AN OPEN LETTER to STATE GOVERNORS & LEGISLATURES (ALASKA ONLY)

Out-ing Minority Students to Their Abusers - Safeguards needed in HB 382

I am writing to express my profound concerns regarding the proposed HB 382 legislation: Out-ing Minority Students to Their Abusers, which aims to involve parents in the education process but may inadvertently expose vulnerable LGBTQ+ students, and others, to harmful environments. As any survivor of domestic violence is acutely aware; ensuring the safety and well-being of all students is paramount, especially those from marginalized communities. While I acknowledge the intention behind HB 382, it is crucial to consider the potential for misuse of this legislation, which would further exacerbate the already high rates of harm and mortality among LGBTQ+ youth. Therefore, I call you to incorporate additional safeguards into the bill to protect the privacy and safety of these students, or alternatively, reject the bill entirely to rework it with the safety of ALL students prioritized. Specifically, measures must be implemented to ensure that information about a student's gender identity and romantic interests is not disclosed without their explicit consent to anyone. The goal of our education system should be to foster an inclusive, safe, and supportive environment for all students, regardless of their personal demographics. By prioritizing the privacy and safety of vulnerable students, we can ensure that every child has the opportunity to learn, thrive, and grow without fear of discrimination or harm. I urge you to consider these concerns and take action to protect the rights of students in Alaska. Thank you for your attention to this important matter. Protect the privacy of all students! We’re so pro-life; we’ll martyr our queer! Safeguards needed in HB 382!

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COIN TOSS– PART II

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader

SUMMARY: As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if you’re the first thing he’s fully touched without losing in a long time.

You are Eraserhead’s troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.

(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomura’s trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if I’ve missed anything!)

If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!

A/N: again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing!! and thank you guys for the support and comments on the first part! here is your part two!! it's tomura heavy, but for those who love shouta, there's a lot of him in the final part! i hope you enjoy! let me know what you thought!

i also am obsessed with making playlists for when i write and i spend far too much time organizing it all and making sure the songs blend together so if you'd like to take a look at the playlist i made for this fic, it's here!

Read on Ao3

***

Shouta, like the responsible adult he is, soothes things out with you. Well, it doesn’t feel very soothed to you, but Shouta’s made his position clear and you’ve both returned to some semblance of normalcy.

He keeps his distance.

You try not to overstep, but you’re aching and furious.

(You’re holding a secret, too, letting it tear apart your insides, letting it turn circles in your mind until all you can think about is the chill of rain, the bite of a desperate kiss).

You hate that Shouta has retreated from you now. You hate that he’ll stop his hand before reaching out to touch you, like he always has to make sure, like he has to decide if that will be good for you. If you can handle it.

You feel shockingly alone.

You lash out at him more, bicker and argue over things you never used to. You don’t even know why you do it, can’t stop yourself from trying to dig into him. You regret it every time when all he gives you is impassiveness, levelheaded coolness. An adult speaking with an unruly child. He’s good at that, unfortunately.

Some days you want to beg him for answers. Why can’t you love me the way I love you? Is it me? How would you have me? If I was older? I can be more mature, I can be better and better and better–

His undercover work grows greater, draws him away from both you and Shinsou more. Shouta seems to ghost around your life now, drawn away from you, keeping a very careful space between you both.

But there are nights where he tells you to train with Shinsou alone now. You feel responsible. Mature. You glow with pride that he can trust you with one of his students, that you could be a mentor to Shinsou, too.

You grow closer to Shinsou because of this, too, when it’s just the two of you in the gym.

There is one evening in particular, when you’re both sprawled out on the floor taking a too-long water break because Shouta isn’t around when he admits that he used to be– still is sometimes– feared for his Quirk.

He tells you everyone expected him to be a villain.

“I used to be a thief,” you admit, “I was a petty villain, I guess.”

Shinsou looks at you and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t entirely show it, except for the lifting of his brows. You don’t sense judgement from him, though, when he asks, “Really?”

You take another swig of water, humming in affirmation. You swallow, “I was homeless, had no money, nothing. I was stealing from a supermarket when Shouta caught me.”

“You were just trying to survive,” Shinsou adds, like he’s trying to justify the crime, like it soothes him to know there was a good reason for a misdeed.

“Sure,” you reply, fiddling with your water bottle, “But I stole things I didn’t need, too. Just things I wanted.”

“But you’ve changed,” Shinsou says and you can’t tell if he’s trying to reassure himself or you more. “You’re a hero now.”

“Only because my circumstances changed. I was given a roof over my head, food to fill me. Clothes of my own that fit and weren’t torn. I was accepted.” You explain, “If it hadn’t been for Shouta, I would never have become a hero.”

Shinsou is silent, watching you.

“I’d probably be in jail. Or still a thief, in the least, if any other hero would’ve caught me.”

You don’t know why, but you think of Shigaraki suddenly. You think of how young some of the League of Villains are. You wonder if it had been them who offered you food and a home, if you’d be with them now, and not here, sitting on the floor of a nice, sparkling gym attached to U.A.’s dorms.

Something strange grows inside you, something a little bitter. It simmers with sympathy for them, for their lives. For kids like Shinsou with their villainous quirks. You wonder if he’d been poor, if he’d been alone, would he be here, too? Or somewhere else?

“But you were good before,” he says, and it almost feels naive, “I know you’re good.”

You shrug, “Good is relative, you know? I thought I was good because I didn’t kill people, I didn’t steal from other poor people, but society didn’t think I was good. I was still a thief.”

“But you were only a thief because you needed to survive.” he says again, “When given the chance, you changed and became a hero.”

“Exactly.” you say, “How many villains do you think just needed a chance?”

Shinsou goes silent now. His brows furrow in thought, pinching together in a way that makes him look a little too old for his age. You think all of the kids at U.A. grow up too quickly, all of them with too much on their small shoulders.

They’re only kids.

You’re barely older.

Shigaraki is barely older than you.

You push him out of your mind, toss your water bottle aside, and rise to your feet again. “C’mon,” you offer Shinsou your hand to help him up, too, “Shouta would kill me to know I let you lay around so much.”

This seems to pull him from his thoughts and he snorts, taking your hand.

You pull him up. And you both stare at each other a moment. You think he looks at you in a different light now and it isn’t bad, no, he seems to be pondering you more.

(And you’ll realize later that he’s become more sympathetic, that he sees you in villains now, reminds himself they’re people, too, with lives and needs and wants–)

It gives you a strange hope, as you begin to train with him again, to know that he’s the future of hero society.

***

Tomura spots you while he’s out stealing with Toga. Usually it’s Twice or Magne with her, but Twice was onto something else and Toga had decided to latch herself onto him for the day. He’s grown to tolerate her.

Besides, she’d managed to steal him a jean jacket, dark, rough, and worn with holes but it keeps him warmer while still being able to keep the hood of his sweatshirt up to hide himself. To blend in. She’d stolen herself something, too, as the weather begins to get colder and they still don’t have a base, wandering aimlessly.

(He feels stupidly responsible for them. But he’s learned good leaders are, in some way, responsible for their people. They don’t have to care in any way that is emotional, but they have to care in some way, make the group feel important to them. And begrudgingly, they are important to him–)

You’re with a boy around Toga’s age. Wild violet hair. You’re laughing at something he’s saying and you’re sharing street food, he thinks, something that’s warm, steaming up into the air.

He feels a vicious surge of jealousy for a moment. It’s so sharp and jarring that he reaches up to scratch at his neck, tearing into his skin.

But the boy looks too young and you tousle his hair like he’s a younger brother, not someone romantic. While there’s familiarity between you two, it’s not overly intimate.

Toga, unfortunately, follows his line of sight.

She looks between him and you. She tilts her head and Tomura can practically see the gears turning in her strange little mind.

“Do you know them?” she asks, almost innocently.

He doesn’t know why, but he says, “Just her.”

Toga looks back at you. She watches as you talk with the boy– the sun through the autumn leaves cast you in tangerine light, all golden and warm.

When she looks back at Tomura, a smile creeps onto her face. One that he knows is going to give him a migraine.

“She’s so pretty,” she trills, eyeing him too closely.

Tomura scratches at his neck again, harder, wincing a little when he feels a cut reopen.

“Do you have a crush, Tomura?” Toga sings, dancing in front of him to force herself into his line of sight.

“No,” Tomura snaps, bristling, which only seems to encourage her.

“Let’s say hi!” she says, about to bound off and Tomura catches her by the scruff of her jacket like a kitten. He’s wearing his partial gloves, but he still keeps a finger away from her.

“No,” he hisses, firmer now, pulling her back towards him. “They’re heroes. Don’t get distracted.”

Toga twists in his hold, wide-eyed for a moment, before her face settles into another enormous and excited smile. “You’re in love with a hero, too?!”

Tomura grits his teeth, snarling out, “I’m not in love with anyone.” He shakes her then and she yelps a little, “Now focus. We need food and I don’t want to deal with them.”

Toga finally squirms her way out of his hold, pouting at him, “You’re no fun.” she whines and all he does is shoulder past her. He stalks ahead, trying not to look at you again, if only to not draw your eye.

“Do you want to starve?” he asks waspishly, glancing at Toga over his shoulder.

She huffs, rolling her eyes, before hustling to catch up to him. She hums a strange little tune the rest of the time, knocking into his side, throwing him new looks as if to suggest they share some sort of commonality or secret. He grits his teeth but suffers through her torment.

When they return to the rest of the League with what they’d stolen, Toga announces to the whole group, “Tomura is in love with a hero, too!”

The migraine that had begun earlier in his temples reaches full force now. He doesn’t bother trying to deny it. He decides he doesn’t care.

Dabi’s laugh grates on him, though, “Is that so? Which little hero?” he asks Toga, and just as she’s skipping past him, he snags her, snatching the granola bar she’d had in her hand from their little raid.

She turns to grab it back and he pulls it out of her reach, “I don’t know! Give that back!” she squawks, clawing at him.

She must really dig at him because Dabi hisses, “You little twerp–” Just before Magne snatches the outstretched granola bar from Dabi’s hand. She hands it back to Toga, who quickly rushes off with it now.

And thankfully, for Tomura’s sanity, you’re not brought up again.

But he hadn’t noticed you– hadn’t noticed the way you’d seen him with Toga, too. Just a girl Shinsou’s age, following after him like an eager puppy.

Shinsou had trailed beside you like that, too, when you’d both walked back to U.A. with full bellies and new coffees in hand, warm and content.

***

There is a night where Shouta is out doing work undercover and you’re left to patrol on your own. You can’t take Shinsou yet, since he hasn’t earned his provisional license. You don’t mind these nights, by yourself, when you stick to shadows and rooftops, watching the city from above.

It’s cooler now and you tuck your face into the high collar of your hero uniform to hide from the wind that brushes past.

It’s been a quiet night so far. There are other, flashier heroes patrolling, too, meandering around the sidewalks to deter petty crime.

You check the time on your phone, noting that you have a little less than an hour until your shift is over, until you can go home and take a hot shower in an attempt to warm yourself up– especially your fingers, the tips of your ears.

You stretch, standing on one of the low roofs of a building. You’re stiff from crouching, so you decide to move around, change position. You use a grappling tool to shoot it onto a higher roof of the next building. You scale the bricks easily and once safely up, retract your grappling hook.

You look out over the quiet city, the golden light of lampposts, the meandering of cars through the streets. Some restaurants and bars are still open, their windows look warm and inviting with the flush of people inside.

You waste most of the last hour of your shift trying to remain warm, keeping a careful eye on the world below.

Towards the end, you notice a familiar figure in one of the alleyways down below. You don’t even see his face, just the back of his hoodie, just the angle of his shoulders.

Just the way he walks.

The thought should frighten you– that you know him like this, that you’re familiar with just the movement of his body.

Shigaraki Tomura walks away from the soft light of the main city, slips away into alleyways and darkness. You glance at the time. Your shift is nearly over.

This counts as hero work, doesn’t it? Silently following after him?

You drop down onto a fire escape– leap off to latch onto a lower window sill, until you’re dropping silently on to the ground a distance away from him.

You are careful to keep away from him, to use everything Shouta taught you about stealth to remain hidden. And you know Shigaraki is observant, you know he’s always looking over his shoulder so you have to stick to hidden places– behind dumpsters, ducking into alcoves of buildings.

He heads back to the part of the city you grew up in, where everything is falling apart, where there are plenty of abandoned buildings for hiding, plenty of places for runaway teens and homeless to sleep. The cheapest apartments, the streets that are the least patrolled by heroes and police alike, where parts of the Yakuza groups are bolder.

These streets are familiar to you. It’s a strange trip down memory lane.

You think of the last time you saw Shigaraki and flush darkly– it was around here, too, what happened that night.

Still, you follow him because you think you still have some upper hand. Maybe he’ll lead you to the rest of the League of Villains. For a heartbeat, you wonder if you’ll tell Shouta, if you’ll tell the Hero Commissions– you’d have to, right? That isn’t some little squirmish. That’s important information.

But he doesn’t lead you to the rest of the League.

He leads you to an apartment building, small and falling apart on the outside. A window is boarded up poorly. There are stray cats that linger around the side, where the trash is. You’re sure there are rats and bugs, too. You’re sure the building is one bad day away from falling apart.

Shigaraki pauses by the door that is nearly falling off its hinges.

He glances over his shoulder, “Are you following me in, too?”

Your heart kicks up, hammering against the inside of your chest. You swallow hard, internally cursing.

For all your effort of stealth, he still noticed you?

Well, there’s no use lying about it now.

You step around the corner you’d been hiding behind, moving towards the glow of a street light that flickers in and out of power to reveal yourself fully to him.

“When did you notice me?” you ask, peering at him, at the shape of him in the dark.

You catch the lifting of his scar when he smiles, just a baring of teeth, “I saw you on the roof.”

Damn, you curse again, you’ll have to work on that, “That bad, huh?”

He shrugs gracelessly, lifting of his shoulders only for them to fall unevenly, “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known. You were silent otherwise.”

It feels like a compliment– a generous one, coming from him. You don’t know why you have to hold off a smile.

He turns back to the door, shouldering it open. He walks through the archway without another word. He leaves it open and it seems there is no light on the inside, just a blackness that swallows up your vision. He disappears inside.

You stand there, beneath the light that flickers in and out, eyeing the doorway. You could go now, run back home to Shouta, to the Hero Commission and tell them you think you know where he stays, you have a lead on him. You look behind you, glance at the alleyway you came from with it’s’ dull, fluorescent lights that splash against the concrete, that barely fight against the shadows.

You look back towards where Shigaraki had been, the entrance to the building.

You’d probably even get extra little hero points for it from the Commission.

Shouta would be proud of you.

For bringing them to this dilapidated, shabby little apartment complex that rests on the streets of the place you used to call home.

You swallow hard, flex your freezing fingers.

Then you step towards the doorway, peer inside carefully. You hold your breath and the door creaks quietly when you cross it’s threshold, into the darkness.

Tomura is mildly surprised when he hears the door creak behind him. He can feel you, even in the dark of this hallway, the tentative steps you take after him. They’re almost shy.

But you followed him, didn’t you?

You followed and followed and followed him– and of course you did, he thinks, you had kissed him back, hadn’t you?

He supposes you could be playing a part, trying to get close to him but his intuition tells him differently, not with the genuine reaction you’d had. Your sudden guilt for giving in to him. Still, he’ll be careful around you.

He’ll probably have to move again, which would be a shame, since he has already killed the tenant of this apartment– he’d been sure they wouldn’t be missed by anyone, made sure he’d have time. He did the work to get it, thought he’d have it for just long enough until the League made another move.

He almost wants to test you, see if you’re going to run and tattle on his location. He wonders how far you’re willing to follow him.

Tomura walks steadily down the hallway, to the apartment he has taken claim to. He unlocks the door, hands in his partial gloves, shoving it with his shoulder to then enter. He leaves it open for you.

The apartment is a studio, shabby and the heat isn’t amazing, but it has hot water and a lack of bugs in this particular room. It has furniture– a bed, specifically, was all he had cared about. There’s empty wrappers of food and cans of energy drinks on the counters because he doesn’t really bother to pick up after himself but otherwise, the space isn’t his. There’s nothing else of his, besides some spare clothes on the floor.

And still, you follow him here, too. But you stand at the doorway, peeking inside.

He glances at you and is reminded of a fox, something with clever eyes but wary, a little skittish– would bite if he got too close too soon.

So he gives you space, just like he let you leave.

If there’s one thing Tomura has learned, it’s patience. Any good plan takes patience. The reward is always sweeter. The longer and harder the level, the greater the wins.

He ignores you, puts even more distance between the two of you as he wanders further in. He flicks on lights. He takes off his shoes, shrugs off his jean jacket and throws it over the couch. He gives the appearance of carelessness, of letting his guard down. Non threatening.

And you take your fist shy step inside. The door behind you remains ajar, though, for escape.

Tomura has to fight a terrifying smile, fight the sudden twisting in his heart, the inhale of his breath.

“I don’t know how wise it was of you to bring a hero to your home.” you finally speak, cutting through the silence. You’re trying to be witty, but he can tell you’re nervous.

“This isn’t my home,” he answers.

Home, with it’s round and warm syllabus, is not what he thinks of this place.

You eye him some more, but before you can respond, he says, “I don’t know how wise it was of you to follow a villain into his home.”

“I thought it wasn’t your home,” you quip and he only gives you a dry look.

Your bravado is wavering, especially when the door clicks shut behind you, your hand finally falling to your side.

And the two of you are sealed away from the outside world.

“Why did you bring me here?” you ask him and your voice is deceptively quiet. Small.

“Why did you follow me?” he asks in return.

You inhale like you’re trying to steady yourself, “Because I’m supposed to.”

Tomura smiles now, something lazy, almost amused. He knows it’s a lie, can feel it slide along his skin, can see the floundering, desperate look in your eyes.

“Why did you follow me?” he asks again, forcing himself not to move, not to step towards you in his budding excitement. Patience, he tells himself, be patient.

“Why did you kiss me?” you ask instead and the question is raw, as if it’s plagued you, haunted you like an insistent ghost. Crept around in the back of your mind, growing teeth and fangs and spindly, lampshade bat wings large enough to terrify you.

The idea that he’s taken root in your mind in the same way you have infested his is near dizzying.

Tomura weighs his answers carefully. He’s silent for a long moment and it’s heavy, charged with something that he can’t name– has never felt before.

When he speaks, his voice is just a rasp of breath, a little more honest than he’d like, a touch annoyed with the truth, “Because I wanted to.”

Another long stretch of silence where you watch him carefully, where he can see your chest rising and falling too quickly. He can see that frightened look in the rounding of your eyes, the high flush in your cheeks.

And when you speak again, it’s hardly louder than a whisper, like it’s all you can manage,“Do you want to kiss me again?”

It is far too gentle of a question for what he wants– it almost feels innocent, juvenile. Out of place between the two of you. But he’ll take it, he’ll take whatever you give him and then some.

He takes a step towards you. You don’t flinch away so he takes another, then another, until he is standing in front of you. You’re close now– so close that he has to force air into his lungs. He reminds himself of patience, of waiting–

He could take whatever he wanted from you now, he supposes, but he doesn’t want to have to wrestle you for it. He wants it given freely, he wants you to kiss back, like you had before. He wants you to willingly submit and it’s taken longer but it’ll be sweeter, so much sweeter.

“Are you going to run away again?” he asks and he can feel his heart quicken, the squeezing of it awful and tight.

You look up at him in a way that reminds him of his dreams, the ones he pretends to hate, where you make those small, soft noises. Where you let him touch you and taste you and have you.

And you shake your head no, just fractionally, the barest hint of movement but it’s enough for him.

The force of his kiss slams you back against the door. You make a surprised noise against him as he crushes himself to you. It’s just as violent as the first, but this time you take back what he gives. You get your bearings quicker, like you’ve learned a lesson already. He grins into the kiss, opening it, when he feels your little hands clawing at his shoulders, at his back.

He groans when you part your lips for him, when you lick tentatively into his mouth. He possesses you, bears onto you, pinning you to the door as his hands, still gloved, curl around your sides, your hips.

Your hero costume is tight, fits the curves of you snugly and in a way that’s making him nearly insane. He isn’t careful, doesn’t care if he’s moving too fast now as his hands roam and grab and squeeze. There’s layers between you, he naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

One of your hands tightens in his hair, pulling when he bites your bottom lip.

But you don’t seem to mind, either, with the way your breath is hitching, with the way you’re trying to pull him closer, desperately fuse him to you.

Your lips are so soft, he notices, even with the forcefulness with which you’re kissing him back.

It feels surreal for a moment, like one of his dreams, when he parts from your mouth only to slot his lips against your jaw, your neck. A whine is loosened from you, which breaks when he sets teeth to the vulnerable line of your throat.

Your hands are in his hair still, body arching into him eagerly. Youthful in your earnestness.

You’re better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, so alive and rosy and warm beneath his hands, beneath his mouth, which is making a mess of your neck. A particular hard suck over the sensitive line of your pulse makes you pull at his hair.

“Don’t leave a mark,” you hush and he thinks you meant to sound more threatening, but it’s softened by the desperation in your voice.

He scoffs into your throat, dragging teeth roughly along your skin.

“Shigaraki–”

“Tomura.” he corrects without thinking, finally pulling away to look at you, which is almost a mistake because you–

You’re flushed, lips kiss stung and pink, all swollen. Your head is tipped back, exposing the column of your throat, hair mussed with being pressed to the door so roughly. Your eyes are hazy and fever pink with your Quirk activated, like spring flowers, glowing in the low light.

He thinks of paintings and colors and dreams, something like beauty, if he knew anything about that.

And he’s so hard it hurts, teeth grinding together as he looks at you because he can’t even fucking stomach this feeling.

Then you repeat his name for him, “Tomura.”

He’s never heard his name like that, bedroom soft, more of a lullaby and less of a tragedy. He feels like he’s going to shake apart, his body to become just old ruins– he feels as if it’ll collapse inwards, topple over to crush his heart.

Where he’s usually seething and livid and clawing ruthlessly, the festering feeling in his chest is replaced with a new energy; something bursting and squirming and warm. His Quirk lies dormant and docile inside of him with your hand in his hair, your other now at his neck, fingers pressing lightly at his jaw.

It’s terrifying, he realizes, to not feel his Quirk at the edges of his fingers.

(It’s freeing, too, he’ll come to find, to not feel it’s weight, it’s demand that had been encouraged and shaped in him.)

You’re both trying to catch your breaths, looking at each other now. His fingers, still gloved, flex and squeeze at your waist, like he’s scared you’ll run off again.

You inch forward instead, rock onto the tips of your toes to press your lips to his again– softer this time, but no less heated, no less desperate.

He thinks you must be starving, too, with the way you pull him close. His mouth slants over yours, demanding more, a little rougher.

You squirm against the door, the slightest rocking of your hips– he can feel it against his thigh, against his waist. It makes him hiss out a breath against your lips, makes him grab harder at your waist, force you to do it again, harder this time.

You whine and it’s the snapping of his patience.

He reaches for the zipper at the back of your hero uniform, gives it a rough tug, pulling it down some. And then you’re pushing at him, nudging him away from the door and it’s a flurry of movement as you yank at his hoodie while he pulls at your clothes. You’re both stumbling further into the room, towards the bed pushed back into the corner.

Tomura feels young suddenly– feels his age. He feels like a twenty something year old with a girl in his apartment who wants his hoodie off. Who's kissing him hard in between every article of clothing that manages to come off.

He sits back on the edge of the bed to ease the rest of your cat-suit down. He watches with interest as you wiggle your hips to help him get the fabric down over you– and it’s nothing romantic, he doesn’t kiss the newly revealed skin, he doesn’t gently run his fingertips over you, but you grow shy under his gaze.

You’re still in undergarments, athletic slips of fabric, but his eyes fly over your face. You’re nervous, he can nearly feel it, with the way you shift, with the way you catch your bottom lip between your teeth and worry it.

A thought strikes him.

“Have you done this before?” he rasps, hooking his hand in the crux of your knee to drag your forward so you nearly fall into his lap.

“Yes,” you grit out, arms coming up to his shoulders to steady yourself. “Once.” you then shakily exhale.

He doesn’t particularly care– your answer wouldn’t have changed how he’d treat you. He’s not going to be gentler nor slower because you’re less experienced.

“Have you?” you ask, eyeing him, fingers nervously toying with the ends of his hair.

“Yes,” he says, perhaps too sharply, but he gives no other information and you don’t press him, which he’s thankful for. He doesn’t have the patience for useless questions.

Rather, he pulls you down harder, so your bare thighs finally settle into his lap. He slides his gloved hands up the notches of your ribs to hitch beneath your bra. That comes off, too, and then he’s got his hands on you more. You gasp, arching into his touch when his fingers curl around a breast, fingers roughly brushing over the peak.

He doesn’t think anymore, just acts, just moves and does as he pleases. All the things he’s done in dreams or in his mind– he sets lips and teeth to your breast, tongue laving over your nipple. He forces your squirming still with an arm banded around your torso, keeping you flush to his eager mouth.

You yelp in pain when he uses his teeth too roughly, trying to jerk away from him but you can’t with his hold on you. He grins, mouth opening, spit slick and wet against your breast again. He groans against you when you pull on his hair.

But then he twists you, throws you down onto the bed only to crawl over you. He yanks at your panties just as you pull him down for another kiss– maybe to distract yourself, to settle your nerves. When you pull away, you’re on your back and he’s over you, your legs hitching over his narrow waist. His hands are on your thighs and you–

You suddenly grab for his hands.

“Take off your gloves,” you get out, breathless, and before he can respond, your fingers are sliding against his wrist, up to his hand, beneath the glove and against his palm.

It makes him shiver, makes him grit his teeth. You pull off one, then the other.

For a moment, he just looks at you all spread out and bare for him, his hands now open and uncovered, too.

You squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.

“C’mon,” you coax and he thinks you’re trying to find your bravado, “Touch me.”

There’s nothing between his hands and your skin now and he settles his palm on your stomach, beneath your breast.

He naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

“Tomura,” your voice is pitched, almost pleading, “You’re not going to hurt me– c’mon.”

He tenses for a moment, eyes flashing over your face. For a moment, his heart stumbles, he grows wary. He thinks of you slipping away beneath his touch, falling away into nothing and all he’d have is a bed of ashes.

But your eyes are bright with your Quirk.

His final finger comes down. Nothing happens, except you smile a little, except you arch up into his touch– alive and vivid and furiously warm.

He feels like he can’t breathe, can’t even function.

He catches a groan behind his teeth, falls forward as his hands become feverish and possessive, suddenly confident, suddenly brash– touching and squeezing and grabbing at you.

His teeth clank with yours as he tumbles into another kiss. You’re needier now, making those higher pitched noises that used to haunt him.

It drives him insane, makes him feel half feral, overeager and desperate. His fingers wander lower, seeking and searching, just as the kiss grows in intensity again. It’s messier, all open mouth and tongue.

When he pulls away, a string of spit connects the two of you and he lets more of the saliva pooling in his mouth drip down with it, letting it fall between your open lips, some on your bottom lip, too. It’s depraved and dirty and his eyes simmer as he gazes down at you.

Your face scrunches up as you go to wipe at your mouth, and he hates it because all he can think of is how cute that face is.

“Gross,” you mewl, but his fingers finally move between your legs and–

And all he finds is that you’re hot and slick for him.

He has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.

But you nearly cry at the touch, a pathetic little noise, hips jolting like you’re not sure if you want to go towards his touch or away.

“Gross, huh?” Tomura asks, voice low, the pad of his finger sliding easily, teasing you slowly before he goads, “Why are you so wet then?”

He sinks a finger in suddenly– just because he can. Just because he wants to watch your face screw up again, which it does, your mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut.

“Hm?” he hums, amused with the way you’re gasping beneath him. He starts a slow but deep rhythm and–

And he’s had sex before, a handful of times, but it’d always been for him. He hadn’t cared how the other person felt, hadn’t cared to try and get them off. But now he suddenly wishes he had learned, if only for you, now. He wants you as obsessed as he is, wants you to feel as maddened as he feels.

Thankfully, you’re so expressive. And he doesn’t have to worry about his fingers. He can find the spot inside you that makes you toss your head back into the sheets and moan for him, he can focus on the way you keen when he finds your clit with his thumb.

You’re a sensitive little thing, clawing at his bare shoulders, whining into his neck. He forces in another finger and you start rocking your hips, growing more desperate until–

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Fuck, I’m going to–”

He curls his fingers harder, watching your face as you fall apart, as you try and twist and squirm beneath him. He forces you through it, isn’t gentle, but selfish, wringing everything he can from you.

And when he’s finished watching you whimper and feeling you flutter and gush around his fingers, he takes them out only to force them between your lips.

Once more your face screws up, but you close your mouth around them and he groans low and raw. You look hazy, drooling all over his fingers, lashes fluttering prettily.

He uses his other hand to fumble with his belt, to work his pants down low enough for his cock, aching so bad that he swears he’s going to go insane–

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, watching the mess that comes with it, so wet and slick and shiny. He can’t help the growl he gives, before covering his mouth with yours again.

As you kiss, sloppy and desperate, Tomura slides the head of his cock against you and you’re so slippery and soft and molten for him that his next moan tapers off into a whine.

You pull away fractionally, “Shouldn’t we–”

He thinks maybe you were about to ask about protection of some kind, but he shoves inside you hard, breaches your body and watches as your eyes roll back, just about to cross as your nails turn sharp against his back.

You moan, low and drawn out.

He can’t help the absurd laugh that is wretched from him, his head dropping onto your neck as he snaps his hips forward. He can’t believe he’s actually gotten you here, in his bed, beneath him– let him inside where you’re so warm and soft.

“Fuck,” you gasp, maybe laced with pain, clawing at him, raking your nails down his back.

“Does it hurt?” he hisses, excited, his teeth coming down to close over your exposed neck.

“Yes,” you get out, almost a whimper, “Feels good, too.”

He snaps his hip forwards roughly, grinding deep as he laughs again when you just about sob into his shoulder.

You latch your teeth onto the vulnerable juncture between his neck and his shoulder, where you’d already laid claim to him once before.

He wrestles for your wrist, the one he broke, and forces it down onto the bed.

“Look at you,” he almost snarls, voice low and gravely, “Little hero letting me fuck her.”

You gasp when he angles his hips, when his other hand reaches beneath you, to fist a hand in your hair and pull so your neck is arched and exposed to him.

“I used to dream of this,” he admits roughly, the confession like a curse being spit out of his mouth, “Wanted to stalk you or possess you or–” he groans because he can feel how you’re throbbing around him, how slick you are for him, “Wanted to fucking ruin you–”

He pulls at your hair more, tries to get you to look at him through your wet lashes. The flash of pink meets red and his smile is more a cruel bearing of teeth.

“And you feel so much better than I dreamt– fuck, so much tighter–” he babbles as he ruts into you hard and quick. You keen, high and broken, just as he feels you flutter around him again and he almost loses his mind because–

“Are you going to fucking come again?” he growls, pulling harder on your hair.

“Yes,” you groan, “Please, fuck, please, c’mon–” your voice is high and wrecked and all he has to do is angle his hips a few more times before you’re shattering, nearly breaking apart, squeezing down on his cock so tightly that he shudders, that he let’s go of your hair just to focus on his own pleasure.

He doesn’t even realize he’s drooling into your neck, not as he loses his rhythm, as he shoves himself as deep into you as he can and comes hard. Pleasure races up his spine, turns him white-hot and sensitive, making his eyes roll back into his head, too.

You’re both breathing hard when he collapses on top of you. Your fingers, which were once scratching down his back to cause sharp shooting pain, are now surprisingly gentle, slipping back into his hair.

You squirm, fussing slightly– no doubt sore, no doubt aching with him still inside you but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to.

He mouths at your neck, feels you sigh, before he moves to cover his mouth with yours again. He kisses you languidly now, slow and deep.

You’re making breathy little noises against him, content and surprisingly soft, your other hand tracing over his side.

(He doesn’t like how much he enjoys this part, the afterglow, all that violence slipping away, expelled from you both–)

Tomura feels his cock twitch inside of you again, feels your hips arch up a little, and before he knows it, he’s moving his hips again. It’s a slow rocking, your lips still attached to his, heated and gentle.

“Gross,” you say again, just a breath against him as he fucks his cum further into you, feels himself harden, feels the mess he made of you. But you still hitch your leg over his hip, pull him deeper into you.

He grins lazily against your lips, “You like it,” he says and it’s not a question, rolling his hips until he gets you to shut your eyes and moan against him.

“Yeah,” you reply, nudging your cheek against his, rubbing like a cat until he returns the gesture. Until he’s humming because he’s sensitive and you feel so good, better than anything he’s ever felt in this miserable fucking life–

You whine a little, ‘Touch me again?”

He doesn’t deny you for whatever reason, doesn’t even have something smart to say as he slides his hand down your torso, down to where you’re both slick and connected. He rubs unpracticed, messy circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re sighing.

He’s no expert but he doesn’t really care and you don’t seem to mind this time, either. It’s unhurried now, lazy.

This time your peak is a fluttery, soft thing, and he watches as you gasp, as you blink away tears. She’s pretty, he thinks, feeling stupidly young again, she’s pretty like this. Like his dreams.

Tomura spills inside you again soon after, groaning against your collarbones, and this time you force him to slip out of you. Force him to lay beside you as you both catch your breath again.

And he’s not expecting it, but he has the vicious need to be close to you, desperately wants to feel your skin against his. It’s a new feeling– usually after sex, he wants to be as far away from someone as possible. Usually he can’t leave or kick them out fast enough.

But there’s something about you now, hazy and pleasure-drunk, fucked out and dazed, that makes him want to stay close. Maybe it’s just that you’ve soothed all the festering that usually squirms in his chest. Maybe it’s just that you’ve made everything in him quiet for once.

He expects you to find some sort of your regret now, he’s sure that you’ll feel guilty, collect your clothes and go. But you don’t. You stay in bed with him. And it’s strange but he knows he wants to touch you, so he does. He doesn’t deny himself, why would he? He’s always taken what he wanted.

He curls around you, shivering a little with the skin to skin contact after the fog of sex has cleared from his mind. His hands slide over you, touch you fully and without restraint because he can, because you won’t disappear beneath his touch.

And for a moment, as he traces along the dips of your waist, he thinks maybe you were made for him– cut from his rib, isn’t that how the story goes?

He doesn’t know, only that there’s no one else in the world he can touch like this.

You’re surprised.

You’d figured after Tomura had his fill of you, he’d kick you out, send you away. You figured you’d feel guilty, that you would rush out of here and try to wish the whole thing away. But your hero suit stays on the floor and you’re still in his bed.

You didn’t think he’d be a cuddler, you assumed that he wouldn’t want nor care for any sort of contact after. But his arms are wrapped around you now, one of his hands sliding curiously over the curves of your body. All five fingers down, pressing into your skin.

But you suppose, for someone who has to be so careful with touch, that he would like this. That he might want this. You wonder if he ever gets to touch anyone like this, if he ever allows himself intimate touch like this– tender and for no other reason than to soothe or comfort.

You get the impression that he doesn’t, that touch is just a means to an end for him; sex is probably just an itch to scratch. You can’t imagine that he’s very relaxed or enjoying himself when he’s worried about decaying the person he’s with.

But all his crackling, restless energy now seems subdued, sated, as he walks his fingers over you. His hair tickles your bare skin as he nudges closer, nose running along your jaw.

Once more, you feel your age. You don’t feel like a hero, but just someone young, maybe on the cusp of being old. He looks young now, too, with his vivid eyes shut and relaxed, nothing to crease his brow. He doesn’t seem like a villain, either.

You brush a finger over his cheek, touch lightly at the scratches beneath his eyes, drag your thumb down to touch the scar at the corner of his lips.

His eyes flutter open to watch you, half lidded, squinted almost like a cat.

But he allows you to run your fingers over his face, doesn’t protest or jerk away from your touch.

No, his eyes fall shut again. He lets out a deep sigh that you think he has held inside him for years.

He doesn’t have a gentle face, but one that shows it’s angles and sharp edges, the scars and cuts that trail down onto his neck. You’d noticed some on his chest, too. Proof of an uneasy life lived, proof of violence and pain.

You imagine he’s seen horrors, kept them trapped inside for fear of letting them spill out, like maybe it’ll be as gruesome as the memories.

His body hasn’t been handled gently, you can tell, with it’s indents and scars and scratches. You don’t know who was the last person who touched him without wanting to hurt him. And you shouldn’t but you think of yourself when you were a child– desperate for love and affection, desperate for any scrap of attention like the scavenger you always were.

Maybe still are.

So desperate that you’d end up in the bed of your enemy– all because you couldn’t end up in the bed of your ally. So hungry that you’d eat out of a hand that has harmed and killed and destroyed.

Hands that haven’t known gentleness, a body that hasn’t known peace. But he’s being gentle with you now, isn’t he?

So you try to give gentleness to him now, too, with your careful touch. You keep your fingers kind and sympathetic.

Even your own eyes drift shut for a moment, still tracing idle patterns into his skin.

You only slip away from him for a moment, to use the bathroom, to clean up. Your reflection in the mirror looks strange; raw and flushed with color. Honest in a way that makes you turn away.

You slip back into bed with Tomura, let him latch onto you again. You drag your fingers gently over his ribs, over his sides.

You let your eyes fall shut, too.

There’s a sudden, loud buzzing from the floor that cuts through the quiet, which makes your eyes startle open. It’s insistent and you realize after a moment that it’s your phone, caught up in your hero suit on the floor.

You never came home after your shift. You curse softly, almost certain you know who's calling.

You squirm out of Tomura’s hold again, which he huffs at in irritation, but eventually allows you up.

“Where are you going now?” he asks, annoyed, when you climb out of bed to find your phone. Once found, you hold it up to him.

It’s still buzzing in your hand, lit up with Shouta’s contact.

You think the guilt should hit you now.

It doesn’t and that’s what you feel worse over. You swallow hard, frown down at your phone.

(Horribly, you even feel somewhat spiteful, as if you’re trying to prove something to Shouta. Maybe to yourself.)

You don’t answer.

And then you see the several texts from him, wondering where you are. They’re all bland, but you can tell he must be worried. It’s unlike you to not tell him where you are.

“Are you going to leave?” Tomura asks and there’s something strange in his voice, something you can’t place.

“Do you want me to?” you ask in return.

He doesn’t answer right away. But he does eventually give an annoyed drawl, “Do what you want.”

You take that as a no, don’t leave, since you’re certain if he wanted you gone, he would’ve told you.

You send a text to Shouta;

Sorry. Staying with an old friend for the night. Be back tomorrow.

It’s not unheard of, for you to spend time with an old friend from the foster care system.

You get a dry “okay” from him in response. You fight the urge to roll your eyes for some reason, tossing your phone away again.

You end up staying the night with Tomura Shigaraki, one of the most wanted villains in all of Japan.

Its not romantic— he isn’t sweet or funny or caring. But he holds you tight, leaves no room for distance. And it is the first time you’ve ever slept with someone like this, tucked away into a bed, bare, and wrapped up in each other.

Is this what it always feels like? You press yourself into the crooks of his body. You wonder if you’re supposed to fit this well together.

And it’s the first time since his Quirk developed that he hasn’t needed to wear his partial gloves to sleep in fear of decaying something.

He won’t admit it but it’s the best he’s slept in a long, long time.

You won’t admit it, either, but you think you could get used to this, too; this closeness, being held as if you’ll slip away, being held like he doesn’t want you to.

The morning brings rosy sunlight that slants through the windows. Neither of you talk much. You try to tell yourself this won’t happen again, can’t happen again.

But you had kissed him goodbye before you’d left, like he was a boyfriend and not a criminal, and you’d been in a surprisingly good mood for the rest of the day.

Like you had a crush, puppy love you never got as a teenager because you were too busy trying not to starve, only to realize you’d been starving in other ways, too.

But you’re sugar soft and excitable, dropping into bed that night alone, and allowing yourself to admit, in the quiet and privacy of your own thoughts, that you wish you were in his again.

***

One time turns into two which turns into three which turns into so many times you’ve lost count. That little, rundown apartment that isn’t really Tomura’s has turned into another world entirely, some harbor away from the rules of society. It’s almost too good to be true, a dream, a place for a secret as bad as this one.

When you’re here, you don’t talk of heroes and villains. You urge him not to; you think you’ll keep some part of your innocence in this affair if you don’t actually know anything about him or the League of Villains. You’ll feel too guilty, if you know any part of their plans and don’t tell Shouta. And telling Shouta anything about Tomura is beginning to feel like a betrayal, too.

You don’t know anything substantial about Tomura Shigaraki and that’s the way it needs to stay.

You know he likes sour candy, though, and drinks too many energy drinks– they’re sickly sweet and you think kissing him might make your teeth ache. You know he likes video games but no longer has a console. He has trouble sleeping at night. You’re familiar with the scars on his skin, the jagged ones across his neck, the one on his lip. The beauty mark on his chin. You know his moods; from the prickly ones to the downright vengeful ones. You even know the calmer ones, the quiet, contemplative ones.

(In this way, he seems like a normal twenty-something-year-old. In the quiet moments, when you’ve convinced him to watch a cheap horror movie on the tiny, staticky TV in the apartment, he could be anybody. When he’s got his bare hand up your shirt as someone onscreen screams and begs for their life, he’s not the heir to an underground empire. He’s just Tomura, with his face buried in the crook of your neck).

He pretends to get annoyed with you, huffs and scoffs against your lips when you’re being cheeky. You wear his worn down hoodies, slip your thumbs in the holes at the sleeves. He eyes you when you wear them, pulls you to him by the collar.

(He likes to fuck you in them– pushes the hoodie up your stomach to watch you ride him. But he likes things bare and raw, too. Skin to skin. So close it’s terrifying, so close you feel like he’s trying to tear you apart from the inside out. He likes it dirty, you think, because it makes it more intimate.)

You soothe him. You know you do because when he’s festering and angry, all it takes is your hand on his wrist, pulling it away from his neck. Sometimes, when he can’t think straight and there is too much on his mind, he forces you to lay on top of him until his breathing slows and his head is clear.

He can’t talk to you aloud about what’s plaguing him, but you must quiet some part of him. He likes to use you to think, runs his long fingers through your hair as you lay atop him. He pets you until his thoughts aren’t as jumbled, but smoothed out and sharp. Or until he doesn’t want to think anymore at all and he drags you into languid makeouts that always end with him surrounding you, inside you, possessing you.

You bicker sometimes, flash your teeth to make his eyes spark ruby and excited. Mostly, you act your age with him.

You don’t know when his birthday is or where he grew up. You don’t know what his childhood was like or what memories shaped him, don’t know where he’s been or where he’s going to be. You only know him now, in this moment, in this little world you’ve created for each other.

He’s what you imagined first boyfriends are supposed to be; excitable and often immature but fun and new. You never had the luxury of first loves, just odd first kisses with strangers and an uncomfortable loss of virginity with a friend of a friend of a friend who jammed his tongue too far down your throat. You hadn’t had anything stable until–

Until Shouta.

Shouta has grown suspicious of this old friend of yours and how much time you now spend with him.

He questions you about him and you wish you felt worse for lying. The rebellious part of this affair is thrilling, though. Feels like you’re sixteen and sneaking out from under your dad’s nose to be picked up by the boyfriend you’d know he’d hate. Feels like swiping liquor too young and getting sick off it, smashing the bottles and laughing with your friends because sometimes things just need to break.

“Will you at least tell me his name?” Shouta had asked one morning, when you’d let yourself into his apartment after another night at Tomura’s. You had your own hood pulled up around your face to hide the rose blossom hickeys against the skin of your neck.

He’d still poured you a cup of coffee. You’d watched his careful, large hands as they made it the way you liked it.

You’d given him a lie, fed it to him the way he feeds you breakfast, “Shinta. Are you happy?”

He’d slid the mug to you, let you catch in the cradle of your palm. He’d shrugged, but you think his eyes had flashed to you, “You know you can bring him around, right? You don’t always have to go to him.”

You’d had to bite back a painful laugh. It wasn’t funny. It had hurt strangely in the pit of your chest.

You had shaken your head, tried to brush him off, “It’s not like that.”

“Alright,” he’d said, but he hadn’t believed you. “You’re training alone with Shinsou again tonight, I’ll be busy with a job.” Then he’d given you a stern look, “And don’t cut it early to go see Shinta.”

“I’ve never done that!” you’d protested, perhaps a little too defensively. But it was true, you’d never do that to Shinsou, wouldn’t dream of it. The only time you’d cut training early was to share takeout with Shinsou, not ditch him for–

This comment had rubbed you wrong, scratched up against something abrasive and surprisingly fragile inside of you. Maybe because he was questioning your dedication which already felt so flimsy, even if he hadn’t been entirely serious, even if maybe he’d just been trying to take a dig at you. At this new boyfriend.

Shouta had grown cold then, shrugged impassively, took his mug of coffee and brushed past you to keep getting ready.

It had angered you enough to bring it up later to Tomura, when you’re falling into his lap and he’s squirming his cold, fluttery hands beneath your shirt to touch skin, to make you hiss through your teeth.

His lips tilt into a small smile as you fidget while he warms his frigid fingers on your body.

“Eraserhead asked about you yesterday,” you tell him, letting your nose brush against his, “Told me I could bring my friend around– don’t always have to go to him.”

Tomura snorts, eyes falling half-lidded when your lips skim over his. The night is plum dark, presses into this little apartment that’s tucked away from the world.

“How’d you get out of that one?” he asks, fingers walking over the dips of your spine. He likes tracing the bone beneath your skin, likes making you shiver.

“Told him it’s not like that.” you respond, your own hands wandering to his neck. You're careful over the ridges of flesh there, skim lightly to get to his jaw.

“No?” Tomura asks, pulling you closer, pressing his chest to yours, “Don’t want to bring me home to meet Eraserhead?” he sneers and there’s something underneath his voice, lurking, with its hackles raised.

You think maybe it’s jealousy, the same flash of his eyes like Shouta’s when he’d said Shinta.

But then he kisses you deep and drags your hips against his, forces a warbly, surprised little moan from you.

Most of your thoughts melt away then, most turn to something base and desperate, all desire and need. You can’t help but think about it, though, how you can’t ever take him home to Shouta. You can’t ever expect anything more than whatever stays in this room. He kisses you hard, your teeth clinking against his like clashing with the truth of it all.

There’s no happy ending here.

It’s like smashing bottles because sometimes things just need to break.

***

Tomura thinks you would be a good edition to the League of Villains.

You’re clever and capable. He comes to find you’re not just a good thief and pickpocket but an excellent one. You swipe everything from his pockets, right from under his nose, just to play with him. You’re stealthy and sharp; he could use someone like you at his side.

Your Quirk could be useful, though he doesn’t like the idea of you getting so close to people while in battles. You have a reckless streak, but he thinks he could temper that. All you need is a little guidance.

You were a thief once. You give him clues of your past; you didn’t grow up like the other heroes, didn’t come from a warm home with dreams of saving the world. Your head wasn’t filled with fantasies of rescuing the downtrodden. You were the downtrodden. And you learned that there was no one who was going to save you, except yourself. So you stole and fought and survived a world that was willing to forget you.

You’re like him, a very quiet part of him thinks, no one saved you. Not until you were too old, all grown up with sharpened teeth and claws, eyes that see in the dark. That could be now used and extorted by the heroes.

He thinks they’ve leashed you, taught you how to sit and stay and sic ‘em.

He wonders if he’d have gotten to you first, if you’d be with him and not your heroes.

Tomura doesn’t dwell on it, though. He refuses to imagine it. What would be the point? It didn’t happen.

Besides, he is certain he is capable of slowly swaying you to them still. You possess a startling amount of compassion for villains which, perhaps wouldn’t help you as a villain, but that’s fine.

(You’d have him. No one would touch you if you were at his side. You could be as stupidly compassionate as you wanted.)

You meet members of the League with him by accident, times when Toga and Twice’s meeting with him overlap with you arriving. Toga goes on endlessly about you, it seems. Dabi drops by once in the middle of the night, bloody and demanding a place to sleep because he’s tired of sleeping on the streets.

It’d been one of the more insufferable nights, perhaps one of the worst ways for Dabi to find out about you. You’d already been asleep, cocooned beneath blankets and Tomura’s body, just in one of his loose shirts.

Tomura had already been lying awake, listening to your even breathing when he’d heard the handle of the door shake roughly. He’d gotten up then, slipped into clothes, melted into the darkness by the door and waited for the intruder to try and step inside.

The lock had been picked.

He had nearly decayed Dabi by accident before realizing it was him.

A ridiculously quiet but terse argument had ensued then, before Dabi had asked, in a regular speaking voice, “Why the fuck are we whispering?”

Tomura had almost winced when he heard you stir from the bed before your small, sleepy voice had murmured into the darkness, “Tomura?”

You’d said it too soft, too sweet. It’d been for his ears only and something about Dabi hearing you, seeing you, being in this space that had been for you and for him had made Tomura suddenly livid.

He had watched Dabi’s mouth fall open in shock before you’d switched on the bedside lamp to flood the room with artificial, golden light.

Dabi’s face had been near horrific in the light, one side of it all bloody, the stitches mangled or falling out. Part of his face almost looked like it was melting, his eye squinted shut with the damage.

But he’d thrown his head back and laughed when he’d seen you, sitting up in the bed, blinking sleepily at them. Tomura hated a lot of things, but he’d hated nothing more than the sound of Dabi’s rasping laugh in that moment.

You’d narrowed your eyes when you had realized who it was.

“I had no idea you had it in you, Tomura.” Dabi had said.

“Why the fuck are you here?” Tomura had hissed instead, fighting the urge to tear into his neck, fingers twitching agitatedly.

Dabi had gestured to his face with a lazy flourish, “I need medical attention and I’m crashing on your couch.”

Tomura’s teeth had ground together, “Get. Out.”

“No, I’m sick of sleeping on the streets when you’re here playing house with your little hero bitch–”

Before Tomura could even react, though, you had found the small supply of first aid from beneath the sink in the tiny bathroom. You had come up beside them near silently and offered it up, asked, “Do you want help?”

And there it had been– that compassion of yours. Even for the likes of Dabi.

In that moment, he’d wondered how you had ever survived with it. He’d thought that you’d lose your hand if you kept extending it.

Dabi hadn’t let you touch him but you’d gotten a cool rag for him to clean up the blood, watched as he tried to patch up the wound. It was made worse by a mangled staple in his cheek, jutting out strangely.

“Does it hurt?” You’d asked but with the way you were looking at him, at his marred skin up close, Tomura could tell that you weren’t just referring to this one injury.

Does it hurt? You’d asked, like you were asking if it all hurt. You weren’t just seeing a singular part of Dabi, but a series of tragedies that was proudly presented in large, rippling scars against his skin.

“Of course it fucking hurts,” Dabi had spit out, all venom and bitterness. But you hadn’t even flinched.

Tomura had tried to kick him out again once his wound had been treated.

“It’s fine,” you’d said, resigned, tired and rubbing at your eyes.

(Later you’d shrug and tell him, I know what it’s like to not have somewhere to sleep).

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Dabi had drawled, already pulling off his heavy boots, prying the coat from his body to toss onto the floor. “Just don’t do any weird shit.”

And you’d gotten back into bed with Tomura, fit yourself against him, ducked your head down beneath his chin and pressed your hands against his sides, felt the notches of his ribs.

Sometimes he wonders if you can feel the missing one, the one you took from him, the one you’d been made out of.

It had occurred to Tomura that either you didn’t fear Dabi or you trusted him enough to know he’d never let Dabi harm you while sleeping.

Both were acceptable to him, both would aid him in converting you. And they were true, too. You shouldn’t fear Dabi, especially not with him around.

Tomura had brought his hand up then, suddenly covered your mouth with his large palm, letting all five of his fingers come down against your pretty face.

You’d furrowed your brows in confusion, not fear, which made something inside of him grow warm and hungry.

Then he’d slid his other hand down your body, between your legs, just to spite Dabi.

He’d watched as your eyes went wide in the dark, cheeks flushing beneath his hand. He could feel his smirk, smug and sharp, fitting across his teeth like a muzzle.

You’d tried to shake your head, tried to squirm away from his touch, but he’d been persistent and soon enough you were sighing against his hand, melting into the bed he pressed you into. Soon enough you were trying to hold back whimpers, all slippery and soft beneath his fingers, silently begging with your eyes.

He hadn’t denied you that night; no, you were being good, walking the steps he wanted for you. You were moldable and sweet beneath him so he’d give you what you wanted.

He watched in satisfaction as you came hard around his fingers, face scrunching up in that way he loved, fingers easing you through it. He was gentle with you then, taking his hand away from your mouth slowly, letting you nudge closer and cling to him.

(He loved when you clung to him).

You’d wanted so much affection that night and he had indulged you, letting your nose brush against his, or rubbing your cheek against his chest while his fingers wound through your hair.

You’d fallen asleep all tied up in him.

The next morning, you were gone before Dabi even woke up.

Dabi had asked, “What the fuck are you doing with her?”

“Mind your business,” Tomura had snapped, fingers already seeking out his neck again when they couldn't find you. He hated that he wanted your presence so badly now. (Hated that he missed you, but he would never say that, never even dream of it). Then he’d added,“And find someone else’s doorstep to show up on.”

Dabi had scoffed, “Whatever. Just don’t get distracted.” He’d pulled out a cigarette from his jacket still on the floor then, much to Tomura’s annoyance, and lit it with a spark of his fingers. Smoke curled into the air with his first drag. “I’m not about to watch all our efforts fall apart because you wanted to play Romeo and Juliet with some braindead little hero.”

He’d torn into the skin of his neck then. Wished he could tear into you instead.

“Violent delights and violent ends and all that shit,” Dabi had said then, his smile just a curled stitch, smoke pouring from his lips, evidently amused with himself.

But Tomura has never read that play and he doesn’t know anything about poetry in the same way he doesn’t know anything about art or beauty, just that you’re the only thing he’s bothered to compare to a painting.

***

You put Tomura into your phone as Shinta and when you’re too busy to visit him between missions and training, you text him. Though short, he is surprisingly witty over text, something that has you biting back grins and distracted, feeling like a schoolgirl as you try to hide the screen of your phone from the rest of the world.

You grow distracted with hero work, with Shouta. You pay less attention to your life at U.A. You don’t visit Shouta for lunch as often. You haven’t spent a quiet night with Shouta in weeks. You tell yourself you don’t care.

It’s better than fighting with him. It’s better than trying to beg for his love and affection.

Early tomorrow morning you’re supposed to shadow Shouta on a brief mission.

The Hero Commission is trying to train you into espionage and underground work, trying to mold you in the shape of Shouta.

But at night, when you’re alone in your bedroom, tucked away into your own apartment and not with Tomura, he calls you.

You let yourself say his name into the receiver of your phone, hushed and excited.

He doesn’t say I miss you or when will I see you again?

He says, “Touch yourself.”

And you don’t say I miss you, too, or hopefully soon.

You do as he says, let your fingers fan out over your stomach like they might be his. You listen to his breathing turn ragged over the phone. You moan softly for him.

You do what he says in the navy dark of night, bite back frustrated whines because you’ve gotten too used to his touch.

“–Wish it was you, fuck, it’s not fair,” you gasp, tilting your hips up into your fingers desperately.

You can hear the hiss of breath he takes, “Did I ruin you?” he croons into the phone lowly, his voice slithering through to you, making your thighs clench. “Can’t even touch yourself without needing me?”

You groan, high and defeated, fingers slipping against yourself. You’re aching and empty and bereft without him, “Yes, yes–”

He rambles about what he’s done to you, almost seething by the end, when he demands you tell him that you’re his, that he’s the one who made you this way. He’s the only one who can soothe you now. You need him.

He isn’t wrong, you realize, when you still aren’t satisfied after your climax. When it doesn’t feel as good as when you’re with him. You realize you hate sleeping alone now. You miss the press of his body to yours. You coo into the phone about it, lay on your stomach, arms curled around your pillow with your ear still to your phone.

It never gets overly sentimental. You don’t want to scare him, especially as you grow terrified of your own feelings. It doesn’t feel as fun anymore, you realize, only because your attraction to him has now grown serious.

Your crush has grown teeth and claws, ready to tear apart the vulnerable, fleshy parts of you.

But he talks with you until you fall asleep, phone still in hand, heart still on the line.

***

There’s a stray kitten that hangs out around Tomura’s apartment– he thinks there must be a colony of strays in the area, since it’s not the only one. But this one is scrawny, just a messy tuft of grey fur. It’d be sleek and pretty, if it wasn’t so malnourished, if it wasn’t missing clumps of fur or full of scars and scratches.

The kitten likes Tomura a great deal for some reason. It rubs itself against his legs, follows him around outside of the apartment, much to your utter delight.

You coo and fawn over it, scoop the little thing up into your arms and hold it up to Tomura’s face.

He hates it, the face you give him. The face the kitten gives him. He hates that the corner of his lips twitch upwards.

“He’s so cute,” you gush and he can hear now that the little thing is purring furiously in your hands. You wiggle the cat a little bit in front of his face and Tomura finally reaches up to stroke the back of his knuckles against the kitten’s head, if only to appease you.

Your smile is crooked– an excited curve of your lips, your eyes alight.

You’re always so expressive and he used to be livid about it, wanted to teach you a lesson in the worst way possible, but now he just wants to keep you from learning them.

He has to turn away from you at the thought, heads towards the door of the apartment building. You follow after him dutifully, coming up to nudge against his side. He’s become too comfortable with you there, knocking into his elbow.

You’re still smiling down at the kitten in your arms and he wants to look away because some part of this is starting to sting.

The kitten is excitedly looking around, green eyes all round and bright. It’s purring happily.

“Put it down, it’s not coming in with us.” Tomura tells you, his voice rough and soft.

You stop in front of the door with him. Your bottom lip pulls out into a pout. Your eyes get round like the kitten’s.

He gives you a cold stare.

You hug the kitten tighter to your body, “C’mon,” you whine, “It’s just a baby.”

“I’m not taking care of a cat.”

“I’ll take care of it!”

“No,” he responds, harsher, voice a little sharper.

Maybe, in the beginning of this little affair, you would’ve headed the warning in his tone, but now you don’t even bat an eye at him.

“Yes,” you respond indignantly.

You both glare at each other. The kitten’s purr still rumbles on.

Tomura can tell you’re not giving this one up, he can tell by the set of your jaw, the way you’re clinging to that little creature. There’s a determined flush to your face. Your eyes are bright and fiery.

All over this little stray.

“You’re a brat,” is all Tomura says and you take that as a win, because your face immediately morphs, brightens up completely. You duck past him, into the apartment building with the kitten cradled in your arms.

He heaves a deep sigh, following in after you. “I’m kicking it out when you leave.”

“Don’t be mean,” you reply, waiting at the door, and the irony is not lost on him. He comes up behind you, his chest to your back, crowding you against the door.

“I think you need to remember who you’re speaking to,” he says, his voice just a rasp against your ear and maybe at some point, it would’ve sounded threatening, but now you just lean back into his chest. His heart beats against the curve of your back.

Something soft is growing between the two of you, he can feel it. It has no place here, though, in this world. In the two of you. His ugly infatuation with you, all that anger and vitriol he had for you has melted, turned spring soft inside of him after an unforgiving winter.

He unlocks the door, he lets you in.

The kitten ends up coming and going. He opens the window to let it in and out, let’s you feed it. You call it Ryuji. It lives partially in this new little world the two of you have built.

He thinks of it like the pause screen in a video game, somewhere to return to when he’s frustrated or tired or done. Idle, soft music and the freezing of his screen. A moment away from the turmoil or struggle of the game.

But he’ll have to unpause eventually.

He can’t stay here forever, he knows it, but he just has to be sure he plays it right– he doesn’t think he’ll be able to start over this time, with you.

And he wants you there at the ending, at his side like in his dreams.

The ones where it’s all in ruins, the world nothing but his, destroyed, but he gives you his hand to have, and you take it in yours to hold.

***

The distance between you and Shouta stretches and grows until it snaps in the form of a blowout argument. Which, is mostly just you, shouting, crying furiously, and Shouta stone-faced and cool.

It had started with an offhand comment from him about how you’re not focused anymore. You’re getting sloppy. You’re distracted. And usually, you take his criticism with a stiff upper lip and a determined glare.

But you and Shouta haven’t been the same since you tried to kiss him.

You blame yourself, maybe, but part of you feels angry with him, too. Bitter. You thought, in some way, he reciprocated your feelings. He’d acted like it. And when he’d rejected you, he’d pulled away, been more careful with you.

(You wonder if this proves your point, that he was toeing a line with you then.)

And maybe your lies are starting to eat at you, too, starting to rot away on the inside of you. If you focused on them too hard and all that Shouta’s done for you, you think you’d start crying every time you looked at him.

But Tomura has also thrown all you know into question. And you’d already been critical of the life you were afforded by becoming a hero.

You look at all of Shouta’s students and you just get angry. You look at Shinsou, so determined to prove he can be a hero, that he’s good and you are livid. You look at Toga, with her villainous Quirk. She’s near Shinsou’s age and something about it just makes you ache, it makes you sick.

You look at her and see who she could’ve been as a hero– you wonder if they would’ve stuck her in espionage, with the likes of you and Shouta. You wonder if she would’ve gone to U.A. You wonder what it would’ve taken to change her fate.

Even Tomura, you look at him and in the safety and privacy of your own heart, you dare to wonder what he would’ve been like if he hadn’t been a villain.

(He could’ve been a rescue hero, you think, and he could’ve decayed debris to save people. This version of him lives in the quiet, tentative parts of you. It grows soft and underground, a seedling that has sprouted on the inside of your chest, and one day you think this little dream of yours will grow so large inside of you that it’ll breach skin and show the world it’s horror.)

It feels like a coin toss, almost, like the difference between a hero and a villain sometimes is one flip away from changing.

You don’t bother to wonder what would’ve happened if it hadn’t been Shouta that found you, but someone like Tomura. Or All For One. You know if you’d been given somewhere to sleep and a warm meal, you would’ve done what they wanted.

You wish you could say you were a noble, starving person, that there was something shining and golden inside of you. But all you were was starving.

Shouta says you’ve been underperforming lately. He says he’s considering limiting the nights you patrol until you can get it together.

The Hero Commission was supposed to come observe you to see if you’d progressed enough to begin accepting your own missions. He tells you he doesn’t think they should come any longer. It feels like a dig, too, like he’s reprimanding you somehow.

And you snap, “Well maybe I didn’t want them to observe me!”

He looks taken aback for a moment, before he asks, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know! Maybe I’m tired of being observed and used and watching all of these kids be observed and sought after and–”

“Alright,” Shouta sighs, and it makes your teeth grit because he sounds like he’s trying to parent you, “It’s one thing to be upset yourself, but I don’t see how this has anything to do with these kids.”

Your nails dig into your palms as you try to find the words to get him to understand you.

But he speaks before you can, almost patronizingly, “Clearly, you’re struggling through something, so it’s probably a good thing we’ve put this off.”

Tears well up hard and fast. It hurts to be dismissed like this. It hurts to look at him, to think that he’s a part of the ever growing issue that has been itching beneath your skin. You’re a part of it, too, but you have the sudden urge to run. To get out.

Still, you swallow down all of that turmoil and say, “I hardly know what I want now, so how do you expect children to know that they want to be a hero?”

“What is this about?” Shouta asks.

“It’s about the Hero Commission and U.A. and the entire fucking system. That’s what it’s about.” you seethe, looking up into his eyes, trying to find something there.

“It’s not just about you?” he asks, unperturbed.

“Why can’t it be both?” you respond, trying to keep your voice from going high, from going hysterical. There’s so much you want to say, so much that it’s making you sick, that it’s turning your stomach. “I’m– I’m barely older than them!” you say, because all you keep thinking about is how they’re just kids. And you were just a kid. And at one point, Tomura was just a kid.

He’s barely older than you. Closer in age to Shouta’s students than to him.

“I didn’t invent the system,” Shouta says and he sounds weary, “I just try to give my students the best opportunity at surviving being a hero. I try to teach them everything to keep them alive.”

They’re just kids! You want to shriek, kids that were chosen or forgotten or accepted or shunned.

Looking in the face of the system now feels so massive that it’s hopeless; a system that produces shiny heroes from children with their perfect and acceptable Quirks and discards the rest. Even you and Shouta, with your Quirks that aren’t as flashy, are pushed into the shadows to do the Hero Commissions business. And what business is that? You have to wonder their intentions, too, with all the money that’s pumped into it. Into all of these heroes. A system that forgets anyone who doesn’t fit into it’s perfect mold.

“But you see how it’s wrong, right? And just because you didn’t invent the system doesn’t mean you get to throw your hands up!” You say, voice raising.

Shouta levels you with a cool look. He lets loose a sigh. “What would you like me to do?”

You don’t have an answer, it’s too big of a question.

(You see the appeal suddenly, in wanting to get rid of it all, in destroying it since it’s such a mess.)

But you hate his aloofness, you hate that he doesn’t care. You hate that you feel crazy.

“I don’t know!” you shout, tears finally falling down your angry and flushed face. “I don’t know!”

“Are you done?” Shouta asks and it makes you want to scream more. You just want a reaction from him, you realize, you want something more than his impassiveness. You think of trying to shout more, to try and say something cutting or powerful or enough to make him wince.

But nothing comes to mind and you’re just stubbornly trying to keep back a sob.

So you shoulder past him, rush out of his apartment, rubbing at your cheeks and trying to keep back your hiccuping cries.

You have every intention of going to Tomura’s.

But you realize when you’ve nearly made it to his door that it might be foolish to go to someone like Tomura with tears in your eyes. What is the leader of the League of Villains going to do? You have a feeling you might just get your feelings hurt more.

So you pause, rub at your eyes again, try to dispel all the turmoil inside you. It doesn’t work, so you turn away from him, too, and you start moving.

Your feet carry you to the train station, carry you across town, to a warehouse you used to vandalize and hide in when you were young and alone.

You haven’t been here in years.

It feels strange, loping around the side of the building. The alleyways are cast in garnet light with the fading sun. It makes it look prettier than it is. You enter through the same hole in the wall that you used to when you were young; you’re bigger now, though, need to duck lower, curl yourself up to get through it.

You think of yourself scurrying around, knowing the ins and outs of this dilapidated building the way most children know their childhood home.

It’s strange, stepping back into a place you haven’t been to in years. You know, in some way, it has to have changed. It’s falling apart more, there’s larger holes in the ceiling, letting in auburn light, setting everything ablaze. There’s a lot of debris; from torn tents to discarded sleeping bags to spare junk, it’s all spread out throughout the place. Graffiti covers every corner of the walls. You used to look for a face painted in pink, it’s eyes dripping down it’s face in the back corner of a wall. When your eyes slide along all the artwork, it’s nowhere to be found now. No doubt covered up by the years, but you know it’s there, somewhere beneath all that color and paint.

There are a lot of empty bottles, glass laying around that crunches beneath your shoe.

You pick up a glass by the spout, watch as it catches in the light, murky gold and sunkissed.

You feel small again, fragile like the bottle in your hand. You stopped crying at least, but all that’s left is the aftertaste. Just the lingering frustration, the bitter aloneness that settles over you as cold as Shouta’s stare.

Your fingers squeeze around the glass, curling tight, before you suddenly hurl it at the wall.

It bursts on impact, explodes into thousands of shining, glittering pieces that spark in the sun.

It feels good, so you pick up another glass– this one’s mint green, pretty like the sea, reminds you of spring and the stems of flowers.

It breaks prettily, too, the sound ringing and sharp in your ears, your eyes trying to catch all the splinters of it. It explodes in the light. It’s cathartic, letting all your aching frustration and hurt rush out with each breaking, with each smashing.

You don’t get through many more, not before you hear footsteps behind you.

You can’t say you’re surprised to find Tomura, but you can’t say you were expecting it either. Quickly, you turn away, try to school your features. You try to rub at your eyes again, as if this will somehow dispel damp lashes and splotchy cheeks.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask, but there’s no bite to it as he comes to stand beside you.

He doesn’t answer.

You think he might be, but you can’t find it in you to care.

The sound of the distant city is just a hum between you two. Glass sparkles on the floor like stars in the fading, ruby light.

You turn to face him, don’t bother trying to look up into his face, just shove yourself into his chest. You bury your face into his hoodie, rubbing your cheek against his chest. “Creep,” you mumble, “What are you doing here?”

His hands come up, one at the back of your head, the other along your back. He has his gloves on. Not that it matters.

“I followed you from the apartment,” he admits and his voice is quiet, but it seems to echo in this open space. Then he says, “You should be more watchful.”

“Don’t start,” you grumble, letting your fingers curl in his jacket, “Been scolded enough today.”

The hand at the back of your head tugs at your hair lightly, lifting your head from its hiding place against his chest so that he can look you over carefully.

The light casts him in maroon and russet, saturating him, making the dark of him stand out sharply. It makes the silver of his hair seem peach, brands him in all the sun’s honey and whiskey glory.

His eyes are vivid, maybe the most true shade of red you’ve ever seen in your life.

He takes in your face, perhaps your bloodshot eyes, your damp lashes. You aren’t a fool; you’re certain he can tell you’ve been crying. You have the urge to squirm away, to try and hide from his gaze.

But all he asks, in a surprisingly gentle tone, is “What happened?”

You shake your head fractionally, “Nothing. Got into an argument, that’s all.”

He hums lightly, tracking your expression. You want to glance away from him, but he holds you still for a moment longer.

When you can’t take his scrutinization any longer, you ask, “Wanna break some shit with me?”

He lets you go finally, let’s you step out of his arms despite not responding. You pick up another glass, this once an icy blue that reflects light that reminds you of the color of morning skies.

You watch as it explodes against the wall, flashing like a little firework. Glass rains down onto the ground, some of it flinging up into the air or back towards you. Tomura pulls you away from it by the back of your jacket, yanks you back into his chest as glass shards fly past you.

He glares at you somewhat and you can tell he wants to scold you, but he doesn’t. You squirm out of his grasp to do it again.

Glass showers down as you break another bottle. It rains in shards of tangerine and pale yellow, bright pops of cherry in the light. It feels good, to watch it all burst apart in the sunlight, like watching little stars burst and explode at your hands. It’s so pretty, for such a violent act.

You hand a bottle to Tomura, offering him the chance to also act out. Instead, he pulls off one of his gloves– tugs it off with his teeth, the glint of sharp white against flesh pink. You watch fascinated for a moment, catch his eyes, blazing and barbed.

When he takes it with all five fingers, you watch as it first cracks in your palm, before fluttering away into dust. Into nothing.

You make a face, “That’s not as exciting as breaking them.”

He rolls his eyes, but you catch the way the corner of his lips hike up. He takes another glass, this one icy silver, caught peach in the honey light, though. He keeps a finger lifted away delicately as he lifts it up to the beams of scarlet sun that flare through the rafters.

And in that fiery patch of dusk, with the glass reflecting iridescence onto the angular plains of his face, your heart gives a violent lurch, like it’s trying to burst free from your chest.

I think I love you, you think, unbridled, and so suddenly that it feels as if the thought has slammed into you the way a body might fall from the ledge of a roof.

I think I love you, you think again, because you can’t quite believe it, as he lobs the bottle at the wall. It fractures into a thousand little beams of glass and light, like an exploding comet. You feel as fragile as that, like he’ll do the same to you. Maybe you’ll be nothing but shards by the end of this, nothing but dust slipping through his fingers.

He turns to you, no doubt to say something snarky, but you’re already taking quick steps to him. He doesn’t get the chance to speak, not when you collide with him, hard and reckless, throwing yourself up onto your toes to kiss him with a new violence.

He makes a surprised noise, soft, but catches you otherwise. His hand is already up, worming beneath your clothes to press chilled fingers into the bare skin of your upper waist. He likes the way you hiss into his mouth, and you like the way they dig roughly into you. He forces you closer, melds his mouth to yours, rough at the edges, slick and warm at the center as the kiss blossoms into slow simmering heat.

And by the end of it all, when the light has given way to violet darkness, the press of indigo shadows that stretch tall in this abandoned warehouse, there is too much glass on the floor. Everything is shattered or decayed. Your lips are stinging from sharp-toothed kisses and the desperate press of his mouth to yours. You’ve turned molten, fallen apart the way glass does.

You walk home together, hand in seeking hand.

Your eyes flush pink with your Quirk, brightening up in the dark.

You knock into his side like you’re a kid, eagerly trailing beside him. He has the hood of his sweatshirt up, hidden, as you rush into the next train back to the part of town that holds the little, distant world of his apartment.

You sit beside each other on the train, knees pressing into each other. He leans over to crowd you against the cool glass as the world streaks past you in a wash of darkness. He ducks his face to yours, his hood hiding the both of you from any onlookers as he seers his mouth to yours again.

You feel like a teenager, kissing in front of strangers, beneath the flickering light of the train car. You feel young and reckless, letting him have you like this, while the city burns like a blurry halo behind you. But you feel older, too, older and in love, like you finally know the secret of the universe, the one that every adult knows and has only learned in the burn of a kiss, in the messy squeezing of your heart.

He licks into your mouth slow, you curl your small hand into his worn hoodie. If people stare, you don’t know, don’t care.

He pulls away from you, forcing you up when your stop is announced, leaving you a little dazed and dizzy, but you eagerly follow after him. Your hands bunch into the back of his jean jacket. You stumble behind him a little, feet tangling with his as you duck beneath his arm to come to his side.

Ryuji finds the two of you on your walk home the closer you get, follows you both inside, happily chirping at your coos. But he paws at the window to be let out again a short time later, after you’ve fed him something. Tomura opens the window for the cat, but not before you catch him rubbing a knuckle against the kitten’s fuzzy cheek, brief but gentle.

You think he likes Ryuji more than he lets on. You think he loves all this more than he lets on.

Tomura takes his time with you that night, surprisingly languid for once, like you’re not on borrowed time. Like this is an entirely new planet, a version of the two of you that is not bound by pasts and future expectations. No strings puppeteering you both, no invisible hands holding you both back.

He pulls you down into his lap, to sink onto him, fill yourself with him as you please. You twine your arms around his slender neck to pull him close, eyes half lidded and pyretic pink, fiery and soft with the way your Quirk reacts to his. It always hums somewhere inside of you, brushes against his until it quiets, until he’s soothed and relaxed.

“Do you feel powerful?” he murmurs against your lips, eyes flickering up to find yours.

The question takes you by surprise for a moment, pulling away fractionally from his parted lips. And with the way your heart squirms in your chest, looking down at him like this, you want to say no, I feel terrified and new and desperate.

But he drags nails down your back, makes you gasp and roll your hips down onto him, which startles a groan out of him. The sound of it turning your stomach in the best and worst ways, making you flush, making you squirm to try and sink lower onto him. Greedy and desperate, you wiggle your hips to make his breathing come out ragged.

It makes you realize you have one of the most dangerous villains beneath you, as desperate as you are.

You roll your hips again, slow, take what you want of him. You fist your hand in his hair, tilt his head back and watch as his eyes flutter. His cheeks are flushed.

Pretty, you think faintly.

“Yeah,” you breathe, gliding your lips along his, heart a storm in your chest to have him looking up at you like this, “I do.”

His lips tilt into a knife-sharp smile, enough to gut you.

And he lets you take what you please of him that night, and the thief that you are, you take and take and take. You steal from him with deft hands and a smile that he thinks he’d destroy the world for. You take all the love that you want from him, gorge yourself on it until you feel sick.

Until you feel as if you could rot with it, carrying your love for him in the pits of you, coveting in the safe, secret parts of you, for no one else to find.

Just you and him, like this, hand in seeking hand.

***

PART III

ACADEMIC INTEGRITY

zeke yeager x f!reader

w/c: 2k

warnings: smut/18+/minors DNI, abuse of power (TA/college student relationship), manipulation, public sex, ass play, unprotected sex, spit, creampie, panty gagging ….. yea sorry zeke’s nasty

a/n: this was my fic for @weepinglevi’s adult movie trope collab! My trope was “I’ll do anything for the A,” be sure to check out the rest of the amazing fics here!! this was actually the second fic idea I’ve ever had, my bby & certified zeke fucker @aiiwa can attest to that back when this was a discord dm when i said i would never write smut. also feels incredibly full circle to write for zeke seeing as to how a zeke fic brought me to AOT. as always, a big smooch to @smoochiesdiarie for beta-ing, i hope yall enjoy.

The concept of a hot teacher is a complete and utter lie, one sold by cheap novels and Naruto that set a whole generation up for failure.

Luckily for you, the disappointment you felt at never having that twisted fantasy in the flesh was made up by sevenfold thanks to a blow off gen ed.

Everyone at Sina University knew that Global Dynamics and War was an easy A, but that wasn’t the only incentive to sign up. Professor Smith was by no means an eyesore, with his strong features and neat blonde hair, it’s no wonder mornings spent in the lecture hall were spent by most imagining what that deep voice would sound like by their ear rather than booming about the battle strategies of the Civil War.

Alas, the golden band that glints under the lights when he waves his arms is a crude reminder that those dreams will never turn into reality.

So thank god the two graduate students that served as his TA’s could help keep that spark alive.

On Monday mornings, Professor Smith was assisted by Levi. He was a sullen beauty, with inky black hair and sharp cheekbones. He’d sit in the corner with a thermos of steaming tea, sharp grey eyes surveying the lecture hall for anyone dozing off, occasionally grunting in agreement to the professor’s opinions on the state of forigen affairs.

But on Wednesdays, you got Zeke. He was the former star pitcher for the university team, but those muscles he earned from his days as an athlete were always on display in those weathered henleys he was sporting. He’d often stroll in a bit late, shaggy blonde hair slightly mussed from his bed, apologizing to the professor for his tardiness with a boyish grin. How he earned the spot of one of Erwin’s aids was beyond anyone’s comprehension, with the running commentary he had going on during lecture paired with the apple he was always tossing in the air like a baseball, he seemed more like a hindrance than a helping hand.

Erwin was more occupied with his passionate recruiting for the ROTC, going far enough to sneak in the importance of dedicating your hearts to a cause during class hours. This caused the brunt of the grade work to fall on his TA’s broad shoulders, which was exactly how one of the easiest classes of your senior year began to turn into a nightmare.

It started off with petty points taken off here and there.

“One could argue that the physical conflict began in 1817, but the key battle that sparked the thought of all out war actually occurred in 1816.”

“You sure today’s the fourteenth? Pretty sure we said the test would take place on the fifteenth.”

“Cornwallis is spelt with two L’s, not one.”

The scrawl of red pen on your essays and exams were unforgiving, the condescension of the critiques thinly veiled with a lopsided smiley face tacked on at the end of the sentence followed by the scribbled “Z.Y.”

Then, it progressed to your ideas being shut down in discussion, the point either countered by him or your raised hand completely ignored by his wire rimmed gaze.

It was absolutely infuriating, especially considering how all your friends didn’t seem to have an issue. You tried everything to change this without conflict, even directly handing your work to Levi — only for it to be promptly snatched by Zeke’s calloused fingers. When Zeke’s antics brought you to the verge of dropping a letter grade, you decided you’ve had enough, marching down towards the hall to his office hours to finally confront him.

You were expecting to scream at him till your cheeks were heated, causing an absolute scene — but before you could even open your mouth, Zeke broke the wolfish grin he was sporting at the sight of you to explain his side of things.

It’s not that Zeke was nitpicking your work because he felt like you were stupid.

He just thought you would learn so much better if he spelt things out for you.

So that's how you ended up folded over his desk, leggings pushed down so he could eat you out from behind. His beard scratched the sensitive skin of your inner thighs as his tongue wrote the names of the generals you needed to know for next week’s test on your clit, finally rewarding you with his cock when you could repeat all of them back for him.

And the twisted study session worked — you were greeted with a 92 on the top of the paper and an offer for a second appointment.

Zeke had raised a brow at the way your nose wrinkled at his footnote. You shot him a glare as you walked out of class that day, and he chose to respond by burning holes into the back of your legs with his stare as you sauntered off to your next lecture.

It’s almost as though he knew you would be spreading them open for him again later that evening.

What started as an occasional rendezvous turned into a routine — you’d slip out of your apartment at 5:45 to get your brains fucked out in Trost Hall by 6:15. You’d often come down from your high to catch Zeke pocketing your panties in his jeans with a sardonic smile, leaving you forced to make the walk back keenly aware of the breeze hitting your bare pussy.

It wasn’t like you were doing this just for the grade (well, the grade that was rightfully yours to begin with).

As much as you hated to admit it, Zeke Yeager knew a damn thing or two about sex. There was nothing he loved more than fucking you absolutely stupid, thick cock slamming into you again and again, never truly satisfied until you coated it with your cum.

In another life, perhaps you two could have been a real thing. But quite frankly, the tabooness of the power dynamic made it that much hotter for the both of you.

You’ve had a couple of close calls, causing Zeke to clamp a large hand over your mouth to muffle your screams as Erwin’s heavy footsteps thudded past the closed door. Even Levi nearly became privy, narrowing his eyes when he saw you leaving Zeke’s office hours with your cardigan improperly buttoned.

You could only pray he hadn’t caught sight of the cum trickling down your soft thighs.

Over time, he had broken you. You couldn’t even fathom the idea of going back to random party hookups, nor could you get yourself off without thinking that it’s his fingers filling you up instead of your own. It’s the reason why on a day like today, when you’re feeling particularly needy, you find yourself venturing to his office a little earlier than your set time.

You’re about to round the corner that leads you to his office when a hand comes to grab at your elbow, yanking you into an empty hallway. The same hand comes to rest against the wall above your head, and you look up to find Zeke’s steel gaze glimmering playfully.

“Someone’s here early,” his gravelly voice rumbles.

“I had a slow day,” you lie.

“Mmmm, don’t think that’s it. Pretty sure my favorite little student is just really excited to see me.” His free hand starts to fiddle with the hem of your pleated skirt, diving underneath so his fingertips could dance on the bare skin. “Even looks like she’s playing the part fully today too.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.” His touch travels further up your thigh, eyes widening when he discovers what you’ve been hiding. “No panties? You really have missed me, huh?”

“I couldn’t afford to get another pair stolen.”

“You know I’ll buy you more, right?”

“On a TA’s salary?” You snort. “I don’t have my hopes up.”

“Feisty today, aren't we?” He’s gripping your hips to spin you around abruptly. You hear the soft jingle of his belt coming undone as you stabilize yourself against the wall.

“Zeke! Not here, it’s too public, we could get —” He cuts you off with a slap to your clit with the head of his dick, leaning over your body as you squeal when he continues to repeat the motion.

“Don’t give me any of that,” he laughs, hot breath ghosting the shell of your ear. “I’ve been fucking you in my office for weeks now, let’s not pretend that the fear of getting caught doesn’t turn you on. Sure feels like it to me.” He moves his attention away from your bud to run his length through the slick that's gathered between your folds, resting the tip at your throbbing entrance.

“And if you’re just so concerned about the noise, I’ve got just the thing.” Zeke runs his hand up the column of your throat, forcing your head upwards so you could see the dusty pink thong he had taken last week. “Don’t worry, I washed it. Now, open.” He rests the material between your lips, and with the small nod he gets from you that you’re ready, he pushes into you.

The initial stretch of him burns, your moans muffled by the silk in your mouth. You’re panting around your gag when he’s filled you to the hilt, feeling the cool air hit the swell of your ass when Zeke flips your skirt up.

When he hears your impatient whine, he begins to move, mesmerized by the way your flesh jiggles with every thrust of his hips. He spreads the cheeks apart to watch your pussy practically swallow his cock, the puckered hole above it begging for his attention.

You turn your head back when a glob of spit lands on your asshole, a fearful expression crossing your face when you feel his thumb spread the wetness around the rim.

“Aw, sweetheart, don’t resist,” he coos, “It will feel good, trust me. It’s my job to teach you what’s good, yeah?” And with that, he pushes his thumb in, the small ministrations combined with the way his fat cock is pistoning into you just right causing your eyes to roll into the back of your head. Any fear you had of a passerby is long forgotten, mind going hazy till the only thought in your mind is just Zeke, Zeke, Zeke, the very mantra you’re groaning around your panties. His balls slap against your puffy clit once more and you’re gone, thighs trembling as you cream on his length. Zeke isn’t too far behind, filling you up with a groan as your cunt clamps down on him.

He removes his thumb with a squelch, slowly pulling so he can watch his cum dribble out of you. You're resting your head against the wall, the cool surface of the concrete a welcome respite to your heated skin as you catch your breath. You take the spit soaked fabric out of your mouth and Zeke grabs it the minute it's been freed, using it to wipe down his coated cock.

You huff as you watch him tuck the soiled thing back into his pocket, which he defends with a lame claim of it being laundry day. He helps you wobble off the wall, walking with you to his office with the saccharine promise of cleaning you up.

When Zeke pushes open the creaky mahogany door, you feel your heart drop to your stomach.

The same slate grey eyes that narrow in disgust at the sight of a snoozer are staring back at the both of you, Levi glaring at the both of you over his forest green thermos.

“So this is what you brats have been up to during your office hours,” he tsks, observing your disheveled states.

“I-I-I can explain —,” you begin.

“Save it. I’m sure the blonde gorilla behind you is behind it entirely.”

“Are — are you going to tell Professor Smith?”

“Maybe.” Levi pauses to take a moment to set the thermos on the desk behind him, folding his arms over his chest.

“Maybe I’ll be convinced to keep quiet if you can show me exactly how you made such a miraculous recovery with your grades too.”

thx for reading! plz dont recc this on tiktok <3

© all rights reserved JEANBEAUX 2021. please do not copy, modify or repost my work.

taglist: @yeagerslut @suguruswaifu @onwiings @jeansbabycake @intothesunset @glittrkink @lazyezstudy @hawksismybabydaddy @testuhoekuroo @jean-prettyboy-kirschtein bold means you could not be tagged :/ dm me and we can try to fix it!!

joing my taglist here!

Since it's going to be 'gross groomer ship' month

friendly reminder that Kakashi met Sakura (as well as Naruto and Sasuke) when she was 12 and he was 27, and no amount of 'she's an adult now' makes up for the fact that

1) people have been shipping them since she was 12 and making art of sakura as a 12 year old and 16 year old with Kakashi

2) doesn't take away the groomer aspect. Kakashi seeking out any sort of relationship with a woman he has known since she was a teenager is disgusting and nothing will ever make it 'ok'. You're just writing Kakashi as a f***ing creep. There is never any time where it would be appropriate for Kakashi to look at Sakura and think 'ya, i wanna date that' because he saw her through some of her most influential years and was her sensei through her toughest times as a kid and a shinobi. He should never be looking at her and seeing anything other than a kid, because that is what she is to him. A kid that he helped to train and take care of during dangerous missions when she didn't have her parents.

3) It's not 'just fiction'. You are actively out here portraying a relationship between a student and their teacher as romantic, and telling any minors who may interact with you (on purpose or by accident) that this shit is ok and actually healthy in some way. Don't act like you're not harming people, and don't tell victims of abuse/fandom bs who have been affected by this exact stuff and speak out against it now that they're just 'over reacting' or 'haters'

Mariska Benson’s Story

Captain Mariska "Mar/Mari" Benson heads up the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. Mariska is fluent in several languages, which include English, Italian, Spanish, French, Polish, Italian, Irish Gaelic, Czech, Scottish Gaelic, Hungarian, Latin, Portuguese, Basque, Danish, Chinese, Japanese, Bulgarian,, Slovenian, Dutch, Hebrew, latin, german, Russian, Ukrainian, Moldovan, Greek, Filipino, Belarusian, Turkish, Swedish, Polish, Slavonic Languages(Indo-European, Balto-Slavic, Porto-Slavic, Eastern-Slavic, Southern-Slavic, Western-Slavic, Slovak), Serbo-Croatian, Macedonian, Romanian, Gagauz and Sign Language.

Prior to becoming a cop and working for the NYPD/ At SVU. Mariska severd in the US Navy for 16 years. from 1981-1997, when she retired and came home to the states that December of 1997.  She joined the Navy and enlisted after high school at the age of 17, in May of 1981.  She also worked her ass off in high school and got  a full scholarship to Cornell University , took it and while in College and enlisted in the Navy , fighting a broad and serving her country / protecting the USA from threats, Mariska multi-tasked and simultaneously studied  during her time in the Navy and attained both her Bachelor's and Master's degrees at the same time, and triple majored in criminal justice, law enforcement and Ballistics & Technical Sciences, with minors in several languages, history, literature and creative writing - poetry. She later graduated from Cornell , while still in the Navy , after only three years studies in May of 1984, a few months after her 20th birthday, while still abroad and fighting in the Navy and serving her country at the same time. 

She is a decorated US Navy Veteran, with multiple Awards and Honors. Mariska exited and retired from the US Navy and military life, in April of 1997 at the age of 33, after serving her country and a Navy- Military career of 16 years, and upon retirement from the Navy was a Vice Admiral. During her time in the US Navy , Mariska was a part of the Navy's elite special forces team , known as SEAL TEAM 6. Upon retiring from the Navy in  late May of 1997. 

Mariska came home and returned to the states, and attended the New York police academy and took their program to become a cop within a few short months, after graduating early from the NYPD academy in July of 1997, a few months after studying to be a cop at the NYPD academy that same year. She  first began her law enforcement career as cop, that July after her graduation not long after independence day 1997. 

In the beginning of her law enforcement career as a cop , with the NYPD, Mariska started out low in the ranks, and was transferred quite a bit during hr first two years with the NYPD, working in serval different department, before she made Detective 2nd grade in the winter of 1998, just a few short months before joining SVU ing March of 1999 and being transferred for the last and final time , while working for the NYPD.

Prior to taking over SVU, Mariska worked as a SVU detective and to this day is still partnered with Det. Elliot Stabler, they've been partners for over 12 years. After Elliot's leave of absence for a year. Mariska partnered primarily with Nick Amaro, before his return to SVU in 2013 after about a year of being away due to having to handle issues with his family and personal affairs. The year after that, in 2013 Elliot was forced to retire from SVU due to hurting Mariska again, as he had done in the past. This time Fin caught him sexually assaulting her in the nap area of the SVU precinct, used by SVU to rest, now and again when they get tired and can't think straight, during precinct lockdowns, while they're working huge complex cases. 

Shortly after he returned, they became partners once again, before Cragen the old SVU captain , her ex boss retired  after the Lewis case in late 2013... he fired Stabler's crazy ass and the NYPD took his shield for good, in the early summer of 2013. Which Stabler hated, never getting his way, though any one who has a brain and common sense, knows you don't always get your way, and or aren't always right all the time, or perfect. 

In late fall of 2013 after the lewis case was wrapped up, and Mariska and all his other living victims were safe. Mariska became a Sergeant and took over the SVU unit from Captain Donald Cragen in late October of 2013. Coincidentally at the same time her co-worker of several years John Munch, also announced his retirement as well from the NYPD in late October of 2013, the same Cragen announced he was retiring from the NYPD. Then after being a Sargent for about 7 months after Cragen's leaving SVU and putting her in charge.

 she took the Lieutenant's exam and aced it, and became the Lieutenant of the SVU Department. She continued to be the head of SVU after she became their Lieutenant. She stayed as a Lieut. As Lieutenant and the head of SVU for some months, Then in late 2019 Mariska was promoted again, this time to Captain of SVU. Mariska does her best to head up and keep her squad a tight knit bunch and working well together, with little to no issues as possible. 

While balancing in time with her son Noah Porter-Benson, comes ahead of her job and love life. She does the best she can, to balance her job, family, friends and dating, Although she is still in love with one particular woman, but she has no idea if she'll ever come to see it or not, so she tries to push through the pain and move on without him as best she can and focus on the positives in her life.

Early Life and The Beginning of her Career with SVU

Mariska and her identical twin sister Olivia were born, Mariska Renée Benson and Olivia Margaret Benson, On January 23, 1964, Nassau County, Long Island, New York. Mariska and her identical identical twin sister Olivia "Liv" Benson, were the products of the rape of their mother Serena Benson in 1963 by a food salesman named Jacob Holmes, who later committed suicide. At the time of the rape, Serena had been working in the cafeteria of Columbia University. 

Mariska's mother, Serena was an alcoholic who tossed aside her one daughter Olivia, Mariska's identical twin sister away and left her daughter Olivia in the adoption/foster care system as a baby, to grow up there. Meanwhile Serena decided to keep and raise her other daughter Liv's twin sister Mariska, as a single mother, and also emotionally, physically, mentally and verbally abused Mariska throughout her childhood, adolescent years growing up. Her mother Serena even went as far, to hide from Mariska, that she had a sister out there, being raised in the system, not just any normal type of sister... but an identical named Olivia.

 Mariska for most of her life, was always suspicious that there was more to her story , of how she was conceived and brought into this world by her mother Serena, then what her mom Serena lead her to believe for all those years, when she was growing up, even after joining the Navy after high school, as she did. Then after her exiting the Navy after a 16 year stint in the service, and Navy life. 

She knew in her gut, that there was more to the story of their family, then what her mom Serena told her, however back in the day, it was much harder to prove or dig up stuff about those in the system, and long lost relatives, plus kinship analysis was stiff a very new DNA test the law enforcement and health care fields had just developed. Mariska though, continued to question her life, and formative years growing up in long island as she did as well as, her mother Serena’s secrets. 

That is until Serena passed away not long after, Mariska joined svu as a 2nd grade detective years ago. Serena died from injuries sustained in a fall when she was drunk, in early 2000, After which it left Mariska still questioning the feeling in her gut, that she had more family out there, she didn’t know about all her life, and she wanted answers. Mariska did want to know if she did have siblings out there, or any cousins, etc. 

So she asked her then boss Captain Don Cragen, and her trusted coworkers during those days, her early ones at SVU as a detective.... to help her get and run a kinship DNA analysis test on her. Which they helped her do an keep hush hush, the kinship DNA test, came back positive and did show results  that she had a sibling out there, not just a sibling, but a sister. However the records of her name were sealed and closed, the only other thing that the test results showed was the sister, also grew up where Mariska did in Long Island, and that she grew up in the system. 

Which left Mariska more curious, and anything to find out, who this sister was, she  had, her name, etc. At the same time the passing of their mother Serena, left Mariska, even more deeply angry, as well as, a bit saddened, due to the fact that she never got closure with her mother Serena before she passed away, never got to tell her crazy mom how she felt, how much she had her hurt, etc. 

While investigating a case called (Payback) in 1999, Mariska and Serena seemed to care about each other a great deal. Serena was worried about Mariska working in the Special Victims Unit. Then also months later in (1999) while investigating a case labeled Wanderlust, Mariska said to her good friend ADA Casey Novak, that her first love was an older woman and that she "couldn't have loved her more". 

Then months later while investigating a case called Taken (2000) Serena dies as the result of a fall down the subway stairs across from a bar. Mariska says Serena was a drunk. Then later that same year also, while investigating an Abuse case in (2000) Mariska becomes involved with a child who was neglected by her parents that way Mariska felt neglected by her mother. 

Then while investigating a case labeled ; Intoxicated in (2005) Mariska tells Casey Novak about an incident when she was 16. An older student of her mother asked her to marry her and when she told Serena that she was leaving, her mother who had been drinking flew into a rage and went after her with a broken bottle.

During her brief visits to Philadelphia and Florida (2007) Mariska finds out about the man who raped her  and her twin sister Olivia’s mother, and others. He knew about his daughters and kept track of them both. He once tried to call Mariska but got Serena instead. Mariska Graduated from Cornell university. She admitted to her SVU teammates in 2007 while they were investigating a case then , they labeled (Stalked).

Still Alive...

BEFORE YOU READ!

The following does get really personal, so please read (if you so choose) with an open heart and genuine sense of compassion and sensitivity. It's also many things I've wanted to get off my chest for ages. The following will also explain my mood in the past two journals I made. It does end on a lighter note, I promise.

It's been ages since I've posted anything online, let alone anything here... Remember months ago, when I had posted a journal about the slump I was feeling and then posted an artwork of me… slump drawing? There’s more beyond me simply losing motivation to make more art. And a few of you might have noticed I posted a rather… shocking status update in which I threatened suicide. Following that post, a lot of the unpleasant feelings and thoughts that I believed were gone came back to haunt me. Additionally, many things in my past came back to haunt me, prompting me to go soul searching and try to better myself.

For those not in-the-know, I have been suffering from clinical and manic depression for about the past 6 years. Speaking in real-life timeline, back in the 6 years, I remember that it started with my severe trouble making friends, communicating with others socially, and trying to fit in with others. My depression wasn’t just caused by my low turnout in the friends department, but also because I'd never truly felt loved by anyone… not even myself. As I grew up, I had no friends all throughout middle school and no friends all throughout high school, and then came to terms with the fact that I have no friends at ALL! Things like having no friends really did have an effect on me… I gave friendship and putting myself out there an earnest try, but after the many times I got hurt and betrayed, that was the end of it for me.  People like myself who are alone usually spend their time practicing something they like, in my case being my art, writing, and studying. From other sources and from my own experience, it helps to be noticed for your talents and interest. This pretty much tied into, if you’d notice, why I was actively moping around DA Forums grousing on why my work doesn’t get as much attention as I’d hoped or why those that are recognized do get it. Sometimes, I feel annoyed that noone cares about my work, not even my relatives. My original work. Like, on DeviantArt, I recall fan-art and fan-artists get tons of favorites on their work. While the highest I've ever gotten was 11. I've put hours, days, and sometimes weeks into these and noone cares. And it's mostly criticism that doesn't even make sense. I just want to tell them how hard it is to make the art, but showing people who aren't interested in the hobby will just make them annoyed about it. Everyone is expecting a @$%^ing anime master from every artist and I just don't get it. Some of the time people will make annoying re-colors to get the respect and attention they want, but they do get both of those things in the end. Mostly, how it goes is: A person will make a rather undeveloped character. Then, they will take someone else's artwork and color in their character. Then they will claim it as their own. Then, they will get hate and attention. The person will 'cry' over it and say that they are going to leave that site. People will feel bad for that person, make the person fan art, subscribe to or watch them or whatever, and the person will be filthy-famous and have tons of friends in the end, even though they didn't do jack @$%^! Or they just stoop so low just to get-rich-quick. Argh! I just don't get it any more! I try to hard making quality animation, art, videos, but no one cares what so ever!

I’ve had nobody.  Nobody cared about me.  Going this long without someone besides therapists to confide in, or someone to comfort you or share their likes and dislikes with could really mess you up...

An ordinary day for me back in high school that I rarely overlook, was my recurring plight when it came to being around others. For the majority of my life, I had been nothing but an outcast to people my own age, I never fit in with them since they never truly accepted me as their friend. From what I can remember, each year, I was either on my own or hung out with a group of kids as they talked amongst themselves while I just remained silent. And each year, I make the mistake of even having the tiniest bit of optimism that things just might be different. Having been alone and neglected for a long time, I spent every day seeing what it felt like to be going through what I think are quite possibly the worst years of my adolescent life, with my best and only friend gone (he moved), while I was stuck amongst people whom I felt care very little about me. Now, I’m by myself and with some content. Everyday I would go through the same routine—morning academic classes, lunch break, after classes, dismissal—counting the hours as they go by. For kids that suffered from anxiety or depression, like me, they were sent to the Social Work team where they can vent out their problems and try to uncover any solution or coping mechanism to get by the school year. For me, it might've been a different story because ever since my depression started, I received little check-ins from anyone, not even my own parents, relatives, or any old friends I once had (ones that I talked to in elementary or middle school that won’t talk to me anymore). Most of the time in school, I refused to show any emotion, trying to keep them all bottled up as I go through eight hours by hours while the other students talk amongst themselves and don't pay attention to me.

In life, I find what it is like to be in complete isolation, triggering memories of how I had endured loneliness in my childhood and used to be the timid, awkward, and sullen oddball, knowing that there is noone around to brighten my day, only the sound of other kids talking amongst themselves and having fun much to my envy is all I can hear. On one night as I walked home, I realized that I am really alone, having no idea where my life is going at that rate, or if there is someone out there who really cares about me because not a lot of people have spoken to me for a while ever since I became a high school student years back and regret not getting in much contact with them to see how things were. Plus, my closest relatives, such as my parents and brother are not really much help in my condition. As much as I try to talk to them, I don't get the feeling that they truly understand. The way they respond whenever I attempt to console to them is very dismissive and inconsiderate, further supporting my belief that not even they care about me. In the time I'd wrote this, I swore off telling them any ounce of my problems, as if they would actually care...

Even worse was enduring bullying and abuse from other students that triggered bad memories of what caused me not to be so trusting of others. And, I could not fight back against them all that much, doing nothing other than reacting, glaring, snarking, or giving the occasional finger, which wouldn't last long as I am often overpowered by their popularity, dominance, and miraculous ways of getting reactions out of me. Unless I were lucky to find some kind of way of hitting them. There were some days which ended with me getting sent to the principal’s office in order to acknowledge my mental illness with the staff, not to mention what feelings of trauma I get whenever I’m bullied or harassed by some dastardly kid. Sometimes after the bullying, I would have meltdowns or end up running back to my haven so nobody can see my silent (nonexistent) tears of regret and sorrow, even ignoring whatever pains those bullies left on my heart and body. Sometimes the pain is so intense that I can no longer bottle up my emotions, yet now I refuse to show it in front of others and would rather do it alone in my haven so I can be on to do so freely. The only words I can whisper to myself is “I hate myself…” This is also the case for cyberbullies and predators I've fallen victim of in the past—people have anonymously been mean and hurtful to me, and what's worse is that I REALLY cannot do anything about it besides reporting, especially for pedophiles who have managed to lead me on in the past and take advantage of my open wounds just to get an easy nail... Speaking of bullying, I think it's safe to assume that I'd also sufferred the same at the hands of my own father! In the past, and during my childhood, he would abuse me by striking me every time I screwed something up, even if it was a minor or honest mistake. Being both verbally and physically abusive, I can't exactly say I felt truly safe when around him in hindsight, worrying that one slip-up in front of him could result in another clean bruise on my body. Recently, I recall my father once barging into my room at night while I was asleep and interrogating me about some sort of misunderstanding with his credit card and certain online marketing website. Instead of actually filling me in on what happened or what was going on, he would yell me these questions with no fathomable context whatsoever. Even worse was that initially I was suffering from sleep inertia, so I definitely couldn't quite catch on quickly. Eventually, things led to things, and a heated argument erupted between us, prompting us to get into a shouting match and for me to release all my pent up anger on him, even getting physical and delivering a few blows to him thus further angering him. The incident left me with mixed emotions of confusion, sadness, trauma, and all topped with insomnia since I could not go to sleep for the rest of the night. The things he said to me during all this made assured me that he definitely didn't care about me, and that I was expendable just like all his other abandoned love-children... The feelings, it burns. It is when nobody says happy birthday. It is when family members say they love me yet don't show it. They don't know how to love me, and that is the same as not loving me. It is being alone at lunch. It is being alone and lonely all the time. It is spending hours online finding out how others managed to cope with the stinging feeling I get before I go to bed when my head starts spinning with all the evil truths that nobody cares about me. Sure, some may say they do, but who wants to listen to me talk about my passions? Who wants to help me out? Nobody... Nobody even wants to take time out of their day to spend it with me. It's reading books on how to make friends. It's moping for hours wondering why nobody even likes me, much less loves me. It's changing appearances and attitudes only to be rejected and alone and remain unloved. It's questioning who I am entirely, it's masking who I am and changing who I am and feeling like I'm crazy. It's wishing I could be okay with the fact that nobody loves me but it still feels like a hot hand gripping my throat and a heavy weight on my chest. It's replaying every comment in my head over and over. It's terrible, I can't talk with anyone about it because nobody cares. It hurts, God it hurts!

There was one thing during my time in high school that I could confide in, besides art and drawing…

Back in mid-2015, I remember working hard on a series called “Tails for Hire”; one that parodied the already-parody, Sonic for Hire. With the help of an online ally from Kentucky, I was able to finish it and upload it to YouTube that summer. At the time, my YouTube channel was nothing but cobwebs of old, rather second-rate videos. That was until the first episode of Tails for Hire was released. To my surprise, it garnered over 5,000 views the first week it was uploaded, and I was blown away by the good responses and relatively fair criticism. For the first time, I felt… significant! In retrospect, I realize that what lifted my spirits seeing the comments on my TFH videos was the fact that I had some company. Afterwards, my partner for the video, Tales499 and I talked fairly often, I made another (now former) friend on Skype from Norway, I had so many notifications of comments on the videos. I didn’t feel so alone during all this. I guess I wanted people to talk to and share my feelings with in order to quell my loneliness and compensate for my lack of friendships. I’ll admit, the internet was harsh at times with me, but I learn over the years (and now), that it’s a way of helping you grow thicker skin. This all might explain why I felt the yearning desire for popularity on different social media platforms. Though, I have to admit it does sound rather pathetic for me to console to people behind screens instead of face-to-face.

As some of you who know me from my YouTube channel, you’ll know that Tails for Hire is currently on an undeterminably long hiatus, as of June 2016. Currently, no return date was thought of, but don’t fret, one day… ONE DAY, Tails for Hire will return… At this point the hiatus is more of a hibernation.

Months later, after I finally graduated high school, leaving behind the four years of emotional torture I had endured, I was ready to head to university! Or at least, I thought…

I won’t get too deep into the details of what happened there, but I will say this—everything that I struggled with in my early-to-mid adolescence came to haunt me in university as if I was cursed. No matter how hard I tried to suck it up, I didn’t make any real friends or meaningful relationships in university. When I noticed all the other students at the school, I felt generally inadequate—it reminded me of all things that others are better at and how I'm don't have anything to offer anyone. At the end of December 2018, some of you might recall me making a status update on DeviantArt of me contemplating suicide, and that if I don’t post anything the next year, I might have actually gone with it… Few of you showed your concern… But, while I did appreciate it, I felt that people will only care when it’s too late… I’m sorry if I scared or confused some of you. If I EVER feel suicidal again, I’ll see it that seek immediate help.

Short story—public Safety, many counsellors, my roommates, and one of the deans had come to me saying how worried they were about my well-being after hearing reports of me acting strange and making suicidal remarks. This also ties into the fact that the way I've been feeling has caused me to occasionally miss some of my classes, not be able to focus well, and worst of all... develop some suicidal thoughts... I even explicitly fantasized of jumping off a roof or a window to kill myself! I'm sorry if all this info came up out of nowhere. Eventually, the Dean highly recommended that I be put on medical leave until it is decided that I'm fit to come back to campus. I wasn't too fond of the idea given that I worked so hard in coming to this school and at least tough my way through the first semester. But apparently, it's for the best... When others ask why I would even think to kill myself, the only overarching reason I can give is "I'm worthless!" When people notice that I've been OK for few days or acting normal, it's just that I've been manic. When I look at others, I always think of the things I can't do! I'm an artist who can even get noticed, I'm a guy who has never had many friendships that lasted long, I'm a wimp who can't work up the courage to confront others, I'm a university student on medical leave! All of these things and then some are what trigger thoughts of how my life is a joke! But somehow, during those times when I contemplated suicide, I actually felt free! Almost giddy, and that I could finally kiss this worthless life good-bye!

At the moment, I’m going through professional help and trying to keep myself busy during my downtime. Part of me says there’s no hope me, but part me says one day, I’ll be back to my old, wholesomely manic self again. Step by step… it just might happen.

Lately, I’ve tried to get back into the passions I once enjoyed, get the ideas I’ve had out there as if someone would want to see them. But, I still struggle in finding the motivation thinking of the very disheartening outcomes—low viewership, negative or no feedback, or just not feeling happy with the finished product. I sometimes look at my art and wonder if I can do better or it's good enough. I'm turned between both sides on that case, mainly because I don't have anyone else to share with me their well-thought-out opinions, instead of one-word comments or notifications where someone simply favorites something. Mostly due to my depression, almost everything I do in life seems meaningless. Because that's how depression works! No matter how good I (supposedly) am, I don't remember the good things about myself, I just over exaggerate the terrible stuff about me and it becomes who I am in my mind. No matter what I do, I'm not good enough for myself... But no, my fear of death and it being a one-way ticket are what stop me... I try to figure out what I have to live for and what ideas I have to share. It's really hard, given how I compare myself to others and how much success they've achieved besides me, and the negative thoughts are what cloud my mind no matter how hard I try to clear them. Then there's the days where I feel unimportant or under appreciated, as if I make no difference by staying alive. Some days I feel like I'm on top of the world and that noone can stop me, and other and most days I feel nothing but pain. During those good days, I find myself surrounded by people who seem to care and be interested in me, but soon after the feeling wears off, and I just don't know why! In the time, I've written this, I've been feeling really low, as if noone would even care or bother to read this or be concerned with how I'm feeling. But as I finish and sign off... I kinda feel like a huge weight was lifted off of me. It felt good for me to let it all out, even if it is just typing it out. (Sigh)... If you've made it this far in reading the journal, thank you for reading and hopefully understanding. Once again, I'm sorry if this seemed overly dramatic, self-indulgent or just really heavy. But like I said, this was for me to get some of that heavy weight off me. Throughout half of this year, everything that has happened was really just too much to explain, too much to handle, too traumatically stressing, and generally just heavy... which is why I needed time off... Again, thank you for reading...

From diamonds to coal: the (non) Fridging of Ms. Emma Frost.

Ok. I wanted to get some distance from the events of last Wednesday, a few snippets of snark aside, before putting down my thoughts to keyboard about...well there’s really no better way to say it...the character rape-ification that happened to Emma on IvX # 6.  So now a few days later. I think my thoughts have settled.  And that viewing of Hamilton last night buoyed my spirits and reassured me that good things still exist in the world. Let’s go.

I think one of the most awful truisms in life is the notion of having to take one’s own advice.  It sucks.  Particularly when it comes to comics.  I’m usually the one to tell folks, right after their favorite characters get nuked because some writer thinks awful writing choices means ‘genius’ or something, that one of the only constants in our hobby/culture/life is the constancy of change.  Status quos last only rarely and even something seemingly permanent can be rebirthed, rebooted, forgiven, recast, retconned, whatever.  That’s a long winded way of saying that...even though things are bleak at the moment, to quote Avenue Q, ‘this is only for now’.  I know it’s small, fleeting comfort fellow Emma fans.  I feel you.  But...it’s the only silver lining I can see emerging from this hot mess of a fucked up sitch we’re in right now. It’s hard to swallow.  I find it difficult to accept it at times still.  At the end of the day though, I think it’s also important to assess and realize that look, at the end of day, and as much as we all love her, she is just a fictional character.  Her status quo now, as awful as it is, hasn’t killed anyone (as far as I know) or made the Trump regime even worse (again as far as I know).  So we’re ok.  

....but you know? It still sucks.  I’ve been reading comics for a long time before Grant Morrison’s Emma came along (which is when I absolutely fell in love with her), so it’s not like having her around, in a way that’s palatable and compelling, is the sin qua non of me reading comics.  But she’s been #1 to me for close to two decades now...so what happened still smarts.  It’s as if a close friend suddenly became a serial killer for no reason whatsoever, other than some hack in the sky were pulling their strings.  

So now that the confessional is out of the way...let’s get on with the nitty gritty.  I’m not gonna summarize the plot of IvX, as that’s available plenty of other places.  And if you’ve read the story...well you know. 

I don’t think I’m unhappy about Emma’s reversion to an out and out villain.  Honestly, after the events of Death of X and the earlier installments of IvX, any other kind of conclusion, or hell even having her returned to the X-Fold wouldn’t make much story sense.  Lemire and Soule have laid down enough story real estate that having it end any other way than that would just be silly or horribly contrived.  And you know what? That’s fine.  That’s totally fine.  Why not? It might even be interesting.  What would an anti-hero Emma, skirting on the darker sides of the gray lines she already inhabits, look like? What would an Emma-ized notion of Magneto’s previous ideology look like?  Would that even be her motivation?  Or would it just be (and to me far more interesting plot-wise and commentary wise on the X-franchise as a whole) more of Emma finally saying ‘FUCK IT’ to all the endless thumb-twiddling the X-folks have been doing ever since Bendis took over?  Or hell, she can just go full on Black Cat and just be an international jewel thief coz she is so sick and done with the X-Men’s perennially regressive approach to things and the endless Uncle Tom-ing they all seem to be doing lately.  All of these options are cool to me and they would be interesting to follow. 

But that isn’t what we got.  What we got instead is Emma literally assuming the identity of the Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, and without the wit or awesome musical numbers that you get from the CW show.  Her motivation for turning the heel is literally, and I wave my fist to the sky as I type this, ‘my boyfriend died and I’m nothing without him’.  A notion that Soule (and Lemire too? It isn’t clear which of these two editorial puppets came up with the notion, though most seem to argue that it’s Soule) ratchets up to a level beyond creepy when he has Emma don an outfit THAT LITERALLY IS HER PUTTING ON HER EX-BOYFRIENDS SKIN.  What in the fuckity fuck fuck fuck is this?  How/why does this make sense?  As many other fans (and non fans) have said...we are talking about a woman who a) watched many iterations of her students die b) survived the 9/11-ing of Genosha by Sentinels (more on that FUCKITY FUCK plot point in a little bit) c) killed her sister for killing one of her students d) lost her brother, whom she cared for deeply to insanity because of an abusive father e) literally started from the bottom to build up a massive financial empire.  I can go on.  The point is, in the grand scheme of traumas that Emma has experienced, losing Scott would probably just amount to a small paper cut.  The fact (that Soule and Lemire forgot about?) that she and Scott ALREADY BROKE UP BEFORE DEATH OF X makes the notion of this crazy, stupid love even more ridiculous.  This characterization of Emma as jilted lover, turned all the way up to level 100 gazillion, is just idiotic writing borne out of some editorial mandate.  

And look ok, fine, let’s make Emma unstable.  Sure, why not, I can go there too.  But seriously? You’re going to show that by having the woman who, when she got god-like Phoenix powers (which, by the way also maybe made her a little crazy?) MADE IT HER FIRST PRIORITY TO LITERALLY DESTROY EVERY SENTINEL ON THE PLANET.  How does this even fucking work?  If Emma is really all ID now and she’s gone off the rails, and is now doing whatever the fuck she wants...why in the hell would she want to create Sentinels?  It makes no sense....even if the aim was to show her instability.  It also lacks the kind of deeper, elegant hurt that she’s capable of and prefers to inflict.  This Sentinel shit is amateur fucking hour, and she is anything but.  See, for contrast, the way she handled Laura’s previous handler Kimura.  That wasn’t the kind of mustache twirling fuckery we got handed.  That was Emma going for the elegant kind of pain: one that’s long lasting and deliciously poetic.  If Emma is going to be a baddie, then that’s the kind of next level shit they need to show her being capable of, not this two-bit hysterical monologuing bullshit we got. 

Why is all this happening? Why did it have to happen this way?  My completely unscientific (and admittedly conspiracy theory-leaning) argument is that it all has to do with nostalgia.  This RessurXion nonsense seems to be banking of regressing everything back to the 90s...the time when the X-Men were walking around in tights, constantly playing baseball, and involved in 30 plus year subplots that don’t ever get resolved.  And look, there’s nothing wrong with that.  But, why does that shiny new reboot have to be bought and paid for by throwing both Cyclops and Emma under the bus?  Why does this have to come at the price of wiping away so much of  the compelling additions that the Scott/Emma era of the X-franchise created? The notion of mutants as a tribe, as one people; of mutants being an actual political minority that exists in the larger Marvel firmament; the notion of an X-character, who not only is a compelling, multi-layered female character, who doesn’t go for the usual liberal/assimilative platitudes the X-People usually spout.  Why does all this need to be wiped away?  Are the new writers just not good enough to create something that the nostalgic mouthbreathing focus groups want (and is this even a real demographic? Who exactly did this development please? Other than godawful Jean partisans and non-intelligent comic readers?) while being respectful of and keeping (mostly) intact the import of stories that have already been told.  The fact that what happened happened feels like a slap in the face to all the fans who are rightly asking these questions. 

Secondly....I think this development also owes a lot to the kind of demographic Marvel is targeting, and the kind of female characters that that demographic is interested in reading and supporting.  That is, the kind of female character who is a modified distillation of the manic, pixie dreamgirl: spunky, ‘strong’, sexual (to a degree), feminist (to a degree, but also only in a very specific second wave kind of a way)  and of course have to be tumblrflower, Bleeding Cool and Mary Sue approved, lest the wrath of twitter be provoked.  I’m talking of characters like America Chavez, Kamala Khan, Kate Bishop and Carol Danvers.  Strong, feminist, etc. But, not threatening, not overtly sexual, not swagger-y, and god forbid, not sexual only for the sake of sex.  Emma, in my view, represents one of the last few fabulously written female characters that counters this second-wave feminist tendency in current comic writing/production of female characters.  She has an unproblematic relationship with sex for pleasure and she isn’t here to make you feel good about your goddamned feminist struggle or your sophomoric need for representation.  And for that, she had to be punished and made the bogeywoman of all the twitter warriors who insist that female characters be feminist-strong...but only in the way that they find palatable and ‘relatable’.  I’ve always been very aware that Marvel is a business (a point I belabor to anyone who thinks Marvel OWES them something)...and of course they have to go where the money is.  But, it doesn’t make this direction for Emma, or the character assassination she and we have endued, any more palatable.  

Which brings us full circle to the essay’s title.  She may still be alive, walking around the Marvel U in an outfit that can only be described as ‘too garish, even for pre-Joanne Lady Gaga’, but for all intents and purposes, Emma Frost has been fridged.  Not physically, and in a way this is even far more cruel to her fans.  They could have just taken her away from us cleanly, ending her story, not in the best of places, but at least it would have ended (for now) and we can go on, missing her, but at least with the comfort that it couldn’t get any worse.  But that isn’t what happened.  Instead, they took her away from us, one sordid, horribly mandated development at a time, until all that’s left is this ghoul-caricature of a character, walking around; sapped of all of her vitality and that je ne sais quoi that made her so unique, endlessly compelling, and the source of such pure comic joy for me.  That woman is long gone.  And what’s in her place now is just a zombie that Soule and Lemire should have just put out of her misery.  

It’s fine that Marvel needed an X-Men reboot.  Hell, in many ways as a fan, I might have welcome it with much more enthusiasm than my tepid ‘oh great I guess I’m obligated to read it’ feeling that I’m having right now.  If only, this shiny new future for the merry mutants didn’t have to bought with the merciless, cruel, and absolutely unnecessary, and far worse, character fridging of one Emma Frost. 

At least, we’ll always have the trades fellow Emma fans.

Keep the faith.

I’m hanging on with you.   

The (non) Fridging of one Ms. Emma Frost.

For our initial offering, dear followers, we bring you our thoughts on the sad, tragic, and sadly unnecessary, fate of one Ms. Emma Frost at the end of the sordid, editorially driven to the ground, non-event Inhumans vs. X-Men.  

We wanted to get some distance from the events of this installment before putting down our thoughts to keyboard about…well there’s really no better way to say it…the character rape-ification that happened to Emma on IvX # 6.  So now a few days later. I think our thoughts have settled.  

One of the most awful truisms in life is the notion of having to take one’s own advice.  It sucks.  Particularly when it comes to comics.  We’re usually the one to tell folks, right after their favorite characters get nuked because some writer thinks awful writing choices means ‘genius’ or something, that one of the only constants in our hobby/culture/life is the constancy of change.  Status quos last only rarely and even something seemingly permanent can be rebirthed, rebooted, forgiven, recast, retconned, whatever.  That’s a long winded way of saying that…even though things are bleak at the moment, to quote Avenue Q, ‘this is only for now’.  We know it’s small, fleeting comfort fellow Emma fans.  We feel you.  But…it’s the only silver lining we can see emerging from this hot mess of a fucked up sitch we’re in right now. It’s hard to swallow.  We find it difficult to accept it at times still.  At the end of the day though, I think it’s also important to assess and realize that look, at the end of day, and as much as we all love her, she is just a fictional character.  Her status quo now, as awful as it is, hasn’t killed anyone (as far as I know) or made the Trump regime even worse (again as far as I know).  So we’re ok.  

So now that the table-setting is out of the way…let’s get on with the nitty gritty.  We’re not gonna summarize the plot of IvX, as that’s available plenty of other places.  And if you’ve read the story…well you know.

We’re not unhappy about Emma’s reversion to an out and out villain.  Honestly, after the events of Death of X and the earlier installments of IvX, any other kind of conclusion, or hell even having her returned to the X-Fold wouldn’t make much story sense.  Lemire and Soule have laid down enough story real estate that having it end any other way than that would just be silly or horribly contrived.  And you know what? That’s fine.  That’s totally fine.  Why not? It might even be interesting.  What would an anti-hero Emma, skirting on the darker sides of the gray lines she already inhabits, look like? What would an Emma-ized notion of Magneto’s previous ideology look like?  Would that even be her motivation?  Or would it just be (and to us far more interesting plot-wise and commentary wise on the X-franchise as a whole) more of Emma finally saying ‘FUCK IT’ to all the endless thumb-twiddling the X-folks have been doing ever since Bendis took over?  Or hell, she can just go full on Black Cat and just be an international jewel thief coz she is so sick and done with the X-Men’s perennially regressive approach to things and the endless Uncle Tom-ing they all seem to be doing lately.  All of these options are cool to us and they would be interesting to read about.

But that isn’t what we got.  What we got instead is Emma literally assuming the identity of the Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (also known as Cyclop’s secondary mutation, seriously man, you should check that, it is a serious condition), and without the wit or awesome musical numbers that you get from the CW show.  Her motivation for turning the heel is literally, and we wave our fist to the sky as we type this, ‘my boyfriend died and I’m nothing without him’.  A notion that Soule (and Lemire too? It isn’t clear which of these two editorial puppets came up with the notion, though most seem to argue that it’s Soule) ratchets up to a level beyond creepy when he has Emma don an outfit THAT LITERALLY IS HER PUTTING ON HER EX-BOYFRIENDS SKIN.  What in the fuckity fuck fuck fuck is this?  How/why does this make sense?  As many other fans (and non fans) have said…we are talking about a woman who a) watched many iterations of her students die b) survived the 9/11-ing of Genosha by Sentinels (more on that FUCKITY FUCK plot point in a little bit) c) killed her sister for killing one of her students d) lost her brother, whom she cared for deeply to insanity because of an abusive father e) literally started from the bottom to build up a massive financial empire.  We can go on.  The point is, in the grand scheme of traumas that Emma has experienced, losing Scott would probably just amount to a small paper cut.  The fact (that Soule and Lemire forgot about?) that she and Scott ALREADY BROKE UP BEFORE DEATH OF X makes the notion of this crazy, stupid love even more ridiculous. Also, remember, in her diamond form, she is supposed to feel nothing, NOTHING, now let’s go back to IvX and count how many times Emma assumes her diamond form... bored of counting already? This characterization of Emma as jilted lover, turned all the way up to level 100 gazillion, is just idiotic writing borne out of some editorial mandate. 

And look ok, fine, let’s make Emma unstable.  Sure, why not, we can go there too.  But seriously? You’re going to show that by having the woman who, when she got god-like Phoenix powers (which, by the way also maybe made her a little crazy?) MADE IT HER FIRST PRIORITY TO LITERALLY DESTROY EVERY SENTINEL ON THE PLANET.  How does this even fucking work?  If Emma is really all ID now and she’s gone off the rails, and is now doing whatever the fuck she wants…why in the hell would she want to create Sentinels?  It makes no sense….even if the aim was to show her instability.  It also lacks the kind of deeper, elegant hurt that she’s capable of and prefers to inflict.  This Sentinel shit is amateur fucking hour, and she is anything but.  See, for contrast, the way she handled Laura’s previous handler Kimura.  That wasn’t the kind of mustache twirling fuckery we got handed.  That was Emma going for the elegant kind of pain: one that’s long lasting and deliciously poetic.  If Emma is going to be a baddie, then that’s the kind of next level shit they need to show her being capable of, not this two-bit hysterical monologuing bullshit we got.  Cullenn Bunn has stated in a recent CBR X-Position that Ems will be playing a big role in X-Men Blue.  Now, we trust Bunn, he does good work, particularly with anti-heroes like Magneto and Sabretooth...perhaps he can salvage something from this horrible situation.  

Making Emma the big bad of ResurrXion, the next Magneto, now that Magneto is a hero (at least this week), is all fine and dandy. But do it well. Make it meaningful. It takes about 2 panels for her to kill hundreds of inhumans. Almost as a side note. Those panels are going to define her as a genocidal villain for the rest of her days, the same way Hank Pym has been defined by a single panel that was not even scripted.

Why is all this happening? Why did it have to happen this way?  Our completely unscientific (and admittedly conspiracy theory-leaning) argument is that it all has to do with nostalgia.  RessurXion seems to be banking on regressing everything back to the 90s…the time when the X-Men were walking around in tights, constantly playing baseball, and involved in 30 plus year subplots that don’t ever get resolved.  And look, there’s nothing wrong with that.  But, why does that shiny new reboot have to be bought and paid for by throwing both Cyclops and Emma under the bus?  Why does this have to come at the price of wiping away so much of  the compelling additions that the Scott/Emma era of the X-franchise created? The notion of mutants as a tribe, as one people; of mutants being an actual political minority that exists in the larger Marvel firmament; the notion of an X-character, who not only is a compelling, multi-layered female character, who doesn’t go for the usual liberal/assimilative platitudes the X-People usually spout.  Why does all this need to be wiped away?  Are the new writers just not good enough to create something that the nostalgic mouthbreathing focus groups want (and is this even a real demographic? Who exactly did this development please? Other than godawful Jean partisans and non-intelligent comic readers?) while being respectful of and keeping (mostly) intact the import of stories that have already been told.  The fact that what happened happened feels like a slap in the face to all the fans who are rightly asking these questions.

Secondly….we think this development also owes a lot to the kind of demographic Marvel is targeting, and the kind of female characters that that demographic is interested in reading and supporting.  That is, the kind of female character who is a modified distillation of the manic, pixie dreamgirl: spunky, ‘strong’, sexual (to a degree), feminist (to a degree, but also only in a very specific second wave kind of a way)  and of course have to be tumblrflower, Bleeding Cool and Mary Sue approved, lest the wrath of twitter be provoked.  I’m talking of characters like America Chavez, Kamala Khan, Kate Bishop and Carol Danvers.  Strong, feminist, etc. But, not threatening, not overtly sexual, not swagger-y, and god forbid, not sexual only for the sake of sex; they are the equivalent of Boy Bands in the 90′s and early 00′s, attractive, easy to sell, tame. Remember She-Hulk being a strong woman with a brilliant career, kicking ass and taking names, having sexual fantasies with fellow Avengers in the 90′s? well, that She-Hulk is also gone.  After Civil War 2, poor Jen is being written as a very mousey Millennial...who’s afraid of her own power and strength.  Seeing a pattern already?

 Emma, in our view, represents one of the last few fabulously written female characters that counters this second-wave feminist tendency in current comic writing/production of female characters.  She has an unproblematic relationship with sex for pleasure and she isn’t here to make you feel good about your goddamned feminist struggle or your sophomoric need for representation.  And for that, she had to be punished and made the bogeywoman of all the twitter warriors who insist that female characters be feminist-strong…but only in the way that they find palatable and ‘relatable’.  I’ve always been very aware that Marvel is a business (a point I belabor to anyone who thinks Marvel OWES them something)…and of course they have to go where the money is.  But, it doesn’t make this direction for Emma, or the character assassination she and we have endued, any more palatable.  

Which brings us full circle to the essay’s title.  She may still be alive, walking around the Marvel U in an outfit that can only be described as ‘too garish, even for pre-Joanne Lady Gaga’, but for all intents and purposes, Emma Frost has been fridged.  Not physically, and in a way this is even far more cruel to her fans.  They could have just taken her away from us cleanly, ending her story, not in the best of places, but at least it would have ended (for now) and we can go on, missing her, but at least with the comfort that it couldn’t get any worse.  But that isn’t what happened.  Instead, they took her away from us, one sordid, horribly mandated development at a time, until all that’s left is this ghoul-caricature of a character, walking around; sapped of all of her vitality and that je ne sais quoi that made her so unique, endlessly compelling, and the source of such pure comic joy.  That woman is long gone.  And what’s in her place now is just a zombie that Soule and Lemire should have just put out of her misery.  

It’s fine that Marvel needed an X-Men reboot.  Hell, in many ways as a fan, I might have welcome it with much more enthusiasm than my tepid ‘oh great I guess I’m obligated to read it’ feeling that I’m having right now.  If only, this shiny new future for the merry mutants didn’t have to bought with the merciless, cruel, and absolutely unnecessary, and far worse, character fridging of one Emma Frost.

At least, we’ll always have the trades fellow Emma fans.

Keep the faith.

We’re hanging on with you.   

Harm

Chapter 2 - Unexpected

“Casey?”

The little girl perched on his headboard moved so her face was in Jason’s field of vision. “Yes Red?”

Calmly, he flipped a page on his book. “What did I say about permanent markers?”

Casey pouted, but he heard the distinctive click of a marker cap being put back on. “Please don’t.” She tossed it back into her bag, pulling out a washable marker instead.

But she hadn’t finished. “Because…?” Jason let the word trail off.

“If I use washable, I can make a new work of art every day.” Her pout vanished under a smile as she applied the neon green to the white streak in his hair.

“There you go.” He was sitting in his hospital room with half a dozen kids sitting on or around him. Casey, of course. Tomas was practicing his violin in the corner, the ear shattering shrieks of a poorly played note becoming less frequent as he went. Elliot was sitting on Jason’s feet, playing gin rummy with Caroline who was sitting on Jason’s stomach. Marcelle was the only high school student in the room. She was skipping class tomorrow to make up her sleep, but had brought her homework to work on. And Marcelle’s younger brother Ed was sitting quietly, playing with a fidget ring one of the other kids had brought him.

He felt a bit bad. If he hadn’t tried to sneak out once or twice (or three times, or eight times…) before Ivan’s dad said he could go, the kids wouldn’t feel the need to stay up all night to make sure he stayed put. But Jason couldn’t help himself. It had been two months and Batman hadn’t shown up yet, which was making him beyond antsy.

For the fifth time in the past hour, his eyes wandered towards the laptop tossed carelessly on one of the chairs. Two days ago he’d finally looked at the files he’d taken from the Batcomputer, which had resulted in his bed being overturned, two broken windows and what he could only shamefully describe as a temper tantrum that had lasted an hour before the kids managed to calm him down. He tried blaming the tears on the pain meds, but they didn’t believe him and he could tell. Thankfully, they didn’t call him on it.

With a sigh, Jason turned the page and tried to focus on his book.

Almost immediately, his phone went off. “Red Hood collectibles, genuine lead bullets for every scum collector. How may I help you today?”

“I have a stalker,” the boy on the other line sounded terrified. “At least, I thought it was a stalker. But he came after me with a knife, and now he's chasing me.”

Jason lurched out of bed. His legs twinged, but the fractures had healed at least a week ago. “Where are you?” Shoving the phone between his ear and shoulder, he reached under the bed for his bag, the one he insisted on having in the room every time they moved him.

“Heading north on the Spine. Passing a Chinese grocery store.”

And wasn't that just like Bludhaven? A terrified child running from someone with a knife, on a busy street like the Spine, and the kid had to call a murderer for help. “On my way.”

“No, you're not,” Marcelle said as soon as the phone call ended. “You are going to sit here until the doctor releases you.”

Jason was part way out the window, Tomas and Elliot both trying to pull him back. “I can't! Someone out there-”

“Needs help, I know.” Having crossed the room, Marcelle grabbed Jason as well. “Why can't you let the Red Kids handle it? They've been doing good so far!”

And everything Jason was rebelled at the idea. “They've been giving blankets and food to homeless kids and breaking up minor scuffles. This is a knife-wielding psycho!” The oldest and most well trained of them could handle small stuff like that. Anything else would paint a target on their backs faster than Ani could spray a red helmet on a brick wall. Which was very fast.

“They. Can. Handle. It!” Punctuating each word with an ever more vicious pull, Marcelle and the boys were nearly dislodged Jason's hand from its death grip on the window sill. On one hand, Jason should not be getting pulled back by three kids. Maybe he should stay in. On the other, it didn't take any strength to pull a trigger.

“They're going to get themselves killed!” Something in his expression or his voice or his body language made Marcelle let go. On the bed, Casey and Caroline looked worried. Red Hood didn't raise his voice often. Ed was rocking and holding his hands over his ears. Quieter, Jason said, “I already told you I don't want them out there. And while I'm out, I'm going to think of some very good reasons why. But for now, keep them out of this.” Before anyone could reply, he was out the window, helmet on and swinging.

Maybe he should leave Bludhaven. All he wanted, all he ever wanted, was to shoot the guilty in their skulls and make the city safer. But ever since his showdown with Superman, every kid and their dog had tried doing what he did. Busting in on abusive parents, following child trafficking rings for information, taking on pedophiles. It had taken so much arguing and pleading to get them to stop, to slow down, to convince them that blankets were just as important. That nothing was worth their lives.

It didn't help that in the two months he'd been laid up, crime had been on a rise. A sharp rise. Like standing at the bottom of a cliff and looking up. Things were almost worse in Bludhaven than before he'd first started shooting people.

Clearly, it was well past time for him to get back on his feet. With him on the streets, the criminals would have something to fear again, and more importantly, the kids wouldn't be able to use him not being there as an excuse to risk their own lives doing something stupid.

Speaking of risk, the people of Bludhaven were being true to form and taking none in regards to their own health and well being. The kid was easy to see from a few stories up. He was running and panting and asking strangers for help. Every single one avoided eye contact and continued on their way. Sure, the Spine wasn't as busy at four in the morning, but the kid ran into someone every few minutes.

The maniac following the kid was easy to see as well. The knife glinted in the street lamps, and he swung it as he ran, so the sidewalk in front of him was completely clear. Every single person hiding in a doorway or alley would probably survive the night, but it sure made it easy for Knifey to see and therefore keep following the kid.

Also, really easy for Red Hood to pull his sniper rifle from his back and shoot the guy in the skull without worrying about hitting anyone else. Pulling out his phone, he dialed the last incoming call. “Kid? I got your guy.”

“Thanks... Red,” the kid said between pants. “Sorry I... called. Know... you were... still... recover...ing.”

“It's cool. I'm mostly healed up anyways. Need me to get you out of there?”

“I got it. I have an... uncle up the street. If you hadn't... made it, that's where I... was headed.” He paused to take a deep breath. When he finished, he sounded a lot better. “Thanks again. I'm Carmelo by the way. Carmelo Pulnik.”

Jason raised an eyebrow at that. No wonder the kid had a stalker. The Pulnik's were one of the few rich families in Bludhaven to get their money from mostly legal means. Not being in the pockets of the larger crime families made for a lot of enemies. “Got it. You keep safe Carmelo. Call if you need anything.” And he hung up.

Sitting back, he let himself relax a moment. Although he would never admit it to the kids (especially Marcelle), he was wiped. His left arm was still in a cast and hadn't taken kindly to the ten minute swing across the city. Plus, he had the feeling his legs would become fairly reliable weather forecasters from now on, if the way they were aching was any indication. Fractures maybe, but it was still too early to be landing on rooftops and jumping off them again.

Including the two months of bed rest and subsequent muscle atrophy, he wasn't doing great. Red Hood would have to take it slow for a month while he got his strength back.

He was nearly recovered from his run across the city when the roof gravel crunched in that particular way it did when someone sneaky landed on it. He swiveled, rifle up and aimed at the blue bird on the guy's chest.

Wait.

“Fuck.” At that, Red Hood stood, launching himself off the building in the same movement. He freefell for a moment to build momentum, then shot out his grapple. But even then, he wasn't fast enough to escape the, “Jason, wait!” that followed him.

Like hell. As he swung over the police tape surrounding his crazy stalker (and of course the police would respond to a dead maniac with a knife, but not a live one), Red Hood tried to think about how he could get out of this. He couldn't use his knowledge of the city to his advantage because Nightwing knew almost as much as he did about it.

Neither could he outrun him. Red Hood had made his grapple based on a vague memory from eight years ago. Learning how to disassemble and reassemble it, how it worked, how to fix it. Nightwing's grapple, based on sound alone, was way more high tech and from the few blurry camera phone videos online, probably had more than one line and faster recoil.

Turned out, it didn't matter than Nightwing had a better grapple. Red Hood landed wrong on the next rooftop, twisting his ankle and going into a roll that ended with him landing on his cast. Pain shot up his limbs as he struggled to his hands and knees. Even as he did, he knew it was no use. He'd dropped his grapple when he'd landed, and now Nightwing was between them.

“Jason?” The word was filled with hope and trepidation.

Red Hood flopped back, sitting against an air conditioner. He cradled his arm to his stomach as he said, “yeah.” With a bit of effort, he pulled off the helmet.

There was a moment of silence. Jason didn't look at Nightwing's face. Didn't want to see what might be there. Finally, Nightwing broke it. “You... you're alive. You're alive.” And when he did look up, Nightwing had fallen to his knees, hands to his face like he was crying. But when he looked up, his cheeks were dry. “Why didn't you come home? Why didn't you tell us?”

And Jason couldn't stop himself from mumbling, “didn't think you would care.” Because why would they?

Nightwing mouthed the words, like he had to roll them around to understand them, like they were so foreign. “Of... of course we would care!” It was said with enough vehemence that Jason thought Nightwing might even believe it. “Of course we would, and we do! You're family, you're my brother-”

“Since when?” Jason cut him off. A second ago, he had been sitting in his own defeat, knowing that nothing good could come of this. Now, now he was angry. “Since when have you ever considered me your brother? You didn't give me the time of day when I was Robin! I saw you once. Once in that entire time, all those years!” Jason could feel tears pricking at his eyes, but he ignored them. “So no, Nightwing,” and he spat the word like a curse, “I didn't think you would care. You never did.”

Jason could see the potential replies flash across Nightwing's face. I know I never showed it. You have to understand. Jason didn't want to hear them. “If you'll excuse me, I have a job to do.”

“I can help you.” Jason froze at the words. “If you’re being framed for all of this, I can help you clear your name.”

It was a struggle to pick himself back up. He tugged his helmet on, leaning heavily on the air conditioner. “Nothing to clear. I killed every single one of the people they say I did, and more besides. And you know what?” Nightwing lifted his head a bit, not enough to look Red Hood in the eyes, but enough that Jason could see the hope draining out of his face, being replaced with anger. “They deserved it. Every last one. Just like Blockbuster deserved it.”

He trudged to the other side of the building, giving Nightwing a wide berth as he did. When he finally reached his grapple, Nightwing found his voice. “You're hurt.”

Red Hood snorted. “Yeah. You can thank your hero for that one. Big blue boy scout isn't the saint everyone thinks he is, is he?” He picked up his grapple and checked the line. It was fine for now, but two mad dashes across the city was wearing on the spring.

Another beat of silence, then, “Why?” The question was strangled and hoarse and rather open ended.

Red Hood knew what Nightwing was asking. Why did he start killing? If he answered though, then there would be no end to the Bat incursions. “Why am I in Bludhaven? That's on you. When you let Blockbuster die, he left a power vacuum. So many underlings and unaffiliated gang members trying for the empire. So thanks.” The last word had more than a little sarcasm in it. Still, he hoped the guilt would keep Nightwing away.

A few more limping steps brought him to the edge of the roof. He paused, turning to see Nightwing still on his knees, slumped over with his back turned. “One more thing. And you can spread the word. If you, any of you, come into Bludhaven again, I will shoot you. You, Batman, Robin. I don’t care. Stay away from me.”

Red Hood took a slower route back to the office building that fronted as an insurance company but housed Ivan's dad's illicit practice. He endured Marcelle's lecture as he wrapped his ankle, then pretended to sleep until she believed him.

Around six, the kids fell asleep on the other beds in the room. Jason snuck out to the roof of the building and cried.

AN: *cough* That went well. Oh, don’t worry, it’ll totally get better! *averts eyes, fakes smile*

Requests start again next chapter, so look forward to those! For the folks who don’t remember, Casey is from the Shazam chapter, she needed help cleaning her kitchen. Tomas’s brother Greg needed help with his homework and Elliot called because his sister Amelia was doing self harm and he was worried. Marcelle, Ed and Caroline are new.

Hong Kong Protests Become a Global Problem

(Bloomberg) -- Tensions between Hong Kong and the government in Beijing are increasingly spilling outside China’s borders.China’s foreign ministry this week accused the U.S. of being a “black hand” behind protests that have rocked Hong Kong since early June, while Secretary of State Michael Pompeo urged Beijing to “do the right thing.” An encounter at an Australian university between supporters and critics of the Hong Kong demonstrators ended with punches being thrown.With no end to the protests in sight -- hundreds of people staged a sit-in at Asia’s busiest airport Friday -- the dispute over Hong Kong’s future risks dragging in parties from all over the world. That could include diplomats, tourists, universities and multinational businesses caught up in the territory’s tinderbox political climate.For the Trump administration and the Communist Party in Beijing, the issue has become one of many flash points ranging from trade to technological dominance to corporate espionage. The debate over Hong Kong is getting more heated, just as U.S. negotiators prepare to restart trade talks next week in Shanghai.There are “signs of foreign forces behind the protests,” Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Hua Chunying told reporters Tuesday in Beijing. “I wonder if these U.S. officials can truthfully answer to the world the role the U.S. has played in recent events in Hong Kong.”The accusation of meddling was rebutted by Harvey Sernovitz, a spokesman for the U.S. consulate in Hong Kong.“This is a ridiculous statement,” he said on Wednesday. “The ongoing demonstrations in Hong Kong reflect the sentiment of the people of Hong Kong and their broad concerns about the erosion of Hong Kong’s autonomy.”Still, Donald Trump has indicated he does not want the Hong Kong protests to interfere with the broader relationship with China, particularly his personal rapport with President Xi Jinping. Trump has said several times in recent months that Hong Kong’s affairs are a matter for Beijing.Earlier this week he said Xi had “acted responsibly, very responsibly -- they’ve been out there protesting for a long time.” He told reporters at the White House he hoped Xi would “do the right thing,” adding that China could stop the protests “if they wanted.”Pompeo, who has slammed China in recent months for alleged abuses against the Uighur Islamic minority population of Xinjiang, urged all sides to avoid violence.“We hope that the protests will remain peaceful,” Pompeo told Bloomberg Television Thursday.At the University of Queensland in Brisbane on Wednesday, rival groups faced off over the situation in Hong Kong, with one side singing pro-China songs and the other chanting “free Hong Kong.” Footage posted on Twitter showed protesters hurling verbal abuse as police tried to restore calm, while two people exchanged punches.The Chinese consulate in Brisbane issued a statement Thursday praising students for staging “a voluntary patriotic rally in response to two consecutive anti-China and secessionist protests held at the university campus,” according to a website run by the Communist Party’s Global Times, a nationalistic tabloid.Further ProtestsThe Hong Kong protests have also resonated in Taiwan, a democratically-run island that China considers a province. President Tsai Ing-wen said last month that people in Hong Kong people have the right to pursue their way of life and system they want.For now, differences of opinion over Hong Kong haven’t prevented China from cooperating with its critics on other issues.Boris Johnson, the U.K.’s new prime minister, told Phoenix Television his country was “very pro China.” Chinese Premier Li Keqiang told Johnson in a congratulatory letter that he’s willing to expand bilateral cooperation in all sectors and push for steady development in a “golden era” of ties, according to the official Xinhua News Agency.The warm words came less than a month after officials openly accused each other of behaving inappropriately toward Hong Kong, which was a British colony before its handover to China in 1997.More opportunities for tensions to escalate could come this weekend. Protest groups are seeking to hold a demonstration on Saturday in the same area where unidentified groups of men attacked people at a train station in the northwestern suburb of Yuen Long on July 21. Police have withheld approval for the protest, but organizers insist they’ll go ahead.(Updates with Trump comments, Taiwan context.)To contact the reporter on this story: Enda Curran in Hong Kong at [email protected] contact the editors responsible for this story: Tracy Alloway at [email protected], Michael PattersonFor more articles like this, please visit us at bloomberg.com©2019 Bloomberg L.P.

from Yahoo News - Latest News & Headlines

(Bloomberg) -- Tensions between Hong Kong and the government in Beijing are increasingly spilling outside China’s borders.China’s foreign ministry this week accused the U.S. of being a “black hand” behind protests that have rocked Hong Kong since early June, while Secretary of State Michael Pompeo urged Beijing to “do the right thing.” An encounter at an Australian university between supporters and critics of the Hong Kong demonstrators ended with punches being thrown.With no end to the protests in sight -- hundreds of people staged a sit-in at Asia’s busiest airport Friday -- the dispute over Hong Kong’s future risks dragging in parties from all over the world. That could include diplomats, tourists, universities and multinational businesses caught up in the territory’s tinderbox political climate.For the Trump administration and the Communist Party in Beijing, the issue has become one of many flash points ranging from trade to technological dominance to corporate espionage. The debate over Hong Kong is getting more heated, just as U.S. negotiators prepare to restart trade talks next week in Shanghai.There are “signs of foreign forces behind the protests,” Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Hua Chunying told reporters Tuesday in Beijing. “I wonder if these U.S. officials can truthfully answer to the world the role the U.S. has played in recent events in Hong Kong.”The accusation of meddling was rebutted by Harvey Sernovitz, a spokesman for the U.S. consulate in Hong Kong.“This is a ridiculous statement,” he said on Wednesday. “The ongoing demonstrations in Hong Kong reflect the sentiment of the people of Hong Kong and their broad concerns about the erosion of Hong Kong’s autonomy.”Still, Donald Trump has indicated he does not want the Hong Kong protests to interfere with the broader relationship with China, particularly his personal rapport with President Xi Jinping. Trump has said several times in recent months that Hong Kong’s affairs are a matter for Beijing.Earlier this week he said Xi had “acted responsibly, very responsibly -- they’ve been out there protesting for a long time.” He told reporters at the White House he hoped Xi would “do the right thing,” adding that China could stop the protests “if they wanted.”Pompeo, who has slammed China in recent months for alleged abuses against the Uighur Islamic minority population of Xinjiang, urged all sides to avoid violence.“We hope that the protests will remain peaceful,” Pompeo told Bloomberg Television Thursday.At the University of Queensland in Brisbane on Wednesday, rival groups faced off over the situation in Hong Kong, with one side singing pro-China songs and the other chanting “free Hong Kong.” Footage posted on Twitter showed protesters hurling verbal abuse as police tried to restore calm, while two people exchanged punches.The Chinese consulate in Brisbane issued a statement Thursday praising students for staging “a voluntary patriotic rally in response to two consecutive anti-China and secessionist protests held at the university campus,” according to a website run by the Communist Party’s Global Times, a nationalistic tabloid.Further ProtestsThe Hong Kong protests have also resonated in Taiwan, a democratically-run island that China considers a province. President Tsai Ing-wen said last month that people in Hong Kong people have the right to pursue their way of life and system they want.For now, differences of opinion over Hong Kong haven’t prevented China from cooperating with its critics on other issues.Boris Johnson, the U.K.’s new prime minister, told Phoenix Television his country was “very pro China.” Chinese Premier Li Keqiang told Johnson in a congratulatory letter that he’s willing to expand bilateral cooperation in all sectors and push for steady development in a “golden era” of ties, according to the official Xinhua News Agency.The warm words came less than a month after officials openly accused each other of behaving inappropriately toward Hong Kong, which was a British colony before its handover to China in 1997.More opportunities for tensions to escalate could come this weekend. Protest groups are seeking to hold a demonstration on Saturday in the same area where unidentified groups of men attacked people at a train station in the northwestern suburb of Yuen Long on July 21. Police have withheld approval for the protest, but organizers insist they’ll go ahead.(Updates with Trump comments, Taiwan context.)To contact the reporter on this story: Enda Curran in Hong Kong at [email protected] contact the editors responsible for this story: Tracy Alloway at [email protected], Michael PattersonFor more articles like this, please visit us at bloomberg.com©2019 Bloomberg L.P.

July 26, 2019 at 12:57PM via IFTTT

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Wouldn t be able to cover all my expenses with such a small paycheck after insurance. Absolutely absurd. Even the guy in the office thought it was a high price. No clue how they have individual plans for $70 but family plan goes up to almost $300, and it was only gonna be 2 people on it. They should have plans for familys depending on size. <br/><br/> Parents, do you have life insurance? <br/> We were referred by friends of ours to get a free child s ID kit from a woman who came out and talked about life insurance with us tonight. I am only 24 and my husband is 36 so it s not something I had thought too much about. My husband has some type of term insurance paid by work but it s not much and heaven forbid anything did happen to him, I would be lost not only emotionally but financially.    We ended up getting whole life insurance for both of us, $20,000 each, and it costs about $60/month. It might be alot on top of regular bills with this economy but I think it s worth it. We declined the insurance for the kids right now but will probably get insurance on them too soon. With all the sports and activities they do, accidents do happen and you always have to be prepared.    So do you have life insurance and if not, why not?    BQ: Did you realize there are so many types of life insurance? She said there are over 40 types in the state of Pennsylvania. And most of them are complete rip offs. <br/><br/>Cheap/good insurance for a pop up camper?<br/>Bought a 96 Coleman key west pop up last year and want to insure it to be safe. What s a reasonably good insurance to go with ?    Live in MI<br/><br/>Hi.  I just paid insurance for my car but did not get Certificate  yet by post. Can I drive now?<br/>Hi.  I just paid insurance for my car but did not get Certificate  yet by post. Can I drive now?<br/><br/>most affordable car insurance colorado<br/>most affordable car insurance colorado<br/><br/>Car insurance company offered me too low?<br/> A few weeks ago my car was rear ended and has minor frame damage from the collision.   The insurance adjustor s checked it out and offered me $700 to fix the paint on the bumper, repair the bumper support and 2 hours on a frame rack.    Details about my car:    The passenger rear taillight is pushed in about a centimeter - the quarter panel now sticks out a tad and is crumpled in the wheelwell - my passenger framerail has a warp in it from the accident.    Now they are claiming that my car was in a previous accident because of filler paint or something in the trunk.  They claim that because I have a hole cut into my frame rail that the car was previously pulled and that s where the damage came from.    I drove the car for 4 years, I think I d know if my taillight was pushed in and my quarter panel was sticking out.    They told me to take it to an auto body to have it looked at and they would contact them on a final settlement - BUT I feel the car is unsafe to drive.  I do not want to drive a car with previous frame damage (fixed).  Would I be able to take the money and buy a different car without the body shop doing work on it? <br/><br/>What are two important ways that the Affordable Care Act poses challenges to federalism?<br/>What are two important ways that the Affordable Care Act poses challenges to federalism?<br/><br/>Is the nissan 240sx considered a sportscar when dealing with insurrance?<br/>which would cost more for insurance, a 1997 nissan 240sx   or a 2008 scion tc   and is the 240sx considered a sports car? <br/><br/> Am I able to get health insurance? Please answer, need help? <br/> I m 18 years old, I left home because of an ongoing abusive situation, and have been on my own for six months, it s the best thing that could of happened to me. I keep no contact with my parents. I live with an older friend who has two children. I help her around the house in exchange for rent, I buy my own food, pay for my own car insurance, and cover all of my own expenses, etc. I m a full time college student, and I work around 30 hours a week, and now I m looking to get affordable health insurance. However, my friend s income is much higher than mine, disqualifying me from subsidized healthcare or medicaid. Health insurance is based on household income. I am not her dependent at all, she has her own health insurance policy. I m very confused, what course of action do I need to take? 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But my deductible is $1,000.00 and i dont have a thousand dollars. Can you like make cheap payments on that or do you need it all upfront? Or do i not have to pay it right away? <br/><br/>Will getting married affect me being on my parents car insurance?<br/> Will getting married affect me being on my parents car insurance?   My mom knows we are engaged   my dad won t even know that until December. My husband and I just got married yesterday but our ceremony is not until August. I realized today I am on my parents car insurance. Am I still going to be on there or are they going to send a letter to them saying I am married or something? He already paid the premium until April 2012 with me on it so I don t think they can take me off til then? Maybe at the end of the 6 months I should tell them since I am getting married in 4 months I want to get my own car insurance since it wont be the full cycle done before I am married. 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Could somebody clarify this issue for me? <br/><br/>How can i get cheap car insurance?<br/>How can i get cheap car insurance?<br/><br/>most affordable car insurance colorado<br/>most affordable car insurance colorado<br/><br/>I currently don t have a car what kind of insurance can I get? ?<br/>I would like to buy insurance for when I rent cars, because the car rental insurance is just too high nowadays. What kind of insurance can I start to look for. I called a couple of places for a non-owner policy, but they were saying that I need a car first, to place the insurance on.  <br/><br/>Home insurance claim.?<br/> I m half way through a home insurance claim after a flood in my flat caused by a leak in the flat above. Buildings insurance has covered the damage and will eventually (hopefully) be paying me back for my 2 1/2 weeks in a hotel while repairs were carried out.     At the time of the flood i had to take a day off work (as holiday) to recover property, and another day off to move into the hotel. So 2 days that i would have spent more effectively. Apparently i cant claim for these days as it is circumstantial  . 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For how long do we have to have the plan before my wife gets pregnant?<br/><br/>Facts only please: where is the money coming from to pay for everyone s medical insurance?<br/> Would it be possible for the government to only pay for preventative treatments from Medical Providers of choice, and not within a specific limited choice of medical providers; or, would it be feasible for the Government to pay for only the services that private insurance would not cover.    With a Government controlled medical insurance systems; would this put medical insurance companies out of business?    How would this proposition effect the economy long term; and if this can be implemented while maintaining Patient Rights, and individual decision making--where is the money coming from? and how much will this cost taxpayers per person, per year?    Where are the figures? <br/><br/>Drink driving insurance?<br/> Just found this place http://www.drinkdriving.org/drink_driving_car_insurance.php. Cheapest so far. 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So I was wondering, do you have to have insurance even if you just have a permit? <br/><br/>Driving someones car without insurance?<br/>If you drive someone elses car and that person has insurance but not you, and you get ticketed. do you also get ticketed for driving without insurance. is it possible to drive someones car without you yourslef buying car insurance? btw this is in dallas, texas <br/><br/>I m looking for affordable auto insurance...?<br/>I am looking for an affordable auto insurance in New Jersey. Does anyone have any ideas. And is it true that a Broker is a good option? What would be a reasonable rate for just a PIP and a older car? I have no accidents or tickets.<br/><br/> On average, how much does home owners insurance cost? <br/>I m filling out somethings for a project for one of my classes.  I do not at all need this number to be accurate, I am not going to go and speak with an insurance agent, I just need a number that is about what I would be paying forinsurance if I bought a house. <br/><br/>How expensive is it likely  to be for a 17 year old to get caravan insurance?<br/>I have obtained my licence e.t.c for caravan towing and was wandering if you knew how much it would cost me to get insured on a caravan?<br/><br/>Learner s Permit and Car Insurance?<br/>So if it was my car, and I only had a learners would I be able to insurance my car? <br/><br/>Legal question about auto insurance?<br/> My father in law was hit in the read end of his auto. By a 18 year old kid with libility insurace. His car was worth 1500 before the collision. The estiments for repair are 2700 and 4300. Of course the auto insurance will offer a 1500 and take the car. I was just wondering As the states requires like 25k or more libility coverage today. Buy what authority can the insurance company take control of a persons private property and force a settlement. Seems like a voilation of a number of statutes of the law to this laymen. Someone please explain and thanks. I am thinging that this could be a class action thing actually. But what would I know.<br/><br/>most affordable car insurance colorado<br/>most affordable car insurance colorado<br/><br/> https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/how-old-does-bike-have-classical-insurance-charles-taylor/

Go Ahead, Take This Opportunity To Say You Always Hated A Creep&#039;s Art

http://fashion-trendin.com/go-ahead-take-this-opportunity-to-say-you-always-hated-a-creeps-art/

Go Ahead, Take This Opportunity To Say You Always Hated A Creep's Art

Have you always believed that Quentin Tarantino makes dreadful movies? Have you always wondered how a director could be so celebrated for work that luridly depicts the abuse and degradation of women and black people, and that offers little more than exploitative ’70s pastiche?

Maybe your belief that Tarantino sucked spoke in a small, niggling voice, something you pushed down because you felt embarrassed that you couldn’t appreciate the auteur’s work. Or maybe it was louder. Maybe you even got into arguments with your film school classmates or your boyfriend about it.

Either way, this past week has likely brought a sense of grim vindication.

First, in an interview with The New York Times’s Maureen Dowd, Uma Thurman revealed details about Tarantino’s direction of “Kill Bill,” including his role in pressuring her to perform a car stunt that went awry and left her severely injured, as well as scenes in which he personally choked and spat on her in place of her acting partners.

With the spotlight now on Tarantino, news outlets are digging up other disturbing moments from his career. Thurman wasn’t the only actor he’d choked during filming ― he’d also choked Diane Kruger for a scene in “Inglourious Basterds.” Perhaps most damning, audio surfaced from a Howard Stern interview in 2003 in which Tarantino not only defended director Roman Polanski against his notorious rape charge, but insisted that his 13-year-old victim “wanted to have it.”

Though Tarantino defended his on-set behavior in a lengthy interview with Deadline’s Mike Fleming Jr., and both Thurman and Kruger went on to praise his direction on Instagram, the public reckoning with his oeuvre had already begun; plenty of naysayers jumped on the opportunity to admit that they’d always hated his movies. 

Like Louis C.K. and Woody Allen before him, Tarantino had become, almost instantly, the new cool entertainment dude to have always hated.

I’ve never understood the allure of Tarantino or his films. I’ve never seen Kill Bill (1 or 2), DJango, or the rest of them, except Pulp Fiction. Once. After reading that NYT article about Uma Thurman, I know I made the right call. He is unmitigated trash.

— April (@ReignOfApril) February 3, 2018

I’m glad that my once unpopular opinion that Tarantino films are rubbish because it’s like watching the worst thoughts of the annoying lad you don’t fancy but he bothers you anyway playing out in hypercolour, is finally getting it’s moment.

— Jess Phillips (@jessphillips) February 4, 2018

You know, I thought by this point there would be at least one of these Hollywood dudes where I’d be like, “that’s a shame, I want to like his work.”

But….all of them are of mediocre talent

— Kelly Ellis (@justkelly_ok) February 6, 2018

But is this … bad? Should we resist the urge to distance ourselves from the fandom surrounding a detestable creator, to declare to the masses, “I always hated that creep”?

This week, that declaration was met with the usual pushback, as critics accused Tarantino cynics of turning a serious conversation about misogyny and assault into a conversation about superior film taste:

Revelations that Tarantino is a piece of shit (not new) doesn’t suddenly require you to tell the world how much you have always hated his films (which suck incidentally).

— Richard Whittall (@RWhittall) February 3, 2018

Ah, we’re in the “I always knew he was shifty…” phase of Tarantino discourse, then.

It tends to overlap with the “I was always an outlier in the court of public opinion and now I’ve been vindicated!” phase.https://t.co/V7Xxt62pyo

— Darren Mooney (@Darren_Mooney) February 6, 2018

All the people that never liked Tarantino films are feeling somehow vindicated and that’s fucking awful. You’re profiting off the sadness and hurt of another human being to feel morally superior to the rest because you feel that your critical opinion feels somehow accurate??

— Jaime Grijalba (@jaimegrijalba) February 6, 2018

The initial urge does seem self-serving, a way to retroactively claim credit for knowing better than everyone else. The #MeToo moment should not be viewed primarily as a plum opportunity to hipsterize disliking Louis C.K., to smugly claim, “I hated him before it was cool.”

Nor should we reflexively vilify people who loved the work of people like Louis C.K. and Tarantino. We all have problematic faves; the hardest and most vital part of changing a toxic culture is holding those faves to the same standards as artists we dislike.

But you know what? Go ahead and take this moment to tell the world you always hated a creepy dude’s art. Feel extremely free to unload on all the troubling hints in his work that he thinks of women as objects. Why shouldn’t you? We should have that conversation, too.

The #MeToo movement emerged as an urgent reckoning around sexual abuse and harassment in the workplace, but it’s churned up discussions of issues beyond that ― not only sexual abuse outside the workplace, but also a broader culture of misogyny. Those discussions have revolved around the art of abusive and chauvinistic men, and how their visions have defined our culture, often in ways that harmed women. They’ve also included talk of how white critics have long taken up the air in the room; how they’ve been empowered to curate an artistic canon by and about them, while people of color, women and other marginalized groups have not.

We’re now grappling with how admiration of these problematic men became de rigueur, and how frustrating this enforced consensus was for the many people who felt exploited or forgotten by the canon. 

For years, when I’d balk at watching Tarantino films because the content made me uneasy, I was told I was being too sensitive. Between this and Uma Thurman’s devastating stories, it’s all coming together. https://t.co/X0G0kv9F4K

— marisa kabas (@MarisaKabas) February 6, 2018

Since I was around 12, the dudes in my life constantly told me I was being too sensitive when I questioned the misogyny and racism in Tarantino’s work. I was often told I “didn’t get it.” Well… I think maybe… YOU guys didn’t get it, actually? #quentintarantino https://t.co/K4dXjvEJxM

— Brigit Young (@BrigitYoung) February 6, 2018

This is not to say that only white dudes (or all white dudes) are fans of unsavory artists like Tarantino or Louis C.K. Plenty of men have been happy to note that they never liked Tarantino anyway, and plenty of women loved “Louie” and “Manhattan” and “Pulp Fiction” and have been struggling, in the aftermath of unsavory allegations, to resolve their admiration of the art with the personal crimes of the artists. (Personally, I never had the stomach for Tarantino films ― blood makes me queasy ― but I grew up on Allen’s daffy early films and liked a decent amount of Louis C.K.’s comedy.)

Still, it’s impossible to disregard the fact that an almost entirely white and male set of tastemakers (not to mention creators and investors) elevated certain male artists to the level of demigods, so above criticism that one’s dislike signaled one’s own inferior taste rather than the artists’ failings. Most critics with major platforms have long been white men; the lack of diversity in the ranks has not only stunted the breadth of conversation, but fostered the false sense that white men’s concerns are the most pressing, their opinions the most objective, and their viewpoints the most conducive to great art. Even when women or people of color dissented, their voices did little or nothing to alter the perceived consensus.

Take Allen: Pauline Kael and Joan Didion, both prominent female critics, savaged his opus “Manhattan,” which revolves around a 42-year-old man who is romancing a 17-year-old student, for, respectively, “pass[ing] off a predilection for teen-agers as a quest for true values” and telegraphing that “adolescence can now extend to middle age.”

Then-Columbia professor John Romano quickly rebutted Didion in a letter to the editor, describing her review as a result of “pique”; the letter twice describes Didion as “complaining.” Meanwhile, critic Roger Ebert had a startling take on the artistry surrounding Allen’s character’s sexual predation, writing, “It wouldn’t do, you see, for the love scenes between Woody and Mariel [Hemingway] to feel awkward or to hint at cradle-snatching or an unhealthy interest on Woody’s part in innocent young girls. But they don’t feel that way.” 

As the years passed, “Manhattan,” beloved by male critics who were unbothered by or eager to explain away the movie’s troubling sexual undertones, became cemented in film canon. If Kael and Didion couldn’t get us to openly acknowledge the flaws in Allen’s work, who could? At least now it seems right to go back and examine the catastrophic failures of some critics to tease out these threads. Many critics, including the New York Times’ A.O. Scott, are now openly reckoning with the insufficiency of their past criticism of Allen’s work, and they’re right to do so.

It’s also fair to point out that some people wanted to have this conversation before the #MeToo moment, but that a patriarchal hegemony of taste served as a bulwark against it. The cultural change didn’t just begin in October. For example, when Tarantino released “The Hateful Eight” in 2016, critics explicitly called out his dicey use of extreme violence toward women in the film, questioning whether it was artistically essential or even justifiable. 

#MeToo was possible in part because women in Hollywood, and elsewhere, have spent years advocating for more respect and representation.

This is exactly my problem with Tarantino. He glorifies violence against women and people of color, makes an industry out of movies centered on violence towards minority groups, and gets called a “genius” for it. That’s the kind of regressive junk we need to cut out. https://t.co/RDKt9rhBu9

— Heidi N Moore (@moorehn) February 4, 2018

The central connecting thread between all of the aforementioned morally ambiguous or nihilistic art and so much more in that vein: it was all primarily by and for white men and wistfully imagined worlds where white men were never held to account for anything.

— David Klion (@DavidKlion) February 6, 2018

But despite these rising questions, the classic films ― “Pulp Fiction,” “Kill Bill” ― seemed untouchable, and disliking them remained taboo. If you’ve ever told a date, a classmate, a mentor or a friend that you can’t watch Tarantino because you find his work to be exploitative of women, only to be informed that you simply don’t understand his art, the indisputable revelation this month that he’s a bona fide creep is, in a small but real way, liberating. It’s something solid to cling to, at last, evidence that you’re not overreacting or too obtuse to appreciate the aesthetic perfection of his tobacco-spit trajectories. Distaste for his work, often cast as a mental flaw or tragic unhipness, has become, in an instant, a mark of discernment.

In a tit-for-tat sense, it does seem just that artists like Louis C.K. and Tarantino ― whose reputations were long bolstered by the plaudits of critics and the reflexive hipster posturing of fans ― have now slid to the wrong end of the “my taste is better than yours” hierarchy. That’s not the point of this moment, nor should the goal of this reassessment be to simply unseat one set of white male icons, to turn the same smugly superior judgment on their fans that their detractors have experienced. It’s only human, though, to feel vindicated.

And yet, vindication isn’t the only feeling at play. There’s something about this sudden shift that’s wildly infuriating as well. Oh, NOW you’re listening? I thought recently when a writer I’d criticized as sexist ― only to have my critique neatly brushed aside by male colleagues and friends ― faced career consequences after being accused of personal misbehavior toward women. Why couldn’t you take me seriously when I broke down all the none-too-subtle misogyny in his writing?

Saying “I always hated his work” might be a cheap hipster pose, but it also might be bitterness born of long-suppressed, impotent anger. If you’ve grown used to being shamed or condescended to for caring about an ugly thread that everyone else seemed to be overlooking, the sudden shift is gratifying, but also exhausting. All the years of churn and self-doubt suddenly feel like a cruel, unnecessary burden forced on you by the people who insisted you were wrong.

So go ahead; vent your spleen. Give yourself the tiny shred of comfort that comes from claiming your long-simmering, now-validated disdain. Take the opportunity to try, once again, to have a real debate about the artistic merit of works like “Kill Bill” and “Manhattan.” It’s a first step to envisioning a world that isn’t just rid of monsters, but that actually offers everyone an equal place in constructing our culture.

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How The Fashion World Glamorizes Rape, Abuse, And Murder

Outside of a Zoolander situation, the fashion industry is about as dangerous as wearing plaid with stripes (that is, once you’re past the production phase). Or that’s what you might think if it’s been a while since you’ve thumbed through a filthy Vogue at the dentist. Contemporary fashion advertising is all about beautiful lifeless women, usually lying in puddles of artfully applied grime and contorted into broken, corpse-like sprawls.

Lula Called the “The dog got the Barbie” pose by industry insiders.

It doesn’t always bother with subtlety:

CBS Season 1 Walking Dead corpses were less messed up.

Some of these images, like this shot from a series called Pretty Wasted, can be hard to distinguish from real crime scene photos. But damn, that jacket, though.

Fabien Baron Marc Jacobs: vomit- and blood-resistant!

This is such a widely accepted theme in fashion that America’s Next Top Model ran an episode dedicated to it. The models were “killed” in different ways — stabbed, mangled, electrocuted, etc. Real … beautiful stuff?

To be fair, half of The CW is about lusting for the undead.

The judges didn’t say, “Wait a second … are we making snuff porn?” at any point. Instead they offered comments like “Very beautiful, and dead” or “Death becomes you, young lady.” They even scolded one of the models for not looking dead enough. To be fair, that’s been about 75 percent of a model’s job since the early ’90s or so. (The other 25 percent is “smizing,” and please do not question how we know that.)

The trend is oddly popular right now, but it’s not new. Renowned fashion photographer Guy Bordain shot this for a calendar in 1980:

Happy hemophilia awareness month!

Like other media, necrophiliac fashion photography is governed by a set of well-defined, ghoulish rules. If there’s a man in the shot, he’ll have a creepily calm, methodical expression. There’s no anger on his face, and definitely no remorse. He isn’t somebody who would kill a woman in a fit of rage; he’s a focused and psychopathic killer. Take this Duncan Quinn ad from 2008. The guy’s expression of mild, indifferent surprise would be more at home on the face of a man who’s just received an extra side of fries than one holding an exquisitely designed noose.

Plus, that’s not even the optimal choke angle.

It might make a perverse sort of sense if this trend were confined to minor players in the fashion industry — avant-garde types who design dresses of rotting leaves and such — but the heavy hitters have gotten in on it too. Jimmy Choo apparently decided there was no sexier look than “bachelor party gone awry.” Incidentally, the menacing-looking gentleman holding the shovel there is Grammy-award-winning music producer Quincy Jones.

Annie’s not okay.

Can you guess what’s being advertised there? Cars? Sunglasses? Designer shovels?

Did you guess shoes?

“Expensively adorned feet dangling from the inside of a trunk” is a very specific subcategory that shoe designers love almost as much as they hate feet.

Maybe the boots were strong enough to kick the trunk open?

“Women killed on, in, or somewhere nearby a car” fashion goes back decades, all the way to this photo from 1966:

“She’s protecting the grill from mud.”

Read Next

5 Ways Applying For A Job Is Hopelessly Stacked Against You

But of course, no American art form would be complete without guns. There are rules here, too. If she’s not already dead, the woman must be cowering in an improbable position at gunpoint. The environment is always a completely bare, undecorated room, evoking a distinct “murder basement” aesthetic. Sometimes the killer is out of shot, making it easier for the viewer to imagine themselves in his place. Photographer Tyler Shields is particularly into this style, and apparently great at talking celebrities into going along with his fetish. If you can’t tell because she’s been blurred into unrecognizability, this is Lindsay Lohan.

This was months before real life blurred her into unrecognizability.

Shields did a similar shoot with Hayden Panettiere, and had her fellate the gun, in case nobody got it yet:

At least this one isn’t advertising clothes, we’re pretty sure.

Or take this 1997 ad by fashion photography legend Helmut Newton. Dingy, bare room? Check. Anonymous out-of-frame man with a gun? Check. The urge to have a good shower cry after seeing the ad? Check and check.

Bulletproof bags would sell great in America today, but that was no excuse.

Fashion ads depicting domestic violence typically go for a woman with clear, detailed bruising and a calm, focused man standing in the background or right out of frame. Like this photo shoot for the Bulgarian 12 Magazine, which was widely criticized as glamorizing domestic violence.

“No no no, we’re domestic violence-ing glamour!”

Another shoot by Tyler Shields (That guy has multiple issues? Who could’a foreseen!) features an extreme closeup of Heather Morris with a black eye. In another shot, her wrists are bound with an iron’s electrical cord. Y’know, what might pass for thought-provoking symbolism in an art gallery sorta loses its impact when it’s being used to promote Glee.

This kind of thing seems like it would be a product of the past, back when it was acceptable for your husband to beat you for buying the wrong coffee. But this ad for a Canadian hair salon, which implores customers to “look good in all you do” (including getting beaten) is from 2011.

Why is the only thing worse-looking than the eye her hair?

A 2014 issue of Vogue Italia ran a shoot whose target audience consisted solely of Patrick Bateman:

The glamorous gang rape is another bizarre mainstay of fashion photography. In this genre, a woman is shown surrounded and held in place by one or more men. Her expression is usually blank, as are the faces of those surrounding her. This 2007 Dolce & Gabbana ad — which became so notorious that everybody from Italian textile workers to Amnesty International called for its boycott — was excused by Stefano Gabbana as “an erotic dream, a sexual game.” Weird, because no one in the ad seems to be having a good time.

“D&G: uncomfortable during a gang bang” proved an honest but unsuccessful slogan.

That lesson was learned by no one, and a few years later, Calvin Klein did something similar.

This one was even banned in Australia, where bizarre and fucked-up deaths are accepted and commonplace.

And then there’s “The Wrong Turn,” by Indian photographer Raj Shetye, released not long after a 23-year-old student was raped in New Delhi by six men on a bus.

Classy!

What do all these images have in common? They’re all fantasies about exerting power over helpless women. That’s more than a little weird, considering most of them are supposed to be selling products to those same women. In what world is “I’m gonna kill you, bitch” considered a tantalizing sales pitch?

If you loved this article and want more content like this, support our site with a visit to our Contribution Page. Or sign up for our Subscription Service for exclusive content, an ad-free experience, and more.

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A couple of weeks ago I was watching an episode of Fox’s new hit show ‘Star’ that addressed an issue we rarely see on television, let alone prime time. Not long after, ABC’s 20/20 aired a new episode seemingly addressing the same issue. What issue? Gay conversion therapy.

Check out this scene featuring singer Tyrese and transgender actress  Amiyah Scott.

Praying Away The Gay from Charlie R on Vimeo.

What Is Gay Conversion Therapy?

Gay conversion therapy, or “reparative therapy,” is a controversial and discredited “treatment” aimed at attempting to change or convert a person’s sexual orientation (always from gay or bi to straight) or gender identity, like featured in the above clip.

Practices included in conversion therapy have been rejected by almost every mainstream medical and mental health organization. However, the only states that currently have laws in place preventing licensed mental health providers from offering conversion therapy to minors are California, Illinois, New Jersey, Oregon, Vermont, and the District of Columbia (D.C.). Additionally,  20 more states have introduced similar legislation. But you can do the math. That still leaves gay minors in half of the country unprotected.

Throughout history, gay conversion therapy has included:

Psychological treatments

Institutionalization

Faith-based counseling aimed at changing a person’s sexuality/ gender identity

Chemical castration

Hormonal therapy

Electroshock treatment

Today, gay conversion therapy mostly include:

Aversive conditioning (use of something unpleasant, or a punishment to stop an unwanted behavior)

Cognitive treatments

Psychoanalysis

Although the treatments conversion camps use today are far less extreme, they are equally void of any scientific validity. So how and why are these camps legal? One word: Religion.

How and Why Is It Still Legal?

I’m sure most people wonder how in the world can these type of camps be legal if they do not hold any scientific validity that they actually work? Easy, they hide under the guise of religion. By establishing a religious foundation for their schools, conversion therapy camps usually go unnoticed and unwatched. In most cases, parents send their children to camps outside their native state, making it almost impossible for them to escape.

To me, these schools sound like the perfect setting for a horror film. Except, this is real life for some gays. The good news is, the more we talk about it, the more people know what’s really going on. But what happens when said treatments don’t work? To what extent are adults willing to go to pray or punish the gay away.

Take the state of Alabama, for instance.

John Young, the pastor of a private Christian boot camp called Restoration Youth Academy, formerly known as Saving Youth Foundation, was arrested, charged, and convicted of five accounts of aggravated child abuse. He received a 20-year prison sentence for his role in performing gay conversion tactics that often led to abuse.

He, along with two other camp leaders, William Knott and Aleshia Moffett, was also convicted and are serving 20-year sentences. It took nearly five years for the investigation to conclude. Five years!! Can you imagine how many students underwent abuse? The abuse that, I’m sure, was legitimized by the bible.

Currently, there is a website dedicated to healing those that were affected or abused by the Youth Academy. The website provides an hour-long feature, explaining what was actually happening at the Youth Academy. The website also provides the names of the staff and counselors employed at the Youth Academy in hopes to bring light to unsafe employees.

You can check out the link here

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It’s 2017…

It’s 2017 and you’d think that we wouldn’t have to pass laws to protect our children, but we do. You see, as much as we may look up to celebrities or our parents, sometimes we forget that they’re actually human. The idea that they are wrong or leading us down the wrong path rarely crosses our minds. But they do and we should.

I don’t know what it’s like to have a gay child, but I’m sure it is quite difficult. But, you know what’s harder? Actually being gay. It’s unfortunate that the kids who seemingly need the most help and the most guidance are often the ones left aside. It’s 2017 and you’d think that people would realize that you cannot pray away the gay. If that were the case, your church choir director would… never mind. Honestly, if prayer is all you needed to be straight, then I’d be married with kids by now.

IIt’s 2017 and unfortunately in Trump’s America, gay conversion therapy is still around. Vice President Mike Pence advocates for “institutions which provide support for those seeking to change their behavior.” In short, what the GOP wants is the “religious freedom” for parents and professionals to subject their child to brainwashing and physical abuse tactics.

Even Katy Perry recently admitted to “pray[ing] away the gay at Jesus Camps,” while accepting an award for LGBT advocacy. [super side eye]

I’m not a parent and not sure if I’ll ever be one. But I have been black and I have been gay my entire life. What children need is unconditional love and support from their parents as they figure things out. Not every curious thought or fantasy makes you gay.

Lastly, stop allowing your religion or your pastor to convince you that harming others is the right way to go. I can tell you, it is not. Anything violent or hateful does not come from the God you claim to serve. That hate comes from YOU.

At the end of the day, the simple fact is gay conversion therapy or camps have proven not to work. It. Doesn’t. Work. Gay conversion therapy is a gateway act to abuse- both mental and physical.

A long time ago, I remember coming home late from clubbing and catching a movie on Showtime called But I’m A Cheerleader. But I’m A Cheerleader is a satirical comedy about a cheerleader who was sent to gay conversion camp to cure her lesbianism. Immediately, I knew it was supposed to be satirical, however, I didn’t realize how much it mirrors many lives… even today.

If you’ve never seen it, I recommend it. It is hilarious and I guarantee you will see a bunch of actors you recognize. Check out the preview below.

Would you?… Could you send your child to a conversion camp?

Praying The Gay Away A couple of weeks ago I was watching an episode of Fox's new hit show 'Star' that addressed an issue we rarely see on television, let alone prime time.

How The Fashion World Glamorizes Rape, Abuse, And Murder

Outside of a Zoolander situation, the fashion industry is about as dangerous as wearing plaid with stripes (that is, once you’re past the production phase). Or that’s what you might think if it’s been a while since you’ve thumbed through a filthy Vogue at the dentist. Contemporary fashion advertising is all about beautiful lifeless women, usually lying in puddles of artfully applied grime and contorted into broken, corpse-like sprawls.

Lula Called the “The dog got the Barbie” pose by industry insiders.

It doesn’t always bother with subtlety:

CBS Season 1 Walking Dead corpses were less messed up.

Some of these images, like this shot from a series called Pretty Wasted, can be hard to distinguish from real crime scene photos. But damn, that jacket, though.

Fabien Baron Marc Jacobs: vomit- and blood-resistant!

This is such a widely accepted theme in fashion that America’s Next Top Model ran an episode dedicated to it. The models were “killed” in different ways — stabbed, mangled, electrocuted, etc. Real … beautiful stuff?

To be fair, half of The CW is about lusting for the undead.

The judges didn’t say, “Wait a second … are we making snuff porn?” at any point. Instead they offered comments like “Very beautiful, and dead” or “Death becomes you, young lady.” They even scolded one of the models for not looking dead enough. To be fair, that’s been about 75 percent of a model’s job since the early ’90s or so. (The other 25 percent is “smizing,” and please do not question how we know that.)

The trend is oddly popular right now, but it’s not new. Renowned fashion photographer Guy Bordain shot this for a calendar in 1980:

Happy hemophilia awareness month!

Like other media, necrophiliac fashion photography is governed by a set of well-defined, ghoulish rules. If there’s a man in the shot, he’ll have a creepily calm, methodical expression. There’s no anger on his face, and definitely no remorse. He isn’t somebody who would kill a woman in a fit of rage; he’s a focused and psychopathic killer. Take this Duncan Quinn ad from 2008. The guy’s expression of mild, indifferent surprise would be more at home on the face of a man who’s just received an extra side of fries than one holding an exquisitely designed noose.

Plus, that’s not even the optimal choke angle.

It might make a perverse sort of sense if this trend were confined to minor players in the fashion industry — avant-garde types who design dresses of rotting leaves and such — but the heavy hitters have gotten in on it too. Jimmy Choo apparently decided there was no sexier look than “bachelor party gone awry.” Incidentally, the menacing-looking gentleman holding the shovel there is Grammy-award-winning music producer Quincy Jones.

Annie’s not okay.

Can you guess what’s being advertised there? Cars? Sunglasses? Designer shovels?

Did you guess shoes?

“Expensively adorned feet dangling from the inside of a trunk” is a very specific subcategory that shoe designers love almost as much as they hate feet.

Maybe the boots were strong enough to kick the trunk open?

“Women killed on, in, or somewhere nearby a car” fashion goes back decades, all the way to this photo from 1966:

“She’s protecting the grill from mud.”

Read Next

5 Ways Applying For A Job Is Hopelessly Stacked Against You

But of course, no American art form would be complete without guns. There are rules here, too. If she’s not already dead, the woman must be cowering in an improbable position at gunpoint. The environment is always a completely bare, undecorated room, evoking a distinct “murder basement” aesthetic. Sometimes the killer is out of shot, making it easier for the viewer to imagine themselves in his place. Photographer Tyler Shields is particularly into this style, and apparently great at talking celebrities into going along with his fetish. If you can’t tell because she’s been blurred into unrecognizability, this is Lindsay Lohan.

This was months before real life blurred her into unrecognizability.

Shields did a similar shoot with Hayden Panettiere, and had her fellate the gun, in case nobody got it yet:

At least this one isn’t advertising clothes, we’re pretty sure.

Or take this 1997 ad by fashion photography legend Helmut Newton. Dingy, bare room? Check. Anonymous out-of-frame man with a gun? Check. The urge to have a good shower cry after seeing the ad? Check and check.

Bulletproof bags would sell great in America today, but that was no excuse.

Fashion ads depicting domestic violence typically go for a woman with clear, detailed bruising and a calm, focused man standing in the background or right out of frame. Like this photo shoot for the Bulgarian 12 Magazine, which was widely criticized as glamorizing domestic violence.

“No no no, we’re domestic violence-ing glamour!”

Another shoot by Tyler Shields (That guy has multiple issues? Who could’a foreseen!) features an extreme closeup of Heather Morris with a black eye. In another shot, her wrists are bound with an iron’s electrical cord. Y’know, what might pass for thought-provoking symbolism in an art gallery sorta loses its impact when it’s being used to promote Glee.

This kind of thing seems like it would be a product of the past, back when it was acceptable for your husband to beat you for buying the wrong coffee. But this ad for a Canadian hair salon, which implores customers to “look good in all you do” (including getting beaten) is from 2011.

Why is the only thing worse-looking than the eye her hair?

A 2014 issue of Vogue Italia ran a shoot whose target audience consisted solely of Patrick Bateman:

The glamorous gang rape is another bizarre mainstay of fashion photography. In this genre, a woman is shown surrounded and held in place by one or more men. Her expression is usually blank, as are the faces of those surrounding her. This 2007 Dolce & Gabbana ad — which became so notorious that everybody from Italian textile workers to Amnesty International called for its boycott — was excused by Stefano Gabbana as “an erotic dream, a sexual game.” Weird, because no one in the ad seems to be having a good time.

“D&G: uncomfortable during a gang bang” proved an honest but unsuccessful slogan.

That lesson was learned by no one, and a few years later, Calvin Klein did something similar.

This one was even banned in Australia, where bizarre and fucked-up deaths are accepted and commonplace.

And then there’s “The Wrong Turn,” by Indian photographer Raj Shetye, released not long after a 23-year-old student was raped in New Delhi by six men on a bus.

Classy!

What do all these images have in common? They’re all fantasies about exerting power over helpless women. That’s more than a little weird, considering most of them are supposed to be selling products to those same women. In what world is “I’m gonna kill you, bitch” considered a tantalizing sales pitch?

If you loved this article and want more content like this, support our site with a visit to our Contribution Page. Or sign up for our Subscription Service for exclusive content, an ad-free experience, and more.

For more, check out 18 Ridiculously Sexist Modern Ad Campaigns and Shockingly Offensive Ads That Came Out Way Too Recently.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel, and check out 7 Racist And Sexist Ads That Are Shockingly Recent, and watch other videos you won’t see on the site!

Also follow us on Facebook. We’re all friends here.

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