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ashdoesfandomarchieved · 3 years

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of all i am made of (perhaps you are too)

ao3

Hugo does not believe in soulmates.

To be fair, he doesn’t much believe in anything but the feeling of coin in his pocket and the clever bite of his dagger. What use has he for god and destiny when he carves his own path of lies through time, with a sharp tongue and a cocky smile.

Why should Hugo believe the universe would gift him a soulmate when it already has made it perfectly clear that nothing is free?

Besides soulmates are rarities of the past--legends and folktales on the lips of elders and religious fanatics; the former clinging to superstition from the od era, the latter feeding false promises and hope to the instupid masses.

Soulmates are for hopeless romantics and tiny children. Not for Hugo.

“That does not surprise me,” Nuru says, the beginnings of a smile forming on her face.

She’s lying down in the golden field where they’ve set camp for the night. The contrast of the bright yellow against her dark skin is stunning-particularly in the moonlight, with her dark hair fanning out about her head.

Hugo, who is sitting upright a few paces away and playing with his daggers, frowns.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, unsure if he should be feeling defensive or not.

Nuru folds her arms beneath her head, propping herself up enough to make eye contact with him. “Even if you had a soulmate, you wouldn’t know what to do with them,” she scoffs.

He snorts. “ You believe in soulmates?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Yes, actually. I thought you were the rational one in this party.”

Nuru gives him an expression that indicates how stupid she thinks he is. “I might be the only person who can keep their head in a crisis, but that doesn’t mean I can’t believe in a higher power, Hugo.”

She rolls over, so that she’s laying on her stomach, facing him. “Burning stars fall in my homeland every year. There are stories of a sun princess who’s tears heal the dead. Varian somehow hasn’t strangled you yet. I think you’d better start believing in a god.”

“Or soulmates apparently,” Hugo mutters.

“Or soulmates,” Nuru says. “Would it really be that far-fetched?”

“Do I believe there’s someone out there who shares my dreams? Or has my name written above their heart? Hard pass, Princess.”

“Alright then, how about sharing the same soul?” Nuru asks, folding her hands together and resting her chin on them. “You’re telling me that doesn’t sound at least a little romantic?”

“I don’t have a soul.”

“Now that,” she says, a grin stretching across her face, “that I can believe.”

___

“I think Anya’s my soulmate,” Yong says dreamily, staring at Varian’s redheaded cousin like she hung the fucking moon.

Hugo, despite secretly adoring the round child, rolls his eyes. Hard. “Do you even know what that means?”

“It means we share the same time threads,” Yong replies distractedly.

Varian and Anya are nerding out over something-something Hugo would find interesting or fun to mock them over, but right now, for some reason, he’s more interested in Yong’s adorable-if not misguided-crush on Varian’s little cousin.

“Time threads,” Hugo laughs, cracking his knuckles. Yong winces at the noise, momentarily taking his eyes off the two babbling alchemists. “Alright, color me curious. What are time threads?”

Yong frowns. “You’ve never heard of time threads? Every child in Koto learns about them.”

Ah, must be some religious poppycock only spread in the fire kingdom.

“Well, I’m not a child living in Koto, am I?” Hugo replies lightly. “Spill, little pyro.” He pokes the kid in the shoulder repeatedly until he gets swatted.

“Her lady, Odiyesi, spins a thread for each person,” Yong recites in a sing-song voice. “This thread contains the beginning, the middle, and the end of our lives. If she so chooses, two threads will be intertwined-maybe even beyond the Snip, if she wills it.”

“The Snip?”

“Oh yeah, that’s when you die,” Yong says, side eyeing Hugo.

Hugo ruffles Yong’s hair. “And you think Anya is your thread partner. That’s so cute .”

Yong ducks out from under his hand, scowling. “Why did you ask if you don’t even believe it?” he mumbles, face pink.

“You know what I think?” Hugo asks, pretending like he doesn’t hear Yong. “I think you should go right up to here and tell her all that. Give her a heads up about your eternally bound souls.”

“Your soul is eternally bound to the underworld,” Yong shoots back, with a surprising amount of fire.

Hugo bursts into laughter. “That,” he says, “is the first thing you’ve said all day that makes sense.”

___

“What do you think about soulmates?” Hugo asks mildly. He has a glass of wine in one hand, but he’s barely tasted it. Instead, he stands, staring out the stained glass window and into the courtyard.

Donella, sitting behind her desk, looks up from Varian’s Ulla’s journal-recently procured by Hugo.

The amount of deception and sneaking around he’d gone through to actually get it out of Varian’s line of sight had been painstakingly difficult. And it had been even harder coming up with an excuse to Nuru why he needed to spend the night somewhere other than their current lodgings.

He doesn’t really remember the lie. Just the trust in the Princess’s face when she’d briefly patted him on the shoulder, telling him to be back by sunrise.

Donella closes the journal with a snap, leaning back in her chair. “What a curious question. And from you, no less.”

When Hugo turns around, she’s smiling that sharp smile-the one that makes his stomach plummet with discomfort. Something in him churns at that dangerous expression now, unsure of what he’s suddenly gotten himself into.

He gives a casual shrug, raising his glass to his lips. “Just making idle conversation, I suppose.” The wine tastes terrible. Still, he takes another sip before setting it down on an end table.

“Hmm.” His mentor eyes him skeptically. “What do I think about soulmates?” she muses, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I suppose the proper answer would be that I hate them.”

He frowns. “So you don’t believe in them?”

“You can’t hate something you don’t believe in, Hugo. Of course I believe in soulmates.” Donella must see the surprise in his expression because she laughs after a brief pause. “I would be hard pressed not to believe in them after seeing it with my own two eyes.”

Hugo blinks, startled. “You met someone with a soulmate?” he asks, disbelieving.

“You could say that.”

“How do-how did you know they were-”

She opens the stolen journal again, long scared fingers deftly flipping back to her reading place. “Because I could feel when she was in pain. Now shut up, Waif, I still have three quarters of this tedious reading to get through and only five more hours to do it.”

___

Even though Eugene has decided to make the conscious effort not to kill Hugo, the guy still shows mild animosity. And by mild, Hugo-of course-means that he drags him around, making him do tedious tasks and scowls whenever he gets close to Varian.

Whatever. It’s not as if Hugo’s going to complain, considering that it’s mostly his fault there was a demon monster briefly unleashed onto Corona that destroyed most of her capital city. As long as Varian isn’t blaming himself, Hugo calls it a win.

So he lets the Prince Consort drag him around the city and put his alchemy to work.

“You don’t have to stay,” Hugo says, at one point, when it becomes apparent that even though Eugene has no idea how alchemy works , he was still going to hover. “I’m not going to cut and run.”

The man had snorted. “Yeah, I already figured that one out for myself,” he’d muttered and then proceeded to not explain what that meant.

So here Hugo is, with an ever present shadow, hovering like he’s a fucking five year old. Hugo honestly doesn’t see what Varian sees in the guy-or Queen Rapunzel for that matter. She looks at the ex-thief like he hung the moon and all the damn stars in the sky.

“It’s because they’re soulmates,” Eugene’s buddy-Lance, Hugo thinks-had said when he caught him staring.

Hugo had scoffed.

Now, bored and overheated after a long day’s work, Hugo watches Eugene frown over some blueprints in the Queen’s study. Hugo’s not exactly sure why he has to be present for this particular part of the renovation project, but he’s too tired to protest.

“Are you and the queen soulmates?” he hears himself asking.

Eugene lifts his head, eyes alight with surprise. He glances back down at the blueprints once, before leaving the table to join Hugo by the open doors leading to the balcony.

“Weird question, coming from you,” he snorts, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. “But yes. We are.”

Hugo doesn’t know what to make of that. “How do you know?”

The older man hesitates, something like understanding dawning on the man’s face. A small smile crosses lips. “Have you ever met someone that no matter how many times you tried to walk away, you couldn’t?”

Hugo swallows.

“That’s how I know. Now,” he claps Hugo on the shoulder. “If you’ll stop messing around, I need your opinion on whether Yong’s demolition idea or Varian’s solvent solution is going to work best for the lower district’s avalanche problem.”

___

At the end of all things-or perhaps the beginning-Hugo finds Varian on a rooftop.

It’s not hard to find him, as when Varian is brooding, he likes to perch. It’s a habit that the alchemist has either picked up from spending most of his time in a castle with high roofs or perhaps it’s born of chasing his dumb racoon into precarious positions.

Either way, Hugo learns early into his friendship with the darkhaired boy, that when he’s being introspective, he likes to pick a high roof and perch like a fucking woodland creature.

So when Varian goes missing in the middle of Corona’s lantern festival, it takes precious few minutes to find him.

“You are so predictable,” Hugo says, dropping down next to him. Heights don’t usually bother him, but the castle is impressively tall.

The other alchemist doesn’t really seem to mind, however. He lets his legs dangle over the edge, occasionally swinging in the air.

“Or maybe I wanted you to find me,” Varian replies easily. His head--tilted up, toward the stars that are mirrored in the constellations of freckles on his face-is wearing a peaceful expression.

Something in Hugo’s chest clenches tightly at the sight of it. There was a time, not too long ago, where he was convinced he’d never see Varian happy again.

But now, Varian turns his face toward Hugo and offers him a smile. “Or maybe I’m just predictable to you.”

The tightness in Hugo’s chest dissipates. What is left aches for something he can’t have.

“Or that,” Hugo says, instead of doing something stupid like trying to hold Varian’s hand or kiss the stupid expression off his face.

Varian turns back to the stars.

“You know, they say shooting stars fall in the direction of your soulmate.”

Hugo rolls his eyes. “Not you too,” he groans, eliciting laughter from his friend. “I thought out of everyone, you would be on my side here.”

“Aw, don’t believe in soulmates?” Varian teases, grinning boyishly. “Sun and moon, I should have expected that.”

“Yeah?” Hugo raises his eyebrows. “How so?”

“You’re so cynical. And not in the way Cass is-she’s like realistically -cynical. You’re just oh poor me I could never have a soulmate because my soul is made of garbage -”

Hugo clamps a hand over Varian’s mouth, shrieking when he tries to lick him. “I- stop -I don’t have to listen to this slander -”

“-and if you ever did find your soulmate you would be insufferable about it,” Varian goes on, catching Hugo’s wrist when he tries to silence him again. “You would spend the entire time trying to prove to yourself and everyone else that there was no possible way they could be your soulmate and when you couldn’t you would-”

He stops. Blinks at Hugo with realization dawning across his face.

Hugo’s wonders if Varian can feel his pulse racing where the smaller boy’s fingers wrap around his wrist.

“Yeah? What would I do?”

Varian’s lips purse. “I don’t know what you would do. I’d hope you would be smart about it.”

He lets go of Hugo.

Hugo immediately misses his warmth.

“And what would be the smart thing.”

“Well,” Varian draws out the word thoughtfully. He scoots close enough to Hugo that if the taller boy wanted he could wrap and arm around his shoulder. “Well, an excellent start would be telling them.”

“And how would you tell them? If it were you,” Hugo adds quickly, when Varian shoots him a questioning look.

Varian leans back on his hands, head tipped back, exposing his throat to the sky. “I would tell them my heart started beating at the same time as theirs when we touched. That there’s a silver dagger inked on my shoulder that burns when they’re angry and sings when they’re sad-”

“Varian.” Hugo’s heart clenches so hard he briefly wonders if he’s having a heart attack.

“-I would tell them that I dreamed in color the first night we lay side by side in the forest,” Varian goes on, ignoring him. “I would tell them that when we touch I see every color-even the ones that don’t belong here.”

“Varian.”

Hugo’s hand finds his soulmate's.

Varian turns his head to the side slightly, finally meeting Hugo’s eye. With his free hand, he cups the side of Hugo’s neck, tentatively.

“I would tell him that our souls are made of the same thing.” He smiles gently. “It’s just science, Hugo.”

Hugo laughs, pressing his forehead into Varian’s. “How is that the most romantic thing you’ve said yet?”

“Because you’re a closet nerd,” Varian says, right before he leans in.

Underneath a starlit sky, Hugo kisses the boy made of the same stuff as him.

___

#varigo #hugo vat7k #varian #nuru vat7k #yong vat7k #eugene fitzherbert #my fanfic #vat7k fanfic #tts #tts fafic

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fiveisnumber1 · 4 years

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Timeless - Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 3850

Warnings: Mild Violence

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

_________________________

Pt 8 - Birthday Cash (part 1)

Sunlight shined through your curtains as the sounds of the city outside you started to wake you. Slowly you sat up and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. When your eyes came into focus you took a look at the calendar you hung beside your bed. The date of it read October 1st, 2002. Today was your birthday. Shooting up from your bed you ran down the stairs of your home into the living room. Standing there were your two parents.

"Happy birthday!" Your parents exclaim

You looked around the room to see balloons and decorations everywhere. Every year, your parents went all out for your birthday. To both of them, your existence was a miracle and they wanted to show how grateful they were to have you. Even when you were small and they knew you wouldn't remember what they had done for your birthday they still went all out. You were their little princess and all they wanted to do was make your day the best it could be. As you looked around the room you saw decorations from wall to wall. There were streamers and balloons as far as the eye could see. You made your way over to your parents who both gave you a big hug.

"Alright sweetie you sit tight right here and your father and I will be right back!"

Taking a seat on your living room couch you sit and wait for your parents. When they come back into the room you see your mom carrying a cake and your father carrying a box. Your mom places the cake on the living room table and takes a seat to your left side while your dad sits to your right. The two of them sing happy birthday to you and when you have your wish in mind you blow the candles out in one go.

"What did you wish for?" Your dad asks you

"Honey, you know wishes don't come true if you talk about them." Your mom says

"Oh fine, I won't pry." your dad responds "Anyway I've got one of many gifts for you right here. Do you want to open it?"

"Of course!" You reply excitedly

Your dad places the box in your lap and you gently undo the ribbon tied around it. Opening the box you remove the tissue paper and see the gift inside.

"No way! It's exactly what I wanted!" You exclaim

Inside the box was a replica of the diary for The Princess Diaries. The movie came out a little over a year ago and since then you were obsessed. You wanted the diary from that movie specifically because you loved how it needed a locket that fit it perfectly to open it up.

"Well, you had been talking about the journal ever since you saw the movie. It took a while but we had it custom made for you. It's practically an exact replica except we had it so yours could fit more pages." Your mom explains

"Do you like it?" Your dad asks

"I LOVE IT!" You reply "But where is the locket?"

"Lift up the diary." You mom says

When you lifted the book up you saw not one but two lockets.

"Why are there two?" You ask

"Well, we wanted to make sure that if you lost the first one you could have a second one handy." Your dad responds

"Keep the second one in a safe place." Your mom says

"I will!" You reply

You knew exactly where you were going to keep the second locket but for now, you spent some time with your family eating cake for breakfast and taking in all the time that your parents had spent to make your day special. When the three of you finished your cake your dad states,

"Your mom and I have one more surprise for you but we need to go to the bank to get it. Go get ready so we can head out."

Excitedly you run upstairs and get ready. When you finish you eagerly wait for your parents downstairs. Once all of you have everything you need to go, you head out the door and off to the Capital West Bank.

__________________________

Today was October 1st, 2002 but in the Hargreeves household, this day was just like any other. Reginald Hargreeves cared little for birthdays or the acknowledgment that his children were another year older. Like for past birthdays, he merely congratulated them on not passing yet and went on with his day. Unlike Reginald, Grace was much more sympathetic and caring towards the kids and tried to make sure that they all felt special on their birthday. When the children came down from their rooms for breakfast she made sure that each one of them got their favorite thing to eat. She also wished each individual child Happy Birthday as she handed them their plates. This was the routine that occurred every October 1st since they could remember, but this year it would be a little different because the kids knew that later today they would get to celebrate with you. While they kept quiet when their father was at the table, the minute he left the chattering of excitement amongst the six siblings was unstoppable. Each one of them presented their ideas for what they wanted to do for a fun birthday. Diego suggested,

"We should play pin the tail on the donkey but instead it's balloons and we have to pop them with knives!"

"Diego, you would win that one automatically." Allison comments

"And? I want to be a winner on my birthday." He replies with a wide grin

"Well, I want to have a dance party for our birthday!" Allison says

"Oooh, I can get on board with that." Klaus comments

"I want to duet playing happy birthday with (Y/N)." Vanya comments

"And I think it would be fun if we just sit around and talk," Ben says

"Maybe if we're lucky she'll bring over presents and we'll actually get stuff this year!" Luther adds

"What do you want to do for our birthday, Five?" Vanya asks turning the attention to him

"I bet he wants to kiss (Y/N)." Diego interjects making kissy faces at Five "Mwah mwah mwah oh (Y/N) I love you so much!"

"Shut up." Five says looking away from his siblings, heat rising to his face

"You're not denying it." Luther teases

Luther and Diego start to tease their brother more and Klaus starts to sing,

"Five and (Y/N) sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G! Fi-"

"Ugh! Leave me alone!" Five says grabbing his breakfast and getting up from the table

Five then flashes away to his room. His siblings were so annoying no matter what day it was. Ever since he had accidentally told them about a month ago that he loved you, they relentlessly teased him about it. Well, Diego, Luther, and Klaus did with Allison chiming in here and there. Ben and Vanya were more so supportive and stayed out of his business, which he appreciated. Nevertheless, it was difficult to deal with their incessant teasing. Yes, he loved you and yes, he's thought about kissing you but he couldn't find the courage to go through with it. You were his best friend, his only friend and he didn't want to lose you because he felt a certain way and you didn't. It was a risk he just wasn't willing to take because he couldn't be sure how you felt for him. Five sat down on his bed and angrily munched on his birthday breakfast hoping that soon enough something would happen to make the day more exciting.

__________________________

When you and your family arrived at the Capital West Bank you took a look around. It was very nice looking with high ceilings and a balcony upstairs that worked its way around the main room. Your father approached the counter and you followed. You ignored the conversation your father and the clerk were having and continued to look around. You saw many different people in the bank, some standing around, some going and then some coming in. As you watched a group of men walk in the door you grew suspicious. In your gut, you felt something shifty about them. Cautiously you watched them out of your peripheral to see what they were up to but to not be obvious about it. A bank teller then steps out from behind the counter and walks you over to a set of stairs directing you and your family up them. Bringing you to a back room the teller uses a key to unlock the door. In the room, you see wall to wall safes. Each one looking just as heavily secured as the next. Your father takes a step towards one of them and entered a passcode. When the safe opens in there is an exact replica of Princess Mia's tiara. Your father gently grabs it from the safe and places it on your head.

"A perfect princess tiara for our perfect birthday princess." Your mom comments

As you relish in the sweet moment with your parents you all hear some commotion from downstairs. Your family and the teller head out of the room and watch from the upstairs balcony as chaos breaks loose downstairs. You can hear the screams of other people in the main lobby as the men who you had a bad feeling about pull out some guns and start threatening people. The banker pulls you and your family back into the back room. Quickly your dad takes the tiara off your head and puts it back in the safe before closing it swiftly. The banker that brought you upstairs calls 911 and details the situation going on, but before he can finish talking to the 911 operator a couple of members of the who were in charge of this robbery shoot him. The criminals, uncaring of what they had just done to an innocent life proceeded to make their way over to you and your parents. Your parents get in front of you to put space between you and the criminals but it is useless because they end up forcing you three down on the ground and put duct tape around your wrists. As you're on the ground you give your mother a pleading look but she shakes her head no. You knew that you could use your powers to get you and your family out of this but your mom didn't want you to in fear of people taking you to do experiments. You let out a sigh as the robbers sit the three of you up. One of them sends the others outside to guard the room before turning to your father to interrogate him.

"Now tell me where this tiara is." The criminal commands

This is not how you expected your birthday to go.

__________________________

For the Hargreeves kids, their birthday was going the same as always, which is to say not much excitement was going on. They all separated and started to do their own things but their activities were interrupted when Reginald yelled,

"Children come down to the parlor immediately!"

All the children made their way down to the parlor as quickly as they could. Standing in an orderly line from 1 to 7 the children look to their father to hear what he has to say.

"You have been training to use your powers for years and now you have been presented the opportunity to go and demonstrate them to the world. The Capital West Bank is under siege by a group of robbers and the patrons inside have been taken as hostages. There has been a standoff with police for about two and a half hours at this point and I intend for you children to finish it. Get out of your pajamas and get in your uniforms, we leave in 10 minutes sharp."

The children run off to their rooms and rush to get ready for their first-ever mission. This was not quite the excitement they were looking for but nonetheless, it was better than nothing. Within 10 minutes' time, all the children were ready to go. Quickly, they made it to the bank. The six children with powers devised a plan to get inside while Vanya stayed with Mr. Hargreeves looking at the scene from afar. All the kids minus Luther make their way into the bank through side entrances trying to not get caught. As nonchalantly as possible Allison walked towards the main part of the bank. As she did so she saw one of the criminals talking on a walkie talkie.

"Hey get them behind the counter," He said to some other robbers using his gun to gesture "Now you've put me in a position where I gotta do something I don't wanna do. SHIT!"

She approaches the man and stands their innocently.

"Hey get back with the others!" The man commands to Allison

"I heard a rumor... Allison replies

"What? What did you say?" The man asks

Allison then leans in towards the man and repeats herself. Putting a hand up to her mouth she says,

"I heard a rumor that you shot your friend in the foot."

Under the command of Allison's power, the man turns to his accomplice and aims the gun at him.

"Hey dude, what the hell?" the other man asks

The man under Allison's power then shoots his friend in the foot before shooting again. The other man falls to the ground and accidentally shoots off rounds from his automatic weapon. The hostages of the bank scream in fear. A crash then comes from the ceiling as a bunch of glass rains down into the bank. Along with the glass is Luther who jumps down into the bank, grabs one of the criminals banging his head against the counter before throwing him out of one of the high windows. Within seconds Diego runs in brandishing his weapons of choice,

"Guns are for sissies, real men throw knives!" He exclaims throwing his knives and redirecting them towards one of the gunmen

The knives manage to hit the gunman in the shoulder and his heart. After the one gunman got hit by Diego's knives, the man standing next to Allison came out of his trance and ran away from her towards the counter. As the kids and robbers continue to fight chaos continues to ensue throughout the whole building.

__________________________

You and your parents had been in the backroom upstairs for what felt like hours at this point. The man who stood before you kept yelling at your father to tell him where the safe that had your tiara was. Somehow your dad had avoided the question thus far but the criminal was becoming inpatient. The robber was about to speak again when the sound of gunshots rang out from downstairs.

"We're gonna have to move this along. If you're not going to tell me straight up then I'm just going to have to force it out of you!" The robber yells

The robber then grabs you and holds the gun in his hand against your head.

"You should let go of me before something happens." You comment calmly

"Aw, what are you gonna do? Cry?" The man mocks

"You asked for it." You reply

In one swift motion, you phase backward through the man and kick him towards a desk that was in the room. As he falls over it you grab the letter opener and stab the man in the back with it hitting his heart. Undoing your parents' bindings you tell them,

"Stay here."

"But-" Your mom interjects

"STAY HERE" you command them

Within a second's time, you had phased through the door and into the middle of the upstairs hallway. Making yourself visible you use your powers to manifest the tiara in your hand and hold it up.

"Hey!" you yell grabbing the attention of the armed robbers "Looking for this?"

The angry men start to chase you but you turn invisible.

"Where'd she go?" One of them asks

One of the men walks down the hall to see if he can find you. Once the men are on two opposite side of the hall you reappear and taunt,

"If you want this crown you'll have to kill me for it."

The two men turn their guns on you and start to rapidly fire but you use your powers to make them go through you harmlessly and the two men end up killing each other. After you confirm they were incapacitated you hear a voice yell,

"Get back you freaks!"

Looking down from the balcony you see a man standing on top of the bank counter surrounded by Allison, Diego, and Klaus in their academy uniforms. You wonder when they got here but continue watching. the man points his gun at each of them he demands,

"Hey be careful up there buddy," Klaus comments

"Yeah, wouldn't want you to get hurt" Allison chimes

"Get back now!" The criminal demands

Five flashes behind the man so he is sitting criss-cross on the counter.

"Or what?" He asks with a cocky smile

The man turns his attention and gun to Five and starts shooting but Five had flashed away before any bullets could hit him. Flashing behind the man once more he crosses his arms, a serious look on his face. The man on the counter turns to him and starts clicking a stapler at him. Five looks down at the stapler before sarcastically commenting,

"That's one badass stapler."

Immediately after though Five forcefully pushes the man's hand. The stapler hits hard causing a gash in his head and the man to fall off the counter. Your jaw drops and your heart starts to race a little.

"Damn," you whisper to yourself

Something about him kicking that guys ass was really attractive to you. Forgetting that you were in the middle of fighting one of the robbers grabs you and takes the tiara out of your hand. You phase out of his arms and say,

"Either the crown goes down on the group or you go up in the air."

"You're not getting this back." The man states

"Alright, don't say I didn't warn you."

And with that you make it so this man's molecules are extremely light and hang him upside down in the air over the lobby of the bank. Freaking out he throws the tiara over the balcony and it lands by your feet. Not part of your plan but you are satisfied nonetheless. You continue to leave the man hanging as you watch your friends downstairs. Outside the vault five of the six children stand in a semi-circle around Ben.

"Do I really have to do this?" Ben asks

"C'mon Ben there are more of them in the vault," Luther says

"I didn't sign up for this," Ben says in a resigned tone

Ben enters the vault and begins to take out the men in their one by one. From across the room the man you were holding yells,

"Put me down!"

The five children left outside the vault switch their attention and see a man dangling upside down in the air. Looking slightly above him they can see you standing on the balcony above.

"I said put me down you crazy bitch!"

"You got it." You reply with a smirk before making the man's molecules extremely dense

The man rapidly falls down towards the floor of the lobby and impales himself on a flagpole. Five looks up at you an admiring smile on his face and awe in his eyes (even if they were hidden behind a mask). He had never seen someone so beautifully kebob a man.

"Wow." Five said to himself

The hostages in the bank start to run out of the building screaming. You transport yourself downstairs to the middle of the lobby and watch the bloodbath occur behind the translucent glass of the vault. When it stops you see Ben slowly step out from behind the door and he can be heard saying,

"Can we go home now?"

You see the children walk around the counter to make their way over to you. Even behind their masks, you could see the excitement in their faces especially that of Five. The children approach you but as they do you can see one of the men still alive get up and quickly make their way over to your group. Raising their gun up, they point it in their direction. He could've aimed at any one of you but he pointed his gun at Five. Quickly reacting you yell,

"Five watch out!"

You then transport your molecules so that you are between Five and the gunman. The gunman pulls his trigger but you push his arm up so that the shot hits the ceiling. You wrap your hand around his neck and look him in the eyes. Adrenaline rushing through your veins all you could think about was how this man almost killed the boy you loved. You were about to say something when,

*BANG*

Your entire top part of your body was covered in red. The body of the man falls backward and you see that all that was left was the shoulders down. You blink a couple of times coming to the realization of what you just did. Slowly turning to the group of kids Diego exclaims,

"HOLY SHIT (Y/N), YOU BLEW HIS HEAD OFF! THAT'S SO COOL.”

"Uh, thanks." you comment before gesturing to yourself and adding "Hey Ben, looks like we're twins now.”

You see a smile appear on the face of the boy who didn't want to be here in the first place. He didn't say anything but it brought him comfort to know you were in the same boat as him. You watch as Five opens his mouth to say something but before he can you hear someone screaming your name from above you. Turning around you see your parents. You wave to them from the lobby floor.

"Hi, mom! Hi dad!" You say as if nothing was wrong

You and the Hargreeves kids all watch as your parents rush down the stairs to get to you. When your mom gets to you she crouches down looking all over you for injuries.

"Oh my god (Y/N) are you okay? You're all covered in blood!" She cries

"Don't worry mom, it's not my blood!" You say with a positive attitude

Your mom wails in distress at the sight of her baby covered in someone else's blood.

"Honey, I don't think that was the right answer." You dad comments putting a hand on your mom's shoulder

"Oh uh, well then it is-" You start to say

"No don't finish that sentence, that's not it either." Your dad adds

Your dad helps your distressed mom off the floor and places a hand on your back escorting you all to the door. As the three of you walk he says,

"You know what. We're gonna go home and you're gonna get all that blood off you and then your mom and I are going to lay down for the rest of the day while you do whatever makes you happy for your birthday.”

The six children watch as you make your way out the door with your parents but before you exit you turn to smile at them knowing that you would see them later. As soon as you leave the kids rush out to the front steps so that the public can acknowledge them for the first time. This was the most exciting birthday they had had so far but they all knew it would only get better once you came over to celebrate later.

Tag list: @xplrreylo @joebob15274 @insatiable-ivy @fruitsaladtree @angelpeachamber @academy-umbrella @lizziel1410 @ir3neeee @faith-quake @aliens-with-colas @eddiomyspaghettio @lady-celeste25 @im-dead-and-hurting @nerdypinupcrystal @cherry-ki-d @anapocalypseinmymind

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annabethisterrified · 3 years

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Book Review: RULE OF WOLVES by Leigh Bardugo

“Love was the destroyer. It made mourners, widows, left misery in its wake. Grief and love were one and the same. Grief was the shadow love left when it was gone.”

Official summary:

The Demon King. As Fjerda's massive army prepares to invade, Nikolai Lantsov will summon every bit of his ingenuity and charm—and even the monster within—to win this fight. But a dark threat looms that cannot be defeated by a young king's gift for the impossible. The Stormwitch. Zoya Nazyalensky has lost too much to war. She saw her mentor die and her worst enemy resurrected, and she refuses to bury another friend. Now duty demands she embrace her powers to become the weapon her country needs. No matter the cost. The Queen of Mourning. Deep undercover, Nina Zenik risks discovery and death as she wages war on Fjerda from inside its capital. But her desire for revenge may cost her country its chance at freedom and Nina the chance to heal her grieving heart. King. General. Spy. Together they must find a way to forge a future in the darkness. Or watch a nation fall.

---

Watch me gush/ramble about RoW on YATL Live: https://www.instagram.com/tv/CNlVL7Cj6DN/

NO SPOILERS TIL YOU GO BELOW THE CUT. (Or should I say the Fold?)

You know I’m in too deep when I start scheduling my own personal and professional deadlines around the release of a book. I literally organized my life in March 2021 with the single goal of making sure I would be untethered by responsibility and commitment when Rule of Wolves released.

This book, immediately followed by the release of Shadow & Bone on Netflix.... this spring has thrust me straight back into the Grishaverse mania of my younger years.

As a conclusion (...?) to the King of Scars duology, Rule of Wolves delivered on compelling politics, satisfying character actualization, and just deliciously exciting content all around. Bardugo has certainly created a mesmerizing world, and this story sharpened and expanded its details even more.

And if you’ve taken even a glancing look at my blog, you’ll know I might be a little TOO into Zoya Nazyalensky and Nikolai Lantsov. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say this book was an extremely rewarding end to one of the most intriguing and tear-your-hair-out-in-a-good-way slow burns.

All in all, a hearty thumbs-up from me! If you’re cool with spoilers, follow me below....

Okay, let’s get into this a bit more.

Y’all!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Look, I can’t understate how invested I am in Zoya and Nikolai both as individual characters and as a couple. Like????!!!!! They are ENDLESSLY interesting and endearing and just off-the-charts incredible.

Like many readers of the original trilogy, I was NOT a fan of Zoya for a long time. She did some messed up stuff, and it wasn’t until we got to be IN her head that I realized the depth and intrigue of her character. Not to be like “Oh, well _____ went through trauma so that excuses and explains why they were mean!”. It’s more nuanced than that with Zoya, and her journey really made me consider (for the first time, maybe) that there are actual upsides to cutting through frivolity and niceties. That’s not to say anyone should intentionally be cruel, but especially seeing her articulate how certain veins of “niceness” can be useless and fake, and watching through Nikolai’s lens as he genuinely appreciates and relies upon her ruthless, straight-to-the-punch guidance, I came to realize how cool it is to see a female character who is good but not nice. There is a world of difference between those two traits, and especially for the now-queen of Ravka, the former is far more important to possess.

And Nikolai, this absolutely enchanting and determined and whip-smart and romantic and brutal guy... the MULTITUDES this man contains!!!! I adore him and his whole arc. Every decision he’s faced with is tremendously difficult, but his cleverness and growing maturity really came to a head in this installment. I loved watching him realize that the only thing he REALLY cares about is having the agency and ability to fix problems and take action. He can be with or without the throne; he cannot be without forward movement. (My favorite bit of the book might just be Alina remarking how Nikolai still technically manages to “keep” the throne even after giving it up, via Zoya’s hand.) So I don’t think we’ve seen the end of “king” Nikolai by any means, and it was enthralling to watch him take on the war in this book through so many angles: engineering, flight, diplomacy, disguise, weaponry, AH!

Of course, I’d be remiss not to bring up the stunningly gut-wrenching midpoint reversal of this book -- losing David. I’ll admit I got spoiled about his death before reading, but not the specifics. I imagined that it might be some emotional confrontation with the Darkling, or defending Genya, but in the end? His was a passive, random death. IF YOU MENTION THE JOURNAL I WILL CRY. And I think that’s exactly why it’s so doubly devastating. To lose such a pivotal character in such a seemingly senseless way really underscores the reality and consequence of a war of this scale and nature. I appreciated all the complicated, no-right-answer reckonings there were in this book about weapons and developing arms. Lots of difficult ethics there for sure, and it’s not a conversation I’ve encountered in many fantasy stories before.

Back to some more FUN stuff, it was of course wonderful to finallyyyyyy witness Zoya and Nikolai get together, and I love the way it was handled. The intimacy and comfort they’ve found in each other just makes me want to burst, and their scenes together (as always) were sharp and electric. God. Their dialogue is just so, so good. It’s a bit bittersweet to know that the road ahead for them will not necessarily be an easy one, given Zoya’s likely VERY long life versus Nikolai’s very human one. That raises lots of questions about the Nazyalensky dynasty’s heirs (?) and whatnot, so I do hope we get to see more of them in the future to see how some of these things are unpacked and discussed. Plus, it’d just be really great to see these two as a more established couple now that they’re “allowed” to be together. (”I WILL LOVE HER FROM MY GRAVE.” That’s cool, Nikolai Nazyalensky. I’m already sobbing.)

Side note: How amazing was Zoya’s reckoning throughout this whole book about resisting love in an attempt to protect herself? I loved how it tied in with unlocking her DRAGON POWERS, and her realization that “you’ll mourn anyway so you might as well love big” was so, SO poignant I’m crying again.

It was of course terrific and exciting to see more of Nina AKA Mila’s action. I thought the reveal about Joran was really difficult but ultimately hopefully something healing for her. I also thought that where we left Nina and her prince was very fitting and I’d love to see where their new lives “ruling” Fjerda take them.

Anyway, it was also really fun to see some Crow cameos, and I’m hopeful based on the way things ended in this book that we’ll get to see more of both the Ketterdam crew and the new/future rulers of Ravka and Fjerda. Crossing all the fingers!

#review #rule of wolves #leigh bardugo #zoyalai #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #king of scars #grishaverse

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

Text

kiss me in the d-a-r-k .epilogue.

november

masterlist

Warnings: dub con sex (oral, intercourse)

This is dark!(dad)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader is back at school but her wild summer can’t be forgotten.

Note: Um, did I do this? Like did I just write this and is it going to be more than one part? I just...okay, well, this is where life is taking me right now so here ya go! I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply!

...

Everything was different and yet the same. No more English Lit, you were a Journalism major working hard towards your lifelong dream of typing for a living. Of capitalizing on the frustration of a blinking cursor as you tried to formulate a hook. After a summer of working weddings and overzealous parties, you were ready to hunker back down in your bookish university life.

Despite your shift in focus, Kylie was still very much a cornerstone of your campus life. You saw each other once a week, if you were lucky, twice. She messaged you almost daily, still grieving Taylor’s enlistment. You studied together and when you were particularly exasperated with her nagging, you let her drag you to one of her extracurricular get-togethers.

You’d changed too. Still very much the honours student but a little less uptight. And you had a secret. A very big secret. One Kylie could never know.

She had guessed, at least half of it. It didn’t take her much to catch on that you had finally taken the plunge. You’d finally lost your virginity. You weren’t sure if the sway of your hips had changed or your head was held a little higher, but she had guessed on your first day back in September.

She’d beamed and bugged you for details. You were cautiously vague upon your recounting. She could never know that it had been with her own dad. You could only imagine her reaction. Never anything less than impulsive and dramatic, you knew the revelation would ensure the end of your friendship. And as one-sided as your relationship could be, it was preferable to being alone on campus.

As your communications class ended, you packed up along with the rest of the lecture hall. You were near the front as always. You folded up the small desk and shoved your books in your bag. You pulled on your harvest orange jacket as you glanced up to the front. Professor Barnes leaned on his desk as he talked with another student.

You hooked your bag over your shoulder and checked your phone as you descended the stairs to the front. Kylie’s message flashed in your vision and you swore. It had totally slipped your mind. Oh well, she could wait a couple minutes.

You neared the desk in the corner where the professor chattered with others and packed up his papers. You waited patiently as you looked up at the blank projection screen. Finally, you stepped up as the conversation ended and smiled up at him. His dark hair was limned with strands of silver, his blue eyes shone as he glanced over at you. You could have swooned, even if he was twenty years older than you. Hell, that hadn’t stopped you before.

“I wanted to sign up for that workshop,” You declared without greeting. Your nerves forced the words from your brain. “I have the form.”

You let your bag fall to your elbow and reached in to fish out the folded paper. You held it out to him and your cheek twitched as your smile threatened to fall.

“Great,” He took the form and placed it on top of the pile of essays. “I’m glad you’ve decided to do it. It will be a great experience, and seeing as you’re making up for lost time, it’ll help with that too.”

“Thanks,” You beamed. “I...I’m excited.”

He smiled and closed the folder over the papers and tucked them away. He rounded the desk as the last of the students filtered out the door. “Me, too. Your work is exceptional and I can only see it getting better.” He walked slowly towards the door beside you as he juggled his bag and pulled on his dark jacket. “Keep it up and you’ll be teaching this class in a few years. Or better, I might just see your name in the New Yorker.”

You giggled but killed it before it could turn pathetic. You preceded him into the hall as he waited for you to go ahead and he closed the door behind him. “Thanks, Professor.”

“I mean it,” He replied. “I made sure they approved your transfer. You had no place wasting away in Lit.” You smiled wider and he peeked over his shoulder and then at his watch. “Well, I’ll see you at the workshop. Monday morning.” He said. “Alas, I have a Friday night of marking to keep me company and no desire to leave it ‘til Saturday.”

“Okay, thank you, Professor,” You retreated as he turned halfway to head in the opposite direction. “Really. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Have a good night,” He winked and turned to stride down the hall as you mumbled your response.

You watched him go and grasped the handle of your bag tightly. Shit. Okay. Stop. He was your professor. You shouldn’t make your questionable decisions a habit. Had you not learned last summer?

When you got to Kylie’s, you had to buzz twice. The dormitory door stuck and you barely managed to wrench it open before the lock clicked back in place. Your hands and face felt raw from the autumn wind as you climbed the stairs and the stuffy building smothered you. You knocked on her door; three other girls shared her flat and you could hear voices from within.

Marlo opened the door as she giggled to the girls in the kitchen to the right of her. She waved you in. You were there enough that they knew you by now. Shae stood in the doorway to the kitchen and they looked at each other knowingly.

“Hey,” Marlo finally stifled her scandalous trill. “Kylie’s just in her room…” She looked once more to Shae, “She’s got a visitor.”

Shae snickered. “Oh yes, her dad’s been lecturing her for twenty minutes... though I’d listen to any lecture he had for me.”

“Oh, yes, daddy,” Marlo returned. “Makes all these fratboys look like children.”

“Her dad?” Your face and heart fell. You peered down the hall to her door. It was open and you heard his voice. It was definitely him. “Maybe I should come back.”

“Nah, it’s fine, she’s tryna get him out ASAP as it is. She has a date with that Tristan guy.” Marlo mused.

“I thought his name was Troy.” Shae intoned.

“Whatever,” Marlo shrugged and nodded down the hall. “Go on and save her.”

The hallways seemed to get longer as you looked down the blue and grey carpet. The girls retreated back to the kitchen, the clink of glass jolted you. You slowly stepped forward and as you got closer you heard both Kylie and Steve. Steady, pleasant. They must’ve worked through whatever issue Steve had tucked in his back pocket.

You gulped and stepped up to the half-open door and knocked on it. They looked over in unison. For a moment the resemblance was stunning but faded away in an instant. Steve’s lips formed a crooked smirk and Kylie greeted you with her usual snarky brow.

“About time,” She crossed her arms.

“Class.” You returned sharply and reached into your bag. “Mind the state of it but here you go.”

You handed her your worn copy of Wuthering Heights and she took it with indifference and tossed it on her bed.

“Hey,” Steve greeted, a hand on his hip as he flagrantly looked you up and down. “How’s it going?”

“Fine. Studying, you know.” You answered shortly as Kylie swiped up her phone.

“Dad, oh my god, are you staying here all night?” She whined as she looked up.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair, just figured I’d check in while I was in the area,” Steve shook his head. “She thinks I don’t know but she’s got a boy coming over.”

“Dad!” Kylie fumed and lowered her phone.

“I’ll just be on my way too.” You assured her. “Midterms coming up.”

“Need a ride?” Steve offered swiftly. You glanced at Kylie but she didn’t seem to notice her father’s deft reply.

“I have a bus pass,” You said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Ah, let me drive you,” He insisted. “I miss the city.”

“Fine,” You accepted and Kylie was already back in her dms.

“Okay, you guys, be safe,” She sat on the edge of her bed, “Love ya, dad.”

You lifted your brows and silently cursed her oblivion. You dared to look at Steve and he smiled triumphantly. In Kylie’s mind you’d already left so you turned and swept out the door. Easier to argue with him outside. He followed and you caught a glimpse of Marlo and Shae peeking out the kitchen as you opened the door. They gushed at the sight of Steve as he disappeared into the hall with you.

“I really don’t need a ride.” You sighed. “I appreciate the offer though.”

“Oh, come on, why are you being so cold? I know it’s been a while but...well...I missed you.” He descended the stairs behind you. “Didn’t expect to see you but I’m visiting and I can’t help but check up on Kylie.”

“I…” You turned down the next flight and huffed. “I just wanna forget about whatever it was that happened in the summer, okay? Kylie’s my friend and if she found out--”

“If she was gonna find out, she would’ve by now,” He caught your arm as you made to turn again and he pushed you up against the wall. “She won’t know. It’s fine. It was all very...natural. Didn’t it feel right?”

You looked away. Your face burned as you thought about that last night. The things you’d done with him. The sheer pleasure of his touch. The epiphany of the savage physicality. Those scene’s you had replayed in your head, and not just with him, though it had only been a reality with him.

“Steve--”

“Is there a boy? Hmm? It doesn’t bother me. You should explore your sexuality.” He cradled your face and ran his thumb over your chin. “Use what I taught you.”

“Stop.” You caught his hand. “We can’t--”

He smirked again. “So there hasn’t been anyone else.”

“No,” You answered the statement. He knew. He always read you so well. “Okay.”

He considered you for a moment. “But you’ve thought about it? About others?”

You lowered your head in defeat. He didn’t need your confirmation; he knew that too.

“So...you wanna come see my suite? It’s a nice hotel...balcony, hot tub, great view...better with you.” His breath was hot as he leaned in and you finally looked up at him.

“Goddamn it.” You cursed him just before he pressed his lips to yours.

The guilt wasn't enough to change your mind once your surrender was given. Why should you feel bad anyway? Kylie always ditched you for guys and she'd never know. And so it couldn't hurt her.

Steve's hand kept you distracted from your second thoughts. He gripped your thigh as he drove as he steered with one hand. You were the same nervous girl, this time barely more than a virgin. One night hadn't been enough to dissolve your natural timidity. One night could never be enough.

You stared at his fingers and your heart stuttered. You thought of all the ways he had touched you; the ways he had yet to touch you. Shit, what were you doing? Had you not promised yourself it was a one time thing? Was Kylie not your friend? Steve not her father?

The world blurred with your doubts and soon you followed Steve through the front doors of upscale hotel. Surely the man in his pressed suit didn't belong with the bookish student. Someone was bound to notice you. But this was New York and people didn't care about others or their scandals; not without a touch of fame.

"Wait, why are you in the city anyway?" You asked as the elevator doors shut.

"I got a friend down here. I had some business down this way and he asked me to hang around for a few days so we could catch up." He slipped his arm around you. "And of course I thought of you. The chance we might run into each other again."

"Oh," You said dumbly. You stepped off the elevator and he led you to a door at the end of the hall. "I...I don't know if I can do this."

"Fair enough but tell me something." He stopped and drew his arm away from your shoulders. "Did I hurt you last time? Did you not enjoy it? What is so wrong about us?"

You turned to him and searched his face. You shrugged, speechless.

"It's just sex. Whatever the circumstances, we're not doing anything wrong. We're two adults, we're attracted to each other. That's all it needs to be." He took out his room key and flicked the card with his finger. "So, you coming in?"

You looked at the door and swallowed. If you said no, you'd have to find your way home from there. You doubted he intended to drive you anywhere if you refused. Regardless, you couldn't deny the longing deep inside. These doubts were a poor mask for your real desires.

He unlocked his door and again waited for you to enter first. His suite was bigger than the boxy apartment you’d leased off-campus. He closed the door behind him as he followed you inside. You kept your distance and crossed to the large windows that overlooked the blinking and blaring city. You stared down at the distant streets as he moved around behind you.

“You gonna stay a while?” He teased and you turned to look at him as he removed his jacket and then his finely tailored blazer. You slowly unbuttoned your peacoat as he knelt to open the minifridge. “You wanna drink? Maybe it’ll help you relax.”

“I am relaxed,” The squeak in your voice was wholly unconvincing. He smiled and pulled out a small bottle of wine.

“Sure,” He crossed to the small kitchenette and pulled out two wineglasses. He emptied the bottle into both. “So, you got into journalism after all?”

He took both glasses and neared you. He handed you one as he sipped from the other.

“Yeah. It’s...better,” You smelled the dry wine before you tasted it. “Not so repetitive.”

“Mmm,” He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the empty space beside him. You sat tentatively and nursed your wine. “That’s good.”

His hand crawled over to your thigh and he drained the last of his wine. You stared at yours as he squeezed and you downed it as quickly as you could to still the nerves whirring in your stomach. You almost choked as you did and he removed his hand to take your empty glass. He stood and placed them on the small table on the other end of the room.

“So...anything in particular you wanted to try?” He smirked as he turned back to you.

You shook your head shyly as the wine gathered warmly in your cheeks. He chuckled as he resumed his place next to you. He cradled your face as he turned to you and leaned in.

“You’re so sweet.” He kissed you and you let him. He pulled away for a moment and rubbed the tip of his nose against yours. “I haven’t stopped thinking of you. I can’t stop…”

“Steve,” You warned and he pecked your lips again.

“I’m not being sentimental,” He breathed, “I think about you when I’m alone. Horny. I imagine you’re there with me...do you think of me?”

You lowered your lashes tellingly. He chuckled and kissed you again. His tongue pushed past your lips as he devoured you and his hand explored the curves of breast and stomach. You forgot about your reluctance. Forgot about the guilt. About Kylie and what she would think. He was right, she’d never know.

He finally pulled away, his blue eyes dilated and hungry. “I want you naked.” He rasped. “Then I want you to undress me.” His hand hovered just along your waist. “Can you do that, sweetie?”

You pulled your wool sweater over your head as you stood. The wine swirled your vision. A single glass and you were tipsy already. You should’ve eaten before class. You turned to him as you untangled yourself from the wool and revealed the slouchy tee hidden beneath. He smiled up at you and took the sweater. He rubbed it between his thumbs before tossing it away.

You knelt awkwardly as you untied your boots and set them aside. How very unsexy it was as you balled your socks up together. He kicked off his shoes too and you focused on your task. You tore your tee off as you turned back to him and his eyes never left you; they clung to your hands as you worked at the layers. Admired the plain grey bra that cupped your tits despite its fraying straps.

You pulled down your jeans and he hummed in delight. The front of his pants twitched and he leaned back on his hands as he watched. As you stood, your tits threatened to spill out. You unhooked your bra and dropped it behind you and tucked your thumbs under your panties, drawing forth the last of your courage.

“Sweetie, I just don’t know how you don’t have the boys lined up,” He purred. “Look at you.”

You couldn’t help your smile. You rolled your panties down and kicked them away. As you stood up straight, he rose and stepped closer. His fingers grazed the bare skin along your hip.

“My turn,” He intoned.

You reached up, almost without thinking, and your fingers clumsily worked at his buttons. You pulled the hem free of his pants and when it was entirely loose you pushed it down his broad shoulders. He let you as he watched silently. You looked up at him and realized you were chewing your lip anxiously. You stopped yourself and he admired your lips.

“Keep going,” He urged.

You freed him of the expensive shirt and let it crumple on the floor. You unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his fly swiftly, yoyouru fingers working more deftly as the tickle stirred between your legs. You pushed his pants down his thick legs. Twice your age and in better shape, you marvelled.

He stepped out of the trousers and your hand absently grazed his bulge. You gasped and he shivered at your touch. You peeked up at him as you grasped the elastic of his briefs. He grinned and nodded. You bit your lip again and he reached up to drag his thumb along it. You tugged his briefs down and slowly lowered your eyes as you uncovered his cock.

You backed away and took in the whole of him. What were you doing?

He sat down on the bed again and his cock bobbed against his stomach. He beckoned you closer with two fingers and he fell onto his back. “Get up here,” He tapped his chest.

“What?” You crawled up beside him.

“Here,” He repeated. “I’ve been dying to taste you again.”

You blanched. You were unsure. Last time, he had been in control. You’d been on your back and his face was buried between your thighs. You just had to lay there; let your instincts take over. You shakily climbed up the mattress and looked over at him as he licked his lips.

He helped you as you carefully positioned yourself over him, your knees on either side of his head. It was awkward for you. His eyes clung to your pussy and he pulled you down impatiently. His tongue delved along your folds and you squeaked in surprise.

He flicked along your clit and back down as he drank you in. You relaxed as he lapped at you and his hands snaked around your thighs. He kneaded them and suckled on your clit as the electricity gathered in a pinpoint. You moaned and arched your back as you longed for more. He tended to you more fervently and groaned.

You spread your fingers over his golden hair and leaned into him. The currents travelled along your back and thighs as your breath hitched. You were soon grinding against his face as you felt your orgasm mounting. You threw your head back and let out a long moan as you came, your entire being shook at the sudden waves of ecstasy. His fingertips pressed into your thighs and he hummed in delight below you.

Your hips twitched one last time and you glanced down at him. You lifted yourself on your knees as you blinked at him numbly. “Are you okay?” You gasped.

“I’m in heaven,” He assured you as he drew circles along the back of your thighs. He slipped a hand down and you looked back as he gripped his cock. “Move back. I can’t wait any longer.”

Your lips parted; breathless, stunned. Your body worked without your consent. Like it wasn’t yours at all but his to play with as he would. You lowered yourself over him and his cock brushed against your wet pussy. He shuddered and wiped his glistening lips as he watched you intently.

You reached beneath you and stroked him. His eyes widened in surprised delight. You angled him towards your entrance. Your muscles tensed hungrily as his tip pressed against you. You sank onto him slowly and held your breath. It wasn’t so painful as the first time. Of course, after your first time, it had been much easier. He had fucked you until it was too easy.

As he bottomed out you let out an airy moan and he echoed you. He reached up to play with your tits, his thumbs circled your nipples as his eyes roved the rest of your body. “Fuck, your still so fucking tight.” He pushed your tits together and moaned again.

You rocked your hips carefully. You relished the feel of him. The fullness. You hadn’t realized how much you’d wanted to feel it again. His hands fell to your hips and he guided you. Steady, slow. He watched your pussy move along his cock and his eyes darkened with unadulturated lust. You pressed your palms to his chest and sped up just a little. Your clit rubbed deliciously against him.

“Oh, sweetie,” He purred. “I fucking missed this.”

He took your hands and pulled them over his shoulders as he sat up. You hooked your arms around him as he grabbed your ass and led your motion. You bounced in his lap, the friction between your sweaty bodies seared your flesh. You panted as he guided you faster and faster. He plunged into you over and over and your walls clung to him.

A pathetic stream of moans and groans escaped you as you felt the bloom again. You hugged him tighter and he bowed his head to nibble at your tits. You quaked as you came harder than before. He pulled his head away and grabbed the back of your head as he pressed his lips to yours again.

He parted and whispered against your skin. “I’m gonna cum, sweetie. Can I cum on your tits?”

You nodded and he tapped your ass. You climbed off of him and knelt before him as his breaths were interspersed with heady groans.

“Help me, sweetie.”

He took your hand and wrapped your fingers around his cock. He led your first stroke than let go. He watched as your hand glided up and down his length and he clutched the blankets beneath him as he grunted. His cum shot across your chest and neck and his body trembled in his rapture.

You pulled away your hand, slick with his cum, and sat back on your heels as you hung your head. The afterglow didn’t last long as you stared at your glistening palm. You were so weak; so selfish.

“Sweetie,” Steve reached down and lifted your chin with two fingers. “Don’t do that to yourself. You’re beautiful, you deserve to be admired.” He grabbed your elbow and helped you stand. “Come here.”

He pulled you close and fell back with you across the bed. He embraced you as his cum cooled between your chests. Your heart beat furiously against him and you closed your eyes. He sighed and ran his fingers along your hair.

“I’m here ‘til next Friday,” He said. “Lots of time to get caught up.”

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qqueenofhades · 4 years

Note

Could you expand a bit on the "death of expertise"? It's something I think about A LOT as an artist, because there are so many problems with people who think it isn't a real job, and the severe undercutting of prices that happens because people think hobbyists and professionals are the same. At the same time, I also really want people to feel free to be able to make art if they want, with no gatekeeping or elitism, and I usually spin myself in circles mentally thinking about it. So.

I have been secretly hoping someone would ask this question, nonny. Bless you. I have a lot (a LOT) of thoughts on this topic, which I will try to keep somewhat concise and presented in a semi-organized fashion, but yes.

I can mostly speak about this in regard to academia, especially the bad, bad, BAD takes in my field (history) that have dominated the news in recent weeks and which constitute most of the recent posts on my blog. (I know, I know, Old Man Yells At Cloud when attempting to educate the internet on actual history, but I gotta do SOMETHING.) But this isn’t a new phenemenon, and is linked to the avalanche of “fake news” that we’ve all heard about and experienced in the last few years, especially in the run-up and then after the election of You Know Who, who has made fake news his personal brand (if not in the way he thinks). It also has to do with the way Americans persistently misunderstand the concept of free speech as “I should be able to say whatever I want and nobody can correct or criticize me,” which ties into the poisonous extreme-libertarian ethos of “I can do what I want with no regard for others and nobody can correct me,” which has seeped its way into the American mainstream and is basically the center of the modern Republican party. (Basically: all for me, all the time, and caring about others is a weak liberal pussy thing to do.)

This, however, is not just an issue of partisan politics, because the left is just as guilty, even if its efforts take a different shape. One of the reason I got so utterly exasperated with strident online leftists, especially around primary season and the hardcore breed of Bernie Bros, is just that they don’t do anything except shout loud and incorrect information on the internet (and then transmogrify that into a twisted ideology of moral purity which makes a sin out of actually voting for a flawed candidate, even if the alternative is Donald Goddamn Trump). I can’t count how many people from both sides of the right/left divide get their political information from like-minded people on social media, and never bother to experience or verify or venture outside their comforting bubbles that will only provide them with “facts” that they already know. Social media has done a lot of good things, sure, but it’s also made it unprecedently easy to just say whatever insane bullshit you want, have it go viral, and then have you treated as an authority on the topic or someone whose voice “has to be included” out of some absurd principle of both-siderism. This is also a tenet of the mainstream corporate media: “both sides” have to be included, to create the illusion of “objectivity,” and to keep the largest number of paying subscribers happy. (Yes, of course this has deep, deep roots in the collapse of late-stage capitalism.) Even if one side is absolutely batshit crazy, the rules of this distorted social contract stipulate that their proposals and their flaws have to be treated as equal with the others, and if you point out that they are batshit crazy, you have to qualify with some criticism of the other side.

This is where you get white people posting “Neo-Nazis and Black Lives Matter are the same!!!1” on facebook. They are a) often racist, let’s be real, and b) have been force-fed a constant narrative where Both Sides Are Equally Bad. Even if one is a historical system of violent oppression that has made a good go at total racial and ethnic genocide and rests on hatred, and the other is the response to not just that but the centuries of systemic and small-scale racism that has been built up every day, the white people of the world insist on treating them as morally equivalent (related to a superior notion that Violence is Always Bad, which.... uh... have you even seen constant and overwhelming state-sponsored violence the West dishes out? But it’s only bad when the other side does it. Especially if those people can be at all labeled “fanatics.”)

I have complained many, many times, and will probably complain many times more, about how hard it is to deconstruct people’s absolutely ingrained ideas of history and the past. History is a very fragile thing; it’s really only equivalent to the length of a human lifespan, and sometimes not even that. It’s what people want to remember and what is convenient for them to remember, which is why we still have some living Holocaust survivors and yet a growing movement of Holocaust denial, among other extremist conspiracy theories (9/11, Sandy Hook, chemtrails, flat-earthing, etc etc). There is likewise no organized effort to teach honest history in Western public schools, not least since the West likes its self-appointed role as guardians of freedom and liberty and democracy in the world and doesn’t really want anyone digging into all that messy slavery and genocide and imperialism and colonialism business. As a result, you have deliberately under- or un-educated citizens, who have had a couple of courses on American/British/etc history in grade school focusing on the greatest-hit reel, and all from an overwhelmingly triumphalist white perspective. You have to like history, from what you get out of it in public school, to want to go on to study it as a career, while knowing that there are few jobs available, universities are cutting or shuttering humanities departments, and you’ll never make much money. There is... not a whole lot of outside incentive there.

I’ve written before about how the humanities are always the first targeted, and the first defunded, and the first to be labeled as “worthless degrees,” because a) they are less valuable to late-stage capitalism and its emphasis on Material Production, and b) they often focus on teaching students the critical thinking skills that critique and challenge that dominant system. There’s a reason that there is a stereotype of artists as social revolutionaries: they have often taken a look around, gone, “Hey, what the hell is this?” and tried to do something about it, because the creative and free-thinking impulse helps to cultivate the tools necessary to question what has become received and dominant wisdom. Of course, that can then be taken too far into the “I’ll create my own reality and reject absolutely everything that doesn’t fit that narrative,” and we end up at something like the current death of expertise.

This year is particularly fertile for these kinds of misinformation efforts: a plague without a vaccine or a known cure, an election year in a turbulently polarized country, race unrest in a deeply racist country spreading to other racist countries around the world and the challenging of a particularly important system (white supremacy), etc etc. People are scared and defensive and reactive, and in that case, they’re especially less motivated to challenge or want to encounter information that scares them. They need their pre-set beliefs to comfort them or provide steadiness in a rocky and uncertain world, and (thanks once again to social media) it’s easy to launch blistering ad hominem attacks on people who disagree with you, who are categorized as a faceless evil mass and who you will never have to meet or negotiate with in real life. This is the environment in which all the world’s distinguished scientists, who have spent decades studying infectious diseases, have to fight for airtime and authority (and often lose) over random conspiracy theorists who make a YouTube video. The public has been trained to see them as “both the same” and then accept which side they like the best, regardless of actual factual or real-world qualifications. They just assume the maniac on YouTube is just as trustworthy as the scientists with PhDs from real universities.

Obviously, academia is racist, elitist, classist, sexist, on and on. Most human institutions are. But training people to see all academics as the enemy is not the answer. You’ve seen the Online Left (tm) also do this constantly, where they attack “the establishment” for never talking about anything, or academics for supposedly erasing and covering up all of non-white history, while apparently never bothering to open a book or familiarize themselves with a single piece of research that actual historians are working on. You may have noticed that historians have been leading the charge against the “don’t erase history!!!1″ defenders of racist monuments, and explaining in stinging detail exactly why this is neither preserving history or being truthful about it. Tumblr likes to confuse the mechanism that has created the history and the people who are studying and analyzing that history, and lump them together as one mass of Evil And Lying To You. Academics are here because we want to critically examine the world and tell you things about it that our nonsense system has required years and years of effort, thousands of dollars in tuition, and other gatekeeping barriers to learn. You can just ask one of us. We’re here, we usually love to talk, and we’re a lot cheaper. I think that’s pretty cool.

As a historian, I have been trained in a certain skill set: finding, reading, analyzing, using, and criticizing primary sources, ditto for secondary sources, academic form and style, technical skills like languages, paleography, presentation, familiarity with the professional mechanisms for reviewing and sharing work (journals, conferences, peer review, etc), and how to assemble this all into an extended piece of work and to use it in conversation with other historians. That means my expertise in history outweighs some rando who rolls up with an unsourced or misleading Twitter thread. If a professor has been handed a carefully crafted essay and then a piece of paper scribbled with crayon, she is not obliged to treat them as essentially the same or having the same critical weight, even if the essay has flaws. One has made an effort to follow the rules of the game, and the other is... well, I did read a few like that when teaching undergraduates. They did not get the same grade.

This also means that my expertise is not universal. I might know something about adjacent subjects that I’ve also studied, like political science or English or whatever, but someone who is a career academic with a degree directly in that field will know more than me. I should listen to them, even if I should retain my independent ability and critical thinking skillset. And I definitely should not be listened to over people whose field of expertise is in a completely different realm. Take the recent rocket launch, for example. I’m guessing that nobody thought some bum who walked in off the street to Kennedy Space Center should be listened to in preference of the actual scientists with degrees and experience at NASA and knowledge of math and orbital mechanics and whatever else you need to get a rocket into orbit. I definitely can’t speak on that and I wouldn’t do it anyway, so it’s frustrating to see it happen with history. Everybody “knows” things about history that inevitably turn out to be wildly wrong, and seem to assume that they can do the same kind of job or state their conclusions with just as much authority. (Nobody seems to listen to the scientists on global warming or coronavirus either, because their information is actively inconvenient for our entrenched way of life and people don’t want to change.) Once again, my point here is not to be a snobbish elitist looking down at The Little People, but to remark that if there’s someone in a field who has, you know, actually studied that subject and is speaking from that place of authority, maybe we can do better than “well, I saw a YouTube video and liked it better, so there.” (Americans hate authority and don’t trust smart people, which is a related problem and goes back far beyond Trump, but there you are.)

As for art: it’s funny how people devalue it constantly until they need it to survive. Ask anyone how they spent their time in lockdown. Did they listen to music? Did they watch movies or TV? Did they read a book? Did they look at photography or pictures? Did they try to learn a skill, like drawing or writing or painting, and realize it was hard? Did they have a preference for the art that was better, more professionally produced, had more awareness of the rules of its craft, and therefore was more enjoyable to consume? If anyone wants to tell anyone that art is worthless, I invite you to challenge them on the spot to go without all of the above items during the (inevitable, at this rate) second coronavirus lockdown. No music. No films. No books. Not even a video or a meme or anything else that has been made for fun, for creativity, or anything outside the basic demands of Compensated Economic Production. It’s then that you’ll discover that, just as with the underpaid essential workers who suffered the most, we know these jobs need to get done. We just still don’t want to pay anyone fairly for doing them, due to our twisted late-capitalist idea of “value.”

Anyway, since this has gotten long enough and I should probably wrap up: as you say, the difference between “professional” and “hobbyist” has been almost completely erased, so that people think the opinion of one is as good as the other, or in your case, that the hobbyist should present their work for free or refuse to be seen as a professional entitled to fair compensation for their skill. That has larger and more insidious effects in a global marketplace of ideas that has been almost entirely reduced to who can say their opinion the loudest to the largest group of people. I don’t know how to solve this problem, but at least I can try to point it out and to avoid being part of it, and to recognize where I need to speak and where I need to shut up. My job, and that of every single white person in America right now, is to shut up and let black people (and Native people, and Latinx people, and Muslim people, and etc...) tell me what it’s really like to live here with that identity. I have obviously done a ton of research on the subject and consider myself reasonably educated, but here’s the thing: my expertise still doesn’t outweigh theirs, no matter what degrees they have or don’t have. I then am required to boost their ideas, views, experiences, and needs, rather than writing them over or erasing them, and to try to explain to people how the roots of these ideas interlock and interact where I can. That is -- hopefully -- putting my history expertise to use in a good way to support what they’re saying, rather than silence it. I try, at any rate, and I am constantly conscious of learning to do better.

I hope that was helpful for you. Thanks for letting me talk about it.

#history #long post #anonymous #ask

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blazerina · 4 years

Text

Ethically Questionable // Open Heart AU // Chapter 1

Miami Heat // Ethan x Maggie (MC)

Word Count: 4458

A/N: This is chapter one of our Ethically Questionable AU that @parkerattano & I dreamt up late one evening. I literally thought I dreamt the conversation when I talked with her about it the next morning. Check out the moodboard below that she put together – isn’t she amazing? Mad props to her because all of this is pretty much her idea, I’m just putting a few words out there to help everyone else get to experience this amazing HC of hers. There is plenty more to come and we are just getting started with the drama. We’ve hyped it up a lot because we are Tumblr besties and super excited but we really do think you’ll enjoy the ride too!

Check out our hype posts HERE, & HERE.

Let us know what you think – chapter two will be coming soon!

EQ AU tag list: @mvalentine / @choicesobsessedd / @dulcehernandez / @missmiimiie / @edgiestwinter / @junehiratas / @binny1985 / @datynasuha / @unluckygs / @trinittyy / @lilyvalentine / @honeyandsunfl0wers / @lucy-268 / @choices-love-affair / @parkerattano / @queencarb / @custaroonie / @mkamra2355 / @humanpokemon / @ramseysno1rookie /@unknowntimelady / @myusualnerdyself / @schnitzelbutterfinger / @mvalentine / @jasminedayz / @thanialis / @tefigranger / @kenzierookie / @justanotherrookie / @keepcreativechoices / @heauxplesslydevoted / @ethandaddyramsey / @kaavyaethanramsey / @sherlockedmcu / @edith-eggs1 / @noboundariesplease / @edgiestwinter / @danysims4cc / @tempesreture / @unusualvisionsblog / @chasingrobbie / @mapipa / @lifeof-liv / @3riche-blog / @anonymous2094 / @annaidziaszczyk / @ntoraplayschoices / @jessirosebud / @mskinkyafro / @caseyvalentineramsey /@desmaranj / @trappedinfandoms / @lucy-268 /

*If you asked to be on my Ethan tag list, I just added you here -- but let me know if you wish to be removed! Or added in that case!*

“A world-renowned doctor at a top hospital thinks you’re the best intern. Most people would kill to be you.”

Bryce’s words from yesterday echoed loudly in Maggie’s head as she stared out the window of the plane on the way to Miami. She could hardly contain her excitement. He thinks I’m the best intern…she thought to herself as she replayed her conversation with Bryce for the thousandth time. Dr. Ramsey had chosen her. That meant he saw something in her. To him, she was already special. Now, she just needed to capitalize on it.

On the outside, of course, she was trying to present herself to Dr. Ramsey as a polished, professional, put-together intern – but on the inside she was bubbling over with enthusiasm for this quick two-day trip.

Maggie truly felt like the luckiest girl in the world. This hard-working, smart-mouthed kid from upstate New York was selected by her mentor and current crush, Dr. Ethan Ramsey. He had been the whole reason she wanted to become a doctor in the first place. In her freshman AP Biology class when her teacher, Mrs. Hart, asked the class to read one of his journal articles for extra-credit, she Googled him immediately, wanting to digest as much information about him as possible.

Her friends would tease her about the fact that instead of teen heartthrob pictures posted on the inside of her locker, she had medical journal titles and Dr. Ramsey quotes. No one understood her high esteem and true admiration for him. She was confident when she applied to medical school that she would be competitive at Edenbrook, but she felt even more confident as of late. Now that she was number one and Dr. Ramsey’s clear favorite, everything was right in her world. The only thing that would make it better would be a searing gaze, a brush of his fingertips, hearing Dr. Ramsey call her by name and not “Valentine” or “Rookie…”

She was daydreaming again as she watched the snow-white clouds dance along the deep blue sky. The plane was about 30 minutes from landing. She was able to finally admit to herself that she had butterflies in her stomach. Could it be true that she had caught Dr. Ramsey looking at her differently lately? Had he actually started to smile a bit when he saw her for rounds every morning? Could it be that she was impressing him not only with her intellect but with her physical assets too? Is there any chance he could, maybe be, attracted to her?

Maggie’s imagination got carried away, thinking about this conference. She’d at least get to share a meal or two with him, maybe there would be a chance for them to get dressed up. Maggie planned ahead and brought a killer dress for just that kind of opportunity. She would make sure Dr. Ramsey got to see even more of her, um, “assets” and she’d get to see what makes him tick outside of the stuffy hospital. They’d dance alone on the beach; he’d declare his never-ending love for her and then at sunset they’d kiss…

“Aaahhh!” she let out a soft cry of surprise as the plane suddenly lurched up and down. Maggie reached for the armrest to clutch it tightly, forgetting that Dr. Ramsey was seated next to her, and his hand was already occupying the space between them.

In an instant her hand grasped his as her eyes grew wide, not because of the turbulence but because of the feel of his skin on hers. Something she had only dreamed about up until this very moment.

He had been reading and with his free hand removed his glasses, staring at her with a questioning look upon his face.

“Maggie.” He stated, matter-of-factly, but Maggie swore he said it breathlessly.

“Maggie.” He repeated.

“Yes, Dr. Ramsey?” She looked deep into his eyes now, hoping her longing and desire for him was evident in her eyes too.

“May I have my hand back, please?”

She immediately released her hold and smiled sheepishly. The Ethan Ramsey smirk appeared on his face briefly as she pulled her hand away.

“Of course.”

When he spoke to her, she hung on his every word, no matter what it was he was saying. However, Maggie had learned by now to keep her answers short and to the point.

“Thank you again for asking me to accompany you on this trip, Dr. Ramsey. It’s my first large conference and I know we’re going to have a wonderful time! I’m thankful, truly, I am.” She smiled, trying to make things less awkward.

“Yes, yes. So you’ve said. No less than a dozen times now. And as I have said before, don’t thank me, just do what you’re told. This is a work trip not a vacation. You’d do well to remember that fact, Dr. Valentine.”

The way he slowly emphasized Dr. Valentine sent shivers down Maggie’s spine. Did he know what he was doing to her? It was little lines like this, where the tone and pace of his voice changed, that made her think – no, believe – that he was indeed beginning to develop feelings for her.

Maggie nodded and returned her gaze to the window as he pulled his hand off the armrest. He cleared his throat as he settled back into the chair, recoiling a bit and trying to focus again on his reading material. Soon they’d be on land once more. If Maggie wanted any semblance of a decent relationship with Dr. Ramsey, she’d have to take advantage of opportunities to remind him that she wasn’t just THE number one intern. She was HIS number one intern. She decided for now to keep her mouth shut and continue to stare at the sky. It was safer that way.

When she had to tell Dr. Ramsey that they messed up on the reservations and only had one room for the two of them to share, she delivered the news matter-of-factly as if she was sharing the status of a broken arm or an appendicitis diagnosis. There was no flare, no pomp and circumstance, just the facts.

She was looking forward to it and would make sure Dr. Ramsey didn’t regret it, but she knew that she had to present her case clearly and without emotion in order to keep anything from changing too much.

“They only have reservations under your name. One room. We’ll have to share.”

Maggie was quite pleased with herself and the way she tackled what could have been a nightmare situation.

“Morons. Can no one do anything right?” He clenched his fist and his jaw while simultaneously rolling his eyes.

“I promise I don’t snore…” Maggie offered, trying to lighten the mood that had suddenly become very tense.

“I just don’t like the way it looks.” He explained with a heavy sigh, “But, we’ll have to make it work.”

They took their luggage up to the room. As they entered, Maggie did her best to keep the amount of awe she felt, to a minimum as she took in the sight of the beautiful balcony and the scenic view of the ocean and beach below. She immediately went out to look over it all. It wasn’t until Dr. Ramsey called her back in that she realized there really was only one bed.

“We need to go speak with some vendors and make the rounds on the exhibition floor.” Dr. Ramsey explained, checking his watch.

“Sounds fun!” Maggie smiled as she clasped her hands together, clearly delighted.

“You are woefully misinformed. Nothing about this is fun, Rookie.”

“There’s a first time for everything, Dr. Ramsey.”

“Meaning?”

“Maybe you’ll actually have fun this time because you’re with me.”

Maggie tried to be subtle in her tone but gave him a wink and then smiled through one side of her mouth as she boldly approached him and looped her arm under his.

She gently pushed him alongside her to the door of their hotel room.

“I should have asked Harper to pay for an assistant instead of bringing you…don’t get any ideas.” He raised an eyebrow and down on her with mock disdain.

The energy between them had shifted now and as he looked at her with mischief in his eyes, she wanted to reach up right then, snake her arms around his neck and toss him on the bed. The expo vendors be damned! But she swallowed those thoughts away and promised him she wouldn’t.

“I’ll be on my best behavior…for now.”

Maggie offered, followed by a throaty chuckle that made Dr. Ramsey stop in his tracks.

He turned sharply to look at his reflection in the full-length mirror near the door of their room. Maggie studied him as he studied himself.

The hair. Those eyes. His lips. Everything about this man was sexy. It didn’t matter that he was 10 plus years older than her. His brain, his body, all of him was exactly what she wanted.

There were so many rumors about what Dr. Ramsey was really like. People said he was vain, arrogant, selfish, rude and cocky as hell. But she had yet to really see that side of him. Sure, he was particular and liked things done a certain way, but it was all for the good of the hospital, the patients and his team. He had a right to be that way, he’d earned it. He was after all, the Doctor Ethan Ramsey.

Those three words had rattled around in her brain for years. Doctor. Ethan. Ramsey. He was everything she hoped to be and also everything she wanted at the same time. He was standing right in front of her; she still felt at times as though she should pinch herself. It was truly a dream come true to be able to be in the presence of her mentor day after day.

“Like what you see Rookie? Let’s go.” He ushered her out the door and she nodded in agreement while biting her lip, wondering just where the rest of this day and this trip would lead them.

Dr. Ramsey and Maggie were able to spend some time both together and apart in the vendor area of the exhibit hall. The bright white lights pierced Maggie’s eyes and started to give her a headache. She went from booth to booth listening to people as they peddled their latest technology to either aid in surgeries, help make diagnoses or, some would claim, cure the rarest sicknesses. Maggie was surprised at the wide range of options being offered and just how far these companies and salespeople would go to try and get her, a lowly intern, to agree to use their product. She was actually glad that she didn’t have the power or authority to tie Edenbrook to some of these companies. It was overwhelming to say the least.

Maggie found Dr. Ramsey waiting for her at their predetermined location. They split up for a little bit to “make the rounds” and decided to meet back up after about 45 minutes out on the floor. She was desperately trying to keep a headache at bay but must have been showing signs of fatigue on her face.

“Are you all right?” Dr. Ramsey asked, appearing genuinely concerned.

She nodded slowly and smiled, wanting to appear strong and capable at all times, but especially in front of him.

“Oh yes, just a slight headache is all. Once I get some water and a couple ibuprofen, I’ll be fine.”

“Let’s get out of here. We need you feeling better before the reception this evening.”

“Reception?” Maggie questioned.

Before she could ask more questions, she was interrupted by a strikingly beautiful blonde who approached Dr. Ramsey from behind, placing a hand on his shoulder. It didn’t take long for Maggie to realize she was watching something very intriguing unfold right before her eyes.

“Isabelle?” Dr. Ramsey’s eyes grew wide, turning around and enveloping the mystery woman in a hug.

A long hug.

A hug that lasted for what felt like five minutes.

Maggie felt a sudden pang of jealousy. Dr. Ramsey clearly knew this woman. She was beautiful and he seemed happy to see her.

“It’s been a long time.”

Isabelle, as he called her, responded in a more abrupt manner than Maggie expected. She noticed her body language and was immediately confused. Isabelle’s arms were crossed in front of her chest and she seemed less than pleased with Dr. Ramsey’s greeting.

“Yes, it has. Too long, Ethan, if you ask me.”

“How long has it been, exactly?”

Maggie assumed Dr. Ramsey was trying this hardest to be charming. He was smiling not only with his mouth but with his eyes. She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though his eyes were also travelling the length of Isabelle’s body as they exchanged words.

“I believe it was last year’s conference. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

Isabelle purred like a luxurious cat, still looking a bit stand-offish, but clearly remembering or feeling something for Maggie’s beloved mentor.

“Oh, I remember…things just get busy and life takes over once we’re off conference time, you know.”

“I had heard a lot about you before…that night…” Isabelle leaned in, closer to him, the last few words barely above a whisper.

Maggie was feeling more than awkward in this moment. She was torn between wanting to distract herself and also wanting to hear every bit of this exchange. This was juicy information and she needed to know who the heck this woman was and what history she had with Dr. Ramsey.

After letting out a loud and uncomfortable laugh, Ethan focused again on Isabelle and took her hand in his.

“I suppose I should be flattered. Usually at these things people either hate me or want something from me.”

“Well I was definitely one of the many women who wanted something from you. And there are plenty more who would want something from you too...”

At this point, Maggie noticed Isabelle’s eyes wandering to where she was standing. The two women made eye contact while Maggie shifted uncontrollably.

Dr. Ramsey came to her rescue, swooping in beside Maggie and introducing her.

“Ah yes, Dr. Isabelle Crane, this is Dr. Maggie Valentine. Edenbrook’s finest intern, ranked number one currently. She’s accompanied me to the symposium this year.”

“And I do mean finest…” He whispered quickly and breathlessly into Maggie’s ear as she reached forward to extend her hand to Isabelle.

She wanted to do a double take; her mind not completely sure she had heard Dr. Ramsey correctly. Instead she focused on the woman in front of her, hoping this exchange would end quickly.

Isabelle looked Maggie up and down then licked her lips and smiled deviously. Her eyes flicked from the doctor back to the intern. Maggie could almost see the wheels turning in this Isabelle woman’s head – she didn’t mind where she thought it was going but found it to be a little unprofessional.

“Well,” Isabelle cleared he throat, again her eyes playing ping pong between the two doctors. “Let me offer you this word of advice, number one intern...”

Maggie swallowed hard, her eyes locking with Isabelle’s. She was suddenly very afraid of what Isabelle was going to say next.

“Take great care to not let this one get away. It’s been my experience that once he’s out of sight, you’re out of mind.”

Isabelle was terse and made it beyond clear that she was unhappy with Dr. Ramsey’s behavior. Maggie wasn’t sure she wanted to know exactly what went on between the two of them, but she was astute enough to get the gist. She watched, keeping her composure, as Isabelle spun on her heel and quickly exited.

Wanting to break the ice and let her mentor know she wasn’t the least bit phased by anything, Maggie was the first to speak.

“I think I’ll go get that ibuprofen now.”

Dr. Ramsey was scratching the back of his neck, his head hung low. He looked up at her with a sheepish grin.

“Yeah. Good idea.”

By the time Dr. Ramsey returned to the room, Maggie was in the shower. She had laid out her dress for the evening, hoping it was right for the occasion. The last thing she wanted was to be too dressed up or not dressed up enough. She was well aware of who she was with and she did not want to disappoint him in any way.

It wasn’t long before she heard Dr. Ramsey’s voice call out over the noise of the water. She knew he was back in the room when she heard the loud hotel door slam close. Thankfully there was no way he could enter the bathroom, as she had thought ahead and locked it. She already had her fill of awkward encounters for the day.

“Maggie?”

She swallowed hard, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. She could feel her neck and chest flush a little bit upon the realization that the only thing between her naked body and Dr. Ethan Ramsey was a flimsy hotel wall. And what’s more, he knew it too, and still chose to engage with her. Trying her best not to come across too hopeful or excited, she casually responded.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for all that back there…I know you may…uh…have some questions but she’s…”

Maggie cut him off, not wanting or needing an explanation.

“It’s fine, Dr. Ramsey. Really!”

She began to wash her hair, biting her lip and closing her eyes wondering where this conversation would go next.

“I know you might need the shower, so I’ll be fast. I’m just finishing up!” She lied.

“Oh, um, okay. No rush.”

Maggie noticed his voice had gotten lower and a little more raspy with that response. Could it be possible that he was thinking the same thing she was? There was no way he wasn’t thinking about her being in the shower as he spoke with her WHILE SHE WAS IN THE SHOWER.

“How’s your head?” He asked plainly.

Maggie had now put her head under the water to rinse. “Oh, it’s much better, thank you.”

“Is this – this dress here on the bed, is this what you’re wearing tonight?”

She cursed herself, unsure of his tone.

“I brought a lot of options. I wasn’t sure how fancy this was, and I can do something different if it’s not that kind of reception.”

She was finished with her shower now and had turned off the water, wrapping a towel around herself quickly. Her heart was beating fast indicating she was nervous, but her mind was fixed on him and she also felt daring. She wondered if it was possible to be both at the same time.

“It’s sufficient.” Dr. Ramsey responded in typical fashion.

With her hair dripping wet, she decided to go for it. He wasn’t stupid and neither was she. If anything, she could play it off like an honest mistake. But she wanted him. And she wanted him to know she wanted him. Coming out of the bathroom in just a towel would definitely send that message.

She opened the door and wasn’t prepared for him to be right there, but he was. Literally a few inches from her. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of his lips. She wished she had looked at his eyes instead, because she wanted to watch them and see where they travelled. Did he look her over like he had Isabelle?

Dr. Ramsey suddenly cleared his throat loudly.

“Rookie…” he almost whispered, finally locking his gaze onto hers.

“Only sufficient?” Maggie pouted.

She could feel a bead of water running from the end of her hair down her chest between her breasts and she held her composure perfectly as she watched her favorite teacher’s eyes follow the path of the drop.

“More than sufficient.”

And with that he stepped into the bathroom, leaving Maggie to finish getting ready.

The reception was everything Maggie dreamed it would be. She got to wear her fancy dress and drink champagne all with Dr. Ethan Ramsey on her arm. If she had the chance to go back to high-school-Maggie and tell herself that this would be her life, high-school-Maggie never in a million years would have believed her.

She was trying to take mental inventory of everything. Not just the amazing food and ambiance, but the way Dr. Ramsey looked in a tux, the way he had given his approval with a curt nod as she spun around for him in their hotel room, asking him if she “looked okay.” Maggie didn’t want this night to ever end.

The reception had been held by the pool at the resort and eventually, they had to shut it down. Maggie had convinced Dr. Ramsey to stay until the bitter end, even though she had her shoes off and could barely keep her eyes open, when the music stopped and people started picking up, she knew it was time to go.

The bartender was packing up and called out to the couple as they passed by.

“You all want this?” He held out a bottle of champagne.

“It’s already been paid for.”

“Of course it has.” Dr. Ramsey responded as Maggie reached out to grab the bottle.

“And of course we do!” She giggled a little, taking the bottle and wiggling her eyebrows.

Dr. Ramsey couldn’t even stifle a smile this time. Maggie thought that perhaps, despite himself, he had a good night with her and for a few moments, maybe he actually enjoyed himself.

Once the couple exited the elevators on the floor of their room, they walked down the long hallway to the very end where their suite was waiting. Occasionally Maggie’s hand would brush with Dr. Ramsey’s as he held the champagne bottle by his side. She could tell something had changed. There was a new electricity between them now. She hoped it wasn’t just the buzz from the multiple glasses of Prosecco she consumed.

“Maggie…” he trailed off just as they reached their room.

“I had a nice time tonight.”

She couldn’t find her voice as she was lost in his incredibly bright blue eyes. They were always piercing but, in this moment, they looked a more intense shade of blue than she had ever seen or noticed before. He stood there, watching her, and she waited for her own brain and mouth to connect in order to respond but nothing came out. She was only able to smile and nod.

The familiar heat spread again on her cheeks, her neck and chest. He opened the door slowly and went to gather more champagne flutes from the table outside on the balcony.

“It’s a beautiful evening and it’s not over yet. Let’s drink out here!” He called to her.

Maggie felt like she was floating. She took a deep breath, dropped her shoes on the floor, and followed him outside. The view was breathtaking, both him and the oceanside. He brought her a flute, held up his glass and looked at her as he spoke.

“A toast. To you. The marvelous Dr. Maggie Valentine. Cheers to surviving your first medical symposium and a day with me. You truly are the finest intern Edenbrook has ever…” he paused adding dramatic effect, “…ever had.”

“Dr. Ramsey – I don’t know what to say, I…” Maggie felt like crying she was so proud of herself and so glad he felt that way about her, but he cut her off.

“Ethan.”

She nodded, taking a drink.

“Please, call me Ethan.”

Ethan exhaled quickly, took a drink of champagne and then began to speak again. Maggie couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though his voice was a little shaky as he started.

“I owe you an apology. I’ve been short and more cranky than normal as of late.” He moved to the railing, holding his glass with both hands and leaning over it.

Maggie almost interjected but decided against it. She wanted to see where this was going and what he would say next.

“This trip has been very difficult for me. And I don’t like to admit when I find things challenging or tough. I thought I could handle this. I thought it would be different. I’ve just never…”

“…felt like this before?” Maggie blurted it out without thinking. Her eyes grew wide, she covered her mouth with her free hand and spilled a little champagne in the process.

Ethan’s head turned slowly to face her. His smile turned into his trademark smirk and Maggie was done for.

“That’s it exactly, Maggie. I’ve tried. So hard…but this trip -- being together so much just us, one on one, and seeing you like this and being with you tonight, everything has just made it impossible.”

And there it was. Just like that he called her Maggie. She was now on a first name basis with Dr. – no – Ethan. Strangely, she was calm. Her pulse was normal, she was concentrating on him and him alone.

He quickly finished what remained in his glass and set it on the table, taking her free hand in his.

“I could say all of that, too.” She gulped.

Remembering she also had champagne, she took a sip and shivered as he ran his thumb lazily across her knuckles. The words continued to come out of her mouth before she could even think.

“I can’t even believe that right now, I’m me and you’re you and we’re standing here on this balcony looking at the ocean, all dressed up, together. Like actually together. And you’re holding my hand and I just…I’ve wanted this…with you…”

Ethan nodded and without saying a word, took her face in his hands and whispered, “And I want you.”

Maggie didn’t know what was happening anymore. She wasn’t sure if she moved in for the kiss or if he was going to do it anyway, but it didn’t matter. She was now officially in the arms of Dr. Ethan freaking Ramsey and she was going to enjoy it.

After a few moments the passion was intensifying between them both and Maggie took a quick step back, holding Ethan at arm’s length.

“What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

“Not a thing.” She smiled, holding his gaze and looking at him fondly.

“I want to remember this. There’s not one second of this moment I want to ever forget.”

Ethan smiled and then moved closer to her, nuzzling her neck just below her ear and moving her towards the bed, where the two of them tangled themselves together for hours, enjoying their evening and each other long into the night.

#blazerina babbles #blazerina x parkerattano team up #ethically questionable #eq au #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #mc x ethan #tumblr will HATE me #open heart #open heart au

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fillingthescrapbook · 3 years

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Rewriting The CW's Kung Fu, Part 7: Act III

This is already the penultimate post, but if you're somehow seeing this before any of the previous posts, you can find them here:

Part 1: The Characters

Part 2: The Pilot

Part 3: The Mythology

Part 4: The Story Map

Part 5: Act I

Part 6: Act II

Hopefully, I haven't lost you yet. Especially since we have now reached the end of the first season with our final act.

Episode 10: Opulence

We are splitting focus in the first episode of this arc--with Nicky at the center of the two main plots. One of them is, of course, about the mystical weapons. Nicky, Ryan, Henry, and Evan bring the box from Mei-Xue's cabin back to San Francisco--which they are able to open with the jade key they retrieved from the puzzle box. Inside the box is the scabbard of Liang Dai-Yu's sword. It's jade design is engraved with characters, but Henry says it will take him some time to make sense of them, and Mei-Xue's journal writings.

Nicky starts grilling Henry about the guardians of the weapons, but Henry doesn't really know much since his father never talked much about it. All Henry knows is the things he researched on his own...and the whereabouts of the weapon his father lost: the safe of a business mogul named Raymond Tan. Evan recognizes the name, reminding Nicky of who bailed the museum goons out. He tells her that he was able to talk to one of Raymond Tan's son, Kerwin, who seems like a nice guy. Nicky thinks they can persuade him to separate the weapons--to save the world.

The other main plot has Althea asking Nicky to find out why Chloe, Dennis's younger sister, is always disappearing. Althea blames herself a little bit, as Chloe started acting out after her revelation at the Soong family dinner. Nicky promises to keep an eye out on Chloe.

While Nicky is staking Chloe out at an event with Evan, the latter spots Kerwin mingling with the other guests. He pulls Nicky towards Kerwin so they could talk to him about the weapons, and to ask for his help in separating them. Nicky slips and tells him that a dangerous woman is collecting them, and having them all in Raymond's safe makes it easy for her to steal them. Kerwin apologizes to them, saying he cannot control his father's actions.

Nicky, already dejected, realizes she lost track of Chloe. She and Evan try to look for her, but to no avail. When Henry calls Nicky to give her an update about the scabbard translation, Nicky tells him her problem. Henry swoops in for the save by trawling through Chloe's social media presence, her friends--before seeing a questionable post. He tells Nicky to show an Instagram post to Evan. Evan recognizes it as jewelry that's been reported missing. Evan tells Nicky that Chloe's friends might be involved in a gang of robbers that's been targeting San Francisco's elite. Nicky, Evan, and Henry then work together to save Chloe from her friends.

Meanwhile, Dennis plans to purchase Cloudrush Capital so he could oust Althea's former boss, without telling his soon-to-be wife. But when Althea goes public with her sexual harassment experience, Dennis's business deal suddenly falls apart. When he asks his parents if there's something wrong with their finances, they admit that they were the ones who kiboshed his plan. They want him to break up with Althea because she will tarnish the Soong name. Dennis refuses.

Ryan, living alone for the first time, realizes how his life revolved too much around work and family. He tries to meet new friends via phone apps, only to realizes that most men on the apps are just looking for hook-ups.

Mei-Li and Jin are also starting to feel the emptiness of their house with Ryan and Althea gone, and Nicky always doing something. Because of their empty nest, Mei-Li starts spending more time at the restaurant--needing purpose; while Jin feels himself drifting...ending up at the community center, wanting at first to catch Ryan, before ending up helping people out while he's there.

Going back to Nicky, Evan thinks they should be careful because Chloe's friends might be dangerous. Henry, on the other hand, thinks they're just bored teens with access to the mansions that are being stolen from. When they finally track Chloe down via her friend's Instagram Live, they realizes that the group has set their sights on the Soong's mansion.

Evan separate so he could call in an anonymous tip to the police, while Nicky and Henry try to talk Chloe and her friends out of robbing the Soongs. When Chloe's friends refuse to listen, choosing to act in violence instead, Nicky and Henry are forced to use non-lethal combat moves to incapacitate the teens. One of the teens threaten to have Nicky and Henry arrested, but when the police arrive with a lawyer from the teens' families, Nicky and Henry are assured that they're in the clear--provided they sign an NDA with regards to the actions of the rich teens. Nicky agrees to sign if the teens leave Chloe alone. When the teens are gone, Chloe thanks Nicky, explaining she was afraid to leave her friend group because of their retaliation. Chloe hopes she'll find a friend who are as chill as Nicky and Henry.

The episode ends with Zhi-Lan breaking into Raymond Tan's house. She sneaks into the the businessman's private room and breaks into his safe. Only to find that it is empty. And then we reveal Kerwin, holding three weapons. He tells Zhi-Lan that he's not there to stop her... because he wants to team up. He wants to help her bring his father down.

Episode 11: Beginnings

When we begin this episode, Nicky and Ryan find out that their father has been putting in hours at the community center as a volunteer worker--which is causing friction between him and their mother. While Mei-Li tells Jin that volunteering is noble, she doesn't think he should spend so much time outside the restaurant which needs all the help it can get.

Things take a turn for the worse though when Jin finds out from a conversation between Ryan and Henry that the community center is in danger of being closed down due to lack of traffic. When Jin brings this up to Nicky, who sees how important the center had become to her dad, Nicky tells him that they'll think of a way to save it.

Meanwhile, to manage the stress of the media's interest in her sexual harassment case, Althea decides to help Henry out in figuring out what Mei-Xue discovered via her journals. Althea realizes Mei-Xue's writings aren't just flights of fancy--they're coded. With Althea and Henry working together, they realize that Mei-Xue had become obsessed with the fables of the eight mystical weapons and have been tracking them down.

"But what made her stop and take root in Canada," Althea wonders as she and Henry continue to peruse the photos of the journal pages.

Mei-Li, now taking care of the Happy Dumplings kitchen due to Jin's insistence on helping the community center, digs up old recipes written by her mother--where she also finds a very old photo of her mother hiding something behind her back: the sword of Liang Dai-Yu. Mei-Li recognizes it from the drawings that Nicky had been showing them. She decides to hide the photo, worried that it might push Nicky further into fulfilling her "destiny" to leave her family.

Evan approaches Nicky with news about an auction where one of the weapons Henry told them about is being sold. Nicky realizes they have no means of attending the auction or bidding for the weapon, nor do they have the time since Nicky, Ryan, and Jin are busy rallying help from Asian business owners to help save the community center. Evan tells her that both Zhi-Lan and Raymond Tan will probably be there. Nicky hopes that, at the very least, the weapons continue to be separated.

At the auction, we see Zhi-Lan win the bidding war for the weapon. Outside the nondescript hotel where the auction took place, Zhi-Lan gets attacked by goons from Raymond Tan. But she isn't alone. Kerwin pops up and helps her fight the goons. Kerwin grins at Zhi-Lan, "we make a good team."

Back at the Shen House, Dennis checks up on Althea and reports that her apartment building still has a few media stragglers. "Must be slow news week," Althea mutters. "Hopefully, the attention will be gone by the time our wedding rolls around. If your parents don't hate me yet for coming out with my story, they're gonna hate me when the media crashes the wedding."

Dennis tells Althea, "what if we just elope?" Althea is taken aback. She reminds Dennis that everything has been planned out, they've had to find the most auspicious date for their union, the tea ceremony has been scheduled-- Dennis interrupts her by saying that none of that is important. He just wants to be with Althea. "Won't your parents be angry?" Dennis admits that his parents want the wedding off. They want him to break up with Althea. Which he doesn't want to do. Althea is torn. She doesn't want Dennis going against his family. Dennis says he's not going against them--just their antiquated beliefs. "And they'll learn to live with my decision." Althea agrees to eloping.

Ryan sets up an appointment with the Chinese Community Development office, accompanied by Jin, to talk about what can be done to keep the center open. Meanwhile, Nicky and Evan work together at the city hall to find out how they can drive more traffic to the community center--to make it a viable candidate for city funding. With the two efforts combined, the community center gets saved--and Nicky realizes that this is what she likes doing: helping people, making sure they have a place to go to, guiding them in the ways they can fight for themselves. So she also volunteers her legal counsel at the center, vowing to go back to school as well to finish her law degree.

She and Evan have a moment, where Nicky realizes that Evan is still her best friend from childhood. But she also realizes that their relationship now is not built on romance but rather in respect and trust.

At the end of the episode, Henry and Althea hit a breakthrough in their research with Dennis's help. Dennis helped them see that Mei-Xue had realized that the power the eight weapons would grant its collector is massive--and can become a barrier between Mei-Xue and those she loves. So she chose love.

Mei-Li overhears this as she accompanies Nicky towards Althea, Dennis, and Henry. While Nicky and the others are discussing the implications of Mei-Xue's words, Mei-Li traces the engraved jade on the scabbard of Liang Dai-Yu's sword. Triggering a mechanism. Causing light to filter through one of the scabbard's holes--and projecting a story to the Shen's ceiling: of how Bian-Ge has been passed from guardian to guardian, rotating through the families to make sure it never falls in the wrong hands. Every few years, a guardian is chosen to collect the weapons from the families to take where the golden flowers bloom--to receive Bian-Ge and become its new defender. A glow then rotates through the eight weapons before stopping at the longsword. At Liang Dai-Yu's sword. Nicky realizes, "it looks like a descendant of Liang Dai-Yu is the next guardian to receive Bian-Ge. It has to be one of us." Henry posits, "unless Zhi-Lan and Pei-Ling are also Liang Dai-Yu's descendants."

Episode 12: Honor

Our main thread, as always, will revolve around Nicky. In the last episode, she made a decision that she wants to help people--and while doing so, she also wants to finish her law degree. But, at the same time, she now knows that her family has an obligation to become the next bearer of Bian-Ge. And there are currently only two choices for who it can be: her, or Zhi-Lan.

Mei-Li wants Nicky to focus on who she wants to become, separate from the warrior destiny. Althea and Evan are siding with Mei-Li because they fear for Nicky's safety. Ryan and Henry, on the other hand, believe that Nicky is more than capable to take care of herself. Jin tells Nicky that he only wants her to follow her heart.

Henry sees that Nicky is still undecided so he tells her not to pressure herself to make a decision. "Even if Zhi-Lan gets seven of the weapons soon, we still have one weapon. Zhi-Lan can't achieve Bian-Ge without it."

And then we cut to the visiting area of a prison. The dojo fight-club douche-bag wants to cut a deal with his visitors. He's fine with staying in jail, but he wants them to beat the living daylights out of Nicky Shen before they take the deer-horn knives they're after. And then we cut to who he's talking to: it's Zhi-Lan. "It'll be my pleasure."

While looking at college prospects, Nicky gets attacked by Zhi-Lan. They fight. Nicky matches Zhi-Lan's strength, but Zhi-Lan is desperate. No one wins this skirmish though because Cody (from Episode 3) sees them and calls for campus security. Zhi-Lan gets away--and Nicky calls Henry, after thanking Cody, to tell him that they're in trouble. Zhi-Lan is on the hunt for the weapon they have.

Henry and Evan work together to hide the final weapon from Zhi-Lan, not knowing that Kerwin is staking Evan out. Kerwin calls Zhi-Lan to tell her that the weapon is on the move.

Meanwhile, Althea and Dennis spend the episode getting ready for their elopement. Althea wants Dennis to invite Chloe, so he could have family there--so he does. But his parents find out about the civil wedding they're planning when Chloe slips. Chloe tries to warn Dennis, but Althea decides to stand up to her soon-to-be in-laws. She tells them that she doesn't want Dennis to lose his family, to which they agree. Before adding that he won't lose them if Althea goes away. They even offer her money., which Althea rejects with disgust. If they continue with their civil wedding, they're cutting Dennis off--financially, and from the family. Dennis tells them that he already made his choice--before saying goodbye to his parents.

Joe returns after his month-long contract with a non-profit organization in Seattle...only to tell Ryan that he's accepting a full-time job with a charity there that helps homeless people turn their life around. Ryan tells him he can move to Seattle--but Joe isn't ready for that level of commitment yet. Their relationship already moved too fast for him, but he couldn't turn Ryan away when the latter needed a place to stay. Joe tells Ryan they can still be friends.

Back to Nicky, she meets with Henry to visit Ronda (from Episode 4), who volunteered to hide their weapon. Before they leave Ronda's place, Kerwin catches them. Nicky is surprised to find out he sided with Zhi-Lan. Kerwin tells her, "the enemy of my enemy is my friend." Henry strikes first. Ronda tells Nicky she can take the weapon away while they deal with Kerwin. Nicky hands her the bag that hides the weapons.

Kerwin is ruthless, using a mixture of street-fighting with different styles of martial arts. But his goal isn't to defeat Henry or Nicky. It's to get the weapon. While Nicky and Henry do their best to stop Kerwin from chasing after Ronda, the young woman quickly makes a decision to throw the bag into the bay. Kerwin tells them that they made a mistake. Nicky, confident, confesses that the bag was just a ruse. Kerwin grins. "We know."

Evan is about to drive away from the District Attorney's office, with a bag identical to the one Henry had been carrying in his passenger seat. But before Evan could leave the parking lot, a motorbike slams into his car. Zhi-Lan reveals herself by taking her helmet off. She thanks Evan for keeping the weapon warm for her. Only to open an empty bag. Zhi-Lan is pissed. She wants to know where the final weapon is, but Evan refuses to tell her. Not wanting to deal with the police, Zhi-Lan quickly makes her exit.

We then see Nicky knock on a door. It opens to reveal Stanley (from Episode 1). He is ready to surrender the weapon to Nicky, fearing that it will bring him bad luck. Nicky thanks him for keeping it safe. Apologizes again for bailing on him with no warning three years ago. Stanley says there's nothing to apologize for, because he's grateful that she gave him the chance to meet and marry someone of his own choosing. Nicky is about to leave with the weapon when Stanley calls after her, saying, "I hope you find the one for you too."

Nicky exits Stanley's apartment building to see Henry waiting for her. And he's being held at gunpoint by Kerwin, who is now with Zhi-Lan. "I'll take that," Zhi-Lan says as she pries the weapon off Nicky's hands. Nicky hits back with a barb, "I don't know how Pei-Ling could be related to someone as selfish as you." Zhi-Lan laughs, "it's funny how you hold Pei-Ling to such high regard when you do not even know who she really was."

Zhi-Lan reveals to Nicky how Pei-Ling's selfishness cost them their father. Cost her her childhood. And for what? To guard a sword that she wouldn't even harness the power of? Nicky remembers Pei-Lings words to her from throughout the season, her regrets, her failures--Nicky realizes that Zhi-Lan is just like Pei-Ling. Carrying a lot of hurt. But they reacted in different ways. While Pei-Ling spent her life trying to atone for a mistake, Zhi-Lan grew up blaming Pei-Ling for everything that had gone wrong in her life. And now, Zhi-Lan is planning to achieve Bian-Ge so she never gets hurt again.

Henry creates a distraction to throw Zhi-Lan off. Nicky swoops in to try and take the weapon away from Zhi-Lan. They fight. Kerwin and Henry get into their own fight. Both fights are evenly matched. But Nicky gets distracted when Kerwin shoots Henry. Kerwin and Zhi-Lan flee, while Nicky runs to Henry to see if he's okay. Henry shows her that the wound isn't serious. (It shouldn't be.) But Nicky is still worried.

At home, Nicky tells her parents that she has to go back to China. Jin and Ryan accept this. Mei-Li is more reluctant, but she knows that the more she tries to pull her daughter in, the more she is pushing Nicky away. So she will support Nicky. Althea tells Nicky that she will give her blessing to Nicky's trip on one condition. Nicky says, "anything."

And then we cut to Althea and Dennis's civil wedding, with the Shen family as witnesses. Nicky is her "maid of honor," giving a speech at Happy Dumplings about how much of a beautiful couple the two make--and how lucky they are to have each other. Althea thanks Nicky for being there, saying she didn’t want Nicky to miss another family milestone. We see a bandaged Henry there, Evan, Althea's former co-worker, a few of her friends and Dennis's, and Chloe.

At Zhi-Lan's apartment, she admires the eight weapons she has been able to collect. Kerwin kisses her from behind, saying that now she can have the world. Zhi-Lan smiles at him, before saying she no longer has any use for him. Kerwin isn't surprised that she would betray him--his only surprise stems from the fact that he fell for Zhi-Lan. Zhi-Lan apologizes that she must now kill him, so he can't tell his father where she is going. And she does. Once Kerwin is down, Zhi-Lan sheds tears. We see that she's just cutting the relationship short before she becomes too attached.

Meanwhile, Nicky checks on Henry outside Happy Dumplings. She has her ticket for China booked already. But she shows him two tickets. Henry asks, "so you already have a return flight? Someone's feeling cocky that they're gonna stop Zhi-Lan quickly." Nicky punches him in the arm, before apologizing for hitting the part with the wound. "The other ticket's yours. If you want to help me stop Zhi-Lan." Henry grins.

And this is where we end this post for now. Because after writing the finale breakdown, I realized... I wrote the actual finale scene by scene. So that deserves a post of its own. Also, this post has already gotten so long.

#Kung Fu CW #tv talk #my words

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technologicalombudsman · 3 years

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-23

This is a journal on technology, politics, and everything in between. It contains musings on a variety of topics that we hope will enlighten the reader as much as it has enriched us. Through this journal, we want to make the world a better place not just by understanding it, but by changing it.

We start the series by examining the ideas of Byung Chul Han, whose works critique the neo-liberal economic system that undergirds modern life. It is an essential starting point of the series.

Unless you have been living under a rock, you would probably have heard of or used Facebook, Twitter, or even Tumblr. These technologies driving the current information age have globalized and liberated information. The impact, both good and bad, has been wide-ranging and deep, cutting into the fabric of society. The dwindling of traditional institutions of information (e.g., the news, radio, and television) has given way to an intoxicating medley of Instagram posts, Twitter feeds, and TikTok dances. In its wake, these technologies have transformed society into one that worships materialism, overconsumption, and self-surveillance. With every like or share, information is converted into value for the aforementioned technology companies, which have the unquestioned writ and power to dictate its use.

Han is a critic of this new world order, and his views precede current criticism in the vogue (Shoshana Zuboff’s Surveillance Capatilism, for example, is very similar, or The Social Dilemma on Netflix). His criticism, however, is not of technology itself, but rather the neo-liberal world order that has enabled such technology to evolve into a Leviathan with tentacles reaching into the deepest crevices of our private lives.

The catch here is that we are fully complicit and agreeable with this exploitation of our psyche.

The neo-liberal world order

The communist system of governance fell from grace with the collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1989. The number of communist regimes in the world can now be counted on the fingers of one’s hand. In its philosophical demise, communism gave the idea of capitalism and with it, the concept of a neo-liberal world order, the ammunition it required to reign hegemon. And it has. Since 1989, the world has largely been guided by the trade policy of the Anglo-Saxon alliance (the US and Europe), which has championed neo-liberal values of individualism, democratic rights, and capitalist free-market policies. The Washington consensus has underwritten the invisible architecture of global trade in today’s world.

Yet Han’s critique is that the current system is a perversion of these values. Excessive freedom has transformed into self-surveillance, self-censorship, and ironically, the destruction of the individual. Man, as the sole proprietor of his own freedom, has walked down the path of self-exploitation in the misguided belief that he and only he is the master of his own fate. As Kafka once said, the slave has stolen the whip from the master and begun whipping himself.

Self-exploitation and the evolution of discipline

Economic systems are driven by supply and demand; that is the iron law of economics (if there can be any to be said in existence). Han postulates that the disciplinary society of Foucault has been replaced by an achievement society. It is no longer one that uses negative control (i.e., whippings, beatings) but conversely relies on positive control (i.e., achievement) to control its subjects. It is epitomized in Obama’s feel-good campaign: “Yes We Can!”

The unconscious transition from “should to can” has transformed the exploitation of labor. In the past, we were instructed. But now, we are inspired. We are self-empowered to keep exploiting ourselves for the betterment of capitalism. We go on LinkedIn and post photos of our achievements. We learn new courses with Coursera to find a better job. We boast about our achievements - but they are, in effect, our punishments. Trapped in this self-inflicted cycle of punishment, humans develop neuroses, as they would to any form of pain, psychological or otherwise. These psychological sores have manifested in the growing numbers of mental illnesses and psychological problems plaguing our societies.

As a society, we are in pain because of this punishment. Yet we are blind as to the source of the whip and the identity of the oppressor. We continue to yearn for more and more and more achievement, and in the process, become more depressed, more unfulfilled, and increasingly psychotic. The problems of modern day issues originate from this source of oppression.

Reflections

As much that I have written, I have not even touched the surface of The Burnout Society with this report. Han’s criticism of the current world order - the liberal world order - is devastating.

Personally, it has enlightened me.

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stuckinapatriarchalbullshitland · 4 years

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So, my girl @blogbeautiffulthings showed me this article from the WallStreet Journal of Camila talking about her anxiety and is really sad but very informative. We can see a part of her we doesn’t see and it’s really good to see it.

“In her own words, 23-year-old Grammy-nominated singer/songwriter Camila Cabello talks about dealing with her internal struggles for Mental Health Month.If you look at the pictures I’ve posted on Instagram over the last year, you’ll find pictures of me writing in the studio, pictures in a hallway in a bomb-dot-com outfit before going onstage to perform, pictures of me cuddled up with my dog, Eugene, on a couch, and pictures of me bursting with excitement to play you my music.But here’s what there aren’t pictures of from the last year: me crying in the car talking to my mom about how much anxiety and how many symptoms of OCD [obsessive-compulsive disorder] I was experiencing. My mom and me in a hotel room reading books about OCD because I was desperate for relief. Me experiencing what felt like constant, unwavering, relentless anxiety that made day-to-day life painfully hard.I didn’t want to tell you what was going on for the same reason a lot of us don’t want to talk about what it feels like to be at war in our minds and in our bodies. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I didn’t want the people who thought I was strong and capable and confident—the people who most believed in me—to find out that I felt weak. The little voice in my head was telling me that if I was honest about my mental health struggle and my internal battles (i.e. being human), people would think there was something wrong with me, or that I wasn’t strong, or that I couldn’t handle things.That same little voice also told me maybe I was being ungrateful for all the good in my life—and that hiding the open wound I’d been avoiding the last few years was the easiest and fastest solution.But all of that is not the truth. There was something hurting inside me, and I didn’t have the skill to heal it or handle it. In order to heal it, I had to talk about it. Denying my suffering and berating myself didn’t help things. I needed to say those three revolutionary words: “I need help.”For a few months, I felt messed up, with a capital UP. My anxiety manifested in the form of obsessive compulsive disorder. OCD is not how it’s stereotyped, like,“She’s so OCD about her desk being organized, etc.” OCD can take many different forms, and for me it was obsessive thoughts and compulsive behaviors. To put it simply, it made me feel like my mind was playing a cruel trick on me. It affected me physically, too. I couldn’t sleep for a long time, I had a constant knot in my throat, I had chronic headaches, and my body went through what felt like multiple roller-coaster rides every day. I kept going and kept showing up, never letting people around me know how much I was really struggling. But you probably felt my distance on some level. All my loved ones did.It’s hard to be there for your people when you’re just trying to be OK yourself. That’s why being brave enough and loving yourself enough to speak up and get help is not only the best gift you can give yourself but the best gift you can give the people you care about. In the moments when I was battling my anxiety, I wasn’t present when my sister talked to me about her day, or I wasn’t present enough to notice that my mom had been quiet. I couldn’t ask my mom what was wrong, because my mind was making so much noise and my hands were full trying to handle my own pain. I knew I needed to take action and take ownership of the one mind and the one life I was given.I did a lot of work every day for months. Through the help of cognitive behavioral therapy, meditation (the most empowering thing I think a human being can do, whether you are struggling or not), breathwork and taking care of my body, I am not in that internal war that I was in every day. It also took a lot of self-love (believing I am inherently worthy of happiness, belonging, love and joy, no matter what), self-compassion (not emotionally beating myself up for struggling) and self-awareness (calling myself out on my shit).Today I am no longer in that internal war. I feel the healthiest and most connected to myself I’ve ever been, and nowadays I rarely suffer from OCD symptoms. Anxiety comes and goes, but now it feels like just another difficult emotion, as opposed to something that’s consuming my life. By doing the work and showing up for myself every day, I feel like I have more trust in myself than ever before.Still, I had to speak up. We have to have these conversations about mental health the same way we have them about physical health. If someone breaks their leg, we wouldn’t be calling them inadequate or weak. There would be no question that the next step is to go to the doctor and tend to it.For a long time, anxiety felt like it was robbing me of my humor, my joy, my creativity and my trust. But now anxiety and I are good friends. I listen to her, because I know she’s just trying to keep me safe, but I don’t give her too much attention. And I sure as hell don’t let her make any decisions.For any of you going through a hard time with your mental health, please speak up. We live in a culture that pursues an unattainable perfection. Social media can make us feel like we should be as perfect as everybody else seems to be. Far from being a sign of weakness, owning our struggles and taking the steps to heal is powerful.Just because you were born, you have the right—and the choice—to fight for your health and happiness, to show up for your one, precious life. Let’s not carry the heavy stuff alone—together we can walk a little lighter, free our arms up and dance again”.

Camila for Wall Street Journal

____

Camila has not talked about this in her stories or lives but we have seen it. We have seen that since 2019 she has been struggling with her anxiety and OCD because her expression has shown it. Her lack of energy, her decay. Everything in her has not been screaming all this time that she is not well and that she needs help. We know that the media pressure of the circus has not helped her either, but that is the details of something deeper than that. Not for nothing when we become aware of what she is going through do we publicly discuss it and ask that they take care of her because she needs it. Camila needs specialists to help her with her mental problems because it is important that they be taken care of. The extra help of meditation goes a long way, but if she needs traditional medicine, I think it is also important that she get help that way. The help of psychologists and psychiatrists can also help her and I hope she is trying. Her fans, the usual. Send her love and support, so that she knows that she is not alone and that we will always be aware that she is well because we only want to see her happy

#camila cabello #mental health #OCD #anxiety #wall street journal #article

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arcticdementor · 4 years

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On June 24, amid great cultural upheaval and unrest, Glenn Yu reached out to Glenn Loury, his former teacher, to record his thoughts about the current moment. An edited version of their conversation follows.

…

You may or may not have an opinion about that, but suppose the question were to arise in the dorm room late at night. Suppose you have the view that you’re not sure it’s racism, and then someone challenges you, saying, “you’re not black.” They say, “you’ve never been rousted by the police. You don’t know what it’s like to live in fear.” How much authority should that identitarian move have on our search for the truth? How much weight should my declarations in such an argument carry, based on my blackness? What is blackness? What do we mean? Do we mean that his skin is brown? Or do we mean that he’s had a certain set of social-class-based experiences like growing up in a housing project? Well, white people can grow up in housing projects, too. There are lots of different life experiences.

I think it’s extremely dangerous that people accept without criticism this argumentative-authority move when it’s played. It’s ad hominem. We’re supposed to impute authority to people because of their racial identity? I want you to think about that for a minute. Were you to flip the script on that, you might see the problem. What experiences are black people unable to appreciate by virtue of their blackness? If they have so much insight, maybe they also have blind spots. Maybe a black person could never understand something because they’re so full of rage about being black. Think about how awful it would be to make that move in an argument.

Suppose someone, a white guy, is arguing about affirmative action with you. Suppose he thinks that affirmative action is undignified because he thinks that positions should be earned, not given, but he allows that he doesn’t expect someone like you to understand that argument because you’re black. That would be terribly unreasonable— even “racist.” Yet I’m hard-pressed to see the difference.

…

People cry, “structural racism.” Is that why the homicide rate is an order of magnitude higher among young black men? They say structural racism. Is that why the SAT test-score gap is as big as it is? They say structural racism. Is that why two in three black American kids are born to women without a husband? Is it all about structural racism? Is everything structural racism? It has become a tautology explaining everything. All racial disparities are due to structural racism, evidently. Covid-19 comes along and there’s a disparity in the health incidence. It’s due to structural racism. They’re naming partners at a New York City law firm and there are few black faces. Structural racism. They’re admitting people to specialized exam schools in New York City and the Asians do better. This has to be structural racism, with a twist—the twist being that this time, the structural racism somehow comes out favoring the Asians.

This is not social science. This is propaganda. It’s religion. People are trying to win arguments by using words as if they were weapons.

…

And just so I don’t sound like a right-winger, observe that if I were a Marxist, I’d be furious at these people going around talking about “structural racism.” Structure, yes. Racism, no. Because if I were a Marxist, which I’m not, I’d understand the driving force of history to be the interaction between class relations and the means of production, the struggle between workers and capital in the quest for profit given the logic of capitalism. Though I don’t subscribe to it, that’s at least an intellectually serious theory. I know what people are talking about when they say we need more unions, when they say we need to break up big companies, when they say that the accumulation of wealth has gotten too great. When someone says that the logic of profit-seeking leads to war, at least I know what they’re talking about. I don’t necessarily have to agree with Das Kapital to understand that it’s a serious engagement with history.

Structural racism, by contrast, is a bluff. It’s not an engagement with history. It’s a bullying tactic. In effect, it’s telling you to shut up.

…

Yu: I’ve had conversations in the past few weeks that have ended very poorly; conversations that have spiraled out of control, where I’m suddenly a racist, so I’m on damage control. I just don’t know how to reach people in a meaningful way, and that’s very disturbing to me.

Loury: It is disturbing. I’m not a seer. My mouth is not a prayer book. I only say what I say based on my subjective assessment of it all. But it may be that, for a while anyway, there’s not going to be a whole lot of effective talking. It may well be that we have to imagine a world where effective deliberation and consensus is not within reach for us, and we’re going to have to manage that situation. It could get very bad. It could go to violence. This is what Sam Harris always says, and he’s got a point. He says that if we can’t reason together, then the only alternative for dispute resolution is violence.

I don’t know if you saw my piece in Quillette about the looting and the rioting, but I pick up these pieces published in the New York Times, respectable left-wing journals. I’m reading them, and the writer is saying, “America was founded on looting. What did you think the Boston Tea Party was?” Or, “You’re talking about looting when George Floyd lies dead? Oh, I see, black lives don’t matter as much as property.” These are, to my mind, incomprehensibly idiotic. I don’t mean that to cast aspersions. The civilization that we all enjoy rests upon a very fragile foundation. Look. I’m in my backyard. It’s very nice. I’ve got a lot of space. There’s a fence. The birds come. I have a lawn. It’s mine!

Now, if a homeless person comes and squats in my backyard, I call the police. I have him removed, forcibly. There should be no lack of clarity about whether George Floyd’s death somehow excuses or justifies burning a bodega to the ground that a Muslim immigrant spends his whole life building. Being confused about that, equivocating about that, splitting the difference about that—I don’t understand how we’re going to have a reasoned discussion. My thoughts go back to, protect civilization. Again, I know how that sounds. It’s hyperbolic. It’s exaggerated—but only a little! My gut response is that this is not the time for argument. This is the time to protect civilization and protect institutions. When people start toppling statues of Abraham Lincoln and spray-painting on statues of George Washington, “a slave owner,” things fall apart. The center cannot hold. We teeter on the brink of catastrophe.

…

Yu: If there’s no available policy intervention, and there’s also no way we can change people’s minds, then is it hopeless? Is disparity always going to be the case?

Loury: Yes. My answer is it’s hopeless. But let me rephrase the question, and I’m channeling Thomas Sowell now. You have two alternatives. You can live with disparities, or you can live in totalitarianism. Again, hyperbolic, I know. No, I’m not talking about Eastern Europe circa 1960, but look at it this way: there can’t be a disparity without somebody being on top. People don’t recognize this.

What groups are on top? What about the Jews? You could say, “There are too many Jews in positions of influence.” If there are too few black lawyers who are partners in big law firms, doesn’t it follow that are too many Jews who are partners at these big firms? If there are too few blacks who are professors of mechanical engineering at places like Carnegie Mellon, why aren’t there too many Korean professors at these places?

…

What is the nature of the world that we live in? Why would I ever expect that there would be parity across the board between ethnic, racial, cultural, and ancestral population groups in an open society? It’s a contradiction because difference is a very fact of groupness. What do I mean by a group? Well, it’s genes, to some degree; it’s culture; it’s networks of social affiliation, of intermarriage and kinship. I mean the shared narrative, the same hopes, the dreams, the stories. I mean the practices of parenting and filial piety and whatever else there might be.

A group is a group. It has characteristics. Those characteristics matter for whether you play in the NBA. They matter for whether you learn to master the violin or the piano. They matter for whether you pursue technical subjects or choose to become a humanist or a scientist. They matter for the food that you eat. They matter for how many children you raise and how you raise them. They matter as to the age when you first have sex. They matter for all those things, and I think everyone would agree with that.

But now you’re telling me that they don’t matter for who becomes a partner in a law firm? They don’t matter for who becomes a chair in the Philosophy Department somewhere? Groupness implies disparity because groupness, if taken seriously, implies differences in ways of living life. Not everybody wants to play the fiddle. Not everybody wants to dunk a basketball. Not everybody is frightened to death that their parents are going to be disappointed with them if they come home with an A-minus. Not everybody is susceptible to being swayed into a social affiliation that requires them to commit a violent crime in order to prove their bona fides. Groups differ. Groups are not evenly distributed across society. That’s inevitable. If you insist that those be flattened, you’re only going to be able to succeed by imposing a totalitarian regime that monitors everything and jiggers everything, recomputing and refiguring things until we’ve got the same number of blacks in proportion to their population and the same number of second-generation Vietnamese immigrants in proportion to their population being admitted to Caltech or the Bronx High School of Science. I don’t want to live in that world.

#city journal #glenn yu #glenn loury #interview #read the whole thing

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lantur · 4 years

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royai week 2020: day four, “crackle”

summary: The Colonel and the Lieutenant have an unusually candid conversation.

rated: t for teen

tags: pre-canon

words: 4384 | read on ao3

Identifying and interviewing candidates for the State Alchemist program requires travel all over the Eastern area of Amestris. A lot of soldiers - hell, even most of Roy’s unit - dislike travel. They’re reluctant to leave the comforts of home and put up with questionable accommodations and questionable food, not to mention the practical annoyances. The long rides in trains that are either too hot or too cold, and the inevitable delayed connections that turn a four-hour trip, one way, into a six-hour trip.

Roy loves to travel. He always has, ever since he had been a kid accompanying his aunt on trips outside of Central to meet with her network from outside of the capital city. The inconveniences are, well, inconvenient, but they don’t bother him much. They are considerably outweighed by the fascination of seeing the rest of the country firsthand; striking up conversations with locals (or overhearing conversations between locals) and listening to them talk about how they live, about what their thoughts and concerns are.

Employment is an issue in the northeastern sector of the East Area, and has been ever since the mines closed. Import of food and other necessities to the southwestern area is sketchy and unreliable. The farthest west areas of the Eastern region have a significant problem with drug-related crime, due to its proximity to Central. Roy notes all of this down in his travel journal during the train rides for later reference.

I like to keep my finger on the pulse of the people, he tells his unit. They agree that his phrasing is “a little creepy,” but also agree that this genuine interest in the populace is what makes him a good leader.

This month’s trip has taken Roy and his Lieutenant to Liore, near the border of the North Area. It’s quite a bit colder than it had been in East City, even though it’s hardly a week into October. Their appointment with this potential State Alchemist candidate - Robert Gotha - is at eight the following morning, leaving them with just about twelve hours of downtime when they check into their inn.

The rooms are side-by-side on the first floor. All Roy wants is a hot shower and dinner, in that order, but Riza insists on doing a sweep of his room first, as she always does, and making him wait outside for his own security.

“Nobody outside of Grumman’s office and our unit knew of our travel plans,” Roy points out, risking her displeasure by opening the front door a crack. Riza is inspecting the interior of the room’s small closet. “There are no explosives under the bed or under the sink. I’m willing to bet that there are no assassins hiding in the bathtub, either.”

She throws him a glance, and a frown. “You never know, sir. You remember Major Rosen. The bomb was strapped to the back of his nightstand. We shouldn’t take any chances.”

Roy does remember Philip Rosen, the Bone Alchemist, blown to bits a year and a half ago by a survivor of the Ishvalan massacre. He nods, somewhat abashed. “I appreciate your diligence, Hawkeye.”

“Of course, Colonel. Now, please close the door. You can wait in my room, if you want to set your things down somewhere.”

Riza’s room is even smaller than his. Maybe the reminder of the Bone Alchemist’s fate had set him on edge, but Roy walks the perimeter of her room, checking in the bathroom, pulling the closet door open. The last thing he needs is for someone who planned on attacking him to find Riza instead. Everything seems safe, but drafty, and he frowns, noting the lack of fireplace in the room.

Riza returns in a few minutes, and draws her coat closer around herself the moment she walks in. “Clear,” she says. “The locks are flimsy. I suggest bracing your chair against the door, just in case.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Your room is secure too.” He sees the surprise on her face, and he’s rewarded with a small smile. “It’s cold, though. You don’t have a fireplace. Do you want to switch?”

Riza shakes her head. “That won’t be necessary. I sleep better when the temperature is a little lower.”

“At least have dinner and do your paperwork with me, then.” Roy walks to the door. “Your food will go cold in a couple of minutes if you eat it here.”

Riza hesitates, and then nods. “Thank you. I’ll go get dinner for us now.”

He doesn’t have to tell her what he would like. She already has his preferences memorized, as he does for her. Roy gives her the key to his room, and the first thing he does when stepping in is to light a fire in the fireplace. It warms the room instantly, and he sighs with relief.

The shower has dreadfully weak water pressure, but at least it’s hot. Roy towels his hair dry, pulls on a pair of dark pants and a white button-down shirt, and then steps out, releasing a wall of steam into the small room. Riza looks up from her paperwork. She had changed into civilian clothes too, a long skirt and a white button-down like his, and settled into one of the armchairs near the fireplace. The warm glow of the firelight does lovely things to the color of her eyes and hair, loose around her shoulders. The heat brings a faint blush to her cheeks. It isn’t the first time he’s seen her sitting in front of a fire, but the sight never gets old.

“I bought kebabs with chicken, eggplant, and bell pepper.” Riza gestures to the foil-wrapped package in the chair across from her. “I had mine already. It was even better than the ones we had last month in Meox.”

Roy flings himself down in the chair, unwrapping the kebabs. They smell wonderful, and he’s glad that they had opted against the cold sandwiches sold on the train. “But are they as good as yours?”

Riza continues writing, and a tiny smirk touches her lips. “No.”

Roy wolfs down his dinner, making no effort to be decorous. “Why do I have all this paperwork on this table next to me?” he says, with his mouth full. “Isn’t it enough that I spent all of this morning and afternoon in meetings that could have been memos?”

“It’s because you spent all of this morning and afternoon in meetings, instead of getting any work done. And because you refused to make up for any of those hours while on the train, in favor of testing out that new long-distance radio with Havoc.”

Roy bites back a laugh at the memory of his and Havoc’s increasingly ridiculous codenames. “Right.” He balls up the foil packaging and tosses it into the garbage can in the corner of the room. “What are you working on, Hawkeye?”

“Figuring out your schedule for next week.” Riza taps her pen against the paper. “You have two weeks’ worth of meeting requests in one week’s time. I’m trying to make sure that you still have enough downtime to get your paperwork done.”

“Paperwork and downtime don’t go in the same sentence.” Roy picks up Breda’s most recent intelligence report and rifles through it. “Just plan on me working late on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. That should do it.”

Riza makes a note. “So, I assume I’ll be working late on those nights as well.”

“You assume correctly.” Riza gives him a displeased look, and Roy twirls his pen through his fingers, unable to resist teasing her. “What? Are you upset about missing out on the coming week’s date nights?”

“Hardly,” Riza says, impassive. “I figured that would be more of a concern for you.”

“It isn’t. I’m giving it up.”

Riza raises an eyebrow, managing, as always, to convey a great deal with that small gesture.

“I am,” Roy insists. “It’s all getting to be a little much. And it’s pointless.”

Riza raises both eyebrows, this time. “Pointless? With all due respect, this doesn’t sound like you.”

Roy shrugs, and the expression in Riza’s eyes softens somewhat. “I’m sorry if you had a bad experience, sir.”

She’s speaking to him in the gentle, pitying way one would address the recently heartbroken. The same way she talks to Havoc, for heaven’s sake. Roy runs a hand through his hair, flustered. “It’s not like that, Lieutenant.”

Riza tilts her head to the side slightly, intrigued without pressing, and he has to elaborate. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant. But the women I’ve gone out with know of my rank and reputation. The Flame Alchemist, the Hero of Ishval,” -- Roy’s voice takes on a faintly mocking air -- “and the youngest Colonel in decades. I’m practically guaranteed to be a Brigadier General by the time I’m thirty-five, if I continue to play my cards right. Do you follow me?”

He sees a flicker of amusement in Riza’s eyes. “If I understand you correctly, you’re implying that your dates would prefer to be more than just dates.”

“Exactly. They don’t just want a couple of nights out. They want a real relationship, Hawkeye.” Roy sighs, rubbing his temples. “They want to be a General’s wife, someday, and live in a fancy house with large, manicured lawns, and a couple of nice cars, and a couple of nice kids that will go to Central’s best private school.”

Riza makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “The dream.”

“I can’t provide that,” Roy says tersely. “I have no intentions of living that life. I have no intention of living a long one, after becoming Fuhrer and implementing the changes that we want. If there’s any justice at all, I’ll be held accountable for what I did in Ishval. I don’t want to leave a widow and a couple of kids behind. That’s not an option.”

Riza inclines her head. “That’s fair.”

He shrugs, momentarily lost for words. “It’s starting to feel...wrong, to take what I want from these women, when I know that there’s absolutely no chance of them getting what they want. They want the third date. They want the relationship. They want to be the girlfriend, and then the fiancee, and then the wife. And I’ll never make that happen.”

“So, nobody’s happy.”

“Basically. Which is why I’m finished with that.” Roy leans back in the armchair, stopping the pretense of working, setting his stack of paperwork on the side table. He regards her thoughtfully. “What about you?”

Riza tenses up slightly. “What about me, Colonel?”

“Oh, you know.” Roy waves a hand casually. “You may not be as highly ranked as I am, and you don’t have the reputation that I do outside of military circles, but you’re a beautiful young woman. That carries its own weight. I’m surprised you’re not beating men back with a stick. Or your pistols.”

He had intended it as a compliment, but Riza glances at her lap, momentarily downcast. “That’s it, sir. That’s all that men see when they look at me. Just another blonde that they’d like to buy a few drinks for, and then take home for the night.” She sounds resigned. “They don’t see me. It feels a little dehumanizing.”

This is all news to him, and Roy stiffens. It’s stupid, it’s hypocritical, to be so stricken by men doing the exact same thing to Riza that he’s done to other women.

“Even the nicer ones, the ones that ask me out to dinner first…” Riza trails off. “They don’t know about Ishval, and the things I did there. They don’t know the burden I carry.”

“Hmm.” Roy considers this. There’s still a knot in his chest at the idea of anyone being foolish and shallow enough to see his Lieutenant - thoughtful, empathetic, kind, intelligent Riza - as nothing more than a conquest. “You could tell them.”

Riza shakes her head, at once. “They wouldn’t understand. Or they would think I was a monster.” She pauses. “Similarly, I doubt they would understand my goals, and what I’ve dedicated my life to.”

Roy feels a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I figure that most men would struggle with the idea that their girlfriend spends every day, and some evenings and nights, in service of another man’s ambitions.”

“Exactly.” Riza looks at him steadily. “Besides, I’m in the same position as you. I intend to be held accountable for my actions in Ishval as well.”

They’ve talked - argued; even fought outright - about this before. About the fact that he has no intention of prosecuting her at the same level that he would seek for himself and the other State Alchemists. Riza’s entire kill count in Ishval had been a mere fraction of what his had been. She had vehemently disagreed with his position. “Hawkeye--”

Riza gives him a quelling look, and Roy falls silent. “I don’t want to leave behind a husband or children, either,” she says. “I don’t want to be in a relationship that will go nowhere. That can go nowhere. It seems dishonest - like I would be holding the other person back from the happiness and uncomplicated life they deserve. I would rather dedicate myself fully to work.”

Somehow, with everything else they have in common, he’s not surprised that they share this perspective as well. “We’re both in a similar predicament, then.”

Riza exhales slowly, and then looks into the fireplace, at the flames crackling there. She looks so far away all of a sudden.

“What is it?” Roy asks, and she glances at him, startled, as if she had forgotten he was there.

“Nothing, Colonel. It’s nothing.”

That piques his interest, and he leans forward. “Don’t lie to me, Lieutenant. It violates our unit’s code of conduct.”

Riza narrows her eyes at him, but finally, she gives in. “You pointed out that my commitment to you and our cause doesn’t leave much space for another man,” she says, but then she hesitates, and stops entirely.

“Well?” Roy prompts, his curiosity getting the better of him. Over the years, they’ve come to know one another so well - as well as they know themselves, he would guess - but this is the one thing they’ve never talked about before. About serious romantic entanglements, and their lack thereof.

“I’d rather not say.” Maybe it’s just the fire, but Riza’s complexion is a little warmer than it had been several minutes ago.

“Come on, Hawkeye.” Roy gives her his most charming smile; slides into his most persuasive tone. “My curiosity is killing me.”

Riza sniffs. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

“Unfair, Lieutenant. I told you what was on my mind.”

She sighs again, exasperated, a little resigned, keeping her eyes determinedly trained on the fire. “Fine. You know, you’re like a dog with a bone sometimes.”

“I am a dog of the military, after all,” Roy says sardonically, and his Lieutenant rolls her eyes.

“You’re such a significant figure in my life,” Riza says, at last. “And you have been, for so long. I worry that would open the door to...comparisons. That wouldn’t be fair to whoever else was trying to find a place in my life. ”

Well, he hadn’t expected that. The words are so unexpected, so sweet and so sad, that Roy blinks, lost for words. “Hawkeye,” he says, trying to inject some levity into his tone. “I’m flattered.”

Riza doesn’t have a dry retort for him. She just looks at him with somber eyes, and Roy relents. “I feel the same way.”

He doesn’t tell his Lieutenant that when he’s looking into his dates’ eyes, he expects to see amber-colored ones looking back at him. He doesn’t tell her that when he leans over to tuck a lock of hair behind their ears, he’s expecting to see her blonde locks against his fingertips. He doesn’t tell her that when they laugh at his jokes (usually too long and too loud for what the joke actually warranted) he expects to see her small, wry smile instead. Or an eye-roll, or that look she gives him sometimes, the one that mingles exasperation with affection.

He doesn’t tell her any of that. But from the expression on Riza’s face, he thinks that he doesn’t have to.

Roy clears his throat, breaking their gaze, looking into the fire. “Well, Lieutenant. I think our close professional relationship has put us in an unfortunate situation.”

“As always, you have a gift for understatement, Colonel.”

It had been a typical Hawkeye deadpan, but when Roy looks back, he sees a tiny, reluctant smile on her face. It gives him a shot of courage, or recklessness; he isn’t sure which yet.

“You know,” he muses, “I have a thought exercise for us to work through.”

Thought exercises - running through hypotheticals, from the mundane to the far-fetched - are one of his favorite things about leading his unit, and they are at least a once-weekly event when the unit is together in East City. Riza sets her pen down for the first time, giving him her full attention. “Yes?”

“It would solve a lot of problems if you and I could...”

Roy trails off, his meaning clear, and Riza sits up straighter.

It’s bold, even for him. It doesn’t just cross the line; it sprints across the line. It isn’t the kind of thing he would have said if they were back in East City. But the sheer distance from the imposing figure of Eastern Command, from superior officers, from anyone else who knows them and might see or overhear something they shouldn’t - that has opened doors. That all feels so far away, here in Liore, sitting by the fire in his room.

Riza shifts in her chair - not in discomfort, but consideration, drawing her legs underneath her, tucking them to the side. “It’s interesting that you think that. I think it would create a lot of problems.”

Her tone is mild, though, and there’s no hint of affront on her face at the outrageous suggestion. Riza seems utterly unfazed by being propositioned by her commanding officer. Which isn’t that surprising, now that Roy thinks about it. He has discussed treasonous plans to overthrow and overhaul the existing government with her for years. Compared to literal, actual treason, the prospect of a sexual relationship seems considerably less shocking.

Additionally, she hasn’t yet threatened to shoot him in the foot, which is promising. She hasn’t stopped this little thought exercise that he had started.

“I argue that it would solve more than it creates. We’re both unable to pursue relationships, due to the barriers we’ve discussed.” Roy straightens his collar, feeling rather like an attorney beginning opening arguments in a case. “On the other hand, you and I understand our situation perfectly. We know where our lives are headed and where they will end. We know that we aren’t looking for marriage and children.”

He doesn’t have to say the rest. We know one another and what we’ve done in the past better than anyone else could. There are so many conversations we don’t have to have with one another, that we would have to have with others.

The truth of what they are striving towards and why, and their vision for their personal futures and the future of Amestris. The years in Ishval and what they had seen and done there. The ugly truth behind the harmless, bloodless epithets of Flame Alchemist and Hawk’s Eye. The nightmares.

Riza inclines her head slightly, wordlessly allowing him to continue.

“Pursuing anything with anybody else would distract both of us from our goal, which isn’t an option.” Roy studies her, trying to judge her reaction.

His Lieutenant’s expression gives away nothing. “What makes you think we wouldn’t distract one another?”

“Because I know us, Hawkeye,” Roy replies patiently. “I know that there’s nothing we’re more committed to than reforming this country. You and I both know where this work ends. We always have. Nothing and no one is ever going to make us change our course.”

“That’s all true,” Riza says, her voice steady.

He hears the rest of her sentence, and sighs. “But?”

“There’s one issue you haven’t addressed. The anti-fraternization regulations.”

“Oh, that.” Roy dismisses her point with a shrug. “It’s not an issue.”

Riza glances skyward for a moment. “Please elaborate, Colonel.”

“The anti-fraternization regulations prohibit personal relationships between officers and enlisted members within the same chain of command, as they are prejudicial to good order and discipline,” Roy recites, with no effort. He and his Lieutenant are both very familiar with the regulations, after all. “Romantic relationships, cohabitation, and marriage fall within the umbrella of personal relationships. We wouldn't be living together. We wouldn't be getting married. And it wouldn’t be a romantic relationship, Hawkeye. It would just be--” He pauses, searching for the most tasteful word choice. “Some companionship, as we need it. To help us make our way down the long road we have ahead. And we would be discreet about it. Nobody would ever know.”

Riza props her chin in a hand, mulling it over, and Roy watches the firelight flickering in her eyes. “No pressure, of course,” he says, with an easiness he doesn’t feel. The adrenaline and boldness has worn off, leaving him with an uncharacteristic case of nerves. “It was just a thought exercise.”

Riza glances back at him and then stands up, gathering her paperwork. “I think I’ll turn in for the night, sir.” She sounds so calm and even, as if they had been discussing the logistics of how to implement democratic voting in the most rural areas of Amestris.

Roy stands automatically and opens the door for her. “Good night, then, Lieutenant.”

“Good night.”

Roy watches until she closes her door behind her; until he hears the lock click safely into place. He closes the door, locks it, braces a chair against it, as Riza had suggested. Then he collapses onto the bed and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, all the breath leaving his body in a long sigh. Hughes has always called him a risk-taker and chastised him for being impulsive. That’s nothing new. Tonight, though, he had taken that to an entirely new high. Or an entirely new low, depending on how one looks at it.

They return to East City the following day. A week passes, and Riza gives no indication that their conversation in Liore had ever happened. She treats him the same way she always has, both when others are around and behind the closed doors of their office, after everyone else in their unit has left for the evening.

“I asked Elizabeth if she’d like to start something up with me,” Roy tells Hughes on the phone, on Saturday night. He’s supposed to be working, but it’s half past eight already, and he hasn’t been working with his full attention span for two reports now.

Hughes makes a strange sort of spluttering noise; it sounds as if he’s choked on his sandwich. “No way.”

“It’s true.” Roy winds the phone cord around his finger absentmindedly. “I don’t think she was interested in the idea, though. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. She's the only one I've ever really wanted."

“Roy--”

Riza walks back into the office then, carrying an armful of files from the archives, and Roy is forced to improvise. “I have no interest in your services, and don’t call this number again,” he orders, in his most forceful tone. He slams the phone down, before giving his Lieutenant an apologetic smile. “Telemarketers. I have no idea how they get their hands on the military lines.”

“Please give Lieutenant Colonel Hughes my regards before you hang up next time.” Riza sets the files on her desk, and then picks up her coat. Roy notices that she’s changed back into civilian clothes, a dark skirt and a silk blouse. “We could head back for the night, since we got quite a bit done today.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day, Lieutenant.” Roy stands up hastily, before she can reconsider, and picks up his coat. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

They live within a couple of streets of each other, about twenty minutes from Eastern Command. They pass the time in quiet conversation, speculating about how Breda’s undercover mission in Mouhed is going, and the upcoming joint training exercise at Fort Briggs. As always, Roy feels an irritating pang of disappointment when they reach the back parking lot of his Lieutenant’s apartment building. He spends every day with Riza, and many evenings and nights, too, and yet he never tires of her company.

“Sleep well, Hawkeye.” Roy throws her his most appealing look. “Any chance you’ll bring in coffee on Monday morning?”

“I could be persuaded.” Riza crosses her legs, and Roy tries to ignore the slit up the side of her skirt. She studies him for a couple of moments, and he catches the faintest flicker of apprehension in her eyes. “Would you like to walk me upstairs, Colonel?”

She’s never asked him that before. It takes the words - the offer - a moment to register. Roy shifts the car into park as soon as it does, more roughly than he should. “I would,” he says, realizing that he can’t remember the last time he had to fight back an actual shiver of anticipation. “Very much. Oh, and Lieutenant?”

Riza’s hand stills on the door. “Yes?”

“You should call me by my name, when we’re upstairs.” Roy remembers, then, that Riza’s apartment building doesn’t have an elevator, and they’ll have to make it up four flights of stairs like civilized adults.

“Of course, Colonel.” Riza holds his gaze, and Roy’s mouth goes very dry. “I think I’ll be able to do that. When we get upstairs.” She pauses and adds, almost as an afterthought. “You can call me whatever you want.”

Riza. It’s how he refers to her in his mind, but never out loud, not for years. It makes his throat burn, how much he wants to say it. To whisper it as he lets her hair down from its updo, and brushes his fingers against her collarbones. Roy exhales slowly. “We should go up. Now.”

Riza gives him a small smile. “Yes, sir.”

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

notes

Writing from Roy's POV is always an interesting and amusing exercise. I had a bit of a laugh while I was writing this because it's basically like

Roy: What if... we fucked... ahaha, just kidding Lieutenant, it was just a thought exercise, just running hypotheticals...unless...?

I hope you enjoyed reading; I'd love to know what you thought! Royai Week has been super fun so far, both with reading others' amazing and creative responses to the prompts, admiring the gorgeous art, and sharing my own stuff. I'm hoping to have Day 5's prompt posted sometime tomorrow, but it might be a day late if I don't get it up in time.

#royaiweek20 #royai #royai fanfic

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epochryphal · 4 years

Text

abolition work

hm i haven’t been posting here much because 1. Work Busy and 2. local movement spaces being largely on facebook, plus 3. disclosing local geographic location on here is still a bit Hhhh

but yeah i’m fairly open about being california bay area, and am working on plugging into local orgs and have been doing some rad captioning gigs for various places on both coasts, and getting to witness really rad conversations around defunding, dismantling, abolition, alternative structures, and communal healing

big plug for Kindred Collective and healing justice, their work on the medical industrial complex, and the National Queer and Trans Therapists of Color Network doing the deprogramming state collusion and relearning community care for social workers & healing practitioners

on surveillance, Hacking//Hustling is doing awesome work and talking about histories of police collaboration to criminalize public health surveillance, as is Red Canary Song,

highly recommend the Just Practice Collaborative’s mixtape on transformative justice coming out at the beginning of august

some great discussion by Mia Mingus and Mimi Kim along with Cat Brooks of Anti Police-Terror Project/APTP about the conflation of transformative justice, which seeks to transform systems that allowed/enabled harm to occur, with restorative justice, which seeks to restore the status quo that existed before the harm, and which the state is picking up on as a veneer of reparative work

and always always love for Critical Resistance and their amazing resources, and to the Abolition Journal Study Guide

for concrete steps to police abolition and things to call for from leaders, i recommend:

APTP’s & Justice Teams Network’s Black New Deal (here, there, and also here)

8toAbolition

MPD150 (who have a huge resource page!)

Critical Resistance’s demands

Movement for Black Lives/M4BL’s Interrupting Criminalization Toolkit

Repeal 50 (New York police misconduct protection laws)

other rad groups with resources include Survived & Punished, Community Justice Exchange, DecrimNow, FreeThemAll4PublicHealth, local Decarcerate ___ groups, Black Youth Project 100, INCITE!

other important names include Ruth Wilson Gilmore, Mariame Kaba, Kristina Agbebiyi, Kelly Hayes, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Kimberle Crenshaw, Mari Matsuda, Anoop Naya, Audre Lorde, Assata Shakur, Cornel West, Angela Davis, bell hooks, James Baldwin, Alice Walker, Charlene Carruthers, Rachel Cargle

my favorite demands right now are:

freeze police hiring, at minimum

decriminalize public existence (loitering, disorderly conduct, being in a park after dark, eating or drinking in public/on transit, riding a bike on the sidewalk, sleeping in public, littering, urinating in public, etc)

- these shouldn’t be misdemeanors! there can be general public conduct agreements without criminalization, and with competent handling of homelessness

refuse to criminalize COVID-19 and decriminalize HIV/AIDS and end all health care information sharing with police

refuse to use facial recognition tech and end usage of “predictive” tech, license plate readers, etc (saves money too!)

fund public bathrooms and showers, including making existent facilities (eg YMCA, pools) available, and fund COVID sanitation staff

move duties out of the police:

- youth engagement

- community engagement

- re-entry from incarceration assistance

- parking enforcement

- traffic law enforcement

- health crisis response

- mental health crisis response

- homelessness response and services

- neighbor disputes

- trespassing enforcement

- domestic violence response

- transit fares and rules enforcement

--> create new divisions that are unarmed, are not trained&licensed to use force or institutionalize/incarcerate, and are non-coercive

--> start by creating a transition team to start doing this with a five-year plan, for example

*** in the meantime, disarm police responses to these!! ***

--> see CareNotCops.org

articles i’ve found valuable:

Confessions of a Former Bastard Cop on Medium

Who Should Pay for Police Misconduct on a legal blog

Domestic Violence & Defunding Police on Huffington Post

Tired Bad Cops First Look to Their Labor Unions on Washington Post

Who’s Afraid of Defunding the Police? on Salon

Defunding the Police: What Would It Mean for the U.S.? on NPR

Abolishing Policing Also Means Abolishing Family Regulation by Dorothy Roberts

The Color of Surveillance by Alvaro Bedeta (see also the conference’s materials)

article i need to take a moment to find a way around a paywall for lmao: On Trans Dissemblance: Or, Why Trans Studies Needs Black Feminism

documentaries/videos i recommend:

Black America Since MLK: And Still I Rise on PBS

books i’ve learned about and super want to read include:

Blackballed: The Black Vote and US Democracy

Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation from Colonial Times to the Present

How We Get Free: Black Feminism and the Combahee River Collective

Unapologetic: A Black, Queer, and Feminist Mandate for Radical Movements (by Charlene Carruthers with BYP100)

The Trials of Nina McCall: Sex, Surveillance, and the Decades-Long Government Plan to Imprison “Promiscuous” Women

Race After Technology: Abolitionist Tools for the New Jim Code

Dark Matters: On the Surveillance of Blackness (by Simone Brown)

Black Software: The Internet & Racial Justice, from the Afronet to Black Lives Matter

The Age of Surveillance Capitalism

Decarcerating Disability

No Tea, No Shade: New Writings in Black Queer Studies

Captive Genders: Trans Embodiment and the Prison Industrial Complex

Normal Life: Administrative Violence, Critical Trans Politics, and the Limits of Law (by Dean Spade)

Automating Inequality: How High-Tech Tools Profile, Police, and Punish the Poor

additional books i’m considering and have seen recommended:

Nobody: Casualties of America’s War on the Vulnerable, from Ferguson to Flint and Beyond

An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States

Sister Citizen: Shame, Stereotypes, and Black Women in America

When Affirmative Action Was White: An Untold History of Racial Inequality in 20th Century America

Me and White Supremacy

So You Want to Talk About Race

Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race

Being White, Being Good: White Complicity, White Moral Responsibility, and Social Justice Pedagogy

The Condemnation of Blackness: Race, Crime, and the Making of Modern Urban America

Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong

Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City

The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America

A People’s History of the United States

Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment (by Patricia Hill Collins)

Eloquent Rage (by Brittney Cooper)

Bad Feminist (by Roxane Gay)

Thick: And Other Essays

Real Life: A Novel

No Ashes in the Fire: Coming of Age Black and Free in America

Since I Laid My Burden Down

The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir

The Summer We Got Free

Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (by Trevor Noah)

Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption

yeah!!

what/who are y’all reading/watching/listening to and finding helpful, or meaning to get around to?

#abolition bloggin #racism bloggin #journal bloggin #resource bloggin #long post

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bluewatsons · 4 years

Text

Alice Bolin, The Ethical Dilemma of Highbrow True Crime, Vulture (August 1, 2018)

The “true-crime boom” of the mid- to late 2010s is a strange pop-culture phenomenon, given that it is not so much a new type of programming as an acknowledgement of a centuries-long obsession: People love true stories about murder and other brands of brutality and grift, and they have gorged on them particularly since the beginning of modern journalism. The serial fiction of Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins was influenced by the British public’s obsessive tracking of sensational true-crime cases in daily papers, and since then, we have hoarded gory details in tabloids and pulp paperbacks and nightly news shows and Wikipedia articles and Reddit threads.

I don’t deny these stories have proliferated in the past five years. Since the secret is out — “Oh you love murder? Me too!” — entire TV networks, podcast genres, and countless limited-run docuseries have arisen to satisfy this rumbling hunger. It is tempting to call this true-crime boom new because of the prestige sheen of many of its artifacts — Serial and Dirty John and The Jinx and Wild, Wild Country are all conspicuously well made, with lovely visuals and strong reporting. They have subtle senses of theme and character, and they often feel professional, pensive, quiet — so far from vulgar or sensational.

But well-told stories about crime are not really new, and neither is their popularity. In Cold Blood is a classic of American literature and The Executioner’s Song won the Pulitzer; Errol Morris has used crime again and again in his documentaries to probe ideas like fame, desire, corruption, and justice. The new true-crime boom is more simply a matter of volume and shamelessness: the wide array of crime stories we can now openly indulge in, with conventions of the true-crime genre more emphatically repeated and codified, more creatively expanded and trespassed against. In 2016, after two critically acclaimed series about the O.J. Simpson trial, there was talk that the 1996 murder of Colorado 6-year-old JonBenét Ramsey would be the next case to get the same treatment. It was odd, hearing O.J.: Made in America, the epic and depressing account of race and celebrity that won the Academy Award for Best Documentary, discussed in the same breath with the half-dozen unnecessary TV specials dredging up the Ramsey case. Despite my avowed love of Dateline, I would not have watched these JonBenét specials had a magazine not paid me to, and suffice it to say they did very little either to solve the 20-year-old crime (ha!) or examine our collective obsession with it.

Clearly, the insight, production values, or cultural capital of its shiniest products are not what drives this new wave of crime stories. O.J.: Made in America happened to be great and the JonBenét specials happened to be terrible, but producers saw them as part of the same trend because they knew they would appeal to at least part of the same audience. I’ve been thinking a lot about these gaps between high and low, since there are people who consume all murder content indiscriminately, and another subset who only allow themselves to enjoy the “smart” kind. The difference between highbrow and lowbrow in the new true crime is often purely aesthetic. It is easier than ever for producers to create stories that look good and seem serious, especially because there are templates now for a style and voice that make horrifying stories go down easy and leave the viewer wanting more. But for these so-called prestige true-crime offerings, the question of ethics — of the potential to interfere in real criminal cases and real people’s lives — is even more important, precisely because they are taken seriously.

Like the sensational tone, disturbing, clinical detail, and authoritarian subtext that have long defined schlocky true crime as “trash,” the prestige true-crime subgenre has developed its own shorthand, a language to tell its audience they’re consuming something thoughtful, college-educated, public-radio influenced. In addition to slick and creative production, highbrow true crime focuses on character sketches instead of police procedure. “We’re public radio producers who are curious about why people do what they do,” Phoebe Judge, the host of the podcast Criminal, said. Judge has interviewed criminals (a bank robber, a marijuana brownie dealer), victims, and investigators, using crime as a very simple window into some of the most interesting and complicated lives on the planet.

Highbrow true crime is often explicitly about the piece’s creator, a meta-commentary about the process of researching and reporting such consequential stories. Serial’s Sarah Koenig and The Jinx’s Andrew Jarecki wrestle with their boundaries with the subjects (Adnan Syed and Robert Durst, respectively, both of whom have been tried for murder) and whether they believe them. They sift through evidence and reconstruct timelines as they try to create a coherent narrative from fragments.

I remember saying years ago that people who liked Serial should try watching Dateline, and my friend joked in reply, “Yeah, but Dateline isn’t hosted by my friend Sarah.” One reason for the first season of Serial’s insane success — it is still the most-downloaded podcast of all time — is the intimacy audiences felt with Koenig as she documented her investigation of a Baltimore teenager’s murder in real time, keeping us up to date on every vagary of evidence, every interview, every experiment. Like the figure of the detective in many mystery novels, the reporter stands in for the audience, mirroring and orchestrating our shifts in perspective, our cynicism and credulity, our theories, prejudices, frustrations, and breakthroughs.

This is what makes this style of true crime addictive, which is the adjective its makers most crave. The stance of the voyeur, the dispassionate observer, is thrilling without being emotionally taxing for the viewer, who watches from a safe remove. (This fact is subtly skewered in Gay Talese’s creepy 2017 Netflix documentary, Voyeur.) I’m not sure how much of my eye-rolling at the popularity of highbrow true crime has to do with my general distrust of prestige TV and Oscar-bait movies, which are usually designed to be enjoyed in the exact same way and for the exact same reasons as any other entertainment, but also to make the viewer feel good about themselves for watching. When I wrote earlier that there are viewers who consume all true crime, and those who only consume “smart” true crime, I thought, “And there must be some people who only like dumb true crime.” Then I realized that I am sort of one of them.

There are specimens of highbrow true crime that I love, Criminal and O.J.: Made in America among them, but I truly enjoy Dateline much more than I do Serial, which in my mind is tedious to the edge of pointlessness. I find myself perversely complaining that good true crime is no fun — as self-conscious as it may be, it will never be as entertaining as the Investigation Discovery network’s output, most of which is painfully serious. (The list of ID shows is one of the most amusing artifacts on the internet, including shows called Bride Killas, Momsters: Moms Who Murder, and Sex Sent Me to the Slammer.) Susan Sontag famously defined camp as “seriousness that fails,” and camp is obviously part of the appeal of a show called Sinister Ministers or Southern Fried Homicide. Network news magazine shows like Dateline and 48 Hours are somber and melodramatic, often literally starting voice-overs on their true-crime episodes with variations of “it was a dark and stormy night.” They trade in archetypes — the perfect father, the sweet girl with big dreams, the divorcee looking for a second chance — and stick to a predetermined narrative of the case they’re focusing on, unconcerned about accusations of bias. They are sentimental and yet utterly graphic, clinical in their depiction of brutal crimes.

It’s always talked around in discussions of why people like true crime: It is … funny? The comedy in horror movies seems like a given, but it is hardly permitted to say that you are amused by true disturbing stories, out of respect for victims. But in reducing victims and their families to stock characters, in exaggerating murderers to superhuman monsters, in valorizing police and forensic scientists as heroic Everymen, there is dark humor in how cheesy and misguided these pulpy shows are, how bad we are at talking about crime and drawing conclusions from it, how many ways we find to distance ourselves from the pain of victims and survivors, even when we think we are honoring them. (The jokey titles and tongue-in-cheek tone of some ID shows seem to indicate more awareness of the inherent humor, but in general, the channel’s programming is almost all derivative of network TV specials.) I’m not saying I’m proud of it, but in its obvious failures, I enjoy this brand of true crime more straightforwardly than its voyeuristic, documentary counterpart, which, in its dignified guise, has maybe only perfected a method of making us feel less gross about consuming real people’s pain for fun.

Crime stories also might be less risky when they are more stilted, more clinical. To be blunt, what makes a crime story less satisfying are often the ethical guidelines that help reporters avoid ruining people’s lives. With the popularity of the podcasts S-Town and Missing Richard Simmons, there were conversations about the ethics of appropriating another person’s story, particularly when they won’t (or can’t) participate in your version of it. The questions of ethics and appropriation are even heavier when stories intersect with their subjects’ criminal cases, because journalism has always had a reciprocal relationship with the justice system. Part of the exhilarating intimacy of the first season of Serial was Koenig’s speculation about people who never agreed to be part of the show, the theories and rabbit holes she went through, the risks she took to get answers. But there is a reason most reporters do all their research, then write their story. It is inappropriate, and potentially libelous, to let your readers in on every unverified theory about your subject that occurs to you, particularly when wondering about a private citizen’s innocence or guilt in a horrific crime.

Koenig’s off-the-cuff tone had other consequences, too, in the form of amateur sleuths on Reddit who tracked down people involved with the case, pored over court transcripts, and reviewed cellular tower evidence, forming a shadow army of investigators taking up what they saw as the gauntlet thrown down by the show. The journalist often takes on the stance of the professional amateur, a citizen providing information in the public interest and using the resources at hand to get answers. At times during the first season of Serial, Koenig’s methods are laughably amateurish, like when she drives from the victim’s high school to the scene of the crime, a Best Buy, to see if it was possible to do it in the stated timeline. She is able to do it, which means very little, since the crime occurred 15 years earlier. Because so many of her investigative tools were also ones available to listeners at home, some took that as an invitation to play along.

This blurred line between professional and amateur, reporter and private investigator, has plagued journalists since the dawn of modern crime reporting. In 1897, amid a frenzied rivalry between newspaper barons William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer, true crime coverage was so popular that Hearst formed a group of reporters to investigate criminal cases called the “Murder Squad.” They wore badges and carried guns, forming essentially an extralegal police force who both assisted and muddled official investigations. Seeking to get a better story and sell more papers, it was common for reporters to trample crime scenes, plant evidence, and produce dubious witnesses whose accounts fit their preferred version of the case. And they were trying to get audiences hooked in very similar ways, by crowdsourcing information and encouraging readers to send in tips.

Of course the producers of Serial never did anything so questionable as the Murder Squad, though there are interesting parallels between the true-crime podcast and crime coverage in early daily newspapers. They were both innovations in the ways information was delivered to the public that sparked unexpectedly personal, participatory, and impassioned responses from their audiences. It’s tempting to say that we’ve come full circle, with a new true-crime boom that is victim to some of the same ethical pitfalls of the first one: Is crime journalism another industry deregulated by the anarchy of the internet? But as Michelle Dean wrote of Serial, “This is exactly the problem with doing journalism at all … You might think you are doing a simple crime podcast … and then you become a sensation, as Serial has, and the story falls to the mercy of the thousands, even millions, of bored and curious people on the internet.”

Simply by merit of their popularity, highbrow crime stories are often riskier than their lowbrow counterparts. Kathryn Schulz wrote in The New Yorker about the ways the makers of the Netflix series Making a Murderer, in their attempt to advocate for the convicted murderer Steven Avery, omit evidence that incriminates him and put forth an incoherent argument for his innocence. Advocacy and intervention are complicated actions for journalists to undertake, though they are not novel. Schulz points to a scene in Making a Murderer where a Dateline producer who is covering Avery is shown saying, “Right now murder is hot.” In this moment the creators of Making a Murderer are drawing a distinction between themselves and Dateline, as Schulz writes, implying that, “unlike traditional true-crime shows … their work is too intellectually serious to be thoughtless, too morally worthy to be cruel.” But they were not only trying to invalidate Avery’s conviction; they (like Dateline, but more effectively) were also creating an addictive product, a compelling story.

That is maybe what irks me the most about true crime with highbrow pretensions. It appeals to the same vices as traditional true crime, and often trades in the same melodrama and selective storytelling, but its consequences can be more extreme. Adnan Syed was granted a new trial after Serial brought attention to his case; Avery was denied his appeal, but people involved in his case have nevertheless been doxxed and threatened. I’ve come to believe that addictiveness and advocacy are rarely compatible. If they were, why would the creators of Making a Murderer have advocated for one white man, when the story of being victimized by a corrupt police force is common to so many people across the U.S., particularly people of color?

It does feel like a shame that so many resources are going to create slick, smart true crime that asks the wrong questions, focusing our energy on individual stories instead of the systemic problems they represent. But in truth, this is is probably a feature, not a bug. I suspect the new true-crime obsession has something to do with the massive, terrifying problems we face as a society: government corruption, mass violence, corporate greed, income inequality, police brutality, environmental degradation, human-rights violations. These are large-scale crimes whose resolutions, though not mysterious, are also not forthcoming. Focusing on one case, bearing down on its minutia and discovering who is to blame, serves as both an escape and a means of feeling in control, giving us an arena where justice is possible.

Skepticism about whether journalists appropriate their subjects’ stories, about high and low, and about why we enjoy the crime stories we do, all swirl through what I think of as the post–true-crime moment. Post–true crime is explicitly or implicity about the popularity of the new true-crime wave, questioning its place in our culture, and resisting or responding to its conventions. One interesting document of post–true crime is My Favorite Murder and other “comedy murder podcasts,” which, in retelling stories murder buffs have heard on one million Investigation Discovery shows, unpack the ham-fisted clichés of the true-crime genre. They show how these stories appeal to the most gruesome sides of our personalities and address the obvious but unspoken fact that true crime is entertainment, and often the kind that is as mindless as a sitcom. Even more cutting is the Netflix parody American Vandal, which both codifies and spoofs the conventions of the new highbrow true crime, roasting the genre’s earnest tone in its depiction of a Serial-like investigation of some lewd graffiti.

There is also the trend in the post–true-crime era of dramatizing famous crime stories, like in The Bling Ring; I, Tonya; and Ryan Murphy’s anthology series American Crime Story, all of which dwell not only on the stories of infamous crimes but also why they captured the public imagination. There is a camp element in these retellings, particularly when famous actors like John Travolta and Sarah Paulson are hamming it up in ridiculous wigs. But this self-consciousness often works to these projects’ advantage, allowing them to show heightened versions of the cultural moments that led to the most outsize tabloid crime stories. Many of these fictionalized versions take journalistic accounts as their source material, like Nancy Jo Sales’s reporting in Vanity Fair for The Bling Ring and ESPN’s documentary on Tonya Harding, The Price of Gold, for I, Tonya. This seems like a best-case scenario for prestige true crime to me: parsing famous cases from multiple angles and in multiple genres, trying to understand them both on the level of individual choices and cultural forces.

Perhaps the most significant contributions to post–true crime, though, are the recent wave of personal accounts about murder and crime: literary memoirs like Down City by Leah Carroll, Mean by Myriam Gurba, The Hot One by Carolyn Murnick, After the Eclipse by Sarah Perry, and We Are All Shipwrecks by Kelly Grey Carlisle all tell the stories of murder seen from close-up. (It is significant that all of these books are by women. Carroll, Perry, and Carlisle all write about their mothers’ murders, placing them in the tradition of James Ellroy’s great memoir My Dark Places, but without the tortured, fetish-y tone.) This is not a voyeuristic first person, and the reader can’t detach and find joy in procedure; we are finally confronted with the truth of lives upended by violence and grief. There’s also Ear Hustle, the brilliant podcast produced by the inmates of San Quentin State Prison. The makers of Ear Hustle sometimes contemplate the bad luck and bad decisions that led them to be incarcerated, but more often they discuss the concerns of daily life in prison, like food, sex, and how to make mascara from an inky page from a magazine. This is a crime podcast that is the opposite of sensational, addressing the systemic truth of crime and the justice system, in stories that are mundane, profound, and, yes, addictive.

#true crime #adnan syed #media #ethics #The Way We Live Now #culture #andrew jarecki #james ellroy #criminal justice #detective fiction

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