#Visage || Nancy Drew

[foreficfandom]

POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 2 - "Flashbacks")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

Alastor was always a man who craved control and attention. Ninety-odd years of being a demon has long since mutated his mortal desires into a festering appetite. While he was alive, it was a very mundane longing for the spotlight. Being the sought-after host of his own radio show was as close as being his own boss he could realistically hope for. The masses could listen and fawn over his charisma and humor while ignorant of his champagne hue.

If he wanted more, he would have to turn to drastic measures.

Young Alastor had made the station affluent, so they could afford to get their hands on any show recording they wished. One autumn, they aired The Witch’s Tale, a trailblazer for being the first horror-themed show on the radio. It garnered controversy from the conservative crowd, but ratings didn’t lie. New Orleans loved the series.

Alastor relayed the local news in his typical rapid-fire speech, a fashionable showman’s chatter made even faster thanks to his Creole blood, and as he speed-read his script in real time, he recited a quick advertisement for Madame Jones’ Hot Comb Oil before running the magnetic carbon ribbons of The Witch’s Tale. Voices of the actors took over the air. He drew a breath from a cigarette and leaned back on his chair. Alastor’s voice was now due for a rest until the current tape ran dry.

This was his first time hearing the show as well. Short horror tales were narrated by a fictional character named Old Nancy, one of the witches from Salem. The first tale was of a Venus statue come to life to slay the son of its sculptor, the second adapted from the real life confessions of the convicted Scottish witch Isobel Gowdie, the third clearly ripped off from Stevenson’s The Bottle Imp, and so on. After each tape, Alastor came back on the air for more news, advertisements, and the occasional social commentary. A quick joke about the Nipponese making waves on the West coast, a little update on McKinley’s first year back in office.

If he were to be candid, each episode of The Witch’s Tale was a gamble of hit or miss. Some were near contrived. But a few were quite satisfactory.

Most interesting was the narrator. After each tale, Old Nancy would reveal a bit more of her backstory. She never married. She grew her own food and earned her own money selling poultices. She may or may not have slept with both men and women. Her cat was a demon familiar. Her house was constructed partly from the bones of her victims.

Alastor found himself lost in thought. A young maiden, a pregnant mother, and an old widow swam through his mind. But the fourth woman … standing apart from the others, free from the grasp of a husband’s heavy greedy fist, proudly dangerous. A woman alone, but free. The maiden, matron, and crone, and now the witch.

Suddenly, Alastor saw himself repeated four times in place of the women. He was the scrawny teenage boy, then his current self, then a wizened old man, and in place of the witch was this enchanting visage of his long-lived personal fantasy, chest thrust upwards and smile brazen.

He tapped his fingers against his stomach as a strange thought overtook him. Could one become the witch?

Could Alastor be truly free from the Man’s grasp?

Hidden deep in the winding alleyways of New Orleans, voodoo was still going strong despite the coppers’ efforts. When mother was still alive, she would buy dry goods and miscellaneous wares from a small negro outlet run by Haitian immigrants, and locals knew that the shop’s upstairs hid a small voodoo church, an open secret amongst those uninterested in contacting police for any reason, even if they themselves weren’t practitioners.

Alastor knew nothing of voodoo. Mother was Lutheran, father had apparently been a loose Catholic. Church Sundays had tapered off by the time Alastor was nine, as did house praying aside from Christmas eve, and mother was near illiterate so there was no Bible reading. He never asked her if she was still faithful after dropping the more superfluous habits. Alastor’s heart ached at the thought of mother barred from the gates of Heaven.

He heard the horror stories of this dread voodoo religion. He, himself, has recited many sensational reports of sacrificial rituals and cannibalistic orgies, almost certainly all fear-mongering bullshit, but plenty enough believed that voodoo witches and warlocks used a black magic. Cursing good Christian families to die of plague, using living shadows to ensnare children away, poppets with needles, sigils that glow, that sort of malarkey.

If I could curse people, or control a tangible shadow, it would be a right gasser, he thought to himself.

A steady list of potential victims formed in his mind. Number one, the man who abandoned his wife and child to a stricken life of poverty. Just harmless daydreaming. Maybe.

Alastor used to say to himself, ‘thank God’ that mother was such a genius, otherwise they’d never have survived.

He wonders if he would soon be swearing different oaths.

—

To your nose, virginity didn’t have a strong smell or energy, but innocence did. The first time the two of you met, you had sensed Alastor’s putrid, gore-soaked body roaming the hotel long before he could sense you approaching the front door, although you allowed him to believe he had the upper hand. Murderers, especially those who lusted, were very blatant. A subtle pang told you that Alastor didn’t lust for flesh like many men did. His body smelled virgin, but more telling, his powers would not be affected should that come to change. After all, only someone uncaring of an aspiration would not evolve from achieving it.

Alastor was not innocent. Not like princess Charlie. Not like the children sinner souls.

He may not have a clue what Angel Dust meant by wearing a “special sort of ring ”, but hunger had many forms.

Flesh, blood, and bone were common sacrifices made to manifest power. A human’s physiology cultivated some of its greatest energy from fats and protein, so it made sense why Alastor’s curse would force him to fuel by consuming meat. But if he were in kinder circumstances, he might have instead been encouraged to eat any other sort of matter, or not fuel himself through food at all.

Clearly, Alastor’s debtors wanted to corrupt the man beyond what murder would do to his mind and soul. The more Alastor killed, the more he ate, the more powerful he grew, and the more he’d need to eat. He became a slave to his appetite.

You wondered if it was because they couldn’t affect him through his loins, so they chose the closest alternative.

In any case, Alastor did resent his need for nourishment, just not nearly as much as he resented the actual chains. It helped that he has always found fulfillment in creating, eating, and sharing food, and there was a very good place in Hell for that kind of attitude.

Cannibal Town didn’t become a proper, distinct district until Overlord Rosie’s rise to status. The industrial revolution had created a great epidemic of poverty, and many struggling in the developing American frontier had turned to cannibalizing the dead to survive, from the children to the elderly, only tapering off when a successful ‘20’s economy rose to the rescue. Rosie turned the predominant Edwardian-era population into its current image. Walking through Cannibal Town’s streets of petticoats and boater hats, it was like stepping back into one of your past lifetimes as a New Yorker under Taft, watching Florence Lawrence in picture shows and seeing oreo cookies on the shelves for the first time.

In fact, ‘oreo’ biscuits were sold in Cannibal Town, imitating their original tin box packaging, but they were made with rendered human fat rather than pork tallow. Rosie wanted her people to embrace their partaking, rather than languish in their past sins, or hide their undying appetite. Human flesh wasn’t an addictive substance, but cannibalism certainly was. It was as habit forming as any other ritual gesture, like how Vaggie wakes up in the morning to tie her hair ribbon right-over-left, or how Husk always arranges the bar’s bottle storage just so, or how Alastor uses an old pewter pot to boil his coffee over the stove fire. Many of these antiquated cannibals treat their slaying, butchering, and eating with the same love they used to have for the Eucharist.

Alastor’s affinity for Cannibal Town wasn’t quite because he felt kinship between their cannibalism. Fondness for Rosie aside, it was the best source of properly prepared human meat for sale, trimmed and bled as thoroughly as venison chuck. Passionate cook he may be, but he never had the patience for true butchering. Especially whilst mortal, and in Hell, a victim could easily be ten feet tall with several limbs. Who aside from the butcher had time to set aside eight hours for that?

No, Alastor’s reasons and fondness for partaking wasn’t commonly shared amongst the Cannibal Town locals. Most likened it to a sexual gratification. Many saw it as an alternative way to rape the weak. Some saw it as their only outlet for frustration. Some just wanted to fit in.

And to them, cannibalism was a very social hobby. Proper ladies found great sisterhood in tearing into a corpse like starving wolves, respectable men could now exercise their libido amongst other men by delving deep into flesh as a group. But whilst Alastor, too, socialized through food, eating mortal flesh was his curse, not his indulgence.

You knew for a fact that ever since the inception of his deal, Alastor's clause for cannibalism would quickly morph into an honest taste for it, but Alastor could only hypothesize if that was the case, or he just simply lost his mind sometime after his fourth killing.

Alastor shook himself out of his reverie as he approached the door to his favorite Cannibal Town grocer, you following close behind. He had been finding himself lost in his own thoughts more and more often, lately. No doubt due to your influence.

He could have shut down in complete bewilderment, but he was Alastor, damn it all, so he will garner the bravery to take the next step forward, then the step after that, and so on.

Towards a brighter future, he dared to hope.

He opened the door for you, and the two of you entered the little store. Like all grocers before the ‘50’s, the wares weren’t self-serve. Alastor summoned a paper list, and read off what he wanted to purchase. The mustached shopkeeper brought forward each item onto the counter before ringing them up on the register, using an old exertion scale for the fresh goods. A pound of dried red beans, a rasher of salted belly, a loaf of sugar, three pounds worth of scrap shin bones, and four red capsicums. You noticed that the capsicums - the bell peppers - were the smaller, pointier variety sold during Alastor’s lifetime, before cultivation increased their size and yield. Likewise, the sugar loaf was compressed into an old-fashioned triangular cone, wrapped in paper, not a pure white but a light flaxy yellow from its residue molasses. All the manufacturer’s labels were a parody of their living equivalents. The burlap sack of Camellia-brand kidney beans was of a bloody heart with green, thorny vines named “Carnillia”, instead of the original round flower.

The shopkeeper wrapped the raw meats into their own smaller bag. It went unsaid, but they were obviously human remains. You reached forwards to carry the groceries whilst Alastor was occupied with paying, but then said to you, “Nonsense, dear,” and reclaimed the load in a gentlemanly manner. A polite, but largely useless gesture, as it’d take monolithic mass to truly test your physical prowess, and Alastor had his own increased strength as an Overlord.

In fact, the last time you struggled to carry an object with all your true power, it had created a black hole where it fell.

Part of Alastor’s original deal for power was certainly to improve his meager physical ability, as he was like many young men who pictured their ideal self boasting some petal to the metal. His lean muscles did not swell, and he couldn’t bench-press an automobile, but he did find a great force behind his punches, and his running speed, and even when he twisted open a pickle jar. It had been a relatively mundane boon compared to his showier magic, but the knowledge that you couldn’t be physically overtaken was intoxicatingly empowering. Alastor finally understood why burly brutes acted so brazen, even if his silhouette didn’t display it.

Yes, his original deal was as righteous as any young person’s plea for bravery. But whilst some may only ask for a sword, he had asked for a legion.

And by mother’s grave, he got it.

Father had been his original sacrifice. He tracked down the drunkard squatting in a Chalmette hobo jungle, and knifed him in the belly until the wretch’s blood flow slowed to a crawl. He spent all night dragging the corpse across town and to the lake, right where the most notorious of voodoo orgies were said to take place, and mimicked the manbo’s ceremony, finger painting vèvè before shouting - begging, screaming, really - for anybody or anything to answer him.

He always tries to avoid remembering what came next.

Mother hadn’t passed, yet, but she was on her deathbed. She had been fighting scarlet fever for weeks, and pneumonia had developed. Alastor himself had a brief sick spell due to contamination, but he refused to move out of the house. If his mother was about to leave this world, he wanted to be there.

Mother’s pauper’s burial was baptized in Alastor’s second killing. A eugenic small-time politician one neighborhood over, who would have never achieved his meager position if it wasn’t for connections, thanks to the scandal of marrying his fourteen-year-old niece. For this attack, Alastor let his new powers bloom freely, but his inexperience left the corpse a complete mangled mess. Indeed, the shocking state of the body was what first sparked rumors of the Butcher Of New Orleans. Named so because of the man’s conspicuously missing flesh and organs, leading the police to rightly profile the suspect as a cannibal.

Life went on. Alastor’s mind and mood matured, and he hit his stride. He grew from radio host to radio star. He made plenty of honest friendships. He found innocent fun, and also learned to refine his not-so-innocent ones. By age 37, Alastor had a celebrity career, a Cadillac automobile, a sparkling reputation, and a total body count of twenty-eight men.

A month before he would turn 38, he found himself in hell. He remembered that his first action was to look around, expecting to see his father as if the man would, by chance, be standing on the nearby street corner. He looked up, and saw the glowing celestial body that must be heaven, high above and unreachable.

He wondered if mother was simultaneously looking down. Or was she still waiting for her dutiful son to show up and join her? Alastor had made great effort to ensure that mother never knew of how much of a monster her son really was.

Slowly coming back to the present, Alastor found himself wistfully looking at the morning sky as the two of you waited for traffic to halt. The haloed planisphere was partially hidden by daytime cloud cover, but one could spot the ever present gateway to heaven just about visible.

You followed Alastor’s gaze to the skies above. As remote as heaven may seem to the eye, you knew that it wasn’t a matter of distance. After all, heaven and hell weren’t places. They were states of being. You told him so last night, since he was under the impression that with just enough power, he could track down his debtor.

Unfortunately, if a suitably powerful being didn’t want to be found, no amount of searching would work.

He had bristled at that, fur on his ears standing, and paced away.

Then spun around with renewed, fake bravado, and said he would lure them here.

“How?” you asked.

He had no idea, but just twirled his cane into both hands with a closed eye grin. Apparently, he’d think of something.

Before the night concluded, he told you that all these earth-shattering revelations would have to be mulled over a hefty serving of his favorite comfort food, so you and him would dine privately a stew of baked beans. An especially fatty and. Well. Cannibalistic recipe of his.

So it came to be that the two of you left the hotel early next morning for some shopping, which of course caught the eye of nearby Niffty, who would most certainly be relaying the latest gossip to everyone else.

Let them talk. Alastor loved being the hottest gossip topic, and the friendships you choose to keep are yours alone.

Of course, most of them suspected that there was more than friendship involved. Not the wording you’d choose, but perhaps it wasn’t inaccurate.

There was divinity between the two of you, now. Every time you’ve muddled in mortal affairs, great cosmic connections formed between your souls. Inevitable, considering who you were, but they often had great repercussions. You considered every one of them worth the trouble.

That afternoon, the two of you entered the kitchen once more, but this time you stood by and watched as Alastor prepared a kettle to hang over his fireplace. Per his request (demands), you arrived to his room at eight on the dot to his little table set with sliced bread and a decanter of whiskey. The pocket swamp beyond was darkened and dotted with lazy fireflies. A radio station played, but not from the two sat on his bookshelf, nor emitting from Alastor himself, just directionless in the air as if the room itself breathed radio.

“Please, come on in,” he bowed, just a tad overweening. Say what you will about the man, he bounces back from existential despair pretty gracefully.

One of the seats slid out on its own accord. You sat obligingly to the tantalizing smell of spice, partially masking your ability to detect the human remains in the stew. As Alastor sat across from you, the disembodied radio chatter in the air twitched frequencies to instead play a wordless ballad.

“I took the liberty of choosing tonight’s choice of drink,” he said, pouring whiskey for the both of you. “I know it’s a bit early in the evening for the mule, but indulge this pitiful sinner.”

“It’s your meal, after all.” And true enough, Alastor stood no ceremony in digging a spoon deep into his bowl. Alcohol had its particular effects on you, so you reversed the fermentation of your whiskey into a poof of evaporated ethanol and a wet pile of sugar, mostly to amuse yourself, also to sneak a pinch of malt into your bow to cut some of the fat. Alastor had made the stew so rich, you could probably alchemize a toddler from the lipids.

You watched as Alastor relished deeply in his first spoonful. Fats, you remembered, was sometimes a more affordable grocery than sugar or flour, depending on the slaughter season. A poor Alastor would have grown up being treated to cheap, streaky bacon more often than beignets or hot cocoa.

“Just as mother made it,” he sighed wistfully, as if reading your mind. Far from the first time he’s mentioned his mother aloud, but before it had always been a set up for a jape, his comedian nature never at rest, and not unfiltered sentimentality. He must know that it was useless to hide secrets from you.

You forwent the malt sugar to taste the dish as it was intended. Surprisingly, it was shockingly laced with pure intentions that caressed your tongue and made tears well up behind your eyes. You didn’t think Alastor was capable of it.

It tasted like love.

Maybe he had more of a chance than you first thought.

—

Supper continued throughout the night. Alastor downed one, two, and was working on his third bowl before the conversation turned to the elephant in the room.

“- and when I kill the wretches souls who’ve clipped me like a duckling, I’ll -”

“Cool the jets, Alastor. We’d have to find them, first.” You stepped in before he could wind himself up.

“See, I’ve been thinking,” he took a hearty swig from his third glass of whiskey, "take it from a man with a couple of his own eggs in the basket. You know what makes a debtor knock on the front door faster than a twinkle?”

“What?”

He grinned angrily. “If he thinks there’s more debt to be had. You spot a way to keep your favorite minion closer to your chest for longer, you take it before someone else can.”

With a twist of his wrist, he downed his glass and slammed it none too quietly on the table. His eyes no longer meeting yours and burning holes into the wall over your elbow. “So! You help me advertise my devilish self as desperate for another deal, or perhaps just a clever amendment clause or two, and I promise you, they’ll show up.”

“And then what’ll we do?”

“End their wretched lives! What else?”

“Life began millions of years ago, and it hasn’t stopped since. Your jailer has long since learned to take advantage of that.” You calmly lounged with loosely crossed legs and arms, while Alastor was beginning to hover over the table like an angry ape. “There’s no way to ‘end their life’ in a manner you’d care about.”

With his face so close, you could smell the whiskey on his tongue along with an unfortunate whiff of antiquated dental hygiene standards. He wasn’t quite yet drunk, but was certainly not sober.

Your words gave him pause, but a radio star never let dead air stagnate. “Well, perhaps it was never a matter of killing them. No proper creditor makes their debtor more powerful than he.”

You said, “Your leash has its share of loopholes and weakness, like all contracts do. There’s never a way to fully avoid them, so most make additions that forbid them.”

Green stitches all along his maw. In one blink, you saw Alastor in his full pitiful glory, glowing neon-bright inverted hues, rotted body held together haphazardly with unforgiving threads. In another blink, Alastor was his normal outward self.

Back and forth you flipped your vision, trying to find any clues or conclusions. Snipping the threads would just make him fall apart. There must be a gentler conclusion.

Suddenly, you remembered what he said. “Alastor, how many debtors do you own?”

“Oh, I can’t remember the exact number. Ninety years is a long time. The answer’s somewhere in my ledger, I’m sure,” he waved a hand.

“Lend me a look. Please,” you added when Alastor’s glare turned vicious, “it’s important. You can trust me.”

“Now, how in the world would my own roster matter to my predicament?”

You leaned forward, meeting Alastor’s couched posture in the middle. “I made a promise, didn’t I? I promised you true liberty. If you want my help, then let me help.” You kept your voice low as if whispering a secret, even though no one was around to overhear. No one Alastor could see, anyways.

A heartbeat passed, then another. Then, with a great crackling of old vertebrae like he had suddenly aged decades, Alastor reigned in his defenses.

Has he ever yielded so completely since granted his powers? No wonder it felt so dreadful, like shaking off a carpet of cobwebs.

Never let it be known that Alastor was a chap who couldn’t learn something new, you heard him think bitterly. A dry exhale aired throughout the room as elongated shadows retreated, electric bulbs shone brighter, and the fireplace changed from eye-searing blacklight back to its natural warm glow.

Nonchalant smile back on his face, Alastor wiped his hands with a napkin and stood.

“Ah well. No time like the present, then?”

[timeguardiansarchive]

[screenviolense-a]

cyberpunk kinsey cyberpunk kinsey cyberpunk kinsey

[thesweetestcherryx]

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[girlsofhawkins]

@musesoftheupsidedown

STRANGER THINGS | “HOLLY, JOLLY”

[extensusmusae]

tag dump -- nancy

[staarryniights]

tag dump--

[extrabeurre]

15 nominations pour LA DÉESSE DES MOUCHES À FEU au Gala Québec Cinéma 2021

Une autre année pas comme les autres pour le Gala Québec Cinéma, alors que les salles ont longtemps été fermées, ce qui n’a pas empêché une vingtaine de longs métrages de fiction de prendre l’affiche.

Dans la catégorie Meilleur film, on retrouve quatre des films qui ont été le plus vus et appréciés, soit Le club Vinland, La déesse des mouches à feu, My Salinger Year et Nadia Butterly, ainsi que Souterrain, dont la sortie a été maintes fois reportée, mais qui sera le film d’ouverture des Rendez-vous Québec Cinéma cette semaine.

Alignement semblable dans la catégorie Meilleure réalisation, avec Anaïs Barbeau-Lavalette (La déesse des mouches à feu), Sophie Dupuis (Souterrain), Philippe Falardeau (My Salinger Year) et Benoit Pilon (Le club Vinland), mais l’industrie a préféré Daniel Roby (Target Number One) à Pascal Plante (Nadia Butterly).

Dans la catégorie Meilleur scénario, encore là, les gros joueurs sont tous là: Normand Bergeron, Benoit Pilon, Marc Robitaille – Le club Vinland, Sophie Dupuis – Souterrain, Philippe Falardeau – My Salinger Year, Catherine Léger – La déesse des mouches à feu, Daniel Roby – Target Number One.

Du côté des actrices, on retrouve Émilie Bierre pour Les nôtres, Marie-Evelyne Lessard pour Jusqu’au déclin, l’actrice américaine Margaret Qualley pour My Salinger Year, Karelle Tremblay pour la coproduction Death of a Ladies’ Man, ainsi que Sarah Sutherland pour Like a House on Fire.

Les acteurs en lice pour l’Iris sont Réal Bossé pour Jusqu’au déclin, Paul Doucet pour Les nôtres, Patrick Hivon pour Mont Foster, Antoine Olivier Pilon pour Target Number One, et Sébastien Ricard pour Le club Vinland.

Dans les catégories « rôle de soutien », on retrouve Sophie Desmarais pour Vacarme, Marianne Farley pour Les nôtres, Éléonore Loiselle et Caroline Néron pour La déesse des mouches à feu, et la mythique Sigourney Weaver pour My Salinger Year chez les dames. 

Chez ces messieurs, les finalistes sont Normand D’Amour et  Robin L’Houmeau pour La déesse des mouches à feu, Rémy Girard pour Le club Vinland, ainsi que James Hyndman et Théodore Pellerin pour Souterrain.

La catégorie Révélation de l’année est l’une des plus intéressantes selon moi, car c’est un aperçu des visages marquants du cinéma des prochaines années. D’ailleurs, Émilie Bierre et Théodore Pellerin, en nomination cette année respectivement pour un premier rôle féminin et un rôle de soutien masculin, font partie des lauréats passés du prix Révélation. Donc, en 2021, les finalistes sont :  Kelly Depeault – La déesse des mouches à feu, Jasmine Lemée – Mon cirque à moi, Rosalie Pépin – Vacarme, Joakim Robillard – Souterrain et Arnaud Vachon – Le club Vinland.

Voici le reste des catégories :

MEILLEURE DISTRIBUTION DES RÔLES Iris de la Meilleure distribution des rôles

Deirdre Bowen (Deirdre Bowen Casting) | Heidi Levitt (Heidi Levitt Casting) | Bruno Rosato (Rosato Casting) | Supattra « Pum » Punyadee – Target Number One Marjolaine Lachance (Balustrade casting) – Les Nôtres Marjolaine Lachance (Balustrade casting) – Souterrain Murielle La Ferrière, Marie-Claude Robitaille (Casting Murielle La Ferrière et Marie-Claude Robitaille) – La déesse des mouches à feu Pierre Pageau, Daniel Poisson (Gros Plan) – Le Club Vinland

MEILLEURE DIRECTION ARTISTIQUE Iris de la Meilleure direction artistique

Patrice Bengle, Louise Tremblay – Le Club Vinland Elise de Blois, Claude Tremblay – My Salinger Year Sylvain Lemaitre, Louisa Schabas – Blood Quantum David Pelletier – Mon cirque à moi David Pelletier – Target Number One

MEILLEURE DIRECTION DE LA PHOTOGRAPHIE Iris de la Meilleure direction de la photographie

Jonathan Decoste – La déesse des mouches à feu François Gamache – Le Club Vinland Mathieu Laverdière – Souterrain Tobie Marier Robitaille – La nuit des rois Sara Mishara – My Salinger Year

MEILLEUR SON Iris du Meilleur son

Pierre-Jules Audet, Emmanuel Croset, Michel Tsagli – La nuit des rois Sylvain Bellemare, Paul Col, Bernard Gariépy Strobl, Martyne Morin – La déesse des mouches à feu Sylvain Bellemare, Bernard Gariépy Strobl, François Grenon – Jusqu’au déclin Stéphane Bergeron, Olivier Calvert, Martyne Morin – Nadia, Butterfly Luc Boudrias, Frédéric Cloutier, Patrice LeBlanc – Souterrain

MEILLEUR MONTAGE Iris du Meilleur montage

Aube Foglia – La nuit des rois Michel Grou – Souterrain Stéphane Lafleur – La déesse des mouches à feu Arthur Tarnowski – Jusqu’au déclin Yvann Thibaudeau – Target Number One

MEILLEURS EFFETS VISUELS Iris des Meilleurs effets visuels

Alchimie 24 – Sébastien Chartier, Jean-François « Jafaz » Ferland, Marie-Claude Lafontaine – Jusqu’au déclin Real by Fake – Michael Beaulac, Marie-Hélène Panisset – Target Number One The Workshop – Barbara Rosenstein, Josh Sherrett – Blood Quantum

MEILLEURE MUSIQUE ORIGINALE Iris de la Meilleure musique originale

Olivier Alary – La nuit des rois Patrice Dubuc, Gaëtan Gravel – Souterrain Guido Del Fabbro, Pierre Lapointe – Le Club Vinland Jean-Phi Goncalves, Éloi Painchaud, Jorane Pelletier – Target Number One Martin Léon – My Salinger Year

MEILLEURS COSTUMES Iris des Meilleurs costumes

Caroline Bodson – Souterrain Francesca Chamberland – Le Club Vinland Patricia McNeil, Ann Roth – My Salinger Year Noémi Poulin – Blood Quantum Sharon Scott – Mon cirque à moi

MEILLEUR MAQUILLAGE Iris du Meilleur maquillage

Kathryn Casault – La déesse des mouches à feu Dominique T. Hasbani – Jusqu’au déclin Audray Adam, Sandra Ruel – Souterrain Joan-Patricia Parris, Nancy Ferlatte, Erik Gosselin – Blood Quantum Larysa Chernienko, Natalie Trépanier – Target Number One

MEILLEURE COIFFURE Iris de la Meilleure coiffure

Michelle Côté – My Salinger Year Stéphanie DeFlandre – Mon cirque à moi André Duval – Le Club Vinland Marcelo Padovani – Blood Quantum Johanne Paiement – La déesse des mouches à feu

MEILLEUR FILM DOCUMENTAIRE Iris du Meilleur film documentaire

Errance sans retour – Mélanie Carrier, Olivier Higgins | Mö Films – Mélanie Carrier, Olivier Higgins The Forbidden Reel – Ariel Nasr | Office national du film du Canada – Kat Baulu | Loaded Pictures – Sergeo Kirby | Ariel Nasr Je m’appelle humain – Kim O’Bomsawin | Terre Innue – Andrée-Anne Frenette Tant que j’ai du respir dans le corps – Steve Patry | Les Films de l’Autre – Steve Patry Wintopia – Mira Burt-Wintonick | Office national du film du Canada – Annette Clarke | EyeSteelFilm – Bob Moore

MEILLEURE DIRECTION DE LA PHOTOGRAPHIE | FILM DOCUMENTAIRE Iris de la Meilleure direction de la photographie | Film documentaire

Sarah Baril Gaudet – Passage Hugo Gendron, Michel Valiquette – Je m’appelle humain Olivier Higgins, Renaud Philippe – Errance sans retour Mathieu Perrault Lapierre – The 108 Journey Marianne Ploska – Prière pour une mitaine perdue

MEILLEUR SON | FILM DOCUMENTAIRE Iris du Meilleur son | Film documentaire

Pierre-Jules Audet, Luc Boudrias, Olivier Higgins, Kala Miya – Errance sans retour Stéphane Barsalou, Claude Beaugrand, Julie Innes – Le château Marie-Andrée Cormier, Olivier Germain, Marie-Pierre Grenier – Prière pour une mitaine perdue Benoît Dame, Catherine Van Der Donckt – Jongué, carnet nomade Olivier Germain, Marie-Pierre Grenier – Wintopia

MEILLEUR MONTAGE | FILM DOCUMENTAIRE Iris du Meilleur montage | Film documentaire

Anouk Deschênes – Wintopia Olivier Higgins, Amélie Labrèche – Errance sans retour Annie Jean – Le château Annie Jean – The Forbidden Reel Alexandre Lachance – Je m’appelle humain

MEILLEURE MUSIQUE ORIGINALE | FILM DOCUMENTAIRE Iris de la Meilleure musique originale | Film documentaire

Tom Brunt – Prière pour une mitaine perdue Martin Dumais – Errance sans retour Justin Guzzwell, Tyr Jami, Eric Shaw – Sisters: Dream & Variations Mathieu Perrault Lapierre – The 108 Journey Claude Rivest – Jongué, carnet nomade

MEILLEUR COURT MÉTRAGE | FICTION Iris du Meilleur court métrage | Fiction

Aniksha – Vincent Toi | Vincent Toi, Guillaume Collin Comme une comète – Ariane Louis-Seize | Colonelle films – Fanny Drew, Sarah Mannering Écume – Omar Elhamy | Les Films Rôdeurs – Jonathan Beaulieu-Cyr, Paul Chotel Goodbye Golovin – Mathieu Grimard | Golovin Films – Simon Corriveau-Gagné, Mathieu Grimard Lune – Zoé Pelchat | MéMO Films – Mélanie S. Dubois

MEILLEUR COURT MÉTRAGE | ANIMATION Iris du Meilleur court métrage | Animation

Barcelona de Foc – Theodore Ushev | Theodore Ushev The Fourfold – Alisi Telengut | Alisi Telengut In the Shadow of the Pines – Anne Koizumi | Nava Projects – Sahar Yousefi Moi, Barnabé – Jean-François Lévesque | Office national du film du Canada – Julie Roy La saison des hibiscus – Éléonore Goldberg | Embuscade films – Nicolas Dufour-Laperrière

MEILLEUR COURT MÉTRAGE | DOCUMENTAIRE Iris du Meilleur court métrage | Documentaire

Clebs – Halima Ouardiri | Halima Ouardiri Le frère – Jérémie Battaglia | Les Films Extérieur Jour – Amélie Lambert Bouchard Life of a Dog – Danae Elon, Rosana Matecki | Entre deux mondes Productions – Paul Cadieux, Danae Elon Nitrate – Yousra Benziane | Yousra Benziane Port d’attache – Laurence Lévesque | Elise Bois

PRIX DU PUBLIC

Le Club Vinland – Benoit Pilon | Normand Bergeron, Benoit Pilon, Marc Robitaille | Les Films Opale | Productions Avenida – Chantal Lafleur La déesse des mouches à feu – Anaïs Barbeau-Lavalette | Catherine Léger | Entract Films | Coop Vidéo de Montréal – Luc Vandal Félix et le trésor de Morgäa – Nicola Lemay | Marc Robitaille | Maison 4:3 | 10e Ave Productions – Nancy Florence Savard Flashwood – Jean-Carl Boucher | Jean-Carl Boucher | Entract Films | Go Films – Jean-Carl Boucher, Nicole Robert Jusqu’au déclin – Patrice Laliberté | Charles Dionne, Nicolas Krief, Patrice Laliberté | Netflix | Couronne Nord – Julie Groleau Like a House on Fire – Jesse Noah Klein | Jesse Noah Klein | Entract Films | Colonelle films – Fanny Drew, Sarah Mannering | Woods Entertainment – William Woods Mon cirque à moi – Miryam Bouchard | Miryam Bouchard, Martin Forget | Les Films Séville | Attraction Images – Antonello Cozzolino Mont Foster – Louis Godbout | Louis Godbout | K-Films Amérique | Les Films Primatice – Sébastien Poussard My Salinger Year – Philippe Falardeau | Philippe Falardeau | Métropole Films | micro_scope – Luc Déry, Kim McCraw | Parallel Films – Ruth Coady, Susan Mullen Nadia, Butterfly – Pascal Plante | Pascal Plante | Maison 4:3 | Némésis Films – Dominique Dussault Les Nôtres – Jeanne Leblanc | Judith Baribeau, Jeanne Leblanc, | Maison 4:3 | Slykid & Skykid – Benoit Beaulieu, Marianne Farley Rustic Oracle – Sonia Bonspille Boileau | Sonia Bonspille Boileau | 7th Screen | Nish Media – Jason Brennan Le sang du pélican – Denis Boivin | Denis Boivin | Les Distributions Netima | Productions Dionysos – Denis Boivin Slaxx – Elza Kephart | Patricia Gomez Zlatar, Elza Kephart | Filmoption International | EMAfilms – Anne-Marie Gélinas | Head on the Door Productions – Patricia Gomez Zlatar Target Number One – Daniel Roby | Daniel Roby | Les Films Séville | Caramel Films – Valérie d’Auteuil, André Rouleau We Had It Coming – Paul Barbeau | Paul Barbeau | MK2 Mile End | Reprise Films – Melissa A. Smith, Paul Barbeau

IRIS HOMMAGE

Association coopérative de productions audiovisuelles (ACPAV) Représentée par Marc Daigle et Bernadette Payeur

[iconicpnytail]

TAG DROP !! 

[rxvenhairedprincesss]

@pinkxperfectionisms @perfectioncursed @iconicandbeyondreproach

tv meme: [24/70] relationships→ Elizabeth Cooper & Veronica Lodge (Riverdale)

Betty and I come as a matching set. You want one, you take us both.

[ofloyalty]

❝  𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞...  ❞  

𝙱𝙰𝚂𝙸𝙲𝚂

NAME: edwin coleman nickerson NICKNAME:  ned, nedstopher, nedwin GENDER: male AGE: 20 SEXUALITY: straight LOCATION: river heights, il

EYES: brown HAIR: brown HEIGHT: 6′2″ SPECIAL FEAUTURES: none CLOTHING STYLE: very causal, baseball tees, plain tshirts, jeans.  FACECLAIM: sidharth malhotra 

OCCUPATION: student, occasionaly sells insurance during the summer. WEALTH: moderate EDUCATION: currently a sophmore at emerson college. SKILLS: athletic, ( basketball, football, & baseball ), researcher, breaking and entering the drew household FAMILY: edith & james nickerson ( parents ) nancy drew ( girlfriend )

𝙳𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙿𝙷𝚈

ned grew up in mapleton, a town not so very far from river heights. his life was never too exciting or interesting. he kept high grades, played various sports, and had a pretty good social standings in his class.

everything changed one summer however as he happened to be passing by a burning house. noticing a car close enough to the burning house with the keys still left in, he decided to double back and move the car to safety. that’s when he met nancy drew. while suspicious of him at first for nearly stealing her car, completely justified in ned’s eyes, she soon began trusting him more.

ned was immediately smitten with her and eventually goes to asking her out. the two have been dating ever since. ned is one of nancy’s closest confidants and one of her biggest supporters. he’s helped her on countless cases while she’s been at home at river heights, and from the phone as she’s been abroad. 

sometimes it can be frustrating waiting from the sidelines, especially when nancy tends to forget important dates, but ned’s accepting it. he knows that solving mysteries will always be important and a passion of her’s and he’s okay coming in second to it. as long as it makes her happy, it makes him happy. 

𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴𝚂

VERSE 1 ( MAIN/CANON ): follows the biography from above! anything that happens in canon in the nancy drew games, is included unless otherwise stated. except for the events in mid. we do NOT recognize mid in this house. canon from the original books also taken into consideration, and from the nancy drew files.

𝚃𝙰𝙶𝚂

interactions / visage / aesthetic / character study / headcanons / photos / ned + nancy

previously found at @xfidelitas​ / ned is a secondary muse !

[willpowerbutch]

Willpower Butch Infiltrates the BAFTAs

It was my twenty-seventh scotch, noble reader, of the hour; Tom Rob Smith, world-renowned proponent of gay death, was with me, but not in the way a full-lipped apprentice attends to an aging poet, nor as a former classmate who comes to share a booth with one at a bar after a chance meeting which culminates in a divorce pact – for such follies are the province of the Homosexual, that Cyclops, who became so since his loss of depth perception did not enable him to notice breasts. In the midst of the nigh-on soft chatter of our female militia, my companion could be heard making overtures, squalidly, for me to play “snooker” according to his specious and altogether sun-bathed program:

“Willpower, you must use your pole to hit the balls, or else I will best you, and that is improper for a loathsome pervert to do to a manly man.”

“Spare me your monologues, Elton Yawn!” roared I, for I had made excellent progress at ramming my rod into the table’s holes with sweltering masculine virtue.

We had come, concretely, to destroy our health sufficient to the task of passing among the British unobserved.

Although I, a stalwart and heterosexually-attracted Man, would have taken emotionless, ungay pride in eviscerating Tom Rob Smith at golf, we were interrupted by the blaring sirens which indicated that the BAFTAs were soon to begin. So, we left, along with the women – a wolf and an inconvenient rabbit among their flock of sheep – for the Imperial BAFTA Hall, where the Gay-Transgender makes one of its many covens outside of Tom Cruise. Despite our unstoppable approach, my heart was gripped suddenly with incredible weight-lifting, and TRS himself exclaimed:

“Do you see it, Willpower, at the door? There is a vision of extreme displeasure, and a stench arising from it which would make nancies of a lesser constitution die outright. What can it be? Alas, this is why the Gay is impelled toward a lifestyle of superficially confrontational languor, of blasé splendor, because we are so surrounded by the impertinence of heterosexual childbirth. Do you imagine, Willpower, how it is to be imprisoned in this world, to exist in the presence of Neanderthals who think that drunken subway arguments which end in daredevil stripping have no place in public life, and not to be able to set them on fire as they have done countless times throughout history to my scripts? Woe, for this is the fate of the homosexual to endure such preening boredom. Oh, it is Germaine Greer.”

So it was, as we drew close, that we could make out her contemptible visage, which conceals a mass of disgusting platitudes where other persons might possess a brain. Thinking quickly, I sent the contingent of women over, who becalmed the creature with pretty nonsense about uteruses as I and my companion strode bulgingly past.

(Germaine Greer, right, bravely checks a ‘woman’ for beard hair.)

It was at the threshold of the BAFTA Hall that TRS addressed me, insofar as his perniciously pretty physicality would permit, for what the Gay-Transgender lacks in muscle mass it accounts for in spite. “Willpower,” said he.

The remnant of my beard extended and cut into his throat, which he understood correctly to mean that I was about to kill him. He reconsidered whatever soliloquy he had been formulating along our frightful travail through the throngs of disco-dancing initiate necrophiles and on-fire SLAM poets. Instead, he spoke a modicum of sense: “Master Butch, whatever feelings of soulful longing for male love we may have assimilated ‘til now, we must put them further out of mind than Bryan Singer’s career. It is time for us to assert dominance, or we shall be in pulsating danger.”

Manly reader, I was not greatly concerned. “You are aware,” I growled, “that everyone under the age of twenty-five is a woman? and that the Gay has tried many times – deliciously, immensely many times – to convert me and has not more than thrice succeeded? I shall need only to eviscerate those virgins by the power of forthright apoplectic flexing, which is my attribute as a noble Excellent.” 

But TRS shook his head dolefully, like all of mankind who have had the misfortune of reading his books. “That won’t work. What we need, monsieur, is for you to think like a Gay.”

“Like a Gay...”

I pondered this, although I was aware of the degradation to my unmountable masculinity in so doing. Because the Gay is inscrutable to the manly man beyond his suspiciously smooth-faced desires, because the Gay’s entire psyche is ruled by those desires, am I to believe that the key to thinking like a homosexiphone is to slander women until the straight man becomes confused?

I strode in willfully, gloriously, the light glinting off my pectorals sending those hideously Eurythmicsed gargoyles into a fearful advance. It was a vision of such heroism as in Hellenistic days could not be depicted, for the limp hand of the poet shall not wield anything as thickly engorged. Facing down their trimmed stampede, I released unto them:

“Gay homophiles! I am indeed one of your horde, as you can plainly tell by my wet cough. Shall we discourse together on the evils of Woman, who are essentially redundant since the invention of canned corn? Shall we convince the Genuine Man to leave her and her ways, her wiles, her rejection of fully equipped samurai decapitations at family restaurants? Let us stand together, heathens, for I can see an acknowledgement of the truth in my words by the erect posture of your varnished pincers.”

All seemed lost – the Gay Vampires had descended upon me, their decrepit digits wrapped in guilt and recently-unstuck Titanic posters, gyrating in a vicious parody of Reddie Sexchaynge during his electro-shock faith healing in The Danish Girl. They had brandished on me their fearsome skincare, which is known to turn straights into the sort of recently single young men who move to the city to purposely trip on sidewalks in front of low-key leather cafes. But it was then that a miracle took place, that the insatiable fabulant Tom Rob Smith came to the rescue of myself, an indestructible master of unweak gigantism.

Slamming open the door, he addressed the crowd. “I’ve seen all of your films. They’re obvious.”

A gasp echoed through the hall as TRS strutted down the aisle, glowering tearfully, manifesting low-budget ‘90s sex comedies in his wake; and I, in pursuit, took great care to strafe past the apollodisiac influence of his posterior -- for the Gay, natural prey of the manly man, has evolved to paralyze him with insipid perception. We arrived in the front lines, with eminent hormonal abundance, where our way was made by those most cocktail-lit transcendentalists.

It was then we were alerted to the presence of Germaine Greer, who had crept into the hall by reason of the existence of her reproductive capacity. She was joined by the well-educated and generally expert feminist scholar Graham Linehan; that personage was invited to the stage to speak, where he was met with much appreciative braying and the open display of genitalia such as might surprise even Ewan McGregor.  

“Evil perverts,” he yelped, gripping the edge of the podium like the neck of a sub. “I have come to educate you. Listen and assimilate the words of your infinite better. This world is divided at its hilt: in one sphere, our sphere, live the real, who accept the existential primacy of boob size. In the other are the transgendereds. Too easily have you upright homos accepted those vermin in your ranks, for now they have tasted the come of anime weirdos and will no longer settle for overdosing on fake heroin in corporate meeting rooms where they have been hired by the capitalists to populate sex parties. Oh, they will destroy reality given the remotest chance: they will take to it with scotch tape and whore makeup like they did to Tom Holland. Thank God that I, a straight man, have emerged from the depths of intolerable self-fellation to inform you benders which of you is queer, you know, in the normal way.” He concluded this declamation with great flourish: a round of tequilas, called “T shots,” was provisioned to each of us, as club drugs rained from the ceiling and a gaggle of clownfish was brought in to be ritualistically basketballed. Then, giving us a caustic grimace, Graham Linehan disappeared, taking my macho sanity and will to live with him.

The night was only beginning, and directly I understood how the Gay-Transgender could be quite so miserable as they are, that they must prowl the alleyways between disparaged Tex-Mex restaurants in search of lascivious marriage – in order to forget, if only for several months, the vivid lunacy of having to murder everyone who discovers your incest fetish. And I was struck with a sudden melancholy, for the idea of the Gay without its Transgender is an upsetting one: it is far less dignified, erudite, and rose-fleshedly proper, lordly reader, to think only of whom the Gay has sex with and not additionally how.

Nevertheless, it is clear why Hollywood must disapprove of these most vacant transgendereds, for if too many of us should fall into their strange genitalia, how shall show business reliably obtain more children to rape?

Abruptly from out of an enormous, glittering, piano-shaped coffin rose the master of ceremonies, the remaining life-force of Rupert Everett, who disco-danced toward the podium nervously and began his address:

“‘All you need to make a movie is a twink and some glycerin.’ Jean-Luc Godard said this in the seconds before he memorably punched William Wyler face-first through the muffler of his Trabi, and it is perhaps truer today than it was even in his prime as a total Otter. Year by year, as gay culture continues to defile the world with men who look like they might be wearing lipstick but are too flushed to tell, we gather here to celebrate the crimes our community has gotten away with because of the liberal globalist agenda, and in particular, those fantasy characters that actually pull them off. And so, the nominees for people who are probably haunted by their teenage years are as follows: Jake Gyllenhaal, in the role of Borscht, a gay who decides to become bisexual, bringing destruction down upon humanity. Ben Whishaw, our High Shaman of Shame, in Posh Homosexual Encounters of the First Time. Chris Pang, who didn’t do anything gay this year but is unfairly hot. And Tilda Swinton, who is genuinely an alien out to replace every person in the world, this being the sort of tenacity to upset the straights that our Academy recognizes. But as you well know, there can be only one foot-gripping Fonzie, so it is with Biblical villainy that I announce the winner of this year’s Silicone Satan: Ben ‘so bottomy it’s almost straight’ Whishaw!”

The crowd broke into revels immediately, a boundless catastrophe which brought the town of London to its knees in a literal sense, for those Englishmen who are not fashionably bicurious are so accustomed to marmite and scotch eggs that they hardly care what goes in their mouths. And amid the dilating chaos, I took Tom Rob Smith by the arm, but it was, most audaciously musclebound king, a gesture neither tender nor rough, which could not in the remotest circumstance be open to lewd interpretations, as there was no occasion for my thighs to greet his glistening back, grazing “accidentally” for one heart-stalling moment when I could not meet his eyes, as any man who has been to Cracker Barrel on a Monday afternoon will well remember; and, I did not, say, growl seductively that my breath wasn’t the only warm thing I could put in the orifice of his ear, nor did I drag my thumb along the line of his bicep while pristine depression tears glimmered on my cheeks outside a gas station where a group of teenagers was either dangerously wasted or speaking Dutch. Thus, did we wend through the pendulating masses in pursuit of that dimensionless maudlin fairy Timpani Gayparade and the sometime-man who had also been my much be-tolerated roommate, Paragon Shag.

(Timpani Gayparade, right, shared many hours of blazing homosex on the set of Ball Me By Your Chains with his former master and effigy pervert, Smarmy Whammer, most of which made the cutting room floor.)

Turning a corner into the corridor of Z-list drag queens who had become ordained online, we encountered Gayparade in the act of performing a sorcerer’s spell which would grant him bodily existence. Timpani addressed us, having to peer up despite the heel of his combat boots, for the heterosexual is size-advantaged by his immunity to pet-play – a fact that is widely acknowledged even among Gay propagandists: “Trot on over here, lover, and face my hot brothers, some of whom would die to protect me, and the rest of whom will die because they have just witnessed Benedict Cumberbatch try to get the British press to stop calling him a gay bitch by licking out a pork pie.”

And sure enough, with a wail that was more in-tune than Marc Almond could ever be, some fifty of them passed into the oblivion of trying not to become second-hand racist from conservative editorialism. There did endure, however, a small contingent, who approached me with the determination of a newly hatched Transgender learning J-pop lyrics.

“Are we on Russian dash cam?” groaned the first passionately. “Because I’m about to slam you in the rear.”

But he could not anticipate that I had concealed pepper spray and an axe in my jacket, which are a great inconvenience to the Gay. So, it came to pass that those notorious hot brothers were immobilized – by their evil lust for my manhood or by the evacuation of their limbs, I could not be sure. While I dealt with them, Trimathee Chaletgay slipped through my fingers, into the bowels of unfortunate shaving. But it was not for him that I had come.

My goal was there, at the end of the hall, his skin bleached out by the industrial lighting and his degenerate lifestyle. And yet, after so many decades of acquaintance, those brave calves and that carefully swooped shoulder mane were unmistakable to me.

“Shag,” said I. “Are you still...?”

There was a pause as he turned toward me icily. “I – I didn’t change my name, so...”

We loafed about and said nothing, but I did kick three separate iterations of Spiderman down the stairs.

“You, ah,” it was most gay, but I could not come up with something dexterous to say nor a timely masculine reflex. Then I remembered the words of Tom Rob Smith much earlier in the evening. “Hey, girl. You look like they let Randy Quaid back in the movies, but with less visible pubic hair.”

Shag had begun to turn from me – I knew because I was tragically subjected to the witchcraft of gay sexy-walking, whereas the straight man cannot be accused of having hips, for he moves by the sheer gravitational force of his erectile prominence. And, my most red-bedecked haruspex of whatever the fuck Jonathan Ross is ever saying, I could not allow such a flagrant display of dandyism to go unimpeded, for that is how one remains a Top; so, did I call to him once more:

“Shag! Hear me and be somber! I speak, and a profound gloom becomes me, for I would rather not open my mouth around these pedophiles. But, I shall say it regardless: I need you, Paragon Shag, for everything you are – to help me destroy James Franc’n’o and his compound of chad gay clones, to graffiti organic supermarkets with ironic caricatures of Chairman Mao which will put at-risk youths off vegetarianism, to pull the plugs of the unabashed and despotic fairies who have made this world into a sheer-underpantsed nightmare of ex-Soviet post-punk, to be my one true ally against the rising tide of gay joy and the tribulations of this erotic disaster we call life.”

I felt the world end, bicepted Lord – for a long moment, when I could discern nothing on his heavily painted face, my heart stilled, which is not dangerous to the Man because his blood courses by its own perfect will – and when his lips twitched into a smile, Comrade of my Coronary Supersession, I felt it reborn.

Racing toward the exit, our pansificious colleagues and female battalion in tow, I began to imagine that after the stretched darkness had come a thrusting dawn. And then an unbearable shriek fell upon our ears. After we had determined that it was not Ed Sheeran, who is easy to kill, Shag and I turned to each other, establishing wordlessly that me must investigate.

We could see wave upon wave of reclaimed fake fur-draped gay cannibals, Z-snapping anxiously. They had gathered ‘round a TV screen -- but from such a distance as I could not make the picture out, nevertheless, I knew at once what had come to pass -- for the manly man, being preferential in evolution’s progress, is vested the power of second-sight so long as it pertains in some way to explosions. So it was that I realized the day of our reckoning had arrived in the image of a smoldering crater: God had crashed back to earth.

About the Authors

The wayward and athletic Admiral Willpower Butch this week celebrated his fifth decade of victory over superior-acting children, among whom he is universally known as the Hospital Man. He is an unparalleled hero, superlative in his muscular immensity, heterosexual prowess, and aptitude for breaking underdeveloped bones. His correspondent, Paragon Shag, his soul reclaimed from the clutches of pastoralism, would have certainly become such a commandant of auspicious slapping had he only been spared from the gay influence of mathematical implements in his school years. Their secretary and loosely-historically-based magic syphilitic gambler, Dead Summer Days, never thought the apocalypse would look so much like a Robert Rodriguez film.

[adveanture]

tswift tag drops:  ned nickerson,  nancy drew  ( mixed canons )  pt. 1

╰   ––––––– ✧   NED  NICKERSON!      :      ic      ❨   and  it  always  leads  to  you  in  my  hometown   ❩

╰   ––––––– ✧   NED  NICKERSON!      :      replies      ❨   and  it  always  leads  to  you  in  my  hometown   ❩

╰   ––––––– ✧   NED  NICKERSON!      :      asks      ❨   and  it  always  leads  to  you  in  my  hometown   ❩

╰   ––––––– ✧   NED  NICKERSON!      :      starters      ❨   and  it  always  leads  to  you  in  my  hometown   ❩

╰   ––––––– ✧   NED  NICKERSON!      :      about      ❨   and  it  always  leads  to  you  in  my  hometown   ❩

╰   ––––––– ✧   NED  NICKERSON!      :      isms      ❨   and  it  always  leads  to  you  in  my  hometown   ❩

╰   ––––––– ✧   NED  NICKERSON!      :      visage      ❨   and  it  always  leads  to  you  in  my  hometown   ❩

╰   ––––––– ✧   NED  NICKERSON!      :      art      ❨   and  it  always  leads  to  you  in  my  hometown   ❩

╰   ––––––– ✧   NED  NICKERSON!      :      desires      ❨   and  it  always  leads  to  you  in  my  hometown   ❩

[xserpentstoryx-blog]

Tag Index

Holy crap at all the tags

Main Tags

#brainstorming in progress(ooc) #blood in the ink(ic) #word from the wise(quotes) #universe in the making(memes) #coffee and beanies(visage) #working title(headcanons) #staring into the abyss(self promo) #the abyss stares back(promo)

Character Tags

#Nancy Drew(BettyCooper) #(ArchieAndrews) #(VeronicaLodge) #(ToniTopaz) #Here Comes the Sun(CherylBlossom) #The Outsiders(SweetPea) #(JellybeanJones) #(OC) - *Characters under this tag can have their own tag if we RP enough*

Verse Tags

#Behind the Eight Ball(1920′s) #Accio Food(Harry Potter)

Trigger Tags

#Red Ink - Blood/Gore/Violence/Kidnapping #Black Ink - Death/Suicide/Self Harm/Corpses/Murder #Pink Ink - Adult content (Only applies to Behind the Eight Ball verse) #Orange Ink - Drugs/Alcohol/Addiction 

[araminia16]

Of Birds and Bees

I did another one. Sort of funny this time. I might do one or two more depending on how loud my muse is shouting at me but anyway. Enjoy!

XxOXX

Mike Wheeler was good at a few things. DM’ing, running the AV equipment and being a good friend. The one thing he thought that he was amazing at was reading his girlfriend. Jane Hopper, but he is sure he’s never called her anything but “El” or “Eleven” the whole time they have been with one another.

There was something wrong with her. She was quiet, well quieter than usual, and she had this furrow between her eyebrows that wasn’t usually there. At times he even saw her wince a little bit and she just seemed sick or something. But otherwise she was fine. No coughing, fever, which he knew because she was currently pressed against his side and curled up on the couch. It was scary movie night. Mostly a formality since they had lived through multiple scary movies at this point. It was an excuse to get together on a Saturday night in October that no one would bat an eye at.

They had a couch in front of the tv, several blankets and the chairs were even reclined as the group ate popcorn and chips and took drinks of their caffeinated sugary beverages.

El curled up with her knees nearly to her chest and shifted around restlessly. Lucas and Max were on the opposite end of the couch sharing their own PG rated embrace and the other two members of the party each took up a chair. He really wasn’t even sure which movie they had picked out but he was only half watching it anyway.

El shifted again and her limbs stretched out as she leaned away from him. “Bathroom.” She whispered to him before she stood and made her way through his house. He kind of liked watching her go to be honest, but loved watching her walk toward him even more.

A scream drew his attention back to the screen sharply and Will jumped, “Shit!” He hissed at the TV and the rest of them seemed to fare not much better than he had.

He continued to watch the TV until the back of his neck broke out in goosebumps. “Mike.” He looked around to see if anyone else had heard his name and finding not he still stood up and walked thorugh the house to where he heard Eleven’s frantic whispers. The ten steps became five as he knocked softly on the bathroom door.

“El. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” She whispered, and he could feel her fear through the door.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s blood.” She frantically half-whispered. “It won’t stop.”

“Do you want me to come in?” Mike was pressed against the door as if attempting to meld through it, heart pounding with the need to quiet her fears.

“I don’t know.”

“Is it your nose?” She still got her nosebleeds but a lot less now. She was so much stronger than she had been when she closed the gate. He knew that sometimes people could put ice to a nosebleed and it would stop or if they tipped their head back.

“No. It’s coming from between my legs.”

Mike Wheeler was certainly not prepared for that answer and his fifteen year old brain blanked. Static reigned and he couldn’t think of anything to say. “Uhhh.”

“Mike? What do I do?” Her voice, now pleading and tearful snapped him out of his shock.

“Make sure you have clothes on and open the door.” He had no idea what to do. That was a girl thing. All girls knew about the girl thing. They had a talk on it in like the sixth grade or something. But she hadn’t been to the sixth grade like the rest of them. He had to help her though. She didn’t know. Who would know about girl stuff? His brain just kept running on a loop until an idea popped into his head like a lightbulb coming on.

When Eleven opened the door and he saw that she had been crying a little he took the time to brush her tears away with a thumb before he took her hand and ran upstairs. He knocked on a closed door a few times and a muffled but irritated voice sounded from within, “What?”

“Hey Nancy. I need your help.” Jesus. What did his voice just do?

“What?” He heard her footsteps and she opened the door to glare at him. “I’m busy. Hey Eleven.”

“I need your help.”

“Yes?”

“Uhhh.” And he could feel his face start to turn red, “El needs your help.”

“Why?”

“CauseIthinksheisgettingthatgirlthing.” That wasn’t even a sentence. Come on Wheeler stop being a sissy.

“Girl thing?”

“With the blood and stuff.” He finished lamely.

Nancy looked at him in confusion before slow comprehension dawned on her face and she looked a little wide eyed at his girlfriend. “Oh.”

“Can you help her?”

“Why me?”

“Cause you are a girl. That’s why.”

“That doesn’t make me qualified to teach a girl about her period you know.” Nancy hissed out.

“Yeah it does.” The word ‘period’ only made his blush worse. “Look. She needs help and I don’t know what to do.”

Nancy took another look at Eleven who just looked miserable and confused and sighed. “Come in.”

“Thanks Nancy.” He let go of Eleven’s hand and she made a frantic sound and grasped for it again.

“Mike. Don’t leave.”

Mike Wheeler did not want to sit through girls talking about their periods but she was looking at him like she was terrified, her brown eyes begging him not to go that he sighed and let her take him into Nancy’s room.

When the door was closed the two younger teens stood awkwardly as Nancy stared at them both. “Okay. So do you know anything at all about what is going on with you?”

Eleven shook her head.

“Oh boy. Okay so…nothing at all?”

Eleven shook her head again.

“Did Hopper tell you anything about growing up or…no of course he didn’t. So what is going on with you is all a part of getting older. IT happens to all girls eventually. Some start earlier than others. Like Janet. She started her period at like ten.”

“Period?”

“That’s what the bleeding is called.”

Mike could only listen in horror. Horror that his wide eyes and pale visage mirrored.

“It’s not like my nose. It kept coming.” Eleven told the older girl.

“Yeah. It will do that for a few days then it will stop. You might also feel more upset at things or feel really tired or get cramps.”

“Cramps?”

“It’s a bit like a stomach ache but hurts more and it is lower than your belly. It’s totally normal but those suck too.”

“Oh.” Eleven looked relieved. “How can I make those go away?

“Sometimes with medicine but if you get something warm on it, which helps too. Then after it is over it comes back every month for like twenty or thirty years.”

“Years?! Why?” Eleven pouted. She didn’t like this at all.

“Oh honey. Every girl asks that question. Soon it will be no big deal though.”

“What do I do?”

“Well I’ll let you borrow some pads so you don’t stain up your clothes too badly. In fact, come with me.” Nancy made way for her door and Eleven followed. Mike felt like he should just melt into the floor. In fact if his girlfriend wasn’t holding onto his hand like her life depended on it he might have. With a stumble he was pulled along back to the bathroom and this was where he drew the line. HE wanted to be supportive but this was not anywhere he wanted to be.

“Mike should stay out of here. This is sort of private. Just girl time.”

Mike mouthed a grateful ‘Thank you’ while El’s back was turned then she looked worriedly back at him but relinquished her death grip on his fingers and followed Nancy into the bathroom. Mike took up post down the hall a bit so that he wouldn’t hear details while still being there if she needed him.

Once the door was closed Nancy turned on Eleven and reached into a cabinet to pull out some sanitary napkins and proceeded to show Eleven how to open it, how it folded out and that it had a sticky side that she had to peel the paper from. “Now, pants down.” At the younger girl’s look she sighed, “I know. It’s weird but I have to tell and show you how to do this.”

Eleven did as bid and sat down on the closed toilet. Nancy handed her the pad.

“Now. Peel that off. Good and turn it so that the sticky side is on your underwear. Okay. You kind of have to find where it is going to get most of the blood into it. Sometimes they don’t do a great job. The middle is good…okay now that’s it. All done.” Nancy couldn’t help but smile a bit. That wasn’t so hard. She rocked her first parenting lesson.

“Why is it happening now?” Her small voice brought Nancy out of her congratulatory mental state. Eleven had pulled everything back into place and was now standing in the small room.

“Oh. Well it depends on the girl, but you are starting a little later than most probably because of how you grew up but it basically is sort of like cleaning.”

“Cleaning?”

“Yeah. Getting the old stuff out so that you can make fresh stuff.”

“Stuff for what?”

“Oh. Well your period basically means that you are a ‘woman’ now or whatever. It’s a shitty way to say it though.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah. The reason you get a period is basically saying that now you can have babies.”

“Babies?” Her eyes sort of lit up in a way that made Nancy very nervous.

“Yeah but you shouldn’t have babies any time soon.”

“Why not? Aren’t babies good?”

Nancy although needed to start steering this conversation in a different direction nodded in an ambiguous way, “Well. I mean. Yeah. Babies are cute and everything but a baby would not be a good idea now.”

“Because of Papa?”

“Well yeah but you are too young for a baby. You need to be older. Much older. And married and have a good income and everything before you have a baby.”

“Oh. Well when I want a baby how does it happen?”

Oh shit. Abort Nancy. Abort. “I…well. It’s not something you need to know about right now. It’s a grown up thing.”

“How grown up?”

“Very. Like. Until you are thirty.”

“Why?”

“Because the thought of my little brother having sex totally grosses me out.” Nancy gave disgusted shivers and gagged a little bit.

“Sex?”

Well shit. “Okay. Lesson’s over. Out you go.”

“Should I ask Hop about it?”

“NO!” Nancy practically shouted. “No. If you ask him about sex he won’t let you within ten feet of my little brother without a chaperone until you leave his house. That would be a bad idea.”

“He won’t keep me from Mike again.” The lights flickered a little bit and Nancy nodded.

“Just don’t mention that to him. Or Mike. Or anyone.”

“Well then who can I talk to about sex?”

“No more sex. And maybe you can talk to Will’s mom. She can even give you some advice about becoming a woman.”

“Okay. Ow.” She held a hand to her lower belly and Nancy jumped up to reach into the cabinet for some pain reliever. She deposited two pills into her hand and held them out for Eleven to take.

Eleven stared at the pills. “I don’t want them. Papa and the bad men gave me stuff like that. I didn’t like it.”

“Oh honey. These won’t hurt you. They will help those cramps. I’ll give them to you. You don’t have to take them but if you want to they will be there, okay?”

Eleven nodded and Nancy swooped in to hug her. “Thank you.”

“No problem. You are basically like my little sister anyway. And before you go let me write down what you need to tell Hop to buy for you, okay? He might get a little funny like Mike did about it and give it to Will’s mom to do but he will get you what you need. And before you leave just call up here and I will give you a few more to take home for tonight.”

“Thank you, Nancy.”

“No problem. Now try not to freak my brother out too much.”

They exited the bathroom and Mike jumped up from his seat then hurried over to Eleven, checking her over. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Now I am. Can we go back downstairs now?”

“Yeah. Sure. Anything you need. Do you want some water? Or more food or a blanket or anything?”

Nancy watched her brother in amazement. Most guys would be turning tail and running away. But not him. He’s faced monsters from another dimension and school bullies and Eleven’s lucky to have him. She gave a smile to the couple.

“Thanks Nancy. Thank you for helping.”

“No problem. If you need anything else remember to knock.”

Eleven nodded, her brown curls bouncing up and down as the two teens went back downstairs to watch the rest of the movie.

The others didn’t say anything as they came back into the room but Max did give Eleven a look, the one that said they would talk later but as she snuggled back into Mike’s embrace she thought about what Nancy had said and decided that she would talk to Joyce about everything later.

Burrowing into Mike’s side he reached down to her belly under the blankets and held his warm hand over her lower belly with just a little bit of pressure to relieve the pain that had only been getting worse through the day.

Eleven smiled and kissed his cheek before turning her attention to the movie.

It was later that night when Jim Hopper read Nancy’s note that Eleven watched him turn white in the face and drive straight home.

XxOxX

Since I guess a bit of the fandom is shitting on Nancy I decided to write her as the one who helps El with her growing up. I’m not sure how in character she sounded but I did my best. In 1 hour.

[writingishard-loverandloser]

Hey! Firstly I love your writing (it's so good!!) Secondly, can I please get a ship for IT and ST? I'm a 5"4 bi girl with glasses, short brown hair and freckles. I'm very loud and swear like a sailor. I'm very sarcastic, but also a good listener. I'm a huge bookworm and write my own stuff. I love music a lot. I sing and play 4 instruments. I'm a big musical theatre fan, and have been doing drama for 6 years. I'm very academic and can speak French. I also have a massive family. Thanks!

Thank you so much, love, that means so much!😭💕

IT:

I ship you with Beverly!

God you guys would be fantastic. You guys met when Bev was taking abuse from Greta and her gaggle of desperate attention hogging try-hards. “How is she the slut when you’re the one actually jumping into the bed of any guy who so much as looks at you for more than a few seconds?” Yeah. That’s when Bev decided that if she’ll never do anything for the rest of her life she’d be happy if you and her became friends, and you did. Jesus you guys were inseparable. You had a huge crush on her all through middle school, especially after the whole Pennywise thing… that really made you appreciate her more. She always asked you to teach her to speak French but you never did because you didn’t want her to understand the pet names you give her. “Come on, please~?” “Nope. Sorry, Chaton.” “Please??” “Ne se produira pas, Charmant.” “Why not?!” “Je ne veux pas que vous me haïssez…” You’re also the reason Bev started singing. When she moved the two of you would constantly send each other mixtapes—the 80s language of love. Sometimes you’d even record your own covers of cute songs that reminded you of her and send them to her. Those were Bev’s favorites. During your Sophomore year Beverly came down to visit so you and the Losers’ had a karaoke party. You guys went all out and it was really fun. Richie—being the person he is—decided to bring alcohol to the little reunion. You were so happy and so depressed at the same time. On the bright side Beverly, your best friend and love of your life, is back and looking more gorgeous than ever. On the down side Ben and Bill are going at it. Both passive aggressively fighting for Beverly’s attention. It was really a side sight, so you took a flask of whiskey from Richie and started downing it. “Oh! Damn… You wanna—? No?? Okay.” It was Richie’s turn to be a little depressed. You weren’t shit-faced, but you weren’t sober either. You were that happy middle were you have no shame and will remember everything the next morning. You kinda had if after Bill and Ben started singing The Girl Is Mine. Like really, guys? So you kicked them off the small makeshift stage in Bill’s basement halfway through the song and broke out your guitar, deciding to go acapella. Sober you would’ve never done this, but for the love of God you’re gonna stop this bullshit even if it ruins your friendship. You start to sing C’etait toi(You Were The One). You refuse to look at Bev the whole song, scared of what you’ll see. “Me revoici Cherchant ton visage Et je realise Que je devrais en chercher une autre C'etait toi You were the one.” You finish and look directly at Bev. Bev can’t help but smile widely as you walk off the stage. She takes the guitar from you and walks up the stage. She strums the happy opening to Walkin’ On Sunshine and clears her throat. “I used to think maybe you loved me, now baby I’m sure.” That was all you needed. You cut her off with a kiss. It was hungry and urgent, like your life was on the line. I suppose in a way it was. 

Stranger Things:

I ship you with Will!

In a dramatic turn of events, you’re his knight in shining armor. When he went missing you lost your shit and kinda went off by yourself. You guys were always really close and bonded over music and being smart. You’d defend him from bullies and the two of you would sit in his room for hours doing nothing but listen to music and homework. God you adored him. After awhile of running in circles and finally figuring some shit out you ended up behind Steve’s house where you joined forces with Jonathan and Nancy. “What are you doing here!?” “What are you doing here?” You were in the hospital room when Will woke up, you waited until Jonathan and Joyce left before you went up to him though. “We just gave him something to numb the pain. He’ll be asleep in a few minutes so make it quick.” The nurse told you. “Oh my God Will are you alright? What happened down there are you okay I was so worried I—” “You look the same as the last time I saw you…” “W-what?” “…beautiful.” Needless to say you had some things to think about when you went home that night. You came to the conclusion that you did in fact like him and have for awhile. But you didn’t want to say anything to him because what if he didn’t mean to say it or didn’t mean it at all. He did have drugs being pumped into his system when he said it. He’s probably just happy to be back. These emotions conflicted you the entire second season. It didn’t help that you were on high alert protective mode because off all the assholes running around saying he should be dead and other bullshit. You felt almost like the third wheel to Mike and Will because you were always with Mike when Mike needed help. Sure, you know that Mike is his best friend and has known him longer than you but it still hurt. When Mike wasn’t with Will than you were. You let him talk about whatever he wants, not forcing him to talk about all the shitty things that keep happening. It really helped Will to just be able to talk about how the sky looked, or how the sunset made him feel, art class, the Clash, his brother, his mom. You could listen to all the things that make him happy for hours. It crushed you when he forgot you, although there was a dollop of triumph that he remembered you longer than he remembered Mike. “Do… do you remember that day we met in art class? The teacher told us to draw something we think is beautiful or admire. I looked up to think of ideas and you were staring straight at me… Everyone else drew pictures of flowers, a sunset, but you drew a perfect stranger. Near the end of class when everyone was packing up I walked up you, you looked so nervous… I asked you why you drew me. You said you thought that I was—” “—beautiful.”

Oh fuck I got a little carried away, huh?? Sorry about that!!