming like shining fairy lights. He smiles at you, going to you slowly while taking a deep breath to compose his nervous self. This was it, the biggest step in your relationship was here. “Mon amour, I have something to say..” You looked at him with a big smile, cupping his cheek softly “go ahead Neuvi, tell me, I’m listening..” Well, here goes nothing.

“Mon amour..the moment our eyes first locked, I knew you were the only one my heart and soul was bound to. You’ve taught me love, you’ve given me the honour of being with you and experiencing what true happiness feels like. Without you, I am nothing. You fill me with so much joy, so much hope and so much love..before you entered my life, I was alone and merely just…existing. But with you I’ve realised what living life to the fullest feels like..You are simply magnificent, one of a kind. My love for you is everlasting and ever growing..I wish to spend my entire life with you, just like this, holding your hand in mine. So…” getting down on one knee, he opened a beautiful engraved box. On a velvet pillow lay a beautiful ring, with a big diamond in between, surrounded by two shining cor lapis stones. “Will you let me have the honour of calling you my wife? Will you marry me and become Mrs. Neuvillette?”

You were a crying mess by now. Words could never describe how euphoric your felt right now. It was a dream come true; there was no other way to describe it. You nodded vigorously through your tears, falling into his arms giving him perhaps the tightest hug you had ever given. “YES! Yes Neuvi, I’d love to be your wife!!” At that very moment, the clock struck midnight as fireworks erupted all over the night sky. Neuvillette smiled ever so happily, embracing you close to him. He held your left hand, gently slipping the beautiful ring onto your ring finger, right where the red string had shown itself 4 years ago.

“I love you Mon Amour, I cannot wait to marry you.” You smiled through your tears, admiring him so much. He could sense your joy, and it was contagious for he himself was beyond ecstatic. “Oh Neuvi…I love you so much too, you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me..” as you both stood back up, he held you close, leaning his forehead against yours. “Happy New Year my beloved.” You giggled softly, wrapping your arms around his neck, your ring shining brighter than the stars. “Happy new year Neuvillette..”

And once again, you both locked eyes, lilac meeting gold. The two of you were so happy, that nothing else mattered in this moment. Without wasting any more time, he leaned in, sealing the new year with a sweet kiss filled with pure love. This was perhaps the best way to start the new year, one you knew would be the best year of your lives. He was your home, your everything. And now, you were his fiancée. Happy new year, Mrs. Neuvillette!

[ms-hells-bells]

Because senator Kamala Harris is a prosecutor and I am a felon, I have been following her political rise, with the same focus that my younger son tracks Steph Curry threes. Before it was in vogue to criticize prosecutors, my friends and I were exchanging tales of being railroaded by them. Shackled in oversized green jail scrubs, I listened to a prosecutor in a Fairfax County, Va., courtroom tell a judge that in one night I’d single-handedly changed suburban shopping forever. Everything the prosecutor said I did was true — I carried a pistol, carjacked a man, tried to rob two women. “He needs a long penitentiary sentence,” the prosecutor told the judge. I faced life in prison for carjacking the man. I pleaded guilty to that, to having a gun, to an attempted robbery. I was 16 years old. The old heads in prison would call me lucky for walking away with only a nine-year sentence.

I’d been locked up for about 15 months when I entered Virginia’s Southampton Correctional Center in 1998, the year I should have graduated from high school. In that prison, there were probably about a dozen other teenagers. Most of us had lengthy sentences — 30, 40, 50 years — all for violent felonies. Public talk of mass incarceration has centered on the war on drugs, wrongful convictions and Kafkaesque sentences for nonviolent charges, while circumventing the robberies, home invasions, murders and rape cases that brought us to prison.

The most difficult discussion to have about criminal-justice reform has always been about violence and accountability. You could release everyone from prison who currently has a drug offense and the United States would still outpace nearly every other country when it comes to incarceration. According to the Prison Policy Institute, of the nearly 1.3 million people incarcerated in state prisons, 183,000 are incarcerated for murder; 17,000 for manslaughter; 165,000 for sexual assault; 169,000 for robbery; and 136,000 for assault. That’s more than half of the state prison population.

When Harris decided to run for president, I thought the country might take the opportunity to grapple with the injustice of mass incarceration in a way that didn’t lose sight of what violence, and the sorrow it creates, does to families and communities. Instead, many progressives tried to turn the basic fact of Harris’s profession into an indictment against her. Shorthand for her career became: “She’s a cop,” meaning, her allegiance was with a system that conspires, through prison and policing, to harm Black people in America.

In the past decade or so, we have certainly seen ample evidence of how corrupt the system can be: Michelle Alexander’s best-selling book, “The New Jim Crow,” which argues that the war on drugs marked the return of America’s racist system of segregation and legal discrimination; Ava DuVernay’s “When They See Us,” a series about the wrongful convictions of the Central Park Five, and her documentary “13th,” which delves into mass incarceration more broadly; and “Just Mercy,” a book by Bryan Stevenson, a public interest lawyer, that has also been made into a film, chronicling his pursuit of justice for a man on death row, who is eventually exonerated. All of these describe the destructive force of prosecutors, giving a lot of run to the belief that anyone who works within a system responsible for such carnage warrants public shame.

My mother had an experience that gave her a different perspective on prosecutors — though I didn’t know about it until I came home from prison on March 4, 2005, when I was 24. That day, she sat me down and said, “I need to tell you something.” We were in her bedroom in the townhouse in Suitland, Md., that had been my childhood home, where as a kid she’d call me to bring her a glass of water. I expected her to tell me that despite my years in prison, everything was good now. But instead she told me about something that happened nearly a decade earlier, just weeks after my arrest. She left for work before the sun rose, as she always did, heading to the federal agency that had employed her my entire life. She stood at a bus stop 100 feet from my high school, awaiting the bus that would take her to the train that would take her to a stop near her job in the nation’s capital. But on that morning, a man yanked her into a secluded space, placed a gun to her head and raped her. When she could escape, she ran wildly into the 6 a.m. traffic.

My mother’s words turned me into a mumbling and incoherent mess, unable to grasp how this could have happened to her. I knew she kept this secret to protect me. I turned to Google and searched the word “rape” along with my hometown and was wrecked by the violence against women that I found. My mother told me her rapist was a Black man. And I thought he should spend the rest of his years staring at the pockmarked walls of prison cells that I knew so well.

The prosecutor’s job, unlike the defense attorney’s or judge’s, is to do justice. What does that mean when you are asked by some to dole out retribution measured in years served, but blamed by others for the damage incarceration can do? The outrage at this country’s criminal-justice system is loud today, but it hasn’t led us to develop better ways of confronting my mother’s world from nearly a quarter-century ago: weekends visiting her son in a prison in Virginia; weekdays attending the trial of the man who sexually assaulted her.

We said goodbye to my grandmother in the same Baptist church that, in June 2019, Senator Kamala Harris, still pursuing the Democratic nomination for president, went to give a major speech about why she became a prosecutor. I hadn’t been inside Brookland Baptist Church for a decade, and returning reminded me of Grandma Mary and the eight years of letters she mailed to me in prison. The occasion for Harris’s speech was the annual Freedom Fund dinner of the South Carolina State Conference of the N.A.A.C.P. The evening began with the Black national anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” and at the opening chord nearly everyone in the room stood. There to write about the senator, I had been standing already and mouthed the words of the first verse before realizing I’d never sung any further.

Each table in the banquet hall was filled with folks dressed in their Sunday best. Servers brought plates of food and pitchers of iced tea to the tables. Nearly everyone was Black. The room was too loud for me to do more than crouch beside guests at their tables and scribble notes about why they attended. Speakers talked about the chapter’s long history in the civil rights movement. One called for the current generation of young rappers to tell a different story about sacrifice. The youngest speaker of the night said he just wanted to be safe. I didn’t hear anyone mention mass incarceration. And I knew in a different decade, my grandmother might have been in that audience, taking in the same arguments about personal agency and responsibility, all the while wondering why her grandbaby was still locked away. If Harris couldn’t persuade that audience that her experiences as a Black woman in America justified her decision to become a prosecutor, I knew there were few people in this country who could be moved.

Describing her upbringing in a family of civil rights activists, Harris argued that the ongoing struggle for equality needed to include both prosecuting criminal defendants who had victimized Black people and protecting the rights of Black criminal defendants. “I was cleareyed that prosecutors were largely not people who looked like me,” she said. This mattered for Harris because of the “prosecutors that refused to seat Black jurors, refused to prosecute lynchings, disproportionately condemned young Black men to death row and looked the other way in the face of police brutality.” When she became a prosecutor in 1990, she was one of only a handful of Black people in her office. When she was elected district attorney of San Francisco in 2003, she recalled, she was one of just three Black D.A.s nationwide. And when she was elected California attorney general in 2010, there were no other Black attorneys general in the country. At these words, the crowd around me clapped. “I knew the unilateral power that prosecutors had with the stroke of a pen to make a decision about someone else’s life or death,” she said.

Harris offered a pair of stories as evidence of the importance of a Black woman’s doing this work. Once, ear hustling, she listened to colleagues discussing ways to prove criminal defendants were gang-affiliated. If a racial-profiling manual existed, their signals would certainly be included: baggy pants, the place of arrest and the rap music blaring from vehicles. She said that she’d told her colleagues: “So, you know that neighborhood you were talking about? Well, I got family members and friends who live in that neighborhood. You know the way you were talking about how folks were dressed? Well, that’s actually stylish in my community.” She continued: “You know that music you were talking about? Well, I got a tape of that music in my car right now.”

The second example was about the mothers of murdered children. She told the audience about the women who had come to her office when she was San Francisco’s D.A. — women who wanted to speak with her, and her alone, about their sons. “The mothers came, I believe, because they knew I would see them,” Harris said. “And I mean literally see them. See their grief. See their anguish.” They complained to Harris that the police were not investigating. “My son is being treated like a statistic,” they would say. Everyone in that Southern Baptist church knew that the mothers and their dead sons were Black. Harris outlined the classic dilemma of Black people in this country: being simultaneously overpoliced and underprotected. Harris told the audience that all communities deserved to be safe.

Among the guests in the room that night whom I talked to, no one had an issue with her work as a prosecutor. A lot of them seemed to believe that only people doing dirt had issues with prosecutors. I thought of myself and my friends who have served long terms, knowing that in a way, Harris was talking about Black people’s needing protection from us — from the violence we perpetrated to earn those years in a series of cells.

Harris came up as a prosecutor in the 1990s, when both the political culture and popular culture were developing a story about crime and violence that made incarceration feel like a moral response. Back then, films by Black directors — “New Jack City,” “Menace II Society,” “Boyz n the Hood” — turned Black violence into a genre where murder and crack-dealing were as ever-present as Black fathers were absent. Those were the years when Representative Charlie Rangel, a Democrat, argued that “we should not allow people to distribute this poison without fear that they might be arrested” and “go to jail for the rest of their natural life.” Those were the years when President Clinton signed legislation that ended federal parole for people with three violent crime convictions and encouraged states to essentially eliminate parole; made it more difficult for defendants to challenge their convictions in court; and made it nearly impossible to challenge prison conditions.

Back then, it felt like I was just one of an entire generation of young Black men learning the logic of count time and lockdown. With me were Anthony Winn and Terell Kelly and a dozen others, all lost to prison during those years. Terell was sentenced to 33 years for murdering a man when he was 17 — a neighborhood beef turned deadly. Home from college for two weeks, a 19-year-old Anthony robbed four convenience stores — he’d been carrying a pistol during three. After he was sentenced by four judges, he had a total of 36 years.

Most of us came into those cells with trauma, having witnessed or experienced brutality before committing our own. Prison, a factory of violence and despair, introduced us to more of the same. And though there were organizations working to get rid of the death penalty, end mandatory minimums, bring back parole and even abolish prisons, there were few ways for us to know that they existed. We suffered. And we felt alone. Because of this, sometimes I reduce my friends’ stories to the cruelty of doing time. I forget that Terell and I walked prison yards as teenagers, discussing Malcolm X and searching for mentors in the men around us. I forget that Anthony and I talked about the poetry of Sonia Sanchez the way others praised DMX. He taught me the meaning of the word “patina” and introduced me to the music of Bill Withers. There were Luke and Fats; and Juvie, who could give you the sharpest edge-up in America with just a razor and comb.

When I left prison in 2005, they all had decades left. Then I went to law school and believed I owed it to them to work on their cases and help them get out. I’ve persuaded lawyers to represent friends pro bono. Put together parole packets — basically job applications for freedom: letters of recommendation and support from family and friends; copies of certificates attesting to vocational training; the record of college credits. We always return to the crimes to provide explanation and context. We argue that today each one little resembles the teenager who pulled a gun. And I write a letter — which is less from a lawyer and more from a man remembering what it means to want to go home to his mother. I write, struggling to condense decades of life in prison into a 10-page case for freedom. Then I find my way to the parole board’s office in Richmond, Va., and try to persuade the members to let my friends see a sunrise for the first time.

Juvie and Luke have made parole; Fats, represented by the Innocence Project at the University of Virginia School of Law, was granted a conditional pardon by Virginia’s governor, Ralph Northam. All three are home now, released just as a pandemic would come to threaten the lives of so many others still inside. Now free, they’ve sent me text messages with videos of themselves hugging their mothers for the first time in decades, casting fishing lines from boats drifting along rivers they didn’t expect to see again, enjoying a cold beer that isn’t contraband.

In February, after 25 years, Virginia passed a bill making people incarcerated for at least 20 years for crimes they committed before their 18th birthdays eligible for parole. Men who imagined they would die in prison now may see daylight. Terell will be eligible. These years later, he’s the mentor we searched for, helping to organize, from the inside, community events for children, and he’s spoken publicly about learning to view his crimes through the eyes of his victim’s family. My man Anthony was 19 when he committed his crime. In the last few years, he’s organized poetry readings, book clubs and fatherhood classes. When Gregory Fairchild, a professor at the Darden School of Business at the University of Virginia, began an entrepreneurship program at Dillwyn Correctional Center, Anthony was among the graduates, earning all three of the certificates that it offered. He worked to have me invited as the commencement speaker, and what I remember most is watching him share a meal with his parents for the first time since his arrest. But he must pray that the governor grants him a conditional pardon, as he did for Fats.

I tell myself that my friends are unique, that I wouldn’t fight so hard for just anybody. But maybe there is little particularly distinct about any of us — beyond that we’d served enough time in prison. There was a skinny light-skinned 15-year-old kid who came into prison during the years that we were there. The rumor was that he’d broken into the house of an older woman and sexually assaulted her. We all knew he had three life sentences. Someone stole his shoes. People threatened him. He’d had to break a man’s jaw with a lock in a sock to prove he’d fight if pushed. As a teenager, he was experiencing the worst of prison. And I know that had he been my cellmate, had I known him the way I know my friends, if he reached out to me today, I’d probably be arguing that he should be free.

But I know that on the other end of our prison sentences was always someone weeping. During the middle of Harris’s presidential campaign, a friend referred me to a woman with a story about Senator Harris that she felt I needed to hear. Years ago, this woman’s sister had been missing for days, and the police had done little. Happenstance gave this woman an audience with then-Attorney General Harris. A coordinated multicity search followed. The sister had been murdered; her body was found in a ravine. The woman told me that “Kamala understands the politics of victimization as well as anyone who has been in the system, which is that this kind of case — a 50-year-old Black woman gone missing or found dead — ordinarily does not get any resources put toward it.” They caught the man who murdered her sister, and he was sentenced to 131 years. I think about the man who assaulted my mother, a serial rapist, because his case makes me struggle with questions of violence and vengeance and justice. And I stop thinking about it. I am inconsistent. I want my friends out, but I know there is no one who can convince me that this man shouldn’t spend the rest of his life in prison.

My mother purchased her first single-family home just before I was released from prison. One version of this story is that she purchased the house so that I wouldn’t spend a single night more than necessary in the childhood home I walked away from in handcuffs. A truer account is that by leaving Suitland, my mother meant to burn the place from memory.

I imagined that I had singularly introduced my mother to the pain of the courts. I was wrong. The first time she missed work to attend court proceedings was to witness the prosecution of a kid the same age as I was when I robbed a man. He was probably from Suitland, and he’d attempted to rob my mother at gunpoint. The second time, my mother attended a series of court dates involving me, dressed in her best work clothes to remind the prosecutor and judge and those in the courtroom that the child facing a life sentence had a mother who loved him. The third time, my mother took off days from work to go to court alone and witness the trial of the man who raped her and two other women. A prosecutor’s subpoena forced her to testify, and her solace came from knowing that prison would prevent him from attacking others.

After my mother told me what had happened to her, we didn’t mention it to each other again for more than a decade. But then in 2018, she and I were interviewed on the podcast “Death, Sex & Money.” The host asked my mother about going to court for her son’s trial when he was facing life. “I was raped by gunpoint,” my mother said. “It happened just before he was sentenced. So when I was going to court for Dwayne, I was also going for a court trial for myself.” I hadn’t forgotten what happened, but having my mother say it aloud to a stranger made it far more devastating.

On the last day of the trial of the man who raped her, my mother told me, the judge accepted his guilty plea. She remembers only that he didn’t get enough time. She says her nose began to bleed. When I asked her what she would have wanted to happen to her attacker, she replied, “That I’d taken the deputy’s gun and shot him.”

Harris has studied crime-scene and autopsy photos of the dead. She has confronted men in court who have sexually assaulted their children, sexually assaulted the elderly, scalped their lovers. In her 2009 book, “Smart on Crime,” Harris praised the work of Sunny Schwartz — creator of the Resolve to Stop the Violence Project, the first restorative-justice program in the country to offer services to offenders and victims, which began at a jail in San Francisco. It aims to help inmates who have committed violent crimes by giving them tools to de-escalate confrontations. Harris wrote a bill with a state senator to ensure that children who witness violence can receive mental health treatment. And she argued that safety is a civil right, and that a 60-year sentence for a series of restaurant armed robberies, where some victims were bound or locked in freezers, “should tell anyone considering viciously preying on citizens and businesses that they will be caught, convicted and sent to prison — for a very long time.”

Politicians and the public acknowledge mass incarceration is a problem, but the lengthy prison sentences of men and women incarcerated during the 1990s have largely not been revisited. While the evidence of any prosecutor doing work on this front is slim, as a politician arguing for basic systemic reforms, Harris has noted the need to “unravel the decades-long effort to make sentencing guidelines excessively harsh, to the point of being inhumane”; criticized the bail system; and called for an end to private prisons and criticized the companies that charge absurd rates for phone calls and electronic-monitoring services.

In June, months into the Covid-19 pandemic, and before she was tapped as the vice-presidential nominee, I had the opportunity to interview Harris by phone. A police officer’s knee on the neck of George Floyd, choking the life out of him as he called for help, had been captured on video. Each night, thousands around the world protested. During our conversation, Harris told me that as the only Black woman in the United States Senate “in the midst of the killing of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery,” countless people had asked for stories about her experiences with racism. Harris said that she was not about to start telling them “about my world for a number of reasons, including you should know about the issue that affects this country as part of the greatest stain on this country.” Exhausted, she no longer answered the questions. I imagined she believes, as Toni Morrison once said, that “the very serious function of racism” is “distraction. It keeps you from doing your work.”

But these days, even in the conversations that I hear my children having, race suffuses so much. I tell Harris that my 12-year-old son, Micah, told his classmates and teachers: “As you all know, my dad went to jail. Shouldn’t the police who killed Floyd go to jail?” My son wanted to know why prison seemed to be reserved for Black people and wondered whose violence demanded a prison cell.

“In the criminal-justice system,” Harris replied, “the irony, and, frankly, the hypocrisy is that whenever we use the words ‘accountability’ and ‘consequence,’ it’s always about the individual who was arrested.” Again, she began to make a case that would be familiar to any progressive about the need to make the system accountable. And while I found myself agreeing, I began to fear that the point was just to find ways to treat officers in the same brutal way that we treat everyone else. I thought about the men I’d represented in parole hearings — and the friends I’d be representing soon. And wondered out loud to Harris: How do we get to their freedom?

“We need to reimagine what public safety looks like,” the senator told me, noting that she would talk about a public health model. “Are we looking at the fact that if you focus on issues like education and preventive things, then you don’t have a system that’s reactive?” The list of those things becomes long: affordable housing, job-skills development, education funding, homeownership. She remembered how during the early 2000s, when she was the San Francisco district attorney and started Back on Track (a re-entry program that sought to reduce future incarceration by building the skills of the men facing drug charges), many people were critical. “ ‘You’re a D.A. You’re supposed to be putting people in jail, not letting them out,’” she said people told her.

It always returns to this for me — who should be in prison, and for how long? I know that American prisons do little to address violence. If anything, they exacerbate it. If my friends walk out of prison changed from the boys who walked in, it will be because they’ve fought with the system — with themselves and sometimes with the men around them — to be different. Most violent crimes go unsolved, and the pain they cause is nearly always unresolved. And those who are convicted — many, maybe all — do far too much time in prison.

And yet, I imagine what I would do if the Maryland Parole Commission contacted my mother, informing her that the man who assaulted her is eligible for parole. I’m certain I’d write a letter explaining how one morning my mother didn’t go to work because she was in a hospital; tell the board that the memory of a gun pointed at her head has never left; explain how when I came home, my mother told me the story. Some violence changes everything.

The thing that makes you suited for a conversation in America might be the very thing that precludes you from having it. Terell, Anthony, Fats, Luke and Juvie have taught me that the best indicator of whether I believe they should be free is our friendship. Learning that a Black man in the city I called home raped my mother taught me that the pain and anger for a family member can be unfathomable. It makes me wonder if parole agencies should contact me at all — if they should ever contact victims and their families.

Perhaps if Harris becomes the vice president we can have a national conversation about our contradictory impulses around crime and punishment. For three decades, as a line prosecutor, a district attorney, an attorney general and now a senator, her work has allowed her to witness many of them. Prosecutors make a convenient target. But if the system is broken, it is because our flaws more than our virtues animate it. Confronting why so many of us believe prisons must exist may force us to admit that we have no adequate response to some violence. Still, I hope that Harris reminds the country that simply acknowledging the problem of mass incarceration does not address it — any more than keeping my friends in prison is a solution to the violence and trauma that landed them there.

In light of Harris being endorsed by Biden and highly likely to be the Democratic Party candidate, I thought I would share this balanced, understanding of both sides, article in regard to Harris and her career as a prosecutor, as I know that will be something dragged out by bad actors and useful idiots (you have a bunch of people stating 'Kamala is a cop', which is completely false, and also factless and misleading statements about 'mass incarceration' under her). I'm not saying she doesn't deserve to be criticised or that there is nothing about her career that can be criticised, but it should at least be representative of the truth and understanding of the complexities of the legal system.