#also the fact that i no longer feel capable of doing the dame kind of lines i did back then still bothers me xD | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

liskantope · 4 years ago

Text

Some briefer(?) reactions to major Disney films 1989-1998

I consider the Disney Renaissance (around the period I refer to in the above title) to have been the last official leg of my chronological journey through major Disney features through Disney+ (for this one I need to mention that I’m excluding CGI animated ones on this journey, except when I feel like watching them on the side). I logged some thoughts on the films I watched in the two earlier legs of the journey here and here, where honestly I intended my notes to be short and not turn into full-blown mini-essays for each movie. Those posts turned out to be major timesucks and I can’t afford that now, but I thought I’d jot down a hodgepodge of reactions and just be briefer and sloppier about it. I feel like I have overall less to say about this set of films anyway, since they’re pretty much all very high-quality and are talked about extensively in the cultural discourse much more than films from Disney’s earlier eras.

As I was still trying to stick to taking one day for each year in the Disney Studios timeline and major film production by Disney picked up pace a lot at the start of this era, I wound up doing a rather intense marathon of one full Disney movie each evening: over ten evenings (corresponding to the years 1989 through 1998), I watched the ten movies The Little Mermaid, The Rescuers Down Under, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, The Nightmare Before Christmas, The Lion King, Pocahontas, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Hercules, and Mulan. I would have watched Tarzan the following evening, but I had very recently sort of re-seen it when it came on Netflix -- I didn’t see it for the first time until an outdoor event near the end of grad school not that many years ago; I didn’t bother paying full attention on seeing it the second time a couple of months ago and couldn’t much get into it on the second viewing.

The thing about the ten major animated Disney movies on this list is that, while I can’t say I love all of them, the uptick in quality is dramatic right from the start and never wavers. Every single one of these films just seems objectively better than Pete’s Dragon, The Fox and the Hound, or Oliver and Company. This will help me be a little shorter-written when talking about them, as it’s easier to expand on specific criticisms than to wax on about how great something is.

[EDIT: Okay, these still turned out pretty long and more on the polished side. Guess I’m just not that capable of being brief and sloppy.]

The Little Mermaid, 1989

Although we didn’t have the video at my house growing up, I somehow knew The Little Mermaid quite well; I guess I watched it quite a few times. I went a gap of many years before seeing it again in college (I’m fairly certain that my college girlfriend and I watched it together, in fact). My reaction at the time was that although it was well enough done with good music, the story was terrible. This was right around the time I watched a performance of Once on This Island, a musical based on Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Little Mermaid” on which, of course, the Disney movie was based. I thought the tragic tale told in Once on This Island was beautiful and scorned The Little Mermaid for cheapening it. In fact, my opinion was quite scathing in the way that my opinions more often were when I was younger. So I was a little wary on watching it again.

I’ve mellowed out since my college days and don’t hate the story quite as much now -- in particular, I can’t really blame Disney for Disnifying a mature tragedy into a more lighthearted tale with a happy ending -- but I still think it’s kind of bad. We’re back to Disney princesses (I think for the first time since my first round of Disney films?), this time with a Disney princess who had goals that didn’t involve meeting her prince, until she actually meets him and every other interest, including staying in the world she grew up with where to which all the people who ever loved her or knew her are confined, giving up her voice, and drastically changing her physical form. And this is all for a prince character of flatly generic personality who is superficial and dim-witted enough that he only knows his true love by her voice. (I don’t understand why this isn’t the Disney Renaissance-era film that routinely gets criticized for being anti-feminist rather than... a certain other one also on this list.) Also, while King Triton isn’t by any means a flat character, his sudden turnaround at the end and almost lightheartedness at saying goodbye to his daughter presumably forever doesn’t quite feel right.

I was very surprised at how much I’d completely forgotten among plot events and certain scenes in the movie. For instance, as the action neared the climax, I really had no memory of how Ursula would be defeated and watching it didn’t jog my memory.

This is the first of several films on this list where I noticed a sample of what I’m starting to think of a set of 90′s sitcom/romcom tropes, in this case the situation of the romantic leads courting very publicly with all the other characters watching and cheering it on and working behind the scenes to help it happen. This shows up again in Beauty and the Beast and (to a slight degree) Aladdin below.

Great music of course, even slightly better than what I remembered. Fun fact: you know that “Part of Your World” song, almost certainly the most widely popular in the film, the one that musical theater kids at my (and maybe your) middle school always used for auditions? Apparently it was almost cut from the film, mainly because it was shown to a test audience of little kids who all fidgeted and got visibly distracted.

The Rescuers Down Under, 1990

I don’t have too much to say about this one, the first Disney sequel ever. I had only ever seen the first Rescuers before and, as my previous set of reviews indicates, didn’t particularly like it, but came in to this one a little more optimistic since some consider it better than its predecessor. They aren’t wrong -- this movie was similar to The Rescuers but better, I think. Although the villain was just as forgettable, the setting was far more enticing (at least to someone like me who has never been to Australia and thinks of it as exotic), and the dynamic between the main mouse characters was more engaging. Here we have another subplot that somehow reminds me of a 90′s-ish sitcom/romcom, with the aborted marriage proposals and a love triangle -- not that love triangles hadn’t featured in movies for decades, but something about how this one was done felt distinctly more modern.

Beauty and the Beast, 1991

Ah, this is not only one of the Disney movies I saw the most as a kid but one which has only grown on me as I’ve gotten older -- I consider it one of the most groundbreakingly beautiful of the animated classics ever made, one of my very favorite Disney productions of all time. We got the video when I was only five or so; I remember distinctly that it came out on home video (right after coming out in theaters) right around the same time that 101 Dalmatians came out on home video and that my mom explained to me that she was choosing to buy Beauty and the Beast instead because of its superior music. She was right about this -- not that 101 Dalmatians has bad music, but it’s hard to measure up to Alan Mencken’s masterful compositions for Beauty and the Beast. For me it solidly ranks in the top three Disney movie soundtracks ever, one of the others being that of Mary Poppins and the third being from an easily-predictable film later on this list.

I’m pretty sure I remember watching portions of this movie every morning for weeks before leaving for kindergarten (this is what makes me think we got it when I was five), and I continued to enjoy it throughout childhood. I next watched it when I was much older, but I can’t remember exactly when. During college I got hold of the soundtrack of the musical, which since has been one of my favorite musical soundtracks to listen to. I never actually got to see the musical until last December when it was showing in my hometown, and I thought it was excellent. Interestingly, there were a number of scenes that I assumed had been added for the musical but I had actually forgotten were in the movie -- unlike with certain Disney musical films *ahemMaryPoppinsahem*, they didn’t take many liberties with the musical except to add a number of new (very good) songs.

Leaving aside the top-notch music and exquisite animation, the story in my opinion is one of the most beautiful and distinctively memorable stories Disney has ever told, not to mention entertaining without every being silly or over-the-top. It speaks of compassion, drawing out core goodness from an ugly exterior, and the fact that, to quote the enchantress from the start of the tale, “beauty comes from within”. Belle is also, to my mind, the most feminist Disney protagonist ever to be seen up to that time, which is why I get super super annoyed that so many people point to this movie loftily shouting “Stockholm Syndrome!” I feel it’s kind of inevitable that I quickly address that here, even though I’ve brought it up on this blog several times before. (Also, for an excellent takedown of the “Beauty and the Beast is a sexist story because Belle has Stockholm’s Syndrome” take, see this video essay of Lindsay Ellis.)

When watching the musical last winter I kept an eye out for justification for the Stockholm’s Syndrome take that I might not have remembered and couldn’t find any, but it pains me to admit that I did find a smidgen of justification, for someone determined to be a bit uncharitable, in a particular bit of dialog from the movie. I don’t recall it appearing with quite that wording in the musical, although it’s entirely possible that the musical has those exact same lines and I just wasn’t being observant. Here it is:

BELLE: What did you say?

BEAST: I release you. You’re no longer my prisoner.

BELLE: You mean... I’m free?

BEAST: Yes.

BELLE: Oh, thank you. Hold on, Papa. I’m on my way. [tries to hand mirror to BEAST]

BEAST: Take it with you. So you’ll always have a way to look back... and remember me.

BELLE: [in sweet, deeply moved tone] Thank you for understanding how much he needs me.

So okay, maybe Belle comes off as showing just a bit too much unqualified gratitude here, an oversight that the writers circa 1990 clearly should have avoided in case diagnosing female characters with Stockholm’s should ever become trendy twenty-something years later. But this could be remedied by a quick rewrite of the dialog in that one scene; it’s not as though the whole plot has to be changed away from its inherently misogynistic nature.

And that’s all I want to say on that one aspect of this absolute gem of a Disney production. Despite a few minor issues I noticed, such as Maurice being a little too innocent and helpless, and it lacking my very favorite line from the musical (“Belle don’t you recognize the beast within the man who’s now before you?” at the end), Beauty and the Beast comes about as close to perfection as it gets.

Aladdin, 1992

Although I didn’t see this major blockbuster hit when it first came out -- it was probably considered a bit too intense for me at kindergarten age -- this is the first time that I was aware on some level that a particular Disney movie was a new release. (One of my few sharp memories of kindergarten recess was a boy standing on a stump or low piece of playground equipment making proclamations to passersby for minutes at a time that alternated between, “You are a street rat!”, “You were born a street rat!”, and “You will die a street rat!”, and how this made me consciously contemplate the concept of present/past/future tenses for the first time.) When I saw it, I loved it -- it was clearly the most exciting animated movie out there. At some point in childhood I thought it was bested by its sequel, but a few years later as a teenager I decided that the tightly resonant plot of the original Aladdin made it the best Disney movie ever. I’ve definitely mellowed out my opinion on this, as Aladdin certainly has flaws and some other features are more deeply meaningful to me as an adult, but I still hold up Aladdin as one of the greats. I saw at least parts of it as an adult on TV and saw it very recently prior to getting Disney+ when it appeared briefly on Netflix, but I was perfectly happy to rewatch it yet again on Disney+ the evening after watching its predecessor as Aladdin is fun and entertaining every time.

In this animated production we have finally topped The Great Mouse Detective in terms of animated action. We have topped most movies that ever came out prior in terms of a manically funny yet also soulful character in Robin Williams’ role as the genie. The story is excellent, apart from having only one female character, and my being bothered just a little by the slough of magic tricks dominating the action towards the end -- I tend to prefer universes where magic requires scholarly study and careful training (e.g. The Black Cauldron) rather than “genie points his finger at you and now you have the ability to point your own finger and make anything happen that pops into your head”. The sultan continues the trend of old man characters who are portrayed as helpless and infantile -- in this case, even more intensely, since the sultan has none of Maurice’s brilliant smarts. But I’m mostly nitpicking here -- Aladdin is well deserving of its high status in the history of Disney.

The Nightmare Before Christmas, 1993

I was very glad to finally get a chance to see this movie, because I clearly remember knowing about it from the time it was being advertised back in 1993, and I heard about it during my entire childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood. Although it seemed that most of my friends had seen it growing up, it didn’t look much like my conception at the time of a “normal movie” or even normal content, and so I don’t recall ever asking to watch it. But my recent-day self recognized that it’s quite a classic and was curious to see it.

I don’t regard The Nightmare Before Christmas as one of the really great Disney productions, but I strongly admire how original it was (particularly for its time) in every single aspect, including use of claymation, overall aesthetic, intriguing characters, and story. It was also fun to see what seems to be the only Disney musical that is done in the style of opera, that is, where the entire story is told in songs without any extended non-musical dialogs. And the songs are quite good in their own way, too. I don’t particularly want to see the film again, but I might not mind getting a soundtrack of it.

The Lion King, 1994

This is the first Disney movie -- and I believe the first movie of any kind, in fact -- that I went to see in the theater. I remember it as a powerful and sometimes overwhelming experience, but as a movie I overall liked even as young as I was. This is remarkable especially considering that much of the story feels more adult in nature than almost any other Disney animated feature.

What can I even say about this one? I think the general reaction to watching it is almost unanimously shared. My impression is that what its creators were going for, more than anything else, was epicness, and they succeeded in a way that had never been done through animation before. Apparently the entire (incredibly epic) opening number was shown as the trailer -- a questionable move, but understandably it got people very excited about The Lion King’s release.

One of many particular things that makes The Lion King stand out is the profound darkness of its main villain, perhaps the most chilling that has ever appeared in Disney. An argument can be made that not only murdering a major protagonist halfway through the movie but convincing the child that he’s to blame is the most evil act we’ve ever seen from a Disney villain. I’ve seen it pointed out that it’s vaguely ableist to give the villain an ugly scar and even make it his name. Some have suggested that they should have made the villain the handsome and strong one and given the scar to one of the heroes -- Simba or Mufasa -- instead. I’m definitely sympathetic to this point of view, and I totally agree that Scar shouldn’t actually have been someone’s name. However, without getting bogged down into something that could be a lengthy post all on its own, I strongly feel that in a way it adds to the depth of our villain’s depravity through the backstory that it implies. And by the way, his ending is probably my favorite out of the fates of all Disney villains.

The music also follows the film’s ethos of being as epic as possible (well, with the exception of a couple of the songs, but they were still fine songs). “The Circle of Life” and the instrumental music propel The Lion King’s soundtrack to possibly the very best in all of Disney.

To be sure, this movie does have more flaws than I remembered. As I said, Scar is a terrible name to give any of the characters, especially in a story where everyone else’s name comes from Swahili. Pumbaa is basically just one big fart joke. (Although, I give the writers major credit for managing to switch the tone to accommodate fart jokes within like five minutes of Scar confronting Simba over Mufasa’s death.) The video essayist Big Joel has pointed out interesting things about the story and made some rather troubling points about it, although to me that almost just makes the film deeper and more thought-provoking rather than actually worse (I see the Chronicles of Narnia this way). But overall, The Lion King has well earned its high rank on the list of highest grossing films of all time.

----------

At this point in Disney’s history and my childhood, apparently I decided that I didn’t care to see new Disney films coming out because I was content with watching my old favorites over and over, and anyway I was getting older and discovering that non-Disney movies could be quite entertaining as well. Therefore, I didn’t see any of these last four until adulthood, even though they all came out when I was still a kid.

Pocahontas, 1995

I was glad for the chance to finally see Pocahontas for the first time, unfortunately not before hearing countless references to it as being Problematic while I would have preferred to go into it completely uninfluenced by popular opinion. I had actually seen songs from it and Disney books of it as a child and it didn’t interest me at all. On finally watching the film, I found that I got what I expected on both counts: it wasn’t terribly interesting or gripping, and it doesn’t really pass the muster of today’s higher standards of responsible storytelling about colonialism.

All that really sticks out at me looking back (after some delay in writing this post, so that it was over a month ago that I watched this) is that the plot felt a bit atypical in two ways. One, a character, who is neither a protagonist really nor a villain, is killed off around halfway through -- a daring move that The Fox and the Hound chickened out of doing, but I shouldn’t have been all that surprised given that Pocahontas’ very predecessor did this with a protagonist in a much bigger way. And two, the story ends sort of anticlimactically: I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed when a big Disney animated feature doesn’t end with a lot of action, despite realizing that this more peaceful kind of ending being a reasonable alternative is basically the entire point the story wants to make.

The songs are sort of meh, at least by the high standards of Disney movies of this period. Nothing more really to say on this one.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame, 1996

Here is another movie that I had never gotten around to seeing before, despite having been somewhat more interested in it than I ever was in Pocahontas. And this turned out to be the main breakout attraction on this list, as I found it nothing short of spectacular (save, perhaps, the music, which was “only” quite solid, maybe not spectacular).

I would nominate this for the award of most mature movie among all the animated features included in this journey. I would almost say its ideal audience is adults, not children. It showcases an abusive relationship with enough intricate care to be worthy of analysis through abuse discourse on Tumblr. It displays lust and sexuality in a way that I don’t think I’ve never seen anywhere else in Disney animation. Its violence and political undertones are quite dark. It examines religion deeply (which is as far as I know unique in Disney), and the capacity of religion to bring out both the best and the worst impulses in humanity is exposed. Its main villain is one of the more multi-layered ones. It treats physical handicaps and deformities in quite an honest way and subverts expectations with its love plot.

Perhaps the only thing one might reasonably criticize this movie for is the characters of the gargoyles, which are clearly present to lighten the tone a bit so that the film isn’t entirely heavy and austere. But I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised -- I think the gargoyle stuff could have been executed in such a way that may have made the whole film sag, but instead they were done just right: the gargoyles are depicted as being animated only in the mind of Quasimodo. This means in fact that in a way, they actually implicitly add some gravity to his situation. (Consider that in a more typical Disney film there would have been some sort of cheesy sentient animal friend instead whose existence would not have been confined to the protagonist’s imagination.) Here I’m going to choose to ignore the fact that the gargoyles do seem to interfere in the final battle with some explosives, a possible inconsistency which is minor enough to be glossed over.

Anyway, I think before I unsubscribe from Disney+, I might just give this one a second watching.

Hercules, 1997

Although I never saw this one growing up, I did get talked into watching it by my college girlfriend who had been fond of it growing up. I distinctly remember not caring much for it when I saw it with her. My reaction at this later stage of my life is basically the same. There’s something about the animation style that I find subtly grating and distracting. And there’s something about the story itself that feels like way too light and cartoony a take on ancient Greek mythology (although it’s not like the ancient Greeks had a particularly heavy or dark mythology, and what else could I expect from Disney, really?). I guess that stories that are so explicitly centered around a young man’s quest for hero-hood and being godlike just don’t speak to me that well, and I didn’t find any of the characters that appeared to be especially memorable or engaging.

I did like the muses and enjoyed their singing but can’t say I love any of the musical numbers. So, I respect the effort and earnestness and general respect for ancient Greek culture that went into Hercules, but my overall reaction is still meh.

Mulan, 1998

I had only seen this movie once before, during a trip with some grad school friends back some years ago. One of my best friends at the time, who was with us on the trip, highly recommended it as pretty much her favorite Disney movie as she especially liked father-daughter stories. At the time, the film didn’t make a particularly strong impression on me, although I could recognize its quality. Watching it again on Disney+ has given me a deeper respect for it as having quite a good story and characterization, fine animation, and pretty decent music. I like both Mulan and Mushu as characters, and I enjoyed their dynamic.

I guess it’s telling, though, that I don’t really have all that much more to say about it. Maybe I don’t relate closely enough, maybe the movie didn’t imprint itself on me at an early enough time in my life, maybe I don’t engage that well with any plot that involves organized warfare, I don’t know. But I think I can only really like this film on a more dispassionate, intellectual level, rather than feeling touched in any kind of resonant way by it.

I think it’s interesting to note that Mulan is actually pretty rare among Disney protagonists in having two parents who survive through the entire story. And that moreover, despite it being billed as a father-daughter story to me (and I’m not denying that it is somewhere at its core), Mulan never directly interacts with her father except at the beginning and the very end.

Anyway... since watching all of these, I’ve been watching the more recent major films sort of sporadically: The Return of Jafar (a favorite of mine at some point in childhood, but with maturity I can now see why it was direct-to-video), The Emperor’s New Groove (quite good, better than expected), the first half of Home on the Range (about as bad as I expected, hence my quitting halfway through), WALL-E (as good as I remembered from when it came out when I was in college), Enchanted (one of my favorites, not on Disney+ so I got it through... other means), The Princess and the Frog (a real treat, slathered with Louisiana flavor), Tangled (sweet but nothing outstanding), Frozen (one of my favorites from seeing it in the theater; however I had never seen the first ten minutes which makes a major difference!), and Frozen II (which I had been sorry to miss in theaters last winter, a bit of a weird story but not bad and absolutely the most stunning animation I’ve ever seen). And, of course, Belle’s Magical World, the infamous mid-quel to Beauty and the Beast; this was not a major film but I just had to see if it was as legendarily bad as people say and, yes, it was.

I’m very glad to have been able to get a break from Netflix by taking a tour through the main history of Disney -- including many childhood memories, would-be childhood experiences, and more modern things from my adulthood -- thanks to Disney+.

18 notes · View notes

ofmcxie · 5 years ago

Text

&&. ( ada rhodes ) was just spotted in amsterdam. rumor has it ( she ) is a ( 768 / appears [25] ) year old ( vampire ) who resembles ( anya chalotra ). ( she ) has been said to be ( dauntless & protective ) but also quite ( possessive & volatile ).with all the chaos surrounding the magical underworld, ( she ) has chosen to align with ( the vampires ). ( she ) is currently serving as ( an assassin ). hopefully the city doesn’t devour them whole. // fulfilling celine dahl’s rival

(( Hey guys!! I’m Jade and will be playing the lesbian vampire disaster that is Ada here. I’m always awful at these intro things, but i’m really looking forward to rping with you all :D Feel free to hmu for plots anytime because I live for them lol. Also, i’m going bullet point in the hopes I don’t write an entire essay and it gets too long to read, but we’ll see how well that goes...xD ))

Backstory:

Ada didn’t had the easiest start in life. Born to simple farm folk who never really wanted her, in a time of knights and holy wars when a woman’s sole purpose was considered marriage and children.

She had never been that kind of girl. One of her earliest memories being a time she had tried to go out training with the boys only to be dragged back to their homestead to help her mother cook.

Her father drank a lot, and was an incredibly abusive individual. It certainly wasn’t helped by the fact he was a self-riotously religious man, and Ada had been born with a defect. Her irises had taken on a purple hue from the day she had opened them; not enough to be obvious unless you truly looked, but he had deemed it a mark of the devil.

Ada hadn’t seen it that way. Instead, growing to relish in her uniqueness. Like a physical manifestation of her defiance burned into her very soul, it meant she wasn’t born to be weak.

It caused a great many fights with both her parents who weren’t exactly good people at the best of times, going to bed beaten and hungry more often than not.

The years that followed were no kinder, Ada haven all but given up until one night, were a chance encounter would change her life forever.

She’d been following the well-trodden path home when she’d been ambushed.

Having nothing of value to give the bandits, they’d settled for some other form of payment.

She’d tried to fight them tooth and claw when she realised what was happening, unarmed so fighting dirty, their blood both under her nails on her lips by the time they’d got her to the ground. But they had her now, and they were angry...She’d grown up used to getting in fightings, it was probably the reason she’d lasted as long as she had, but there were just too many of them.

Ada had been incredibly lucky that day. The men not having time to do much of anything before they were being flung off her with such a speed and force that it blurred together. She couldn’t even see what was causing it, but was pretty certain she heard bones crack as they hit trees.

She’d jumped to her feet uncertain whether to expect the same fate, but the whole situation had her reeling, and she’d fallen to her knees again before being able to do anything about it.

An eery quite followed suite, and by the time she’d caught her breath long enough to look up again -- she would have never been prepared for the sight that met her.

It was a woman; beautiful, covered in blood dripping from her mouth and...glorious. Where most would have been terrified Ada only found herself awestruck.

She’d briefly contemplated if this individual’s fangs were a defect as her eyes had been, and the words were out of her mouth before she realised what she was saying.

The comment may have been idiotic, but it seemed to snap the woman out of whatever trance she had been in. A low chuckle leaving her lips instead going for Ada’s neck.

They’d begun to talk, and she’d found this woman was a skilled assassin of all things, apparently it’s easy to do when no one ever sees you. Women certainly weren’t capable of such a thing; it made her work easy.

By the end of the night they’d ended up in a contract of sorts. This woman would teach her some tricks of the trade in exchange for her blood whenever asked for.

Ada was hardly innocent, and if meant gaining even a modicum of power over her own life then she would grab it with both hands.

They met in that very same spot often after that. Three years of being taught certain tricks; where to nick so you could leave the scene before anyone would notice, what substances made for the least traceable poisons.

She’d also helped her get over how she originally reacted to pain, teaching her how to lean into it instead. It was good thing to have in one’s repertoire if she ever got caught and interrogated -- But she unwittingly developed a slight thing for it in the process though she’d be damed if she’d ever admit that, and while she’s 100% a sadist at heart, she does still have a small weakness for it on certain occasions.

The addiction of a vampire bite was no small thing either, and Ada began to believe she might be in over head with this woman; until the night raiders ransacked her village.

She’d been left for dead, convinced it was the end...and yet woke up with a new lease of life.

The woman had turned her, their relationship no longer being a one way street it seemed.

Ada stayed with her for a few centuries before they eventually branched off on their own, though they’re still incredibly close to this day.

Over the years that followed, she quickly gained notoriety for her ability to complete with freelance kill contacts so efficiently, and eventually flagged on the vampire court’s radar --- In the end being taken into their employ of her own volition, more than happy to serve the species that had granted her freedom.

It was during one of these contracts she met an insufferable fallen angel who happened to be after the same person. It turned into a weird game of cat and mouse trying to thwart each other’s attempts, and Ada’s not even certain who actually got the kill in the end, but they still argue about it to this day.

She’s been working for the king and his inner court ever since, and is incredibly loyal to them. She takes pride in being good at her job, and has no qualms killing for them without question -- Her only hard line is children, but that particular request has never come up anyway...

Personality:

Ada keeps her true nature very lowkey and acts differently around most people aside from a select few. She’s very much the ‘look like an innocent flower but be the serpent under it’ type character, and incredibly manipulative when she wants to be. This is especially prominent in the fact that Ada’s gay af, but she has no qualms flirting with men when they’re prey or she needs something from them.

She really does love the colour of her eyes and is glad they didn’t change when she was turned, but on a job she’ll usually experiment with different coloured contacts due to the uniqueness of such features.

Additionally, Ada’s completely down with this notion of vampires coming out of hiding, believing them to be a superior species that shouldn’t have to bow down to mutts or mortals just because their precious guardian angels deem it so — She plans on doing whatever she can to help further that cause.

Connections:

I’m literally open to anything, but here are just a few thoughts:

Enemies with benefits: Filled by Celine Dahl. These two HATE each other; like passion of a thousand suns hate. I mean, Ada isn’t always the calmest person at the best of times, but Celine can somehow PISS HER THE FUCK OFF MORE THAN ANYBODY ELSE IN THE HISTORY OF EVER. With that being said, there’s also this weird pull between them. It’s like all that anger and hatred and loathing spills over into everything they do -- but Ada kind of lives for it. They just try to get under each other’s skin in every way possible. They’ve even slipped up a few times and had some pretty intense hate sex because FUCK I HATE YOU SO GOD DAMN MUCH AND I REALLY WANT TO HURT YOU BUT YOU’RE ALSO REALLY HOT AND NOW MY HAND’S AROUND YOUR NECK AND YOUR STUPID FACE IS INCHES FROM MINE AND...screw it, i’m totally topping though don’t even try!!

Fuck buddies/booty calls 1/4: Rosalia Fuentes, TBA. Ada has nothing against sex workers and sees it as a reputable job like anything else, but like, girl is egotistic af and frankly sees the thought of paying for sex offensive of her skill set. These would basically just be her go-to people whenever she’s back in Amsterdam, and wants someone who’s just completely dtf from the moment they meet up rather than pursuing someone new.

Vampires with the same maker who she weirdly considers family despite hating the term: TBA. I just...love the idea of this? Like Umbrella Academy-esk sort of misfit family that would actually kill for each other.

People who’s family members/loved ones she’s killed, not that they’d know it was actually her...Or if they do there’s no way to prove it: TBA. Just give me allll the angst!

I would love you 5eva if you actually brought her Maker here.

Her favourite blood doll: TBA. Same as the fuck buddies connection, but already pretty addicted to being bitten. Ada doesn’t mind paying for this sort of thing as much, though this would be someone who doesn’t make her pay for it even if they work as one, or maybe that’s not even what they do for a living? Basically an individual Ada would consider making personally her’s if she was around more consistently and didn’t run the risk of having them in constant withdrawal mode.

Anything else you can think of, come at me!!

#nhqintro #abuse tw #non-con tw #blood tw #murder tw #//They're very vague or brief mentions but I thought i'd flag them all just in case #//Side note: The bullet points did not help lol

7 notes · View notes

aras-fanfics-andstuff · 5 years ago

Text

Allow Me This

Levi Ackerman x Reader (Female)

Synopsis: Recently dethroned Princess Y/N goes to see Levi off as he leaves with the Scouts to retake Wall Maria.

Author’s Note: ((I’m thinking about doing a few oneshots using this little idea that the Reader is the False King Fritz’s daughter. In future shorts I plan to include more story background, but I just want to throw some fluff out there to get the ball rolling. Let me know what you think!))

Y/N was in a sentimental mood, reflecting on how she got to be where she was now: riding horseback with the love of her life to the eastern gate of Wall Rose. She’d be watching him leave to retake Wall Maria, and though she didn’t want to appear untrusting of Levi’s skills, she was worried.

It’d been five long years since Y/N and Levi met, when Y/N was still a Princess and Wall Maria was still humanity’s. Y/N supposed she’d always felt something for Levi, beginning with just a general interest in the strongest Survey corps member but quickly evolving into the deep, enduring love she felt for him now. For awhile they hadn’t even acknowledged their feelings for each other, because of Y/N’s status and Levi’s lack thereof. After Trost, though, the floodgates broke. The two fell desperately in love and kept their relationship a secret from anyone that wasn’t Erwin and Pixis until recently. Now that Y/N was no longer royalty, marriage was suddenly on the table. Unfortunately, things were getting intense on the front lines of the fight against the titans, making the present an inopportune time to tie the knot. The Scouts needed Levi, and his conscience wouldn’t allow him to leave the war unwon. Y/N respected that wholeheartedly. Still, there was an ache in her heart when she thought of Levi going outside the wall to almost certainly meet the both Armored and Colossal Titans at once. Y/N sat behind Levi on his black horse, arms clasped tightly around his midsection. It was the first day that they’d be open to the general public about their relationship, and as they rode past people in the streets, it was clear that they had the support of the citizens. Y/N smiled as she squeezed Levi’s torso fondly and listened to all of the encouragement being shouted to the Scouts. “Good luck!” one woman shouted, cradling a baby to her chest as she waved with a brilliant smile. “Come back in one piece this time!” “Captain Levi, you can do it!” a man called. Y/N felt Levi shift to look in the direction of the shout, and she loosened her hold on him. The man who’d shouted at them seemed to notice the Captain’s attention and turned to grin at Y/N. “Don’t you worry, Ex-Princess. He’ll come back for you. Nothin’s gonna keep him from a dame like you for long.” Y/N giggled as Levi’s eyes shot daggers at the man, who now looked terrified. The shouts of encouragement continued as they made their way to the base of the wall when the lifts were, and Y/N leaned forward to press her lips against Levi’s ear. He leaned back into her embrace. “You guys are getting one hell of a sendoff,” she observed. Levi nodded. “The thought of ending this nightmare is keeping everyone going. It also helps that Historia’s been doing so much for the impoverished. Most of these people have been living in shitty conditions for years, and how much things have improved even in the short time the council’s been gone is being noticed.” He rested his eyes back on Erwin’s horse in front of them. “None of this would be possible without you, Y/N.” She blushed. “Levi,” Y/N began, but her lover interrupted her. “It’s true, princess,” he started, using his only ‘pet name’ for her to quell her resistance. “Historia has no idea what she’s doing, even though she has honorable intentions. It’s you that does the paperwork and deals with money behind the castle walls. Historia’s a good kid, but she doesn’t understand shit about the government. Without your experience, her good ideas wouldn’t even get off the ground. Give yourself some credit.” A little smile pulled at the corners of Y/N’s mouth. “You’re the best, Levi.” She rested her hand over his on the reins, and he moved his thumb to caress her wrist. “Historia’s very grateful for your kindness to her, you know. She’s glad she can help kids that were in the same situation as you.” “Tch,” Levi huffed as the horse came to stop next to Hanji’s. He seemed flattered. “Like I said... she’s a sweet kid.” Levi slid off the side of his horse and offered Y/N help to get down as well. Once her feet were firmly on the ground, the two of them walked hand-in-hand to the lift with the horse and led it inside. Hanji followed, and offered Y/N a grin. “Good to see ya, Y/N,” she said cheerily. “You too, Hanji. Good luck out there, with the thunder spears. Come back alive, won’t you?” Y/N answered. “If not for my sake, for humanity’s.” “You can count on it,” Hanji replied as she fixed her glasses. “I’ve got to... talk to Erwin. I’ll be back.” She glanced around, seemingly unaware of where she’d actually go to accomplish her task. After a moment, she walked away aimlessly. “She’s trying to give us some space,” Levi spoke as Y/N turned back to face him. “I know,” she returned softly. The two of them were silent for a moment, unsure of how to start the conversation that might be their last. After a pregnant pause, Y/N lessened the distance between them, taking Levi’s hand in hers and pressing it to her heart. “Promise me you’ll use your intuition. You’ll do whatever you need to do without a second thought.” “I do that implicitly,” Levi assured her almost noncommittally. “Don’t insult me.” “I’m not trying to,” Y/N asserted, eyebrows arching. Her Y/H/C locks blew across her face, and she pushed them out of her way with her free hand. “I didn’t really say that for you, I guess. I’m just helping myself come to terms.” “With what?” Levi stepped closer to her, moving his hand from her chest to her arm. “With... the fact that you might have to make a judgement call that won’t bring you back to me.” Y/N’s shimmering eyes searched Levi’s, finding the first real trace of fear she’d seen in him for awhile. He squeezed her arm in what might have been an attempt at an apology before pulling her into his embrace. His pointed chin nestled into the place where her neck met her collarbone, and he buried his nose in her hair. “I love you, Y/N. I fully intend on coming back alive and with the truth about the titans. And then, when I can say I’ve done everything I’m capable of to end the war with a clear conscience...” The soldier paused, processing the weight of his next statement. “I’ll ask you to marry me.” A blush colored Y/N’s cheeks as her hands gripped Levi’s cloak. “You’re being awfully optimistic,” she observed with a grim huff. “Don’t lie on my behalf.” “Allow me this,” Levi murmured, lips against her neck. “Let me leave knowing you believe in me. Y/N, please.” Y/N leaned away from Levi’s chest to look him in the eyes. His stormy blues were submissive, pleading even. They scanned her face for any sign of her leanings, to see if she might grant his only request. “I believe in you, Levi. You have my heart,” Y/N assured her dark-haired paramour. She pressed her forehead to his, positioning her hands to cradle his face. “My love is yours, no matter what happens.” A shaky sigh fell through Levi’s lips, and without further hesitation he pressed his mouth to Y/N’s. His calloused hands pulled her down into his kiss and she knew better than to resist when every single bone in her body unreservedly lured her closer to him. It was a gentler parting kiss than Y/N expected. Levi had exposed the most guarded facet of his personality to her that day: his endearing hope of a future together was laid bare before her. He tenderly poured the emotions he was trying to convey into each of his movements; every caress and purse of his lips carried an intense affection that weighed so heavily on Y/N that her legs felt weak. They stepped back from each other reluctantly upon hearing Erwin give the command for the next lifts to go up. Levi stepped onto the platform with Hanji, who’d returned unnoticed, and Y/N shut the lift door behind them. Levi grasped her hands over the railing before she could pull away. “I’ll come home to you soon. That’s a promise.” Y/N nodded, a smile manifesting on her face out of a strength she didn’t know she had. “I’ll be waiting for you.” As the lift began to rise, their hands separated. The unlikely-yet-inevitable pair stared longingly after each other until Y/N couldn’t even see Levi’s shape anymore. She reluctantly stepped back to find her ride back to the palace, but something stopped her. Peasants who hadn’t given a damn about the Scouts for years were now shouting their undying support to the heroes now positioned on top of the walls. Smiling people with food and well-mended clothing lined clean streets and waved to the soldiers who, for once in a century, had an authentic, genuine chance at gaining some ground. This had been a dream since before Y/N was born, and it was finally here. Her eyes rested on a figure she knew to be Levi on top of the wall. He stood next to Erwin, who’d just yelled so loud that everyone in the streets paused for a moment, then yelled back to him. A grin spread on Y/N’s face, and she joined the peasants in their war-cry until the call-and-response died out when Scouts started to descend the outer side of the wall. A tiny warmth grew in the dethroned royal’s heart. It’s about time, Y/N thought to herself, clutching her jacket tightly against her form. It’s about time that we start winning. She pressed her fingers gently to her lips, where Levi had just kissed her with such a desire and promise in his touch. It was a kiss she’d cherish for the rest of her life. It’s time that we can all fall in love without worrying about tomorrow.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Check out the list of fandoms I write for here. Send me a request! Thanks for reading!

32 notes · View notes

my-status-single · 6 years ago

Text

Tony’s Daughter side story 1

Character Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader(kind of, this isn’t really a proper reader insert)

Word count: 1336

Warnings: Reader is Tony Stark’s daughter, first date awkwardness, mentions of Bucky and Peggy. Told through Steve’s perspective. Steve is a bumbling idiot and its very endearing.

Synopsis: This is the telling of the reader’s first date with Steve Rogers.

Authors Note: This is a canon compliant AU. This story is set in the same AU as my series Tony’s Daughter. It isn’t a direct part of that series, but it does take place in the same timeline. I plan on doing a few of these throughout the series. They’ll be kind of like behind the scene tidbits, things that take place in the time between the films. This one in particular is set about three or four months before The Avengers (2012) film.

Tony’s Daughter

Steve takes a deep breath as he paces about his apartment. It isn’t that he’s nervous. He isn’t. Not at all. Expect that he absolutely is. He’s been out of the ice for nearly a year and he hasn’t even hardly looked at a woman since then. That is, until a nice young lady came up to him at the gym one day. She was nice, and charming, and she treated him like a human and not like a public figure. And if he’s being totally honest he hasn’t felt this intrigued by a woman since he met Peggy. And if he starts to think about Peggy he gets sad and starts to feel guilty. So, yes, he’s nervous. Not that he would ever admit that. There’s also the small fact that this was technically his first actual date. One that happened because of him, and not because of Bucky planning it and pulling him along, and he’d never gotten the chance to take Peggy on a date. A thought he quickly shakes from his mind. What does someone even wear on a date in this century? He’s been scanning his closet for an hour, which is impressive because there really isn’t much in there. A few t-shirts, some trousers, a single suit. Is he supposed to wear a suit? No, no it’s only a coffee date. He finally settles on a soft red tee and a pair of jeans. Simple, casual, it showed off the work of the serum, but that’s never been a focus on his. He stares at himself in a mirror for a moment, he thinks at the very least that Buck and Peggy would be proud of him. Proud that he was trying to move along in his life. And that thought is enough to get him moving again.

After another solid twenty minutes spent on what he should do with his hair, something he’s never really concerned himself over before, he leaves the apartment and starts to make his way to the coffee shop. He passes a flower stand on his way and he pauses. Should he buy flowers? Maybe one single flower wouldn’t hurt. That wouldn’t seem like too much right? He buys a white lily. Because white goes well with everything and roses seemed a bit intense for a first date. Back in his day buying things like flowers just wasn’t all that common, not when people were barely making enough to survive. There’s a part of him that gets excited over the thought of being able to give you a gift. Though, as he continues on his way he begins to overthink himself. What if you don’t like flowers? What if you’re allergic? What if-

“Is that for me?” He’s startled out of his thoughts by her voice. She’s smiling wide at him and just…so so pretty. He loses his voice for a second before clearing his throat and nodding, he hands her the flower while staring at the ground timidly.

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice is soft and maybe she sounds just as nervous as he feels. “Thank you, Steve.” She whispers, ducking down a bit to catch his eyes again. He blushes a bit but smiles at her.

They walk into the coffee shop together. She doesn’t let him order his coffee black.

“There is so much more available these days Stevie.” His cheeks heat up again at the pet name. She orders him something that sounds ridiculous but ends up tasting okay. And she pays, which he hadn’t been expecting. “I asked you out, I’m more than happy to pay.” She explains in a kind voice. His shoulders relax a bit, her paying had brought him back to his pre-serum days. Like maybe she didn’t think he was capable of handling the check. But no, he supposed this is just how things are now. They end up talking for over an hour and even after that they walk around the city together, both unwilling to let the date end because it just feels nice and comfortable. He feels so relaxed around her, the most relaxed he’s felt since he woke from the ice. He’d been worried they wouldn’t have much in common, that they wouldn’t be able to relate to anything. But, somehow, things just seem to click, and even when there is some massive generational gap on a subject he still doesn’t feel like a man out of time. He may have been born a hundred years ago, but physically they aren’t too far apart in age. And he’s discovered that young people problems are still young people problems even seventy years later.

After a while, they find themselves in a park. She insists on a race and Steve chuckles. “What? Are you serious?” She grins and nods. And so they race, and then they race again because every time she is convinced that she will beat him in the next one. But after doing this six times she falls into the grass with a groan. “All right, all right. You win.” She chuckles breathlessly and the sound of her laugh is something he wants to grow very used to. He smiles and lays beside her in the cool, soft grass. “I told you so.” He teases and she smacks his arm with a laugh

As they lay in the grass and their breathing and heart rates relax it grows dark. She whispers about how she wishes she could see the stars this far in the city. He tells her about how amazing the stars would be on some of his missions back in the day, it’s the first time he’s spoken openly about it that hasn’t got his heart going a million miles an hour as he starts to panic. Instead, the only thing getting his heart to race is his fingers finding hers, and hers finding his. She looks over at him and smiles softly.

“We can take this at your pace, Steve. I have no expectations.” She says in a gentle voice.

He gives her a grateful smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate that. This is all still so…new. Everything is so new and I never thought I’d find myself on a date with a beautiful dame..er, woman, so quickly. But I like it, it feels…good.” He says and nods once. “It feels right.”

She smiles and squeezes his hand lightly. They lay together in a comfortable silence for a bit longer. When they both realise the time and decide to call it a night he insists on walking her home. He lets out a breath when she accepts without hesitation.

“You know..I was never able to do this back in my day.” He says softly, she hand let go of his hand and taken his arm instead and he suddenly felt right at home. “If it ever got to the point of a date where I could walk her home, and it often didn’t, she wouldn’t let me anyway.” He says. “What would I have been able to do if someone tried to get at her y’know?” He says and sighs. “Buck always walked the girls home.” He says.

“Well, I wouldn’t want anyone else walking me home.” She says and rests her head on his shoulder. His cheeks heat up again.

He feels a little sad when they reach her apartment. And he realises that maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that means he should see her again. And again. And again. He’s brought out of his thoughts again by her voice.

“I’d uh..I’d invite you in but..” She says, playing with his fingers absentmindedly

He shakes his head with a small. “No, no I don’t think I’m ready for that. I need…I still need to move pretty slowly I think.” He says and looks at you, a small frown on his lips. Is he doing this wrong? Should he just suck it up and go inside?

But she just smiles and it sets his mind at ease again. “Some other time?” She says softly.

He grins at her. “I’d really like there to be another time.” He whispers. “And next time, I’m paying.”

Tag List (If you don’t want to be tagged in the side stories just let me know)

@winchestergirl907 @samros95 @booknerd-and-fangirl @boxofteenageideas @sunnyshoes @yougottalovefandoms @peregrinestook @tealeaves-and-witchythings

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #captain america au #canon compliant au #first date #Steve Rogers first date #Tonys daughter #Tony's daughter side story #Tony's daughter side story 1

65 notes · View notes

newdougg · 6 years ago

Text

The Challenge

A/N: So I literally woke up this morning and this idea for a drabble just popped in my head. But this ended up being way longer than I intended so I guess it’s a oneshot? Hopefully when I get this out of my brain I can get some inspiration for the next part of Prague. Also I’m not putting any links on this because of tumblr’s fucked that up for everyone, so if you want to check out my masterlist, which only has two stories right now, please go directly to my blog and click on the link there! Reblogs will be greatly appreciated!

Warnings: Just all the fluff. A swear or two.

“How about you? Any luck lately?”

“Not at all. It seems I’ve hit a dry spell on the dating front,” You sigh heavily and take a long swig of wine. You’re about to put your glass back down on the counter when you see the pity written all over Wanda’s face. Another healthy gulp held your annoyance at bay. It wasn’t Wanda’s fault you weren’t seeing anyone and couldn’t seem to get past the first date. But listening to her gush about Vision for the past few minutes was too much to bear. “I’m just tired of putting myself out there all the time. I just want a guy to like... do all the work. Just ask me the fuck out. And to like be cute about it too. Make the first time he asks me out memorable.”

“I think you’re expecting too much,” Wanda said, raising a brow.

Sighing, you nod in agreement, “I’ve come to the conclusion that all men suck and I’m doomed to be single forever.”

“That’s the spirit,” the faux cheeriness in Bucky’s voice was not lost on you. He strode around the corner, clad in grey sweatpants and a black tee that was annoyingly too tight. Not that you cared to notice. A hair tie kept those chestnut locks in place low on his head, though he always looked better with his hair hanging free, framing his face. Not that it mattered to you anyway.

“I don’t recall inviting you to this conversation,” you huffed. Bucky ignored you. He opened the fridge, grabbed the milk, and drank a third of it straight from the carton. You and Wanda watched, horrified. “You’re proving my point y’know.”

“You can’t use a glass?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “Relax, I bought this for myself,” he turned the carton to the side where in big, bold letters was written BUCKY. The smaller script underneath read Wilson if you even look at this milk you’re dead. He wiped his perfect lips- not that you thought they were perfect, nope- with the back of his hand, and sat on the island, right next to your glass, “What point am I proving again?”

You rolled your eyes, “Just that all men are terri-”

“... terrible and you’ll be single forever. Right.” His smirk was so slappable. Yet so dreamy. Bucky threw his hands up when he caught sight of your death glare, “Hey, I’m just repeating what you said.”

“Still unnecessary,” you grumbled, “Anyways, I don’t see you bringing home any... what’s the term you like to use? Dames, lately.”

“You keeping track of my dating habits?” His eyebrows waggle suggestively and his mouth curves back into that fucking smirk and you want to die a little bit.

“I’m observant, it’s part of the job,” you take a long gulp of your wine, hoping the glass hides the blush that was hot on your face. You finally put the glass down, maybe a little too forcefully. Some precious wine spills from the glass and it takes every fiber of your being not to whine aloud at the loss, “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re in the same boat as me.”

“Well,” he begins, hopping off the island and standing far too close, “First of all, I’m just biding my time, waiting for the opportune moment and the right girl. Quality is more important than quantity. Which means,” He smugly refills your glass for you, only he can pour smugly, “I’m in this boat by choice, As are you. Because your choice of men, if you can call them that, is absolutely horrible.”

Your mouth hangs open for just second as you realize what that means, “So you’re keeping track of my dating life?” The tick in his jaw barely visible. His cocky demeanor falters ever so slightly and the feeling of making Bucky Barnes squirm, even just the tiniest bit, is glorious.

“Besides,” Wanda pipes up, coming to your defense. You almost had forgotten she was even there, “Her taste in men isn’t horrible. What about that field agent...what’s his name... Nick!”

“See, now you’re proving my point,” Bucky crosses his arms, “Nick is an asshole.”

“What makes him an asshole?”

“He’s a shitty tipper, not a fan of animals of any kind, stares at himself in the mirror while he’s working out,” Bucky is listing all the traits off on his fingers, “But the most telling thing is his ‘locker room talk’. Disgusting. Steve and I used to kick guys’ asses for talking like that. Well, Steve tried to anyway.”

You distinctly remember Nick showing up for dinner with a black eye once. He refused to tell you what happened. It was incredibly hard to bite back your smile, so more wine it was, “Well that’s just one guy. I am perfectly capable of getting a quality guy to ask me out. You, on the other hand,” pointing at him at him with the same hand that was holding your glass, “might have a hard time getting a date acting all presumptuous and shit.”

Bucky’s beautiful blue eyes- not that you really find them beautiful, they were objectively pretty of course, but blue eyes always are, right?- look you up and down, a look of delight crosses his face, “Is that a challenge?”

“You know what? Yeah, it is,” A sudden confidence overwhelms you, (wine’ll do that to you) and you dared to take a step forward, practically toe to toe with the super soldier, “I know I can get a quality guy to ask me out before you can get a girl to agree to go on a date with you.”

“We’ll see about that.” You’re too busy polishing off the last of your wine to notice, but Bucky shifted uncomfortably. Worry clouds his features extremely briefly; it’s gone before you put your glass back down.

“Oh we will,” you begin to strut away, alcohol-induced confidence evident with every step, “Better get to work Barnes.”

Bucky huffed sharply, then called, “Hey, Y/N?”

“What,” You spin around on your heel, “Don’t tell me you’re chickening out al-”

“You free for dinner tomorrow?”

You mouth hung open. Wanda’s brows were at her hairline. Everything all of a sudden seemed far too quiet. Bucky’s arms were crossed, his shoulders slightly hunched, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

You couldn’t decide what was more unbelievable to you; the fact that Bucky Barnes had just asked you to dinner, or that he seemed nervous to hear your answer.

“Um, what?” was all you could manage.

“You wanna go to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

“What are you doing?” a dumb question, but you couldn’t stop yourself from asking it.

“I’m asking you the fuck out. Doing all the work. Trying to make it memorable,” He answered plainly. Jerk.

“I... yeah, I do. Sure.” You looked to Wanda to affirm that this actually just happened, but she was typing away on her phone, no doubt texting Nat what had just transpired.

“Great,” the nervousness has disappeared, and he was back to his normal, irritatingly cocky self, “I know a place you’ll like. Does seven work for you?”

“Yeah,” you were still dazed.

“See you then,” he treated you to one last smirk as he walked past you to his room. You couldn’t move. The last minute was a complete whirlwind that you were still trying to process, and the wine wasn’t helping. The first time it had let you down. As you watched him walk down the hall, and watching him go was pretty great, you had a thought. Good for you.

“This better not be because you just want to win some stupid chall-”

“Like I said earlier,” He turned to you, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, “I’ve been biding my time, waiting for the opportune moment and the right girl. Quality.”

Smooth.

“Doesn’t mean you win,” You didn’t know what else to say. If he couldn’t see you were blushing before, he had to have noticed now.

“Actually,” Wanda clarified, “He got a girl to agree to go out with him and you got a guy to ask you out, so it’s a tie.”

“Whatever,” Bucky called over his shoulder as he continued to make his way to his room, “Got what I wanted anyway.”

You didn’t see it, but he was sporting the biggest, cheesiest, giddiest grin ever.

A/N: Please, please, please reblog and let me know what you think!

#bucky barnes #the winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x you

84 notes · View notes

whateveradjunct · 6 years ago

Text

When I was heading to France last week, I considered taking my Nikon d750 with me, because I thought, not unreasonably, that France might be a photogenic country and that I might want to get some high quality photos of the place. I decided against it for a number of reasons, but one of the major reasons was that a couple of weeks ago I got myself a Pixel 3 phone, which reviewers have suggested may have the best camera on a phone out there. I’d previously had a Pixel 2, the former “best cell phone camera out there,” so I was curious as to how the Pixel 3 would improve on the camera.

So I left the Nikon at home and used only the Pixel 3 to take shots while I was in France. I ended up taking something around 500 pictures while I was in country (many of the best of which I have collected in this Flickr photo album), and can now tell you what I think about the experience. Here are my notes, in no particular order, with occasional art. Please remember that these thoughts are from someone who loves taking pictures but is not a professional photographer, so I’m not going to go into the weeds with technical issues and jargon. I’m mostly noting the experience of just trying to take pictures.

1. Overall I was very happy with the quality of the photos and the intelligence of the camera — the latter perhaps being a weird thing to say, but the fact is what separates the Pixel line of cell phones as cameras is not the hardware (which is mostly high-end but standard issue for a cell phone), but the processing Google applies to the photo data once the photo is taken. The camera makes choices, basically, about how it interprets the data you give it once you snap the photos.

And those choices are generally very good! There wasn’t a situation where I thought the Pixel 3 wasn’t capable of handling itself. As with nearly all cell phone cameras (and, honestly, nearly every camera, period), the Pixel 3 works best when it has a lot of good, bright, natural light, but it did very well inside and also very well in visually challenging environments with a lot of contrast between bright and dark (like, for example, the interior of the Notre Dame cathedral). Not every picture I took was perfect or even good, but the reason for that had as much to do (and perhaps even more so) with operator error as it did with the camera itself. Which is to say I can’t blame the bad pictures on the cell phone camera; a lot of it was me.

2. What do the photos look like coming out of the camera? Here are five, which I’ve not done any post-processing to (i.e., no tweaking with the various photo editors I have). These pictures were taken with the settings the Pixel 3 has right out of the box, including the HDR+ processing turned on, without zoom, and recording to jpg. Right-click on the pictures to get a larger versions of them (choose the “open image in new tab” option), and see the various details.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Right out of the camera, the Pixel 3 a pretty good job of things. The colors are correct and not overly saturated, and the HDR+ mode does a good job of bringing out details in shadows without making them look overly processed. Note in particular the picture of the musicians in the conference room; the light’s behind them and their faces are shadowed, but the Pixel 3 does a pretty good job of balancing the data so you can see their faces clearly. In the rose picture there’s decent depth of field — not a lot, but the Pixel 3 knows what it’s looking at. There are limits, and you can see some of the choices the Pixel 3 has to make in the photo of the Notre Dame alcove, but those limits mostly show themselves in challenging situations where most any camera would show limitations of some sort.

I personally do a fair amount of photo-editing of my pictures, both to bring up details and for aesthetic effect, and the Pixel 3 gives me a fair amount to work with, even as it records the data into a lossy format like jpg (there is an option to have the camera record in RAW — the lossless format that gives photographers the most information to work with — but I didn’t turn that on and don’t really plan to except on very special occasions, because the files sizes are huge). It’s a fact that for a lot of photos, I don’t really have to do much editing at all — I merely straighten out sightlines or crop for better composition as much as I tweak colors or bring up shadows.

Out of the box, the Pixel 3 takes pictures that are better than “good enough,” and that’s a good thing. For people who like fiddling with photos like me, what comes out of the camera is even better than that.

3. One of the — perfectly reasonable — knocks on the Pixel 3 is that where other high-end cell phone cameras have an optical zoom function, the Pixel 3 doesn’t, Google instead opting to try to deal with zoom through processing (involving the minute unsteadiness of the human hand, or something, to help fill in interpolative gaps). I used the zoom function a lot while walking around and trying to get details that would otherwise be too far away. My verdict on the zoom is: well, it does something, but razor-sharp details isn’t it.

This is again probably best viewed, so here are four photos at or close to full zoom, three of statutes or architectural details at the Louvre, and one, of that tower they have there in Paris. Again, right-click on the picture for details (or in this case, lack thereof). Again, these pictures are straight out of the camera and otherwise unedited:

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

My impression of these zoomed in pictures is that they don’t look like photos, they look like pastel drawings, or what happens when you use a very light “oil painting” photo filter from Photoshop or some other photo app. They don’t look bad? But at the same time, this is not what I want when I zoom in. I zoom in because I want a closer look at something, not an artful, detail-smoothed representation of that thing.

I read in a review of the Pixel 3 where a reviewer notes that the zoom works as intended up to about a 1.5x zoom, and after that things start getting overly interpretive. My experience has been that this estimation is largely correct. I have some pictures that are moderately zoomed in that are perfectly good. But too much zoom means you’re getting the AI version of impressionism. My thought on this is that this iteration of AI zoom is only the first, and that Google will probably get better at it as it goes along, because that’s what Google generally does. So two Pixel generations from now, this will likely be a solved issue (or alternately, Google will throw up its hands and just put an optical zoom on future Pixels). Here with the Pixel 3 and today, however, be aware that the zoom works up to a point (1.5x or so), and then it gets kind of wacky.

4. The only other real issue with the Pixel 3 that I’ve noticed is that it feels a bit slower than the Pixel 2; sometimes there seems to be a lag between when I press the button to take the picture and the camera registers the picture being taken. It’s a relatively small issue but it’s been noticeable to me, and I wonder if other people have been experiencing it as well. I’ve not missed any photos because of it, fortunately. But be aware of the possibility of a bit of shutter lag.

5. On the selfie front, the Pixel 3 features a “wide angle selfie” mode — an optical zoom out, if you will, thanks to two cameras on the front of the phone. This actually is very useful for when you’re trying to get a lot of people into frame while taking selfies:

Do be aware the the wide-angle selfie mode has some distortion. But then, selfie cameras have distortion anyway (it’s why your nose always looks big in a selfie), so I guess you pick your poison with selfie distortion. What I do know is that I’ve used the wide-angle selfie function several times already, so this was a smart add-on on Google’s part.

6. This is not meant to be an exhaustive review of the Pixel 3 camera, but one that touches on how I’ve been using it. I’m not covering a lot of the functionality of the thing — I haven’t used the video mode, or the panorama mode or tried the “HDR+ enhanced” mode, or sideloaded the apparently super-cool but not-officially-released “night mode” into the phone to try it out (the night mode apparently makes it possible to take super clear pictures in very low light, and the key as far as I can tell is a long exposure time, which, well, yes, it would be, wouldn’t it). I’m not covering any of those things because, as noted, this is not how I’ve been using the camera. I’ve been using the camera in a pretty straightforward fashion, as I suspect most people will.

And as a “daily driver” camera, the Pixel 3 really works. It takes great pictures and in all sorts of circumstances, and with the exception of the zoom above a certain point, steps up when you need it to (also, as an aside, the fact that the Pixel 3 comes with unlimited storage in Google Photos is a point well in its favor, since you can store your photos there and keep your phone’s memory relatively uncluttered). We’re now well past the point where the average person has to wonder whether they’re missing out on really excellent photos if they only have their cell phone with them. With the Pixel 3, the answer to that is definitively “you’re not missing out.” This phone will get that great shot for you, most of the time.

7. Does this mean I’m ready to ditch my dSLR for the Pixel 3 full time? No; the dSLR still has a better sensor, better lenses, and does specific things much better than the Pixel 3 does or will (like, sorry, Google, zoom). But this isn’t an either/or situation; this is a “this, and” situation. I no longer have one excellent camera and one camera that I just happen to carry around; I have two excellent cameras whose use cases overlap but are not a perfect circle on the Venn diagram. I don’t suspect I’ll ever stop using a dedicated camera for particular things where a high-end, single-use piece of machinery makes sense. But, as noted above, when I have my Pixel 3 with me, I don’t worry that I don’t generally have enough camera with me.

8. Does it make sense for people to upgrade to a Pixel 3? I’m very happy I did, but I also acknowledge I’m a tech geek with a particular interest in photography, and I have enough money to indulge in this sort of thing (my other phone stopped working, which prompted me to get the Pixel 3, but let’s not pretend there wasn’t a good chance I would have gotten one anyway).

If you already have a Pixel 2 (or the first generation Pixel), some of the new capabilities of the Pixel 3 camera are going to be available to you with software upgrades. So unless you’re already at the part of your upgrade cycle where you’re getting a new phone anyway, you can probably sit tight and be fine. If you have the latest generation of “flagship” phone from Apple, Samsung or any other high-end phone manufacturer, you’re also probably just fine. Cameras are the new hotness on phones and every manufacturer will tell you why their iteration of cellphone camera tech is the best. It’s getting a little silly (some upcoming phones will have up to five cameras on the back of a phone, which seems much of a muchness), but on the other hand if you’ve got a high end, recent phone, you probably have a very good cell phone camera no matter what. Finally, if you just don’t care about photos, either from your cell phone or in general, the Pixel 3’s camera capabilities won’t matter regardless.

But if you are looking to upgrade, do like taking pictures and want to have the possibility of taking genuinely good photos with your phone, are fine with Google knowing everything about your digital life, and (not trivially) have between $800 and $1,000 to splash out on a phone (or have Verizon, which will let you slide it into your existing plan for a monthly fee), then I can really very highly recommend the Pixel 3. Aside from (yes) taking some of the best photos possible on a cell phone, it is also otherwise a very solid high-end phone, with some features (call screening, I’m looking at you) that are amazing differentiators, and an operating system upgrade cycle that means you always have the best, most recent version of Android first.

For me, in any event, it’s been well worth the upgrade, and not just for the photos, although the photos probably would have been enough. I really like this camera, and I really like this phone.

Taking Pictures With the Pixel 3: Some Thoughts When I was heading to France last week, I considered taking my Nikon d750 with me, because I thought, not unreasonably, that France might be a photogenic country and that I might want to get some high quality photos of the place.

4 notes · View notes

theory-talestelltalesss · 6 years ago

Text

∙ Parallel Hearts 1 ∙

Idea:

AU where Taehyung is a former street artist who sells Van Gogh imitations in Paris that gets him in trouble.

Description:

Her is a docile perfectionist art student who is unsatisfied with the course of her life. She meets Taehyung, a beautiful and free-spirited boy who sells Van Gogh imitations to pay his tuition for art school. They have something that the other lack. Her needs Taehyung’s creativity and Taehyung needs Her’s painting skills in order for them to produce great paintings. Her is the better painter but Taehyung is the better artist. One day, they wake up and the other is nowhere to be found. Both of their pursuit is to use their paintings as clues to find where the other is. Along the way, they learn more about each other and uncover a dark past.

You can read more details of the fic HERE if this is your first time. Or you can just read it and be surprised! Enjoy!

- TT 🌹

Chapters: | 1 | 2 | - (Fanfic in progress)

CHAPTER 1: THE MEETING

(6.9K words)

Her lived in the same town as Van Gogh when he was alive and where he was most inspired. It was a quaint little town in Arles, France. She grew up passing by the same places that he saw and painted. Although Her idolized him, it bothers her that she can never be as close to a painter as he was, no matter how hard she tries.

“Doesn’t this look weird? The color scheme? The textures? I don’t know what it is but it doesn’t look right!” Her complains every time she tries to create her own style inspired by Van Gogh.

Whilst Her is tremendously knowledgable about Van Gogh’s techniques, she can never break her style of being realistic whenever she paints. She never had the opportunity, no, the capability to fully release herself in her works. She always had the tendency to draw things as they are and never let her imagination run wild. The more she tried to be imaginative, the more realistic her paintings got. She can never steer away from it, and being a perfectionist never helped her either. In fact, it only made it worse.

It was not even just the paintings that bothered her that she couldn’t follow. She also couldn’t follow the life he lived. Of course she doesn’t want to starve and be a vagabond with a mental illness, but Van Gogh’s life was full of events, both good and bad, that she rationalizes eventually manifested in his beautiful paintings.

“I would rather die of passion than of boredom - Vincent Van Gogh,” Her reads in her book as she swipes the letters with endearment.

Although her parents see her talent as a gift from grace and supports her to hone it, they have different plans on what she should do with it. Her’s family owns a furniture store called by their last name– ‘Le Lune.’ Beds, lamps, cribs, tables, dressers, decorations– they sell everything. The dream was to expand and build more stores in other cities. However, most of the designs of the furnitures lost its appeal as the trend changed over time. Eventually, the business started declining.

When Her moved to Paris 7 hours away from home to go to college, the plan was that she would design the furniture after graduation. She knew what her future looked like. She has to redesign almost everything and help out with the family business. Perhaps even hand-paint or hand-craft some parts of the furniture to create a niche for the family brand name. A personal consultation for corporation interiors was also another idea if the business ever gets successful enough.

This plan frustrated Her because her passion is not in Interior Design – it was in Fine Arts, just like Van Gogh. As she is docile, timid, and filial, and who has deep respect for her parents and the family business, Her yields to their wishes for the betterment of the family. Plus, a job after graduation never hurt anybody.

What am I going to do with a Fine Arts degree if I can’t feed myself?

Café Terrace at Night in Arles, France by Vincent Van Gogh (1888).

The grass smells freshly cut with drops of water clinging onto its edges. The sculptures of flirtatious cherubs run across the field. The different colored flowers dance along the periphery of the bushes, neatly assembled at the curbs of the pathways, welcoming spring delightfully.

Although the atmosphere of the outside world is full of life, Her’s inner mind is in a grim state. She goes to a place outside of school whenever she feels exasperated or disheartened about her life and that place is the Panthéon. The Panthéon is a museum, or even precisely, a mausoleum for people who were the most notable citizens of France. Some of the people buried there were people of the arts she also adores.

It was the closest place from school where she can get inspired. Whenever she sees Victor Hugo’s name on the wall, she smiles, remembering his lovely works of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, or of Les Miserables, which are now made into films and musicals. Whenever she sees Saint-Exupéry‘s name, she wonders how his simple ninety-page work of The Little Prince resonated within so many hearts around the world.

In every corner of the Panthéon, there is something to lift her spirits. Every corner except one. As of the moment, Her is not in the mood to be cheered up, but she’s in one of those moods to make some kind of catharsis – and staring at the Foucault pendulum does just that.

With a heavy heart, she walks over to the giant pendulum that hangs within the massive arches, centered in one of the intrados of the Panthéon. An awe-inspiring mural of the celestial sky and of the divine surround the wire that holds it afloat in the ceiling. A ray of the gloomy twilight falls down at it meters below to softly give it a subliminal spotlight, and convey it as one of the staple objects in the museum.

“…the Foucault pendulum is a simple device named after French physicist Léon Foucault and conceived as an experiment to demonstrate the Earth’s rotation. The pendulum was introduced in 1851. Today…” the tour guide says to a small crowd of foreigners.

Ever since she knew what this pendulum was for, she cringes. Not because of its function, but because it’s a sad reminder of herself.

Like the pendulum’s sway and its momentum in the air, Her’s life is already meticulously calculated as it swings along the numbers of the dial. With each dip at the bottom is her journey towards a goal until it reaches the peak of its momentum, and then it starts again. Her life has become routine and mundane from day to day since the start of college. She knows exactly where she will end up, she know exactly when, and fleeting from plans are just interpreted as irresponsible.

“My perfect parents would be disappointed in their “perfect” daughter,” she whispers to herself. “Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t I just go off and lead lives like…like Victor Hugo, where I can go to Belgium in a whim, or…or Saint-Exupéry, and fly off to some island, or Van Gogh and go to 20 cities if I want?”

After some time internalizing but despising this sad fact about the course of her life, she opposes the thoughts intoxicating her mind and stop moving her eyes with the pendulum, closing them for a moment to give herself a relief of thought. She lets go of the circular railing she didn’t even realize she was gripping until her palms turned ivory.

As she opens her eyes again, the pendulum peeks at the periphery of her field of view but her eyes chose to focus on something else…or someone else.

Her sight lands on a boy on the other side who is inside the railings of the pendulum, kneeling on one knee as he watches the pendulum with a curious concern. If her eyes are not enough resisting her will to steer them away, her ears decide to do it as well when they somewhat malfunction in transducing signals of the crowd of tourists leaving the area.

She thought for a moment that he was part of the marble statues of the historic rulers behind him. But as she stares longer��no, he is breathing and human.

The low glow of the light from above teases a hint of the hills of his handsome features. His light jade eyes that follow the pendulum obediently are striking and almost menacing. His dark ashy blonde hair is rugged and out of place under a newsboy hat with unruly bangs trying to stretch down his forehead and neck. The ends land comfortably past his commanding eyebrows and flirts at his nape, almost past its crook. A turtleneck coats his neck layered with a button-up that flows down his body, presenting him with a disheveled look.

Her finds herself captivated that she forgets to be curious as to why he’s inside the railings guarding the pendulum, or why he looks worried, or why he holds the railing with a hand that looks like it’s streaked with paint and the other props him on the floor as he kneels down.

H-He’s so beautiful.

Her finds herself captivated, for he didn’t have the beauty that celebrities on TV or models in magazines possessed. He has the kind of beauty that reminisces of an old soul. The kind of beauty that stands the test of time…timeless– like an old painting people would want to preserve for years, decades, centuries, or even forever. Not a carve of the statues or stroke of paint in the museum, even made with impeccable skill and control, do not have the force to distract her from his coincidental beauty.

She then realizes that looking at him for too long beyond abuses normal courtesy and she should look away before he notices. However, she can’t seem to take his eyes off him. As she continues to stare, he seems to feel her eyes on him, and shifts his eyes to meet hers. Her blood rushes to her head, defying gravity, resisting to flow anywhere else in her body.

She tries to follow the pendulum again with her eyes, but they resist her. As if acknowledging her constant desire to look at him, he smiles at her, erasing the worried expression he had for a moment. As if playing peek-a-boo, the pendulum covers him for half a second, and reveals him again, only becoming more beautiful with each sway. She feels a fleeting wave of euphoria before–

SNAP! BOOM! “Mon dieu!”

The ball of the pendulum hits the ground with an echoing boom, disturbing the serenity, rolling off of the marbled floor, and trailing the wire that held it. Her abruptly wakes up from the spell and covers her mouth in disbelief that the Foucault pendulum, which has been swaying for years, just snapped from above. As an advocate for the arts and museums, she knows the gravity of the situation.

She looks back at where the boy was but he was nowhere to be found. A guard picks the ball up and checks it for any indentations or damages. Since it’s almost closing time, the museum is left with only a few visitors, and only a few more who are near the pendulum’s vicinity. The guard directs them away and commands them to give the area some space. Forced, the visitors, including Her, start drifting to other corners of the museum.

She walks without direction, only following the direction of a couple of people scattering from the area. Out of nowhere, she feels a tug on her long-sleeve, hurling her to face someone’s body.

“Whoa-”

She looks up and see the beautiful boy so close that she can almost see the branches of his light jade orbs. She notices more up close that his clothes and patches of his skin were tainted with random splotches and streaks of paint. He turns his head to the side and observes another piece of art she didn’t even notice was right in front of them.

“What a weird incident right?” he says in the direction of the mural. His voice is surprisingly baritone low and velvety that she feels it resonate her vessels.

She manages to voice out, “yeah…must have been an accident.”

“Some guy is proooobably in big trouble,” he chuckles.

“I mean…that pendulum has been swinging since it’s been here,”

“Not really, just since 1902. It’s been going back and forth between here and an art museum near here. You won’t even know which one is the copy anymore,”

“H-How do you know that?”

He looks at Her with a cheeky half-smile.

“I just read the sign that was behind you…when you were staring at me too much,” he shifts his head back to the mural, “Yeah, I’m aware I’m good looking,” he gives her a glint of his lip curved at one side.

So this is his personality.

For some reason, she feels anxious that this boy will soon get her first impression and she tries to find what to say to try to distract him from her impolite behavior. She also doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing a compliment after that statement.

“I-IIII notice you have paint on your hands. Do you paint?”

“Yeah, I painted this piece right in front of us,” he gestures complacently with a smile from ear to ear.

“What?” she looks at it again confused, “But this is Puvis de Chavannes’.” Being here at the Panthéon many times, Her’s come to know each and every piece.

“Ah, so you’re a lover of the arts too,” he says with a smirk as if she doesn’t look it. She feels this boy trying to toy with her and in her own safe haven nonetheless. She can’t help but feel a little violated by this new character in her domain, all of a sudden collecting pieces of her as if he’s a scientist gathering data.

He continues, “So what’s your favorite type of art?”

“I like…Impressionism and Post-Impressionism, why?”

“Ah…so you’re one of those…I’m guessing you like Van Gogh and all those other lunatics,”

“Excus–”

“Shh!”

He holds his finger over her lips and looks at the guards. Her figures the boy doesn’t have any concept of personal space demonstrated by his sudden behavior. He seems pleased with himself earning an aggravated reaction from her, as if trying to tug her from the confines of her usual docile and timid personality. His expression impish as he nods his head up and whispers,

“Be quiet and follow me.”

He takes her hand and dashes across the humongous platform, flying by histories of sculptures of French leaders, skidding on the intricate designs of the ivory marble floors, and passing by grand murals of glorious heroes and angels. She almost can’t keep up with the strides of his infinitely long legs with her shorter ones.

They go from pillar to pillar under the dome architecture of the museum, eventually reaching a dark opening framed with geometric details that uncovers a dark spiral staircase below. He lets go of her hand and goes down the stairs with ease as she pauses to think about going down.

“Come on, slow poke!” his voice vibrates the cold marble walls and she sees him smile like a child while looking above at her through the clefts of the stairs.

“Where are you taking me?” she tries to ask but is only replied with more of his steps. She tries to process her situation before she goes down.

Why should I follow this boy?

Even though she’s acknowledged he’s a little outlandish, there’s something interesting about him that draws her in and her curiosity grows with each ticking second. She goes down with prudent steps and catches up to him.

“Come on, haha,” he gestures to a small crevice.

How does this boy know where these are?

The boy moves with too much familiarity as if this is his home. Her realizes her ignorance claiming this museum to be her sanctuary, when in fact, there’s someone else far more acquainted to it than she is.

Eventually, they end up in the crypt, which is filtered with gloomy yellow lights, giving it an eerie vibe appropriate for its type of place. In the crypt lies some of the most notable French people who’ve contributed to the world such as Voltaire, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Marie and Pierre Curie, and many more. Tourists are now nowhere to be found.

Coming to a halt in front of a dull door, he rustles his pocket around and pulls out some old-looking keys. Her’s eyes widen in shock.

“You work here?”

“Shh!” reminding her of what she should be doing. “You know, those powerful dead people are just over there. You don’t want to disturb their rest do you?” he jokes.

Her can’t help but notice that he seems to detect her unfaltering reverence for the place. Again, he gives her that smirk while he turns the key in its hole and her heart flutters in response. One more smirk, she thinks, and it might be ingrained into her memory forever.

He opens the door and inside are slews of paintings of Van Gogh. She becomes filled with joy when she sees them but it was only fleeting. As a lover of his works, she sees that they’re not authentic as soon as she scrutinizes the strokes. She also notices some are just patches of paint waiting to be filled with The Starry Night, or The Sunflowers, or The Night Café which made her nostalgic about the time she used to pass by the cafe in the painting every time she walked home from school back at in Arles.

The Night Café by Vincent Van Gogh (Year 1888).

She looks around and there are a couple of carts that lay askew in random spaces in the room that’s filled with different-sized brushes, half-empty tubes of oil paint, too-many-to-count paper towels, and various-shaped painting knives. The boy looks like this room just gave birth to him, all covered in paint like his mother.

“You can tell, huh?“ he scratches the back of his head and gives me a wink. Her’s body is churning with adrenaline at the moment, with her heart trying to calm down from running, and that unexpected wink pushes her heart above its threshold, forcing it to somersault. She nervously ignores it and tries to speak confidently.

“I can tell they’re not real. Figured since this is not their home. But why do you have fake Van Gogh’s everywhere?”

“Well, I made these,” he crosses his arms as he bites his bottom lip and looks around the room. “I sell them to people as imitations…some people are more gullible than others though,” he chuckles to himself and sighs, looking like he’s recalling a mischievous memory.

So, he’s a witty con artist.

“That’s a little sly, don’t you think?” she squints, trying to understand why a sly playful boy would be trusted with keeping a museum that require gentle care. It bothers her also since all Her’s life, she’s been an upstanding person, always following the rules.

“I’m a student at the art university here. I work here as a keeper and paint when I got time. The Panthéon can get exceptionally boring you know, so I found a way to make some extra bucks from dead time! Gotta pay that overpriced tuition, am I right?”

“…you don’t mean PCA, do you?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Of course PCA! Where else?” he chuckles. “Because…I study at PCA,” he looks at me with wide eyes. PCA, short for Paris College of Art – my art school. “Didn’t know we go to the same college.”

“All the more to trust you!! Now, since you’re an expert in these, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with these paintings, eh?”

“No, I’m not gonna help you do your evil deeds. Plus…” She looks at her watch, “I need to go home by 7:30 and catch the next bus to campus,”

“What about I show you a shortcut out, huh?” he takes out his keys and jiggles it in the air. “I know a way that will lead right to the bus stop! And you don’t have to see it that way. I’m interested to know some of Van Gogh’s techniques too! Take it like you’re lecturing me huh?…for educational purposes,” he raises both his eyebrows and looks at her with a comically coy face.

He has a way with words, I’ll give him that.

She looks around and points out his obvious flaws that she automatically sees. She eventually settles on a painting she sees the most mistakes in, The Red Vineyard. She remembers how she used to visit her first crush by the river when she was nine, Jungkook. He taught her how to skip rocks on the water and she taught him how to catch grasshoppers. Jungkook now works at a winery in another part of Paris that's being supplied by the vineyard back in their hometown.

The Red Vineyard by Vincent Van Gogh (Year 1888).

“You know, I lived here.”

“Lived where?”

“Arles. Where this painting was made. I used to play around by this river here,” she traces the curved shape of the river on the right side, painted with stubby but glistening yellow and blue shades. “Well my family, to be exact. Of course I live in the dorms now, but I go home on the holidays.”

“Interesting! It’s like you see the world in his eyes!”

“Hah-I guess,” Her timidly says as she’s reminded that even though they’ve lived in the same city, she will never be as half of a good a painter as him. Her then starts to converse about how to make the painting better.

“Well for these,” she takes the paint brush in her hand, “you have to take burnt umber with some carmine yellow, and mix them slightly on the actual canvas and not on your palette,”

She feels him get close to her face as they stare at an area of the painting together. As she continues to speak and demonstrate, she senses a small whiff of his saccharine scent and his shoulder softly touches hers while he eagerly observes her hand move in close proximity. She’s reminded of his nonexistent concept of personal space once more.

Her and the boy talk for a time about the process of how Van Gogh creates his pieces and she advise him of his techniques. She’s not sure where the conversation turned but he actually started teaching her some things.

“Well, can’t you wash first before you paint over it so it’s not noticeable? It would save a lot of time. Plus, you don’t even have to use oil paint, just use acrylic so it dries faster until it hardens so you get a good texture…”

She’s taken aback by his innovative ideas on using materials non-traditionally. In her time attending art school so far, even art class in high school back home, she has never heard of the peculiar techniques the boy talks about. Her curiosity piques how he’s acquired his knowledge. In addition to talking about paintings, the boy doesn’t think twice dismissing what he thinks are relatively preposterous ideas of their mutual professors that they forcibly instill on their students. Her finds it amusing and it makes her laugh the way he describes them.

Ever since Her was a little girl, she’s had the habit of inspecting things in great detail, preserving it in her memories as best as she can to draw it at a later time. She observes how the saturation of colors change on a surface of a bubble, or how the ears of people lose its opacity and become pinker when the sun hits it from behind. At this moment though, what she want to draw the most is the scene that is presented right in front of her— him. She even thinks that maybe one day, her paintings of people will be as good as how Renoir famously paints his if she uses his features as inspiration.

Luncheon Of The Boating Party by Renoir (Year 1880-1881).

“Professor Jacques? Pfffttt- More like Professor Color-Within-The-Lines!” he laughs.

She responds to the boy, giving him her ears at times, but she more or less lets him talk as she looks at him to try and memorize his face.

His eyes glisten as he speaks– so much engagement in them. However, the life in his eyes are almost… overshadowed by their tiger-like personality. So focused and striking in between his long lashes. His eyebrows are sharp and fierce. His nose is straight and tall. And its placement between his eyes? Really proportionate. His lips are…what’s this oil paint color?…like Permanent Rose? mixed with a little Cobalt Violet to make it almost cherry-like. They’re shaped peculiarly though…that it really lets him easily have this scowled look. Maybe it’s because the top is more plump than the bottom…His complexion is flawless- luminescent, you’d probably need a hint of Pale Cadmium Yellow- and…what? N-No trace of blemish..hold on, there is a scar by his right lip, but it really only adds character to his looks. Still….actresses must be endlessly envious of his skin. His- Wait…how long has it been?

“Oh my I’m going to miss the bus!” she exclaims as she catches a glimpse of her watch.

Out of nowhere, she hears a man with a croaky voice coming closer to the room.

“Taehyuuuung? Taehyuuung? Where are you boy?”

The foot steps come closer and the boy jolts up from his seat, taking Her’s elbow in his hand quickly.

“Shit, Monsieur Cosmo…” he curses under his breath. “Shhhhh! Come on!” he whispers sharply.

“What’s happening?”

“That’s my boss sweet pea! We have to get out of here! C'mon, you turtle! Run!” he sharply whispers back.

He takes Her’s hand to exit, closes the door, and turns off the lights as quietly as he could. Then they run quietly through the darkly lit halls, past multiple epitaphs and tombs of the buried. Her has no choice but to rely on him on where to turn through the mazes of the museum and he becomes her sight. He looks behind her and flashes a big peculiar boxy smile that Her never spotted when she was observing his face. Her mood at the moment is a hard contrast to when she was looking at the pendulum. Her lips curve up slightly and she quickens her pace as she tries to match his.

He’s definitely an exciting one.

All of a sudden, the boy stops in his tracks and looks around the perimeter, “YYYYoouu might have to catch the next bus,” his voice drags out.

“What?!”

Her’s perfectionist side overrides and she tries to explain the bus system, her responsibilities, her homework, and her schedule the next day that would all have to be rewritten if she misses this bus. However, he does not put his finger on her lips this time but he covers her whole mouth instead, trying to keep her silent.

“Ok, ok, here’s what it is, babe. There are guards everywhere and I can’t be seen, ok? And I know you don’t know how to get to the shortcut to the outside so you’re going to have to stick with me if you want to get there. Hidden. Got it?” Annoyed by the situation, Her yields inevitably.

Her and the boy run and hide from the guards, tiptoeing as best as they can until the guards lock the doors behind them. They wait in the dark a few times until the coast is clear and moving becomes safe again. There were a few times Her made a mistake, catching the attention of some guards, but the boy protects their every movement; tugging her away if a guard comes too close, or slightly pushing her into crevices behind some pillars or statues.

At times, they try to fit themselves in small spaces and he tries to hold her as close as he could to prevent their shadows from being seen. She tries not to think about the skin contact since she doesn’t know what it would do to her judgment that she most certainly needs intact right now.

Shoot, 7:30. I missed it.

“Well! I missed the bus. Thank you but there’s no point in sticking with you now. The guards don’t know who I am, so…I’ll just walk out the front door. Nice to meet you though,” she stands up from kneeling down and pivots her heels to walk away, but the boy catches her wrist.

“Can you be quiet?? And yeah you still need me, honey. Can’t you see? We’re locked in,” he reaches into his pocket and shows off his keys, “I’d give them to you but you don’t work here, do you?” he smirks.

With slight irritation from missing the bus and from Her’s clouded mind of thinking about rewriting her schedule in her mind, she completely forgets this fact.

“Now, stick to me,” he grabs her and embraces her behind the statue of Marianne and the soldiers, then again behind the miniature architecture plan of the Pantheon.

“I said stick to me…now,” the boy must have felt that she was trying to preserve some space in between their bodies. They become startled as a guard walks only a feet away from them and she can’t help but follow his orders.

In half a second, she places her feet in between his stance and presses her body against his. Her arms fold against his chest and her head burrows in it to flil the space. His arm encircles her waist and his hand clasps the back of her head as she feels a slight force to encourage her to press closer. After a second of monitoring the guard, he moves their bodies ever so slightly away from the guard’s movements and squinting gazes. She feels him hold his breath and she mimicked his movements. In the silence, she feels and hears his heart race like a horse from the suspense.

Geez, it must be around 120 beats per minute.

While stupefied in place, she realizes he’s strangely stealthy that it makes her curious to the point of concern how he’s very good at it. The lights then turn off and they hold their position for a few more seconds.

“This is terribly intimate for a first meeting, you know, especially in the dark,” she whispers with a tone as they wait until the rustling of movements stop.

“What? Do you want a kiss too?” he says sarcastically.

“I don’t kiss people I don’t know,”

“I do,”

“Stop joking around,”

“What? We’re in France. Ever heard of a French kiss?”

She ignores his comment as she checks her watch, wishing the hands would turn counter-clockwise.

Eventually, they reach a door and the boy opens them with his keys. Without a knowledge of what might be on the other side, he exposes the night with the lovely moon and the bustling faint sounds of the city outside. A hush of the spring-born wind brushes her skin as if to say hello, wanting her to acknowledge its presence. She turns and sees the bus stop just around the corner.

“The next bus will come in 30 minutes, don’t worry,” the boy assures.

He pants to calm his heart, lays down on the cold grass, closes his eyes, and concentrates on trying to catch his breath. His newsboy hat topples from his head and his long hair falls delicately on his forehead and around his face. Her can’t help but admire how the moonlight touches his features as she slowly sits down next to his body, also concentrating on slowing down her respirations. He peeks through his closed lid and closes them again.

“You know, you’re doing it again,” he says between breaths. “Oh sorry…”

“It’s not polite to stare you know. Even more so that I don’t know your name,” “Oh…my name is Her, Her Lune, you?”

“Well, if you haven’t figured from my boss shouting it out, my name is Taehyung. Taehyung Soleil,” he smiles with eyes closed.

After a moment of huffing, he sits beside her and picks on the helpless grass.

“I guess this is my way of timing out of work,” he naughtily chuckles under his breath, “I bet that old fart was going to make me take care of that pendulum that just fell. It was actually my fault it fell but…I can’t be bothered right now. It’s almost the end of work anyways,” he rationalizes.

“You did that?! That’s why you were running from the guards?!”

“I-IIIIII didn’t mean to ok? Heh…I’m supposed to check the clicker that lets the pendulum go back and forth without losing its energy but…one thing led to another and it snapped from the hinge. I’ll understand if he yells at me the next time I go to work,” he rubs his neck. Her's skepticism and first impression just became validated.

As they wait for the next bus, he then looks at the moon with endearing eyes. Her doesn’t realize it but she looks at him again, taking advantage of his ethereal beauty under a different kind of light. To her, his side profile looks as if all the Old Masters like Leonardo and Boticelli, who tried to capture beauty in Mona Lisa and Venus, had the wrong notion of beauty– that what she’s looking at right now, is true beauty.

Mona Lisa, who?

The Birth of Venus by Sandro Boticelli (Year 1484–1486).

“Her.” his deep voice stern and low. “One more stare and I might have to do something about it,” he bites his lower lip and furrows his eyebrows. She nervously tries to land her eyes somewhere acceptable but she only finds it to follow his gaze at the moon.

“So why do you like that whacko Van Gogh? I only paint his paintings because they sell,” he scoffs while he leans back, propping his posture with his arms. Her is unsure how to feel about his sentence. He’s dissing her idol painter but at the same, she’s glad he acknowledges that other people like his works. Plus, she’s amused by his rhyming nickname.

“Well, mostly because I can’t paint like him,” she discloses. “I know how he painted his works, I’ve studied it many times and if I have to do an imitation like you, I think I’ll do well. I just- but I can’t seem to make my own paintings like his. He uses such saturated colors and his strokes are unplanned but he somehow is able to take his decisions and pull it off in the end like it was planned in the first place. When I try to do it, it doesn't look as good or as professional as his,”

“So he’s a good bullshitter is what you’re saying,” he taunts and laughs. She gives him a generous glare. He annoys her but she can’t put a finger what it is about him that makes her not be put off. She guesses it’s his brutal honesty. It’s refreshing.

She continues, “Being in art school…yeah it’s great they give you a lot of techniques to capture perspective and blah blah blah…but what they can never teach you is how to be creative. And I can’t help but take those techniques too seriously…” she sighs heavily, “My paintings always come out unremarkable- bleak- but oh, professor gives me A’s!” she said with sarcasm as she lays in defeat and stares at the moon.

Her finds herself disclosing personal things about herself to this boy she just met that she wonders if she really is that unsatisfied with her life. With her timidity, she only tells her closes friends things as insecure as these.

“IIII don’t know Van Gogh as much as you…but I learned a thing or two about him in the time I’ve been imitating his works. He said ‘I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process,’” he looks into her eyes after his words reaches her ears as his hair catches the breeze of the night.

Her becomes stunned at his words. He’s never met anyone who knows something about Van Gogh’s life other than the usual trivia. How he’s able to recite a quote by him leaves her astounded and curious.

“T-That’s right,”

“Well, of course, hahaha…I love that quote ‘cuz it’s sooo funny. You know he really did lose his mind and him saying that just makes me think wow, he’s got some sense of humor,” he chuckles slightly in ironic admiration, “But you know, that’s not the point…the point is maybe you think too much and it restricts you from really giving yourself to your works. You��re supposed to project your feelings into your art, not your mind like what others think. We’re artists, Her. Our job is to convey emotions.”

“Wh-Ye-I guess,” Her’s never heard someone talk about philosophy about art before. She’s talked about life as an art student, but never about life as an artist.

“We’re supposed to give the audience what we want them to feel, not what we want them to think. Take the most famous painting in the world for example. The Mona Lisa. There’s so many things Leonardo did right in that one, but why is it so famous? It’s not because it’s painted perfectly. It’s because of that smile. It gives people an eerie feeling. It connects with you because it’s so…eughk damn eerie,” he shrugs. “Never really liked looking at that one.”

Mona Lisa by Leonardo Da Vinci (Year 1503–06).

“That’s really a new way of looking at things I suppose...”.

“Well have you ever just done something out of a whim? Like…you just do it ‘cuz it felt right at the moment?”

“I-I…not really…no…” she sighs, “I like to…plan things out. It’s how I grew up to be,”

“I guess now you know where the problem is…” he says as he looks back at the moon. “Your paintings are really just an extension of yourself. In a way, they’re you. If you say your paintings are unremarkable and bleak, then that’s probably how you are…unless there’s something in you that wants to change,”

Her is taken too aback by his response to the point that she’s at lost for words. No one’s ever really said it out loud before, not even her. His words are like a dagger to her heart but she can’t seem to reply or defend herself because deep inside her, she knows they’re utterly true. All she is able to reply back is a mixture of a frustrated groan and a sigh as she puts her arm on her forehead.

“Heh, now I see why you kept coming here just to stare at that boring pendulum all the time, looking all frustrated” he looks at the moon intently and she looks at him with wide eyes. “You’re like one of those people who cry and stare at the mirror when they do,” he chuckles.

“You know I come here often?”

“Yeah, I work here, Her. Of course I’ll remember my frequent flyers, especially the cute ones,” again he smirks at her. Well, now she thinks it’s ingrained in her mind forever. But then again, she notices he has a way of making her have mixed feelings about his words.

He just made fun of her self-pitying tendencies, but reveals I’ve caught his eye? Who is this guy?! It’s as if he wants be nice but his innate mischievous nature gets in the way.

“Don’t worry, we all have hard times,” he looks at the moon as if he’s time traveling decades through his eyes, perhaps recalling a serious time in his life. Feeling slightly comforted, Her reflects on his words for a time while she leave him in his memory.

Yeah, I guess my self-pitying tendencies are a little funny, ha.

Eventually, she finds herself looking at the underside of Taehyung’s jaw and even his nostrils from her position below as he loses his presence reminiscing. She observes the moonlight hit his face at an angle from below. She follows the trace of light with her eyes, trying to consolidate it in her memory. However, it was too late to retract her eyes before Taehyung looks back at her and rolls his eyes annoyed.

“Thaat’s it- You’re staring again. That’s more than three strikes I believe,” he slaps his hand on the grass by her head and hovers over her.

He replaces her view of the moon with his face, which is now only inches from hers. If the grass was someone’s skin, their skin would be indented with a big red mark from how much Her’s pressing against it to distance herself from the tip of his nose. His long hair falls down in her direction, framing the outline of her head. However, what is very astonishing and a little frightening is the big change in his expression. He looked like an angel from the moment she saw him, but now, he looks like the devil himself.

“Here. Take a good look!” he says sternly and angrily. His striking eyes pierce at her with eyebrows furrowed, only becoming scarier as she sees his pupils dilate and his nose flare. His jaw clenches and cuts the moonlight’s trace she was just tracing a while ago. She’d like to take him on his offer but his emanating vibe is unnecessarily terrifying. She understands why he could be annoyed by her by now but it seems as though she struck a very sensitive nerve by his radical reaction.

“I know I’m handsome, cute, hot, good looking, whatever you wanna call it. But seriously, curse. this. face! Lots of girls and teachers, even guys at the college have made me their model since day one, like I’m just some object to them but you know what? I’m not some disposable model. I’m a painter, just like them! This damn face overshadows everything else. I’d like to think I have a brain and some skills you know,” Taehyung looks at her with his piercing eyes until he rolls it back and closes them in frustration. He brushes his hair with his hand as he gulps down his next words, trying not to snap again.

“…I-I don’t think you’re just that…I think you’re a-actually smart” she stutters. She can’t help but feel there’s more to his story. How can anyone not like their good looks?

“Well…good.” she slowly sees the child-like angel in him resurface again.

Assuming the confrontation was over, she tries to get out from under him like a worm but he follows her down, trapping her between his arms again.

“Nuh-uh, sweet pea. You have to make it up to me. Come to the third wing studio tomorrow and I’ll think about forgiving you.”

A flash of the headlights of the long-awaited bus illuminates the side of his face.

Ch. 1 fin.

10 notes · View notes

longtermintermission · 4 years ago

Text

On Places

By Dani

I live in Orléans, the “Largest metropolis outside of Paris,” but notably smaller than its illustrious neighbor. A train departing from Gare d’Austerlitz will carry you around 133 kilometers slightly southwest of the City of Lights; it’s a pleasant ride, albeit the somewhat fogged-over and grimy windows ever present on the passenger cars. This is a minor shame because the ride has pretty views, probably less sparkling to me now than they would have seemed when I was freshly expatriated, but pretty nonetheless. As swathes of landscape pass by, I’m sometimes reminded of sitting in the backseat of the car en route to my grandparents’ in the countryside of Kentucky. On these occasions I might close my eyes, imagine the views on a certain stretch of Dixie Beeline Highway-- an unremarked constant in my youth and childhood-- and open them again to see if the resemblance is truly there. I think it is.

Orléans qualifies as a ville in French but treads somewhere between a town and a city in my anglophone mind, not quite landing on one or the other. By all other accounts it is a city; it’s the capital of the Centre Val-de-Loire region and has a population nearing 115,000. Joan of Arc once saved Orléans from English siege, and I once dressed up as Joan of Arc for a 6th-grade project on “Distinguished women.” Funny, things like that. Apparently the qualifiers for “Cities” and “Towns” aren’t so defined, at least not on the internet, but I do think that Orléans is the “smallest” place I’ve ever lived. In terms of population, this is by a long shot. I went to school in Chicago. I spent four years in Paris. I come from Nashville, which was pointedly unexceptional to me growing up but the longer I’m away, the more Nashville grows and changes, and the more my metropolitan Southern upbringing feels personally significant; like something to be protected. In any case, you achieve some perspective when the precocious 11-year-old girl you once babysat laments to you that she’s “just a Parisian,” or when a passerby on the dance floor asks you where you’re from and, upon hearing your response, widens his eyes and exclaims “You’re from the real America!”

I’ve officially lived here for 9 months now, which is incredible to me, and yet I can’t say that I’m an expert or a bonafide Orléanaise, and if I were I wouldn’t know it. I’m not exactly sure of what getting to know a new locale is supposed to entail, despite having done it several times, but I’m not the type to run out and join clubs, leagues, associations or anything of the like. For most of this year I’ve kept to myself, and my experience of the city has largely been that of errands and commutes. Orléans does have a certain conviviality, and Rue de Bourgogne (just a street away from me) is lined with bars, making for lively Saturday nights in the city center. I’ve enjoyed the occasional drink or coffee with a colleague, and one will inevitably run into one’s students. I went to college in the big city, so in a way it’s nice to finally experience what feels like the French version of a “University Town,” and it’s the polar opposite of Paris anonymity. On the whole, though, I mainly enjoy the comforts of my agreeably-decorated and immaculately-kept studio apartment. It even has a view of the la Cathédrale Saint-Croix, which, in my personal opinion, beats Notre Dame in a gothic beauty pageant (even before the tragic fire). Sometimes at night, bats fly in circles between my third-floor (American third-floor) window and the rooftops on the opposite side of the street. Bats used to fly outside of my earliest childhood home. We named one of them “Shadow.”

I didn’t choose to move to Orléans. Not really. I applied for a job here when it seemed I was out of options in Paris. I’ve always preferred big cities. The first two months that I lived here, I think I took a train back nearly every weekend. Once I met up with an old friend who introduced me to her chic Italian-American pal who had just moved from Rome to Paris for a job at Versace. Over a glass of wine in a café next to la Trocadéro she posited that you had to live in Paris-- or at least in a major big city--- when you were young. Youth was lost on anything smaller. I thought about that on the train ride home. My life was no more exciting in Paris than it is now; maybe a little, but the margin is narrow. I went through about a 6-month stint of raucous partying in various nightclubs and bars, but that lifestyle wore thin fast and was never really me being me. I was having fun but I’m not so sure it was my own idea of fun. I also didn’t run out to join any clubs, leagues, or associations in Paris either. Why does everyone tell you to do this in a new city? Maybe my unwillingness to “immerse” myself is a lack of motivation on my part, but I think it’s just who I am. Or perhaps my definition of immersion is just different from how it’s largely understood. I’ve never been a site-seeing fiend when I travel either; sometimes I wonder if I waste time in undiscovered territory by sitting in parks and restaurants or aimlessly walking about. When I do take an interest in a museum or historical site, it’s a no thank you from me to any kind of organized tour. Did you know that John Stamos narrates the self-guided audio tour of Graceland? At least, he did when I was there. That’s where I first learned the hard lesson about such a thing’s capability of ruining a real experience. As compensation for lugging a tablet and headphones throughout the grounds, Stamos will let you in on exclusive information such as the fact that Elvis enjoyed playing the pianos in his own home. I would have much preferred to take in the tacky but touching décor of Elvis’ home on my own, with my own thoughts. I digress. A compliment was once given to me (or so I think it was a compliment, and if it was, it’s my favorite) by a friend of my parents’ who, in mid-conversation with them, turned to me and said, “She’s not saying anything, but she’s listening, alright. Not one thing is getting past her.” I think that’s always how I’ve interfaced with life. Many of us are mainly observers. I’ve only recently begun to feel validated in my choices of experiencing the world.

I won’t lie and say that I haven’t wondered if my existence isn’t just a little boring, and if it isn’t sort of, maybe, my fault. Sometimes that Thoreau quote that everyone loves so much about men leading lives of quiet desperation gives me uncomfortable pause. This past Thursday I had a somewhat lengthy list of banal and administrative errands to run; I had to complete my tax form, mail it in (How French), shop for groceries, and purchase some office supplies at the local bookstore. It was a day, not unusual for me, spent in the company of my internal monologue and with no spectacular plot developments. But the sun had shone, I had completed my errands, and I had enjoyed an unadventurous but quietly serene mood; the kind that comes with knowing exactly where you are and feeling no impending stress about anything in particular. The wait in line for the print shop felt only slightly long and when I left the place I was minutiously thrilled at putting my stack of warm government documents into my ready-to-mail envelope; the same one that gave me an equal thrill when I slipped it into the post box. I went into the bookstore looking only for a folder but found myself perusing the displays as if it were some kind of hobby of mine; sort of how I imagine birdwatchers to feel when bird-watching. I got my folder along with several unnecessary indulgences. The lady at the cash register was nice. I stopped by the corner grocery near my place where all three of the cashiers know me in a neighborly way. The fact that they recognize me used to make me slightly anxious, but these days it’s comforting.

I went back home, walking up main street with the Cathedral in my view, purchases in tow, missions accomplished, not regarding the monument in awe as I had that first time-- overlooking it, even-- but I feel that its mere presence must have done something good for my state of mind even without my knowing it. I feel like I must have, by an undetectable increment, come to know a little better the place where I live. I had understood what that Italian-American friend of a friend had meant when she talked about youth and big cities. It was an innocuous comment, and true in its own right. Still, it fed a strange notion I’ve held onto about happiness coming from location; as if people belong in a certain place, at a certain time. I won’t lie and say that I haven’t pretentiously entertained the thought that I’m more adventurous than the peers I grew up with; that their lives in the same city they’ve always been in and with the same pool of people they’ve always known must be dull. Such a thought is consoling for a moment, but sometimes those peers make me wonder what I’ve sacrificed to be here. I feel envious when friends go to visit their parents who live only an hour away. I’m cognisant of the privilege that let me choose to live abroad. I’ve never had to move out of necessity. And yet I lamented having left Paris, all the while living only an hour away and still in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. I’ve always known and appreciated these things of course, but sometimes you lose touch. I’ve lived in astounding places yet still astound myself with my penchant for feeling unfulfilled. The problem has undoubtedly been me, and that’s a dreadful realization to face.

Geographical location has been a strange and constant metric by which I have evaluated my life. Coming to France was searching for adventure and running away at the same time. When location, however, didn’t necessarily bring with it the adventure, the ragtag band of lifelong friends or the passionate love affair that I hoped I’d find, I felt a bit lost and unsure of my direction in life. I sometimes continue to feel this way. After all, when Jane Birkin came to France in 1968, she immediately landed a leading role in Slogan, became Serge Gainsbourg’s muse and lover, went down in fame and infamy and effectively wove herself into the very fabric of French pop culture. Of course, I didn’t have the same head start that comes with marrying John Barry (of James Bond fame) and appearing nude in Blowup. Don’t get me wrong. I have no regrets. Learning a new language and living internationally, I’m convinced, is the only way I managed to overcome almost crippling timidity. I’m better for it. I feel, however, that I’ve asked too much of the places I have lived; I’m not Jane Birkin, and Paris was never going to do for me what it did for her. You have to look for your life--or so I’ve heard in a certain Robert Wise movie-- and it’s a notion that I adore but one that I wonder if I’ve taken too literally. I’m not saying that I’m done looking; next year I’ll leave Orléans and go somewhere else; hopefully somewhere bigger, but the “Looking” will be a different kind of looking. It’s the age-old knowledge that happiness comes from within, not from without, but we all learn this lesson in different ways. I moved across the Atlantic ocean to learn it. Growing up, in my experience, has been moments of finally just “Getting” wisdom that you’ve heard a thousand times over, throughout your whole life. I know that I’ll feel a bittersweet pang when I close my apartment door in Orléans for the last time, so I want to enjoy where I am and who I am at this very moment. Orléans is the first place I’ve stopped expecting anything from, and because of that, I can appreciate it for what it is. When I was handed the keys to my little studio here in the center of town, the agent told me reassuringly, “Tu seras bien ici.” I think I am good here. I certainly won’t be returning to Paris.

0 notes

imaginetonyandbucky · 8 years ago

Note

Imagine WS is in love with Tony but Bucky is not. Noone has any idea why WS constantly spends time with Tony, noone but Bucky who does not want to admit that WS is capable of any emotion. Thanks to WS Bucky falls in love with Tony too.

Warmth

The day Bucky realises that theWinter Soldier is in love with Tony Stark, he nearly brains himself on thedoorway between his room and the rest of Stevie’s floor.

Because that’s the thing, he’ssomehow not noticed, despite sharing a headspace with him. It’s been ateam-wide question since Bucky came in from the cold as to why the Soldierspends so much time with Stark, and even Bucky’s been unable to answer, thoughnow he’s just unwilling.

The Soldier is in lovewith Stark.

He’s the sun, the Soldier thinks.

How the hell is this Bucky’slife?

“You okay, Buck?” Steve’squestion drifts over from the kitchenette where Steve’s just about to leave forhis run with Sam, and Bucky nods.

“Yeah-“ -no- “-just stilla little tired, is all.” Bucky tells him, hoping to God he buys it. There’sonly a moment of scrutiny, and Steve’s nodding in acquisition.

“Rough night?” he asks, thoughthey both know it wasn’t – Bucky’s truly rough nights involve a lot ofscreaming – and in fact, when Bucky thinks about it he didn’t dream atall. Bucky only shakes his head inanswer, and within moments, Steve’s given his shoulder a gentle squeeze andgone. Bucky stands and watches the doorway for a moment, and lets his smilegrow wistful. He’ll never tell him, not in a million lifetimes, but Buckymisses his Stevie. The one who was as small as he was itching for afight, could fit right under Bucky’s arm like he was coming home. There’sglimpses of him sometimes, when this new Steve forgets to duck, or seems whollyquite surprised to receive any kind of compliment, but the whole thing isjarring.

There’s a flicker of a thoughtthen, of how maybe the Soldier’s got the right idea, maybe it’s time to move onfrom the past. Bucky clenches his fist against it, and when he looks down againto watch them uncurl, there’s only a flicker of red.

The Soldier is sat in Stark’slab. Bucky’s watching this unfold reluctantly, though with none of the viciousreluctance he’d built up for so many years when kept in the back of his ownmind. Stark’s fingers are dancing over the blue holo-screens, and he keeps up aconstant stream of chatter between Jarvis, the bots and the Soldier that’salmost soothing on Bucky’s grated nerves. Bucky had given up trying to shovethe Soldier aside and gain his control back somewhere around the time he becameaware of the dull pain in his shoulder – the arm had been fucked up duringbattle, and Bucky realises a little belatedly that the Soldier’s keepingcontrol so that Bucky can’t feel it.

He also can’t feel Stark’sfingers dance over the wires in the arm as he sets about repairing the damage,which makes the Soldier warm, gain a shadow of a smile. The sensation from thearm disappears entirely, and Bucky gives a giant mental shove, forcing theSoldier back in the corner. Stark glances up at him them, before deflatingslightly around a bright smile.

“Almost done, Barnes.” Starktells him, but the chatter’s gone. Bucky sits in silence while the arm isfixed, and finds he misses it.

Movie nights, it’s fairlystandard for the Soldier to be in control. Bucky’s still not one hundred percentcomfortable with having people or doors at his back when he can help it, andmovie nights that’s somewhat unavoidable. Bucky’s used to watching filmsthrough the Soldier’s objective gaze, and he’s given up pushing it away becauseanything is better than icy panic creeping its way up his spine. He pauses inthe elevator when the doors open, waiting for the Soldier to take control, butthere’s a tiny mental shove and Bucky’s walking into movie night as himself.He’s suddenly greatly unsure, because the Soldier sits next to Stark, but Buckydoesn’t know if he’s welcome. Stark might’ve forgiven him for his parents, butthat doesn’t mean he likes him. All at once, Bucky’s worried that Stark puts upwith the Soldier’s puppy-love out of fear, while he’s simultaneously sure thatStark is in no way scared of the Soldier.

He takes a breath to stealhimself and heads towards his usual place next to Stark on the couch. Stark’salready there, finishing up something on his tablet – jeez, the man never stopsworking, never stops doing things for SI and the team and for Shield as itrebuilds – and so Bucky pauses. It takes Stark a moment, but he looks up. Heknows that it’s Bucky running the show, and that, Bucky realises, is what makesStark deflate slightly. He prefers the Soldier to Bucky, and while Buckydoesn’t know what he did, he’s going to change that. “May I?” he asks, smilingsoftly and Stark just stares at him for a moment. Eventually he smiles, andshuffles sideways slightly so that Bucky will fit. Stark’s feet end up in hislap, and Bucky lets his hand rest on the genius’s ankles and doesn’t mind onebit.

Bucky would like to argue withhimself, that if is someone such as the Soldier could fall in love with Stark,what did that say about him? It wasn’t a slow build thing – the Soldier was inlove with Stark from day one, even though all the Soldier could’ve known aboutStark is everything Bucky knew. Son of Howard, former Warmonger, playboy,arrogant, Iron Man. Except – and here’s the other thing he doesn’t want toadmit – the Soldier isn’t a monster. The Soldier is somewhere between a robotand a small child, but he’s not a monster. He’s strangely perceptive too, andBucky wasn’t the only one terrified and trapped in his body, watching thedeaths of all those people and screaming for it to stop. Just as Bucky islearning to see, the Soldier might’ve always seen – right through Stark’sfaçade of confidence, to the eager-to-please and generous soul underneath.

In fact, the more Bucky thinksabout it, he can see how the Soldier would love Tony. The little bits ofcasual care the genius throws out. Everyone on the team gets it, but it meansmore to Buckythe Soldier than it ever would to them, and god, how theSolider craves it. Leftovers labelled for those who skipped the meal,little ‘go get em’ notes for when they’ve got to go do something they don’twant to, the light touches and hair ruffles. Tony’s kind to the point ofbreaking himself to make everything easier for anyone who isn’t him, and theSoldier’s never experienced kindness before. Of course he’d follow thegiver around like a puppy. That’s all it is.

Bucky’s not sure who he’s tryingto convince anymore.

The Soldier doesn’t come out thenext time someone scares the shit out of Bucky by accidentally sneaking up onhim. Bucky actually braces himself for it, but all he gets is a prod to hisconsciousness and something that should be an eyeroll, but has no physical formto be so.

Bucky turns to find Tony frozenand waiting cautiously, and god, Bucky’s heart flutters at the sight of fluffy-haired,oil -streaked Tony, even at 4am when his memories are raging a war in his head,the red on his hands won’t flicker and die, and he feels like he’s dead on hisfeet.

“Soldier?” Tony asks, confusedbecause he already knows the answer is-

“Bucky.” Bucky tells him, andTony watches him a moment longer before shrugging and sitting himself at thetable, making grabby hands for the coffee. Bucky delights internallythat he doesn’t seem slightly deflated like he would’ve a month or so ago, andhumours him with a smile, filling Tony’s mug before his own. Tony takes it likeBucky just handed him the nectar of the gods, and hums happily around his firstsip.

“Sorry for startling you.” Tonytells him eventually, and Bucky just gives a shrug.

“It happens, doll, I’m used toit.” Bucky freezes when he realises what he’s just said – not the admission tobeing easily startled, everybody knows that, but the endearment.For a moment, Bucky prays that Tony didn’t notice, but the Soldier’s presencehas gone warm and happy like it does when Tony’s smiling, and- yup, there itis. It’s not that shit-eating grin that means Bucky’s even more of a goner thanhe already was, though. No, this smile is small and tentative, there’s no teethto it, and it’s… Tony looks a touch confused.

“Doll?” he asks.

“Yeah, sorry, it just- slippedout.” Bucky mutters, pulling his mug closer and ignoring the eye-rollingsensation from the Soldier. There might even be a facepalm in there somewhere,and Bucky wonders if the kid-like thing picked that up from Natalia or Stevie.If anything, Tony deflates at that response, and the Soldier’s not the only onewho goes cold and sad at that. “But it suits you.” Bucky says, and Tony’s justfrowning at him now. Apparently, Bucky can’t win at four in the morning.

“I’m not one of your 40s dames,Barnes.” Tony’s scowling at him now, making the Soldier nudge Bucky’sconsciousness insistently like he’s begging him to fix it, and Bucky’s shakinghis head before he’s finished talking – partially because he’s wrong and partiallybecause it makes his hair fall from behind his ears and hide his face a little.

“Not what I mean, Tony, not atall.” Bucky tells him, but the scowl barely shifts.

“Then what do you mean?”he asks, and Bucky’s not entirely sure what he’s meant to say.

“It’s just- a term of- uh-friendship.” Bucky tries, wincing internally at how it comes out. “Y’know. Anickname, I guess.” Tony’s still scowling, but it’s not as bad, and the Soldier’sless insistent with his nudging (though it’s going to give Bucky a headache ifhe doesn’t cut it out).

“A nickname.” Tony repeatsslowly, and Bucky waits for his decision to be insulted or not with batedbreath. After a long moment, he shrugs, and sips his coffee again. “Whateveryou say, cupcake.” Bucky feels like he’s dodged a bullet there, and the Soldiermelts into a puddle of gooey warmth that makes Bucky sated and sleepywhen Tony grins around the word ‘cupcake’, proud of himself. It even lasts whenTony stands, mug in hands, and gives a tiny salute. “Sleep well, WinterCupcake,” and then he’s gone into the elevator. The warmth is still therethough the genius is gone, and settles somewhere in Bucky’s chest as he makeshis way back to his own room, feeling like he might actually be able to sleepnow.

It takes time to undo his owngrave-digging, but Bucky’s pleased with it. Tony could never assume Buckydoesn’t like him now, he’s certain, and Bucky – alongside the Soldier – ratherenjoys taking care of Tony. Soon, it doesn’t even feel like effort to makeextra sandwiches at lunch to take down for him, or to make more coffee, or toread through the textbooks trying to catch him up with a little moreattentiveness because he wants to understand what Tony’s saying, notjust smile at the words as they wash over him. The workshop becomes somewherehe likes to hide and somewhere he’s welcome to, and Tony smiles each and everytime.

Once, in a fit of Soldier nudgedconfidence, Bucky tries adding little casual touches to the friendship they’rebuilding, but the only thing Tony allows is an arm around his shoulderspost-battle, or when they’re on the couch. Tony might feel safe enough to fallasleep on him – and Bucky’s personal space is all Tony’s now – but everythingbetween them is strictly platonic is. It makes the Soldier’s presence like adisappointed weight, and a part of Bucky aches for something more, but the restof him will take what he can get. If friendship is all he’s good enough to earnfrom this man, it’s still more than he deserves.

The Soldier does come out,however, when Tony gets hurt in battle. Bucky’s almost thankful for it, becausethe Soldier might be a panicky child internally, but the robotic outerdemeanour is better for dealing with this, and mother of God, there’s somuch blood-

Bucky’s consciousness is pawingagainst the Soldier’s, he knows it is, but it’s like they’re sharing theheadspace for once instead of shoving the other out, and the Soldier’sobjective view that the injury is ‘not as bad as it looks’ as he liftsthe genius from his battered suit is helping slightly, but Bucky is fairly certainthat it’s him who’s doing the talking right now.

“C’mon doll, you gotta stay withme, okay?” Bucky cradles Tony to his chest, and picks his way over the rubble.Steve’s already said – over the comm’s where Bucky’s not really paying attentionand the Soldier only deemed it relevant to note because Tony will care – thathe’ll collect the suit, now just dead weight- “C’mon honey, you mean too muchto us.” He’s begging, and he might even be crying, but it’s- the Soldier’snever cried before.

Bucky and the Soldier reach themedical team ready to leave in the Quinjet in good time. The bleeding isslowing, and Tony’s not quite conscious, and Natalia is watching him weirdly,but they just carefully lay Tony down on the stretcher thing, and even brushthe hair out of his face before he’s whisked away. They watch him go – Quinjetdoors closed, and now up in the air – before even noting that Natalia haswalked up to stand beside him and the battle is over.

“He’ll be okay.” Natalia tellshim, and the Soldier knows that, firm beside Bucky in their shared headspace,if cold with the residual panic that’s still doing its best to choke Bucky.“Soldier?” she asks when he doesn’t respond – and Bucky turns to watch Stevelug the suit over the rubble when he speaks, voice cracking.

“I don’t know.” He replies aftera moment, and a tear runs down his cheek without his permission because healmost failed, and the Soldier was trained never to fail missions- Tonyisn’t a mission, he’s a choice- that just makes it worse- their sun is hurt-

Natalia is staring at him inshock, though, and Steve carefully lays the suit in a clear patch by them –Clint will bring the Quinjet back for them – before looking between them inconfusion. “Bucky?” Steve asks cautiously, and there’s a hesitation before theSoldier (and it’s definitely the Soldier now) shakes his head. He licks hislips and-

“Soldier.” He confirms, the tearforgotten and no more following it. Bucky feels his face go blank, and he leadsthe way silently onto the Quinjet when it returns, ignoring the red on hishands.

He doesn’t know if it’s theSoldier or himself who rips up the note ‘You got this Winter Cupcake!’in Tony’s left-handed handwriting while his arm’s in a sling a few days later –Bucky was meant to be going to group with Sam – but they agree that it’sundeserved. Bucky goes to storm off, but a nudge from the Soldier brings himscurrying back before anyone can see. The scraps of the note are swept up intohis hand, and Bucky tucks them into his pocket because the Soldier’s right; itwouldn’t do to let Tony think his affections, even if only platonic, areunwanted. “God, I’m sorry…” he whispers, not quite sure who to or what foranymore.

Bucky’s pacing outside theworkshop – it’s not the first time he’s done this since Tony came out ofmedical. Usually, ignoring the Soldier’s disappointment mingling with his ownand their combined shame and heartache burning like a brand, he just leaves whateversnack or coffee he’s brought with him by the door and runs away to sulk again.He wishes Steve was wrong, but he is sulking, right there curled up with theSoldier pining and whimpering away in his head because sure they fucked up butthis torture is new and awful and Bucky misses their sun as much as theSoldier does. This time, though, Bucky’s pacing because Tony asked Bucky tocome down in five minutes, and he’s certain that this is it. Finally,Tony will ask Bucky and the Soldier to leave, the team, the tower, New York,because they failed and Bucky’s never got to keep anything he loves.

Jesus, the Soldier might not bea monster, but Bucky’s not looking forward to finding out how he throws thetantrum that will follow hot on the heels of heartbreak.

Right on the five minute markthe doors to the workshop open, and Bucky nearly falls into the Soldier’sfacial patterns as he tries to compose himself. He shoves his hands in hispockets so Tony won’t see the flesh one shake, and mutters a thank you toJarvis as he steps inside. The doors slide shut behind him, and Bucky is struckimmediately by how oddly lifeless the workshop seems – the Soldier’s presencesomething like a lament at the lack of blue lights – and Tony spins on thechair to face him. His face is oddly blank, nothing but tiredness there, as hestudies Bucky for a moment.

“Who am I talking to?” he askseventually, and that… that just might be the first time someone hasn’t assumedone way or the other.

“Me.” Bucky settles on, after amoment. A smile ticks up the corner of Tony’s mouth, but it doesn’t stay, andBucky’s never felt this nervous in his life.

“And that is?” Tony probes, andBucky shrugs a shoulder.

“Some combination of both of us,I think. We’re bonding.” He says, not quite sure what makes him add the lastpart, but it’s no less true. He is bonding with the Soldier. They’reless two distinct personalities with one set of jumbled memories and more twomindsets, two point of views of the same person now. The answer, intentional ornot, makes Tony smile, and Bucky lets himself relax slightly.

“Some combination…” he muses.“So I’m talking to you, the Man Who Lives Now, the Phoenix From the Ashes, youjust as you are, as you will be.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but Buckynods and answers him anyway.

“As I am.” Bucky confirms, kindaliking the warm imagery of the phoenix metaphor. The Soldier hums a tiny bit ofagreement, but the nerves are still there – and they rack up twelve notcheswhen Tony stands up, and steps right into Bucky’s personal space. Bucky wantsto scramble backwards – and the Soldier seems inclined to let him – but Tony’seyes are warm and hopeful, and Bucky’s caught like a trap. “Tony?” he asksafter a moment.

“Answer me this, WinterCupcake,” Tony starts, smiling wider when Bucky relaxes automatically at thenickname, “was it the Man Who Lives Now who said I was too important?”

If Bucky hadn’t still beenlocked in Tony’s gaze, he might’ve missed how much Tony feels like he’s riskingto ask that question, but he can see it now, like the Soldier’s been seeing allalong. He takes a deep breath, trying to find the right words – a breath that’sfull of coffee and oil and something that’s all Tony. His eyes arebright and soulful, like the sun through whiskey or something so equallysoothing, hopeful and yet still teasing, and his smile is soft and warm andhe’s the sun, he’s all Bucky ever wants, ever wanted, will ever need,he’ll never be cold or alone again as long as Tony’s around because he’smagnificent and wonderful and-

Bucky’s speaking aloud, up untilthe moment Tony cuts him off.

With a kiss.

A really good kiss.

It’s chaste but in no waytentative, and when Bucky gets with the program, tips his head to the side alittle, it’s not even chaste. It’s languid and warm and Tony’s lips and tongueand hands burn against him, more heat and light and happiness than Buckyor the Soldier ever thought they’d get. Bucky lets his hands drift down Tony’sback in a gentle caress, before he’s picking up the genius and sitting him onthe desk. Tony doesn’t have to pull him down to kiss him now, but he pulls backas if to protest, so Bucky doesn’t let him. He kisses him again, an insistentpress of lips, before he pulls back, just far enough and long enough to say“you’re everything, Tony.”

Bucky feels like his very soulis singing with the warmth Tony kisses him with then and- oh god, Bucky pullsthe brunet closer, tight against his chest as Tony goddamn sucks on histongue. Bucky kisses him back, as good as he remembers how to, and theyonly stop when breathing becomes a thing they really ought to do.

“Everything, huh?” Tony asksbreathlessly, and he’s smirking but there’s no tease in his eyes.

“Everything, il mio sole.”Bucky says, loving how Tony’s face lights up at the Italian, and proves Bucky’spoint – the Soldier’s point, their point – entirely. Tony kisses him again,grinning too hard for it to be anything but Bucky’s grinning right back and-

“Ti amo, la mia luna.” Tonywhispers, right against his lips, and Bucky knows the warmth in his chest isthere to stay.

#winteriron #tony x bucky #tony stark #bucky barnes #prompts #thecitylightshow #Anonymous

401 notes · View notes

dreadhaus-literature · 6 years ago

Text

{Research} Who...or What am I?

I know, that title is like...totes dramatic and probably a little out of character for myself since I’m the queen of chill, but it’s a question I’ve been asking for the last couple years, in terms of fantasy life and where I, Dot Dreadful, fit in with everything. My family are a family of Shapeshifters, but they all know what they are whereas I do not.

And it’s about time I figure it out.

I’ve mentioned it a few times, but the idea of just being a human with alter-egos doesn’t sit well with me. I’m fine being taken care of and being 100% submissive but I still don’t want to feel...plain in a Family of Supers. So at the risk of being a Sue with this, I decided the only way to really be 100% happy is to just bite the bullet and let my Alters be whatever I want them to be, even if that makes me five different types of supernatural, or a Shapeshifter with five forms, I suppose is a better way of wording that.

I have five Alters that make me whole, and I’ll list them in terms of Dominance and strength:

Maîtresse/Dame

Anadrette

Sione

Tiny

Misi

If I added myself to that list I’d go right between Anadrette and Sione. And there’s a lot I don’t really talk about in terms of myself, because I don’t like doing things for myself, but...the flip-side of that, is I get to enjoy things I can’t IRL if I do this. I mean, that’s the beauty of FL to begin with, right? To do things I can’t, and to have things I can’t IRL.

My Alters exist to fill an emotional need. Meaning, like, Misi came to be because I wanted to feel completely dependent on the Family. Sie’s incapable of taking care of hirself, and sie allows me to be 100% submissive. That’s an emotional need sie fulfills for me. Same as like with Sione, wanting to explore a male perspective, or Drette, allowing myself to feel whatever I want to feel no matter how “crazy” it might seem.

So it seemed...a logical step that they fill a physical need for me, too. i have supernatural types I gravitate towards or that I like, so my Alters can take those forms, filling the physical need just as they do the emotional. Make sense? ...I sure hope it does, lol.

Essentially, each of my Alters will be a different supernatural being, and I shift into them, and when we’re all sharing one body, I can use those forms at will. The only exception to this is if the Alter’s body type is different from me, then I won’t assume their traits.

I.E. - Dame is taller than Dot is, so Dot will remain her same height and will not get Dame’s height advantage when using Her Shifted form.

If I explain this dumbly and it doesn’t make sense, haha, just ask. It uh, it makes sense in my head, so hopefully I’m putting it down on paper properly.

I went through and assigned a supernatural being to each of my Alters, and I...think I’m happy with it. It feels...right, finally. I’ll still remain a Shapeshifter, and if there’s a need to be specific I’ll even call myself a Skinwalker. I simply trade out abilities with my Altered forms, like how my brothers can shift into their Altered form--which, for most of them, is a wolf. I simply have more cards in my deck.

They get to be 17 feet tall, I get to have more forms. It all works out.

Once I run through all the forms, I’ll try and tie this up in a pretty bow at the end, and make sure I don’t miss any loose ends. I feel kind of...out of my element talking about myself so it’s making me nervous. 😗

Anyway, let’s start with the top of the food chain.

Maîtresse / Dame | Gorgon

Overview

Maîtresse represents my Dominant side; She is a Domme, 100% of the time, and She is also the strongest part of me. She was the Protector of all of us before W/we merged with the Family, and out of all the Alters She is the strongest, emotionally and physically--yes, even stronger than Sione. I like to think of Her as my powerhouse. My heavy hitter.

Maîtresse has my IRL height, standing at 6′2 barefoot in Her resting form. She makes no attempt to shrink; in fact, She displays Her height proudly and even to Her advantage. She will not shy away from wearing high heels and there is no shame in Her for Her height. She cares very little if it makes anyone uncomfortable.

Unlike Anadrette, Maîtresse is not mean, She is simply strict. She expects and demands respect and is used to getting it, but She is Motherly and protective; She is used to taking care of others and does so happily, willingly, day after day as any good Domme should.

Shifter Form

Maîtresse is a Gorgon; which is essentially half-woman, half-snake. She has a full head of writhing, sentient snakes that serve as Her hair. There are smaller snakes at the top of her head, serving as her bangs, and then longer snakes trail down Her back to Her waist. Each serpent is capable of independent thought and personality, however they are in tune with Her moods and Her thoughts. They do not speak, but communicate with Her through hissing or telepathy, and will grow back if cut off.

Maîtresse is 20 feet in length from the top of Her head to the tip of Her tail; when She sits up using Her long form to balance, She usually “sits” at about seven feet tall, but due to Her length She can rise up higher if need be. Her torso is still the same height as Her resting form, with her additional height all coming from Her tail. Maîtresse’s snake tail begins below Her navel, where Her flesh begins to blacken at Her hips to meet Her scales. The scales themselves are black and gold; black on top, gold underneath, and Her tail ends in a gold rattle with a vicious black stinger at the tip.

Maîtresse is bare from the waist up when She shifts, and even Her upper torso resembles the black and gold of Her scales, only to a much lesser degree. Her hair serpents share the same coloring as She does.

Normally, in this form, Maîtresse’s face doesn’t appear much different, with the exception of slitted snake eyes and a forked tongue. However, when angered, threatened, or when using Her Gorgon Vision, Her features will become more bestial, and She will resemble a serpent with a prominent brow ridge, the faint appearance of scales along her forehead, cheeks, and jaw, and inches long fangs that drip with venom.

Like other Gorgons, Maîtresse has a gaze that’s meant to be feared, but She doesn’t turn people to stone. As a Domme, Maîtresse needs the ability to be able to know those beneath Her. She has the natural ability to read others, and this is further amplified by Her Gorgon Vision, or Seeking Vision. It’s similar to telepathy but much harder to avoid; while some can train to put mental blocks in place to stop telepaths from reading their minds, most wouldn’t be able to stop Her from reading every single thing inside their head once She’s staring directly into their eyes. She uses this to manipulate others, to read their truest intentions and desires and can then, of course, use them again them. It’s how She can either earn or force submission, blackmail, or simply rot the person’s mind from the inside out, using their own fear against them. This vision operates in two forms; either She will stare into Her victim’s eyes and read their thoughts, or She can force them to say aloud whatever they’re thinking.

Additionally, as with most snakes, Maîtresse is venomous, both Herself and Her hair serpents, and the strength of Her venom will either (temporarily or permanently) paralyze or kill Her victims. The sting from Her tail is also venomous, but because of it’s size, victims usually bleed out before any ill effects from the venom itself.

Maîtresse has supernatural strength in Her arms and Her bite, but Her real strength and speed come from Her tail. Not only can it make Her impressively tall, but it can propel Her forward either on land or in water with incredible speed, and She can most certainly constrict or crush someone to death with it. It’s also advised to not be on the receiving end of a smack from it.

Maîtresse also has a tell that She can’t control; like with rattlesnakes, if She’s beginning to lose Her temper or about to strike, Her tail will rattle. It’s a good way for others to know they’ve crossed a line and should probably...get back on the other side of it.

Anadrette | Banshee

Overview

Anadrette, or Drette as she’s more commonly known, is the manifestation of all my extreme personality traits. She’s unstable, homicidal, maniacal--whatever you wanna label it as, she’s not all there and she’s completely fine with that. Like me, she’s a S/switch, but only recently began submitting for the Family; she was purely a Dominant before. That explains why she sometimes...struggles with authority--that, and she likes a fight.

It’s no surprise or secret that Drette isn’t very nice--at least, to the other Alters or anyone she isn’t in love with. She’s almost black and white; she’s obsessively devoted to Family and would do anything for anyone she loves, but if you fall outside of that bracket...well, as the meme goes. {Chuckles.} You’re in danger.

Drette is taller than me, but only by an inch; she’s 5′10 barefoot, but is almost always in heels. Like Dame, she enjoys being taller than outsiders and using that to make them uncomfortable...and you can pretty much bet she likes making anyone uncomfortable. She is unapologetically who she is, with all her quirks, kinks, and obsessive tendencies on full display. She stalks, she devours, she kills, she claims--Drette plays for keeps. Always.

Shifter Form

Drette is not a Banshee in the traditional sense of the word; she’s not a ghost, but she is a manifestation of evil or malicious intent. She is the feral aspect of my personality, something that walks the line right between life and death. She consumes fear hand over fist just like she does flesh, and the longer she’s alive, the worse her “condition” gets because she thrives on possession in all forms--like one might assume a demonic spirit or ghost would.

It remains something of a mystery, a point of confusion as to how Drette walks the line she does; she seems to exist right in the middle between the corporeal and incorporeal dimensions, so that she can teleport or hop locations using the same paths that ghosts do, she knows things she shouldn’t, and her body seems built to withstand even lethal injury so she can snap back like a doll popping it’s joints back into place.

Drette can sustain insane amounts of damage without succumbing to her injuries. Her body is almost like that of a voodoo doll, because while the damage is being done, she doesn’t seem to notice it, almost as if it’s happening to someone else, and yet the more pain she’s in, the more powerful, the worse she gets. Because of her toeing the line between the corporeal and incorporeal dimensions, her body will keep going even against seemingly lethal wounds; broken bones? She’ll walk on broken ankles, she’ll still stab with broken wrists. Snap her neck? She’ll still dismember you with her head at that awful, twisted angle. Load her up with bullets? Watch her laugh through bloodied teeth as the bullets are pushed out of open wounds and she’s still chasing you down with that meat cleaver.

Drette’s Shifter or Banshee form is different from her resting form, beginning with her skin. Her skin loses all pigment and goes paper white (haha, throwback to my monochrome days on IMVU); her eyes also lose all color. They go feral black, and she moves with more obvious, bone-wrenching tic’cing than she normally does. Her nails and teeth elongate, she no longer gives off a scent, and her body heat cannot be registered through thermal means. In this form, she’s harder to track, or trace, to see, and thus she has a much easier time stalking without being discovered.

One common trait that Drette shares with other Banshees is their shrieking voice. Her voice is powerful, and if used against a person with a weak constitution or heart, she can actually shriek a person to death as the sound is so terrifying their heart stops. Her shriek can manifest damage on it’s own--for example, if she were to shriek in a person’s direction, if she’s at full strength her voice can knock them over. It’s meant to induce fear--seemingly everything about Drette is meant to incite fear. To her, it’s all a means to an end; if she hates you and you’re afraid of her, she can torment you to death. If she loves you and you’re afraid of her, you’ll be too afraid to leave her and she’ll keep you forever.

Unsurprisingly, Drette is extremely skilled in fear manipulation. It’s another common trait she shares with Banshees; she isn’t heralding a bad omen, she is the bad omen. She’ll stalk you, follow your every move, get inside your life, your head, and learn what you fear the most--and then she’ll use it to destroy you or own you. Whichever she prefers to do on that particular day.

Sione | Werecat

Overview

Sione is, out of all my Alters, the most like me. The only difference between the two of us is that he’s a male, and I’m female. We’re literally just gender-swapped; he’s a S/switch, he shares in the same personality traits that I do, and if I’m the Mom friend, he’s the Dad friend.

Sione is the tallest of all my Alters at 6′5″ barefoot, and he does have some muscle mass on him. He’s nowhere near the other Dreadful men (sadly, because he comes from a female, he can only bulk up so much) but he could still own the title Daddy if he (or someone else) wants to call him that. Sione carries his height with an easy-going smile and a head full of dreadlocks.

While Dame is the Protector of all the Alters, Sione more closely looks after Misi. As Misi straddles the gender line, Sione acts as a guiding “big brother” to the weak Alter, but given his size if he needs to step in and take over for Dame he’s more than happy to do so. He’s pretty happy, pretty much all the time.

Shifter Form

Sione, like the other men in the Dreadful line, is an animal Shifter, a Were with an affinity for cats. Unlike Atamu, who is a pureblood Werelion, Sione has mixed genes and can shift between any of the large jungle cats; lion, tiger, panther, jaguar, and cheetah.

Sione’s height doubles in size in his Were form; he goes from 6′5″ to 8′5″, and like other animal Shifters he does have three forms; his resting form, his Were form (bipedal, anthropomorphic form) or his animal form (four-legged form that is larger than the wild cat counterparts). He makes use of these forms liberally, as he went through the same training the rest of the Shifters did when he was younger and has full control over his forms.

Like all Shifters, Sione has exceptional gifts in all of his forms, but each Cat specializes in different things, similar to their wild counterparts. Sione can use a panther for stealth, cheetah for speed, lion for power, etc. Sione is as most Shifters are expected to be; he has lifemates and needs to be with them often to prevent Shifter Sickness, and if he hasn’t fed on flesh recently he does tend to lean on the more feral side--something the other Alters are more resistant to. Sione is most susceptible thanks to the testosterone.

Similar to other Weres, Sione shares personality traits with the animals he can embody--these traits come out stronger when he’s in his shifted forms. He will display territorial behavior, extreme possessiveness, or even be more playful depending on the form he’s in and which Big Cat he’s embodying. Sione also actively enjoys Pet Play in all his forms, and will engage in it readily with anyone willing to participate with him; that means collars, leashes, or being on the submissive end and being openly stalked by the leopard with hazel eyes.

Tiny | Pixie

Overview

Tiny is my submissive side--however, she’s not 100% submissive. Well, she is, but she’s a brat. If Misi is 100% submissive, then Tiny is 97%; there’s that 3% of her that’s gonna need a swat on the ass to do what she’s told, but hey, that’s part of the fun of being a sub, a little, a brat, right?

Tiny is exactly what her name says. She’s much shorter than me, and she’s fine to use that to her advantage, in whatever way she can. Underestimate her? She’ll walk all over you. Want to treat her like she’s a doll? She’ll cling to you. Tiny’s a bratty submissive and with that comes knowing exactly how to get what you want, and she’s a girl who knows what she wants.

Tiny’s a brat, but she’s a sensitive brat. She knows to be nice, and she knows to be respectful. She’s been taught well by the Family’s Bigs, and she knows her place and is happiest when she’s in it.

Shifter Form

Tiny is a Pixie, a cheerful, mischievous sprite who admittedly has some Nymph tendencies thrown in for good measure. Like the rest of her kind she can vary her size, but usually is fine to stay her natural height--unless she’s wanting to be really little, in which case she might drop down to a foot or two...or if she’s up to no good, in which case you might want to be on the lookout for a winged brat less than 12 inches tall.

Appearance-wise, as a Pixie Tiny has short, pointed ears, her sharpened teeth, and thin, delicate wings reminiscent of butterflies. They’re fanned, with three separate wing tips on each side (one pointed up, one pointed slightly horizontal, and one pointed down), and they’re amethyst in color to match Tiny’s birthstone. To match her wings, her eyes change from hazel to amethyst, and they fairly sparkle with mischief, especially when she’s really up to no good.

Tiny can retract her wings if she’d like, and when she’s in flight they glitter and yes, she does have pixie dust. Though her wings are good for hovering, and flitting from short distance to short distance, she’s not really built for extended flight or long distances, and she can only carry someone thanks to her natural strength as a supernatural creature. She really isn’t designed for it, though.

Due to her zodiac and her affinity for water, Tiny is technically a water pixie, and thus her wings can be use in water same as air--and unlike her short flights in air, she’s an exceptional swimmer and can use her wings to swim for near as much as she’d like. She has a heavy preference for saltwater, though, and likely won’t much enjoy freshwater, and may even pout if she’s taken there instead of the ocean.

Tiny is a Pixie, and Pixies are known for magic, but really what Tiny is known for is just trying to make others happy. Her Pixie Dust brings good luck and can incite smiles and laughter, and her “pranks” are usually not pranks at all, but little shows of helpfulness because she much prefers others around her to be happy...unless of course you mean outside the Family, and then it’s a little different. But, Tiny just wants to be happy, and she wants her loved ones to be happy, too.

Misi | Mermaid

Overview

Misi is the weakest part of me, and we’re going to talk about hir a little more than the others as there’s a lot more to unpack about hir. Sie was created for that purpose, to be weak, and in the Family the creation story or, as superheroes might say, Misi’s “origin story” came when the other Alters and I decided to try and get rid of anything we perceived as “weak” or that made us “vulnerable”. Drette wanted to be able to do whatever she wanted without these traits, Dame didn’t think the traits suited Her as a Domme, and I thought I’d be better off without them. We created Misi with the intent to kill hir as soon as sie was “born”...but we couldn’t bring ourselves to do it once sie was here. And so, here sie is.

Misi is androgynous, straddling the gender line right down the middle. Sie has both male and female genitalia, with small, perky little breasts that you might miss if you’re not actually looking for them. Hir features won’t tip one way or the other in terms of gender, and sie answers to both male and female pronouns, and terms of endearments. Really, sie’ll answer to anything you call hir; sie’s literally the most people-pleasing person on the planet because sie’ll never tell you no.

Sie is incredibly small, both height-wise (think Tiny) and body weight-wise. Because sie was created with everything we Alters perceived as weak, sie’s often sick as hir immune system is extremely compromised, and thus sie’s extremely thin. Hir left arm barely has any motor function in it, as that is our cutting arm and we transferred all scars and damage done to hir as we thought we’d get rid of it when we got rid of hir. Since that didn’t happen, sie lives with the bum limb either by putting it in a sling...or others remove it, and keep it, as it does eventually grow back.

Personality-wise, Misi is 100% submissive. Sie never acts out, sie never defies or says no, and sie will literally go along with anything. Sie has no backbone, no defenses; sie’s extremely vulnerable and that leads to one of two things; either someone wants to protect hir, or they want to take advantage of hir--and Misi is designed to enjoy it either way. Sie’s fully masochistic, enjoying any and all treatment as sie perceives it to be love no matter how it’s shown, and sie craves it, like a wilted flower in need of constant sunlight.

Shifter Form

Misi is a mermaid...or merman, or merperson? Haha. Well, sie’s a Mer. Like most aquatic animals outside of water, sie’s not exceptionally graceful on land. Sie only has three working limbs, after all, and gravity’s kinda tough on you when you weigh 90 pounds soaking wet with bricks in your pocket--but in the water, Misi is incredibly agile, and it becomes pretty apparent that’s hir element when sie’s in it.

Because of Misi’s modest endowments, sie doesn’t wear a top when sie’s in hir Mer form; like all mermaids hir tail starts at hir hips, and...for those curious, like other aquatic animals hir “parts” are tucked neatly into a little fold on the underside of hir tail--so yes, sie still has all hir working parts in this form.

Misi’s tail is a rainbow in an ombre pattern that simply repeats itself from hir hip scales down to the feathery tip of hir tail. Hir gills are the same color as hir tail and flutter visibly along hir neck, and sie has finned ears in the same color pattern. Sie also has webbed fingers for swimming, and fins that run up from hir wrist to hir elbow, to help hir move easily in water. Hir rainbow scales bridge along hir cheekbones and over hir forehead, and in this form sie is able to breathe both air and in water.

Like Tiny, Misi prefers the ocean, and won’t be very happy in freshwater unless it’s a pool, or an in-land lagoon or waterfall. Ponds are icky and sie’s afraid of them. Despite hir bum arm sie excels at swimming simply because of hir tail, and feels most at home when sie is in water. Sie can see clearly in all water types, and sie can see in the dark when in water as well.

While the majority of mermaids are known for their mystical voices, Misi is too timid for singing. Sie has an awful stammer from being so fearful of so many things (happens when nearly everything is a threat) and so instead of a mystical voice, Misi’s “power” comes in hir eyes. Sie wears hir heart visibly in hir gaze, which is often full of love or longing for love, and same as mermaids often lure sailors to their deaths with beautiful songs, Misi can entice hir desired one into the water with a forlorn glance. It isn’t coming from a place of seduction, Misi’s too shy for that, but sie’s open and honest about what sie wants and if it’s you, you’ll know it, and sie’ll show you open devotion if it means you’ll come play for a little while.

That all leads you back to me, to Dot. And I hope it’s clear now, what I said above; when we are all sharing a body I can shift into any of these forms, be it Gorgon, Banshee, Werecat, Pixie, or Mermaid. I simply shift into them as myself, as Dot, rather than my Alter egos. I’m still Dot, I’m just a Shapeshifter, a Skinwalker with Alters that can separate from me and they take their Shifter form when they go.

I.E. - If Sione is independent from my body, I cannot shift into a Werecat or Sione until he merges with me again.

Despite Dame being my Domme side, I am the dominant personality. The Alters are just physical manifestations of my persona, which I suppose can circle to me being a specific type of Skinwalker. I can’t shift to look like other people, like Markus can, I shift internally, using facets of my own personality.

And I’m sorry if this is all confusing, or even if this is doing the most, and not in a good way, haha. i just...well, I guess I don’t need to make excuses for myself. We do this FL stuff so we can have fun with it, so we can enjoy things we’ll never have IRL and this is a rare show of something for me.

This...is me. After two years, I finally know who Dot Dreadful is in New Senzannini.

So there you have it. You now know, and I now know, who and what I am.

#{theme} : writing research #{character} : dot dreadful

0 notes

jscalzi · 6 years ago

Text

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

For me, in any event, it’s been well worth the upgrade, and not just for the photos, although the photos probably would have been enough. I really like this camera, and I really like this phone.

Taking Pictures With the Pixel 3: Some Thoughts

0 notes