#look up the difference between ethnicity and race. quickly.

[ataleofcrowns]

is azad supposed to be kurdish? i ask only because kurds aren't black

Your neurons are just firing blanks up there aren't they?

[nyasiaaaaa]

Bonnie and Clyde 

Paring: JJ x fem Reader ( half-siblings) Rafe x fem Reader All the Pouges x fem Reader 

Summary: This story is about two people bonding over shared trauma, while one is learning to change for love the other struggles with having to pick between family and love; All while on the search for hidden treasure. 

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: Cussing ( that’s all I think lmk if I missed something)

A/N: Season 4 is not cannon in this Story, I started it before season 4 came out. This is a Rafe x reader. Y/n is JJ sister but they have different moms so you she can still be any race, ethnicity, etc there no description of Y/N ever. Y/N is older than JJ her age will be mentioned once. 

*********************

You paced back and forth in the hallway, nibbling at the skin on your thumb. 

Your nerves were bad, really bad. You can't remember if you have ever felt this scared; every time you breathed in air, bile rose with it. 

"Fuck ” you whispered to yourself as you glanced down and looked at your thumb, which was starting to bleed. 

"Ok, ok, ok," you said, taking a deep breath as you started to jump around, trying to hype yourself up to knock on the door in front of you. 

"I'm going to do it on three, yep, okay……" Your hand inched towards the door, but you pulled it away just as you were about to knock. 

You heard a door slam down the hall, causing you to snap your head in that direction. A man stood there looking at you with his head cocked to the side. You gave him a tight smile as you waved towards him. 

He didn't say anything; he just raised his eyebrows towards you in a questioning manner. 

"Oh, umm, I forgot my key", you laughed awkwardly, trying to get this man off your back. But he didn't seem pleased with your answer because he crossed his arms and continued to stare you down. 

"You know what I think? My mom's home, so let me just— "You said as you reached up, knocking on the door a couple of times. 

You stood there for what seemed like forever and was about to knock again when the door suddenly opened. In front of you stood a shaggy-looking white boy, who, from the looks of it, just woke up. He leaned against the door, rubbing the sleep off his eyes as he yawed. He had yet to look at you. When he finally did, he stared down at you, clearly confused about why you were on his doorstep. 

Sadly, you're confused, too. He's far too young to be the person you're looking for, but this is the address the man down at the police station gave you. 

"I uh- " You went to speak but then remembered the man from earlier who was still standing there, so trying to think quickly, you said the first thing that came to your mind. 

"Hey, bro, I left my key. I know I need to stop doing that. Mom's going to kill me one day",  you said to the mystery man as your eyes flicked back and forth between him and the man at the end of the hall.

You were praying that he would catch on and let you in even though you didn't know him and he didn't know you.

He squinted his eyes down at you, then looked out his door and down the hall towards where you were glancing. He nodded his head toward the stranger. 

"Sup," the guy said to the one down the hall.

The man still didn't look convinced, but it didn't matter now that you had this stranger playing along with you.

The man looked down towards you once more, then again at the man down the hall. He threw his hands up in defense as he spoke, "What? We have different moms." 

You stood there for a second, laughing awkwardly, before the man stepped back, allowing you into his home. As soon as you crossed the door, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. 

The man shut the door and turned towards you, eyeing you for a second 

"Don't worry; he fought in World War 3, I think. He thinks he's the neighborhood watch or something", the man said to you as he walked to the kitchen. 

He opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. It was only 2 pm where you were, but you guess it was 5 o'clock somewhere. 

"Want one," he asked. He stretched his arm out towards you with a beer in his hand. 

"No, Thank you." 

He shrugged as he walked across the kitchen to the counter to pop the top off. 

You glanced around the apartment. It was nice but very, very messy. There were beer cans everywhere and takeout containers. The whole room smelled like the boys' locker room. 

Your fingers gripped the bag on your shoulder tighter as you started to second guess, knocking on his door. 

Silence fell over the two of you. You weren't sure what to say. He obviously wasn't the man you were looking for, but you didn't want to leave just yet, just in case that man was still out there. 

"So….. why are you wandering around the building? Are you lost? Are you looking for someone? I know pretty much everyone in the building. If you tell me who, I can tell you what floor and apartment." 

"Um", you were hesitant. You didn't know this man, and you didn't feel like sharing your business with every stranger who walked past. But at the same time, you were all out of leads and needed to be pointed in some direction. Honestly, you had nothing to lose. 

You dug in your backpack, looking for the paper the police officer gave you with the name and address of the person you were looking for. After a couple of minutes of digging, you found it. Folded with the paper was a picture of the man you were looking for, the only picture you had of him. You passed the paper along with the picture to the man.

"Yeah, umm, I'm looking for that man. A police officer told me I could find him here, but clearly, he's mistaken. Maybe he got the apartment number wrong, or maybe the guy hasn't updated his address yet. Do you perhaps know where I could find him?"  You rushed through words as you spoke.  You were nervous either way if he had known the guy or not. 

He didn't answer your question; instead, he gave one back to you: "Where did you get this"?  He looked up as he spoke, now meeting your eyes. 

You stepped forward and pointed to the women in the photo cuddled up next to him. 

"You see that woman right there? She's my mom." You smiled down at the photo, admiring it as if you hadn't seen it a thousand times before. 

The man's eyes shifted towards you for a second then back down to the photo, "and who that man next to her." 

"His name is Luke Maybank, and my mother said he's my father." 

The man suddenly pushed the photo into your hands and started to back away from you, as if suddenly aware of your closeness. He ran his fingers through his hair as he stared into the distance, his face scrunching up. 

You were confused by his reaction. Does he know this man after all? Could he help you find your father?

"Do you know this man? Do you know where I can find him?" You eagerly asked him, slowly walking towards him. 

The man continued to back away from you slowly. He shook his head back and forth as he spoke, "Nah, he's long gone. I don't know where he's at now, but trust me, you're better off without him. " 

Better off without him? You questioned what he meant.

"How do you know that? How do you know this man?"

"I know him because . . ." 

"Because … matter of a fact, who are you?" agitation could be heard in your voice as you spoke 

"My name is JJ Maybank." 

"May- Maybank, you tell me that you-"

"Yep, I'm his son." 

You stood there in shock. You opened and closed your mouth, unable to speak.

"Your brother." 

************************

You were now sitting on the couch, watching JJ pace back and forth in front of you. 

He pointed down at you, waving his hand around. "Okay, break it down for me again." 

Your head fell into your hands. You were exhausted. You'd been telling him the same story over and over again for over an hour. 

"My mom and I are going through old photos on her bed. She pulls out a photo from when she was younger. The photo I gave you. I asked her who the man next to her was, and she said he was your father. His name is Luke." 

"Luke, I am your father," JJ spoke in a deep voice. 

"What?" You asked, confused, which made JJ stop his frantic pacing and look at you

"You've never seen StarWars" 

"No" 

"We'll come back to that. So then your mom said that's your father; his name is Luke Maybank."

"No, I got that from the police officers down at the station, and they gave me this address."

"Cool, cool, okay. Well, all we have to do is ask your mom a couple of questions, and maybe she can clear this up for us." 

"We can't." 

"Uhh, why not." 

"She's dead, died a month ago." 

"Way to go, JJ," he whispered to himself. "Look, I-" he stared before you cut him off. 

"It's fine; there's no need to say sorry. I'm good; I just thought I would come looking for the only other family I thought I had left ….." 

"Well, I can't tell you where he's at. The last time I saw him, he was sailing away….

 in a stolen boat…..

 With stolen drugs in his pocket ......

escaping from the cops …..

After he broke out of jail."

"Wow," you said shocked 

"Yeah," he said, dragging the word out as he spoke. 

"That's a lot." 

"Yeah", he said with a slight chuckle which made you laugh too. 

A silence started to fall over the two of you, but you broke it with your question.

 "Is he really that bad? Would I be better off without him?"

JJ didn't answer you. He just nodded his head 

"Why? Because of his run-ins with the law." 

"Nahh, we've all had run-ins with the law." 

"Then what," you asked 

You know you're asking a lot of a person you just met, brother or not. But you've traveled all this way to find this man, and now you just, what, are you supposed to give up on finding him? You want an answer; you need one, but the way JJ's eyes are tearing up, you start to second-guess asking. 

"You don't have to share. I'm sorry for asking." 

JJ wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He straightened up, looking back towards you after having turned away from you when his eyes started to fill with water. 

"It's fine, yeah, it's whatever." 

"It's not whatever, but I'll stop asking", you said, giving him a small smile, which he returned. 

You got up and grabbed your bag, deciding it was time to leave. 

As you walked to the door, you heard JJ hot on heels. 

You reached down to grab the door, but JJ placed his hand on top of yours, stopping you.

"What, uh, I mean, where you going? You got a hotel you staying at?" 

"Why," you asked 

He shrugged his shoulders up and down as he started to back up from you 

"I don't know. I was thinking, uh, that maybe we could get some food or something. Talk get to know each other." 

Although the idea didn't seem crazy, you didn't want to build something just to leave. 

"I don't. . .  , JJ I only came to town to find my dad now that I know he's not here and that he isn't the best man. I think I should just move on with my life and settle down somewhere." 

"You not going back to your mom's house?" He sounded concerned as he spoke 

"No, I sold the house to pay my mom's medical bills." 

"So where you going." 

"Wherever the bus takes me."  

"Nope, that's not going to work. You're going to stay here with me", he said, leaving no room for an argument as he walked away.

"JJ, we just met. You don't know me; I don't know you." 

"I don't need to know you; you're my sister," he said, stating the obvious. 

"Yeah, but you don't know me; everything I just told you could be a lie. I could actually be here to murder you." 

"Well, were you" 

"Was I what" 

"Lying"

"No"

"Well then, problem solved" 

"I -"you tried to speak but lost the word 

You just stand there looking at him. He looks at you with the most goofy grin spread across his face. 

You don't know who's crazier, JJ for offering or you for considering. 

"Well, where would I sleep? Cause the couch can only do for so many weeks." 

"Yesss," JJ whipped out as he did a little fist bump in victory. 

He walked over to the furthest door to the left and threw the door wide open. You walked closer to get a better look. It was a bedroom. It was nice— small but nice. It had a closet, dresser, nightstand, and a twin-size bed against the wall. It was pretty clean, too. Actually, it seemed like the cleanest room in the house. 

You looked over to find JJ leaning against the door frame, smiling at you as if he had won. 

"We just met," you stated once again 

"And?" 

"You're crazy." 

"You are too", he said before leaning closer to you and whispering, "It must run in the family." 

You playfully pushed him away as you stared at him, shock written all over your face. 

"I don't have any rent money." 

"It's fine. You'll find a job. I know some people."  He spoke casually, but you could tell by his eyes that he was anxiously awaiting your final answer. 

You just met this man, literally two hours ago. Are you seriously about to live with him? He could be a serial killer, and he might not even be your brother. Millions of reasons why you shouldn't run through your head, but it didn't matter because you already made up your mind. If he really is your brother, he's all you have left, and after everything you've gone through, regardless of the fact that you barely know him, you're not willing to give that up. 

"So what's there to eat around here", you asked, genuinely smiling for the first in months.

"Hell Yeah," JJ yelled in excitement, then threw his arm around your shoulder, which you quickly shoved off. 

"Yep, sorry. We got pretty much everything and obviously fresh seafood, " he said, walking towards the fridge, which had a bunch of takeout menus on it. 

"Mmm, Maybe seafood. I've never had it," you said, looking over one of the menus. 

JJ turned to you in shock as he gasped loudly, "You've never had seafood." 

"No, is it good" 

"The best. Here, we'll order from there. I can get us a discount. I know the people who run the restaurant," he said as he passed you to a menu for The Wreck. 

You started to glance over the menu but got distracted when you caught JJ looking down at you. 

"What ?" You asked 

"Nothing. Just realizing there's a lot I have to teach you, little sis." 

"Little? What year were you born." 

"2004"

"I'm sure I have just as much to teach you, little brother,"  you said, laughing as you walked away to find your phone.

JJ quickly followed you, clearly in disbelief. "There is no way you were born in what year." 

"2003, little brother" 

"Wowww" 

"Yep, now come on. I'm hungry", you said as you began dialing the restaurant's number on your phone before handing it to JJ. 

You glance up at him, and as you watch him order your guys' food, you can't help but smile. This is crazy—you’re crazy, he's crazy. You just met this man, and yeah, he's your brother, but you don't know him. This is too soon and crazy. 

You keep saying this to yourself, but you don't seem to truly care 

Shit 

Maybe crazy does run in the family.

[prettyrealm]

monsta x i.m ideal type reading

this reading is a paid commission, thank you so much for trusting in me! <3

overall:

someone highly attractive & well respected/admirable. someone kind, but unfriendly (the type of woman who is nice to everyone, but isn’t friends with everyone - she keeps a distance), someone who knows what they’re doing, follows her heart and knows how to pick her battles well (can prioritize), someone upfront who doesn’t mask how they feel when it comes to him (he would prefer you to be direct), someone charismatic with a vibe that can capture him and a look that he deems “exotic” (so maybe a diff race/ethnicity or nationality than what he’s use to), someone secure that doesn’t depend on him too much, but at the same time, i think he wants someone who would give themselves to him completely and almost blindly (cutting off people & giving up things/interests for him, obsessing over him quickly), someone who trusts in him completely, someone chill & non-confrontational (doesn’t like the aggressive types), someone who tries to keep themselves looking young or someone with a youthful vibe/personality, someone with a unique or more edgy look/personal style (by edgy I don’t mean an emo or rocker look necessarily, just something different)

turn ons:

when someone is influential or a trendsetter (like if all the girls are copying her and wanna be her or something, he finds this kind of attractive), high self-esteem, he may prefer to get with other artists or entertainers, someone fun who likes to enjoy good times with him, when someone has a nice voice and speaks well, when someone is observant and isn’t easily fooled by others, when someone is independent can can handle things on their own (or is good at controlling emotions), “pick-me’s” or women who don’t like or get along with other women/women who prioritize and center men, when someone is very physically attractive, when someone has a high sex drive or is ready whenever he is, small/petite women, cute/soft face (like fluffy cheeks), strong emphasis on cute & natural appearance (minimal makeup and no sexy vibe) & on the heavier/curvier side.

turn offs:

jealousy and when someone lets other people come between a relationship, infidelity (i don’t think he’d ever give a cheater a chance) when someone brings drama or messy people into his life, when someone is too forward or comes on too strong, aggressiveness & self righteousness, i don’t think he likes when his partners are too concerned with social/political issues, cold blooded people, highly emotional people, when someone isn’t really working towards anything or doesn’t have a goal they’re trying to reach in life - indecisiveness, someone he sees as overindulgent (too promiscuous, too into parties, too into food etc), someone too religious or spiritual/someone & doesn’t practice what they preach, preachy people in general, i think he’s picky about breast size (doesn’t like too small or big), when someone tries too hard to stand out, when someone is overweight, when someone is older or has an older or more mature appearance, & tall height.

[mightyflamethrower]

One of the many satanic paradoxes of the Third Reich’s architecture of the Final Solution was the requirement—mandated after the 1939 outbreak of the war—that Jews anywhere under German rule or occupation had to wear a yellow badge or armband with the Star or David.

Yet was not all this elaborate bureaucratic need for identification embarrassing to the Nazi apparat?

After all, if Nazi doctrine about supposedly manifest Aryan “racial” superiority—Nordic looks and build, superior intelligence, stable disposition—were so persuasive, then why the need for Jews to identify themselves?

In contrast, the Star-of David IDs were prima facie proof that the entire bankrupt Nazi project was based on the unspoken fear that millions of Jews were indistinguishable in all respects from other Europeans.

In other words, on the fascist right, anti-Semitism was predicated on the pseudo-science that Jews were not European and thus somehow racially inferior. Yet currently, the entire industry of anti-Semitic hatred has flipped, from Jews as toxic non-whites to Jews as toxic whites. The two common denominators of racial obsession and hating Jews remain the same.

One of the key reasons leftwing anti-Semites have been so effective at galvanizing campus hatred of Israel, and by association of Jews in general, is their careful effort to brand themselves DEI victims why tarring Jews with the empty white supremacy slur.

Accordingly, Jews and Israel now supposedly enjoy toxic white privilege. They are libeled as veritable white supremacists illegitimately in the Middle East to colonize “Palestine,” and as European imperialists picking up the mantle of the earlier 19th century British and French—as if a prior 400 years of Ottoman imperialism in the Middle East never occurred.

As now-privileged white victimizers, contemporary Jews are not seen as victims of the Holocaust, explaining the comfortable alliance between Islamist Holocaust deniers and the DEI crowd.

It was no accident that a racist BLM on news of the October 7 massacres quickly issued posters glorifying Hamas hang-gliding murderers.

It was no surprise that DEI czars and professors in various ethnic and race studies programs proved the most prominent on campus in damning Israel and its Jewish citizens as racists. And who was shocked when university administrators—the cowardly MIT campus is a good example—simply warned Jews of no-go zones, rather than ensured there were no such zones anywhere on campus for anyone?

Jews seem to be collateral damage from the damning of an entire group of people, namely white Americans and Europeans. In a society that is supposedly wedded to Martin Luther King, Jr.’s dictum that we should be judged by the content of our character, not the color of our skin, it is shocking how the racist DEI and woke industries have been given a complete pass to castigate and demonize an entire group, without any concern for individual characteristics, or for class, religious, or ethnic differences.

Indeed, white is as sloppy a term as Hispanic. Just as third generation Cuban-American professionals have almost no intrinsic ethnic, political, class, or often even linguistic affinities with impoverished Oaxacans who just crossed illegally into America—and vice versa—so too a white male from rural America working as a welder in the Ozarks or a logger in the Sierra Nevada has zero solidarity with a white Bay Area techie at Google or an Ivy League legacy preppie screaming “from the river to the sea” in Harvard Yard.

But “white” is not just a ridiculous construct that ignores the multiplicities of European ethnic and religious fault lines, the vast differences in “white” class, income, and politics, and the increasing frequency of whites marrying non-whites. When joined with the tired epithets “privilege,” “supremacy,” and “rage,” the result grows even more incoherent and sinister.

Is proof of the privilege of “whites” that their life expectancy is lower than Hispanics and Asians?

A suicide rate higher than blacks, Asians, and Hispanics?

Dying in combat in Afghanistan and Iraq at double their numbers in the general population?

An inordinate percentage of fentanyl deaths?

A current percentage of whites in Ivy League freshman classes of 20-40 percent, despite making up 55 percent of the youth demographic?

Why does “white rage” not result in whites being overrepresented as perpetrators of “hate crimes,” as are Latinos and blacks? Or in relatively rare interracial crimes, why are blacks far more likely to assault or kill whites than vice versa? In the DEI lexicon of reductionist stereotypes, is there a term “black rage” that reflects FBI statistics on hate or interracial crimes?

Woke and DEI fads have created entire anti- “white privilege” industries. One result was the epidemic of careerism-inspired and media-fed hoaxes, such as the Duke Lacrosse lie, the Covington Kids myth, and the Jussie Smollett fiasco. All were predicated on the idea the white male smear would alone obviate the need for evidence—and would provide exemption when the fakers were exposed.

Another bastard child of the “white privilege” myth was the ironic but pathetic effort of whites to fake a non-white identity to win privileges in hiring, admissions, and status.

What, after all, drove the transitioning of Sen. Elizabeth Warren to declare herself the first “native American” professor of law at Harvard, or careerist professor Ward Churchill to outfit himself in buckskin and beads—not to mention the famous Rachel Dolezal, former head of the NAACP in Spokane, Washington?

Identity fakery is traditionally an empirical guide to privilege, or otherwise nonwhites would be transitioning to white status, as in the segregationist and overtly racist days of the Old South.

In that regard, why did the New York Times dub Hispanic, half-Peruvian George Zimmerman “White Hispanic,” when they had never used that phrase for any other person, even though two thirds of “Hispanic” Americans self-identify as white? Because it was an acceptable affront in demonizing Zimmerman, but would have been considered a racist slander against another Hispanic American?

A hallmark of the white-privilege slander industry is the one-way application of “disproportionality,” or the idea that coveted or celebrity billets must reflect demographics.

Such institutionalized discrimination is now applied in crude fashion throughout companies and universities, but not when inconvenient. In professional sports, where meritocracy is deemed essential and whites are “underrepresented,” or in recording contracts, or even in the US postal service, there is no such sin in any group’s overrepresentation.

Another dividend of the blanket white privilege/supremacy slur is the racial shakedown industry. The BLM movement in the wake of George Floyd’s death ended up extorting millions of dollars from guilty or scared corporations. The vast majority of donations ended up unaccounted for, but likely enriched the founding grifters of BLM.

Ibram X. Kendi earned lucrative fees and honoraria espousing “anti-racism” and founded an “anti-racism” academic center that produced no tangible research. All that and more followed from his academic mish-mash of writings justifying racism against whites to “stop racism.”

The industry of white demonization also plays a role in the drastic reductions in U.S. armed forces recruitment. The Pentagon insists that labor shortages, obesity, criminality, gang affiliations, or drugs explain their current alarming dearth of recruits.

But the drop-off in white rural and suburban males is demonstrable, and the reason is most likely their weariness with constant woke hectoring and discrimination.

Such pandering was on display when Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Mark Milley in his June 2021 testimony to Congress pontificated about ferreting out “white rage” and “white privilege” in the ranks—despite providing no evidence or data to back up his white bias and racism allegations.

Indeed, the Pentagon publicly quotes in detail the racial makeup of almost every branch and rank of service—except the disproportionately-white demographics of combat deaths, which are considered taboo and inherently macabre and “divisive.”

The DEI virus and the incessant “white privilege” stereotyping infect all areas of American life, and have rendered our society obsessed and hypocritical, if not incoherent as it equates everything from meritocracy to punctuality to toxic “whiteness.”

The normal rules of media sensationalism dictate that when any law enforcement officer lethally shoots an unarmed suspect, especially at a distance that posed no direct threat to the shooter, the name of the officer is immediately released.

But when a capitol officer shot and killed the unarmed January 6 protestor Ashli Babbitt for the likely misdemeanor of entering a broken window in the Capitol, his name and identity were immediately hidden from the public for months.

The same coverup was at work in the suppression of the manifesto and diaries of the self-declared trans mass shooter in Nashville—given that current leaks reveal one of her motivations was sheer hatred of what she deemed “white privileged” children, or, as she also called them, “crackers.”

If New York Prosecutor Letitia James had been a white male conservative activist prosecutor, seeking fame and an upward political career in his state by indicting Barack Obama in an election year for some suspicious financial transactions or sweetheart real estate con from years ago, he would have been denounced as racist.

And what if said prosecutor was on record screaming, not the now socially acceptable and common slogan “too pale, too male, and too stale,” but something about the overrepresentation of the “not pale, not male, but stale?” Would the result be the summary dismissal of an embarrassing, superfluous, and racist writ by a grandstanding, incoherent political hack?

Inconsistency is a final hallmark of “white privilege” ideology. What characterized the exemptions given to the summer of 2020 riots—with 35 dead, 1,500 law enforcement officers injured, $2 billion in damages, and a courthouse, police precinct, and historic church torched—was their pretense that white privilege had resulted in George Floyd’s death and anti-racist violence was justified.

Black Lives Matter therefore was to be immune from consequences in its “rage” against “white supremacy.” During the lockdowns, when minor infractions of the quarantine warranted everything from social ostracism to jailing, thousands of health-care professionals—once the most adamant in insisting on the shutdowns—hit the streets claiming that they were marching against white privilege and therefore exempt from the very protocols they had inflicted on others.

By contrast, both the peaceful protestors and the rioters of January 6 were alike dubbed “white supremacists” and “insurrectionists,” and given harsh sentences. Some no doubt deserved such arrest and punishment, but the single-day event was hardly comparable to the 120 days of rioting, looting, arson, and killing associated with the Antifa/BLM-engineered 2020 riots.

The low bar for “insurrection,” of course, was white-privilege-inspired. Note the contrast with the recent “pro-Palestine” demonstrations. Ostensibly these protests should have qualified for all the new requirements of “insurrection” established by the official responses to January 6.

Some of them entered the Capitol rotunda, where protests are forbidden. They interrupted a session of Congress, yelling and disrupting congressional hearings. They defaced government property, smearing fake-blood on the White House stone wall and swarming iconic statues. The genocide of Jews was the theme of their “river to the sea” monotonous chants.

And to make the analogy with the January 6 “insurrection” complete, a prominent politician, Rep. Rashida Tlaib, delivered a speech to the protestors prior to their entry into the Capitol.  In fact, she too implicitly fired up the volatile crowd by calling for the destruction of Israel by demanding a Palestine “from the river to the sea.” Yet in contrast to the January 6 protestors, there were very few arrests and likely will be fewer convictions.

In sum, for years the left has been exempted for what in normal circumstance would be a cardinal civil rights sin. They demonize and stereotype an entire group solely on the basis of their skin color, attributing to them collective negative characteristics that trump all individual differences by presenting them as if frozen in a time warp of the pre-1960s.

Anti-Semitism is on the rise and fortified by the campus DEI and woke crowd. Hate crimes are soaring. Violent crime in general is on the upswing. Military recruitment is dropping. Trust in the media is plunging. Anti-Semites are proud and not ashamed of acting out their hatred. The progressive woke agenda is imploding.

The one common denominator is the now-acceptable notion that it is not just permissible but encouraged to smear without evidence over two-thirds of Americans as the sole beneficiaries of “privilege,” prone to rage, and conspiring to ensure racial supremacy—all lies.

But they are lies nevertheless as useful to their promulgators as they are toxic and incendiary to a multiracial consensual society if not addressed, refuted, and discredited.

It is past time for Americans to reject all racial stereotyping and the racist careerists who leverage it—before we all descend into tribal nihilism.

[ausetkmt]

The Black population is on the rise in the United States.

From 2002-2022, the Black population has grown by 32 percent which amounts to 11 million people. In total, there are almost 48 million Black people in the country according to a research study conducted by the Pew Research Center.

Mark Lopez, director of Race and Ethnicity Work at the Pew Center said that the Black population is keeping pace with the growth of other ethnic groups who were subjects of the study.

“The African American population is not the fastest growing, but they are growing at least as fast as the rest of the nation,” Lopez told The Philadelphia Tribune. The nation’s Asian population, for example, has grown more quickly. The nation’s white population has grown a little more slowly. As the nation has grown, so has the Black population. 

“Since 2000, Blacks have represented about 13 to 14 percent of the U.S. population of the nation. The number of Americans who say they are two or more races has gone up—and there has been a rise in the inter-race marriage rate. Also, there have been more people saying they are both Black and Hispanic on census forms.”The study shows that the general fertility rate for Black females aged 15-44 was 6.1 percent in 2022.

“The COVID-19 pandemic is not the reason that would only have been a factor the past few years. The national Black population was growing before that time across the nation,” Lopez continued. “The Black population looks a lot like other groups. The fertility rate was a little higher for Latinos, and a little lower for white Americans.”

Among the several factors that caused the Black population growth include a rise in birth rates among Black women between the ages of 15 to 44; interracial marriages have increased; more mixed-raced people have chosen to identify as Black, a notable rise of immigrants from African and Caribbean countries, and the fertility rate among Black females ages 15-44 rose 6.1 percent in 2022.

Since 2000, foreign-born Black Americans have doubled from 2.4 million people to 5.1 million.  Foreign-born U.S. Blacks now make up 11% of the nation’s population.

Another key component discovered in the study is that Black Americans are the youngest of all ethnic groups. Although just 12 percent were 65 or older, 30 percent of the entire Black population was below the age of 20.

“When we take a look at the national Black population—they are relatively young compared to the nation’s white population,” Lopez noted. “For many young Black Americans, they play an important role in helping to diversify the workforce.”

Revealing the ever-present racial wealth gap, the study showed that 49 percent of Black households in the U.S. earned less than $50,000 and 51 percent of the Black population earned $50,000 or more. Only a third of African-American households earned $75,000 or more while 22% of Black households reported $100,000 or more in income that year.

Additionally, married couples represented 39 percent of Black households with 31 percent of African American households being led by single women, and 5 percent of households were led by single men.

The growth of the Black population in the U.S. is also seen in geographical terms. In May, Memphis, Tenn., overtook Detroit as the nation’s largest majority-Black city in America.

According to the 2022 population estimates, Memphis’ Black population grew to 621,056 while Detroit boasts 620,376, a small difference of just 680 residents. 

Both midwestern cities “have a larger percentage of Black residents than bigger cities like New York and Chicago.”

BET: Black Population Has Grown By 32 Percent, According to New Research

[solitaryearthperson]

Woman-crush (Sequel to Girl-crush)

Summary: The team finds out about Natasha and (Y/N)’s relationship and is concerned about the age difference.

(The reader is 18+and uses she/her pronouns. The ethnicity/race is any.)

(Y/N) = Your Name

(S/C) = Skin Color

"Do you wanna go to your room after this?" I heard Nat whisper to me.

Keeping my eyes on the TV screen, I nodded my head, feeling my cheeks heat up. Her voice still makes me blush.

Seeing my nod, she turned her gaze back to the screen, but scooted closer to me, making me feel the warmth of her body, and the heat in my cheeks instantly got warmer at her closeness.

Me and Natasha have been going strong for the past three months. At first, it was a little awkward for us. Well, for me at least. I didn't really know what to say to her and didn't know how to control my nervousness around her, but after a little while of cuddling and making out with her, my nervousness has almost disappeared. Again, almost. Not completely. I still get nervous about certain things we do and certain topics we talk about. One of the topics we currently talk about a lot is our age difference. Natasha still has some concerns about the age difference between us, and it’s understandable, but I tell her all the time, “I don’t fucking care.” She knows I don’t care, but she also worries about what the rest of the team may think, especially Steve Rogers and Clint. She doesn’t want them to think that she’s taking advantage of my age or lack of experience, so we both agreed that we’d keep it a secret for now. 

“Uh, is the kid old enough to watch this part?” I heard Tony ask, and I zone out of my thoughts to see that the movie we’re all watching is on a heavy make out scene that look’s to be leading toward sex.

“Very funny, grandpa,” I told him.

“I’m the hot friend of the dad,” he remarked, then pointed toward Steve sitting on a recliner, “He’s grandpa.”

“Shut up,” Steve told him.

I heard Nat let out a chuckle before feeling her hand touch mine. I look down to see that her pale, soft hand was touching my (S/C) one, and instantly I put it over hers. I felt her tense at the action, before quickly relaxing. 

~      

“What’d you think of the movie?” Natasha asked me as she wrapped her arm around me and pulled me closer to on my bed.

“It was alright,” I told her. “Maybe we could go on a...movie date sometime?”

“What would you want to watch?” she asked, her body more relaxed and her demeaner much calmer than it was in the compound living room.

“I don’t know. Maybe a horror movie?”

She was about to respond when a sudden knock came at my door. She quickly unwrapped her arm from around me and scooted away, putting some distance between us. The action made me feel a little bit of anger, but I swallowed it down and yelled, “Come in!”

The door opened and I saw Steve walk in with a weird expression on his face. He looked like he was uncomfortable about something. 

“Steve,” Natasha greeted him with a smile, hiding her irritation at Steve interrupting us. Even though she's a master at hiding her emotions, I've begun to notice small things that give her true feelings away.

"(Y/N), Nat, we've noticed something's off with you two for a while now-"

Before I could say it, Natasha already beat me to it. "What's 'we'? Who's 'we'?"

Entering the room after Steve, was Tony, Clint, and Bruce and they all looked slightly uncomfortable. Even though the room was quite large, even for a bedroom (thanks to Tony’s money), all the men in the room made it seem smaller. 

“What’s going on?” Natasha asked, looking at all of them.

“Well, it’s...” Steve started, looking more uncomfortable at me and Nat, then quickly looking to the others before looking back at us. “We noticed that, um,...”

“Oh My God!” Tony interrupted him. “We saw you two holding hands in the living room earlier and Steve here thinks you two might be dating. Boom! Done!”

“Tony!” 

“What! You were taking too long!”

“Nat, (Y/N), are you two...together?” Bruce asked, no longer being silent.

We were both silent as neither one of us knew if we should say the truth or not.

“Are you?” Tony asked, uncertainty in his voice.

“Yeah,” I decided to speak up. “So what?”

“It’s just,” Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “We can’t help but notice quite an age gap between you two and we’re just-”

“I don’t care if there’s an age gap, me and Nat are together. Just deal with it,” I told them. I’m not gonna allow them to destroy what me and Nat have.

“Kid, we’re just concerned-” Tony started.

“I. Don’t. Care. There’s no need to be concerned.”

“Nat,” Clint finally spoke up. “How long you guys been together?”

“Three months,” Natasha answered.

“How do ya feel about her? You care about her? Not using her or taking advantage of her?” Clint asked her. I couldn’t hear any judgement in his voice, only curiosity and genuine concern for me and his friend.

“No, absolutely not,” Natasha shook her head and reached out for my hand. I happily placed it in hers and I felt my insides flutter. As if sensing it, she smiled at me, making the fluttering worse. 

“So you’re not using her for sex or anything? You actually care about the kid?” Tony asked.

“First, she’s not a kid. Second, again, no, I’m not using her for sex. We haven’t even had sex yet,” Natasha answered him.

I could feel my face grow hot at her answer and I tried not to show the slight uncomfortableness at her mentioning that. I looked to Steve and saw that he was slightly uncomfortable with the topic of sex, even though it’s not explicit.

“Are you satisfied? Can you leave so we can have our privacy?” I asked, squeezing Nat’s hand, hoping to be alone with her again. She squeezed my hand back softly, letting me know that she wants the same.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, kid. We’ll leave you two. Give you some...privacy.” Steve quickly ushered the others out of the room, somehow sensing me and Nat’s want for privacy.

“We’re leaving the door slightly open, you two,” I heard Tony say before he pushed the door further open on his way out. Before I could get up and close it, Steve quickly closed it after himself.

After they left, the room was left in a strange silence and I wondered about what Natasha was thinking. She was still holding my hand, but she was looking at the closed door with a pensive look on her face.

“So,” I started, scooting closer to her, going back to the distance that was between us before the others had came in. “They know now. Is that okay with you?”

“What do you mean?” Nat turned to look at me, confused.

“You don’t have anymore concerns about us, right? No more worries about what they might think about us?”

“No,” she shook her head, and turned her body towards me. “I’m just thinking about something else.”

“What?” I felt my heart skip a beat at might worry her now.

Suddenly a familiar small smile appeared on her face along with a mischievous look in her eyes. “Your face when I mentioned sex.”

My face began to get warm again and I looked down at the bed to avoid looking at her face. “I didn’t make a face. I was just surprised you told them that.”

“Is there something wrong with telling them that?” She asked, her hand gently grabbing my chin and lifting my head to look at her.

“No.”

“Are you embarrassed about us not having sex yet?” She asked leaning her head closer to mine, our lips almost touching.

“N-no,” I stuttered, glancing at her plump lips before looking at her beautiful green eyes. “Are you fine with us not having sex yet?”

“Of course. I’m ready whenever you are, baby.” She leaned in and our lips touched softly at first, but then it quickly turned slightly less soft and more on the rough, lusty side, and I felt the fluttering inside me again, but this time it was way stronger than before. Our kiss only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like it was so much longer, and somehow not long enough and next thing I knew she was pulling away, but I didn’t want her to. “Whenever you’re ready, baby,” she repeated, her usual somewhat low voice, now lower and raspier. 

I could feel the fluttering now become full on butterflies batting their wings hard in my stomach as I looked at my former crush, now girlfriend tell me that whenever I was ready, she would give me (what I am sure will be amazing) sex. 

“Okay,” I swallowed, looking up and down her body before meeting her lust-filled eyes with mine.

[mariacallous]

Before emigrating from Ireland to teach in England in 2006, I assumed British people would know as much about me as I did about them. I was put right just one year into the job, in an east London staffroom, when a colleague teased: “Why the salad, Jen? I thought you Irish loved a potato.”

Contrary to the stereotype, Irish people don’t just happen to love potatoes. Pushed on to infertile land in west Ireland, most notoriously at Oliver Cromwell’s command, farmers had been encouraged to grow the ill-fated crop by their British colonisers. But when the blight came, little was done to help them. The resulting Great Hunger brought the death or emigration of 2 million people – more than a quarter of the Irish population – between 1845 and 1852.

Potato jokes aren’t funny to me – government turning its back on its own people during a time of crisis rarely is – but I heard dozens of similar gags during my 12 years in English and international British schools. They were never nasty – they just came from a place of absolute ignorance. Rubbing shoulders with colleagues in history departments, I quickly came to a realisation: while Irish students arguably learn too much about Ireland’s colonisation, British students certainly learn too little.

In every Irish classroom, children are reared on stories of oppression and rebellion. Every child understands the intricacies of Anglo-Irish relations. As a secondary English teacher, I can’t avoid plays, novels and poetry dealing with our complicated relationship with Britain. Irish students leave school with the historical and emotional weight of colonisation on their shoulders.

Compare that to Britain, where teaching English rightly involves texts focused on class, misogyny and injustice, often set around the second world war, but rarely relating to Britain’s relationship with Ireland, despite Ireland’s literary clout and proximity.

In 2016, my school embarked on a project on the British empire. Irish media were consumed by the centenary of the 1916 Easter Rising, a historic turning point in the fight against British rule. Naively, I offered a book on the subject to our head of history – it was returned to my desk the following morning. I should have known better.

Studying Othello in my A-level English class, we had a debate on race. I asked my intelligent, wonderful students whether white people can experience ethnic prejudice as seen in the play. No, they said. “What about Britain’s treatment of the Irish?” I asked. They looked at me blank-faced – of course they did. In response, I told them about the infamous signs my grandfather saw while living in London in the 50s: “No blacks, no Irish, no dogs.”

This failure of British schools to teach students anything about Ireland has far-reaching consequences. For one, if educated British people do not understand the difference between Ireland and the United Kingdom, they cannot understand Brexit. Take the Conservative MP Andrew Bridgen, who in 2018 confidently declared English people had a right to an Irish passport due to the common travel area. Or how about Boris Johnson, who, when concerns were raised about the possibility of a hard border, brushed off fears as “pure millennium bug stuff”, and later as a “folly”. Try using that word to any of the families and communities affected by decades of violence and devastating loss.

Even now, as Ireland and Britain continue to grapple with highly sensitive trade agreements in the wake of Brexit, knowledge of this kind matters. In June, Liz Truss, then foreign secretary and probably Britain’s next prime minister, summed up so much when, with a straight face, she pronounced taoiseach as “tea-sock”. In delicate negotiations, considering the historical British policy of eradicating the Irish language in Ireland, it’s paramount that elected politicians, at the very least, get Irish names right. When Queen Elizabeth spoke a few words in Irish at a state dinner in Dublin Castle, the former seat of British power in Ireland, she did something very significant. She showed Irish people and Irish culture her respect. Politicians must look to their recently deceased and beloved monarch for inspiration in this regard.

While British people are taught not to know – not to care – about Ireland’s history, Irish people carry the pain of it around with us. Every political gaffe, every time an Irish celebrity is wrongly claimed as British, every mix-up of Britain, Ireland and the United Kingdom – every time it happens, is corrected and happens again – sets our relationship back. It makes Irish people feel as if their nationality, their distinct cultural difference, is a detail too insignificant to learn about. Yes, it’s time we move on – but to do so requires respect and knowledge on both sides.

[kemetic-dreams]

     IS IT BLACK OR AFRICAN OR AFRICAN AMERICAN?

HAD A RECENT RUN IN WITH AN ASIAN PATIENT OF MINE. WHO ASKED ME, AFTER I STATED MY NAME. WHAT DO I CALL YOUR PEOPLE? I HEAR SOME PEOPLE SAY BLACK, THEN AFRICAN AMERICAN,COLORED, AND SOMETHING CALLED MELANATED BEINGS?

SO THE BIG QUESTION WHAT DO WE CALL OURSELVES? I AM CONFUSED.

YOU MUST UNDERSTAND AFRICANS NEVER SPOKE ENGLISH

AFRICANS NEVER HAD A UNIFYING LANGUAGE

THE BASIS OF AFRICAN IDENTITY LET ALONE ALL IDENTITIES COMES FROM ETHNIC IDENTITY.

WHY WOULD AFRICANS BE MESMERIZED BY COLOR

REAL IDENTITIES ARE AUTONYMS, EXAMPLE AMAZULU IS A IDENTITY THAT THOSE GROUPS OF PPL WITH OUT FOREIGN INTERVENTION CAME UP WITH.

EUROPEANS NOR ASIAN CAME UP WITH THE TERM ZULU

THE TERM IFIRIYA OR AFRICA COMES FROM THE VARIOUS ETHNIC GROUPS FROM NORTH AFRICA

AFTER HANNIBAL WAS DEFEATED, SCIPIO NAMED HIS SELF AFTER THE LAND

ALSO AFRICA COMES FROM  Massey, in 1881, stated that Africa is derived from the Egyptian af-rui-ka, meaning "to turn toward the opening of the Ka." The Ka is the energetic double of every person and the "opening of the Ka" refers to a womb or birthplace. Africa would be, for the Egyptians, "the birthplace."

WHEN WE SAY WE ARE AFRICAN WE ARE STATING OUR RAICAL ORIGINS. NOT A NATIONALITY

                        IS YOUR SKIN COLOR BLACK?

NO OUR SKIN IS NOT BLACK NOR DO ALL AFRICAN LOOK ALIKE OR MYOPIC

Human skin color ranges in variety from the darkest brown to the lightest hues. An individual's skin pigmentation is the result of genetics, being the product of both of the individual's biological parents' genetic makeup, and exposure to sun. In evolution, skin pigmentation in human beings evolved by a process of natural selection primarily to regulate the amount of ultraviolet radiation penetrating the skin, controlling its biochemical effects 

Black people refers to a racialized classification of people, usually a political and a skin color-based category for specific populations with a mid to dark brown complexion. Not all Black people have dark skin; in certain countries, often in socially based systems of racial classification in the Western world, the term "Black" is used to describe persons who are perceived as dark-skinned compared to other populations. It is mostly used for people of Sub-Saharan African descent and the indigenous peoples of Oceania. Indigenous African societies do not use the term Black as a racial identity outside of influences brought by Western cultures.

For some individuals, communities and countries, "Black" is perceived as a derogatory, outdated, reductive or otherwise unrepresentative label, and as a result is neither used nor defined, especially in African countries with little to no history of colonial racial segregation. Some have commented that labeling people "Black" is erroneous as the people described as "Black" are seen by some to have a brown skin color.

WHO CAME UP WITH THE IDEA TO CALL AFRICANS BLACK

AFTER THE BACONS REBELLION, WHEN EUROPEANS AND AFRICANS HAD A REVOLT, THAT DESTROYED PLANTATIONS

It was the first rebellion in the North American colonies in which discontented frontiersmen took part (a somewhat similar uprising in Maryland involving John Coode and Josias Fendall took place shortly afterwards). The alliance between European indentured servants and Africans (many enslaved until death or freed), united by their bond-servitude, disturbed the ruling class. The ruling class responded by hardening the racial caste of slavery in an attempt to divide the two races from subsequent united uprisings with the passage of the Virginia Slave Codes of 1705.While the farmers did not succeed in their initial goal of driving the Native Americans from Virginia, the rebellion resulted in Berkeley being recalled to England.

AFTER THE LEADER OF THE REBELLION DIED LAND OWNERS, REACHED OUT TO LAW MAKERS FROM LONDON CAME OVER FOR HELP AND TO BE ADVISED

FIRST THING THEY DID WAS BAN INTER RACIAL MARRIAGES

THEN THEY DECIDED THAT AFRICANS WOULD NEVER GET OUT OF SLAVERY.

THIS IS WHEN THE TERM WHITE AND BLACK WERE DEVELOPED. BLACK MEANING YOU HAVE NO RIGHTS, AND WHITE MEANS YOU DO HAVE RIGHTS

                 SO WHEN WAS THE MAJOR CHANGE

By that time, the majority of African people in the United States were native-born, so the use of the term "African" became problematic. Though initially a source of pride, many Africans feared that the use of African as an identity would be a hindrance to their fight for full citizenship in the US. They also felt that it would give ammunition to those who were advocating repatriating black people back to Africa. In 1835, black leaders called upon Black Americans to remove the title of "African" from their institutions and replace it with "Negro" or "Colored American". A few institutions chose to keep their historic names, such as the African Methodist Episcopal Church. African Americans popularly used the terms "Negro" or "colored" for themselves until the late 1960s.

In 1988, the civil rights leader Jesse Jackson urged Americans to use instead the term "African American" because it had a historical cultural base and was a construction similar to terms used by European descendants, such as German American, Italian American, etc. Since then, African American and black have often had parallel status. However, controversy continues over which if any of the two terms is more appropriate. Maulana Karenga argues that the term African-American is more appropriate because it accurately articulates their geographical and historical origin.

Others have argued that "black" is a better term because "African" suggests foreignness, although Black Americans helped found the United States. Still others believe that the term black is inaccurate because African Americans have a variety of skin tones. Some surveys suggest that the majority of Black Americans have no preference for "African American" or "Black",although they have a slight preference for "black" in personal settings and "African American" in more formal settings

The United States is weird on labeling people. At one point all Europeans were not considered white, ironically at the same time Asians were considered to be white. They say white and black are skin colors, but at what point do we call Asians a myopic color. According to the United States Census, because I have North African ancestry, I am considered to be white.

                                        Are Mexicans white?

The official racial status of Mexican Americans has varied throughout American history. From 1850 to 1920, the U.S. Census form did not distinguish between whites and Mexican Americans. In 1930, the U.S. Census form asked for "color or race," and census enumerators were instructed to write W for white and Mex for Mexican. In 1940 and 1950, the census reverted its decision and made Mexicans be classified as white again and thus the instructions were to "Report white (W) for Mexicans unless they were definitely of full Indigenous Indian or other non-white races (such as Black or Asian)."

.

During periods in U.S. history when racial intermarriage wasn't legally acknowledged, and when Mexicans and Mexican-Americans were uniformly allotted white status, they were legally allowed to intermarry with what today are termed non-Hispanic whites, unlike Blacks and Asians. They were allowed to acquire U.S. citizenship upon arrival; served in all-white units during World War II; could vote and hold elected office in places such as Texas, especially San Antonio; ran the state politics and constituted most of the elite of New Mexico since colonial times; and went to segregated white schools in Central Texas and Los Angeles. Additionally, Asians were barred from marrying Mexican Americans because Mexicans were legally white.

U.S. nativists in the late 1920s and 1930s (mostly due to the socially xenophobic and economic climate of the Great Depression) tried to put a halt to Mexican immigration by having Mexicans (and Mexican Americans) declared non-white, by virtue of their Indian heritage. After 70 years of being in the United States and having been bestowed white status by the U.S. government this was the first time the United States began to show true racist attitudes towards Mexicans in America something that usually came quickly to people of other races. They based their strategy on a 1924 law that barred entry to immigrants who were ineligible for citizenship, and at that point, only blacks and whites, and not Asians or Native Americans, could naturalize and become U.S. citizens. The test case came in December 1935, when a Buffalo, N.Y., judge rejected Jalisco native Timoteo Andrade's application for citizenship on the grounds that he was a "Mexican Indian." Had it not been for the intervention of the Mexican and American governments, who forced a second hearing, this precedent could very well have made many Mexicans, the majority of whom are mestizo, ineligible for citizenship. When mixed race Mexicans were allowed to retain their white status in American society they were unperturbed with the fact that the United States still continued its discriminatory practices towards Mexicans of full Indigenous heritage.

During the Great Depression, Mexicans were largely considered non-white. As many as 400,000 Mexicans and Mexican Americans were deported in a decade-long effort by the government called the Mexican Repatriation.

In the 2000 U.S census, around half of all persons of Mexican or Mexican American origin in the U.S. checked white to register their race (in addition to stating their Mexican national origin).Mexican Americans are the largest white Hispanic group in the United States.

The idea of color is a European colonial disease not an African one.

African is a racial origins term

Saying your Jamaican,Nigerian,Ethiopian,Canadian,Mexican, or Brazilian are Nations/Nationality

Saying Amhara, Sicilian, Irish, Yoruba, Zulu, or Han are examples of Ethnicities 

African American is not an ethnic group but clusters of different ethnics from Africa in the Americas.

Black is nothing more than a class system designed by Europeans

Just because your born in Germany doesn’t change your race.

When do Asian people stop being racially Asian just because they moved to a different nation

So, why does this happens to Europeans or Africans

There is no such things as a black language, skin color, or names or even a black or nation called black

[qqueenofhades]

Do you have an estimation how much racism or xenophobia Yusuf would have encountered traveling with Nicolo across Europe up to the modern ages? This is a very vague ask, forgive me. I wonder how much the concept of racism has changed over time. I have the vague impression that pre-modern European societies were always more diverse than one might assume nowadays, but I have little factual historic knowledge. I also wonder how much xenophobia Nicolo would have encountered.

And you would be correct! Because the “medieval ages were all lily-white and anyone placing POC in them is Wrong” is yet again, surprise surprise, another total lie that is a product of right-wing reactionary revisionism and not based on actual historical evidence. A couple years ago, I wrote a very lengthy post about historical people of color in Europe, starting from the Roman era and going down to about the 19th century (everything prior to the 20th century, basically). Obviously, it only discussed each example briefly, but there’s definitely more than enough there to debunk any idea that medieval Europe was monochromatically white. Iberia, Sicily, and other “crossroad” kingdoms had the most visibly and long-term settled diverse populations, but major cities such as London were ethnically diverse from their founding (which if you know anything about the Romans, truly, is obvious). There is extensive evidence for Africans and Muslims traveling to, if perhaps not settling in, early medieval Ireland and Britain (though sometimes they did do this, as there is a record of at least one African abbot of an English religious house). I also have this list of readings on the golden age of medieval Africa, including the richest king of all time and the various powerful empires that existed particularly in West Africa.

As noted in the Historical People of Color post, the crusades themselves, despite their obvious violence and bloodshed, were vehicles for cross-cultural exchange, which resulted in both Islamic ideas traveling to the west and western ideas traveling to the Islamic world. Medieval Christians were fascinated by “Saracens” as much as they were frightened by them, and there was a flourishing genre of “Saracen romances,” such as Parzival (one of the most popular romances of German medieval literature,which features the half-Muslim hero Feirefiz) and The King of Tars. These romances obviously display complicated attitudes about race and religion; the Saracen heroes are usually depicted as having to forsake their mistaken beliefs (usually some jumbled combination of paganistic polytheism rather than actual Islam) to complete their moral and emotional journey, and in King of Tars specifically, that results in an actual physical transformation for the Muslim sultan, the Christian princess’ husband, from black-skinned to white-skinned as a symbol of his newly gained virtue. Obviously there is an element of colorism at play; I wouldn’t call it racism because racism as a scientific term and “biological” concept was invented in the 19th century when, yet again, the West was busy concocting “impartial” reasons for its colonialism and “civilization” of supposedly inferior people. In the Saracen romances, however, the Saracen characters are not unsympathetic (if misguided), and the star-crossed lovers trope between Christian princesses and gallant Muslim warriors is played pretty much as you would expect it to go (with the implication that we’re supposed to root for him converting to Christianity so they can be together). As long as religious identity is correct, skin color doesn’t really matter or is at least less important, is viewed as mutable and changeable, and not the only marker of a person’s identity.

So in that sense, Yusuf and Nicolo would not be unfamiliar as characters in their very own star-crossed Saracen romance, and since we’ve already discussed the bonds between knights and how deeply romantic and emotional friendships were often the case even between men who WEREN’T lovers, it’s entirely possible that people would have understood them in that context. It also depends on how much time they spent in medieval Europe (as in DVLA, I have them traveling across the Eastern world for several hundred years after the crusades and not getting back to Europe until the Renaissance, when ideas and attitudes toward race and religion were once more undergoing huge transformation). Obviously, yes, there would be an element of xenophobia throughout history, and England (aha, hello Ancestors of Brexit) has in fact pretty much always been known for hating foreigners. But these weren’t necessarily foreigners of color; white Europeans from France, Italy, the Low Countries, Flanders, Bohemia, etc could all be viewed suspiciously by the English, especially post-Henry VIII and the religious break from Rome. (But this was, again, also the case before that happened, because apparently the English just suck like that.) This plays into the fact that as has been pointed out before, racism in Europe is cultured along very different lines from how it is in America, and takes into account geographical, cultural, religious, and other factors, as well as simply skin color. (Though colorism is usually also unfortunately part of it pretty much everywhere, since the ideal medieval woman was often thought to be blonde and blue-eyed, and fair coloring has always been positively correlated with morality -- just look at “Dark Magic” and “Black Magic” and all those other fantasy tropes of the villain being Dark.)

So basically, Yusuf and Nicolo would probably have been equally mistrusted in, say, 16th-century England (such as when they go there in the attempt to rescue Andy and Quynh in DVLA). They’re sodomites, for a start (this is right about when male homosexuality starts to enter the books as a capital crime), and Nicolo is Italian and therefore deeply suspicious as a possible papal agent. Yusuf might have actually made out better in that case, because Elizabethan England had fairly friendly diplomatic relations with the Ottoman and Persian empires (this is written about in the Historical People of Color post) and there was even an idea of Protestant England and Muslim North Africa allying together to attack their mutual enemy, Catholic Spain. Othello is obviously a product of this cultural context, with its dashing but doomed and tragic Moorish captain (see once again: the character himself is not unsympathetic, and is misled by the evil Iago). So many Elizabethan Englishmen settled in Muslim societies that there were attempted royal incentives to lure them back, and Yusuf would probably have been an exotic curiosity more than an existential danger. (As noted, they would almost certainly hate Nicolo more.)

In places such as Constantinople, where I had them live for a while in chapter 4, Nicolo would also be the more obviously mistrusted party. In a Greek Orthodox city that had substantial and long-term populations of Muslims and Jews, a Latin Catholic would be more the Enemy, because... well, sometimes we hate the people who are almost like us more than we hate the people who are obviously very different and therefore cannot be compared. Emperor Alexios Komnenos of Byzantium helped launch the First Crusade, at least in part in hopes of getting formerly Byzantine lands back from the Turks, but very quickly realized that he couldn’t control the crusaders and things went sour long before the trauma of 1204 and the sack of Constantinople; relations between Latin and Greek Christians had been at the brink of outright hostility for most of the crusades (though of course hostility was not the only experience between them). The Byzantine emperors were used to diplomacy and negotiation and trade agreements with their counterparts in the Islamic world, all of which was viewed as “consorting with the enemy” by the West. Besides, the Great Schism in 1054 had already broken the Western and Eastern churches apart after centuries of bitter theological disputes (these arguments may look like the most mind-bogglingly boring and tiny and insignificant details ever, but the battle over defining heresy and orthodoxy RAGED almost from the founding of Christianity in the first century). Edited to add further discussion on the nuances and complexities of the Eastern-Western Christian relationship.

So yes. As ever, the reception that they would have encountered is complicated, and it would not be immediately analogous to modern racism and Islamophobia. It would also be intensely mediated by their cultural, chronological, and geographic location, where sometimes Nicolo would (paradoxically) be MORE mistrusted by other white Christian Europeans. Not to say that Yusuf wouldn’t have encountered prejudice too, because he would, but not quite in the same ways as he would now, or that we would expect.

Thanks for the question!

[mythiccheroacademia]

African!Reader Series

Request: how would class 1-a’s main three be with a fem!black african s/o?

A/N: Did I just give myself my own request unprovoked? Yes I did. Am I gonna turn this into a series? Yes, because it’s about time I start being selfish with my own writing. This is gonna be the first time I see 100% of myself in a headcanon, so that’s exciting. Being stuck in that middle space between the culture you grew up in vs. the culture you’re born into is hard. Sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere. But, I’m learning to equally embrace both. So this is gonna be me navigating that space. I’m also excited for all my African/African-American (first gen) readers who’ve reached out to me about their experiences. Being African isn’t monolithic. I’m def gonna be keeping it vague enough for everyone to be seen. I’ll specify if I need to. Anyways, this is for y’all as well as myself. Hope everyone enjoys this 💋

All Characters are 18+

Warnings: cursing, some content that’s not even spicy enough to call pepper 💀

Midoriya Izuku:

just as with everything in his life, deku dedicates 100% of himself to learning everything there is about you

the first time he saw you? you had this man’s knees wobbling

your rich dark skin was doing wonders under the sunlight

and your body? went crazyyyy

but when he heard you speak your language, it was a wrap

doesn’t know how he ended up being your bf, but he doesn’t take you for granted

he’s always eager to learn more about your culture

has notebooks dedicated to your foods, clothing, hairtsyles, dancing, etc.

izuku practiced how to say I love you in your language for literally four weeks so he could say it to you perfectly on your six month anniversary

he stumbled a little, and his accent peeked out, but it was perfect and your emotional ass almost started crying

he studies and practices a lot so he can understand/speak to your parents if they don’t know english or japanese

your parents are urging you to marry this man. quickly.

he loves that you have 7000000 family members bc for awhile it was just him and his mom

your family loves him because he’s so sweet and respectful

already has the kids calling him uncle izuku

your mom and his mom use google translate to talk whiles they cook together and it’s so cute n wholesome

it makes you both go 🥺

a big part of your culture is dancing

whatever event you go to weddings, church, funerals, etc. you gotta dance, there’s just no getting around it my guy

you know your bf a little stiff in the hips LMAO so you show him some moves

and uh...he tries. really hard. but it’s looking rough so you just wave it off bc everyone gets hyped up regardless

so imagine your surprise when this man busts out with the shaku shaku at your auntie’s wedding, leg movement and hand gestures on point

the whole venue is screaming

they throwing money on him and everything😭

when y’all make it home (it’s like 4am smh) he’s knocked but you watch a little yt and find all these recommended how-to videoes about african dancing and everything makes sense

Bakugo Katsuki:

y’all met during a mission that required international heroes

being the asshole he was, he walked right through a conversation you were having w someone

him: “out of my way extras!”

he was shook when you told him to fuck off in perfect japanese before smacking your teeth and ending with “you foolish goat”

him: 😦😐😡 “hah!? what’d you just call me?”

and the rest was history

actually, he wouldn’t leave you alone and disguised it as him trying to intimidate you but it was bc your comebacks were so unique but so fucking funny (mannn the shit african parents be coming up w is violating 💀) and he was taking notes lowkey

you don’t take any of his shit and he loves it

it didn’t hurt that you looked like a goddess straight out of a fucking fairytale

he loves your sense of style

your hero costume is laden with traditional cloth and you just don’t see that anywhere

like your drip was immaculate

every time you step out, he’s thinking “motherland drip on meeee 😍”

he sends pictures of you to his parents to brag about you

speaking of which, ever since you met them he has this sneaky suspicion that they might like you more than their own child

but he couldn’t blame them bc after tasting your traditional dishes, he was sprung

especially the spicy foods you make bc they give him a run for his money (it’s not spicy unless you start sniffing)

has an uncanny ability of doing headwraps, like them shits are perfect on the first try

if you know your native language, please cuss him out in it, especially if your voice gets deeper

he’ll freak out on you at first, bc he’s a hothead, but it turns him on in the weirdest way

everyone knows he’s in deep when he starts adopting your insults and speech patterns

kirishima: *says something dumb*

him: “my friend, use your head before you speak to me, you castrated bull frog”

he even says it with the accent and all

and youre dying

my poor baby kiri is so confused even tho he knows he should be offended

Todoroki Shouto:

todoroki unofficially knew you bc he followed you on insta

he always thought you was a baddie but never had the chance to make his move

he was also a little scared of the culture clash

but then you dropped this here video with your friends 🥵

homeboy had never slid into anyone’s dms so fast before

he’s dead ready to change his life for you

luckily you knew english, so y’all were able to communicate

after two days of talking, he hits you with the “so when can I see you?” and he’s fine af so you make some plans and it goes really well

youre so different from any woman he’s met before and he loves that

you two are always talking about the similarities and differences of your cultures and it makes him fall harder for you

lives for your confidence

and your smile kills him every time

loves it when you start trying to speak to him in japanese, he doesn’t care if you butcher it

learns your language bc he wants to feel closer to you 🥺

show him some of your music and he’ll start playing it around the house

make him some soba with a twist of your traditional meals and he’ll drag you to the court house bc, ma’am, you finna be a todoroki starting today

whenever you step out in any traditional clothing, he insists that he takes pictures of you

when you start dancing and the ass starts a-jiggling, don’t expect him not to touch bc he will

don’t let him talk to your dad/uncles for too long bc he’ll start popping out with a dashiki print shirt and those wack ass sandals (y’all know the ones i’m talking about) like he did something 💀

all the boys will obviously defend you if someone comes at you on some racist/ignorant bs about your race/ethnicity, but todoroki will step for you

he will decimate a mf for even looking at you sideways

calls you queen bc he genuinely believes you are royalty (you can decided whether or not it’s cringey tho)

[evilelitest2]

One common right-wing talking point is that Arabs/Muslims just naturally hate Jews... Educate us, was there any special animosity between Jews and the Muslim world before modern Israel was created?

I mean....its complicated but generally no? Like if we are talking about the middle ages, Islamic states like Christian ones tended to be antisemitic, but as a rule, if you were a jew in the middle ages, better the Caliphate than the Papacy. Like you do have pograms, discrimination, and race riots across the Islamc world, but there isn't really anything comparable to Tsarist Russia prior to the late 1800s. Like the best place to be a jewish person in the middle Ages would be Muslim Spain (Al-Andalus) which was so tolerate of Jews that it became for awhile the center of Jewish identity. The earliest forms of Zionism actually wanted Spain to be the homeland of the Jewish people. You even had a pair of Jewish scholars achieve the rank of Vizier to the Caliph, which was a position normally reserved for Muslims, a bit like if a Jew in Christian Europe was able to become Chancellor. Now I don't want to overstate the tolerance of Al-Andalus two much, the second of those two Jewish viziers s going to be killed in an angry mob by conservative Muslims. But when you compare this to the way Jews were treated by the Christian rulers of Spain its telling, as Isabella and Ferdinand expel all the Jews within a year from the country.

However in the Islamic world, you don't really have the semi genocidal explosions of violence against Jews like you see during the First Crusade or the Pogroms of Russia, or the Expulsions (Britain, France, Spain and Portugal all forced the entire Jewish population out of their lands). Generally speaking Jews in the Islamic world were tolerated, though still second class citizens, and you only had occasional bursts of violence.

The reason for this difference I think has to do with the different view of tolerance between Islam and Christianity. Christianity's goal is mass conversion, like the end game of most Christian sects is "convert everybody", so the presence of Jewish communities within their kingdoms was seen as a problem. Islam meanwhile, is basically cool with Christian and Jewish minorities as long as they pay a tax. Now I want to be clear, forcing religious minorities to pay a tax to worship is really shitty, just compared to the way religious minorities are treated are Christendom it looks good by contrast.

Another big factor in the difference between Islam and Christianity's treatment of Jews was the way in which Jews were understood. Both the Pope and the Orthidox leadership bought into the racist religious doctrine that Jews were responsible for the killing of Christ and that Judaism was affliated with Satanism. In the Islamic world, Jews were like Christian, just a different (and in their mind less important) Abrahamic faith.

Now antisemitism in the Islamic world starts to increase in the late 18th century onwards where it becomes the modern problem we know today, starting around the 1870s onwards. This stems from three things

1) The Rise of Zionism and the settlers in Palestine. The presence of Jews and the Zionist goal of a state of Israel was a major factor in stirring up anti-Semitic attitudes among many Middle eastern Islamic states. This will continue as more and more Jews arrive in the region, and really take over with the creation of the State of Israel in 1948. This wasn't necessarily tied to religion so much as anti-colonial and ethnic struggles, but arab/Jewish conflicts in Palestine don't really take off until really the balfur agreement.

2) The rise of Arab Nationalism. As a response to colonialism both from the Western Powers and the Ottomans, a lot of Arabs hoped to model new states off the format set up by the Germans, Italians, Yugoslavs, Japanese, and Pols. And as we see with all of those examples, while Nationalism can serve as a tool for fighting against oppression, it also can very quickly morph into a form of oppression itself. Arab nationalism will fight against western imperialisms, but a lot of it will also descend into the type of racism that you find so common with nationalists, which made life very uncomfortable for religious or ethnic minorities within their land, even before you take the Israel Palestinian crisis into account.

3) The Rise of Islamic fundamentalisms in the late 19th century, which was sort of new in Muslim history, and was far less tolerant of religious minorities. It was just a fringe thing until the new state of Saudi Arabia emerged, making fundamentalisms extremist Islam a much more potent force to be reckoned with.

But all of these were only able to become more anti-semitic, because these only were able to get worse because there was already anti-Semitic sentiment

[undefined5posts]

Credit: Jordan J. Lloyd

I've been trying to dive deeper into politics, discover the genuine roots of our society, the origins of our beliefs, and the consequences of our economic system. It's a big, long, wide journey and through multiple sources such as articles, images, videos and multiple social media platforms, I've been trying to educate myself more on important subjects.

Communism, capitalism, libertarian, conservative, the left, the right, the history, the impact. It is scary to commit to everything because once you start, you simply cannot stop, once you start waking up your conscience about the horrible reality, the lies, the truths, you cannot put it back to sleep. You can't just ignore prejudice, especially when you're extremely conscious of it's omnipresence. I have continually tried to build my own opinions all while actively creating bullet point arguments in my mind because I just know that at some point I will have to defend my thinking, and I want to do it right.

Now, I am so far from being enlightened, I am a beginner and an amateur in all of those themes, but I am trying, which is the only way to start and grow.

So to tell you about my beliefs, I am a militant human rights activist, I believe in equal opportunities regardless of gender identity, sex, religion, sexual orientation, ethnicity, race and disability. This is a fact, not a belief, but the system was obviously not built to protect all people, its wasn't created to serve everyone equally but to grant a privilege to some and harm others. The current state of the world is not a slip, an accident or a misfunction of our brilliant system but a testament of it operating remarkably well. I believe that equity leads to equality, and I believe that we cannot "fix" methodologies that were immorally created with absolutely no honor whatsoever. I believe in reproductive rights, in legal, safe abortions for anybody who needs one. I believe in the decriminalization of marijuana. I believe that the death penalty is a despicable punition that should be banned as soon as possible. I believe in defunding the police and the military. I believe that it is a shame that I even have to talk about police brutality, I don't want to have to say that it is one of the most horrible things our world has originated, I feel extremely dense when I do because it seems like the most obvious certitude and I refuse to believe that this is a controversial statement. I believe that everything I have just stated, along with many more, isn't anything grand but the bare minimum, the bar is low, and yet, we still have the fight for basic human decency.

Humanity has become an option. We have normalized supporting people that represent everything wrong in this world under the name of tolerance. The left has never claimed to be tolerant towards hateful beings, We have never accepted homophobia, transphobia, racism, ableism and sexism. We cannot, for exemple, accept nazis, as too much tolerance inevitably leads to intolerance. This picture explains it perfectly:

I consider myself a communist/ socialist. The two terms still confuse me a little, some say they are the same, some say they differ quite a bit. What I know is that socialism is the transitional period between capitalism and communism. At the end of the day, the final result and goal is a stateless, moneyless and clasless society that will provide to each his need.

Our capitalistic society has brainwashed us way more than you may think. It is the root of so many of our issues, the underground demon of our problems. Every idea, thought, belief, and misconception of ours were all affected by our current economic system. It has sold us the billionnaire dream which is one of the most toxic things capitalism has offered. We have looked up to billionaires for way too long, why are they so idolized? Most of them come from high upper class families that can easily afford to invest in their inventions and creations. After starting up their companies and occasionnaly stealing other's people ideas to ultimately get undeserved merit, they then can start to properly exploit their hardworking employees's labour. And for unlimited hours and a minimum wage which probably won't even suffice you to survive, you will have to either pick up more shifts or a second or even third job, especially if you have a family to support. All while the CEO barely does any of the work and gets all the praise and money. So no, they don't all come from really poor families and have built everything for nothing.

The worst thing is that we've been so gaslit and brainwashed that we're proud of our own exploitation, we are wired to think that to be successful we have to suffer, work 10 jobs we all hate, constantly pick up extra hours, have 2 hours of sleep, have no free time to do anything we love, waste our entire youth, be depressed our entire adulthood, to finally have a few pennies to spend when we're eighty. We so strongly believe that this is the only right way to be successful that I don't think many of us have dared to question it's authority, and even if we do, we quickly accept that this a truth, a fact we cannot change and this is just the way things are.

We have capitalized water, food, land, forests, oceans, space, and everything in betweeen. Money is social construct and we have deliberately let it take over our lives. To think about the wasted opportunities and the misery that we have to endure so others can enjoy life truly angers me.

Also, communism is not an ideology that has every actually taken place. Despite what they say, there was never actually a communist country. However, every nation that has attempted a socialist system, for exemple Burkina Faso, has thrived. But of course, once capitalist countries noticed that, they decided to murder it's leader. So in conclusion, the only reason socialism failed is because of capitalism and it's interventions.

"As President (1983-1987), Sankara initiated economic reforms that shifted his country away from dependence on foreign aid and reduced the privileges of government officials; he cut salaries, including his own, decreed that there would be no more flying in first class or driving Mercedes as standard issue vehicles for Ministers and other government workers. He led a modest lifestyle and did not personally amass material wealth. President Sankara encouraged self-sufficiency, including the use of local resources to build clinics, schools and other needed infrastructure. [...] President Sankara promoted land reform, childhood vaccination, tree planting, communal school building, and nation-wide literacy campaigns. He was committed to gender equity and women’s rights and was the first African leader to publicly recognize the AIDS pandemic as a threat to African countries. Although Sankara became somewhat more authoritarian during his Presidency, his ideas, and the possibility that they could spread, were viewed by many as posing the greatest threat. President Sankara was assassinated during a coup led by a French-backed politician, Blaise Compaoré, in October 1987. Compaoré served as the President of Burkina Faso from October 1987 through October 2014, when he himself was overthrown."

Via:https://africandevelopmentsuccesses.wordpress.com/2015/02/28/success-story-from-burkina-faso-thomas-sankaras-legacy/

I have been reading and watching some amazing human rights activists, notably Angela Davis, Malcolm X and James Baldwin. The people that were villainized, labeled as violent and radical, when every single word that came out of their mouhs were pure facts. They are probably some of the most eloquent people I have had the pleasure of hearing. Every sentence, every argument, every single detail made so much sense and opened my mind to so many new realizations. This is the perfect exemple of how the media tarnishes the reputation of wise black women and men. I would strongly advise you to research more about them.

"Socialism & communism are demonized in the west to the point of erasing influential individuals' socialist advocacy. Heres a short list of people you may not have known were socialists/ communists:

MLK

Albert Einstein

Nelson Mandela

Frida Kahlo

Tupac Shakur

Mark Twain

Malcom X

Oscar Wilde

Bertrand Russell

Hellen Keller

Pablo Picasso

George Orwell

Shia LaBeouf

John Lennon

Woody Guthrie

Socialism & communism are not dirty words. Some of the most brilliant minds of our history were socialists and communists. Embrace it." Via @sleepisocialist on twitter

So what else can I say, capitalism has ruined our society and the way we act and think. I know a lot of people refuse to support communism because they think it's too much of a perfect ideal utopian world for it to ever actually exist. And to that I say, first of all, so you agree, it is a wonderful theory, and second of all, a world without racism, sexism, homophobia or any kind or discrimination could also be perceived as "too ideal to actually exist", but does that mean I'm giving up on talking, educating myself and others, protesting and trying to build a better future? Absolutely not. This is the objective, it would be so dumb to think that we just couldn't achieve that so let's not even try.

I want to talk more in detail about communism, theory, human rights, etc... but I don't want to make this post any longer. I will however be posting more about it soon enough.

I know this is a little different than what I usually post, but I want to speak, tell you all my own opinions, I don't want to just repost activism related stuff. I'll continue to do that, but not exclusively. I know it won't get as many interactions as my other posts, but this is what I needed at some point in my life, and if I could make understanding some basic informations easier to some people, it'll already be a great accomplishment.

Thank you for reading.

[lethal-k]

Mi Corazón (JHS)

Hey all! Amanda here! I think I’m in love with this couple. I usually try not to define my character’s race, ethnicity, or nationality, but I really wanted to base this imagine loosely on my family’s old block parties. Plus, the lack of Hispanic representation within American literature is crazy, but it’s getting better as each day goes by! I just wanted to contribute to that! If you’re interested in me making imagines based on other cultures or anything, feel free to request it, just know that it may not be as rooted as this one, simply because this is my own heritage and I will have to do a lot of research on other cultures before diving in. Anyway, I also wanted an excuse to write an imagine where one of the members has to dance to Latin music because Latin music is so romantic. Hobi just seemed to fit the theme I was going for. Anyway, if you like this imagine please heart it, reblog it, and follow me! I love y’all, stay safe, and borahae <3

Genre: established relationship! au, fluff

Pairing: Hoseok x reader

Word Count: 4.3K

Warnings: swearing, google-translated Spanish, pining and simping, mentions of cartels and gangs, small mentions of immigration, literally one of the most endearing couples I have ever written.

Summary: Y/n takes Hobi to meet her family at one of their famous Miami block parties. 

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

  “What if they don’t accept me..” Hobi mutters while you guys search for a parking spot on the street.

  You glance at him, “What do you mean? What is there to not like about you?” You flash him a smile before returning your attention to the street, “This is ridiculous, I’m literally their child, I should get VIP parking for God’s sake.” you mutter while shaking your head. 

  Hoseok chuckles at you, “There’s one,” He points out a spot and you quickly start parking in between the two cars. He sort of deflates in his passenger seat while looking at the street lined with cars and the house that bustled with life. “What if they don’t accept me because I’m Korean? What if they think I’m not good enough for you because I can’t speak Spanish or dance well like you? What if they think my career is too much and that I won’t be able to take care of you?” He expresses his worries out loud. 

  You put the car in park before turning to face him in the seat. Leaning towards him, you grab his chin in your hand and squish his cheeks together. “Don’t worry, mi amor. My family moved into the U.S. from Mexico so they know what it feels like to not fully know a language while surrounded by English-speakers. They won’t judge you.”

  “Bu-” he tried to cut in.

  “Shh,” you shush him and put your finger on his lips, “I taught you different latin dance styles last week and you caught on super quickly. You’re making an effort to learn my language and they already know I can damn well take care of my own self but if they mention anything negative about your career then I will step in and tell them off. Okay? Stop worrying, they will love you.” He sighed and nodded, looking a little nervous. “Good, now let us go.” You give him a quick peck before getting out of the car. 

  Your parents had moved into the U.S. from the dangerous city of Culiacán, Sinaloa in Mexico in 1992. Six years before you were born. They had moved due to the dangers of the infamous Sinaloa cartel. They decided, instead, to settle down in Miami, Florida. Where they had you, your little brother, and your baby brother and sister. The youngest two are twins. You are their oldest child, now at age 22. Your little brother, Pedro, is now 19 and the twins, Miguel and Rosalína, are both 15. All of you grew up in the house that you and your boyfriend of 11 months are walking up to now. 

  Two years ago, you had moved to Seoul, Korea in hopes of reaching your dream to become a fashion designer. You chose South Korea because, well c’mon, Korean fashion is to die for. It also was not as cliche as New York, California, or Paris. A year and some months into living in Seoul, you met Hobi. Of course you knew who he was, but you treated him as any individual, which he took a liking to. Fast forward another month or two and you two started dating and now you are here, walking on your childhood street, up to your childhood home, about to meet your family and childhood friends. Yeah, you could say today was pretty special. 

  You two were walking up when all of a sudden a young woman who seemed to be the same age popped up in front of you both. “Y/n!!” She squealed.

Your smile grew wide and you pulled the girl into a bone-crushing hug, “Ay, Carlita! Cómo has estado?” 

  “Bien, bien.” She smiled back before glancing at your boyfriend, “Who is this?”

  You looked next to you and saw Hobi standing there, hands behind his back, and a shy smile on his face. You held out your hand towards him and he quickly took it, “Carlita, this is my boyfriend, Hoseok. Hobi, this is my childhood best friend, Carlita.”

  She smiled warmly before holding out her hand which he shook, “Hello there! It’s nice to finally meet the mysterious boyfriend.”

  Hobi chuckled and nodded at her, “It’s nice to meet you too.” His accent came out a bit and you smiled at his shy behavior.

  “Would you happen to know where everyone else is?” You asked, sort of wanting to get introductions done and over with so you can party with your boyfriend and family. 

  She shrugged, “I know that Pedro is playing video games with the boys in his room, I have no idea where everyone else is at.” 

  You sighed and shook your head while smirking, “That boy and his video games.”

  Carlita giggled at you before walking off, “Well welcome back home and it was nice to meet you, Hoseok! Maybe we can catch up more later but right now I have to stop Tío Edgardo from skateboarding. Old man claims that he is trying to regain his youth.” she rolls her eyes.

  You laughed at her and nodded. 

  “She seems nice.” Hobi commented in Korean.

  You smiled at him before grabbing his hand, “C’mon, let's go meet my little brother.”

  The two of you walked throughout your home before coming to a door in the hallway. You open it without knocking and low and behold, there is Pedro and a couple of friends playing Mario Kart. From the looks of it, your brother is losing terribly.

  “Pedroo.” You sing out his name in hopes of getting his attention.

  “What is it?” He asks, not looking up from the screen. You scoff at his reaction.

  “What? No, ‘hello sister’, ‘how are you sister’, ‘who is that man with you sister’” You tease.

  He shrugs, “Dude. Mario Kart. Priorities.”

  Your jaw drops and Hobi starts laughing hysterically. “This is what I get after saving your ass from mom and dad for years. The complete and utter disrespect.” You say, mocking offense with your hand on your heart.

  He smirks at your comment but his eyes remain glued to the screen, “Yeah yeah whatever. I’ll talk to you later outside, close the door on your way out.” 

  You shake your head, “I’ll hold you to that!” You yell as you close the door. 

  Hobi looks at you with a raised eyebrow and the same smirk that Pedro wore, “Have you two always been like that?”

  You nodded and giggled, “Yeah, pretty much.” He shook his head at you and wrapped his arms around your waist, walking behind you back into the main area of the house. 

  The two of you passed a couple of neighbors, all of them who greeted both of you with open arms and hands full of alcohol. You lead him through the kitchen, not glancing at your surroundings. You are about to walk to the backyard before you hear a familiar voice.

  “Ah, mi hija, si sales por esa puerta sin saludar, no dudaré en conseguir mi chancleta.” (Ah, my daughter, if you walk out that door without saying hello, I won’t hesitate to get my flip flop.) You freeze at the sound of your mother’s voice and turn around to find her staring at you with a pointed look. You smile sheepishly and shrug your shoulders before waving at her.

  “Hi, mama.” The look she was giving you faded off her face and transformed into a smile. You walked over to her and gave her a hug. She pulled you in, wrapping her arms around you tighter. You sighed in content, realizing how much you missed her and your home. The picture of her in the kitchen, glaring at you, and threatening you with her flip flop put you on a nostalgia trip. Although you wouldn’t trade your life right now for the world - a beautiful penthouse apartment with your boyfriend in the middle of South Korea’s capital - you did find yourself missing the smell of huevos con carne and chorizo that drifted throughout your home. You found yourself missing the melodic voice of Romeo Santos on Sunday mornings that indicated it was time to wake up and start cleaning. You found yourself missing the company of your siblings and the embrace of your parents. But as said before, you are currently living a wonderful life in Seoul, with your career progressing fast and the man of your dreams right beside you. 

  “I’ve missed you, you barely call anymore.” She scolds you while simultaneously pulling you into her even more.

  You nuzzle your face into her shoulder, “I’ve missed you too, mama. I promise to try calling more often.”

  You pulled away to smile at her, only to find her checking out your boyfriend from head to toe. “Ay, hija. ¿Quién es ese buen pedazo de culo que trajiste?” (Who is that fine piece of ass you brought with you?)

  Your eyes widened and you lightly smacked her arm, “Mama!” 

  She giggled and looked at you, “What?” she complained.

  You sighed and shook your head. You glanced over to Hobi to find him smiling warmly at you and your mom, despite not knowing what you two are saying.

  “Mama, this is Hoseok. My boyfriend.” You said, putting emphasis on the word boyfriend.

  He awkwardly smiled at her and waved, “Hello ma’am.” 

She smiled warmly at him while walking over, pulling him into a hug. You laughed at Hobi’s shocked face and little ‘oof’ at the strength of her pull.

  “Call me mama, ma’am makes me feel old.” Hobi smiled at her acceptance and hugged her back, looking to you for reassurance. You give him a quick thumbs up before she let him go and turned to you. “While the two of you are here, mind helping me carry out these dishes to the table outside?”

  You scoffed, “I’ve been here for a matter of 10 minutes and you are already putting me to work like I’m 12 again.”

  She smiled and shook her head, “It’s cause you always act like you’re 12, hija, now get let's make use of your boyfriend and his muscles and carry these enchiladas to the table.”

  You laughed at her antics before translating to Hobi what his task was and putting the tray of food in his hands. You grabbed a plate of tortas and she grabbed the empanadas before you started heading out. 

  “Thank you, hija, Hobi. I will see you both later, I have to go yell at Pedro for hiding away in his room.” She walks off, shaking your head and you smile at her retreating figure.

  “Your whole family seems nice so far.” He said, taking you into his arms and holding you. You giggled and pulled back slightly.

  “They’ll be your family soon too, hopefully.” You whispered, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

  He smiled and nodded, “And I cannot wait for the day that they do.” 

  You blushed at his confession before your eye catches two heads of hair that were identical by the pool. You smiled at Hobi and took his hand in yours, leading him towards the edge of the pool.

  “Rosa! Miguel!” You exclaim and stand behind them. Rosalína looks up at you from behind her glasses and smiles.

  “Hey sis!” You hug her from behind and she holds your arm. You pull away and look at Miguel expectantly, only to find that his eyes are somewhere else. You follow his gaze to a very familiar girl and smirk. 

  Rosa smacks him on the back of the head and he flinches, glaring at her. She nods her head towards you and Hobi and he looks at you two before smiling sheepishly. “Oh hey, Y/n..” You kept smirking at him and his face flushed red under your gaze. 

  “Still being a simp, I see.” You tease. He looks away, face turning 10 shades redder.

  “Shut up.” He trailed off.

  Hobi tapped your waist, pulling your attention to him. He tilted his head in confusion. “What joke am I missing?” He asked.

  Rosa snorted. She turned her head towards Hobi, catching his attention. “You see that girl over there, with the blonde hair?” She said and pointed. He nodded slowly, following the direction and looking at the girl. “Her name is Lucy. Miguel here has been pining after her for like- 5 years. Since we were 10! Can you believe that? I say he should just grow some balls and tell her that he likes her.” 

  You laughed at her choice of words while Hobi smirked. Miguel shoved her side in embarrassment. 

  “I’m not pining,” he glared at her before glancing at you, “Nor am I simping.” He trailed off while looking at Lucy before glancing at Hobi, “She is just super pretty and totally out of my league.”

  You smirked and looked at him, “Nah man, you’re totally simping.”

  “Literally, shut up, Y/n.” He said, crossing his arms and pouting.

  Hoseok smirked and laughed, “No, you should totally do it, kid. You only live once and the worst is that she’ll say no. But if she says yes…” He trailed off, leaving the rest to Miguel’s imagination. 

  Rosa high-fived Hobi, “Thank you! I’ve only been saying that for years! I’m Rosalína by the way, but you can call me Rosa. This idiot over here is Miguel.” She introduced herself.

  Hoseok smiled at her, “I’m Hobi, Y/n’s boyfriend.”

  “You’re in that one band, right? BTS?” she asked, tilting her head.

  He nodded, “Yep, that’s me.”

  “Nice,” She nodded, “I like your song Dope.”

  He smiled, “Thank you.”

  You watched the interaction with a big smile on your face. It seemed that your boyfriend was becoming more comfortable. And that couldn’t make you any happier. 

  You shook your head at your thoughts before looking towards your sister, “Hey Rosa, where is dad, anyway? I want to introduce him to Hobi.”

  She rolled her eyes, “Where do you think?” She snorted and nodded her head towards the make-shift dance floor. A few people moved out of the way to reveal your father, Modelo in hand, dancing merengue to Suavemente. 

  Your eyes widened and you let out a laugh of embarrassment, “Oh. My. God.”

  She shook her head before looking towards Hobi who wore amusement on his face. “That would be our father. He’s been like that for the past hour, I think that’s his 6th beer.”

  You giggled at the ridiculous man that you called your father before grabbing Hobi’s wrist. “C’mon, let me introduce you to the ol’ man.” 

  Hobi’s face lost all color and looked uneasy. Rosa laughed as you two walked off, waving bye. You could tell your boyfriend was nervous, after all this was your dad. Your father. Keeper of your heart. The man who raised you. If he didn’t approve of Hobi then it would be devastating to the both of you. 

  “Wait-” he stopped you from going on, “What if he doesn’t like me? What if I’m not good enough for his daughter? Hold on, does my shirt look okay? What about my hair?” He panicked.

  You decided to shut him up with a kiss straight on the lips. He froze for a second before relaxing into it and wrapping his arms around your waist. You giggled at him, “He will love you, Hobi. You look perfect.”

  He nodded, still a little dazed from the kiss. You left him on the side of the dance floor and dodged dancing neighbors until you met your father in the middle.

  “Suavemente! BESAME!” He shouted as you tapped his shoulder. You giggled as he turned around and looked at you in pure glee. “Mi princesa! How are you, mi corázon? Dance with me!” He exclaimed and grabbed your hands, pulling you into the dance with him.

  You laughed and threw your head back. “I’m good, papa! I want to introduce you to someone!” 

  He nodded at you and grinned wolfishly, “Then lead the way, Princess.” He followed you off the dance floor and to Hobi.

  “Papa, this is my boyfriend, Hoseok.” Hobi visibly gulped.

  “Hello, sir.” He said, putting on a charming smile and holding out his hand. 

  Your father’s eyes narrowed, looking Hobi up and down, a poker face on. “Boyfriend, huh?”

  Hoseok faltered for a second, “Yes, sir…” He said, using his other hand to scratch the back of his neck out of nerves.

  Your dad suddenly smiled and took his hand, pulling him into a hug, “Well welcome to the family then! It’s nice to meet you!” 

  Hobi visibly relaxed into the hug, smiling at you with a big grin. All you could do is smile back, happy that he made a good impression on your dad. 

  Your father pulled back and squinted at Hobi, “You hurt my daughter and I’ll kill you.” He said, gruffly. 

  Hobi’s eyes widened, “N-never, sir.” He stuttered.

  Your dad broke out into another smile again, “Good!” He clapped him on the back, “Here, let’s go have some drinks!” He led you two to the bar before leaving to go dance some more. 

  It was later that night, after more less-stressful introductions, multiple plates of food, and a few drinks that you and Hobi were sitting together at a table, watching the party and enjoying each other’s company. You were staring at your parents, who were in the middle of the dance floor. Corazón sin cara was playing as your parents swayed to the music, your father’s arms wrapped around your mother’s waist and her head leaning against his chest. You smiled softly at them with a look of fondness in your eyes. 

  “They seem to really love each other.” Hobi said, looking from you to your parents.

  “They always have,” You said softly, laying your head on your arms and looking at them, “They’ve been through a lot together, a lot of trials and tribulations. When I was a little girl, I thought they were the purest definition and example of true love. They’ve always had each other, and I used to yearn for that as a teenager.” You explain.

  Hobi smiles and puts his arm around you, “Well, my love, now you can think of us when you think of love. I want to give you everything, the world, and I want to have your back just like your dad has your mom’s.” He says, pushing your hair behind your ear.

  You turn to him and smile, pulling him into a slow and passionate kiss.

  “I love you so much.” You mumble against his lips.

  He smiles against you, “I love you too, jagi.” 

  It’s when Obsesíon by Aventura comes on the speaker that you pull away with a gasp and wide eyes.

  “What is it?” Hobi frowns, confused by your sudden behavior.

  You giggle, “This is my song!” You get up and find Carlita before pulling her to the dance floor. Hobi smiles at you, and how your eyes shined with excitement. He watches you from afar, noting how natural you look among the people you grew up around. Although he may not know anyone and sticks out like a sore thumb, you are the complete opposite, blending in as if you had never moved away to begin with. He thinks that you have never looked so beautiful, than you do right now, at ease and having fun with your friends and family. He remembers how excited you were for him to meet all of them, going as far as to teach him some Spanish and give him some Latin dance lessons. You were so excited for this trip, and now that you both are here, Hobi doesn’t ever want to leave. Because you look so happy here, and all he wants is your happiness. 

  “You love her.” Hobi looked to his right to find your father, sitting down next to him with two beers in his hand. He said it more as a statement than a question.

  Hobi glanced back at you, “Yes, sir. I do, very much.” He sighed out, watching the way your eyes lit up and your smile grew as you sang along with the song. He watched how you moved with ease to the melody with your best friend and he could only admire you and think of how lucky he is, to call you his.

  “I could tell, you’re looking at her as if she’s your world right now.” Your dad smiled gently at Hoseok.

  Hobi blushed a little and looked down before looking back up at him. “She is my world, sir. She’s helped me through a lot, and she supports my career and always is there if I need her. I only hope that I’m the same for her.” 

  Your dad gently laid his hand on Hobi’s shoulder, smiling at him. “You are. The look that’s on her face right now,” He nodded at you on the dance floor, laughing with Carlita, “I haven’t seen that look in a very long time. She was going through a lot when she left, and now I can see that she’s happy again. You make her happy, Hoseok. That’s all I could ever ask of you.” 

  Hoseok smiled at him, “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.” He looked back at you, smiling at you when you looked at him and winked. He blew a kiss to you before leaning back in the chair. “I’m not going to lie, I was nervous when she said that I would be meeting you all.”

  Your dad chuckles at that, “Yeah, I could understand that,” he sighs, “I have always been the first man in her heart. I’m used to protecting her, to providing for her, to loving her. But now I’m not the sole man in her heart anymore, you are there too.” He says. Hobi looks at your father to find him staring back at him intensely. He looked him dead in the eye, “I believe you are a good man, Hoseok, and I fully give you my approval and welcome you into our family.”

  Hobi’s face breaks into a wide grin, “I’ll cherish her for the rest of my lifetime, sir.”

  The song changed to something more upbeat, and you were suddenly calling out to him, beckoning him over to dance. 

  “I have no doubt that you will, now go get your girl.” Your father clapped his back as Hobi stood up and made his way over to you. 

  You took his hand in yours and started moving along to Como la Flor.

  “Baby, remember how I taught you cumbia? Well this is an iconic cumbia song!” You smiled. Hoseok squeezed your hand and started moving along with you, getting the movement and rhythm pretty quickly. He laughed at your tipsy state. But that didn’t matter, what mattered is that you were having fun, and that you were happy. And despite the alcohol effects, you still managed to dance like a professional. You giggled when Hobi spun you, and it was the most beautiful sound on this earth to him. The two of you were in your own world, dancing together and laughing with each other. You were so caught up in each other that you almost didn’t notice how the song changed into a slow one. But when you did, Hobi pulled you closer and you nuzzled into his chest as you danced bachata with him. He took extra lessons in this dance style, without you knowing, just because he knew it’s your favorite.

  “I love this song so much.” you mumbled, slurring your words a bit.

  “What is it?” He asks, whispering in your ear.

  “Imitadora by Romeo Santos aka king of bachata.” You mumbled back.

  He smiled at your cuteness, leaning down to peck your forehead. You two kept moving to the music, and he spun you around. “What is it about?” he asked when he pulled you back in.

  “It’s about how his lover changed and turned cold, no longer giving him the same love that she once did.” You stated, smiling up at him.

  He frowned, “Well that’s..romantically depressing.” He said.

  You snorted, “Romantically depressing?” 

  “Yeah,” He smirked down at you, “it’s a romantic song, but it’s also super depressing.”

  You shook your head at his ridiculousness and pulled him into a kiss.

  “At least the melody is pretty.” You said after pulling back.

  He pulled you closer to him, “Indeed it is, jagi. Indeed it is.”

  As cliche as it sounds, the world faded around you two, as you both got lost in the dance and each other. You two held each other as if the world was ending. Your souls intertwined and the two of you vibed together. The moment itself was as intimate as it could be, and it would forever remain one of your favorite memories of you two.

  Later that night, after the party had ended and everyone had either gone home or gone to sleep, the two of you laid in your bed. Surrounded by darkness, you stared at each other, whispering about how well today went and how much fun you had.

  “I think they like me.” He whispers to you, intertwining your fingers with his. 

  “Oh they definitely do,” you giggled.

  “What do you mean?” he raised his eyebrow.

  “My mom thinks you’re a ‘fine piece of ass’ as she calls it.” You snort.

  Hobi let out a surprise laugh, his cheeks turning the slightest bit of pink. You moved closer to him, cuddling up against his chest.

  “I would have to agree with her though.” You whisper.

  “Oh yeah?” He smiles down at you.

  “Mhmm,” you mumble, falling deeper into your sleep, “You looked so sexy tonight, dancing to Latin music.”

  He smirked down at you, kissing the top of your head and closing his eyes.

  “Yeah?,” he mumbled back, falling deeper into his own sleep, “I might have to do it more often, then.”

[aestheticaxolotl]

Lets Talk About Gunnar Maelstrom

Evil Daddies is where it’s at.

One of the meanings of the word "Maelstrom" is 'A situation of state of confused movement or violent turmoil.

Let me start with Maelstrom, usung the Carmen Sandiego Wiki to break him down as a whole, starting with appearance and personality (Excluding the comments around his action in the show, this will be hard seeing his major inclusion to the story so please bear with me once more as I do this).

Professor Maelstrom is a middle-aged man with pale skin and white hair with a receding hairline. He has broad shoulders and wears a black blazer over a dark gray turtleneck. As stated previously, Maelstrom is seen as being an almost unnaturally pale color, hinting towards possible Albinism.

Now, Middle aged according to the wiki page is between 50 and 60. Seeing the receding hairline and the lines on his face (Also can someone point me to a source about those random chin hairs? Like please I need context). 

He obviously has stress and sleep lines. I imagine these are due to his life choices and idiot operatives. His ethnicity is stated as being Swedish but continues to contradict itself when it later states that Maelstrom is from Scandinavia. I think this is to throw the readers and deep show watchers off and it would work better if both ethnicity and race were left as unknown. 

Now we move on to the easier things, personality, which is LONG. So let me start writing!

Of the five members of V.I.L.E's faculty, Maelstrom seems to command the most authority and serve as the de facto leader of the group, being the first to speak as well as hand out orders. As one may expect, Professor Maelstrom is criminally insane, which is ironic, considering his forte is psychiatry. Professor Maelstrom often likes to tinker with his patients' psyches and enjoys psychologically evaluating students, much like someone finding joy in pulling the wings off a butterfly. He does possess some level of awareness to his own insanity, though he is quick to brush it off as a mere label that other weak-minded people have given him. He also has an apparent fondness for the more psychotic recruits. In keeping with his name, his main desire is to spread chaos and disorder, with any actual gain being a secondary concern at best. Carmen considered him to be creepy, and rightfully so after he and Dr. Bellum collaborated to wipe Crackle's brain. Professor Maelstrom loathes Cookie Booker as he has no tolerance for her stuck up behavior towards him. He seems to have a fondness for marine life, as his office hosts a giant aquarium filled with jellyfish and other specimens. His use of the term "bait" as a pun is in reference to fishing bait, and in the novel adaptation, it is used twice. Further expanding the psychological exam scene from the show, in the novel, he declares that Carmen gave the "wrong" answer to the Rorschach test, stating that the image was a seahorse. The novelization expanded his sense of humor, though it mentions that even that had a dark and unpredictable tinge to it, showing delight in the lengths that his students would go in order to not be called upon in class. The show does have him throw a small quip every once in a while, often tinged with exasperation at his colleagues' antics or ignorance. He also enjoys making Countess Cleo envious of his fashion style, having asked Le Chevre and El Topo in the "The Fishy Doubloon Caper" to acquire an Ecuadorian Eight Escudos doubloon to be melted into solid gold cufflinks.

As done in my previous post, I will be diving deeper into the statement in the bolded font. 

Maelstrom seems to command the most authority and serve as the de facto leader of the group,

I don’t see any major reason for this face besides that there is a level of respect among the Faculty that centers around Maelstrom, seeing as he is one of the psychologically smarter than any of the other members, except Shadowsan but that is a post for another day. He is a very scary character because he is unpredictable, and possibly in the minds of the other, can be blamed for their crimes should they ever had been caught, but this leads me to my second quip with Gunnar Maelstrom.

Professor Maelstrom is criminally insane, which is ironic, considering his forte is psychiatry

When one looks up the term ‘Criminally insane’ we get the following “an accused person that is deemed to be suffering from cognitive illness or fault which frees then of lawful accountability for the unlawful behaviors” from https://psychologydictionary.org/criminally-insane/. 

I cannot at all say that I support this terminology on the stance that Maelstrom is more than aware of his action, to the point where he logically makes the choices to leave his fellow faculty behind at the prospect of capture. One cannot say that a “Criminally insane’ person is able to make these choices so quickly and with such calculation as to pack a go bag and hire an escape driver. But I digress.

He does possess some level of awareness to his own insanity, though he is quick to brush it off as a mere label that other weak-minded people have given him.

I don’t think that Maelstrom can stand to be labeled by other people. The exact use of the phrase “Weak-minded’ points me to believe that Maelstrom sees himself as mentally stronger, powerful, and far beyond that of the average person. This points to his class, and I’ll explain this in the next part, being the most critical and important to V.I.L.E as a whole.

His main desire is to spread chaos and disorder

This is WAY too specific to just be a drop in detail. No character is created be be a chaotic mixture, but they are built to SPREAD chaos, and Maelstrom is the perfect character to do this. His favor to Paperstar is a direct jab at this detail about him, she is an element of chaos that he put into play, the disorder of her is why he places her, while the other faculty hate Paperstar, he finds her the perfect wild card.

Professor Maelstrom loathes Cookie Booker 

I fully think this is, as the wiki and al of my sources say, Cookie Booker represents the original 1998 Carmen Sandeigo. And the loathing between them is a reference to the original game and books.

He seems to have a fondness for marine life, as his office hosts a giant aquarium filled with jellyfish and other specimens.

Not gonna lie, but I love this detail. The details, that caused me to GO BACK and watch the episodes with Maelstrom, was that the man likes fish. This adds onto the effect that he is rather cold and uncaring towards people, seeing them a thing to observe and keep. I also just love the idea of him having a fish tank and spoiling his goldfish that he named Clyde or something equally related to big time crime, like Al Capone or as said before Clyde.

He also enjoys making Countess Cleo envious of his fashion style

I’m sorry but Cleo and Gunnar challenging each other to see who is better in fashion? I’m sorry but they are the fashion police. Also I think this places WHO he is close to in the Faculty. I am very willing to bet that Maelstrom, who left Coach Brunt to drown and die, would NEVER leave Cleo or Bellum (Possibly) to die because they align more with HIS goals.

Brunt is... Dare I say... THE DUMBEST OF THE V.I.L.E FACULTY

WHAT DOES SHE DO?!?!

WHY IS SHE HERE?!

SHE’S STRONG AND THAT’S IT!

I digress (i used that phrase twice now), I just think his goals line up more with Cleo and (Again, possibly) Bellums’.

Now I go onto my favorite part of these paragraphs, the trivia/abilities. I love trivia/abilities, just because everyone sees this word and they are like ‘oh it’s just dumb facts’. BUT NO! It’s DENSTRAMENTAL to the character and links to their personalities.

He is capable of expertly performing a bait and switch. Professor Maelstrom specializes in psychiatry. He has been shown to have a favorite student, similar to the other faculty, in Paper Star; despite her disregard of the protocol in Mumbai. His grudge against Cookie Booker could be a subtle reference to the hostile relationship that his previous incarnation had with Carmen Sandiego in the 90's cartoon. As shown in the season three episode, The Haunted Bayou Caper, he has a fondness for Halloween.

Most od this is already covered, i know, so I won’t go over what I already did. SO let me just say... I know-

He is capable of expertly performing a bait and switch 

I NEED to SEE Maelstrom just- *Pulls and Bait and switch* -STEAL FROM SOMEONE. Like. I could totally believe that Maelstrom is the sleekest, most sneaky, most Swiper is swiping guy in the world. I am okay with letting them tell me this, but NO okay with them not SHOWING ME.

Netflix, I HOPE you see this so you can give me a SHOW on HOW GUNNAR MET MY MOTHER, COUNTESS CLEO.

He has a fondness for Halloween.

Charlie Pants. 

Do I need to say any more?

Okay, big ending time. So Gunnar Maelstrom, a deeply interesting character, mysterious backstory that a person can read into, different fun facts that lead to speculation and interest and amazing stories. I love Gunnar Maelstrom’s character, his personality, and his appearance. His effect? 100. His story? 100. His ability to make me rewatch the series? 100. 

Thanks for reading this. I’ll have another one out soon! Requests are open

[overheardatthecontinental]

Kinktober Day 25: Teacher/student (all characters 18+)

Helen had always wanted to be a teacher. Since before she started primary school, she would line up her stuffed animals and dolls and would tell them every single thing that she knew. Every day, she could teach them a little bit more and it excited her.

She tutored elementary kids in middle school, and middle schoolers during high school. She tutored high schoolers in college. Teaching had been her dream. Her life’s goal.

And she was good at it. 

She went to college, to graduate school. And once she flew through the program with amazing grades and a fantastic internship, she had her pick of jobs. And more debt than she knew what to do with. 

She taught elementary students during the day and, to help pay off her loans, she began to teach GED classes at night.

It wasn’t as much fun as playing with kids and teaching them basic math. And sometimes it was nearly impossible to teach classes when everyone was at a different level and half her students didn’t fully understand English.

But there was also something incredible about teaching grown men and women, who for whatever reason, had been robbed of their education. There was something beautiful about watching them accomplish something.

And so she stuck with it.

She stuck with late night teaching four nights a week. She stuck with teaching students she struggled to communicate with without the help of translation books and apps. She stuck with teaching classes of grown men who were oddly proud to be hot for teacher.

The start of the school term was always a bit overwhelming. At the start of the year, there were three times the number of students that would be there at graduation and her room was packed. 

She began with a smile, introducing herself to the class, insisting they call her Helen, and calling for attendance.

It was the usual hodgepodge of classes. Men and women of all ages, multiple ethnicities. Some were eagerly leaning forward and ready to learn. Others seemed disinterested and a few had their phones in hand as she talked.

But the one who caught her attention sat in the back corner. He was one of the first to make his way to the classroom. Quiet and studious, he came prepared for every class and often reading for his own pleasure.

Every student has a story. Some had dropped out of high school to help aging parents or take care of siblings or babies. Some had to pay the bills or were homeless. Some had immigrated late in life. Others had flunked out the first time around.

She wondered about him. Obviously bright, from their first interaction.

He was sitting next to an elderly Vietnamese man who was struggling to find work without a diploma. He struggled with English pronunciation and reception although he could read it just fine.

Helen had been trying to communicate with him and had been ready to write down the instructions for him when John had coughed.

In a perfect string of Vietnamese, John had spoken to Anh, who nodded along excitedly before nodding to Helen, "yes, teacher." He said and Helen smiled, looking to John in surprise.

"You speak Vietnamese?"

He shrugs, "Rudimentary. Enough to get by."

Clearly more than that, since he was able to communicate instructions. She said as much and John shrugged.

"I have an ear for languages."

"What others do you know?" She asks with interest and his face flushes just a bit.

"I can get by in most Slavic dialects, and Spanish, Italian, and Mandarin. And English, of course."

He was brilliant, she soon discovered.

Utterly so.

He knew languages and literature. He knows about art and culture. He simultaneously fascinates her and makes her feel utterly small at the same time.

He’s well-traveled and while she can describe the works of Bernini from pictures, he has seen them up close. Idly, he mentions traveling to Rome for business.

She’s not quite sure what business a Slavic man has in Rome, nor what kind of job he has managed to snag without a diploma, but she doesn’t ask. Instead, she asks him about the sistine chapel and the colosseum and other things she’ll probably never get to see in the downtime before class starts, as well as in it’s end, as he stays to help her clean up.

A week into class, she has everyone split into pairs work on their critical reasoning skills through language arts. A young, pretty little brunette from Estonia asks John to be her partner. He accepts and she feels a surge of jealousy that she tamps down on quickly. He’s her student, she reminds herself. And there are ethics and boundaries and her feelings do not matter.

She forces herself to walk around the classroom, offering assistance.

And then she hears it. Maria says something to John in Estonian and he replies in kind. The words spill from his lips and she has no idea what he’s saying but Christ, he sounds so good saying it.

It sends a shiver down her spine and Helen knows that she has to be careful.

She’s never been tempted by a student before.

Occasionally, the boys in her class flirted with her. A few times, she was propositioned. It had never crossed her mind to do anything with it. 

Another one of her students, Rafe, has no problem flirting with her whenever he enters her class. He’s young and tall and handsome, but she feels nothing. Not even a flicker of attraction. Which, she reminds herself, is good. 

What isn’t good is the way her heart races when John walks into the room or the way her body aches when he starts to speak in another language.

Boundaries, she reminds herself.

Boundaries.

It’s easier when others are around. When they’re in a room filled with students, she can busy herself with others. She can remind herself that he is a student, sitting on the opposite side of the classroom.

Its when they all leave, save John. When the class is empty and she is left alone with him, cleaning up and organizing papers, she starts to struggle. She’s reaching to tuck a stack of books away in the corner above the closet when a few of the books start to tip, like they’ll fall. She reaches with her second hand to try to protect her head from the falling books when she feels a hard body pressing into her back. 

An arm reaches up around her and tucks the books onto the shelf. 

She has the urge to sigh with relief but her breath becomes stuck in her chest as she remembers who she is with.

John.

That’s his body pressed into hers. His warmth she feels.

And, Jesus fuck, that can’t possibly be his dick pressed against her ass. 

All at once, she can’t move. She can’t breathe.

“Thank you.” She whispers.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t move.

Her heart is racing and Helen slips out from under his arms. “You know,” she says, backing up, “You really don’t have to help. Not that I don’t appreciate it. I really do, but it’s part of my job.”

He is watching her, a small smile on his face that throws her completely off guard.

John steps forward and Helen finds herself continuing to move backward until, fuck, she hits the blackboard.

“Do I make you nervous?”

“Of course not.” The words fall too quickly from her lips and John’s smile widens. His hands come up on either side of her.

"You're shaking."

Oh. Was she?

Maybe.

But how could she help it when John was crowding her. She could smell him, the musky scent of his aftershave. 

God, he smells so good. 

He looks so good. He sounds so good. John Wick was a walking wet dream and he was her student. Her student. And this wasn't appropriate and as the authority figure, it was her responsibility to maintain the boundaries.

It was a ridiculous thought, she acknowledges. That she is the authority figure while John has her boxed in against a wall.

"Helen," he says softly, tilting her head up, "I can feel you thinking and it’s time to stop.”

“Stop thinking?”

And holy fuck, his fingers are tracing her jaw, running along her hair and carefully removing it from its hold. Dark hair spills down around her shoulders and John runs his hand down the length.

“Yeah.”

Yeah? What was he saying yes to? She couldn’t even remember what they had been speaking about seconds before because John was leaning down and his lips were on hers.

Fuck.

His lips were warm and surprisingly soft but he is far from gentle. Desperation lines his kiss as he tilts her head back and shoves his tongue into her mouth. Whatever noise of protest she tried to make is swallowed by John.

His knee nudges its way between her legs, pushing them apart. His thigh makes her skirt ride up as his hands travel down her body, stopping at her hips. His fingers dig into her and she can’t help the little cry that escapes her at his punishing grip. They bite into her before moving again, traveling south towards the hem of her skirt.

Helen tries to turn her head, to break the kiss but John just leans into her, warning her with a small nip to her lips as he drags the skirt up her legs, teasingly slow.

This isn’t right, she thinks. Yes, they’re both adults but she’s still his teacher. She manages to get her hands between them, to push John off her but he doesn’t budge. He’s like a fucking rock and Helen tries to ignore how his body feels against her palms.

He’s hard and solid and her hands are feeling the muscles she’s only imagined but it still isn’t right. Ethical duties and obligations distract her, make her heart race both with excitement and anxiety as John sucks at her tongue.

And then she feels his teeth, biting down on her muscle and Helen lets out a startled shriek as John pulls back.

“Stop thinking.” He tells her again but this time, there’s an edge to it. This wasn’t a tease or a taunt anymore. It was an order and she feels it viscerally, traveling down her body and resting in her core, warming her all the way even as her hairs stand on end.

God, she wants to stop thinking. She wants to say to hell with it all and let him fuck her right there, against the blackboard, consequences be damned. But this is her job. And she has ethical duties. Moral obligations. 

Helen shakes her head as John’s hands slip under her skirt, dragging along her thighs and stopping at the edge of her panty hose. “You’re my student. This is wrong, we c--”

“What’s wrong,” John interrupts and he snaps the garter that holds her hose up, “Is you walking around this classroom in these tight skirts. It’s fucking sinful. Do you know what you do to me every time you bend over to help somebody?”

John grabs her hand from where it rests on his chest and yanks it to the bulge in his pants.

The breath leaves her chest as he flattens her palm over his clothed length.

“You feel what you do to me?”

Helen can’t pretend she hasn’t imagined touching him. Really touching him and feeling him. Peeling that fucking suit off him to see the body he hides beneath. To grasp at his long hair as she bounces on his cock.

Everything starts to shake and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s her, trembling against him. And John is moving his hips, gently, grinding against her palm.

She wants to reach inside his pants, to really feel him in her hand, not just through the stupid cloth.

Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries. 

“Look at you,” he thrusts against her hand, “trying so hard to be good when you’ve spent all night walking around, looking like that.”

Helen bites her lip. Her outfit isn’t revealing. She’s wearing a pink blouse that buttons down the middle and it’s tucked into her grey skirt. They’re form fitting but not so tight as to be revealing, in any way.

“Everytime you bend over me, I keep hoping those tits will spill out. But maybe they just need a little help.” His releases her hand from his dick and reaches up to the top button of her blouse. He slips it easily, trailing his hand down her blouse, snapping each open with ease.

He exhales a growl at the sight of her white, lacy bra and Helen feels her panties start to soak as John takes her in.

“Un-fucking-believable.” He mutters, shaking his head. He grasps the sides of her shirt and pushes back and tears it down her arms, letting it fall to the floor.

Helen, at once, realizes two things. First, that she is completely exposed. Second, that her hand is still resting on his dick.

She quickly moves it away, a flush tainting her cheeks as she tries to cover herself from his sight.

John uses her covering her tits to his advantage, quickly unzipping her skirt and pushing it over her hips.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he shakes his head in awe at the matching panties and garter set. “Dressing like that, practically waiting for me, weren’t you?”

“No!” She is quick to protest, moving her hands so as best to cover herself.

“Then who’re you dressing for, huh?” And now his tone is taunting, “We both know you’re single, don’t we, kiska?”

She shivers at the bit of Russian thrown in at the end but she shakes her head, “I’m not.” She lies, quickly looking for another way out because he doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck about the ethical boundaries of her being his teacher. And guys have that code, don’t they? “I’m not single. I… have a boyfriend.”

He tilts his head to the side, eyes flashing dangerously as he clicks his tongue, “Don’t lie to me, Helen. Bad girls get punished.” He catches her chin between two fingers and forces her to look up at him. “Who were you dressing for?”

Helen wants to deny it, again, feeling that flush rush to her cheeks. Truthfully, she hadn’t put on the lingerie with John directly in mind but she couldn’t deny that she had thought about this. About John cupping her breasts and her sex through lace. But they were thoughts. Idle and personal and meant only for her imagination.

She tries to avoid the question, “We can’t do thi--”

He pushes her chin further up, pressing her back into the blackboard. It was cold before but it feels like ice against her bare back.

“You’re a good teacher, kiska, but I think it’s time somebody taught you some fucking manners.” He leans down, his beard brushing delightfully against her soft cheek as he whispers, “When I ask you a question, you answer it. Understand?”

Gone is the taunt. This is an order and, fuck her sideways, but she feels compelled to follow it. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

She licks her lips, “Yes, sir.”

John rewards her with a smile as he pulls back. “Good girl. I suppose you can be a good student, can’t you, kiska? Now, who did you wear this for?” His finger toys with the strap of her bra. “Hmmm?”

Helen swallows heavily, “You, sir.”

He rubs her shoulder, “Good girl. You’ve learned your first lesson.”

First? Of course, she realizes, John is far from done.

His hands trail down her body, ghosting her breasts and sliding down her torso roughly. A hand slips into her panties and Helen turns her head to the side, embarrassed as the state of her panties.

A grin breaks over John’s face as he teases her slit and finds it soaking. “You’re fucking dripping.” He tells her, easily slipping a finger inside her. She bites her lip to suppress a moan, “And you were really trying to resist it, weren’t you?”

She nods, helplessly, as John slides a second finger into her soaking pussy.

He groans in delight, “Second lesson, kiska, rules are made to be broken.”

“This is wrong. You’re my student…” His fingers curl inside her and her head shoots back, leaning against the chalkboard as she resists the urge to moan.

“We only got so many years on this Earth,” John murmurs, rubbing his thumb against her clit as his fingers rub circles inside her, “and you think we should deny ourselves pleasures because of a silly thing like ethics? Kiska, I’m going to tear down every ethic you have.”

John’s fingers slip out of her and Helen finds herself moaning at the loss. Before she can think too much on that, however, John’s hands find her hips and she is hoisted into the air and carried over the handful of feet to the desk. Her desk. Where she teaches from and grades from and sits as her students work. It’s clear, now, save for two small piles of paper.

John ignores them, laying Helen on top of the desk. On top of papers she needs to grade and she can’t bring herself to care anymore. 

He climbs on top of her, undoing his belt and unzipping his pants. Helen licks her lips, staring at the space between them as John pulls out his hard, thick cock. He pushes her panties to the side and rubs the head of his length against her wet folds. She can’t help but watch, completely transfixed by the sight.

“Ready for lesson three, kiska?” He taunts. Helen opens her mouth with a protest, a last hail Mary, but before she can respond, John shoves inside her. “You belong to me.”

A shout escapes her as John coats himself in her juices, pulling out just a bit before slamming back in aggressively. His hips collide with hers and Helen whimpers at the glorious intrusion.

Her body struggles to adjust to make room for him as he quickly begins to thrust in and out of her.

“You’re mine.” He tells her, tugging her body against his, “my little kiska.”

Gone is the sweet, kind man who helps her put away books and clean the classroom. In his place, he has left someone dark and possessive. His words scream in her head you belong to me and that terrifies her and excites her all the same.

Hadn’t she wished for this? For the rules to just disappear so that she could have this man to herself?

The rules seemed so ridiculous now, as he fucks her into oblivion, letting the thoughts slide from her head until all she can think is yes and more.

John grinds himself down against her and she cries out in pleasure, arching herself forward and burying her head in shoulder as he brings her closer and closer to her own delightful ending. John teases her, adjusting his pace, before slamming back into her. 

His arms go around her, holding her in place so he can better use her.

Helen moans and whimpers and delights him with every little sound that escapes her pretty mouth.

“Look at you, kiska,” he teases, “So desparate for me, hmmm? Do you know how hard it was for me not to take you that first day? Looking so innocent, like you don’t even realize there are monsters in the world.”

He grinds down again and Helen tightens her own grip on John, moaning as he continues to move against her.

“So sweet, so patient…” he continues, “Who would have thought you could be so needy.”

He slows his pace and Helen whines, trying to grind up against him but it isn’t the same. She hears a small laugh in her ear and then John begins again.

“I”m gonna take such good care of you.” He tells her, “You won’t need this night job to get by anymore. You’re gonna spend your nights taking care of something else.” He drives into her and Helen cries out, feeling that heat swirling around her tummy. It feels so good, she can’t even bring herself to try and remember if she’s told the class that this is just her night job.

Nothing matters except the feeling that he is bringing her.

It builds, it builds, and builds until it is too much to take. Until it comes crashing down around her and she screams against his shoulder. 

John’s grip only tightens on her as she grunts at his own release and she feels the strong waves of cum spill inside her as he rocks out the last of his own orgasm.

Her body feels heavy and exhausted but John holds her close and whispers, “You’re mine now, kiska.”

....

taglist: @fluffyfirewhiskey​ @greenmanalishi​

[propensityforthemature44]

Texas Triangle

For most of my forties, I worked as the assistant news director for CBS News, based in Manhattan.    The position came with a number of perks, most notably salary and benefits greater than I would have earned back in my hometown on California’s Central Coast, where my career began.  Within mere walking distance, so many of New York’s great museums, concert halls, restaurants, etc. were right there to explore during the little free time allowed by a demanding career.  It was a spectacular time, the dynamics of television journalism in the twenty-first century, always learning something new, and the great people with whom I worked, the latter being perhaps one of the greatest benefits.  This was especially true regarding one particular co-worker: legendary anchorman Bob Schieffer.

Arguably one of the more recognizable reporters of our time with an impressive CV, Bob commanded the respect of everyone at Black Rock, as the New York headquarters of CBS is known, not just because of his professional accomplishments, but because of how well he interacted with others.  Whether you were network top brass or a member of the cleaning crew, he treated everyone with a sincere compassion.  It was quite common on a Monday morning for Bob to pass through the halls and ask other employees how their kids performed at a piano recital or baseball game over the weekend.  His affable nature allowed for bridge-building and ease of relationship maintenance between management and on-air talent, which made my life easier. This was a sharp contrast to the environment during the time of his friend and predecessor, Dan Rather, with whom I was acquainted and got on well, but the mention of whose name still drew eye-rolls on the property.  Our professional dealings were so excellent, that they eventually led to a friendship outside of work.

After a couple of years on the job, Bob and I became such good friends, we were frequent guests at one another’s home for dinner parties.  In fact, I had even been to his home for Christmas Eve dinner on consecutive years.  His wife was a wonderful, gracious woman, and the same could be said for the rest of the family whom I had the opportunity to meet.  It was a friendship based on trust in a professional situation, but had blossomed into what I considered to be a very rewarding relationship.  

Due to our difference in ages, he was in many ways a role model given his life experiences.  Also, I found myself very attracted to him, and why not?  He was a handsome, well-dressed, intelligent mature gentleman with a wonderful personality, in other words, exactly my type.  The exceptions being that he was straight, a colleague, and a friend.

One spring, I had planned to return to California, where I kept a home for visits and eventual retirement, for a couple of weeks to attend a family wedding and also to take some time to wind down by travelling along the coast.  A few days before I was scheduled to head west, my boss summoned me to his office one afternoon.  He requested that I schedule some time to speak with Bob about a personnel matter involving the research department.  When I reminded him that I would not be back in New York for two weeks, he expressed a desire for the matter to be concluded quickly.  So, I mentioned that I would be seeing Bob in Austin at the end of the week, and could discuss then.  He was a great boss, but I knew that he was aware that as a friend, I would be attending the awarding of an honorary doctorate to Bob by the University of Texas on my way back to the West Coast.  A crafty move on his part, but I would have tried the same.

A few days later, I traveled to Austin for a night, and checked into the Four Seasons downtown, where Bob was staying.  Upon checking in, the clerk informed me that he had passed to the front desk a message asking me to visit his suite.  I thanked her, and headed to my own room to drop-off my luggage, and do some minimal unpacking.  It was already 2:30 in Austin, and I was flying to SFO to get a connecting flight the next afternoon following the award and luncheon.

Upon settling, I headed to Bob’s suite on the top floor. I knocked on the door, and then heard, “I’ll be right there, John,” in his familiar Texas drawl.  When he opened the door, we shook hands, and then embraced in a more familiar hug of close friends.  He showed me around, a rather impressive room of no less than 1800 square feet overlooking the river.  “Where is Patricia?” I asked.  Bob replied, “Well, change of plans.”  He explained that his wife had gone to visit her sister in Dallas, whose husband was recovering from a recent procedure.  I asked him to pass along my regards.

We made our way into the living room to take care of business, which concluded rather quickly to my delight, and from there began to just be ourselves.  I congratulated him on the honor, and Bob being Bob, became flushed and modest.  He then arose, and asked if I wanted a drink, and he poured me a vodka on the rocks.  From there, we began to get caught up on a number of personal matters.

At one point he asked, “So, did you ever fill in that plus one on the wedding invitation?”  Even though we were close, I was taken by surprise, forgetting that Bob had been in my office when the invite arrived several months prior.  “No,” I said.  “I’ll be attending solo.  This way, I can focus on visiting with people at the events.  I only get back to the Coast a few times a year.”

This seemed to draw a rather puzzled look on Bob’s face, as I could clearly see the eyebrows pointed upward through the lenses of his reading glasses.  “Come on, John.  Are you trying to tell me that you can’t get a date for this wedding? You’re in your prime.  Forty-five years old, handsome, well-educated, well-traveled, great career, and you spend most of your time in California when not in New York.  I’m sure there are plenty of eligible gentlemen in both places who would love to accompany you.”

I was shocked, to say the least.  On the one hand, flattered, on the other, feeling as if I’d been drawn out of the closet, even though my being gay was not a secret at headquarters.  Before I could respond, Bob asked, “Did you think I did not know?  You know it doesn’t matter, right?”  The answer of course being, I knew, despite the whole TCU connection he had, that he did not care about ethnicity, orientation, race, religion, etc., with regard to how he viewed people.  

“I suppose that it’s just never come up in conversation between us over the years,” I said.  Thinking about it, I supposed it was true, despite my occasional lusts for him.  

“Well, no pressure, but I would just like to see you with someone.  This isn’t the 1950’s, a couple of 40’s/50’s something guys like you should be enjoying the time together”, Bob said with a smile.

I answered, “That could be an issue.  You see, I have a type, and what you describe, doesn’t match.”  

“Well then, what is your type of man?” Bob inquired.  

In a matter of seemingly no time, I found myself pouring out the details of my ideal man: mature, handsome, worldly, cultured, gentile.  He laughed, “Why on Earth would you want to be with an old man?”  “Not just any old man, the right sort of older man.  Truth be told, he would be a man, like you, Bob, in many respects.”

He looked a little taken aback, so I said that I would head back to my room, and see him at the ceremony.  As I made my way for the front door, I felt a tug on my right arm, and when I turned around, Bob embraced me in a hug and said, “Don’t leave just yet.  You just surprised me is all.  You know that there is no problem for us, right?”  

“Yes,” I said.  

“You know that I love my wife, don’t you, John?”

“Of course, Bob.”

With that, he moved his arms down, and then up along my jacket, caressing my back and chest as he pulled me closer, pulling off his glasses before passionately and firmly pressing his lips to mine.  Not exactly the first time kissing a man significantly older than myself, but this was certainly unchartered territory.  I was so turned on, it felt as if I were high, and wow, could he kiss.  It was a perfect example of why older men are better: they know things.  Even more, I was beginning to realize this was not his first time with another man, certainly not when he began to move his hand over my crotch, focusing on my now fully erect manhood.

“What do we have here?” he asked slyly, as he bent down to unbuckle and open my slacks.  From there, he took me across his lips, and then along his tongue, taking my entirety within his mouth, moving me back and forth.  The sensation was so pleasing, I felt as if I was going to pass out in the middle of the suite.  Hearing his moans and seeing the look upon his face, Bob was enjoying the act at least as much.

After a couple of minutes, he stood and pressed himself against me, with me now feeling the full excitement coming from Bob’s side. We embraced in a kiss for minutes, not wanting to separate.  Toward the end, he was undoing my tie, and I his, after I removed my jacket, and then unzipped his fly, as I had imagined doing so many times over the years. Feeling a drop of pre-cum, I spread it along his tip, then began to move my hand back and forth, reveling in his moans and breathing, until he pulled himself closer and whispered, “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Within a matter of seconds, we had completely undressed and were embraced near the foot of the bed, and engaged in a complete lip-lock. As I saw it, there was certainly no reason to separate now.  He tasted so good, and I knew he felt the same.  In addition, we had established that he loved his wife, I had no intention of getting in the way, and my attraction to him had clearly taken over after settling those details.

We separated for a moment, as Bob walked over to the side of the bed.  He pulled back the covers and climbed inside.  Leaning on his side he patted his hand on the opposite side of the bed and said, “Come on, don’t be shy,” grinning from ear to ear.  It was all the invitation needed for me to get under the covers and wrap my arms around his beautiful, smooth body.  I wasted no time before reuniting with his lips and playing with his wonderful tongue.  I moved my hands up and down his torso, finally settling down on his firm and gorgeous ass, adjusting to move my head down to focus on his nipples with my tongue and using my right hand to stroke him.  

I could not believe that this was happening.  This was a good friend, a colleague, and although this had been a fantasy for a few years, I could never have imagined that he would be so receptive and then some.  I had every intention of making the most of the opportunity, and thus moved further down to take him in my mouth, and give him his medicine.

“Oh my god,” he exclaimed.  “That is so wonderful.  Please don’t stop.”

I moved up and down along his shaft, wrapping my tongue around the head, and after a couple of minutes, began to really work the head with my mouth while using my hand to pleasure his shaft.  In doing so, I really began to get turned on by his moaning. After a few minutes, he placed his hand on my chest, as if to pause, but then pushed down until I lay flat on my back. Now, Bob was in charge, cleaning my testicles with his tongue, before focusing down on my cock. He moved up and down, closing his eyes, then opening them so that he could see the look of joy upon my face, and he certainly knew how to put in there with years of practice.  

What seemed like hours of pure delight had passed when he let up and pulled himself back up to cuddle and kiss deeply and passionately. He was so close to having me reach the limit, but suddenly pulled back from the act, held me close and whispered into my ear, “Please enter me, darlin’.  I want you to, it will be okay.”  Then, Bob, pulled away and reached into the night stand drawer, and to my surprise, produced a bottle of lube.

“Now, you what to do, don’t you?” Bob asked rhetorically, as he kissed me on the forehead.  So, I felt compelled to prove him right, and lubed my right index finger, and moved it slowly across his rosebud.  This made him twitch and tickle at first, but he knew he was in good company, and I would never let him feel discomfort.  So, as he loosened up after a minute, I lubed my middle finger as well, and began to slowly move them back and forth until I eventually reached his prostate.  Now, he was putty in my hands.  

Once my cock was sufficiently lubricated, I placed myself upon his precipice, slowly waiting for the right time, as I lay with my head upon his stomach. After a minute or two, I lifted my head toward his to embrace in a passionate kiss, after which he said, “I’m ready.”

I began to move ever so slowly back and forth, Bob in the missionary position, resting his heels on my shoulders, facing one another.  It was so hot with the pleasure being split equally.  Every time I thrust forward, I would make eye contact so as to see how much he was enjoying the penetration.  He was giddy like a schoolboy, but more appropriately as an adult, panting and moaning.  After several minutes, neither of us could handle any more, and I thrust against his prostate and ejected a stream within Bob, and then he let out a sigh, “Ohhh, god,” and shot a river of cum across my chest.  Once concluded, we wrapped one another in hugs and kisses, and cuddled. It had been a couple of months since my last experience, but would easily say it was the best sex I had at that point in my life.

Eventually, the silence was broken by the ring of the room’s landline.  Bob answered, “Hello.  Come on now, of course I didn’t forget about you.  Drop by when you’re ready,” he chuckled.

I looked over at the clock, and a couple of hours had since passed.  Then I looked at Bob, and said, “Well, if you’re having a visitor, perhaps it’s best if I move to my room.”  

Bob winked at me and said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart.  You may want to put this on, however,” as he passed me a robe, along with a pair of slippers.

After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door.  Bob went out to the hallway to answer, and I could hear the faint echo of what appeared to be excited conversation between old friends. In the moment, it occurred to me that Bob felt comfortable enough with me to have me here in a robe, while inviting someone else inside, but I still had a tinge of awkwardness about the room. This was originally supposed to be just a stop on the way back west, but had taken a fantastic detour.

Then, a minute later, Bob came walking around the corner, also robed. Then, he asked, “You met John back at one of the holiday parties, didn’t you?”  A moment later around the corner stepped James “Jim” Baker III, former Secretary of Treasury, White House Chief of Staff, to name just a few posts. Being a double-major political science/journalism as an undergraduate, of course he was a familiar figure, in addition to being introduced at Bob’s house.

“Of course.  Nice to see you again, John.”  He smiled, but you could tell from the expression on his face, that this, by no means, was the encounter he had expected.  It was known that although there had been many interviews over the years, they had developed a friendship off-camera.  So, while a stately, respectful man, he did seem somewhat put off that there was an extra man in the room, and reported, “Well, I won’t stay too long.”

The phone rang once more, and Bob said, “I’ll need to take this.  Can you two make yourselves comfortable?”  

“Sure,” we replied in unison.

Jim made his way around to sit on one of the sofas.  He was, I think, a rather handsome man in his own right.  Nicely cut head of white hair, beautiful navy blue suit with a red and blue striped tie, it was as if he’d just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers ad.                                                       

We attempted the task of small talk, although there was a bit of discomfort in the air.  The conversation shifted to the next day’s event for Bob, which brought us both to Austin in the first place, then moved to an overview of each of our schedules for the week. Eventually, I noticed him wince a little, and asked if he was okay.  

“Oh sure, I’m fine.  Just paying the price for a round of golf this past weekend.  No carts, all walking, so my feet are a little tender,” he chuckled.

 I’m not sure what came over me, but I stood up and moved an ottoman closer to Jim, and sat down.  Then, one-by one, I extended each of his legs and removed his cordovan Alden tassel loafers and began to massage his dress-socked feet.  

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he said.  

“I’m sorry, I just thought you were having discomfort.  I’ll stop.”

“Well, it certainly is improving things,” Jim said, laughing a little.

I continued doing so for a couple of minutes, enjoying his pleasure.

Then, Bob returned and leaned over Jim to ask, “Do you still want to leave, Bake? They have such great service here.”

Bob then reached over and removed Jim’s suit jacket, as I continued to massage his tired feet.  After hanging his jacket, Bob returned, and from behind, planted a deep kiss on Jim’s lips, that seemed to go on for minutes.  It would have become obvious to an outside observer why Jim seemed edgy at first; he had planned on meeting Bob all by himself, and the way they were going at it, it was not the first or even fifth time, this had been an arrangement for a while.

While they were still kissing, I placed Jim’s feet on the floor, and made my way to his chair.  I moved my hand up and down each of his corresponding legs, and then focused on the midsection.  I caressed his torso, and transferred to his belt, which I unbuckled, then unzipped his fly and opened his slacks, and reaching inside the front hole of his boxers to release him.  Now, he was mine, all 7 inches of engorgement that had developed in the past few minutes, and I wrapped my mouth around the head of his beautiful cock and began working my way up and down.  I could feel the vein along the side, as it met my tongue, and could feel his excitement as he wriggled while still kissing Bob.  

Bob untied Jim’s tie, and I began to move my hand inside of his shirt to feel his amazing chest.  Not smooth like Bob’s, but just the right amount of hair, and light-colored.  In a few minutes, we moved to the bedroom.

We placed Jim back on the bed, and then proceeded to fully undress him.  I moved my way up the bed to kiss him, and again, older men know things.  He was a master kisser, and we worked on one another while Bob serviced Jim below the deck. After a minute or two, I extended my right hand upward and began playing with his nipple.  It seemed to be going well, so I released myself from his lips, and re-focused my mouth on his left nipple, while using my hand to play with his right.

To my delight, he was enthused, evidenced by his moaning of satisfaction.  In fact, he must have been so appreciative, because without notice, he eventually maneuvered so that he could take me into his mouth, and did he ever do so.  He had me in sheer ecstasy for several minutes, moving up and down on my head and shaft, completely reviving me for another performance.

At one point, he changed gears, shifting to Bob.  After all, Bob had been hard at work for some time, and it was his turn to receive the delights he deserved.  In doing so, he placed his hands on each side of Bob’s torso and pulled him up further on the bed.  Then, he got between Bob’s legs and lowered his head, lips first.  As he did, Bob’s patented grin returned to his face as he moved his head back and forth on the pillow.

It’s often said when a threesome occurs, that one person can find himself left out of the equation.  I did not find this to be the case, but rather an opportunity. Specifically, Jim’s spectacular ass was now staring me right in the face.  I extended my hands outward, massaging his buttocks.  It was wonderful, so smooth and tight, you could just feel that he worked out 3-4 times per week.  I could also feel that he was enjoying the chain of stimulation, as on the front end, his mouth and hand were now bringing Bob to new heights of joy.  So, I reached over to the bedside table and retrieved the bottle of lube from earlier.  One by one, I lubed my fingers, and began to finger Jim.  He wriggled a little at first, but began to relax and loosen up, so a couple of minutes later, I spread a generous amount of lube on my cock, and then inserted myself into the former Secretary of Treasury.

As I stated before, this is not anything like I had imagined this trip unfolding.  I wanted it to last as long as possible, so I slowly slid in and out.  He was so moist, and I was so turned by watching him blow Bob and all of the moaning coming from both of them.  I knew it would be only a few minutes at the most until I released myself within Jim.

“Jim,” Bob panted a few minutes later.  “I can’t hang on much longer.”

Jim pulled Bob out of his mouth and began to quickly jerk him off before replying, “Come on, honey.”

Bob threw his head back and said, “Oh my god,” and then proceeded to cum right into Jim’s mouth, which he took like a pro and countered, “Umhm.”

I couldn’t take any more myself, and then pushed further into Jim before shooting a load.

Bob put his head back on the pillow.  His expression was one of satisfaction and exhaustion.  He was spent.

Jim leaned over and covered Bob with the sheet.  Then, he kissed him deeply and passionately on the lips, then gently on the forehead.

I was now lying flat on my back, and Jim cuddled up next to me. He extended both hands, placed them on either side of my face, and pulled me in for a wonderful kiss that made me melt away, and we held in the embrace for several minutes.

“Doesn’t he look cute when he’s sleeping?” he asked me while looking over at Bob.

“As for you, you are every bit as good as I thought you’d be.  Mmm, mmm, mmm.  I knew the first time I laid eyes on you.”  With that, he maneuvered so that he was right on top of me, and as he did, his cock rubbed up against my leg, just dripping with pre-cum.  

Jim pressed his manhood right up against my balls and said, “There just one thing, son.  The next time you’re in Texas, I get Bobby first.  Understood?”

“Understood,” I said.

He then smiled at me, and lifted my legs upward so that my feet were now resting on his shoulders.  With his right hand, he grabbed the lube and squirted several drops on my anus and a plentiful amount over his cock, and moved it up and down his shaft.  Then, he got closer, and pushed himself gently up against my opening.  His cock was just the right size, not too thick, not too thin, that with the lube, he slid right into me.

 “Oh my,” he muttered, as he began to move back and forth.

It was heavenly, as he moved in and out, building up his pace over a few minutes.  Eventually, he unloaded what felt like a gallon of cum all over my insides, falling forward and resting his head on my chest for several minutes before he went limp and released himself from me.  

I must have dozed off because after a while, I felt a hand upon my chin.  I looked up to find Bob smiling as he asked, “Hello, darlin’.  Are you ready for another go?”

What transpired then is between the three of us. That said, it would not be my final encounter with either Bob or Jim.