#so immovable their pose barely changes

[acapellapotato]

some closeups of aoirenne & asha bc they’re my favorite dwarf/human buddies! (does pro allow you to import characters into the couple poses? bc i’m tempted to get the sub)

here’s an old short i wrote w/ them. i don’t like it as much as i used to bc my style changed but keep reading if you’re interested

Aoirenne Runesong ambled into the tavern. She didn’t mind that she could just see over the tables. A hundred and sixteen years gave one a lot of time to get used to it. She was a dwarf after all, and one known for her temper. Not many wanted to suffer her company; let alone point out something like that. The smell of baking pies and spiced ham drifted to her. Her mouth watered. The past two months had driven her close to renouncing jerky and all meat foods. Before she came to her senses, of course. The only thing worse was getting hired to guard a merchant caravan that was mostly destroyed, which meant no pay.Aoirenne sniffed. Was that turkey? Boar? Duck? More sweets? Fancy indeed! But she expected nothing less from “her human”. She never called Asha Redwood that aloud but it was a pet name. Aoirenne asked him why he’d explained the term if he didn’t want her to call him that. Asha had only glowered at her. 

A serving girl bumping into Aoirenne interrupted her thoughts. Linen skirts filled her vision. The sounds of breaking plates, heavy thuds as wooden flagons hit the floor made her cringe as she thought of food and drink being wasted. Aoirenne tried pushing them away but only succeeded in getting her hands tangled. She let out a string of curses, mixing with those of the serving girl’s. A new voice joined in.

 “Stop struggling! You’re making it worse,” Asha growled. His baritone voice grew even deeper when he was upset.

 Aoirenne stopped struggling but she continued to complain. Once she was free she gave the woman, who she recognized as the elf Nelladrie (most people called her Nella), a dazzling smile. Asha shook his head, his brown hair falling into his eyes. Nella was a good friend thatAoirenne had known since she first set out wandering. Sometimes they were romantic partners; a secret Zuri shared only with Asha. As she followed him to a table in the corner she remembered the confused look he’d given her. A few days later he’d bought it up again but only to ask, incredulously, if she felt the same about him. Aoirenna paid close attention to her crew members though. Having seen Asha show no interest in romantic flings the others liked playing at, she’d guessed he was different and already accepted it. He seemed pleased with the answer and they never bought it up again. 

Asha didn’t attempt to help Aoirenne into her chair. What did a dwarf have if not her pride? Once she was settled she grinned up at Asha. His normally dour expression broke as a small smile peeked through. He relaxed slightly, studying her a long moment before reaching out to put a hand over hers. It spoke volumes more than if he’d attempted to lift her and swing her about. Dwarves weren’t immovable stones, not that they protested the myth, but Aoirenne had fists as large as Asha’s head; it wouldn’t end well for him as she’d sternly warned him the one time he tried. So they agreed to a compromise. No pet names and no swinging. As these thoughts ran through her head, Aoirenne stared at their hands. Hers made his look like a babe. But he was to her, even if he’d gotten a tan and thick calluses from his time on a merchant ship. Aoirenne wanted to ask how long it had taken Asha to get his sea legs but the moment seemed too heavy.

 “I heard.”

 “Yeah.” It was all she could manage to say. 

Aoirenne coughed to clear her throat. The garrison the caravan stopped at was attacked by bandits. Nothing out of the ordinary except they poured from the hills like ants. Rihyr and Bhyr, two humans who kept themselves completely covered and trained their voices to be neutral, were missing when the attack ended. They were fresh from home, Asha called them “barely weaned” and advised against bringing them, but their potential…. Aoirenne rolled her shoulders.

 “I know, you didn’t come for this. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Asha shifted and withdrew his hand but muttered, “Should’ve come with me.”

 Aoirenna laughed, dark braids that draped over each shoulder bounced, gaining an embarrassed chuckle from Asha. “Can’t have people thinking we’re lovers can we?”

 “Never that.” 

The adoration in his eyes said otherwise.

 Had anyone told her six years ago the solemn twenty-four year old was capable of such a look she would’ve sent him off for getting into the rum. But Aoirenna hadn’t hired a joker, she was enough for them all, she’d hired a spell-sword. And despite Asha’s demeanor he was more than willing to bend rules where he felt necessary so they got along well, until he decided to bend her rules; never going too far, just enough to aggravate her. Zuri almost traded his contract for another witch’s at an outpost, although he wasn’t as strong.  Then the deal went bad. And Asha helped save her life though he had no obligation to. He said she’d earned his respect, and he had no reason to wish her dead. Little did Aoirenne know, Asha may as well have spouted the most sugary poetry for her. And that was only the first year they’d traveled together.

 “A copper for your thoughts.” Asha took a sip from his flagon.

 “Just a copper!” Aoirenna glared at him.

 He gave her an exasperated look. “It’s a saying.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the tabletop. “Besides, why pay more for what I wouldn’t get anyway.”

 Aoirenne pouted and gave him a distrustful look.

 “Have I lied to you before?” he asked in a soft voice.

 “No.” she sniffed. “And you’d be smart to continue that.”

 Asha raised his flagon. Which reminded her….

 “Nella!” 

Her voice carried even over the racket. Aoirenne waved at Nella, who smiled despite the grimace she tried keeping on her face. As Nella walked over Aoirenne caught Asha’s resigned expression. 

“I still have some money left.”

 “Enough to last until the next job?”

“Yes.”

 In reality she could buy a meal tonight but she’d need a job by morning. Judging by Asha’s expression he knew that, but she wouldn’t admit it; he worried enough as it was.

 He wanted to protest but they’d already found out just how good the elf’s hearing was. Nella stopped close to Aoirenne but kept enough distance she couldn’t reach. Zuri knew it was out of respect for Asha but she screwed up her face in mock displeasure anyway.

 “Can’t expect manners from a dwarf can I?”

 “I exude manners!” She stuck out her tongue.

Nella smiled and shook her head. “What will it be?” she asked Asha.

 “Hey! I have money!”

 “Like ya did last time?”

 “I did.” 

Zuri gave Asha a warning look. He put up his hands, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

 Nella bit her lip to suppress a laugh. “I’ll just bring the biggest flagon we got. We’ll see just where ya purse is.” 

Aoirenne’s eyes lit up. Before leaving Nella wrapped Zuri in a tight hug. “I’m glad you’re safe, Zuri.” Nella's smile was sad.

 Aoirenne waited until Nella was far enough away and back into her “happy bar maid” role. “You told her,” she hissed.

 “It was only right. She worries.”

 She sighed, waiting for her drink in silence. Nella returned and Aoirenne put on a big grin for her. Nella hadn’t been lying, the flagon was nearly as large as Aoirenne’s head. When she reached for it Nella squeezed her fingers. 

Nella placed it in front of Aoirenne and whispered, “Enjoy.” As if the air was suddenly too weak to hold her words. 

She slipped away quietly, leaving Aoirenne and Asha alone. They toasted each other across the table and took large gulps; getting lost in their own thoughts.

#hero forge #oc #high fantasy

[lunafaeris-archive]

8. did you have a muse you tried to play, but didn’t feel connected to? & 17. what was your first muse?

munday asks | accepting.

          /No, I can’t say that I have. All of the muses I play have always been my own characters, except for maybe a few one-offs here or there where my partner wanted me to write a specific canon character for a ship. I’ve never felt comfortable or confident writing canon characters, especially when a series is new and/or there’s very little information about the character themselves. Usually new leaks and updates come along that completely dismantle the fans’ perspective and that thought kind of ruins it for me. I don’t like having to stick someone else’s rules for a canon that I know next to nothing about, or they just haven’t gotten off their asses and given us the juicy details. I live for the juicy details which is why I would much rather write my own characters and develop the rules of their canon instead of waiting on the author or creator.

          /Aghhhh... my first muse. Talk about a doozy. She was a Naruto OC way back in the day, during the dark age of DeviantArt. That’s where I started writing and roleplaying almost 15 years ago. I was young and pretty much oblivious to internet culture and what it meant to have your character labeled as a ‘Mary Sue’ which in hindsight she totally was, so I took the hate comments really hard and didn’t know what I was doing wrong. I was a dumb kid, barely a teenager who just wanted to have fun drawing and writing a character I thought other people would enjoy as much as I did.

          I still try to keep that in mind whenever I feel like I’m lacking or doubt my portrayal even today, which worries me more than I care to admit. I’m anxious about how I write my own characters and keeping them consistent, while also dynamic as to who they interact with and how it changes their response... Luna is a prime example of this because she is your regular stone cold, frigid bitch to 95% of people, but to that special 5% (even I’m being generous with that statistic) she can be a pillar of support. Still blunt and emotionally stunted, but it’s through the people she trusts that she learns to grow and express herself as more than just an unstoppable force or an immovable object. She also falls into the tsundere trope because I’m a sap and in those heated and emotionally charged moments where she doesn’t know how to respond, because it’s not the kind of large-scale power play or strategic maneuver that she’s used to, it fits her so well.

          Anywho, I more or less discontinued my Naruto OC about 8 or 9 years ago. At that point, it was around the Pein/Konoha destruction arc and I was getting tired of the series dragging on, and on with no resolution in sight. I stopped following Naruto around the same time because of it, and anything beyond that is very foggy to me. I know most of the beats of what happened in the Fourth Shinobi War and the last few chapters but that’s about it. Any Naruto muses I interact with now are mostly based on the muns I’ve known for a long time outside of the Naruto RPC and can vibe with their sense of humor, etc... case in point, Calis’ @asaraltu. Full disclosure: I knew very little about Madara as a character, what he was about or what his motivations were because I never read the chapters where he was introduced, and I was very much like ‘meh’ going in. Like how is this gonna work? But Calis awoke something in me goddammit and now look at how hard we ship Lunadara. Mada literally does the Will Smith pose whenever he sees his beautiful bride, his gun wife and I live for it asdfgh--

          Tbh, ships awakening something in me about a character I barely know is something of a trend with me asdfgh--

@hellguarded

#❛ i'm a total trash mammal. ﹙out of character﹚ #hellguarded #asaraltu #long post tw.

[brideylee]

Chateau Quarantine

                 Sophia Coppola smokes a cigarette while she waits for an omelette she has no intention of eating.  It’s a gloomy marine layered morning, you can barely see across Sunset. She’s been in lock down for three weeks and while she normally loves the moody, brooding decadence of the Chateau Marmont, its elite solitude is giving her a bit too much time to reflect. She thinks about the concept of crying as she watches a long torso-ed model skinny dip in the pool from the penthouse. There are no rules anymore, not that there were many in the first place. The hotel was shuttered to the public as of three weeks ago, and those who were already there could stay indefinitely. Sophia lives alone in the tower suite with the three bedrooms and the wrap around porch, known by some as “the Deniro”, but Robert himself couldn’t tell you why. Any legends or gossip about the Chateau were just bread crumbs to keep the public hungry and mystified. The real Chateau for the privileged few who used it, was an unceremonious respite for excessive loneliness, addiction, and often not great sex. The Chateau had a reputation: look but don’t fuck. Everyone’s genitals were rendered useless from anti-depressants.

               She thought she would be filming by now. Her cast is stranded too, with little guidance other than “we’ll wait it out.” The film she wanted to make stars Hugh Grant and Ewan McGregor as two estranged brothers coming together for their father’s funeral. Iman was set to the play the mysterious woman who shows up at the funeral who they then realize was their father’s mistress. It was going to be a slow movie about the brothers coming to terms with their father’s death and equally so falling in love with the woman he hid from them. All this would be suggested through intimate long takes, and funny, stylish, improvised montages. Always subtle and romantic without the sap, this was the tight rope Sophia liked to balance on.  At the end of the movie, both brothers are mildly changed, but not entirely. She has a sweet spot for the immovability of people’s psyches, particularly men. 

Sophia watches impartially, as the naked model floats on her back in the calm pool. It is so cold and early to swim, is she on drugs or is everyone at this place even more numb than they think? She wondered if her film was too male, too disembodied from her personally to mean anything.  Tapping into the male gaze, was an ability she was born with. Her father’s point of view was all she interacted with as a kid, and the underside of his specialties became her focus: the lost parts of men when they are too weak to hold up the heavy crown of their egos, who they were when they could let themselves feel outside of their work. But given the state of the world, and the molasses nature of time during lock down, Sophia started to question if what she always found to be her strength was just simply trauma. Was her whole profession a way to resolve some genetic creative stifling that took place in the shadow of her dad? Surely her body of work contains more than that. It’s not all a selfish attempt at repair. Is any art not selfish? "Maybe I should make a different movie, something that everyones gonna like for once.” She thinks to herself.  Thank God, her goat cheese omelette has arrived.

             Later on, the gothic lobby is empty besides the cast of her film and the elegant model behind the reception desk standing like a hollow sculpture, frightened by the chaos that lurks outside. Ewan McGregor, drunk off of five Marmont Mules, is showing Hugh Grant an app that maps the stars and constellations. Ewan has gone on and on about a camping trip he took around Scotland and how amazing the stars were, but when pressed for details about where exactly he was or what he saw or what year he did this, he can’t seem to remember anything at all.But that doesn’t dampen his excitement about the app. “See, that, there is Orion’s belt!” Ewan enthusiastically points out, his cute smirk displaying his bottom row of sweet corn kernel teeth. Ewan just recently learned about the stars. Until the age of 47, Ewan had been referring to them as “night freckles.” Many think this is why he didn’t have a fun time acting in  Star Wars, space simply befuddled him. Hugh and Ewan are dressed exactly the same: navy blue beanie, black jeans, a tight blue thermal, and desert boots- the actor man uniform they give you after you play opposite Nicole Kidman or Renee Zellweger.

“That’s brilliant,” says Hugh Grant completely perplexed by the app and confused at Ewan’s rambling. Hugh sticks a handkerchief up his nostril with his pointer finger and wiggles it around somewhat violently. Iman clocks this with a blink of disgust, her silk, gold blouse  glistens with god-like royalty in the amber glow.  “Can you turn your face away? That’s how the virus is spreading.” Her voice is deep and she rarely uses it because it changes the direction of the wind and messes with the tides.  “Aw, fuck me. That’s right, isn’t it?” Hugh Grant turns away and starting blowing his nose and coughing obnoxiously. Hugh is acting like a resentful brat because he knows he wont be able to have Iman. He decides he’s gonna pick a fight with Sandra Bullock via face time later to blow off steam. Iman is thinking she was right all along, she should never have agreed to this. She was already sick of the “beanie twins”. 

Hugh had been rattling on about how the movie needed a sex scene or at least a sexy scene and went on to say that Sophia had some sort of block. Iman felt that both Ewan and Hugh, however innocently, were exploiting their acting roles to gain real life experience, and there was no way in hell, she was going to kiss either of them.  Her kiss would make them immortal and Iman knew their souls needed more lifetimes to grow. Plus, she liked the script the way it was- underwritten and open for interpretation. Her character is symbolic of the side of their dad they didn’t get to meet-  spiritual, graceful, embodied. It was a soulful choice not to show any nudity or sex, one that could lead Americans to try to use whats left of their iPhone stolen imaginations.

                Meanwhile Michael Cain, who was supposed to play the dead father, is staring at the beautiful Victorian tapestry hanging behind her. “It’s like it’s right out of the Cloister’s.” Michael says under his breath. Michael is sweet, Iman thinks as she watches him stare at the tapestry with wonder, his mouth agape, and a lil warm milk spilling out of his left eye. Iman and him have known each other for years and he always reminded her of her husband: his fierce devotion to his craft, his rigorous intellectuality that does a bad job hiding an animalistic sexuality. Both men contained so much and no one can handle a man like that besides a mystical siren like Iman. 

Hugh and Ewan’s chatter dies as their drinks empty. “If I were to be honest with myself…” Hugh begins. “Better later than never…” Michael Cain interrupts without cracking a smile,  a dryness a la Maggie Smith. In fact, fuck, this was Maggie Smith. No one had realized. Hugh winks at Michael/ Maggie and continues. “ I don’t think were going to be filming any time soon, folks. I think we are being held hostage a bit by Miss Coppola.” Ewan stares off with a thinking face like no one has  ever had a deeper thought before. “That is interesting to think about. There is some kind of bratty assumption that all this will fade away soon enough. And we’ll be back on set. But what if it’s not for another year or so?”  Ewan is really getting worked up “What if we live here for the rest of our lives!!” His eyes are big and dazzling, it’s like he’s thinking of the most ideal outcome for the rest of his life.

               Suddenly, Sophia joins them at the table. “There they are, my little hunchbacks!” This is what Sophia affectionately calls her actors, the origin is unknown. Sophia has a strange new confidence around her. Usually, when she walked into places, she would feel like a Nat Sherman cigarette, like only some select tall New Yorkers in the back would still appreciate her. “Hello, love! Someone slept well.” Maggie Smith as Michael Caine chirped. Even when Maggie-Michael said something sweet, it still felt like someone was aggressively tickling your ribcage. 

          “I have news.” Sophia sits down, and smiled large and toothy, a stark contrast to her usual chic, despondent stare,  a look only afforded  to artists born with trust funds. “We’re not making the movie.” Hugh taps the table. “Well, I believe I won that bet.” Ewan’s jaw drops, destroyed. “You mean we cant live here together forever?” He runs his hands through his hair, petrified. Iman is quiet, which can mean many different things and all things at once, she is eternally the glory of God, a forgotten pyramid at the bottom of the ocean that if unearthed would explode us into 5D ascension. 

 “We are making a better movie! A super hero movie!!” Sophia exclaims. Sophia gets up close in the faces of her cast, pitching them on her new idea. “It’ll be a real heroes journey- good guys versus evil! Fun CGI! Sexy starlets and fun on trend jokes!” She turns to Michael Maggie, her mouth inches away from their milky eye, and says- “And much much more!” Sophia climbs up on the table now. “The adults will love it, as well as the little ones!” She does an Irish jig and starts spinning around and then poses with her arms up as though at the end of a musical.  It was not fun to watch.  Iman cuts her off-“I don’t trust what is happening.This is not reality. This is delusion. A karmic spell.” The power of Iman’s words blows the power out of the Chateau, pipes burst, the fire alarm goes off, and Joel Madden of Good Charlotte in room 304 stops jerking off for a second. Sophia is still catching her breath from her presentation, her sweating, arms stretched to the ceiling. She gulps as her eyes meet Iman’s. “Why don’t you just write from my character’s point of view?” Iman says as softly as she can without causing chaos.   Sophia freezes. Her whole body calcifies and turns to ice, then crumbles onto the table. Ewan and Hugh watch in absolute horror as Iman drops some of the ice into her water. She knows she shouldn’t have said yes to this project and looks on lovingly at Michael/ Maggie who has dozed off. 

[transitverse]

Faith (an interlude)

WORDS: 1800 CHAPTERS: 1 CHARACTERS: Zenith, Pox

You have to trust that everything will right itself, one way or another. (Or: Pox and Zenith find a depressing kind of peace in a hotel room.)

Set between chapters 1 and 2 of Long-distance charges, but not mutually required reading.

Soundtrack: take care, lady legs - hyi

The walk back to the hotel is spent in near silence. Even as you climb into the elevator, fly past all of the other arrondissements to your floor, neither of you says a word. Pox clings to your arm, though, her head against your shoulder. It says all that needs to be said.

"What are we gonna tell Tech?"

She poses the question as you're entering the hotel lobby. Dak--you can only assume, having seen neither head nor tail of him, and knowing who he is as a person--is still out at the bar.

"I... I don't know. I don't think I want to tell him anything." Easier said than done. "I don't want to have this conversation yet."

Pox doesn't question it. What she does question--what you both do--is the empty hotel room you arrive back to.

"What the fuck?" Pox stares alongside you at the room; The Nutting Professor is still playing on the TV, for some goddamn reason, and Tech's robes are laid out on the bed, but the man himself is nowhere to be seen. She opens the bathroom door, and--"What the fuck?"

"What?"

"'WENT WITH GUY, BRB .'" You poke your head into the door to see what in God's name she's talking about, and, yep, there it is: "WENT WITH GUY, BRB," smeared across the mirror in soap.

 "What the fuck?" Your immediate instinct is to fire off a message asking where he is. He's probably not dead. Probably. If he was in trouble, he'd let you know. You think. You hope.

"He's... fine, probably. Look, I'll ask him." You send the message, just for peace of mind. Pox's danger sense would flare up if he was in harm's way, too, right? Yeah, sure. So he's good. It’s hard to think about this with the sound of nasty sex going on in the background. "Okay, Jesus, I need to turn off that fucking porno before I lose my mind."

Switching the channel to something mundane and boring but at-least-not-sexually-graphic takes all of about three seconds, at which point you've already claimed a bed and thrown yourself down on it. Pox sheds her coat, crawls up beside you and half-drapes herself across your body, her head tucked into the crook of your neck. It's a little more than what you're used to, even from her, but tonight, you're glad for it. You let your head fall against hers. She nuzzles into you gently.

"It's gonna be okay, you know," she says, after a little while, so matter-of-factly you feel like you almost have to believe her.

"Yeah." You press your face into her hair slightly, eyes drifting shut for a moment. A nauseous feeling has settled itself in the pit of your stomach and hasn't left since you walked into that godforsaken shop.

"It was Aubrey you called earlier, right?"

"Mhm."

"Did she say anything?"

"She said she knew about this. About how they wipe our minds if we get too fucked up to be useful anymore. But that was it. She never knew-- doesn’t know any more than I do."

Pox shifts slightly, adjusting her position in a way that makes her hair tickle your neck. "Anything else?"

"...She said it'll be okay." Conveniently ignoring that you left out that you-- No, you don't even want to think about it. But you told her everything else. "She said I've been through worse. And, like, I guess I have, but I don't know how useful that is when I can't remember most of it to put it in context." You take in a slow, measured breath and exhale. "But she said I’ll be fine, because I have people to look after me. As long as I... let them look after me."

You can't stop thinking about that. You think back to your conversations out on the balcony, too, barely a day ago. It wasn’t a request, was it? It was a warning. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.

"So let us look after you." Pox pulls idly at one of the tags on your jacket. "We're going to get this fixed. And then you can do whatever you want about… finding them."

Mm. The delicate matter of what you want to do about the organisation responsible for the way your life played out. After all this, you're still wanting for answers; that much you know, and you're still going to get them. After that... somewhere, under the nausea, under the fear, under the uncertainty and regret and apprehension, anger is already flaring to life. They took everything you could have had in life. Promises be damned; you have your own reasons for wanting to burn them to the ground.

But right now, you have more difficult issues to grapple with: not what they did, but what you did. Ten rounds out in battlefields you barely remember. All those visions and dreams of dead bodies that now feel so, so much more real. You think of what Aubrey said about bombs and fire and killing; about it all being twisted into some kind of sick game. The cold, hard truth has been thrust in your face, and there's no way you can turn a blind eye to it anymore. No more pretending. No more burying. No more mental gymnastics in search of an explanation to extricate yourself from deeds you’ve quietly suspected for a long time that you might have participated in.

You have to face this head-on. Stare it down. You can't change it. Your only choice is in how you respond to it.

"You're brilliant, you know," Pox continues, quietly, after a moment, drawing you out of your own head. "Whatever they say about you. They don't really know you."

 "I feel like I don't even know me right now."

"I know you." She turns her head up to you, silver eyes wide in the low light. "I know you're not weak. And Dak knows you, and Tech knows you, and they don't think you're weak. Not how these--this--some big creepy fucking corporation thinks you are. Whatever they think is bullshit, okay? They don't care about you. They think you're weak because they didn't want you to care about things. But you do. That's what makes you better than them.”

All you can do is... stare, wordless. You manage a nod. Even if you had the energy, you wouldn't argue with her. There's no point. She's an immovable object when she's made up her mind about something.

Besides: you know, somewhere, deep down, that there's truth in what she says.

"I-- Yeah. Yeah. I know. It's just-- This is--" You keep stumbling and tripping in the process of trying to form a coherent sentence, but Pox understands without having to hear it aloud.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow." You heave a deep sigh and let your eyes slip shut for a moment as she settles back against your chest. How you're supposed to sleep tonight, you have no idea. At times like this, it'd be handy if you could switch your brain off as easily as you can your complete cybernetics. Emotional burnout has never hit so hard so fast. For now, you need to do what you've become so good at doing over the years: compartmentalise. Box this up and set it aside. There will be time to address it all. The time is not now, but it will come. When you've slept. When this death race is over. When you've left Fyre Tower in the rear-view mirror and you can all look towards the future with clear heads and fresh eyes.

"Did Tech answer yet?"

You glance down at Pox with your left eye. Your AR feed is clear.

"No. You'd get the creeps if something was up, though, right?"

"Not if he's miles away!"

"I mean, he said he'd be back! He'll be fine. I... I think I trust him. Anyway, you saw how he was earlier. I don't think we should go looking for him. I think he wants to be left alone right now."

Pox is silent. She lays her head back down on your shoulder, fingers fiddling with your shirt this time.

"I just want everyone to be happy," she says, eventually, just above a whisper. "With Tech, earlier, and Dak--and now you, and-- Everything keeps getting fucked up, and I don't know what to do."

Your immediate response is to slip an arm around her shoulders and pull her closer into your side. You forget how tiny she really is without that coat on and a thousand mystery objects padding it out. She turns her face into your neck and you rest your head atop hers, chin sinking into stark white curls.

 "You're doing fine, Pox." You feel her hand under your jacket, sliding all the way around you, clinging to you. "You're here. You're doing everything you can. That's more than enough." You pause, and then, because you realise you never said it earlier: “Thank you.”

She doesn't answer, or move, or respond in any way that you can tell. You keep hold of her anyway. God, you hope Dak doesn't come barging in, drunk off his ass right now. You kind of hope Tech doesn't, either, sober or not, though either way (and no matter his substance of choice) he'd be more manageable than Dak.

You find yourself curling a lock of Pox’s hair around your fingers as you lay there with her, tuning out the late-night reruns of shitty trid shows in the background. With that gone and your own woes packed away for the time being, you're left with a completely clear head for the first time in... well, probably the last two weeks. It's refreshing. You bask in the tranquillity of it for a little while. God only knows when you'll get another moment to do so.

Seeing perhaps your only window of opportunity in which to fall asleep, your brain seizes the chance and before you know it, you’re dozing off. You're vaguely aware, at some point, of switching off the TV. With the room now silent, and Pox a comforting dead weight on your side, drifting back off right where you lie comes easy.

Maybe when you wake up, everything will make more sense. Maybe the world will have fixed itself: Tech will be back, unharmed, happy. So will Dak. Your little visit to Sons of Adam will have been one big mix-up and you won’t be hurtling towards an uncertain death at a hundred miles per hour. Pox won’t need to feel guilty and helpless about problems far beyond her control.

Maybe none of it will be fixed at all.

You’ll just have to hold on tight,

Wait,

And see.

#neoscum #lost in transit #side story #standalone #complete #zenith #pox

[itsclydebitches]

For the Ozqrow prompts can them hugging be a thing? After this episode I feel like those boys need a damn hug. Or maybe couples therapy and communication...

I’m so not equipped to be the one dishing out therapy for these two lol. But behold! The Argus trip that absolutely, totally happened! (Also less “Ozqrow” and more “Wholesome family feels” since Oscar ended up getting involved - sorry if that’s not what you were looking for! :o) 

You did well out there.

Oscar shut his eyes, taking a moment to just let the words wash over him. With the grimm dead and behind them he could now feel a fierce ache settling into his limbs; the pounding of a bruise where his aura had broken while trying to scramble to safety. He was so thirsty he could barely swallow and his hands were numb with cold—except they blossomed with pain as soon as he packed the cane back up and slipped it onto his belt. Oscar had a headache. He had adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He had the vague sense that he knew all these feelings intimately, even though they were rather strange to a former farmhand.

He had pride that he’d done that.

As you should. Ozpin’s voice floated easily on the top of his mind today, crisp and clear. Your speed has increased immensely. As has the control over your aura.

“And I’m not attacking dust-infused murderers head on…”

The hum Oscar felt was simultaneously supportive and vaguely amused. Getting your ass kicked so hard that all you could do was lie in bed for three days gave a guy plenty of time to chat with the voice in his head, and those chats had revolved primarily around the topic of How to Judge When a Fight Will Get You Killed. It had taken Oscar about 48 hours and plenty of sniping… but he could admit now that he’d been a little hasty in trying to take on Hazel by himself.

Everything was just so complicated.  

On that, at least, we can agree. But take heart, Oscar. You stood your ground today and you won.

“We won.”

And yes, a vague impression of Ozpin was included in the group that Oscar instinctually thought of. Having Jaune boost Ren’s aura had been a fantastic idea, allowing the grimm farther back to drop off completely, no longer drawn by the relic and a mass of terrified people. Relying on Weiss’ ice was another—they didn’t need to kill these grimm, just keep them from catching up. She’d captured wings and tails against the mountainside, Ruby shouting something about good times as she cut through the rest. Oscar hadn’t really followed it.

Ms. Schnee kept a Nevermore contained during initiation, giving the rest of her future team time to dispatch it. Ozpin’s voice reverberated with pride. A remarkable feat for an incoming student, considering the timing that move required. Ms. Schnne has always had a particular talent for precision.

“Weiss.”

…I’m sorry?

“You’re living in my head and I’m living with them. You should probably drop the formalities. I mean,” Oscar shrugged. “It’s not like you’re their headmaster anymore.”

Oh. He hadn’t meant that to sound so mean. He felt the brief flash of pain and regret and want that flowed through them… and then Ozpin reigned it all back in. Oscar was left with a hand pressing against his head and a voice trying desperately to sound chipper.

Perhaps you’re right.

“Hey, kid! Don’t go fainting on me.”

Qrow wound his way through the train’s passengers, many of them blocking the flow as they stopped to stare at Oscar. They’d all felt the first hit from the grimm of course, heard the defense mechanisms winding up, but they probably hadn’t expected one of their saviors to be a short-statured boy still dressed for the farm. Oscar sheepishly kicked the rest of the snow off his boots as Qrow finally made it to his side.

He had a martini in hand. With an orange slice.

We just got in, Oscar thought, barely managing to keep from saying it aloud. In the back of his mind a familiar warning built and Oscar pinched their shared arm because yeah, yeah, they’d been over this. He’d grown up in a family where everyone worked dawn to dusk and where potential mishap—a flooded field, a cattle’s breach birth, even a grimm attack—meant that everyone had to be clearheaded. Always. His aunt had never approved of drinking and frankly neither did Oscar… no matter how much Ozpin was willing to give Qrow a free pass.  

We retain our separate opinions on the matter. Ozpin’s voice was once more tinged with a thread of amusement and…okay. Yeah. That was oddly reassuring.

Oscar’s shoulders slumped. “I’m just tired,” he said.

“You and me both. Like this month needed to get any crazier, huh?” Qrow took a long sip of his drink, but his eyes never left Oscar. They traveled from his soaked pants up into windblown hair. Then they narrowed. “You’re gonna freeze to death like that long before we hit Atlas. Go change. Then the squirts are all gathering in Ruby’s room to play video games. Wanna help me kick their ass?”

It sounded fun… though only in a theoretical way. Play video games with a bunch of kids his own age? Yeah. That’d be great. Oscar had often thought about that on the farm, what it would be like to go to school and make friends and just have someone other than his aunt around—

(I’m here.) 

—but Oscar also knew that they’d already tried this. Everyone was nice while training, but then they’d all go off in their own groups when it was time to relax. They weren’t ignoring him exactly. They just didn’t seem to think he fit. And Oscar got it. He hadn’t gone to Beacon, or experienced the things that bound them all together. He wasn’t a member of a team. And it probably didn’t help that every time he walked into a room people got awkward with the automatic adult who joined them.

…I’m sorry.  

“Alright, alright, you’ve convinced me.”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“No, don’t worry, this dusty old crow doesn’t need to hear anymore. C’mon then.”

Qrow had set his drink on the small window-ledge. He was blocking the hallway now, standing with his feet planted and his arms slightly raised at his sides. The pose seemed at once exaggerated and familiar to him—though this time Oscar couldn’t tell if that was a familiarity on his end or Ozpin’s. A vague, embarrassed, grumbling sort of feeling suggested the latter.

“Jeez you’re bad at this,” Qrow said when he’d apparently stood still a moment too long. The next thing Oscar knew he was being pulled roughly against Qrow’s chest, the smell of alcohol and sweat overwhelming. He instinctually pushed back and Qrow’s arms tightened a fraction. Oscar paused.

He did smell like alcohol… but smoke too. Not cigarette smoke, but something woodsier; like Qrow had recently sat near a fire. With the initial shock gone Oscar could admit that Qrow’s shirt was a whole lot softer than it looked and his arms were a rather comforting weight around his back and shoulders. His aunt never hugged like this. She was light and quick, pulling Oscar quickly to her side before pushing him back out again. Qrow was solid—he was warm—and Oscar found himself instinctually relaxing against what felt like an immovable pillar; the one sturdy object amongst all this craziness. His hands inched up around Qrow’s waist and buried in the fabric he found there.

“There you go,” Qrow chuckled, moving one arm up to ruffle Oscar’s hair. Qrow felt him tense and immediately returned the limb to its former position, a clear statement of: I’m not pulling away. “I’ve got two nieces, kid. I know when a squirt needs a hug. Granted, Ruby usually just hangs off my arm and Yang prefers piggybacks. But it all amounts to the same. Besides, I used to do this for—”

Qrow paused, sighing.

Me.

The merge was a slow and arduous process, the kind of thing you only realized was happening when you looked back and bothered to compare where you were with where you’d been. Lately Oscar had found himself mimicking the way Ozpin sat with their cane and Ozpin sometimes spoke about the farm like he’d been the one to grow up there. Things were messy now, unclear boundaries with equally unclear origins. Were they really becoming one, or were they just so used to one another that they’d picked up on certain habits?

Oscar wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

But the merge was granting them new abilities as well, things beyond just access to Ozpin’s muscle memory. They’d found now that they could control their shared body without a full, formal switch—which was what happened now, Oscar’s fingers uncurling to instead press flat palms against Qrow’s back. The pressure had the same desperate tinge to it though.

Oscar was the one who buried their face in Qrow’s shirt. Ozpin was the one who held on.

“That’s not me,” Oscar whispered, wanting him to understand, not entirely sure he did either. Qrow just gathered him up further.

“I know, kid. I know.”

#rwby #rwbyfic #rwby spoilers #HEY QROW #HEY #BE NICER TO YOUR SON #ritamej

[hairgrowthcentre]

What Can Be Expected After Hair Restoration Surgery

"How might I care for the medical procedure?" "Am I awkward?" "Would it be advisable for me to take medication?" "What unique insurances would it be advisable for me to take?"

These are the absolute most oftentimes posed inquiries specialists from hair transplant manchester are gotten some information about hair transplant "after medical procedure". Also, that is totally reasonable; Patients need to realize what's in store after a medical procedure.

Luckily, hair transplant medical procedure aftercare and the recuperation stage are straightforward and clear. Picking a hair transplant is a major advance. Most importantly, note that this technique is ideal for the two people. It's additionally negligibly obtrusive, okay, and by and large effortless without intricacies.

Be that as it may, each quiet is unique. Along these lines, it is difficult to know without a doubt what amount of time it will require to reestablish or develop one's hair. It will require a while to see the outcomes and the recuperation cycle. These outcomes can vary altogether from one individual to another.

This vulnerability influences numerous patients after hair transplant. They stress that their redness and bothering keep going longer than others. Some will even fanatically scan the web for pictures after the hair transplant and contrast their past outcomes and those of different patients after a similar period.

Therefore, at Hairgrowthcentre, we accept that we need to have reasonable assumptions for what's in store after a hair transplant both as far as recuperation and result. So here is the article that will help you.

Following a medical procedure

Following the activity, the region of the hair transplant looks somewhat red, glossy, and swollen. You will see a great many new little hairs with follicular unit joins embedded in them if you look carefully. You will likewise have a little wrap around your brow, and your primary care physician from hair transplant birmingham uk will probably permit you to wear the cap cautiously at home. Your primary care physician will give you a torment reliever and a few anti-infection agents (or medicine for these meds) alongside point-by-point postoperative composed directions. At that point return home to rest, rest and recuperate.

Indeed, there is a ton of promotion and hypotheses encompassing hair transfers. Albeit the transfer cycle is very quick, the outcomes show up in a few stages. You need to comprehend the interaction and show restraint. Your scalp can turn out to be delicate after a medical procedure. You may have to take medication for a couple of days. Inside a little while after the activity, the relocated hair will drop out yet notice new development inside a couple of months. A great many people will see 60% new hair development following six to nine months.

What can be considered typical after hair reclamation medical procedure

This medical procedure by hair transplant birmingham is related with gentle to direct agony and uneasiness. It ought to be not difficult to control with an oral prescription. Inconvenience and torment will die down within 48 to 72 hours after a medical procedure. The huge expansion in torment after this time will provoke you to call the facility.

Typically, a large portion of the distress is brought about by scalp fixing. A snugness will show up in the relocated region and the territory where the benefactor join was taken out. This immovability ought to slowly improve more than a little while. A huge cotton pressure wrap covers your scalp 2 to 3 days after a medical procedure. Hairgrowthcentre Clinic specialists will disclose to you whether the dressing can be eliminated at home or if important visit our facility.

Different overflowing from the transfer zone is thought to happen inside the initial 2-3 days after a medical procedure.

Hair follicle transfers (plugs) typically bring about hair shafts inside the relocated plugs in the initial not many weeks after the medical procedure by hair transplant uk manchester. Try not to stress. The reclamation of hair from the relocated attachment is normally expected within 3 or 4 months after a medical procedure.

Numerous transfers are generally needed generally advantageous and most normal outcomes. The specific number of meetings is at times hard to anticipate because it relies upon the hair development you have in every meeting. The whole interaction can take one meeting (for minor pain points) or a few meetings more than quite a long while (for enormous territories of hairlessness). These meetings are ideally dispersed at time periods to 4 months to develop the last fitting relocated completely.

It ought to be noticed that the outcomes from each resulting meeting may at first be less obvious because the new attachments are stowed away from the past plug by hair development. Nonetheless, since the fitting that has recently been relocated develops very long (it can take 6 to 9 months), the thickness of hair in the territory will generally increment acceptably.

You should know that there are sure restrictions regarding how much hair can be relocated. Although a hair transplant London specialist tries really hard to cover however many uncovered spots as would be prudent, just a few fittings are gathering from the back (and at times the sides) of your scalp. That way, you might be approached to choose which going bald spot is your need. In some cases, specialists may suggest extra methodology, for example, scalp decrease to help diminish complete uncovered regions.

After the medical procedure, the specialist will recommend an effective minoxidil arrangement. Utilizing just effective arrangements (without hair transplant) frequently brings about poor "fluffy" hair development in specific territories. Be that as it may, related to hair transplantation, the "fluffy" development brought about by minoxidil will thicken the relocated hair, which is more common and shows up. Regardless of whether you have had a powerless reaction to minoxidil previously, utilizing it after a hair transplant can in any case help.

Each relocated fitting will have little outsides for the initial 10-14 days after a medical procedure. They shouldn't be upset (don't rub or give different methods for getting them a shot until they are prepared to fall freely). Because of this little hull, the unite zone is regularly obvious to the eyewitness (for 10 to 14 days). Be that as it may, you can without much of a stretch cover the zone with different caps, handkerchiefs, scarves, and the sky is the limit from there. Leaving the hair around the bare territory longer can cover the outsides during the recuperating stage.

A specific shivering sensation is relied upon to happen nearby the benefactor and beneficiary. These sensation changes are quite often brief and steadily die down more than a little while (generally requiring a while to determine).

Slight expanding of the brow and scalp may happen for a few days after a medical procedure. Wounding is generally not a critical issue, but rather you shouldn't stress over it if it does. This was settled rapidly.

Settle on a decision if you notice any of the accompanyings:

The advancement of an increment in temperature above 100.0 degrees.

Unusual draining or release from the scalp cuts.

Critical reformist expansion in torment that doesn't disappear effectively with an endorsed prescription.

The swathe moves gravely or is inadvertently eliminated within 24 hours of medical procedure.

If any of the cases above happen outside of customary business hours, kindly don't stop for a second to call Hairgrowthcentre.

How to take care of after a hair transplant a medical procedure?

Ensure somebody takes you to and after the medical procedure. Obviously, as in each medical procedure, nearby sedation will keep on being utilized to assuage inconvenience related to the technique.

Having somebody with you for in any event the primary night after the medical procedure is regularly useful.

Go to your activity in free and agreeable garments. The top ought to attach or tie the zipper as opposed to pulling it over your head.

Just take anti-toxins and torment relievers as recommended by your primary care physician.

Try not to take headache medicine or mitigating intensifies fourteen days prior and fourteen days after medical procedure except if you examine them with your specialist first.

If you are a smoker, you ought not to smoke at any rate fourteen days before the medical procedure and fourteen days after a medical procedure. Smoking and biting tobacco diminishes your bloodstream and can seriously influence the consequences of your medical procedure.

For the principal week after a medical procedure, lay down with your head raised to limit growth in the medical procedure zone.

The wraps applied during a medical procedure should stay set up for at any rate the initial 24 hours. The wrap ought to be eliminated following 2 to 3 days. It will be taken out busy working, or you might be approached to eliminate it at home.

After the gauze is eliminated, place a delicate, clean fabric over the unite region and scrub down. The shower water ought to be washed delicately on a towel to clean the injury, yet keep away from direct injury to the careful site. The remainder of the scalp (without unite) can be delicately shampooed to ensure the join. For the initial three weeks after a medical procedure, you should wash your hair this way consistently. From that point onward, you can wash your hair without a towel.

Be cautious when brushing your hair, so you don't coincidentally get the strands in the giver region. It's probably not going to cause a lot of harm, however, it very well may be awkward.

Your scalp is possibly somewhat less touchy to contact in the weeks or now and again months after a medical procedure. Thus, be cautious when utilizing a hairdryer or hair curling accessory, as the over-the-top warmth from the apparatus can harm your scalp without acknowledging it.

The benefactor region of the scalp is shut with careful staples or stitches. In the two cases, they should be taken out somewhere in the range of 10 and 14 days after a medical procedure.

You ought to evade exhausting activity and keep away from critical actual work, lifting, or an excessive amount of effort for in any event three weeks after a medical procedure, as these exercises can meddle with wound recuperating. Try not to spare a moment to make an arrangement.

Recuperation plan

Sensible Expectations after Hair transplantation

We've discovered that your mileage varies from the encounters of others. Nonetheless, we tracked down that coming up next were sensibly exact indicators of what's in store after hair transplant. These stages depend on the individual reports we see from our patients and the different investigations and studies that we have audited.

1 To 4 Days

Most patients who go through hair transplantation by FUE (Follicular Unit Extraction) recuperate rapidly inside the initial four days. The collect point in the rear of your brain mends rapidly. Patients may encounter redness and aggravation at the implantation site.

Four days to 3 weeks

The redness and aggravation at the implantation site will gradually die down. This interaction takes more time for certain patients than for other people.

1 to 3 months

There might be little hair development, however, most will see practically no change.

3 to a half-year

Now, there is generally some obvious degree of hair development. Notwithstanding, don't stress or be baffled if there are still no striking contrasts. Many will not see hair development until the following a half year.

6 to 9 months

This is the most basic phase of hair development.

9 to a year

This is when most patients start to see thickness and thickness. 90% of hair development ought to be seen as of now.

12 to year and a half

So most patients need to see the outcome

Keep in mind, hair can last more and develop with reserve funds.

Note that a few spots may take more time for hair to develop than others. The unite develops at various rates relying upon the phase of the hair cycle. It is additionally vital to realize that few out of every odd join will endure.

#hairtransplantmanchester #hairtransplantbirminghamuk #hairtransplantbirmingham #hairtransplantukmanchester #HairTransplantLondon

[thekuroiookami]

Haute couture (in which Shigaraki gets a makeover)

It was a quiet day at the headquarters. Shigaraki looked blearily around the room as he shuffled to the computer. Kurogiri was mixing drinks at the bar, Dabi was dozing off on the couch. Jin and Spinner were arguing in a corner, while Himiko read something on her perch at the counter, kicking her feet merrily.

Shigaraki took one more step before pausing.

Wait.

Since when was Toga Himiko literate?

He turned around and narrowed his eyes at her. "What are you reading?"

"Hmm?" She looked up, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. "Oh, a fashion magazine."

He put in as much disdainful disbelief into his voice as he could without actually having to change expression. "Why, is cutesy bimbo going out of style?"

She ignored the barb and giggled. "No, silly! It has dating advice, look. I'm fortifying my maidenly heart for the next time I run into Izuku."

He was a little disturbed. She knew what fortify meant. "I'm glad you're taking this villain thing so seriously."

This time she did roll her eyes. "You know, Tomura, being a villain isn't that different from setting out to date someone."

"Really." He stretched out the first syllable in a contemptuous drawl. "Enlighten me."

"Yup, it is. The principles are the same, you see. You gotta make a good first impression, you have to be convincing and-" she held up a finger - "you need to dress well."

Spinner and Twice stopped squabbling, momentarily mesmerized by the idea. Kurogiri also seemed interested.

"It's true," said the bartender, "that all the famous villains had distinctive appearances. Hitler. Al Capone. That one president."

The first tendrils of a fire prickled under his neck as he digested this. She may, very distantly, and in her own, simplistic ameoba-like way, have had a point.

"So what? Are you saying I need a bowler hat and sequins?"

Dabi finally cracked open one eye to peer at the discussion. Himiko jumped off the counter in excitement. "Noooo, but a makeover sounds fun! How about it, Tomura?"

They broke into the department store around midnight. Nothing was actually broken, because that would set the alarms off, and what was the point of a Kurogiri if something as trivial as a door stopped them, anyway.

Himiko threw some lights on and dragged him over to a mirror. "Okay, so we need to decide what kind of look you want.   Evil goth? Evil preppy? Evil preppy goth?"

He shrugged off her touch and buried his hands in his pockets. "I'm fine the way I am."

Spinner, Twice and Kurogiri arranged themselves on a couch like bridesmaids waiting to criticize his dress. Dabi leaned languidly against a mannequin with a mild yawn. Spinner shrugged awkwardly. "Dude, the hands are a cool touch and all, but if we think about it, you're just wearing slacks and a coat. That doesn't exactly scream menacing. More like, 'it's Monday morning and this is the most I could be bothered to do.' "

"Also," added Jin, "that trench coat sometimes gives me the impression you're a different kind of villain."

Shigaraki gave him a look that could have crisped ashes. "Did I hear someone asking for a live autopsy?"

He heard Dabi mutter something about it being called a vivisection, but ignored it. Spinner dove into the shadowy racks of clothing and came back with an armful of…something.

He gingerly picked apart the tangled mass. There was a military coat that buttoned up to the neck, knee high boots and a belt with a heavy buckle. Shigaraki dangled the visor cap in fingers, squinting at the skull insignia. "I'm not wearing this."

The group spent the next few minutes trying to persuade him otherwise, but Shigaraki was an immovable rock and refused to budge. Himiko suddenly hopped on one foot.

"I could wear it!"

They took a moment to absorb the implication.

"NO." Shigaraki looked her in the eye. "I'll kill you if you try."

"Then you gotta try 'em on, Tomura."

"No."

"Say yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"No."

"Yes."

"Great, the dressing room's that way!"

After a brief scuffle in which Shigaraki tried to put his bare hands on Himiko's face and Himiko tried to a put a knife in his, Kurogiri somehow managed to calm them down enough to compromise. Shigaraki gave her a drop of blood with extreme reluctance and watched with an equal amount of trepidation as she ran off.

"I hate you all," he mumbled to no one in particular.

"Here she is," announced Jin importantly.

Shigaraki watched in dawning horror as he strolled out jauntily - he'd never been jaunty in his life - and struck a pose in front of the mirror.

"Tada," came his familiar rasp. "Whatcha think?"

"Hmm, can you spin?"

The churning in his stomach grew as his three-dimensional reflection twirled beautifully on one foot.

"It's a bit…" Kurogiri trailed off meaningfully.

Shigaraki said it for him. "I look like an underpaid chauffeur," he intoned flatly.

His doppelganger drooped. Twice timidly held out an outfit. "How about this one?"

Himiko took and it and - Shigaraki swore creatively at this - skipped away. On him it looked…he couldn't bear to think about how it looked. She came back equally cheerily a minute later. "I like this one."

For the first time during the whole ordeal, Dabi reacted. The mannequin toppled over with a crash, followed by the sound of wheezing. The itch came back to life under Shigaraki's skin and he wanted to claw someone's eyes out.

"I. Am. Not. Wearing. THAT."

THAT was a full set of ninja gear, only stupidly impractical. The outfit had no sleeves, and had a chunky scarf obscuring his face up to his nose. That's what Father was for, thank you very much. The only real decision to make here was whether to kill Jin on Tuesday or Wednesday, because his schedule was a bit tight. Shigaraki settled for right now.

Shigaraki 2.0 put his hands on his hips and examined his reflection critically. "Okay, so maybe Tomura is a bit too skinny for this."

"Bitch, come here and say that to my face."

"But he has a nice chest," said Jin dreamily, "and his collarbones are good too…"

There was an awkward silence which Shigaraki used to calculate how many volts were needed to fry Twice's brain.

"It's certainly better than the last one," Dabi cut into the thickening silence. "You could use it for your final form or something."

"It's mind-meltingly stupid. Do you know how clammy fourteen hands get when they're directly on your skin? I didn't think so."

Spinner tilted his beaked head. "Why do you even need that many anyway?"

"Because I'm a sad, lonely child inside and this is the only loving embrace I've ever known- Why do you think, dumbass?"

Kurogiri cleared his throat. "May I suggest a more formal look? It worked well for All for One."

Himiko disappeared into the darkness and reappeared in yet another outfit. "Better?"

Shigaraki didn't absorb the colour of the suit until she angled his body into the light and he nearly disintegrated her on the spot. She sauntered out in a lovingly cut tuxedo, which was tolerable, but firstly: it was velvet. Secondly: it was the colour of wine. Burgundy.

How the hell had he ever thought this League was a good idea?

"Oohhh," said the others in unison. "Nice."

"Thanks." Himiko adjusted her - or his, rather - posture, slouching a bit and tilting the head down. He found her skills of observation terrifying and moved her further up his mental hitlist. "How about now?"

"It's very suave. It says, 'I'm a man of the world' but exudes a certain aloofness at the same time," opined Kurogiri thoughtfully.

"Kurogiri, I'm trying to take over the world, not seduce it."

Not-Shigaraki threw his hands up in exasperation. "You're so high maintenance for someone who can't even be bothered to brush his hair."

"Fuck you too, Toga."

"You could always go for the basic catsuit and personalize it," Spinner said hopefully. "Like Twice here did."

"Spinner," he said blandly, like there weren't fire ants crawling along his veins, "I want to distract the public with my villany, not the outline of my dick."

Jin frowned, confused. "But no one ever gets distracted by my suit?"

"Exactly."

Dabi stopped wheezing long enough to speak. "What's wrong with his current gear anyway?"

Shigaraki felt a surge of something like gratitude, but quickly tamped down on it before it got out of control. Everyone else looked at each other.

"Well," started Himiko slowly, "for one thing, it looks like yours."

They simultaneously looked down at their dark clothes. "Oh."

Irritation crackled along Shigaraki's spine. "So all this time, you could have played dress-up with him instead?"

They looked bewildered. "But Dabi looks cool," said Spinner, like that explained anything.

He gritted his teeth. "You're talking about a guy wearing a wife-beater under a half-assed jacket. Not that I care who beats their wives, but that shit should be illegal."

Dabi looked down at his tank and shrugged. Himiko shook his head. "No, no, Dabi's got the high collar and the stitching and whatever those braces are. Tomura has a hoodie. It's different. Also, have you seen his pecs?"

He had, actually. More than once. But that wasn't the point.

"I'm done here. Kurogiri, let's go."

The bartender sighed heavily and made to follow. Spinner flailed pathetically and made a very big mistake.

"Come on, at least try and be bit more like Stain!"

Shigaraki froze mid-step. The itching, which had subsided, came with a fury. Pure rage roiled off of him as he turned around.

Dabi rolled his eyes and slunk back to a safe distance. "Here we go."

The other villain shrunk back as Shigaraki loomed over him, the blackness of his clothes seeping into the atmosphere. Tomura's hair looked paler, his eyes a little crazier in contrast to the dark nothingness of his coat.

"Hey Kurogiri. This guy thinks I should be more like Stain. Me, of all people."

Kurogiri said nothing, apparently waiting for the inevitable. Spinner tried to melt into a puddle and failed.

"If he likes that talkative bastard so much, maybe I should help him out so they can see each other, huh?"

"Itsfineyouroutfitisgreatimsorry," Spinner squeaked.

"Really? Are you sure? You don't think the sneakers are too last year?"

"Nope, they're brilliant, can't believe I never noticed. That symbolic red and black, truly a stroke of genius."

"Damn right they are." He pressed one foot into the lizard-man's face. "Here, take a closer look."

"They're amazing," gasped Spinner. "Just fabulous."

"That's right. You know why? It's because I'm fabulous. Aren't I, Jin?"

Twice nodded exuberantly. "You're like God, Beyoncé and chocolate rolled into one."

"Right. I'm going to walk out of here now and all of you will give fervent thanks that you get to see this fabulous ass that is perfectly fine the way it is. Kurogiri."

And then Shigaraki tossed his coat around his shoulders and walked into the warp door.

#boku no hero academia #crack #one shot #league of villains #shigaraki tomura #toga himiko #kurogiri #spinner #twice #dabi #sass #dress up #nonsense #strong language #sort of

[probablydeletethis]

I’ve been trying to find a dynamic between these two that I like because I can’t tell if I ship Doomfist and Reaper or not. Not sure if I succeeded, but maybe fandom will enjoy these as fanfic.

1. One - Idea: Akande finds Reaper’s “curse” admirable. He doesn’t. 2. Two - Idea: Pre-fall of Overwatch, split loyalties, cat/mouse, “it’s complicated”

[Warning: this is a morning after so there are non-graphic mentions of consensual sex]

It was the presence of another person in his room that woke him up. He didn't move, evening out his breathing and assessing the situation first.

He felt the rise and fall beneath his arm, the sweaty heat around his legs that indicated that the night hadn't cooled down his bed.

Except this wasn't his bed.

The soft sheets beneath him and the liquid like blanket clinging in places on his sweat legs were a far cry from the military issue everything that made up his life.

He remembered the night before. Remembered the soft lips and the breathtaking pressure. Still felt the aches from a need to get closer, remembered the sweet words panted, whispered, groaned, kissed into his skin. He remembered being bare and wanting. He remembered being seen, truly seen like he never was supposed to.

He opened his eyes, adjusting to the gray, predawn light to look up at the sleeping man drooling peacefully on his pillow.

Akande. Doomfist.

The party had been for the rich, the influential, and the undercover agents with long standing aliases posing as one or both. Gabriel was the latter. He'd pretended not to know that he'd be at the party, pretended not to know that Akande would do the same. He'd pretended that wasn't the reason he’d taken the assignment even as he ignored his self-assigned mark for the company of the Talon leader. They'd both grabbed many drinks and raised them to their lips and drank none of them. They’d pretended to be drunk during the cab ride to make it easier, to play their game. Pretended to be drunk in the elevator where clothing got untucked and lips met warm skin. Pretended to be drunk as they stripped and pressed together, warm and so good until they couldn't pretend anymore and Gabriel had seen him, truly seen him. It was terrifying. It was powerful.

His fingers splayed over the synthetic skin of Akande’s torso, the warmth and hard muscle beneath indistinguishable from organic flesh, evidence of his access to the best West African technology on the market. His hand moved to the surgical bolt next to his abs and ran his fingers to the one above his hip, curled his finger around the metal brace next to it. All of his enhancements were to make him stronger in combat, to resist the strain his body took while wielding the Doomfist Gauntlet.

Christ, he was literally sleeping with the enemy. Ana’s tired, distrustful stare flashed in his mind and he closed his eyes to be rid of it but it lingered, deservedly so.

He wondered if this was part of Akande’s plan, his grand design, because it wasn’t part of Gabriel’s. This wasn't supposed to happen, but it had. The newest Doomfist was a priority target, and they'd played this game of cat and mouse for too long. He’d gotten too attached to it, too admirable of his brilliant mind, too willing to talk during a stalemate, and Akande had been beautiful, so very beautiful with his keen eyes, his smooth dark skin, his confident laugh, and regality. His armchair philosophy grated irritatingly against Gabriel’s scarred and bled through history, but Akande’s will to do what must be done, to do what he feels is right and enacting it with his own two hands is something Gabriel has been missing for too long, the will that could change the world.

He used to share that will with his strike team before Torbjorn settled down with his family, before Reinhardt retired to wander the world like Don Quixote, before Ana grew more spiteful that there was nothing left for her but the military, before the job wore down everything that made Jack great. They’d gotten old, all of them had, but unlike them Gabriel still felt the will to act.

Once upon a time he'd do anything for them, and that promise had never been rescinded, but the long years had worn the oath down, the meaning of the words lost with use and experience and cynicism until it was a vague thing that he wasn't sure he remembered because it was important or because it was a childish memory of a time when he was better.

And maybe Gabriel wanted something that wasn’t crumbling at the base with the paint chipping off. Maybe for once he didn't want to clean up a mess and pick up the pieces. Maybe he wanted spend time with people he hadn’t known for so long they’d run out of things to talk about. Maybe he wanted a future with an immovable force that made him want something more. Maybe he wanted one person to truly see him, who shared his world of mind games and violence and laughter and parties they couldn't wait to leave.

“If your hands go any lower, we’ll never leave this bed,” a deep, amused voice said above him. A smile spread across Gabriel’s lips at the sound and he turned his head up to look at Akande’s sleepy eyes, shining in the morning light with mirth.

The fondness felt heavy and wonderful in his chest. It ached even as he sat up and kissed those soft lips. Then he kissed him again because the corners of Akande’s lips lifted and he could. He took a breath to marvel at that.

“That would be such a tragedy,” Gabriel breathed against his lips, the naked happiness in his lover’s eyes, the happiness Gabriel caused with just two presses of his lips to the tempting pair beneath him, was almost enough to distract from the horrid smell of his breath. Almost. Gabriel pulled back, wrinkling his nose. The confused scrunch between Akande's eyebrows was kind of adorable.

“My breath smells terrible. I need to brush my teeth. Do you have a spare toothbrush?” He asked without preamble and swung his sweaty legs out of bed. He was already walking toward the connected bathroom when he heard that low chuckle. He turned around immediately, loathe to not see one of his favorite sights when he’d only monitored him from afar.

The chuckles disappeared quickly, but his stare lingered and roamed Gabriel’s naked body with those keen, planning eyes. It made Gabriel grin arrogantly that his body could capture such attention from a man like Akande.

“Like what you see?” Gabriel said through his cocky grin because he couldn't help himself, displaying himself openly with his arms crossed over his chest. Akande shook his head, amused.

“There should be a spare toothbrush in the top right drawer,” Akande said easily, not taking the bait to Gabriel’s disappointment,” You should also take a shower while you're in there. Clean towels are on the rack.”

Gabriel pouted, but nodded his thanks and headed for the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

With a toilet in front of him, the need to pee made itself known and he relieved himself before fishing through Akande’s surprisingly messy drawer for the toothbrush. He found it and popped open the container. There was toothpaste next to the sink, squeezed from the middle, that he silently judged and ignored, instead opting to use the travel sized toothpaste he'd found in the drawer.

It felt good to scrub his teeth clean. Something about the ritual of grooming pleased his sensibilities. Perhaps it was a product of his military background or the long expanses of time he’d had to go without it for the mission. Either way, he was eyeing that shower with every intention of using it.

He spat out his toothpaste and rinsed it down the drain, making sure none of it lingered in the pristine sink. He set the toothbrush down on the counter with the bristles over the sink and headed for the shower.

The shower was massive with a granite bench to sit on in the back and an entire shelf of soaps inlaid in the aqua blue, tiled wall. It could comfortably fit four of him. He was too used to hunched over communal showers or spaces so small that his elbow always pushed against the curtains. A giddy feeling rose in him at the prospect of a shower without either of those things. He couldn't wait to tell Reinhardt about this during their-

He paused in his thoughts.

He couldn't tell Rein about this. He could never know whose bed Gabriel had warmed. Not unless something-

He stopped that thinking, pushed away a tiny flicker of loss, and got back on task. It was a familiar feeling, redacting away the moments in his life.

The sheer variety of soaps was staggering. And his agents called him prissy for special ordering the lavender citrus soap he preferred. At least it was only one. This was ridiculous. He picked out a blue and green swirled soap bar that smelled like it came from one of the boutique soap/jewelry/hemp clothing shops back home.

There didn't appear to be a shower head, which made him cautious, but there was a handle that said “hot” in one side and “cold” on the other which he knew how to work with. He turned it to the middle and water came pouring down on him in like a heavy rain, and not willing to go out drowning himself in a shower, he turned off the water.

He glared up and for the first time noticed the small dots on the ceiling. The water came from the damn ceiling. He also noticed a thin, black panel next to the soap shelf. He rolled his eyes and pressed his fingertips to it, bringing up a holoscreen of shower options. Of course it had to be the most convoluted shower in existence.

He settled on the “light shower” option through the middle half of the shower space and turned the water on to medium temperature. It came out in a much more reasonable amount behind Gabriel and he stepped into it with a sigh, letting the water flow over tight muscles and fond aches. He automatically started scrubbing, consciously making himself slow down. A shower like this wasn't a five minute shower.

It wasn't a surprise when large hands closed his to stop the direction of the soap.

“I see that you finally figured out how to use the shower,” Akande teased him. Gabriel turned and raised both eyebrows at him.

“This is not a shower. This is a water boarding simulator.”

“You're the expert,” Akande said with happy resignation, kissing him lovingly next to his eye like a husband placating their spouse instead of acknowledging them as a torturer. Gabriel stiffened, but moved easily to kiss under his jaw at his pulse point. This was their game.

“Torture is an ineffective way to get information,” Gabriel replied kissing gently down his neck, “infiltration and gaining trust is much more effective.”

He saw the hand raise to his neck. Thick fingers that when balled in a fist have demolished lives, rest gently under his chin. Gabriel allowed his chin to be raised and plush lips to be pressed firmly onto his. They're playing their game and Gabriel should not show how willing he is to give himself to this man except now Akande has seen him. Their night together memorized, stored, and catalogued in their relentless minds. Akande already knows so Gabriel opens his mouth before his lover has to ask for permission, knows that Akande wants to give more of himself too because Gabriel saw him and he knows. The need to take the hidden pieces of himself that Akande’s giving him wars deliciously with Gabriel’s need to give Akande only the parts of him that would make him feel good. They pull apart with a divine satisfaction.

“You know, your skills would be appreciated elsewhere,” Akande breathed oh so gently, the words more a whisper and a rumble in his chest.

“I'm where I want to be,” he replied like he always did to Akande's offer, but if felt lighter than their usual script. He’s also keenly aware of the intimacy in the double meaning of his words. A taste lingered in his mouth from the kiss and Gabriel scrunched up his nose.

“You never brushed your teeth,” he accused, pushing Akande away with one hand.

“I did not.” The bastard was completely unapologetic. Gabriel’s nose remain scrunched.

“I know where your mouth has been, you know?”

“Then it would be a waste to brush my teeth as I have every intention of putting my mouth back on those places in the very immediate future,” Akande replied with a shit eating grin.

Gabriel’s disgust melted into open intrigue and grinned back at him.

“Fair point,” Gabriel said with a tilt of his head, “and one that I am eager to discuss, but I need to report back to work.”

The look on Akande’s face said that he would do no such thing, but they both knew he wouldn't stop him. It was a bad play so instead he just said “okay.”

His hands were suddenly on Gabriel’s shoulders, looking him square in the eye.

“Have dinner with me,” he requested. Gabriel froze, if someone from Overwatch saw them together it would be terrible. The “no” was on his tongue when Akande continued.

“I know a very discreet Thai restaurant where we could have our privacy,” he elaborated and Gabriel felt both a gratefulness to not have to explain his discretion and a thrill that he was being asked to go on an honest to God date. Except Gabriel was busy, especially with Overwatch no longer officially backing them and his ingrate Second In Command having flown the coop and was unable take over for him.

It occurred to Gabriel that getting him away for another night could be part of a plan to disrupt Blackwatch command for a short, but possibly critical time. Feelings aside, Gabriel knew that an opportunity to further Doomfist’s and Talon’s goals was not going to be wasted. Except this could work in Blackwatch’s favor too. He would be able to take Doomfist off of the board for a known, set of time. That opened a whole new world of possibilities for them. He’d have to talk to Ali to see what could be set up. It should leave him with time to prepare for his date.

“Okay, I'm in,” Gabriel replied, feeling joy light up in him at Akande’s delighted smile.

“We could go see a show after if you like. The ballet perhaps,” he brought up a little too casually like he already knows that Gabriel likes the ballet, like that couldn't have been information pulled from an abducted, traumatized woman who had been Gabriel's friend, who was still missing.

“I would like that,” Gabriel said instead, tallying up more time that Doomfist could be accounted for. He smiled a pleased smile and started soaping himself back up in earnest, aware of Akande’s following gaze even as he lifted up his leg to wash between his toes. When he went to put the soap bar back a hand grabbed his wrist to stop him. He looked back at Akande questioningly.

He moved the hand still holding the soap and moved it to his own chest, rubbing sudsy circle on his synthetic skin, the back of Gabriel’s fingers grazing the warm skin along with it.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay just a little bit longer? You are sure to already be late with how long it took you to figure out how to use this shower,” he joked, but rubbed his freehand down Gabriel’s side, which was nice, but Gabriel was too focused on that little circle of suds and how he’d been ignoring that he was naked in a shower with the gorgeous man he had feelings for who’d been unsubtle in his desires. Gabriel couldn’t think of a reason he was doing nothing about it.

“It would have to be quick…” Gabriel bargained. Akande grinned triumphantly and snaked an arm around his waist.

“Two hours tops,” Akande joked to him which made Gabriel grin and shake his head.

“And I want coffee, good coffee. Like it takes 20 minutes to drip slowly into a cup using gravity alone good coffee.”

“I know just the place,” he agreed easily, pulling Gabriel closer to him so that the only thing between them was Gabriel’s arm and the bar of soap, “Any other demands?”

“I’d also like a Bentley.”

“Done.”

“Really?” Gabriel leaned back with an eyebrow raised.

“No,” Akande deadpanned at him and then broke into chuckles. Gabe laughed with him and and playfully hit him in the arm.

“Then I’m good to go,” Gabriel said amicably.

“Good. I’d like to brush my teeth sometime this morning.”

Gabriel snorted into a laugh that lasted even as he watched the soapy trail of the bar of soap as he moved it further down his lover’s washboard abs.

45 minutes later, Gabriel was stepping into a Bentley escort with a cup of coffee and a pair of sunglasses in the classiest walk of shame of his life. He was dropped off at an address he’d only been to once, walked out the back door and took a bus to the place he’d stashed his communicator. He checked in with Ali and Teegs like he should have done twelve hours ago. He told them he wouldn’t make it in for a few hours while looking out the window at the same man who’d driven him in the Bentley sat across the street in a Volvo. He had a tail to shake.

#Akandriel #Reapfist #Fistgabe #Doomer #Overwatch Fanfiction #fanfiction of all things

[morganbelarus]

One church, two popes: why Catholicism is in crisis this Easter | Peter Stanford

Pope Franciss predecessor represents a conservative Catholicism being seized on by the likes of Bannon and Salvini, writes author and ex Catholic Herald editor Peter Stanford

In his pre-Easter address to pilgrims gathering in Rome, Pope Francis highlighted Jesuss words as he died on the cross on the first Good Friday: Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. We all, the Argentinian pontiff stressed, need to find the courage to forgive those who have wronged us.

Those remarks sparked speculation about who exactly Francis was struggling to forgive. Top of most lists in Rome this Easter is his predecessor, Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI, who decided in 2013 to break with 600 years of work-unto-death papal tradition and retire. This opened Catholicisms door to the breath of fresh air that is Francis. And, for the past six years, as the winds of change have blown through the church, Benedict has by and large kept a respectful silence, ignoring the ever louder pleas of traditionalist Catholics who want the 92-year-old to join them in opposing Franciss reform agenda.

That changed earlier this month, when Benedict published a 6,000-word article in a German magazine. It made headlines by blaming the clerical abuse scandal on the moral relativism of the 1960s sexual revolution, and the homosexual cliques that allowed this lawlessness to infect seminaries. It is a line of argument that directly and, conservative cardinals insist, pointedly contradicts all Franciss efforts (including a summit of world bishops in the Vatican in February) to tackle the damage done by paedophile priests by pointing the finger at a dominant culture within the church; a culture that encourages priests and bishops to operate as if they are above the moral guidelines they preach, and regard themselves as beyond the sanction of civil courts.

Neither explanation has convinced some lifelong Catholics who, as a result this Easter, will stay away from church services. The Francis version at least has the virtue of not flying in the face of all contemporary research, which doesnt conflate sexual attraction between consenting adults of the same gender with the brutal and systematic violation of children.

Former White House strategist Steve Bannon on a terrace overlooking St Peters Square at the Vatican. Photograph: Marco Bonomo/AP

But what Benedicts intervention and apparent rebuke of his successor mostly lays bare is how hard it is proving for an absolute monarchy like the Catholic church to operate when it has not one, but two living popes. Indeed it explains why, for six centuries, papal retirement was regarded as not an option.

Perhaps if Francis and Benedict were of like mind, it might just work, but for all their posing as good neighbours (the emeritus pope lives within the grounds of the Vatican), the two of them represent opposite poles of Catholicism. Where Francis wants to work with the modern world, Benedict sees the church as immovable. Where Francis was a pastoral figure and outsider throughout his clerical career before his election, Benedict was a dusty academic and Vatican insider. And where Francis believes he inherited a church in crisis (and not just over clerical abuse), Benedict is convinced that he and his predecessor John Paul II had settled all the outstanding questions about its future in perpetuity (eg restating the ban on female priests).

That chasm between the two popes is not just an administrative matter for them to manage with as good a grace as possible (and the normally relaxed Francis was looking pretty on edge when he paid a birthday visit to Benedict earlier this month). There is a small but vocal minority of ultra-conservative Catholics who are doing their damnedest to tempt Benedict out of purdah so he can lead their attack on Francis.

These traditionalist figures, who congregate round retired cardinal Raymond Burke, (sacked from his Vatican job by Francis), have their own websites and journals, especially in the United States. They look on in horror, and not just at Franciss drive to relegate sexual morality down the list of priorities for his church. Their social conservatism is matched by political concerns. Where Francis is prophetically pro-refugee, pro-environment and pro-global cooperation, this wing of the church most emphatically is not.

The ramifications go far beyond the fraught politics of Catholicism. There are two more prominent figures the pope might have had in mind when he was recommending forgiveness this Easter: former Donald Trump right-hand man Steve Bannon, and Italys far-right interior minister, Matteo Salvini. Both men are cradle Catholics, so much so that Salvini recently tried to pass legislation to put crucifixes in all public spaces in Italy. The Vatican fiercely resisted this suggestion, believing it to be a transparent ruse to turn a religious symbol into a party political vote-winner.

Bannon has long made plain that he regards the current leader of his church as akin to an enemy. Hes the administrator of the church, and hes also a politician, he tells NBC in a broadcast interview this Easter. This is the problem Hes constantly putting all the faults in the world on the populist nationalist movement.

Populism and nationalism, the pope has warned, is what brought the continent Adolf Hitler. Fear can drive you crazy, he said on a recent trip to Panama.

Italian interior minister Matteo Salvini Photograph: Angelo Carconi/EPA

But you can go round Europe and its [populism] catching fire, objects Bannon on NBC. The pope is just wrong.

There is a profound irony here, because Bannon is the sort of ultra-traditionalist Catholic who, when Benedict John Paul II was in charge of the show, was fond of telling more liberal Catholics (who every survey shows represent the majority of Church members in the developed world) to stop their complaining and do as they were told by the successor of Saint Peter, who Jesus handpicked for leadership. Under Francis, though, Bannon is getting a dose of his own medicine. And spitting it out.

No longer welcome in the White House, Bannon has come to Europe to stir up the far right. And that includes Catholic traditionalists, whom he courts through his links with the Dignitatis Humanae religious institute outside Rome, of which he is patron and Cardinal Burke the president.

Salvini is one of Bannons closest allies and is leading the Italian governments clampdown on migrants. So strongly does he object to Franciss championing of the rights and human dignity of the same migrants, that Salvini has even appeared in public brandishing a T-shirt with the slogan, Benedict is my Pope.

This is a new take on the birther slur that Bannon and Trump directed at Barack Obama, making up tales of him not being born in the US to claim he wasnt really the president. Now Franciss legitimacy is being undermined by the suggestion that Benedict didnt have the right to retire and so remains the true pope.

Knowing that such nonsense is being pedalled publicly, you cannot help but speculate what Benedict intended by publishing his letter earlier this month. Was he signalling that he was throwing his lot in with the Francis-haters as they have been urging him to do? Or was it rather the small conservative circle around this frail, elderly, ailing pontiff who were using his name to fight their own battles?

Whatever the truth, no one can be in any doubt this Easter that there are two rival camps, if not yet rival popes, fighting it out for ultimate power at Gods business address on Earth.

Peter Stanford is a former editor of the Catholic Herald and author of Angels: A Visible and Invisible History (Hodder)

Original Article : HERE ; This post was curated & posted using : RealSpecific

One church, two popes: why Catholicism is in crisis this Easter | Peter Stanford was originally posted by MetNews

#MetNews

[eel-guy]

Valentine’s Day

This fanfic was made by @rotodomo for @keenveins

Ryatt

Yoga Instructor AU

“The Yoga Instructor”

Ryan plods across the unwelcoming laminated wooden floor. Today marks the fourth trial of his dreaded yoga classes; the classes that he himself signed up for as part of a new year’s resolution, but also the classes that leave him in agony. His last instructor practically snapped a leg off and cackled at him afterwards like a witch. Being a mechanic, flexibility was a giant plus for his everyday job, especially considering the number of tools that always seem to sit a mile away underneath the car he’s tinkering with.

As he unrolls his mat and stands his water bottle to one side, he’s reminded of the first time he waited in this same position for his cruddy teacher to turn up. It’s all too familiar - she walks in, a perpetual and unpleasable scowl etched into her cheeks, boombox cradled between her shoulder and neck and dressed head-to-toe in colours you would normally associate with discount packets of highlighters. Another class is finishing up, possibly in the room next door, as he hears the dying down of music and several people bounding to their feet. Maybe lady luck will grace him with a better session for once. Expecting the worst, Ryan makes no effort to look at the doors she will inevitably slam through. His skin is pleading his brain to leave.

Suddenly, the doors swing open and a jazzy pop tune kicks in from all sides of the room. “On your feet, ladies and gents! Let’s get moving!” A lanky man in a luminescent lime leotard is jogging on the spot at the front of the room, fresh sweat breaking around his already drenched brows, and undeterred, he waves his hands up to raise his crowd. His face is longer than most, with a daring smile and fair hair packaging his enthusiastic demeanour to something Ryan would be much happier calling an instructor.

“Cecile couldn’t join you this week, so I’ll be leading you today. Start by getting those knees high and those heel flicks in! That includes you at the back, Sir!” Ryan clears his fixated vision and points at himself. “Yes, you! You’re not invisible! Come on, now!”

The volume of the music cranks up so that anything else becomes inaudible. Well, this is better than her again, he thinks to himself, and Ryan begins the familiar warm up. His slides his pastel pink headband over his forehead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the instructor chanting something to a smaller woman. She is clearly more out of shape than he is, struggling to stay moving for more than ten seconds at a time, but the instructor is keeping her motivated somehow. Fuck. Legs are already getting tired. His knee-high socks and matching pink vest start clinging to his uncomfortable skin. Perhaps he should focus more on the cardio than the weight machines all the time.

For what a gentle pulse raiser was to many, the call to slow down is akin to a lifeguard fetching him from the deep waters of exercise. He spurts water onto his dry tongue when he comes to a stop. Relief. Deep breathing.

“Four to the floor!”

Oh boy.

The music changes to a serene forest ambience: the chirps of birds fluttering over the swaying treetops, the whistling grass and reeds that decorate the rushing river’s edge, the creaks of old wood under the weight of footsteps and the rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker’s bill against a light trunk. Instantly his legs felt some strength flooding back through them as Ryan assumes the hands-and-knees position.

He tilts his head up and watches the instructor outstretch an opposite pair of arm and leg. The lack of faltering and the ease of movement makes him look like a well-oiled machine. Ryan attempts to copy this and manages to balance himself, and ignoring the creaking and cracking emanating from his joints, it’s a fair effort. The instructor’s transition to the opposite pair is hypnotising; beautifully toned legs and remarkably unnatural pointed toes reinstate the possibility that this is actually a yoga robot dedicated only for replacement teaching.

After several swap overs, the class stand again. The instructor plants his legs a shoulder’s-width apart and daintily leans to his left until the palm of his hand touches the floor. With some reluctance this time, the rest of them try leaning too.

“Keep that leg straight and high up! I don’t want to see any bendy knees!”

He quickly darts around the room, pushing feet up and encouraging people to stretch further down, until he gets to Ryan’s half-assed crab disaster pose. To Ryan, his body is a perfect example of leaning, and he’s completely oblivious to his foot that’s within striking distance of another adult. It’s only the introduction of the instructor’s hand running down his thigh and pushing it up and away when he realises how hunched over he really is.

“I want that leg higher, Mr. Pink!” Ryan grits his teeth and tries to lift it, but it seems immovable from the instructor’s hands. It feels impossible to do anything but go lower at this point. “I’m trying,” Ryan chokes out between grimaces, “I’m fucking trying!” He then feels the stretch of an entire muscle group when his leg catapults to the ceiling. Only able to bolt his eyes open in response and rush air between his lips, the instructor finally makes Ryan’s leg of equal height to everyone else’s. “That’s better!” he cheers as he bounds away to the front of the class.

Lesson time seems to fly fast after that. The verbal reinforcements and occasional man-handling was much more preferable to Ryan than an hour of a screaming horse slowly dulling his sense of hearing. Why couldn’t all his lessons be like this?

One by one, the mats leave the floor and the class filters out. “Good work, everyone! See you next week,” the instructor chirps, flipping the boombox to play some movie’s credits sequence. Admiration and curiosity accompany Ryan over to the instructor, and only after watching the only other remaining person leave the room from his peripheral vision does he attempt conversation.

“Hey,” Ryan says, extending his rather sweaty hand. The instructor spins on his heels and, for once, stops moving thereafter. “Hello Mr. Pink! How may I help you? Not thinking of quitting are we?” “N-no, actually- and it’s Ryan.” He takes back his hand. “Well Ryan, what can I do for you?” “I was wondering, Mister, uh-”

The instructor smirks. “Matt.” “Right, Matt. I was hoping that you’d, uh…”

Ryan trails off into silence and rubs an anxious hand along his neck to support the back of his head. “I was hoping that, you’d, you know.”

Matt checks Ryan up and down and then chuckles. “Sure. But you’re picking me up. My car’s in the shop right now. I finish in an hour.”

“Wait, I-”

Matt strides away from Ryan, boombox under one arm and waving his other hand in the air. “I’ll foot the bill. Hope we’re going some place nice!” Matt shuts the doors behind him, leaving a flushed and flustered Ryan standing alone in the yoga classroom. That’s not what I meant, he thinks quietly, but his heart is pounding with excitement. And barely five seconds later, the classroom is empty, and Ryan hot-foots it down the stone stairwell of the leisure building.

#valentine's day exchange #grump exchange #ryatt #yoga instructor au

[angelavengedinspo-blog]

As Simon drew closer, he saw that Isabelle was leaning against the side of the van, one leg drawn up, the heel of her boot braced against the van’s blistered side. She could have been helping with the teardown, of course—Isabelle was stronger than anyone else in the band, with the possible exception of Kyle—but she clearly couldn’t be bothered. Simon would hardly have expected anything else. She looked up as he came closer. The rain had slowed, but she had clearly been out in it for some time; her hair was a heavy, wet curtain down her back. “Hey there,” she said, pushing off from the side of the van and coming toward him. “Where have you been? You just ran offstage—” “Yeah,” he said. “I wasn’t feeling well. Sorry.” “As long as you’re better now.” She wrapped her arms around him and smiled up into his face. He felt a wave of relief that he didn’t feel any urge to bite her. Then another wave of guilt as he remembered why. “You haven’t seen Jace anywhere, have you?” he asked.  She rolled her eyes. “I ran across him and Clary making out,” she said. “Although they’re gone now—home, I hope. Those two epitomize ‘get a room.’” “I didn’t think Clary was coming,” Simon said, though it wasn’t that odd; he supposed the cake appointment had been canceled or something. He didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed about what a terrible bodyguard Jace had turned out to be. It wasn’t as if he’d ever thought Jace took his personal safety all that seriously. He just hoped Jace and Clary had worked it out, whatever it was. “Whatever.” Isabelle grinned. “Since it’s just us, do you want to go somewhere and—” A voice—a very familiar voice—spoke out of the shadows just beyond the reach of the nearest streetlight. “Simon?” Oh, no, not now. Not right now. He turned slowly. Isabelle’s arm was still loosely clasped around his waist, though he knew that wouldn’t last much longer. Not if the person speaking was who he thought it was. It was. Maia had moved into the light, and was standing looking at him, an expression of disbelief on her face. Her normally curly hair was pasted to her head with rain, her amber eyes very wide, her jeans and denim jacket soaked. She was clutching a rolled-up piece of paper in her left hand. Simon was vaguely aware that off to the side the band members had slowed down their movements and were openly gawking. Isabelle’s arm slid off his waist. “Simon?” she said. “What’s going on?” “You told me you were going to be busy,” Maia said, looking at Simon. “Then someone shoved this under the station door this morning.” She thrust the rolled-up paper forward; it was instantly recognizable as one of the flyers for the band’s performance tonight. Isabelle was looking from Simon to Maia, recognition slowly dawning on her face. “Wait a second,” she said. “Are you two dating?” Maia set her chin. “Are you?” “Yes,” Isabelle said. “For quite a few weeks now.” Maia’s eyes narrowed. “Us, too. We’ve been dating since September.” “I can’t believe it,” Isabelle said. She genuinely looked as if she couldn’t. “Simon?” She turned to him, her hands on her hips. “Do you have an explanation?” The band, who had finally shoved all the equipment into the van—the drums packing out the back bench seat and the guitars and basses in the cargo section—were hanging out the back of the car, openly staring. Eric put his hands around his mouth to make a megaphone. “Ladies, ladies,” he intoned. “There is no need to fight. There is enough Simon to go around.” Isabelle whipped around and shot a glare at Eric so terrifying that he fell instantly silent. The back doors of the van slammed shut, and it took off down the road. Traitors, Simon thought, though to be fair, they probably assumed he would catch a ride home in Kyle’s car, which was parked around the corner. Assuming he lived long enough. “I can’t believe you, Simon,” Maia said. She was standing with her hands on her hips as well, in a pose identical to Isabelle’s. “What were you thinking? How could you lie like that?” “I didn’t lie,” Simon protested. “We never said we were exclusive!” He turned to Isabelle. “Neither did we! And I know you were dating other people—” “Not people you know,” Isabelle said, blisteringly. “Not your friends. How would you feel if you found out I was dating Eric?” “Stunned, frankly,” said Simon. “He really isn’t your type.” “That’s not the point, Simon.” Maia had moved closer to Isabelle, and the two of them faced him down together, an immovable wall of female rage. The bar had finished emptying out, and aside from the three of them, the street was deserted. He wondered about his chances if he made a break for it, and decided they weren’t good. Werewolves were fast, and Isabelle was a trained vampire hunter. “I’m really sorry,” Simon said. The buzz from the blood he’d drunk was beginning to wear off, thankfully. He felt less dizzy with overwhelming sensation, but more panicked. To make things worse, his mind kept returning to Maureen, and what he’d done to her, and whether she was all right. Please let her be all right. “I should have told you guys. It’s just—I really like you both, and I didn’t want to hurt either of your feelings.” The moment it was out of his mouth, he realized how stupid he sounded. Just another jerkish guy making excuses for his jerk behavior. Simon had never thought of himself like that. He was a nice guy, the kind of guy who got overlooked, passed up for the sexy bad boy or the tortured artist type. For the self-involved kind of guy who would think nothing of dating two girls at once while maybe not exactly lying about what he was doing, but not telling the truth about it either. “Wow,” he said, mostly to himself. “I am a huge asshole.” “That’s probably the first true thing you’ve said since I got here,” said Maia. “Amen,” said Isabelle. “Though if you ask me, it’s too little, too late—” The side door of the bar opened, and someone came out. It was Kyle. Simon felt a wave of relief. Kyle looked serious, but not as serious as Simon thought he would look if something awful had happened to Maureen. He started down the steps toward them. The rain was barely a drizzle now. Maia and Isabelle had their backs to him; they were glaring at Simon with the laser focus of rage. “I hope you don’t expect either of us to speak to you again,” Isabelle said. “And I’m going to have a talk with Clary—a very, very serious talk about her choice of friends.” “Kyle,” Simon said, unable to keep the relief out of his voice as Kyle came into earshot. “Uh, Maureen—is she—” He had no idea how to ask what he wanted to ask without letting Maia and Isabelle know what had happened, but as it turned out, it didn’t matter, because he never managed to get the rest of the words out. Maia and Isabelle turned; Isabelle looked annoyed and Maia surprised, clearly wondering who Kyle was. As soon as Maia really saw Kyle, her face changed; her eyes went wide, the blood draining from her face. And Kyle, in his turn, was staring at her with the look of someone who has woken up from a nightmare only to discover that it is real and continuing. His mouth moved, shaping words, but no sound came out. “Whoa,” Isabelle said, looking from one of them to the other. “Do you two—know each other?” Maia’s lips parted. She was still staring at Kyle. Simon had time only to think that she had never looked at him with anything like that intensity, when she whispered “Jordan”—and lunged for Kyle, her claws out and sharp, and sank them into his throat.

#quotes about isabelle. #quotes by isabelle. #re: simon. #re: maia. #important*. #book four.

[firefox977-blog]

Animation 102

Evaluation for 102

 22/05/18

 First of all let me begin by explaining that this evaluation isn’t about me being dishonest or impersonal. It’s about me explaining my overall experiences and what I have learned over the year. Either way I will try talking about things in a more reflective way. At the start we focused on emotion to emotion pose exercises, this went surprisingly well because my class mates were quite meticulous of joint to posture bends, like they complained of how bad I performed transitions joyful, and proud. This was later corrected although the impressions stuck that I was clueless and unreferenced. Reference is important now that I remember most of my animations. The most effective way to capture this was to be myself recording with the most emphasis possible for walk cycle and pull. Even though the cartoon sheets were a rough guide on emphasis they made exceptional examples in exaggerating the sneak and walk activities for instance. Another activity students would know all too well would be ‘pose to pose’. This activity was memorable because it started with a gesture of action after animating itself into a final pose of no difficulty in the long term. With me I had tried using Maya but was conflicted between stop motions as well.

 Stop frame animation was the alternative as control over the armatures and learning to balance along with generating illusion of kinetic movement of the rig had excellent sequences, proved smooth and was worthwhile. The teaching worked for me. Air plane show was another weekly project we were working on but only this was a practicing next step up in the whole disciplines of sitting and standing, where there was rotational movement too. Not sure of everyone else but I was working in both v8 and Maya using the timelines for each animation. I hated having to go over hidden frames in “editor” took ages but I’ve used onion skin to consider to myself, maybe if I move the rig a tad bit then the motion becomes more fluid. I have to say that stop mo comes with its inconsistency from time to time and the lighting can be dim. Changing the warmth of the capture counters this, you improvise through trial and error. From the experiences I’d say double the frame rate, effectiveness comes in because then you feel the anticipation easier whereas less frames give a fast animation sometimes you may find things are not photographed long or gradually enough for the viewer to think. They may feel as though it’s more a gif than anything else because you can barely process it. I appreciate the honesty of my stop mo projects based on anticipation, acceleration and deceleration. This helps even more so to understand the principles of what makes stop motion really enjoyable. I have to handle things right you know that means I try to improve the performances the amount of attempts is daunting. The lecturers have really broadened my horizon in this area. In the sense that they gave me constructive criticism and a bit of personal reflection. This helps me to grow intellectually in my studies because I’m no longer wondering what would happen if I never asked anything? Well there was times I had been expressive where reputation came into consideration. I surely would be saying to myself this project is quite shit but I can improve with time and I am given the time to attempt exercises again. The best re attempt I had was the walk cycle because it was supposed to have raise, pass and contact with the surface, the body had a synched swing motion too. This was to show my understanding of weight and balance. By far the deepest regrets I had this year were not taking advantage of Maya enough from my laptop. I could’ve gained the experience that I have now but earlier. The box lift exercise is something I disliked so much I never enjoyed finding reference to weight. The whole framing process and “parent controls” I was taught were too advanced as everyone struggled with animating the rig or the box? There was a few people who actually attempted this in Maya but I decided to see if I could do this in stop motion which I didn’t get round to. This is really the referencing where any one would agree it’s hard to fake weight in lifting an empty cardboard box. In terms of the most enjoyable activity I found the push exercise the best, liked the weight and deceleration how they mirrored the reference of the immovable wall. The last attempt at “irritating insect" for the short story was a breeze I panicked a lot but the pacing and movement went decent. The magnet stayed the rig and on the block seated the rig used as chair reference. I hated how I nearly slid the rig in the method of detaching magnets, this is how the clay came in handy to prevent this. In terms of the worst exercise I feel as though the walk cycle had limited joint motion and less anticipation by lacking process, raise, pass and contact. The best activity was push as the reference video shows you how not to fake it, the immovable wall was invisible to show my understanding of deceleration in pushing strength. The worst thing in general was leaving everything last minute, such as blogs because although I worked on unfinished drafts beforehand I understood the drafts needed to be posted and sorted. This was daunting like watching other students do their tasks over again, showing the work, receiving feedback. I was afraid of feedback from others as I felt as though they would doubt in my future capabilities and time management. Thus creating a self-conscious habit of not speaking up in front of every one and this was tough. I paid attention to everyone else this is how I am building confidence around others, with talks around small audiences. In general my self-confidence has been lacking when it comes to speaking and group modules. Although my lecturers have helped been understanding and recommending. I watched TED talks to further my communication confidence.  

Initially the idea of show reeling my work by vimeo was off putting so I placed it all together on premiere pro then YouTube where I blogged it. The most recent task to do with one of the earlier exercises would’ve been ‘pose to pose’ which took a while translating from the rig movement from the video. I tried this in Maya which of course I disliked, with the interface of Maya in general and how awful the head movement was. I found that using gentle music for the show reel helped a lot to compliment the animations. Thus making the video was enjoyable and you can see where everything went alright in the end. The sit and stand activity was redone in a kind of motion exercise where because I shot in 12fps there was slow pace. This is where I wanted to speed up to transition from standing, walking and eventually pushing. The most natural movements can have many exercises pasted into one long clip. Doing blogs last minute is a habit that needs to stop, there is too much work, deadlines and too little time to be bothered with stress when things can be done easily. I take a while longer to reflect and those notes didn’t amount to much until last minute. If I have learned anything its time management. Improvisation and referencing. There is also the whole experience of animation 102 which was a roller coaster of nervousness, trials and tribulations of correcting your mistakes so there is room to grow I look forward to producing more animation that is good because it is better to attempt so you have more choice of submission.

#animation 102

[junker-town]

We need to demand more from white athletes in a new era of protest

It was the spring of 1968 in Los Angeles and something uncontrollable was eating at Jack Tenner.

For months a proposed “Negro boycott” was discussed among black athletes for the upcoming Olympics in Mexico City. Tenner — a white civil rights lawyer and judge who fought for black people and athletes for decades — called for a similar boycott in 1960. But heading into what would be a historic Olympics, Tenner wanted to set a record straight.

Tenner sent a letter to his friend Brad Pye, a legendary black journalist with a column at the LA Sentinel, a black publication. In it, Tenner expressed thoughts about the role white athletes played in a visibly racist America.

“At the moment I seriously question whether white America is ready to take the total responsibility necessary to remake the American society. But the activity of Negro athletes to bear witness in their identification with this struggle should not be repudiated, rather, the call should be on white athletes who labor on the same athletic field and come to have respect for their fellow athletes,” Tenner wrote.

Recently, white NFL players (like Chris Long and Justin Britt) have gained national attention for showing support for their protesting black teammates. Then on Monday night, a group of Browns players knelt in prayer during the national anthem. The group included Seth DeValve, who is white, and who after the game explained that “he wanted to support my African-American teammates today who wanted to take a knee. We wanted to draw attention to the fact that there’s things in this country that still need to change.”

These shows of support are just the beginning.

Tenner detailed a sentiment running parallel to that. It is understood by people of color in his era and this one: that black athletes, in majority, are the ones dissenting. But the issue wasn’t with protest or how they did it, rather, the fact that they seemed alone.

“[White athletes] are the ones who should protest the lack of opportunity in athletics for coaching, front office jobs and executive jobs,” Tenner continued in his letter. “It is to the white athlete that one should turn and demand his support in the struggle for equality.”

What Tenner outlined is the need for the voice of white athletes in a racist America that seems immovable. It is the need for acts of support: When white athletes speak about divisive and political issues it lessens the burden of the black athlete who tends to shoulder the weight of racism in their athletic world.

White athletes can spread ideas to white consumers, which lead to avenues for substantive conversation and results. An irony of racism is that it is something created and advanced by whiteness, yet whiteness is a deciding factor in reversing the tide.

This was Seahawks defensive lineman Michael Bennett’s call to his white counterparts when starting his protest during the national anthem before games this season. Bennett made a simple plea to white athletes asking them to get involved.

"It would take a white player to really get things changed," Bennett said. "Because when somebody from the other side understands and they step up and they speak up about it ... it would change the whole conversation. Because when you bring somebody who doesn't have to be a part of [the] conversation making himself vulnerable in front of it, I think when that happens, things will really take a jump."

He, like many in history, understands that white athletes are essential to propel conversations about racism forward. However, the role of the white athlete isn’t to merely support black athletes in their struggle for equality. They need and deserve more than a pat on the shoulder. No, white athletes must be as vocal — if not louder — than the oppressed looking to end their generational pain.

“This is the ultimate expression of playing while white. You can be silent. You can come out and condemn people like Kaepernick or you can do the most minimal of silent protests. The consequences will always be minimal and the praise will always be great,” David Leonard, a Washington State University professor and author of Playing While White, said.

“We need to demand more from white athletes and white fans and white coaches and general managers and owners,” Leonard continued. “Not just in terms of gestures and symbolic standards, but pointed, directed protests.”

Photo by Adam Glanzman/Getty Images

In 1992 Johnette Howard, a sports writer for the Detroit Free Press, posed a question to readers: “Where are white voices in the assault on racism?”

At that time, Sports Illustrated surveyed over 300 athletes and many black athletes said that race relations with white athletes were acceptable. Seventy-three percent of black respondents even said they received the same fan treatment as their white counterparts.

Howard asked: If that were true, then why is it that the “near-unanimous majority of athletes who speak out against racism are black. Why?” To Howard, the black athlete’s voice in these discussions were muddied. She didn’t understand why black athletes’ social consciousness was routinely judged, as if it was less authentic because a white man didn’t say it.

Richard Lapchick, a white historian and sports activist, noted similarly. It was troubling that even in times when the conversation entered the national consciousness — when issues of race were spoken about en masse through the context of sports — that only black athletes were answering questions about racism or whiteness.

When the PGA was supposed to hold its 1990 championship at Shoal Creek Country Club, a golf course in Alabama that often denied black entrants to make a white-only club, Lapchick saw only one side telling their story.

“Many golf writers who were doing stories (on the club’s all-white membership policy) went only to black golfers like Lee Elder and a few others asking ‘What’s your position? What’s your position?’” he said. “Very few pressed the white golfers for their stance.”

Mike Henneman, a white pitcher for the Tigers in the 90s, agreed. He told Howard about the difference he saw.

“We probably are asked about racism less,” he said.

Mass media and others have peddled the idea for generations that racism is not white America’s problem, that the onus is on non-white people to fix an invention of white people.

The issue has become immediate, to some, in an America where hate groups, emboldened by the president, are marching in the streets and carrying out acts of domestic terror. Heidi Beirich, the leader of the Southern Poverty Law Center’s Intelligence Project and an expert on extremism, said in April “it’s like white people can’t handle the idea that there are devils in our midst.”

“White supremacy is an indigenous idea ― it’s from our culture,” Beirich said. “I think there’s a reluctance on the part of people to say, ‘I play a role in this. My culture plays a role in this.’”

Part of this has to be understood in the context of what white people and athletes are allegedly giving up to stand with their teammates and citizens. Black NFL players can’t be the only ones with something to gain from protest. White players can’t be seen as having something to lose with theirs. This dichotomy underlines the notion that standing for racial justice is a zero-sum game.

This is a piece of the problem. It demonstrates that whiteness in systems profiting from white supremacy, like sports leagues, is at best always praised and at worst tolerated as part of discourse. It creates a world where Steve Kerr and Gregg Poppovich can express similar views as Colin Kaepernick but stay employed.

“This tells us about the structures of racism. We see that no matter what a black athlete does there’s a level of condemnation and demonization,” Leonard said. “It demonstrates the way in which whiteness and blackness operates in these conversations. Whiteness is privileged. Blackness is rendered as suspect and criminal and undesirable.”

Photo by Sean Rayford/Getty Images

In America’s current political climate, to be an athlete and be at odds with the president is to immediately be seen as rebellious. To be against the status quo, to pop a bubble in the normalcy of racism, makes you the enemy to part of the country.

To stand up for others that don’t look like you creates the idea, the assumption, that something superior is required. That is a lie. It does not take courage for white athletes to do what is necessary to combat the insidiousness of racism. It’s merely avoiding the innate cowardice of wanting to fit in with the pack.

When black and brown bodies fall at the hands of police, of state-sanctioned violence, eventually you have to say that it’s not okay. But that alone is not enough. As a white athlete or person, to just say these statements is the bare minimum. It’s an early step in what should be a long process.

It’s easy to condemn racism or the societal ills that have propelled America to international dominance. However, there must be consistency. There must be care. That is courage. Not to just say “racism is bad” but to say it over and over again, especially when it feels like no one is listening. You say it not to be lauded for being brave, but because to do so is the only moral thing to do. White athletes do not become white saviors for doing what black athletes have done for decades.

They cannot become vaunted as heroes because of this, but this work is necessary regardless of approval. For them it means that, finally, they are doing what should be normal. There is power in their stand. Their statements and exhibitions isolate people positing the framework for radicalization. If your favorite white football player supports Kaepernick or Malcolm Jenkins or Bennett it kills the oxygen necessary to breed hate.

This has been the advice of Tenner, the old lawyer and judge fighting in Los Angeles in the sixties. It’s what Howard and Lapchick discussed in the nineties when progress moved at a snail’s pace. And it’s what Bennett is beckoning for in the present as change seems as distant as it’s ever been.

The role of the white athlete needs to be prominent during this moment of revitalized athlete activism, or it’ll just be another wasted flashpoint in history. But in it, there also has to be a clear understanding. Regardless of fan or media reaction to the white athlete’s stands, the player must stay level-headed. They must realize this is merely meeting the base level of what is needed to be a moral American.

This fight is one for equality, not for glory.

“It’s important to both recognize that part of being an ally or accomplice, whether it be white athletes, fans or white owners is doing the work without recognition,” Leonard said. “The work should be done. There shouldn’t be celebration. There shouldn’t be an effort to hand out a gold star.”

[readbookywooks]

The Ice Bank

THE NAUTILUS resumed its unruffled southbound heading. It went along the 50th meridian with considerable speed. Would it go to the pole? I didn't think so, because every previous attempt to reach this spot on the globe had failed. Besides, the season was already quite advanced, since March 13 on Antarctic shores corresponds with September 13 in the northernmost regions, which marks the beginning of the equinoctial period. On March 14 at latitude 55 degrees, I spotted floating ice, plain pale bits of rubble twenty to twenty-five feet long, which formed reefs over which the sea burst into foam. The Nautilus stayed on the surface of the ocean. Having fished in the Arctic seas, Ned Land was already familiar with the sight of icebergs. Conseil and I were marveling at them for the first time. In the sky toward the southern horizon, there stretched a dazzling white band. English whalers have given this the name "ice blink." No matter how heavy the clouds may be, they can't obscure this phenomenon. It announces the presence of a pack, or shoal, of ice. Indeed, larger blocks of ice soon appeared, their brilliance varying at the whim of the mists. Some of these masses displayed green veins, as if scrawled with undulating lines of copper sulfate. Others looked like enormous amethysts, letting the light penetrate their insides. The latter reflected the sun's rays from the thousand facets of their crystals. The former, tinted with a bright limestone sheen, would have supplied enough building material to make a whole marble town. The farther down south we went, the more these floating islands grew in numbers and prominence. Polar birds nested on them by the thousands. These were petrels, cape pigeons, or puffins, and their calls were deafening. Mistaking the Nautilus for the corpse of a whale, some of them alighted on it and prodded its resonant sheet iron with pecks of their beaks. During this navigating in the midst of the ice, Captain Nemo often stayed on the platform. He observed these deserted waterways carefully. I saw his calm eyes sometimes perk up. In these polar seas forbidden to man, did he feel right at home, the lord of these unreachable regions? Perhaps. But he didn't say. He stood still, reviving only when his pilot's instincts took over. Then, steering his Nautilus with consummate dexterity, he skillfully dodged the masses of ice, some of which measured several miles in length, their heights varying from seventy to eighty meters. Often the horizon seemed completely closed off. Abreast of latitude 60 degrees, every passageway had disappeared. Searching with care, Captain Nemo soon found a narrow opening into which he brazenly slipped, well aware, however, that it would close behind him. Guided by his skillful hands, the Nautilus passed by all these different masses of ice, which are classified by size and shape with a precision that enraptured Conseil: "icebergs," or mountains; "ice fields," or smooth, limitless tracts; "drift ice," or floating floes; "packs," or broken tracts, called "patches" when they're circular and "streams" when they form long strips. The temperature was fairly low. Exposed to the outside air, the thermometer marked -2 degrees to -3 degrees centigrade. But we were warmly dressed in furs, for which seals and aquatic bears had paid the price. Evenly heated by all its electric equipment, the Nautilus's interior defied the most intense cold. Moreover, to find a bearable temperature, the ship had only to sink just a few meters beneath the waves. Two months earlier we would have enjoyed perpetual daylight in this latitude; but night already fell for three or four hours, and later it would cast six months of shadow over these circumpolar regions. On March 15 we passed beyond the latitude of the South Shetland and South Orkney Islands. The captain told me that many tribes of seals used to inhabit these shores; but English and American whalers, in a frenzy of destruction, slaughtered all the adults, including pregnant females, and where life and activity once existed, those fishermen left behind only silence and death. Going along the 55th meridian, the Nautilus cut the Antarctic Circle on March 16 near eight o'clock in the morning. Ice completely surrounded us and closed off the horizon. Nevertheless, Captain Nemo went from passageway to passageway, always proceeding south. "But where's he going?" I asked. "Straight ahead," Conseil replied. "Ultimately, when he can't go any farther, he'll stop." "I wouldn't bet on it!" I replied. And in all honesty, I confess that this venturesome excursion was far from displeasing to me. I can't express the intensity of my amazement at the beauties of these new regions. The ice struck superb poses. Here, its general effect suggested an oriental town with countless minarets and mosques. There, a city in ruins, flung to the ground by convulsions in the earth. These views were varied continuously by the sun's oblique rays, or were completely swallowed up by gray mists in the middle of blizzards. Then explosions, cave-ins, and great iceberg somersaults would occur all around us, altering the scenery like the changing landscape in a diorama. If the Nautilus was submerged during these losses of balance, we heard the resulting noises spread under the waters with frightful intensity, and the collapse of these masses created daunting eddies down to the ocean's lower strata. The Nautilus then rolled and pitched like a ship left to the fury of the elements. Often, no longer seeing any way out, I thought we were imprisoned for good, but Captain Nemo, guided by his instincts, discovered new passageways from the tiniest indications. He was never wrong when he observed slender threads of bluish water streaking through these ice fields. Accordingly, I was sure that he had already risked his Nautilus in the midst of the Antarctic seas. However, during the day of March 16, these tracts of ice completely barred our path. It wasn't the Ice Bank as yet, just huge ice fields cemented together by the cold. This obstacle couldn't stop Captain Nemo, and he launched his ship against the ice fields with hideous violence. The Nautilus went into these brittle masses like a wedge, splitting them with dreadful cracklings. It was an old-fashioned battering ram propelled with infinite power. Hurled aloft, ice rubble fell back around us like hail. Through brute force alone, the submersible carved out a channel for itself. Carried away by its momentum, the ship sometimes mounted on top of these tracts of ice and crushed them with its weight, or at other times, when cooped up beneath the ice fields, it split them with simple pitching movements, creating wide punctures. Violent squalls assaulted us during the daytime. Thanks to certain heavy mists, we couldn't see from one end of the platform to the other. The wind shifted abruptly to every point on the compass. The snow was piling up in such packed layers, it had to be chipped loose with blows from picks. Even in a temperature of merely -5 degrees centigrade, every outside part of the Nautilus was covered with ice. A ship's rigging would have been unusable, because all its tackle would have jammed in the grooves of the pulleys. Only a craft without sails, driven by an electric motor that needed no coal, could face such high latitudes. Under these conditions the barometer generally stayed quite low. It fell as far as 73.5 centimeters. Our compass indications no longer offered any guarantees. The deranged needles would mark contradictory directions as we approached the southern magnetic pole, which doesn't coincide with the South Pole proper. In fact, according to the astronomer Hansteen, this magnetic pole is located fairly close to latitude 70 degrees and longitude 130 degrees, or abiding by the observations of Louis-Isidore Duperrey, in longitude 135 degrees and latitude 70 degrees 30'. Hence we had to transport compasses to different parts of the ship, take many readings, and strike an average. Often we could chart our course only by guesswork, a less than satisfactory method in the midst of these winding passageways whose landmarks change continuously. At last on March 18, after twenty futile assaults, the Nautilus was decisively held in check. No longer was it an ice stream, patch, or field - it was an endless, immovable barrier formed by ice mountains fused to each other. "The Ice Bank!" the Canadian told me. For Ned Land, as well as for every navigator before us, I knew that this was the great insurmountable obstacle. When the sun appeared for an instant near noon, Captain Nemo took a reasonably accurate sight that gave our position as longitude 51 degrees 30' and latitude 67 degrees 39' south. This was a position already well along in these Antarctic regions. As for the liquid surface of the sea, there was no longer any semblance of it before our eyes. Before the Nautilus's spur there lay vast broken plains, a tangle of confused chunks with all the helter-skelter unpredictability typical of a river's surface a short while before its ice breakup; but in this case the proportions were gigantic. Here and there stood sharp peaks, lean spires that rose as high as 200 feet; farther off, a succession of steeply cut cliffs sporting a grayish tint, huge mirrors that reflected the sparse rays of a sun half drowned in mist. Beyond, a stark silence reigned in this desolate natural setting, a silence barely broken by the flapping wings of petrels or puffins. By this point everything was frozen, even sound. So the Nautilus had to halt in its venturesome course among these tracts of ice. "Sir," Ned Land told me that day, "if your captain goes any farther . . ." "Yes?" "He'll be a superman." "How so, Ned?" "Because nobody can clear the Ice Bank. Your captain's a powerful man, but damnation, he isn't more powerful than nature. If she draws a boundary line, there you stop, like it or not!" "Correct, Ned Land, but I still want to know what's behind this Ice Bank! Behold my greatest source of irritation - a wall!" "Master is right," Conseil said. "Walls were invented simply to frustrate scientists. All walls should be banned." "Fine!" the Canadian put in. "But we already know what's behind this Ice Bank." "What?" I asked. "Ice, ice, and more ice." "You may be sure of that, Ned," I answered, "but I'm not. That's why I want to see for myself." "Well, professor," the Canadian replied, "you can just drop that idea! You've made it to the Ice Bank, which is already far enough, but you won't get any farther, neither your Captain Nemo or his Nautilus. And whether he wants to or not, we'll head north again, in other words, to the land of sensible people." I had to agree that Ned Land was right, and until ships are built to navigate over tracts of ice, they'll have to stop at the Ice Bank. Indeed, despite its efforts, despite the powerful methods it used to split this ice, the Nautilus was reduced to immobility. Ordinarily, when someone can't go any farther, he still has the option of returning in his tracks. But here it was just as impossible to turn back as to go forward, because every passageway had closed behind us, and if our submersible remained even slightly stationary, it would be frozen in without delay. Which is exactly what happened near two o'clock in the afternoon, and fresh ice kept forming over the ship's sides with astonishing speed. I had to admit that Captain Nemo's leadership had been most injudicious. Just then I was on the platform. Observing the situation for some while, the captain said to me: "Well, professor! What think you?" "I think we're trapped, captain." "Trapped! What do you mean?" "I mean we can't go forward, backward, or sideways. I think that's the standard definition of 'trapped,' at least in the civilized world." "So, Professor Aronnax, you think the Nautilus won't be able to float clear?" "Only with the greatest difficulty, captain, since the season is already too advanced for you to depend on an ice breakup." "Oh, professor," Captain Nemo replied in an ironic tone, "you never change! You see only impediments and obstacles! I promise you, not only will the Nautilus float clear, it will go farther still!" "Farther south?" I asked, gaping at the captain. "Yes, sir, it will go to the pole." "To the pole!" I exclaimed, unable to keep back a movement of disbelief. "Yes," the captain replied coolly, "the Antarctic pole, that unknown spot crossed by every meridian on the globe. As you know, I do whatever I like with my Nautilus." Yes, I did know that! I knew this man was daring to the point of being foolhardy. But to overcome all the obstacles around the South Pole - even more unattainable than the North Pole, which still hadn't been reached by the boldest navigators-wasn't this an absolutely insane undertaking, one that could occur only in the brain of a madman? It then dawned on me to ask Captain Nemo if he had already discovered this pole, which no human being had ever trod underfoot. "No, sir," he answered me, "but we'll discover it together. Where others have failed, I'll succeed. Never before has my Nautilus cruised so far into these southernmost seas, but I repeat: it will go farther still." "I'd like to believe you, captain," I went on in a tone of some sarcasm. "Oh I do believe you! Let's forge ahead! There are no obstacles for us! Let's shatter this Ice Bank! Let's blow it up, and if it still resists, let's put wings on the Nautilus and fly over it!" "Over it, professor?" Captain Nemo replied serenely. "No, not over it, but under it." "Under it!" I exclaimed. A sudden insight into Captain Nemo's plans had just flashed through my mind. I understood. The marvelous talents of his Nautilus would be put to work once again in this superhuman undertaking! "I can see we're starting to understand each other, professor," Captain Nemo told me with a half smile. "You already glimpse the potential - myself, I'd say the success - of this attempt. Maneuvers that aren't feasible for an ordinary ship are easy for the Nautilus. If a continent emerges at the pole, we'll stop at that continent. But on the other hand, if open sea washes the pole, we'll go to that very place!" "Right," I said, carried away by the captain's logic. "Even though the surface of the sea has solidified into ice, its lower strata are still open, thanks to that divine justice that puts the maximum density of salt water one degree above its freezing point. And if I'm not mistaken, the submerged part of this Ice Bank is in a four-to-one ratio to its emerging part." "Very nearly, professor. For each foot of iceberg above the sea, there are three more below. Now then, since these ice mountains don't exceed a height of 100 meters, they sink only to a depth of 300 meters. And what are 300 meters to the Nautilus?" "A mere nothing, sir." "We could even go to greater depths and find that temperature layer common to all ocean water, and there we'd brave with impunity the -30 degrees or -40 degrees cold on the surface." "True, sir, very true," I replied with growing excitement. "Our sole difficulty," Captain Nemo went on, "lies in our staying submerged for several days without renewing our air supply." "That's all?" I answered. "The Nautilus has huge air tanks; we'll fill them up and they'll supply all the oxygen we need." "Good thinking, Professor Aronnax," the captain replied with a smile. "But since I don't want to be accused of foolhardiness, I'm giving you all my objections in advance." "You have more?" "Just one. If a sea exists at the South Pole, it's possible this sea may be completely frozen over, so we couldn't come up to the surface!" "My dear sir, have you forgotten that the Nautilus is armed with a fearsome spur? Couldn't it be launched diagonally against those tracts of ice, which would break open from the impact?" "Ah, professor, you're full of ideas today!" "Besides, captain," I added with still greater enthusiasm, "why wouldn't we find open sea at the South Pole just as at the North Pole? The cold-temperature poles and the geographical poles don't coincide in either the northern or southern hemispheres, and until proof to the contrary, we can assume these two spots on the earth feature either a continent or an ice-free ocean." "I think as you do, Professor Aronnax," Captain Nemo replied. "I'll only point out that after raising so many objections against my plan, you're now crushing me under arguments in its favor." Captain Nemo was right. I was outdoing him in daring! It was I who was sweeping him to the pole. I was leading the way, I was out in front . . . but no, you silly fool! Captain Nemo already knew the pros and cons of this question, and it amused him to see you flying off into impossible fantasies! Nevertheless, he didn't waste an instant. At his signal, the chief officer appeared. The two men held a quick exchange in their incomprehensible language, and either the chief officer had been alerted previously or he found the plan feasible, because he showed no surprise. But as unemotional as he was, he couldn't have been more impeccably emotionless than Conseil when I told the fine lad our intention of pushing on to the South Pole. He greeted my announcement with the usual "As master wishes," and I had to be content with that. As for Ned Land, no human shoulders ever executed a higher shrug than the pair belonging to our Canadian. "Honestly, sir," he told me. "You and your Captain Nemo, I pity you both!" "But we will go to the pole, Mr. Land." "Maybe, but you won't come back!" And Ned Land reentered his cabin, "to keep from doing something desperate," he said as he left me. Meanwhile preparations for this daring attempt were getting under way. The Nautilus's powerful pumps forced air down into the tanks and stored it under high pressure. Near four o'clock Captain Nemo informed me that the platform hatches were about to be closed. I took a last look at the dense Ice Bank we were going to conquer. The weather was fair, the skies reasonably clear, the cold quite brisk, namely -12 degrees centigrade; but after the wind had lulled, this temperature didn't seem too unbearable. Equipped with picks, some ten men climbed onto the Nautilus's sides and cracked loose the ice around the ship's lower plating, which was soon set free. This operation was swiftly executed because the fresh ice was still thin. We all reentered the interior. The main ballast tanks were filled with the water that hadn't yet congealed at our line of flotation. The Nautilus submerged without delay. I took a seat in the lounge with Conseil. Through the open window we stared at the lower strata of this southernmost ocean. The thermometer rose again. The needle on the pressure gauge swerved over its dial. About 300 meters down, just as Captain Nemo had predicted, we cruised beneath the undulating surface of the Ice Bank. But the Nautilus sank deeper still. It reached a depth of 800 meters. At the surface this water gave a temperature of -12 degrees centigrade, but now it gave no more than -10 degrees. Two degrees had already been gained. Thanks to its heating equipment, the Nautilus's temperature, needless to say, stayed at a much higher degree. Every maneuver was accomplished with extraordinary precision. "With all due respect to master," Conseil told me, "we'll pass it by." "I fully expect to!" I replied in a tone of deep conviction. Now in open water, the Nautilus took a direct course to the pole without veering from the 52nd meridian. From 67 degrees 30' to 90 degrees, twenty-two and a half degrees of latitude were left to cross, in other words, slightly more than 500 leagues. The Nautilus adopted an average speed of twenty-six miles per hour, the speed of an express train. If it kept up this pace, forty hours would do it for reaching the pole. For part of the night, the novelty of our circumstances kept Conseil and me at the lounge window. The sea was lit by our beacon's electric rays. But the depths were deserted. Fish didn't linger in these imprisoned waters. Here they found merely a passageway for going from the Antarctic Ocean to open sea at the pole. Our progress was swift. You could feel it in the vibrations of the long steel hull. Near two o'clock in the morning, I went to snatch a few hours of sleep. Conseil did likewise. I didn't encounter Captain Nemo while going down the gangways. I assumed that he was keeping to the pilothouse. The next day, March 19, at five o'clock in the morning, I was back at my post in the lounge. The electric log indicated that the Nautilus had reduced speed. By then it was rising to the surface, but cautiously, while slowly emptying its ballast tanks. My heart was pounding. Would we emerge into the open and find the polar air again? No. A jolt told me that the Nautilus had bumped the underbelly of the Ice Bank, still quite thick to judge from the hollowness of the accompanying noise. Indeed, we had "struck bottom," to use nautical terminology, but in the opposite direction and at a depth of 3,000 feet. That gave us 4,000 feet of ice overhead, of which 1,000 feet emerged above water. So the Ice Bank was higher here than we had found it on the outskirts. A circumstance less than encouraging. Several times that day, the Nautilus repeated the same experiment and always it bumped against this surface that formed a ceiling above it. At certain moments the ship encountered ice at a depth of 900 meters, denoting a thickness of 1,200 meters, of which 300 meters rose above the level of the ocean. This height had tripled since the moment the Nautilus had dived beneath the waves. I meticulously noted these different depths, obtaining the underwater profile of this upside-down mountain chain that stretched beneath the sea. By evening there was still no improvement in our situation. The ice stayed between 400 and 500 meters deep. It was obviously shrinking, but what a barrier still lay between us and the surface of the ocean! By then it was eight o'clock. The air inside the Nautilus should have been renewed four hours earlier, following daily practice on board. But I didn't suffer very much, although Captain Nemo hadn't yet made demands on the supplementary oxygen in his air tanks. That night my sleep was fitful. Hope and fear besieged me by turns. I got up several times. The Nautilus continued groping. Near three o'clock in the morning, I observed that we encountered the Ice Bank's underbelly at a depth of only fifty meters. So only 150 feet separated us from the surface of the water. Little by little the Ice Bank was turning into an ice field again. The mountains were changing back into plains. My eyes didn't leave the pressure gauge. We kept rising on a diagonal, going along this shiny surface that sparkled beneath our electric rays. Above and below, the Ice Bank was subsiding in long gradients. Mile after mile it was growing thinner. Finally, at six o'clock in the morning on that memorable day of March 19, the lounge door opened. Captain Nemo appeared. "Open sea!" he told me.

#20000Leagues