#although I get you need to cover the Greek angle somehow

[heavencasteel420]

I have some qualms about this list, but I really love a lot of her ideas about the older kids.

[365days365movies]

March 9, 2021: Orpheus (1950) (Part One)

Greek mythology was my first mythological love.

And yes, that is ironically a very cliché thing to say about Greek mythology, since it’s by FAR the most popular and well-known mythology in the Western world, but...what can I say, I’m a sucker for the classics.

When I was 6, my mom got me a copy of the Odyssey, followed by D’Aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths, and that book was my SHIIIIIIIIIIT. From the Titanomachy to the Trojan War, from Decaulion to Daedalus, from the Lernaean Hydra to Ladon, and from Zeus to Dionysus (my second favorite Olympian), I LOVE Greek mythology.

There have been countless adaptations of these stories over the last century of so, some better and more faithful than others. We got Blood of Zeus (which I...genuinely dislike) on Netflix last year, Lore Olympus is a fantastic webcomic and modernized retelling of the universe of stories in general (fuck Apollo, that’s all I have to say), Hercules by Disney is fun (though extraordinarily inaccurate), and who doesn’t like some Percy Jackson (the books, not the movies)?

Today’s entry won’t be the first of the Greek mythology stories this month; after all, it’s DEFINITELY fantasy, so there were going to be a few entries in here. Some will come pretty close to each other later this month, but for this one, we’re jumping forward 10 years from The Thief of Bagdad to 1950. Let’s get back to France, shall we?

Famous for his adaptation of Beauty and the Beast is Jean Cocteau, legendary French surrealist filmmaker. His stylings definitely capture a sort of practical magic, compounded with clever angles and fascinating visual and practical effects. It’s evident with the classic fairy tale, which I would’ve done this month had I not already seen it. So, instead, we’ll be looking at the middle film in a trilogy known as Cocteau’s Orphic trilogy. This is, apparently, the most important one. And that makes sense, since it’s focused upon...

Is Hadestown good? I’m real tempted to find a way to watch it, and it sounds like it’s just up my alley. I’ll probably check it out one of these days.

Orpheus was (maybe) the son of Calliope, the muse of poetry, and Apollo, god of music. Maybe. Parentage differs based on the retelling. No matter the parents, he was renowned for his charm and grace, as well as his voice and music. He was loved by animals, nymphs, and maidens alike. He was invited to be the Bard of Jason’s DnD group (AKA the Argonauts), and used Bardic Performance to inspire his comrades (and also helped them overcome the sirens by singing EVEN LOUDER).

But the one whom he loved most was his wife, Eurydice. Unfortunately, a satyr (AKA horny horned half-goat man) chased her right into a viper’s nest, where she was bitten and died. Orpheus was CRUSHED, and his song was so depressing that even the gods cried. They said, “Dude, go to the Underworld, get back your lady from Hades, please!” And he did.

Hades, the old romantic that he secretly is, agrees to let Eurydice’s soul, on one condition. That he doesn’t look back at her as she follows him out. Orpheus agrees, but the man can’t stop himself from looking back to make sure that she’s there. And she was...and then she wasn’t. So, our sad boi fucked up, and then...well, it’s spotty. 

See, some people say that he stopped worshipping Dionysus (his previous patron), and the wine boi’s female followers tore Orpheus to pieces as punishment. Some say that these same women got a liiiiiiiiiittle too into the Bacchanalia (think orgies, but religious and violent), and ripped him apart in a frenzy. And some say that he only took male lover from then on, and women tore him to pieces for not paying attention to them (also, possible homophobia). You know, it varies. Still, we can agree on the ripped apart by women thing. His head could still sing, and as the women threw his body parts into a river, it sang a song so beautiful that the rocks and branches in the river refused to strike it. His instrument of choice, a lyre, was eventually interred amongst the stars as the constellation Lyra.

The story of a pained artist searching for a lost love and losing her is all over the goddamn place, with the crazy-ass Moulin Rouge being a solid example of it.

But OK, let’s finally begin Orpheus, or Orphée to be more accurate. Gonna be a weird ride, I guarantee it. SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

The story starts with a recap of the original myth, and notes that it doesn’t need to be limited  by time and place. This sort of story, after all, could happen anywhere and at any time. And in this case, that time and place are 1950s-era France, where we quickly meet famous poet Orpheus (Jean Marais).

At a café, he meets a friend, the Editor (Henri Crémieux), where they speak on Orpheus’ fame, which is not well-liked in a cafe frequented by poets. Also arriving there is a young drunken poet, Jacques Cégeste (Édouard Dermit), who is accompanied by his patron, known only as...the Princess (María Casares). Come on, guys, can we give our female characters names, please?

Anyway, Jacques quickly gets into a drunken brawl with other patrons, which leads to the arrival of the police at the café. They forcefully arrest him, but before they can, he’s hit by a couple of motorcycles, and potentially killed. The police bring Jacques back to the Princess’ car, with the help of her driver Heurtebise (François Périer). For unknown reasons, she summons Orpheus to help them. He agrees, and goes with them to the hospital.

Or he would be, if they were going there. Instead, as they drive off, Orpheus discovers that Jacques is dead already. They aren’t going to the hospital. Instead, they head to a mysterious mansion, as ominous and oblique poetry plays on the radio. They’re soon accompanied by the men on the motorcycles that killed Jacques, who work for the Princess. The plot fuckin’ THICKENS.

Back at her mansion, they bring the body of Jacques upstairs, much to the confusion of Orpheus, whom the Princess keeps calling stupid whenever he asks questions. However, he’s not proving her wrong, as she immediately convinces him that she’s actually dreaming at the moment. Although...maybe he is?

She sits in front of a mirror, which breaks...somehow. Frustrated, she commands Orpheus to wait there for her to return, as she goes to check on Jacques and her men. Like me, Orpheus is confused. This gets worse for me, though, as the Princess goes to the other room and tells the dead Jacques to get up. AND HE DOES. Well, Jacques’ a zombie, I guess. He identifies the Princess as “his Death”, which she agrees to. She tells him to hold on to her coat, and then...

...I got questions. I GOT QUESTIONS HERE.

They go through the mirror, and the Princess’ henchmen follow, just as Orpheus walks in. He also has questions, and he tries to go through the mirror, to no avail. Completely confused at this point, he passes out against the mirror, alone in the mansion. And then...he’s outside.

Yeah, he’s just outside now, and waiting there is Heurtebise, the chauffeur! Orpheus is freakin’ out, and Heurtebise has no answers for him, but has been told to take him back to town once he...arrived. OK. Still questions.

In town, the disappearance of Orpheus is being discussed by a police inspector, his wife Eurydice (Marie Déa), and her friend Aglaonice (Juliette Gréco). Aglaonice doesn’t seem to like Orpheus very much, as she’s trying to convince Eurydice that he’s cheating on her. And that’s hard to argue, since he was last seen with the Princess. However, just as there’s about to be a scandal reported by a spontaneously appearing journalist, Heurtebise and Orpheus arrive home.

After a rough encounter with the journalist, he arrives home to a relieved Eurydice, and an enraged Aglaonice, whom Orpheus also dislikes heavily. He’s apparently forbidden her from entering his house, and tells her off. The Inspector leaves too, and asks Orpheus to come to his office to discuss the matter of the missing Jacques.

Eurydice reminds Orpheus that Aglaonice is dangerous, as she runs...the League of Women. Well...I think we know what role Aglaonice is going to play by the end of this. Her and her League of Bacchanalian Women, get me? Yikes. Anyway, the conversation turns into an argument, when the EXTREMELY ornery Orpheus basically just storms off, being a DICK to his poor wife. And when he goes upstairs to his room, he actually sneaks out of the window.

Meanwhile, Heurtebise comes into the house to offer an alibi to the pained Eurydice. While she doesn’t quite believe it, the two share some time together and seem to bond. However, when he smells gas from the stove, Heurtebise lets it slip that he committed suicide by using a gas stove. He covers it up before Eurydice notices the slip-up, but...OK. So, “the Princess” is death. Going by the traditional Greek myth, she’s some form of psychopomp, and the world beyond the mirror is the Underworld, I can only assume. OK...I can dig it.

Orpheus, meanwhile, is at the car, listening to the strange radio poetry and writing it down. The, uh, “Princess” is busy as well. Like a ghost, she walks into the household and watches Orpheus as he sleeps. A narration refers to her as Orpheus’ death. Funny, I’m pretty sure that’s going to be Aglaonice’s role.

Two days later, Orpheus is increasingly obsessed with the poetry from the mysterious radio and its odd messages. While Eurydice seems to mock this obsession, Orpheus also seems to be far too enraptured in it. But, interestingly, the messages seem to be coming from nowhere known. However, it’s all beginning to affect their marriage greatly.

On the phone, the Inspector comes calling, and Eurydice asks Heurtebise to answer the phone. He does so, and soon after, we see the phone float into place, as if placed there by a ghost. That’s confirmed as Heurtebise phases to the outside from nothing, where he meets Orpheus and informs him of the message. The two decide to head to the Inspector in his car, rather than the mysterious talking car.

While Orpheus goes through town, looking for the Princess rather than the Inspector, there’s something that I wanted to mention here. Call it an interpretation. Apparently, Heurtebise is often considered an angel by critics and interpreters. However, I’m gonna suggest that he’s actually supposed to be a representation of Hermes, the messenger god and a psychopomp who escorted souls to the Underworld. Not sure about the Princess yet, but Cocteau apparently never meant for her to be portrayed as actual death. Interesting.

Meanwhile, at the Inspector’s office, both Aglaonice and Orpheus’ poet friends (supposedly) are accusing Orpheus of being involved in Jacques’ disappearance. The Inspector turns them away, just as Heurtebise and Orpheus reconvene in town. While Orpheus didn’t find the Princess, Heurtebise says that she came by, saying that he could stay with the married couple for now.

Speaking of the Princess, we see her at night, staring over Orpheus. And her eyes are...strange. They seem artificial, and it bothers the EVER-LOVING SHIT out of me. And the whole affair isn’t helping Eurydice either, as she’s tired of Orpheus’ obsession with the car, and is planning on going to Aglaonice for advice. Heurtebise tries to stop her from doing so, but she insists. But when she goes...the motorcyclists come for her. And she’s dead. As proven when the Princess arrives through the mirror.

Alongside her comes Jacques, acting as the Princess’ servant. She notes to him that their work isn’t easy, and couldn’t be done if she were dressed in the way the humans portray her. So, she is seemingly Death, or at least an aspect of Death. Obviously, as we’re talking about the Greek story, we can assume that she’s meant to be Hades in particular. But, we’ll see. It’s also confirmed, by the way, that the mysterious messages are indeed Jacques’ poetry, recited by him on the radio waves from beyond the grave. Neat.

Heurtebise is clearly upset with what’s just happened to Eurydice. He asks if the Princess actually had orders to kill Eurydice. She avoids the question, and guesses correctly that Heurtebise has fallen in love with Eurydice. He confirms this, and counters with the fact that the Princess has seemingly fallen in love with ORPHEUS. The plot fucking THICKENS.

Good place to pause, I think. Halfway mark and all. See you in Part Two!

[noonachronicles]

Everlong Pt. 1

Kwon Jiyong/ G Dragon X Reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Mildly vulgar language.  

Genre: Hades/Jiyong. Greek God AU. Fantasy. 

A/N: Not really sure I have anything I want to say. I hope everyone enjoys reading this as much as I’ve been enjoying writing it. It’s something I’ve been working on for a really long time and I'm ecstatic it’s ready for sharing! 

Moodboard by Bae @memoiresofaneternaldreamer

A gold plated Lamborghini whipped around the city corner doing about eighty miles an hour, at least. It’s driver clearly showing no concern for life or death, or for repercussion in any sense of the word. Every head that lined the street turned towards the vehicle with interest. Either from the eye catching car itself, the reckless way in which it was being driven, or the resounding bass from the music that blared from its sound system and echoed down the streets it traveled. The vehicle and its occupant desired attention and that’s exactly what they received.

The car broke suddenly from the street and pulled to a stop against the curb in front of an expensive hotel. Many heads turned back to their own business, but others remained fixated on the car, waiting to see the person exiting the vehicle. Clearly some kind of god in his own right. They had to know who he was.

The switchblade door lifted upward and the driver finally revealed himself. He was striking. His hair was slicked back, showing off not only his smooth undercut but every glorious angle of his face. His cheeks, his jaw, even his chin were sharp, angular, to be admired. While a man on the sidewalk admired the car as he walked passed the woman beside him stared unapologetically at its driver. 

The blazer he put his arms through after exiting the vehicle was a sleek, clean black. The shirt beneath popped against it, a bright cherry red. His sunglasses sat low on his nose, showing off his naturally shaped eyebrows. The kind of eyebrows women spent hours trying to shape their own into.  His pink lips were lax, resting in an unimpressed line. He ducked back into the car for just a moment, popping out again with a leather bound notebook in his hand. He shut the door and pressed a button on the FOB in his pocket, setting the alarm.

The doorman from the hotel stepped towards him, already looking nervous, “Sir. Excuse me, sir. You can’t park here.”

The man lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head, narrowing his eyes at the doorman, “Can’t I?”

“Errm…” the doorman hesitated. He couldn’t figure it out. This was just a man in a nice suit with a fancy car, he’d seen plenty in his time working here. However, there was something about this specific man that was making him shake with fear. As if he knew, inherently, that the man was not to be vexed without major consequence. “I-I s-suppose you can.”

“Lovely.” the man grinned before pulling his glasses back down his face.  

Though he may have had a general look of anger about him, he wasn’t exactly, he just wasn’t fond of a lot of mortals. They were interesting enough as subjects to observe every once in awhile. Which was why if he was especially bored he would pop over from the underworld for a bit, just to watch them. Just for a change of pace. An escape from the humdrum of his day to day. There was an enjoyment he took in learning about them, the strange things that they often did, and the reasons behind it. Trying his best to understand them. None of them he’d found, in millenniums he’d been doing this however, were ever very likable. At least that would remain true until you showed up.

Actually, from the moment he saw you there was something brewing inside of him. As much as he tried to deny it. He’d call it something even more than lust. It wasn’t completely unfamiliar, just something he hadn't felt flow through him for a very long time, not since the first time he’d seen Persephone in the meadow. That fact alone kept him wary of you, considering how things had turned out with her.

Stepping onto the curb that particular day, the day you two met, it was your scent that caught his interest first. A mixture of florals and spice that assaulted his senses the second he’d gotten out of his car. He didn’t even know it was a person that had caught his interest so intensely. It had been his assumption that there was a mixture of aromas, maybe a rooftop garden over a bazaar. Sweet like cherry blossoms with the heat of cayenne pepper. Honestly, he had thought he was just hungry. Having hit peak curiosity, his nose took the lead and he followed the smell around the corner and down the street. He didn’t even bother to look up at the sign above the door before pulling it open. He was surprised to suddenly find himself in a quiet bakery.

The most activity in the building was a study group, six students surrounding a large wooden table covered in papers, books, and laptops. They were buzzing with conversation. Other than that there was a couple at a small table in the corner. Although the way they focused more on their phones than each other left the nature of their relationship vague. For a moment he’d even been distracted by them, wanting to watch them to know how their time together unfolded. There was also a man reading a book near the window, though he was very dull in appearance.

And then there was you.

White blouse tucked into a pair of black ripped jeans, and a black apron tied around your waist, that was covered in some unidentifiable stains. Hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, which swayed across your back as you wiped down tables. Your sleeves were rolled up to your elbows, showing off the tattoo that covered your forearm completely. Bright blues and reds, purples and greens, different types of flowers that wrapped around your arm like a vine. He wondered how far up it went and then quickly shook the thought from his head.

He focused in on you. Your posture, your actions, and subtle facial movements. He grinned as he realized you were talking to yourself. Upset by an argument with your manager earlier, and being ditched by your boyfriend once again had you feeling irritable and left you mumbling to yourself. Mostly it was just the arguments you’d thought to say to your boss hours after the fact, per usual.

You hadn’t even noticed that he’d walked in yet so you continued on with your cleaning, before walking back around the coffee bar. He followed you, quietly standing in front of the counter. He placed his notebook down on the polished wood and then his hands gently on top of the worn leather.  His dark brown eyes stayed focused on the crown of your head as you wiped down the shelving below.

“I don’t even need this job, you’re just ruining everything about it that I loved. I’ll just get another bullshit job somewhere else doing some entry level bullshit for a bullshit wage until I can afford my own place and not have to deal with your incompetence anymore which we both know is the real issue at hand and always has been.” You let out a frustrated growl and continued on your rant. “Fucking humans. Worthless, no good, waste of…”

He cleared his throat in an effort to get your attention, unable to remove the small curl at the end of his mouth. “Are you still open or…?”

You popped up from behind the counter, wide eyed with a slight blush on your cheeks. “Hi! Yes. I’m so sorry, I didn’t notice you come in. We’re absolutely open, give me just a moment.”

You turned to the small sink behind you to wash your hands. He had been taken aback by your eyes, left practically breathless. The soul that lingered behind them, he knew that soul, even if he wasn’t sure how. Somehow he knew you and it made his heart flutter in his chest, his brain raced to figure out who you could be.

“Oh good, I was really craving a coffee.” He said slowly, hoping to hide the way his eyes had lingered on you a bit too long.

He watched your reflection through the framed photograph on the wall in front of you as you rolled those beautiful eyes. He was thankful for his impeccable hearing, although he had to keep himself from laughing, as you muttered under your breath, what else would you be here for?

When you turned back to him the smile had returned to your face. “Welcome to Olympus and what can I get for you today?”

An intake of breath so quick and severe left him choking out in surprise. His sunglasses flew from the top of his head in the jolt and he quickly grabbed them before they clattered against the counter. You raised a curious eyebrow at the outburst. Catching his breath once more he looked back up at you, “W-what did you say?”

“Uh, welcome to Olympus...what can I get for you?” you repeated your usual introduction.

“Olympus?” he asked.

“The name...of the bakery you walked into.” you pointed up to the sign hanging from the wall behind you.

It did say it, right there on the black background, in a metallic gold font. Olympus Bakery. It was printed in the kind of typography that was typical of greek themed businesses. He looked around the building again, this time taking in the little details he’d missed out on the first time. The walls were painted in an ombre, blue at the bottom blending lighter and lighter until it was a white at the top giving it the aesthetic of a cloudy sky without any of the usual, cheesy sponged on clouds. Column style pedestals lined the walls every six feet or so holding knockoff, antique greek vases. In between each of the columns a portrait was hung of one of the major olympians. 

You watched him as he silently walked over to the nearest portrait. It was of Zeus, standing tall and proud at the top of Mount Olympus. His wavy hair flowing behind him to indicate some invisible gust of wind. Anger showing on his face as he clutched a lightning bolt in his fist, ready to hurl the electric lance down upon his enemy.

Your new guest rolled his eyes and made his final judgement with a scoff before turning around and muttering, “Prick.”  

“I’m sorry, was there something I could get for you?” you tried one more time.

He looked back up at you, almost as if he was surprised you were still there, “Oh, right. What do you have here?”

“I- um,” you pointed to the menu again weakly and then sighed in defeat. The attitude typical of many of the customers you recieved. “Cakes and cookies, Sweet breads, regular bread. Bakery…stuff.”

“Specifically?” he asked, amused at your attempt to keep your cool. The look in your eyes was that of someone completely exasperated and annoyed. “I’m so sorry, have I bothered you? I just assumed, I guess, that as someone who works here you would have a genuine interest in the items you sold.”

You couldn’t stop your sneer, “I do.”

“Then what’s the problem? Is it too much to ask what you offer? If it is, why don’t you just try to tell me about one of them? Which of these treats is your favorite?” he asked peering into the display case curiously.

“Everything here is delicious.” you glared at him for a second, unsure why he was messing with you, and then turned to the case. “The cupcake over here, that’s called the Lightning Bolt, for Zeus. It’s a white cake with lemon curd filling and a vanilla, lemon zest buttercream frosting. The muffin here, is Demeter, it’s like a… breakfast muffin. The healthiest thing we offer if you’re into that. It’s just like flax seeds, chia seeds, lots of seeds, some berries and nuts. It’s not bad...just not a favorite.”

He didn’t once look at the case as you spoke about the items, but you didn’t notice. He was too busy watching the way your eyes lit up while you talked about each treat and the combination of flavors they offered. This was clearly your passion, but everything else was taking you away from the joy it gave you. Each treat was named for a god or was a play off of what they ruled over, he couldn’t lie, it was pretty clever. Kitschy but still cute. He wondered if it was something you had come up with yourself.    

“...the bundt cake is based on a rum cake recipe,” you were saying as he focused back on your words, “except instead of rum the glaze is made with a red wine reduction, it’s the...”

“Dionysus,” he chuckled, you grinned down at the cake in silent confirmation, “It would be”.

“Big fan of the greek mythos?” you asked finally looking back up at him.

“I don’t know if fan is the right word. I’m knowledgeable on the subject.” he shrugged, “Nothing for Hades then?”

You made a face as you eyed the back of the case, after a second your eyebrows perked, “The ramekin at the bottom. We’re usually out of that one by now. It’s a lava cake.”

He looked down and saw the lone ceramic bowl with the chocolate cake baked inside, “A lava cake? That’s the best you could come up with? Because of course the underworld is all hellfire and brimstone...”

“Hey!” you said clearly offended, “It’s my recipe and it’s really good. And it’s not named for the underworld, it’s made for the actual god. Hades just seems like he’d have a little more bite than the others. So it’s a Mexican chocolate cake, it’s got a little snap from the cinnamon and the chilies.” 

“I’ll take it. Give me that last one.” he said definitively.

“Anything else?” you asked before ducking behind the case and reaching for the last of the Hades cakes. He watched your every move like a curious cat. “We have coffee too. Regular brewed, cold brew, espresso drinks...”

“Ten shots of espresso, please.” he said suddenly.

“...with?”

“That’s it.” He watched your face, completely amused, as you went from professional smile to pure disgust.

“Ew.” You couldn’t help yourself.

“Ew?” He smirked. “Do you always react so kindly to people’s drink orders?”

“If you’d ordered a drink perhaps my reaction would have been more kind.” You smiled once more with your clearly ingenuine smirk reserved for customers. “But I’ll get you your espresso shots. Would you like that for here or to go?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Between here and to go?” You asked furrowing your brow. “Here means you’re drinking it here, to go means…”

“I mean what changes about my drink. I know what it means to stay or to leave. Do I look stupid to you?” He asked, but not without some amusement so you knew he was still being quite playful.

“To go, you get this recycled materials paper cup. For here, a fancy white cappuccino cup that should be big enough to fit your ridiculous amount of espresso.” You motioned to the stack of cleaned cups next to the machine.

“And a conversation with you?” He asked.

“A what?”

He let loose a small laugh at your reaction. “If I stay here, will you talk with me awhile?”

“Well… okay.” You agreed, “I would kind of enjoy the chance to see you attempt this drink, and someone should be nearby when your heart attack inevitably comes.”

“Then I’ll take that for here.” He said pulling out a stool that ran along the counter.

“And what’s your name?” You asked before tucking your lip beneath your teeth and grabbing a porcelain cup. He grinned arrogantly and you felt the need to clarify. “For the order…”

“Of course. You can call me,” Hades thought for a moment about which pseudonym he would be using this time before responding, “Jiyong.”

[for-bucks-sake]

Low Hundreds.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes. Word count: 3.5K. Warnings: Fluff! All the fluff! And also smut. Summary: This year, Captain America will not be celebrating his birthday with America, or in America. But with his boyfriend. Far, far away. A/N: I am beyond fashionably late, but that idea started to form solidly literally two days ago. I’m so soft for vacation!Stucky. And Greece is really cool. I think the boys would appreciate its old fashioned vibe, (although I haven’t been there a good couple of tears, so I might get something wrong.) HAPPY BIRTHDAY CAP! Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoy! Btw, requests are open! 

Gif’s not mine.

They flew out of the states yesterday. Leaving New York behind for the sake of a place that was the embodiment of peace and quiet, providing them with complete anonymity.

Waves of sand collided with real waves, cerulean blue met gold as they reached the shore, looking at the beautiful act of nature.

Bucky glanced at Steve, smiling, putting his bag down conspiratorially, “last one to get to the water is a little bitch!” He shouted, speeding up a little too fast for it to look natural, hands all but tearing his navy t-shirt off.

No one could see them there, and Bucky didn’t know if it was for the fact they were completely alone, or just the reassuring presence of Steve next to him, but for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.

“Guess you can call yourself a bitch now.” Steve had a shit eating grin on his face, making Bucky literally eat sand as he ran past him so swiftly on the soft, grainy ground, it came flying backwards. Right into Bucky’s face.

“Fuckin-“

The loud splash of a body hitting water told him the competition was over. Bucky found he didn’t care much as he watched Steve’s perfect form swimming quickly, receding from the shore on to the bottomless blue.

He too entered the welcoming ocean, skin shivering at the new sensation of cool wetness and warm breeze, chasing deeper right into the arms of a welcoming lover.

“Punk.” Bucky muttered as Steve pulled him closer, easily finding his waist through the clear waters.

“And what about it?” Steve smirked, leaning in for a kiss. He brushed Bucky’s full lips with his. Bucky tried to nudge his head closer, but before he could, Steve pushed his full weight on top of him, forcing them both to sink back into the sea.

Steve could see Bucky’s wide eyes when he realized what had happened, a determined look replaced the tenderness in them as he moved hastily, using his metal arm to work through every law of physics as he forced the water out of his way, chasing Steve yet again while the latter tried to get away as fast as possible. This time he was short handed;

Bucky caught one of Steve’s legs, jerking him back forcibly so he could grab his waist. Air didn’t seem to run out even then; calloused palms met rock hard stomach, legs working overtime to keep them afloat, bubbles that could be hot breaths surrounded them, nothing was heard but that muted silence you could only find underwater.

Steve buried his hands in Bucky’s floating hair, closing the left distance between them and connecting their mouths. He could taste the salt on his lips, water infiltrating their kiss when Steve adjusted his palm and brought it to cup the stubbled jaw. Bucky squeezed his waist softly, tongue slowly licking its way deeper into Steve’s mouth, meeting his in a stinging briny mix.

They left early, successfully avoiding any troubles that may be caused by the Forth of July rush. Steve was reluctant to agree, anxious as always for the fate of the world, only backing down after weeks of creative persuasion; if it wasn’t for the years Bucky spent perfecting a stubbornness that only matched Steve’s - they would still be in Brooklyn right now. A break was well deserved, and they accrued enough vacation days for nine lifetimes, anyway.

Bucky pushed them up in a single swift motion, lips still connected as they moved above waters like a single body instead of two, the change in scenario embracing them with a hit of a fresh breeze, sounds that only echoed through under, were now ringing pleasantly in their ears.

The subtle shift of the waves on top of each other created an impossibly calming rhythm, their strong bodies giving in to the ripples and letting the ocean guide their movements, happily complying as they drifted closer to each other.

Steve moved away and gasped for oxygen, inhaling a lungful of clear air only to sink down again, emerging a moment later a few meters away from Bucky, almost as if he couldn’t leave him alone for too long. He shook his head, letting the new acquired droplets fall from his bright hair down to his angled face, the small drops parting from his skin when they met his clean shaven chin, falling back to their source.

It was as if some divine entity decided to interfere, making Steve stop at the exact spot and the Sun to appear just behind him, lengthening its rays far enough to reach and shower his body with a yellow, afternoon light, illuminating him golden.

He looked overwhelmingly beautiful, untouchable, even.

Wet strands of his hair desperately tried to hung off his forehead, only few succeeding, lips scarlet from kissing and salt, so aesthetically pleasing over the background of his perfect skin, resembling blood stained white silk.

His cerulean eyes stared back, actively stealing all the color from the water, soaking it in to make his eyes even bluer, as if he needed that.

Bucky forgot how to breathe. And not as a cliche everybody says. He genuinely forgot how. Maybe everyone thinks they can’t breathe anymore, but he was the only one to actually witness Steve Rogers looking like that.

Steve’s lips were slightly parted, staring at him in awe, the left corner of his mouth curved into half a smile.

Bucky licked his lips and exhaled as he rediscovered the ability to breathe, flashing a toothy grin when Steve swam his way to him, closing the distance one last time and not looking away from his eyes.

His hair reached his shoulders, less dark somehow as he grew it longer. Steve couldn’t tear his gaze from the couple of skies that settled inside Bucky’s orbs, looking stunningly alike the origin above them.

And water drops on metal, he soon found out, looked exactly like stars when the sun hit them.

Steve approached the sky full of stars in front of him, getting painfully close without touching. There will be a lot of touching, later. For now, he was content with just watching.

As Bucky inhaled, Steve exhaled. They worked like a well oiled machine, doing nothing but drinking in each other’s appearance, absorbing where they were and what they did, living the proximity they were so comfortable staying in, forever.

-

Summer days were longer, but still so short. Whether they were spent by the beach, on the local market, or just in bed - everyday, the colors outside seemed to soften before they could notice;  Neon yellow surrendering its place for the sake of low oranges and pinks that in time, were slowly fading away as well, replaced by midnight blue.

In those moments Bucky didn’t miss home. He didn’t miss seeing the national flag everywhere, he didn’t miss tensing every time a loud noise would go off, he didn’t miss the stares that followed him wherever he went, he didn’t miss America.

All he wanted was to stay here, in that little piece of heaven they somehow managed to find, keep it close to their chests and never let go.

Maybe never was a big word, but so was love. -

Greece was kind to them, for sure. Peaceful as always, even on the night of the Third.

After a long day inside their private ocean they decide to walk around for a while, showing off their impressive tan lines and sun kissed cheeks.

“Let’s enjoy the last night before you turn a hundred and…something years old!” Bucky announced with honest to god enthusiasm.

They missed more birthdays than they could count, so they simply stopped counting. Age was meaningless to them and time could never catch up. They were beyond time.

Always have been, when you think about it.

They strolled around the local businesses spread around a nice area, also near a beach; there was a beautiful stand of homemade jewelry, mostly colorful beads made of wood that decorated thin threads. Near that there was an actual store full of shabby manakin torsos, dressed in all kinds of graphic t-shirts.

In a fluent Greek and a perfect accent that both surprised and didn’t surprise Steve, Bucky purchased him a cheap looking tank top with a cheerful logo on it that ironically said, “Captain Greece.”

“You are…” Steve began, nostrils flared as he smiled and shook his head,

“Spoiling my boyfriend for his birthday? You’re damn right.” Bucky nudged his shoulder and continued walking, pulling at Steve’s hand that was intertwined with his.

They walked past a boutique that was filled with fake designer bags, and about three sunglasses stands covered with SALE signs written in English before Bucky decided it’s a sophisticated scheme to make him want to buy shades he didn’t need.

He ended up buying three pairs. Immediately pairing up Steve with ones that had a plastic frame covered with the American flag.

“You realize that joke is getting old, right?” Steve snarked, adjusting his new glasses on the top of his head.

“Not nearly as old as you, pal.”

“Are you hungry? I’m starving, that thing over there smells delicious!”

“Don’t ignore my awesome bur - that actually does smell good, c’mon.”

-

Ethnic street food is amazing and cheeseburgers suck, they decided then (well, maybe they don’t suck, but they’re nothing compared to the festival of flavors their tastebuds experienced). As they were snacking on what was left of their greek dessert filled with rich cheese and sweet syrup, Bucky glanced at his watch only to realized it was nearly midnight. They had to return to the small cabin they rented before the clock hit twelve. Deep inside he knew, that hour had no real meaning, but it was a principle. He will celebrate Steve the birthday he deserves, even if it’s just the two of them. Especially when it’s just the two of them.

“C’mon old man, hurry up now, we need to get to our place as soon as possible.” Bucky hurried him, half jokingly but mostly not.

Steve licked his fingers from the sugar and butter that coated the tips, muttering a tired “yeah, yeah’, but moving faster nevertheless, matching his pace to Bucky’s.

They approach the place they grew more and more comfortable with everyday, Bucky reached for his pocket and drew out a single key, shoving it into its place and opening the door with a creak.

“Stay here, baby. I’ve got somethin’ for you.” Bucky ordered Steve to stay in the small living room space, disappearing inside the single bedroom they shared.

“Oh, so I’m baby now?” Steve cocked an eyebrow just before Bucky turned around, “seriously though, Buck, we said no presents, please! This vacation is more than enough, I swear t-“

“Hey Stevie? Shut up.” Bucky shouted from the room, the amusement evident in his voice, “you’re gonna like it. Promise.”

After low rustles and a soft thud, Bucky was near him again, hands behind his back and a face decorated with an undeniable giddiness.

They waited in silence for the hands behind the glass to collide, Bucky refusing to do anything but glare murderously at the clock, urging it to move just a bit more to the right. The enthusiasm of a child took over when it happened, it was finally midnight and the date subsequently changed. Bucky shifted his arms, bringing the neatly wrapped present from behind his back, placing it in front of Steve, who was sporting a small pout and shiny eyes when he saw its size -

Never really getting over the complex of hating to be given anything but being too excited to refuse it. It reminded Bucky of old times, when neither of them could even dream about what they had now. Birthday gifts were a luxury, something they could rarely afford, even once a year. He wanted to give Steve the world he deserved ever since he met him. Now he actually could. Out of all the things about the future, that - he will never forget.

Steve sat cross legged on the sofa, stance as straight as always, almost like he waited for permission to open the thing.

Bucky was flustered just the slightest, still standing up, now stepping near Steve and looking at him expectedly.

“Happy birthday, Stevie.” He said hoarsely, a sign of upcoming tears he tried his hardest to fight.

Steve looked up to the towering frame above him, after so many years he could recognize every single crack and hitch in Bucky’s voice.

“C’mere.” Steve grabbed the back of his thigh, pulling him over to his lap.

Bucky gladly complied, once adjusted on the comfiest sit in the world, he grabbed Steve’s face, attaching their lips.

“It’s so much.” Steve whispered, unwrapping with that neat politeness his mother thought him.

“Nothin’ is too much for you.” Bucky whispered back, squeezing Steve’s bicep reassuringly.

Steve placed the large box on Bucky’s lap, caressing his thighs with every movement he made, lingering his touch when he removed the wrapping paper from the bottom of it.

Bucky huffed but didn’t say anything, the knots inside his stomach stretching out and restraining him from speaking. Anticipation overcoming his primal instinct to tease Steve back.

Steve’s breath hitched when he opened the simple box. He could feel that lump of air stuck in the middle of his throat, unable to move up or down, shocked just as he was because he knew exactly what these were.

He stared at the leather journals for so long Bucky thought he did something wrong. And when Bucky got nervous, he started talking.

“I thought…well, I thought I should try and get them back.” He scratched the back of his head, “didn’t even read ‘em again. Didn’t want to because I was afraid I’d read something there that would make me regret givin’ them to you.”

The pain in Bucky’s voice must’ve woken up Steve from his trance. He picked the first notebook from the top of the stash. Opening a random marked page slowly, only to meet his own face looking at him back. Just like all those years ago.

“You’re probably not gonna like most of what you read in there. But there are some good memories, too. It’s mostly a mess and there are too many and I’m pretty sure there are solid three pages of me rambling about your eyes but, it’s me.” He took a deep breath, “it’s another part of me whether I like it or not. And I want you to know it.”

“Is it double sided?” Steve spoke after a long moment.

“What?”

“The pages about my eyes. Are they double sided?”

Bucky begrudgingly lost the battle against his tears. Barking in relief as his whole body started to shake. 

Steve laid down the journal to his right and wrapped his arms around the man on his lap.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I love it. It’s the most beautiful gift I was ever given. Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you.” He held him firmly, not quite knowing what to do but to stay like they were.

“It’s not everything.” Bucky snuffled and raised his head from Steve’s neck. It wasn’t stained with tears, and somehow, it was worse, “there’s more.”

“Oh god, Buck. You really shouldn’t ha-“

“It’s at the bottom of the box.” Bucky shuffled closer, as to watch even closely Steve does open it.

He looked under the three additional journals that were inside, all completely identical, and found a cardboard box. Way smaller, and long. Like one you’d put jewelry in it.

“Buck…”

“Go ahead.”

Steve opened the cover gently, looking at another fragment from his past. Their past.

“I thought they were at the museum! How did you get them?”

“Turn it over.” Bucky smiled sadly.

“Holy shit.”

“The museum had a replica, I think. A fake. These are our real tags. And they’re yours. Oh and, open them.”

Somehow, Bucky had their dog tags connected together and the edges, what ultimately had turned them into a locket.

Steve unlocked it carefully, revealing a picture of the two of them. It was taken recently, for sure. Bucky’s hair was long like it was now, and he was smiling wide. His own face was beardless, also twisted with a smile. The breathtaking landscape of Wakanda was in display behind them, arms wrapped around each other’s waists.

“I thought, with all the things from the past, you could use something from now.”

“Does that make me your girl now, serge?” Steve smirked and closed the necklace, putting it on, the hint of tears in his eyes as well.

“I sure hope not,” Bucky grinned mischievously, hoisting himself up from Steve’s lap and kneeling between his legs, “‘cause then I wouldn’t be able to suck your dick.”

Steve swallowed, intensely watching Bucky unzipping his pants and pulling them down along with his boxers, revealing his already hardening cock. He wrapped his left hand around the base, and Steve, responsive as always, twitched at the new sensation, breath rugged as he was stroked, slowly. 

Steve eyes shot open when he felt Bucky’s tongue on his tip, joining his hand on working him wet and filthy. He groaned and leaned back, trying to get more of himself into Bucky’s mouth.

“Relax, baby. I’m gonna make you feel good.”

Steve didn’t question it for a second, relaxing his shoulders but then tensing up again as Bucky licked the side of his cock, down from his balls and up to his tip again - tracing strips of spit all over Steve’s impressive length.

“Shit, Bucky.” He moaned, hands trailing down to the brunet’s hair and weaving through it, slightly pushing him forward.

Bucky was always a tease, even today he couldn’t help it. But he got the hint, lovingly kissing Steve’s underside and fitting half of him inside his mouth.

He started to work on Steve’s cock, up and down, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin. The wet sounds his mouth created in sync with his movements made everything feel even dirtier.

“Just like that Buck, yeah, just like that.” Steve sighed with pleasure, pushing Bucky’s head a little bit farther up. His cock hitting the back of Bucky’s throat.

Bucky hollowed his cheeks, staying completely still beside swallowing, creating the vacuum sensation he knew Steve loved, drawing salty precum from him.

Steve let a delicious, desperate sound as Bucky released the cock from his mouth with a loud pop, grazing his teeth on a particular thick, visible vain on the way out.

“Fuck, Bucky.” His moans went straight to Bucky’s own hardening cock, getting rather uncomfortable trapped inside his jeans. He gripped at Steve’s strong thigh with his right palm and massaged the inner part, composing himself.

Steve grunts were getting louder. He clutched the couch and inhaled sharply; Bucky’s mouth never seizing to work wonders on him, and he was close, he was so close.

He moved his bare foot to caress Bucky through his trousers, giving him at least some of the relief he knew he needed.

Bucky hummed on his cock, exhaling a rugged hot breath from deep inside his throat, and Steve was done for.

He came with a string of curses, a mouth as dirty as a soldier’s, shooting load after load of warm cum into Bucky’s willing mouth.

Even then he didn’t stop sucking. Still working on milking the birthday boy out of every drop and every whine he had. Only to ruin him all the same minutes later.

“My ears,” Steve breathed heavily, chuckling at Bucky’s stained beard, “are fucking ringing.”

At least it’s not from fireworks. Bucky thought.

“Oh, you think we’re done yet?” He cocked an eyebrow, shoving that thought far away and taking off his clothes quicker than Steve could blink. His shirt was off by the next second as well - leaving them both completely naked, raw.

-

“Mornin’ birthday boy.” Bucky hummed, covering every inch of his face with kisses, gradually leaving a trail of sloppy pecks down his neck, and collarbone. He was about to get even farther under the blanket before Steve stopped him.

His eyes blindingly bright, one long finger tilted his chin up.

“Am I going to get another one of your famous blowjobs?”

Bucky smirked, “oh, so they’re famous now. Why? Who told you about them?”

“I dunno. About ten, twenty guys.”

“Now that’s a relief!” Bucky let out a loud phew, “‘cause I stopped counting at the low hundreds.”

Steve shoved his shoulder, then guided him back up to capture his lips in a kiss, “you’re a jerk, you know that?”

Bucky nodded in agreement, laughing into Steve’s mouth.

[12miraenie]

Against

🎃Pairing: Taehyung x Reader 

🎃Genre: Fluff in the end, Vampire Tae, Witch Reader 

🎃Word Count: 3k

🎃Summary: After the countless times you’ve saved Taehyung from a crisis, you begin to think that maybe there is more to the supposedly most powerful vampire who somehow stumbles on you every time he’s in trouble. 

A/N: Requested by the lovely @ktholy , part of the Month of Supernatural.  

🎃 Link to Masterlist

🎃Request here

Taehyung spat out some more blood and continued his coughing spree.

“The sun needs to, what you mortals say, to ‘fuck off.’”

Even though the curtain was drawn closed, rays of sunlight seamed through the infinitesimal gaps between the heavy fabric so that the room does not exactly replicate a rectangular box of darkness, Taehyung glowed. To you, there’s no difference if the curtain is drawn or not, your shop itself is dingy at most, since the sun is blocked by those skyscrapers in the front street. It did have a significant, not to say fascinating, effect on Taehyung. His skin looked instantly pinker, and healthier, his cheeks had more color, and those visible scratches and wounds on his body seemed to be closing in faster. You have to admit, you stared at him for quite a while before he opened his eyes, reddened with small veins, but not his pupil. The blood-like redness was gone, replaced by a deep shade of brown, except for the almost iridescent green color in half of his iris. Although by the lit candles it popped out even more than the brown.

It’s not every day for you to do something like this. Helping another species in a life and death situation is not something you imagined your morning activity would be. You even consider twice before letting humans into your shop to heal them, but now you are here pouring the best of your herbs and potions on to a vampire. The species that killed so many of your kind. A vague memory hit you, the scenes played out in your head like frames of a vintage roll of film in an old handheld film recorder. Everything was under a white, near transparent veil. You can see the colors clearly, but not the faces. It was someone lying on a bed, clutching onto your arms. The small version of you can barely reach the height of the high chair next to the bed, but the strength you were holding to the person’s hand was surprisingly big. Whispers flowed into your senses like breezes of wind, the tone identifiable. It was your mother who stood next to the bed holding a tray with a single glass of something in a dreadful yellow-brown color.

“There’s nothing we can do. You have to let go.”

Your small body screamed in protest, but the hand that was intertwined with yours tightened around your knuckles, you looked up with a tear-stained face to see your grandfather smiling at you reassuringly. He nodded weakly and signaled you that it’s ok to let go. As if all strength was taken away, you suddenly struggled to stand. Someone held onto your shoulders gently and led you away as you fought to keep your eyes open. Turning around you cast one last good look at your grandfather, trying not to focus on the redness visible through the gauze on his stomach. A stray tear escaped the corner of your eyes before the last bit of consciousness was consumed by complete darkness.

“Ouch! What the fuck-” Taehyung didn’t let the rest of his colorful vocabulary spill out of his mouth. He was lying on his back enjoying the slightly itchy but comfortable feeling of his flesh healing from the wounds, and due to a weird blue potion you forced him to drink he felt more lighthearted and relaxed than ever. Not one piece of his muscles were tense until a drop of hot candlewax scorched the side of his neck, where his skin is most sensitive, and where he wants your lips on, not this hot piece of wax that caused him to hiss. He jumped up in bed and opened his eyes to see the candle in your hand was in a tilted angle, where some liquid wax was still hanging dangerously on the top. You, however, looked not a bit aware of the whole situation.

Though not dilated, your pupils were entirely unfocused. Taehyung can see the reflection of light in your eyes, he can hear your irregularly fast breathing and every thump of your heart. Your expression though, was what drew him in. Taehyung couldn’t see through the glassy layer of what’s over your eyes, to others you may just look like someone focusing on one spot of the room. You stood like a statue, as if time has stopped and you are forever frozen at that moment. For once Taehyun didn’t know what to make of you, his heightened senses did nothing to help him detect your feelings and emotions at the moment.

Brimming tears left your eyes the moment you realized you were lost in the vortex of the moment again. It seems to happen more and more often as Samhain awaits at the corner. The spirits never go away, especially your loved ones like your grandfather. Devoted, you believed strongly that you can feel his presence getting stronger as the veil between the living world and afterlife is thinning. Over and over again in the past week, you have waken up crying without an idea why you were sad.

“It seemed that in your absentmindedness-Ah!“  Taehyung jumped out of bed, his movement made you drop the candle to the ground. It broke into two in the middle, the burnt smell of candlewax spiraled up into your nostrils. You scrunched your nose at stared at Taehyung accusingly, “Why did you do-” You stop yourself in midsentence because Taehyung’s right shoulder blade and the side of his neck were decorated by blotches of brunt marks, he was busy getting rid of a piece of wax on his reddened skin, but it was stuck. You widened your eyes, realizing that the wax from the candlestick must have spilled onto his body, and by the sharp hiss he is making, the damage was pretty big.

“Oh god. Taehyung, I am so sorry-” You tear off the remaining piece of wax and threw it away, “Good that you heal fast.” You bend down to pick up the candlestick now in two pieces and put it on the table.

Taehyung looked like he was about to die. His eyebrows are furrowed together, his teeth bit into his lower lips hard enough that you can see whiteness. One hand is covering the burnt areas, and the other hand was balled into a fist. It created an illusion that a small burn did bigger damage than the wolf bite you saw on the side of his ribcage this morning.

“Calm down, Kim. You’ll make people question why you are the most powerful vampire in this area.” You brought a hand up to light another candle and turned around Taehyung was right in front of you. Because of his height, Taehyung blocked almost all the light in the room, half of his features are hidden in the shadows, the other half is illuminated by soft light. The blond mop of hair sat softly on his head, a few messy strands covered his forehead. He looked soft, if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t have imagined that he is the leader of one of the oldest vampire clans in the world. His iridescent eyes are locked into yours, making you see clearly the things that swirled in them. Magnets don’t have that kind of attractive force, but somehow once you stared at him, you can’t move your eyes away. The next second Taehyung trapped you between his body and the long table, his hands clutched securely on the wooden surface, bare inches from the sides of your body. A muscle on your face twitched when he suddenly leaned in, bringing the smell of oud and roses to your nostrils. The parietal lobe in your brain already sent a red flag to yourself, he is too close for comfort. But even you don’t notice how your senses slowed down, and your blood started flowing slower, the only thing going against the flow is your heart, which is currently pumping loudly against your ribcage.

Taehyung definitely hears that, he looks way too satisfied by the slightly dazed look on your face and the tint of scarlet on your cheeks. You know he loves to do stuff like this, always provoking you, always testing your bottom line, always flirting. Being a vampire has its advantages, its inherently easier for them to lure people in, not to mention for someone like Taehyung, who makes Greek gods green in envy. That’s how he’s able to get fresh blood so easily, who would reject a piece like this? But you are not just a human, and you’ve dealt with Taehyung enough times to know that everything is an act. There is not an ounce of truth in his sweet, lullaby-like words, and angelic smiles.

Frowning, you attempt to move to the side, but Taehyung catches your wrist instead and pins your hand securely to the table.

“You are too cruel, my little witch. It hurt like a bitch.” Taehyung breathed down on your neck, the last few syllables are no louder than a hushed whisper, sending a trail of goosebumps down your body. He smirked at your reaction and tucked a strand of stray hair behind your ears, “I demand compensation.”

“You are in my shop, Kim. You are a customer, with the obligation to pay.” You gritted the words out, but you can’t keep your eyes from trailing down the exposed part of his neck, where raw pink flesh impales the perfection of his skin.  You almost winced, it must hurt a lot. The wound, however, did nothing to take out his attractiveness, if you don’t look close enough, the burnt marks almost resemble hickeys.

“Fine.” You sigh out loud, three fingers reached out to hover above his neck as you mumbled a common healing spell for burns. They didn’t heal completely, but at least the redness is gone.

“There, done. Now let go.” Taehyung traced his fingers on where his wounds were, his eyes sparked when every part of skin he touched remains smooth.

“Thanks, princess. I want to have a good time with you, but unfortunately, I have to rest because of that,” Taehyung pointed to where the sun is disdainfully, “so…where is your bed?”

After some serious considerations of tying him with a silver chain and putting him in a vervain bath, you sighed and pointed to your room in the back, “Don’t mess up my closet looking for things you shouldn’t use and things I don’t have.”

Taehyung gave you a cheeky smile and threw his bloodied jacket at you, “Thanks babe.”

You want to give him the finger, but when you managed to pull his jacket off your head, he was nowhere to be seen. You scanned the room messy with empty potion bottles, bloodied bandages, and a broken mirror, “It’s gonna be a long day.”

Sometimes you wonder why don’t Taehyung just go to a healing witch for help, or kidnap one for the sake of spilling secrets because you are never trained in the art of healing, unlike your mother. Heck, you would be more useful as an alchemist than a healer. But he, along with his weird expensive, wide pants loose shirt fashion and neverending pet names, remain an unsolved puzzle after 10 years of knowing him.

                                            You contemplated if you should wake Taehyung up, but decided against it and just wrote on a piece of paper about your errand. After putting on a warm jacket and a checkered wool scarf, you grabbed the keys to the shop and ruffled the black fur of your cat who sat lazily in an armchair, “You’re his friend if he wakes up.”

Luckily there weren’t many people on the streets. The good thing about where you live is that although it’s only a few blocks from the pub and entertainment district, streets remained quiet here. Perfect location for getting resources and privacy at the same time.

It was colder than you imagined, the wind that blew past almost knocked off your cap. You found your way into the cemetery without much difficulty and walked down a few aisles to a familiar slab of marble.

Your hands came out dusty when you swiped the across the top. With a wave of your hand, the specks of dust and dirtiness were gone in a second. You sat down on the grass crosslegged and fished out a small glass jar out of your pouch.

“Hi grandpa. Sorry it’s been a long time. I know Samhain is coming, so I’ll be visiting more often. For Grandma too, I’ll go to Kyoto in two days.“

You opened the jar and put it in front, where you would normally place fresh flowers. “I brought you something. It’s more like a trick, I think. Not a really useful spell, but at least these daisies won’t ever wilt again.” With a gesture of your hand a softly muttered spell stems grew out of the jar, then daisies blossomed. You chuckled, “Father would probably scold me for not doing what I should be, but I think he will be fine with it. Plus, it saves me some budget every month.”

You sniffled, not because of the coldness and continued on. “I’m here because I have a question. And I’m confused. Today is the 5th time I saved a vampire, Grandpa. The same one, you knew him. Kim Taehyung. I vowed myself when I found out that you passed away because of his brother that I would never, ever save anyone not from our kind anymore. I stopped all training as a healer, and I shied away from gatherings because I wanted to grow stronger. I wanted to learn everything I can so that one day people I love won’t be hurt because I am unable to protect them.“

You took a deep breath. “Grandpa, why can’t I be the same toward Taehyung?”  

“He’s so arrogant and irritable sometimes, and he always leaves me trouble whenever he needs help. And I hate the pet names he calls me. But why can’t I bring myself to hate him?”

Suddenly a tree branch snapped behind your back, you scrambled to your feet and turned around in alert only to find Taehyung in a long overcoat that he left at your place one time, your cat lying on one side his shoulder lazily. Your shoulders slumped instantly as you brought your hands down, “You scared the shit out of me, Kim.” The sudden realization that he might have been here the whole time made you blurt out, “How long have you been here?”

“Enough to know why you are crying.” Somehow Taehyung’s voice sounded deeper, softer than usual. He reached you in two long strides and looked at the epitaph engraved on the marble with your grandfather’s name on it.

“I was still young when I first saw your grandfather, he was I think around 45 years old then, and I was barely 10 decades old. He really was an admirable man, bringing all the species together and solving differences. It was the largest funeral I’ve seen, literally packed with people from different places, of different species.”

“I know that, Taehyung.“

“But you don’t know why he died, right? You knew my brother killed him but never got to know why right?” Taehyung got your attention right then, you stared at him with reddened eyes, “You knew?“

Taehyung pursed his lips and kept silence for a few moments. When he spoke, he spoke carefully, like each word was selected and filtered a hundred times before coming out of his mouth. “When the council was choosing between my brother and me to be the clan leader, some of my brother’s men got into a conflict with the witches. My brother wanted your grandpa to overlook it, but he didn’t and instead reported to the council. So the council chose me, who was not even 200 years old and had no experience whatsoever as a leader. The only thing I had in common with my brother was the bloodline. My brother went overhead with rage and jealousy, and you know the rest.”  

“Oh, is that so?” The tone of your voice betrayed the calm facade you were trying to keep, your fists tightened enough to make a ball. Your knuckles turned white as you stared at Taehyung, “Then give me a reason why. Why do you come back everytime you need help? Why do you go to my shop when you need something like wet issues and scissors? Why do you act that you care?”

There seemed to be sparks in his eyes. Unknown emotions swimmed in his eyes as Taehyung took in your vulnerable moment, a side you rarely show to others. Your hands were trembling, and you were biting your lips too hard. “This is… this is somewhere I never imagined I’d be…to say what I’m about to say.”

“You are the only person that I feel safe exposing my absolute self to. You are the only person that really care about if I am hurting or not. The connection I feel with you, Y/N, is incredible. You have no idea how hard is it for me, knowing the history between us and that we are very different people. There are no ulterior motives behind my actions. I am simply in love with a girl I like.” Taehyung’s eyes were more iridescent than ever, his words sounded like facts, like the way the moon orbits the earth, and the way earth orbits the sun. And for the first time, you think that maybe the way your heart goes crazily fast is not a bad thing to have.

[rickwayneauthor]

Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912) was a Dutch-born British artist who became one of the wealthiest painters of the 19th century. A talented marketer as well as painter, he anglicized his name from Laurens to Lawrence so he could be better remembered in the English-speaking world. He also added the forename Alma so that he would appear near the top of alphabetized lists — the equivalent of calling your business AAA Plumbing in the days of the phone book, or SEO today. He also invented an innovative numbering system to make it hard for forgers to pass off fakes as his genuine work — a kind of basic copy protection.

The Vintage Festival (1870)

Although wildly popular in his time — he was knighted in 1899 — today he remains largely unknown outside the art world. Indeed, his works were almost completely ignored until the 1950s, when they found commercial use as inspiration for set design and matte painting for blockbuster movies such as Cleopatra and Ben Hur. While making The Ten Commandments, famed director Cecil B. DeMille would regularly look at prints of Alma-Tadema’s paintings, inspired by Alma-Tadema’s ability to create personal drama within a grand, wide-angle perspective. His paintings can look to us like stock images of the past because stock images were created from them by popular films.

That “wide-angle drama” that so inspired DeMille is part of Alma-Tadema’s genius. Classic depictions of important historical or religious events, such as the finding of baby Moses in the reeds, are typically full of rage and portent, where even the people depicted clearly have a sense of the future importance of their acts, and in that way, they are distant from both us and from themselves. As players of predestination, their destiny is inescapable. Indeed, most of them are doomed.

The people in Alma-Tadema’s work, however, look very much like people today, or any day. In his depiction of the discovery of Moses, for example, several of the porters conveying the queen on her caravan are clearly bored or annoyed or their attention is otherwise drawn elsewhere. Thunder doesn’t break in the background. Angels do not sing on high. There’s just a foundling in a basket — a not altogether uncommon occurrence in the old days — which some rich woman has taken a fancy to, because she can.

If this were a Renaissance painting, you would be able to draw straight lines from the eyes of all the figures which would converge on the baby Moses at the vanishing point. Here, even the women carrying the basket seem to care less about the baby than how they’re going to get him up the approaching bank.

Despite that his paintings were used in movies into the early 60s, Alma-Tadema remained gauche in the art world. His works were not exhibited and dealers, who had once paid large sums to acquire them, let them gather dust in basements. Sir Lawrence was, in a sense, a victim of his own success. Seeking to ride his coattails, marketers in the early 20th century copied his style on everything from perfume advertisements to the cover art on boxes of chocolates. Once so breathtaking, his work became associated with a vulgar commercialism. Seeking to avoid the stigma of association, collectors no longer displayed his works in their homes or galleries, and he became all but forgotten.

Unlike Van Gogh, who enjoyed no commercial success in his life but who challenged and ultimately changed the art world, Sir Lawrence’s art merely depicted culture rather than provoked it. His paintings, while technically advanced and visually stunning (especially when seen in person), did not inaugurate a new style or epoch. They merely epitomized one. And in that way, they didn’t serve the needs of the elites — critics and art historians — who are the retrospective arbiters of “good taste.”

Alma-Tadema was rediscovered and resurrected by one man, fellow millionaire marketer Alan Funt, creator of the TV show Candid Camera and one of the founders of what we now call reality TV. While browsing a private art gallery one day in 1967, Funt was approached by the dealer, who asked if he’d like to see something by “the worst artist who ever lived.” The man then produced Alma-Tadema’s “The Voice of Spring” (below), and Funt bought it on the spot for a steal.

Funt went on to collect a number of Sir Lawrence’s paintings, only to be forced to sell them in the 1970s after discovering that his accountant had embezzled $12 million. Bankrupt and facing large debts, he liquidated his art collection, but by then, interest in Alma-Tadema had revived and Funt cleared something like half a million dollars on his paintings alone — quite a lot of money in those days and orders of magnitude more than he had paid.

The painting below, for example, “The Roses of Heliogabalus,” was purchased from the painter by Sir John Aird, 1st Baronet, for £4,000. It depicts an apocryphal episode from the life of the Roman emperor Elagabalus, also known as Heliogabalus (204–222 AD), as related in the “Augustan History.” The emperor unexpectedly dropped “violets and other flowers” on his guests from a false ceiling in such quantity that some of them were smothered to death.

After the artist died in 1912, the painting was displayed publicly (for the last time until 2014). After Alma-Tadema’s reputation plummeted, the painting was sold by the 3rd Baronet in 1935 for 483 guineas. It failed to sell at auction in 1960 and was “bought in” by Christie’s for 100 guineas.

In 1973, Funt sold the painting at auction for £28,000. American collector Frederick Koch acquired it later and sold it in 1993 for £1.5 million.

Still, even with his reputation revived, Sir Lawrence is largely unknown today outside the art world. I suspect that’s because, first, Hollywood co-opted his style into a visual language that is well-known to us, which makes it no longer novel or interesting. Even though Alma-Tadema based his images on the best archeology of the time, we’ve since learned better, which further adds to their apparent quaintness.

Second, his paintings frequently depict people and scenes from the ancient world, which, while part and parcel of common education at the time — and therefore as recognizable to Sir Lawrence’s audience as, say, a painting of Eowyn and the Witch King would be to us — are nevertheless completely foreign to most people today. We can look at his paintings and recognize that these are Greeks or Romans, but there is no “a-ha” moment of recognition. We have to be given the context.

This, for example, is “Caracalla and Geta: A Bear Fight in the Coliseum” (1909). Odds are, unless you have a classical degree or a hard-on for Roman history, you don’t know who those people are or why it matters they’re about to watch a bear fight.

Caracalla and Geta were brothers. After their father died, they rules as co-Emperors of Rome — for all of one year, that is, until Caracalla (188-217 AD) had his brother killed. The men were, along with Elagabalus, members of the Severan dynasty, which was the last patrician family to rule the empire. Fifty years of political chaos followed their fall in 235, where a variety of rebellious generals, warlords, and rich men made successive claims and counter-claims to the throne. Some lasted no more than a few days.

The next strong emperor, Diocletian, who ruled from 284-305 AD, was born in Dalmatia (present-day Croatia) to what we might call a “middle class” family. The bear fight, then, is not just another spectacle of cruelty common in the empire, although it’s that, too. In fact, given that bears are not literally depicted, the actual bear fight — the spectacle for the audience of the painting, as distinct from the audience in the painting — is the muted conflict between the two brothers, itself symbolic of the inter-family fighting that plagued the Severans and ultimately brought low the entire Roman aristocracy.

Look at the painting again. The woman at the center, possibly the boys’ mother, gazes directly at the viewer with a look of concern, as if troubled by the hints behind her sons’ competitive banter. Of course, if you don’t know that, it just looks like a pretty picture.

Have some more. This is “The Education of the Children of Clovis.”

Clovis I (466-511 AD) was the first king of all the Frankish tribes and therefore the first king of what became France. The name Clovis is the Latinized version of his Frankish name, Hlōdowig, meaning “great fighter,” which was probably a given title, like “magnus.” Hlōdowig is the precursor of the German Ludwig, by the way, and all its derivatives in other languages: Luis, Luigi, Lewis, and Louis, the latter borne by 18 kings of France.

Look again at the painting, at its realism. You can almost feel yourself in the courtyard, where the thud of the ax resounds off the marble. The villa itself is late Roman. Indeed, the typical Roman house was a square organized around a central courtyard, just like this. Symbolically, these people are living in the house of Rome. But Rome is no more. This is France, and education is no longer the works of Ovid and Aristotle but the arts of war. This is a depiction of the myth of the Dark Ages.

Compare that to this painting, “The Pyrrhic Dance,” which depicts a war dance in ancient Greece, somehow more refined an elegant despite the common subject matter:

The next painting is a depiction of an apodyterium, or undressing room just outside the women’s bath. The figures are not sexualized, nor are we, the viewer, greeted as a voyeur. The woman removing her ankle straps takes no notice of us at all, nor do any of the people at the back. Yet, we participate in the scene, are almost invited in, by the gaze of the woman in the foreground, which, along with the fine detail — note the cubicles above the bench for storing possessions — is all that keeps this from being yet another voyeuristic invasion.

Below is Sir Lawrence’s painting of his daughter, Anna, probably my favorite work by him. It exhibits his technical brilliance of course, but also seems to capture the essence of this young girl. He’s neither gloried nor degraded her. Indeed, the painting seems almost like a candid photograph taken just as she entered the room bearing flowers for her father’s desk. In looking at it, it seems we almost know her.

Here are a few more.

Sir Lawrence, the worst artist who ever lived Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912) was a Dutch-born British artist who became one of the wealthiest painters of the 19th century.

[tb5-heavenward]

flight hours

onward and upward, continuing from here. 

4

Scott's led the mechs far enough away that whatever algorithms govern their targeting don't seem to register John as a threat---but TB1's being overwhelmed, and there's only so much banking and rolling Scott can actually do to keep the bastards from getting purchase on his hull and shocking their way through his shields. And to make matters worse, John is rapidly making his approach; Scott can see the little yellow icon closing on his own, though his forward display is clustered and crowded with the bright red of hostile parties.

"What the hell are you going to do?" he demands of his brother, and alters the parameters of his display to render in a proper three dimensions, rather than the flat radial view he'd found useful when trying to determine the pattern by which the swarm was aligning itself. From out the back of the plane, John's gone high, and they're already pretty far up to begin with.

"Make an entrance," is the answer he gets, cryptic and blasé. And then the little yellow icon doubles---triples---its speed, secondary and tertiary afterburners flaring on, as John dives at a sharp angle, heading straight towards the swarm of drones.

"Maniac," Scott mutters, and rolls to the left, bringing his unwanted entourage along with him. Two, three seconds, and then he sees a streak of yellow go shooting past, and the targeting algorithms that had failed to parse John's existence before now get a sudden introduction. Conflicting information ripples through the swarm and Scott's sensors detect aerial impacts around him as the drones attempt to track two targets at once, suddenly working at cross purposes to one another. Scott sees the number of active hostiles on his screen diminish, feels the turbulence through his bird, the explosion of two colliding drones buffets the air outside. As quickly as it had been scrambled, the swarm reorganizes itself, and a handful of the machines break away, take off in pursuit of Scott's little brother.

John seems to have expected this, and his voice in Scott's ear is uncharacteristically giddy. "How many have I got?"

"Eight," Scott answers shortly, and punches the throttle, twisting his controls upwards as he does so, so that his afterburners blaze and flare across the swarm as they move to follow. He incinerates two of them, the rest of them scatter downward, and he covers two, three thousand meters of distance in the space of seconds, before he throttles back, brings TB1 arcing back around, because he can't leave his brother in the middle of this mess. From this angle, far below, he can see that little speck of yellow pursued by a phalanx of black, bright and dark against the sunset-gilded clouds below.

John seems blithely unconcerned by this fact. "How many have you got?"

"Twelve, now."

"You've never been very good at sharing."

Scott grits his teeth. As an afterthought, he reaches up into his interface, pulls up a read on John's vitals. Heart rate, respiration, blood pressure---all elevated, spiking off the adrenaline rush and a flood of endorphins. Scott's pretty sure he's gonna grind his fillings loose as he feels his own pulse, hammering in his ears. He doesn't imagine that his own vitals look great, right at the moment, but in fairness, his brother is only compounding his stress levels, with interest. He's going to get himself killed.

"John, these things are discharging enough electrical current to knock me out of the sky, and you're barely shielded. First hit overloads your exosuit. Second fries the dampening on your blues. Therefore it'll be the third that kills you dead. So you're gonna get your ass up here and get aboard, and then we're both getting the hell out of dodge."

John doesn't answer. From high overhead, descending, Scott watches his brother slam on the exosuit equivalent of the brakes, retrothrusters firing as he throws himself backwards, right into the midst of the little phalanx of drones. Scott's still about a kilometer overhead as his heart skips a frantic beat---but when his sensors detect the pulse of electromagnetism, its centered on his brother. And then eight mechs tumble uselessly out of the sky, with a long, long fall to the surface of the sea below. Theta in action.

So that's that. John's even had the temerity to go and make it look effortless. Piece of cake. Easy as pie. A little voice in the back of Scott's brain, whispered and a little bit hopeful, supplies the words Twelve down, and twelve to go.

There's another hiss of the comm in his ear. And then there's a real voice, the voice of someone Scott's most often supposed to listen to. "The only reason they're hitting you," John informs him, in an infuriatingly superior tone, "is because you declined the ability to hit them back."

Still dividing his attention between evading drone strikes and trying to stay within a reasonable range of his brother, Scott doesn't have an immediate answer to that.

It's possible he should stop feeling quite so self-satisfied about this whole situation, given the likelihood that pride is an a priori type of requirement for a fall, and falling is a particularly serious hazard right about now. There's probably also something to be considered about Icarus, although John's got titanium alloy and a custom polymer composite standing in for feathers and wax, to say nothing of the awareness that the sun is not the biggest threat out here. Greek mythology might be a little more worthy of John's attention if Icarus had ever needed to worry about murderously inclined insectoid mecha drones.

There aren't really many helpful mythological allegories for their current predicament. Aesop's fables rarely concerned the nuances of air-to-air combat.

Not that there's going to be any further air-to-air combat, given the way Scott snaps at him, as though he's done something worthy of a scolding. "Don't do that again."

"Well, I don't think it'll work twice."

"I mean it."

The fidelity on their comms is excellent, and Scott's radio receiver is right by his jaw. John's pretty sure he can hear him actively grinding his teeth.

"I'm fine, Scott," he reassures his brother, twisting in midair and drawing a bead on Thunderbird One, still being swarmed by drones. There's nothing to do but try to formulate a viable plan as he cautiously keeps his distance, a solid kilometer between him and his brother, and Scott still flying around like he's drunk at the wheel, rolling and banking and weaving to try and shake the (helpfully diminished) cloud of drones. "Could use somewhere stable to land, though, if I'm going to get another shot. What was the name of the thing where you toggle your flight controls remotely so you can land on top of TB1?"

"It's Protocol Alpha and I literally spent three hours teaching you how to do it right, but it doesn't matter, because the only protocol you need to worry about right now is Protocol Get-Your-Stupid-Ass-Out-of-the-Sky-Because-We're-Leaving."

"...I thought that was Delta?"

"Now, John."

Scott's voice has gotten terse, taut and anxious, in a way that John recognizes is because he perceives a threat to someone else's safety. His safety. His own flippancy is probably accountable to a higher than normal influx of adrenaline (and what might possibly be a minor head injury, he hasn't yet been stationary long enough to tell if the dizziness has really stopped), a fight or flight response that's rarely activated. In this specific case, fight and flight are so closely intermingled that he can't really do one without the other. Scott's right and he knows that Scott's right, because aside from one successful strike, mostly down to luck and the element of surprise, there's no point to making this a fight. Flight is definitely the preferred option, in this case. There's no rational reason for John to consider what it would take to knock the remaining twelve drones out of the sky.

He's only been thinking it, he hasn't actually said anything, but somehow Scott still manages to intervene in the middle of that train of thought. "We're getting out of here," he repeats, stern and certain. "You need to get back aboard."

"Okay, how?"

"I'm working on it. I'm also kinda busy right now, but maybe you didn't notice."

Backsass under duress is a failing shared by Scott and Gordon, but also a strong and worrying indicator of the degree to which they're starting to really lose control of the situation. Scott's got enough on his plate. How is usually supposed to be John's job, anyway.

It's a problem of speed and distance, like most of the problems they're called upon to solve. John can't recall the exosuit's top speed offhand, but it's orders of magnitude slower than Scott's, and he won't actually be able to get back aboard TB1 unless it's stationary anyway. TB1 can't stop in midair while being swarmed by mechs; John's not sure how well Scott's shields are holding up, but they can't hold much longer. In the slowly darkening skies overhead, he can definitely see blue white arcs of electricity sparking towards his brother's Thunderbird, as the drones attempt to fry his control systems and knock him out of the air. Kayo's still ten minutes out. John's got the means to disable the rest of the swarm, but it would require getting right up into their midst once more, and they're securely on his brother's tail.

It makes him wonder what the objective is, what the Mechanic hopes to achieve. Before now, he's only ever retaliated against their interference in his own endeavours. Given their encounters with him so far, a trap set specifically for a Thunderbird just doesn't seem like his style. John can't help but try and see the big picture, though the broad strokes of the situation are substantially less pressing than the fine, moment-to-moment details.

Still. There are clues in the context, and even as he rockets along, a thousand meters below and behind his brother, he's still trying to think his way through the problem, starting from the beginning. Aerial rescue, practically right in their backyard. Phantom pilot in medical distress, in a situation that would require evac. Cargo jet packed full of drones, programmed to swarm and overwhelm a Thunderbird. If Scott weren't aboard and actively piloting TB1, it's probable that it would've been downed by now, plummeting towards the sea. When John had dive bombed through the swarm, they'd been briefly disarrayed by the appearance of a second target. Whatever the purpose of the trap, it had been set for one of them, not two of them.

So, in theory, two of them together can beat it.

They just need to figure out how.

continued >>

[lumiereswig]

thy crackest crack of all - batb but adam/belle and lumiere/plumette swap places

ohhhhh buddy

Once upon a time, in the hidden heart of France, a handsome young maître d’ lived in a beautiful castle. Although he had everything his heart desired—including three inch high heeled shoes, an accordion, and a never-ending supply of cheese croissants—the maître d’ was E x t r a.

He taxed the village’s patience no end, and filled his parties with the most beautiful puddings; until one night, when an unexpected intruder arrived at the castle, seeking shelter from the bitter storm.

“Come in, come in! Do not let the Prince see you—stay down here, in the kitchen—oh, oui, oui, the Prince is fine, but not friendly to visitors. Come! Sit down! Get warm!”

“Thank you.” The old hag’s voice is cankered and worn, but she seems delighted by the invitation. “All I need is a little bread, a little hot tea—”

“Madame! Or is it Mademoiselle? Do not offend us so! We can offer you far, far more than that—”

“No. Really.” The hag’s voice is firm. “Just a little bread and tea. I brought my own jam.”

Lumiere practically shoves her into a seat. “Madame! Of course, of course, just a little supper, with your countryside jam—but would you have your supper without a few fireworks?!”

“Actually, I would,” says the hag, but it is too late. Lumiere has already brought out the showgirls, the disco ball, and the dancing elephant he imported from India; all around her the servants whip and turn and can-can, and the hag only sees in glimpses the food itself: delicious cakes, extraordinary marzipan masterpieces, a swan made of ice that is too high for the ceiling—far more than she would ever ask for, or ever want to eat.

“Enough! Enough,” she cries, and the whole show number comes grinding to a halt. Somehow, the candles go out. A bitter wind blows through the kitchen.

“Madame?” The maître d’ raises his eyebrows. “We haven’t gotten to the best part, yet. If you could wait one more minute, when we bring out the acrobats—”

“This is insane,” hisses Agathe, and she glows with a golden light. Lumiere watches in shock as she rises off the floor, growing fifteen feet at least as her face cracks open to reveal exquisite beauty. The jar of jam in her hands, so long neglected, glows with an unearthly light.

As punishment for his inability to give her bread and tea like a normal-ass person, the Enchantress transformed Lumiere into a hideous beast—and placed a powerful spell on the castle, and all who lived there.​

“Well, this is annoying,” hisses Adam. He had been having a very normal night. There had been girls, dancing, the usual party—Lumiere had slipped off when the doorbell rang, but that was nothing to be concerned about—and then the next thing Adam knew, he had been turned into a lampshade, and now he couldn’t reach his throne. He also couldn’t enact his princely duties, either, but he hadn’t been doing those for years anyway, so that wasn’t as much of a bother.

“You think you’re annoyed?!” says the bookstand next to him. “I was just here to pick up some books for my father! I’m not even a part of this palace! This is bullshit.”

“Yes!” cries Adam. “Thank you. Seriously some high-level bullshit. And I don’t think we can even get out of this library, either—once that door closes, it won’t open again. Particularly since we’re both short, now, and neither of us has hands.”

“Unbelievable,” agrees the bookstand, rolling its eyes. “I’m Belle, by the way.”

As days bled into years, the servant and his friends were forgotten by the world, for the Enchantress had erased all memory of them from the minds of the people they loved.

“That’s….odd,” says Maurice, down in the village. “I thought I had someone to hand me things.”

“Like a servant?” says Plumette. She has only recently arrived from Paris, to study painting from the hand of a master artist; she enjoys spending time with Maurice and…..and, she can’t remember who the other person was. But she likes Maurice.

“Yes, or….no, I can’t quite remember.” He turns to Plumette, though, and smiles. “But while you are in town, you can be the one to hand me things, if you’d like. We have a spare bedroom. For some reason, I bought this house to have two.”

“Monsieur! I would be delighted.” Plumette grins as she hands him a paintbrush. It feels right for Maurice to have a young woman around the house. Though why she thinks so, she can’t quite remember.

But the jam she had offered was truly an enchanted jar of jam: if Lumiere could learn to love someone more than The Drama, and earn that person’s love in return, by the time the expiration date on the jam rolled around—the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time.​

“All time, did you hear that? All. Time.” Cogsworth is intensely aware of time, these days. It must have something to do with the hands of a clock replacing one’s mustache.

“I heard, I heard, I was there too.” Lumiere groans and turns back to staring at the jar of jam.

“You know, it doesn’t go far to proving you can be normal when you’ve enshrined a jam-jar in a glass case on a carved table in the middle of a room with nothing else in it,” says Cogsworth.  “You’ve even planned it so the light hits it at a dramatic angle. Good lord.”

“If we have to be miserable, at least we can be miserable in good lighting,” says Lumiere. He carefully shifts his new bulk so as not to tip over his friend. He isn’t entirely sure why the Enchantress saw fit to turn him into a seven foot tall, gleaming-gold, heavily scaled dragon, but the inconvenience alone makes it a suitable curse.

“We can’t get out of the castle, nobody will remember to get in to the castle, you’ve set fire to the rose garden at least three times in two days, and your coping technique is baking chocolate eclairs none of us can eat—how exactly do you expect this curse to end, you fool?”

“L’amour,” says Lumiere, simply, readjusting his tail. “I believe in love. It just hasn’t happened yet.”

“Because you’ve been too busy planning parties, that’s why.”

“Because I’ve been too busy wanting to do this,” says Lumiere, and sets Cogsworth up on the mantel piece, where he can’t get down.

“You—you rascal! Get me down! You know I’m too tiny now—”

Lumiere doesn’t hear, as he retreats to his hoard of candelabras. He likes sitting on gold things, now; he can’t help it. It’s a dragon thing.

As the years passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope……for who could ever learn to love a beast?

“Get home safe,” says Plumette. She’s been living with Maurice for many years, now; she likes to treat him as his daughter would, if he had one. It is good to take care of the old artist.

“What can I bring you?” Maurice likes to bring her things. It feels like an old tradition, somehow.

Plumette’s eyes scan Villeneuve. It’s a far cry from her beloved Paris. The men here are boisterous and rude; the only activity comes from the autumn harvest, or the rustic celebrations around May Day. In Paris, there was a show every night, courtly etiquette, a graceful dance for every day. She misses glamor, spark, the higher life—

“A rose,” she says. Maurice cannot afford the things she wants.

“Ah! A rose! Right then,” says Maurice, and gallops off toward the woods. Plumette sighs, and turns back to her painting.

It is the next day when the horse comes back, riderless. Plumette has little use for horses—she prefers birds, really; she loves doves and larks, things that fly through the air—but she grimly saddles herself up and takes off for the woods.

There is snow there. In June. Plumette shivers, and pulls her cloak closer to her ears. It is lined in goose-down, and warms her for a moment as she rides into…the gardens of a palace.

A palace! Like the ones in Paris! In the middle of the woods!

She almost flies off Philippe, running up the steps with feather-light steps—never mind that they are covered in ice; never mind that the palace echoes empty to her shouts. A palace! Underneath all this dust, as rich and beautiful as the life she has dreamed of.

She wanders the halls slowly, admiring the grand mirrors and the elegant ballrooms. Eventually, she reaches a library. She cracks open the door and peeks in.

“Oh! Hello! Wait, don’t go—finally, somebody to settle the debate.” She can’t see who is talking. The room looks empty to her.

“Miss!” It’s a girl’s voice, now, though the room still stands empty. “Miss, please, what’s your opinion on Romeo and Juliet?”

“I’ve…I’ve never read it.”

“Dammit.” This time, Plumette catches the movement. A lampshade, perched up by an old bookstand, sways as if it can shake its head.

“Are you—non, c’est impossible—are you alive?!” 

“I’m dead inside, at this point,” says the lampshade. “We’ve been here for years, just the two of us, because no one else comes in this room—and Belle keeps insisting romance literature is a valid category, and I keep saying she needs to get her head on straight and read some Richard III—”

“Oh right, like I haven’t,” retorts the bookstand. “Together we’ve read almost every book in this library.”

“Except the Greek ones.”

“Right. Except the Greek.”

Plumette tries to find her balance. “You’re alive? You can talk?! A bookstand and a lampshade—”

“How dare you! I was your Prince, once.”

“Oh, let her off easy, Adam.”

“Fine.” The lampshade growls, but settles back next to the bookstand. It is evident that in their years stuck in this room together, the two objects have grown extraordinary close.

“Could you—I mean—” Plumette doesn’t know where to begin. “How are you stuck here? And why?”

“I don’t know, but that’s what my father asked too,” says the bookstand. She sounds sad. “Not that he remembers he’s my father. We didn’t get to talk long enough before the Beast came—”

“The what—”

“And whisked him away for a fabulous dinner.”

“Did somebody say fabulous dinner,” roars a voice, and the two objects cower at the sound.

Plumette turns just as the door is blasted down by flames. She sees one glittering, golden claw—then another, and another—then a great, gold, scaly mass, half man and half dragon, peering through the door.

“It’s a girl! A beautiful girl!”

“Yes, I know it’s a girl,” says a small clock, perched between the dragon’s horns.

“Mademoiselle!” The dragon-beast is stuck halfway into the doorway, but he is trying to play it off with aplomb. “Pardon my intrusion—I only just saw you had arrived! You are welcome here, of course—”

With a great effort, the dragon got himself through, drawing to his full height as he did so. Plumette gasped—he was a massive, stunning creature of myth, and yet he had still managed to tie on a frilly cravat.

“I am Lumiere.” The creature bowed low, and singe marks appeared on the carpet. “But come! To the dining room! We have already made the artist welcome there—”

“The artist? Maurice?” Plumette is trying to hold on to the situation, but she can’t help being a little dazzled by the dragon in front of her. She notes the layer of glitter he has painstakingly sprinkled on his scales.

“Oui, oui, come now, ahh! La belle chérie—” He follows her out, with only a few embarrassing scrapes against the doorway. Adam and Belle look at each other.

“It’s going to be a love story,” says Belle.

“Blech,” says Adam, though he doesn’t truly disagree.

Plumette and Maurice are not imprisoned in the castle, though it may feel that way sometimes. Every time they arrange to leave, Lumiere arranges some new entertainment—there is a theatrical production in the drawing room! We are playing charades in the salon! S'il vous plaît, mademoiselle, accompany a dragon on his rounds of the rose gardens. Without your gentle company, he may set the blooms alight.

Plumette feels herself falling. Fast.

“He is a dragon,” she says to the housekeeper, Mrs. Potts, one day. Plumette has noticed how grimy they’ve all gotten, and has volunteered to dust them off. The servants cluster around her, now, as she takes a featherduster to her friends with gusto.

“Well, not always. Once he was a……” But the lady falls silent. Everytime they try to speak of the curse, the servants stop.

“What?! What was he?! How do I break this curse?!”

“You know we can’t say,” says Cogsworth. He butts Mrs. Potts out of the way, and smiles with pleasure as Plumette works away the dust on his gilding.

“Is it true love? Tell me it is true love,” she implores. She is already halfway there. It wasn’t hard to fall for Lumiere—he was so kind, so inviting, so endlessly beautiful. Even as a dragon who insisted on wearing a wig.

“Ha! No, that would be easy,” laughs Mrs. Potts. “But something like….a correction of his flaws, if you will.”

“Hmm,” says Plumette, and tries to think of how Lumiere could be flawed.

They dance the night away. It is difficult, with a ten-foot long tail, but Lumiere manages it; and he only sets fire to Cadenza once, and they manage to put it out quickly before Plumette notices. She is beautiful, arrayed in fine, white feathers like an angel; and Lumiere loves her, passionately, with the love he always knew existed burning bright in his veins.

At the end of the evening, they walk out onto the balcony. Far above them, through an open window, they can hear the bookstand reciting romantic poetry to the lampshade.

“Plumette?”

“Oui, mon amour?” No point in hiding it. Now or never. She can tell he is about to propose.

“Do you think we should add a revolving dance floor to the ballroom?”

Plumette blinks.

“With tiles that light up,” Lumiere continues. “The flashy, dance floor kind. Oui?”

Plumette draws her soft hand away, and Lumiere blinks. Looks, in concern, at her delicate face.

“Lumiere…..you know, we could think of other things, besides the dance floor.”

“Well, yes. Flamethrowers. I’m two steps ahead of you, mon coeur.”

“Lumiere!” She tears her hand away. “I cannot do this. You can keep Maurice here—you should, actually, I don’t like him down in the village with all those hunters and fishmongers—but I cannot stay here, if this is how you are. We just! Danced! In romantic candlelight! And you’re thinking of fluorescent lighting?! Unbelievable,” she mutters, and before Lumiere can string together two words, she has galloped off into the night.

Cogsworth comes to find him, up on the highest tower.

“You know,” says the major domo, “it doesn’t go far to proving you can be normal when you’re singing a Broadway-style ballad after your departing love.”

“Shut it, mon ami,” says Lumiere, and hits the “evermore” exactly on pitch.

When Plumette arrives back at the village, she is surprised to meet Gaston.

“Plumette! Where have you been?” Oh, boy. The village hero has his crazy-eyes on. Around him, the villagers wave torches and pitchforks.

“I’ve been living in a forgotten palace in the middle of the woods with a dragon and a talking IKEA,” says Plumette. “What have you been doing?”

“Looking for Maurice,” says Gaston. “We need a scapegoat, and he’s generally convenient.”

“Oh, he was in the palace too,” says Plumette casually, then— “No! Wait! Stop! Come back!”

It’s too late. The mob descends into the woods, their torches held high.

Plumette sighs, and turns Philippe around. She knows Lumiere would be helpless against an attack. He would be thinking too much about the lighting.

“Sacre-bleau! Intruders!” Lumiere can tell these aren’t the friendly kind. A mob won’t be won over by pudding and balls.

“Man the battlements!” shouts Cogsworth, but nobody hears him. Lumiere is screaming too loudly.

“Plumette! Plumette! She is right in their way—she is holding the entire mob back, sacre bleau—”

Cogsworth looks out the window. Lumiere is right: Plumette, shining like a star on her white horse, has ridden to the front of the crowd, standing between them and the castle. She is brave, and fearless, and beautiful.

And all Lumiere can think of.

Before Cogsworth can say anything—or Belle and Adam can launch the Greek books from their window at the attackers below—Lumiere has let loose his great, mighty dragon wings, and descended on the mob that threatens his Plumette.

There are no injuries, but the mob—dazed and baffled—return to Villeneuve looking incredibly sunburnt.

“Plumette! Oh, Plumette.” Lumiere runs to her arms.

“Mon amour! You saved me! It wasn’t even dramatic. You just landed on top of Gaston! What a letdown!”

“Was that it? I didn’t even notice.” Lumiere takes her in his arms, beaming. “You’re safe! Oh, Plumette, je t’aime—”

Plumette kisses him, without a second thought. It is only on the fourth or fifth thought that it occurs to her that Lumiere smells like sunlight more than singed carpets. And his lips aren’t as scaly as she would have thought.

He is human again; they are all human again. The sun bursts, ripe and full, across the palace. Somewhere, Agathe breathes a sigh of relief: this was all too silly for her. Up in the library, the bookstand and the lampshade get a good look at each other.

“So that’s what you look like. I wondered.”

“You’re not a bad human yourself.” Adam rubs his face, shakes out an arm. “Speaking of, how do you fancy getting married?”

“To you? The man who doesn’t even like Romeo and Juliet?”

“That man exactly.”

“I would love it more than anything.”

And in the summer sun, two couples kiss.

[grizzlefur]

WWEm - M. Night Parablamyan

You’ll be pleased to hear that Comic Sans has gone on indefinite leave. Also, the formatting has now become single line spacing, until I find I don’t like it or something. Let me know if you like it/love it/don’t give a monkey’s butt.

As ever, Emma can be found on Twitter as @Waruce, usually during PPVs.

Transmission date: Monday 12/Tuesday 13 June 2017.

all up in this bitch, cos it's SATURDAY AFTERNOON RAW! raise your hands if you can't remember thing one that's been happening on raw shit, can't type with my hands raised rescind that last advance warning: if i make more mistakes than usual in this writeup, extend me some leniency on account of i can barely see straight, because it's fucking summer so my eyes are full of TREE SPERM and MUCILAGE and THE DEATH OF ALL THINGS seriously, it's a party but oversharing aside, let's watch some wrestlemans and wrestlewomans, although the raw wrestlewomans' division needs to figure out what the fuck it's doing

we open with a recap of joe talking shit to an absent devil who i think is going to be turning up this week? i say that like i care and also him choking the life out of a small portly jewish man and being the most well-spoken kind of psychopath snapping into the present, we're apparently in the cajundome and immediately hit brock's music hey, they know what the fans want now i just need to figure out why they want that so yes, the championship is here, attached to the walking embodiment of technically-legal masking agents but thankfully, only paul has a mic apparently this is the day of joe's fuckupening i paraphrase, but i wish i wasn't "Like a shark luring the chum into his domain..." paul, i think we need to take you to seaworld or some shit apparently joe was somehow abusing brock's ring, despite the whole bit where he hasn't been here in a couple of months paul is hastily retracting everything complimentary he said about joe last week and now throwing shade about the fact that joe's not part of the anoa'i dynasty? that's certainly an esoteric burn the angle is that the coquina clutch would probably fuck brock up, but joe won't be able to get it on him because he ain't shit related note: can we have a moratorium on white dudes calling poc a 'mutt' or similar? leaves something of a bad taste joe arrives, him and brock immediately unload on each other kurt sends in security, brock kills them all, so paul calls in the whole roster to pull them apart and they kind of suck at it leave security to the pros, guys all the faces are clinging onto joe like he's the messiah and end thing, apparently tonight's main event is kkb/hardyz for the title round #34982, but this time it's two out of three falls cut for ads, and we come back on a recap video of the exact thing we just watched i know i say my memory's bad, but seriously booker's still here, because shut up with your reasons

but now, here's elias and his guitar and his array of scarves weirdly, this crowd seems pretty split on him he's written a song about the brave inhabitants of the cajundome asks the crowd to be quiet while he plays, cole immediately starts talking so yeah, this is a song about how louisiana and dean ambrose aren't collectively shit so here he comes elias, please never try and rhyme 'breath' with 'darkNESS' again recap video of the deep strangeness of miz's championship celebration aka, The Day Mike Fucked A Clock With A Chair (and offended his wife) i did like the ending of it, though it's nice to have the cameramen acknowledged as something that exists in-universe elias samson is present, so naturally corey is immediately salty as fuck he hates dean, too, but seriously "The man has the vocal stylings of a pigeon that's been stepped on!" (fun fact: i would probably listen the hell out of an elias samson album) (just do acoustic covers, whatever, i just like his voice) so far, this match consists mostly of dean trying to trashweasel his way out of trouble and elias shutting him down duelling chants seem a bit harsh: "You can't wrestle!" "YOU CAN'T SING!" dean gets his usual comeback sequence comprising a strange mix of real wrestling skill and just running in the vague direction of your opponent and hoping they fall harder than you do elias stands far too close on a suicide dive, basically just grabs dean and walks backwards like oh no i am defeated dean gets the upper hand of a super slow turnbuckle spot, miz runs in to bother him elias still can't even pick up a distraction pin maryse is backing miz up, so at least they're still okay dean goes for miz, he does the wife-shaped shield thing it doesn't work at all, miz gets beaten on a lot dean gets back in the ring, elias does a nasty knee drop on his back as he comes in, swinging neckbreaker for the pin "By hook or by crook, a W is still a W!" are you in a fucking ionesco play, corey

but now let's have more of goldust doing his thing his thing, of course, beign sitting in a chair at a terrible frame rate and quoting films dude, if you just turned that chair a bit, you wouldn't have to crane your neck like that can't be good for you but yeah, vague threats in the vague direction of r-truth

but now we're backstage, and an angry kurt has words for the miz those words basically being FUCKIN' QUIT IT he has enough trouble with big samoan guys named joe miz insults kurt, alludes to his indeterminate personal problems, you could chew the tension demands dean be suspended or fired, kurt retorts with a) shut the fuck up, and b) no maryse is apparently still angry at her husband kurt walks off, miz splutters, end thing cruiserweight time now, after this video to remind yiu just how good cedric alexander is, since he's been away for a while and here's noam dar arguing with his phone backstage cedric comes in to remind noam how done he is with him and his girlfriend's collective shit she is, of course, on the other end of the phone she's injured, but she wants her scottish sleazeball to beat cedric right the fuck up tonight cedric's like fuck, fine, whatever, i'll fight you tonight, but then can you please go bother literally anyone else

so yeah, now it's time for that match noam is still on his phone on speaker as he starts his entrance they're having a barely-audible argument and the phone's casting to the tron for some reason also, noam has a new jumper, and it's nowhere near as good alicia wants to be on the line through the match, noam does not want this the ref's like dude sort your shit out we've got a match to have finally puts it down in the corner, bell rings, lumbar check, end alicia is piiiiiiiiissed that's still an absolutely vicious finisher noam is trying to salvage this telepresence argument while also going oh holy fuck my spine hype no. 58 for the main event

but up next, bray wyatt...does a thing, i guess? he's certainly present and i'm ok with that but now a video package of roman, because god knows we haven't seen so much of him see, this package makes him look good, cos it's just the big spots and not all the slow-ass bullshit between them next week, roman has an announcement about summerslWYATT CUT bray fills the screen, tells us cheerfully that the world is ending does the i'm here thing, and now he is after a randy-based wyatt cut, for some reason did someone click the wrong file? corey calls bray 'bizarre', somewhere goldust is like wait a fucking minute bray's going to kill everyone who sins, sits in apathy while people sin, or blaspheme against him apparently seth lives in a house where his architect's blueprints cover the windows and block out the sun this may just be a parable, but it's a fucking great image oh, apparently bray shattered it because it was a glass house? did you mention this before, bray? bit of a shitty twist other wise m. night parablamyan and now seth will be picking splinters of glass out of his soul for eternity that's a fucking greek god level of ironic fate so yeah, anyone who takes the dark lord's name in vain will get fucked on speaking of, here comes seth to get fucked on/pick glass out of his soul i'd be good for either he's like wait a minute dude you cost me my match because i called you names that seems disproportionate but by the way, you suck seth claims he's here to pipe bomb some truth at us, calls bray a coward don't insult him, he has a backwards tractor bray takes the opportunity to give a sermon on pride, tells seth he, too, ain't shit like lol kingslayer ain't that cute *teleports backstage* bray claims he'll win because gods live forever think we need to read you some egyptian/norse myth there

but now, charly has the hardyz in the led interview backstage corridor whatever thing the hardyz would like you all to remember that they're awesome and that jeff has an unhealthy predilection for jumping off things but now, enjoy this montage of what cena's been up to and remember that he'll be back in an episode i am unlikely to blog

but now we have kalisto vs titus, through the medium of his younger, happier dude and akira tozawa is standing in the front row, because titus wants him on brand apollo beats on kalisto, titus stands by the barricade shouting at tozawa like DUDE LOOK AT MY BOY ISN'T HE GREAT tozawa is like please stop shouting at me kalisto goes for an excessively flippy handspring springboard stunner, apollo counters to a spinout powerbomb for the win titus drags tozawa into the ring for an uncomfortable selfie with them he's just like dude stop hugging me

but now, HARD CUT TO CLOSEUP OF RHYNO PUTTING CHEEZ WIZ ON CRACKERS we all needed that miz has come with a proposal for heath to become part of his entourage rhyno is like dude i'm standing right here miz promises to make all heath's dreams come true, heath's like well i've always wanted to be ic champ hmmmmm miz offers him a shot if he joins the dark side rhyno's like you know what fuck you dude i'm gonna go find kurt to give us a match against you maybe rustle up a friend we're out *aggressively eats crackers* so yeah

spot about that theme park competition thing, but now here's alexa our resident wrestlewoman with her shit together oh hey, a recap of last week's match so it did happen after all no, alexa, don't kick off by mentioning your match at extreme rules we're all trying to forget on saturday, we've got the first women's mitb match, but fuck that noise, tonight's about me but here's nia to take issue with the fact that alexa offered her a title shot, then whined about it and cheated out of it alexa's like i know right we should have had a great match but those two fucked everything up so here come those two mickie's redesigned her gear to play up the Native elements again chest dreamcatcher and everything mickie and dana try to remind everyone how much of a bitch alexa's been to nia in fornt of everyone alexa's like lol no i think your eyesight's going ah, cheap ageist jokes but now,...hit emma's music not that i'm gonna complain fucking love that music *beep boop beep boop* emma announces her dramatic return, demands a shot for the title alexa's just like um do you even go here and now here's sasha fuck it, everyone in the division in the segment that's how we do wrestling, right? so wait, are alexa and nia the only heels on the show? seems unbalanced sasha mocks alexa for literally everything she does, punches her in the face, cue brawl and hard cut to an advert for the episode of smackdown i'l be watching later back from ads, and we've got the 6-woman tag match we all saw coming so yeah, emma's still a heel, just one with a problem with the even heelier champ so yeah, emma's back, with weird shoulder things and boobface and everything although following a gear redesign, the boobface has gone from :) to :o it's great that she's back because she's great, but it does mean i have been once again demoted to the second coolest person to bear the name formulaic tag, sasha hot tags in to beat on emma, alexa decides to just walk off instead of letting emma tag out, bank statement for the tap this is not how you make friends

confirmed, later we have slater/rhyno vs miz/[NAME]

but next, corey talks to bayley about her utter lack of extreme after this advert for gold bond and MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY cole massively hypes it, then is like wait what the fuck am i saying that's the wrong brand smoothly done and now, have a package about how great finn is, and that is THE ONLY ORDER THOSE WORDS GO IN complete with lots of shots doing the arms and telling us how good he is

but yes, now we have corey/bayley just by his existence, corey must remind her how extreme she's not for the love of god, woman, get a tatt bayley's like hey i've never been in that situation before i'm a normal person i don't want to hurt people corey's like um have you ever wondered why you're in this business bayley does this whole motivational self-improvement thing which doesn't really work on its own cena does that, but with the understood subtext that if you get in the way of him being his best self, he will fuck your shit right up and bayley says her next thing is to get the belt back manageable steps slightly awkward hug, end interview so that was a thing

but now, here come A ONE MAN BAAAAAAAAAND (and his friend) rhyno should rebrand as a one man road crew miz and maryse arrive, wearing the mania jackets again, because all the best people read this blog (hey, mike) apparently he approached elias during the advert break, who said yeah fuck off dude so here comes his partner with music that sounds like the laughing fucking gnome of something and on a tricycle it's the bear although this bear is much taller and walks like dean ambrose corey christens him Big John Cubb crowd chant for a tag, miz is like i'm not a moron do you think i don't know who this is corey is just spamming us with spurious life facts about the bear because of his refusal to tag in a large mammal, rhyno is just fucking miz up all over the place cole makes a reference to the jbl and cole show, to reward dedicated weirdos bear tags himself in heath tries to take his mask off, bear punches him in the face good to know bears follow lucha tradition does a bearhug (naturally), heath nearly taps miz tags, then starts beating the piss out of the bear at ringside rips off the mask, revealing some dude, once again and rhyno spears miz into the netherworld throws him back into the ring, bear follows, heath tries to convince him to turn on his master, bear hits heath with dirty deeds, excessively long realisation beat, he unmasks and is in fact dean did...did we just get twin magicked by a bear? IT WAS ME ALL ALONG, MIZANIN! ahem dean goes for miz, he jumps and knocks maryse off the apron she hobbles off with a dark look dean stands there with a magnificent ooooooops look until miz turns around, when he hits him with dirty deeds and puts a still-unconscious heath on top of him for the pin slater and rhyno leave, dean puts the bear head on miz and walks off this just became strange this feels like it should be on one of those serial killer warning sign lists miz eventually rips it off, glares, end segment

hopefully we should have the main event next, if they want to give it the time it deserves oh, looks like we actually are huh was not expecting them to do the whole sensible booking thing recap video of the most beautifully-executed surprise return at mania and also this entire feud i'd forgotten how good their heel turn was, as well oh wait, never mind, neville's here phew if wwe started booking things in a sensible, organic way that gave things room to breathe, i wouldn't know what to do rich swann enters, does his usual dancing, gets punched in the back because neville's taken a bunch of levels in twat oh wait was that the neville level i get it beats swann all over the place, rings of saturn until he stops twitching demands his belt and a mic neville crouches by swann, recites a list of pretenders he's fucked on, kicks him out of his ring starts a monologue like it's good to be the king but will all you usurpers just fuck away off namechecks tozawa, hopefully kickstarting a feud that i am down for like you would not believe apparently titus tweeted that selfie and suggested tozawa might win the title the king is less than amused but now, charly interviews the kkb cesaro has a copy of the hardyz' autobiography so they can laugh and throw it away they keep getting more things on their jackets including they live OBEY patches, which is cool

and next, enzo/cass vs anderson/gallows seriously, you should really logically need more time for a two out of three match than a normal one this show has like half an hour left and we still have to see enzo do a thing or not, who knows with this angle douchebag joisey music hits, nobody is here cut backstage, cass is on the floor under some girders the revival walk past in the background, no reason cass says he went down with one blow to the head, emphasises how HARD they hit enzo doesn't want him to fight, but he insists but in the ring, gallows and anderson are here to trade secondary school burns and muttley laughs about enzo and cass hit twat music again, long beat, and here they are accompanied by a bunch of refs like seriously dude this is a terrible idea if only we had some power to stop this match happening alas, we are only lowly wrestling officials, all we can do is point and harangue corey calls enzo a trash fire masquerading as a human being, which i'm like 80% sure is a john oliver line? sort your material, dude cass beats on anderson through weaponised staggering, finally ags out enzo's 3am-behind-a-hollister style works for a bit, until anderson just kicks him in the head a bunch and tags gallows in cass is lying on the floor outside and magic killer for the pin turns out going into this match with a recent head injury was a terrible idea who knew they set him up for another magic killer, but here comes a big shooooooow to help at which point the heels run away and enzo and show awkwardly hug which is what cass comes around to see fuck daggers, he's glaring broadswords show leaves, cass comes up to his partner like the fuck dude, cut to ads

main event next, fucking finally

ok, no, we have to watch an r-truth reaction video first these have a solid frame rate at least, but that's come at the cost of things like 'colour film', and 'not having r-truth' truth quotes network, forgets to cite it, promises to get goldust got get got got get, end and now in the corridors, enzo comes up to show like dude, the clues all kind of point to you, so i have to ask show's like what the fuck you twat i...oh wait, it's your partner, what a twat calls cass sawft, walks off, end

but now we have a recap video of brock and joe from the start of the show why the fuck do we even need to see this just get to the main event already less than 20 minutes left this is not enough time for a properly-paced best of three match with build and everything oh, and now we get to see joe talking to mike mcmikemike backstage apparently this whole debacle has been exactly according to joe's plan this plan has never been clearly stated which is probably also exactly as planned we are all dancing on a large samoan's palm

but now, here come the hardyz fucking finally oh, and an advert break and that package for how great roman is again siiiiiiiiiiigh thing i didn't quite catch before this cut: is matt hardy wearing a fucking button-fronted short-sleeved shirt? that makes no sense for anyone whose gimmick doesn't include the words 'Caribbean', 'dipshit', or 'Caribbean dipshit' cut back, and now he's wearing no shirt ah well guess some things can just never be known and here are the kkb they've kept the jackets, but gone without shirts to maximise the orbital terawatt laser effect of their entrance bell rings, just over twelve minutes left in the show fucking hell, wwe trust your talent the teams clearly know time is against them - sheamus tries to open with a brogue, then immediately takes poetry in motion and a twist of fate for a nearfall and then sheamus basically just punches jeff in the face for the first fall? this match had so much potential sigh and now, let's cut away for an ad break and naom, gallows and anderson advertising pizza hut buy pizza from us, so twats can take it off you and back to the match recap of the first fall - jeff went for a twist of fate, sheamus countered, threw him into the corner, and did a slightly underwhelming kick to the face for the pin and now we have sheamus just kicking the shit out of jeff jeff mule kicks sheamus into a blind tag, matt hot tags in and starts mashing cesaro's head into all the turnbuckles does a delete, on the grounds that anthem probably don't give a shit, right? kicks sheamus off the apron, twist of fate on cesaro for the win i hope this narration is giving some sense of how perfunctory and artificially quick this is that's two falls in just under five minutes in a fucking championship match sheamus kicks jeff off the apron, kicks matt in the face, knees matt in the face, still can't get a pin turns out all my problems cannot, in fact, be solved by kicking jeff breaks up a pin, sheamus throws himout of the ring, cesaro goes for a neutraliser on matt, matt counters, cesaro counters that back into a sharpshooter, rope break nice sequence then matt goes for a small package, which kind of just seems like a dick move double hot tags, jeff does his usual spots, twist of fate to sheamus, cesaro breaks it just in time sheamus drops jeff on the ropes, cesaro uppercuts him, still no pin jeff bullfights sheamus into the ring post, hits a lovely swanton, cesaro pulls sheamus out of the ring just before 2 cue brawling at ringside aaaaaand double countout with which the cajundome is just so fucking satisfying brawl continues, because fuck you and your matches and your belts and we fade on the hardyz shouting from the ring while the kkb pose with their questionably-retained belts

so yeah that's it that's the show the fuck, guys? i mean obviously it was meant to be unsatisfying, and they're going to be doing it again, presumably at GBoF, but still you could still have done it without that shitty tease match but who knows maybe it'll be narratively significant

anyway, let's clean out that bad taste with some SATURDAY AFTERNOON SMACKDOWN! oh wait it's the setup show for a ppv roll on the shitty tease matches! setting up for mitb, so everything is ladders and tonight we have 6-man tag of the men's mitb contestants and randy and jinder 'face to face'

but now, the new day being played to the ring by their very own marching band, because we're in new orleans, so why the fuck not they could probably take shinsuke's violinist, but i'd watch it kofi opens by thanking the band even before doing their own introduction, which is good form the usos interrupt their gyrating to angrily enter and be thug at them and they can't even finish that before the fashion police turn up fandango claims to have compelling evidence hat their day one is not so h after all "If anything, your day one is...G." tell em tyler tyler gets to finish his sentence before the colóns enter to talk shit about breezango's policing skills (psst, guys) (they're not real detectives) so yeah, we're getting an 8-man tag match here although it's not immediately clear how the fashion police are allying themselves with three men wearing about 17 strings of beads between them the levelling for the announce mics is just fucked to hell tonight does smackdown even *have* a tech team, or is that how they run such a streamlined, modernised show? i do love that this push has given tyler and dango the opportunity to remind us how good they are at wrestling jbl, please stop making bead string jokes *brief shudder* xavier and tyler do a weird-ass combo move consisting of tyler doing a rana-style headscissors on xavier, then stopping at the top so xavier can throw him at primo followed by xavier joing the burgeoning dropkick to the back club the faces take everyone else out of the ring, stop for a brief trombone break and now we get to watch more american adverts i am officially tired of this shit i would much rather be watching this match than adverts about how cigarettes will fuck your mouth or this enormously fucked mountain dew advert and i can't even watch the tiny version in the corner i am very easily distracted oh thank fuck, we're back tyler's in trouble thanks to those dastardly usos jbl reminds us again how the usos are the greatest tag team in the world, and somewhere jason jordan is crying i mean, that's statistically likely at any given point, but still yeah, tyler's just getting the piss knocked out of him including a simultaneously dull yet impressive vertical suplex from epico comes back by throwing a bent-over epico at primo, then clotheslining primo so he ddts him nice, if making no sense whatsoever kofi tags in, kicks everyone, hits jimmy with a boom drop and trouble in paradise for the near-fall and tags in xavier for upupdowndown for the pin and taunt the usos as they retreat in failure

but later tonight, we have charlotte/nattie

but now, aj talks to shinsuke backstage and sami walks in like hey guys what do you want to do in this match asks for ideas, then talks over aj with his usual overthinky ring general thing does a they don't want none, goes for a high five, aj just stares, asks if shinsuke likes the plan, he just stares, sami answers himself and walks off to get warmed up long beat Shinsuke: "...I like him." AJ: "Of course you do." some lovely chemistry between those two which shoudl really surprise nobody

but now, dasha interviews mojo in some random corridor hey mojo, how did it feel to fail and not achieve your dreams last week? mojo is still wearing his watermelon hat magnanimous in defeat he's kind of happy he lost, because he responds to adversity with HYPE and we haven't seen the last of him and as he says this ZACK FUCKING RYDER appears the crowd are as stoked about this as i am he is officially back, and the hype bros are back together get the fuck in so yeah, this tag division's kind of huge

but now, here's naomi who we are reliably informed is amayayayayzing although the same cannot really be said of this new flourescent halter top she's got and she's fighting everybody's favourite leather-clad lunarian (shut up, i'll stop making that joke when and only when it stops being really fucking funny to me) bell hasn't even rung when the trash jazz begins just look at that woefully impractical dress and that super fucking awkward walk down the ramp we couldn't have brought her up through nxt and moved billie and peyton up to perform exactly the same purpose because... jbl explains the incomprehensible ascent of lana with leicester city, neglecting the fact that leicester had in fact played premiership football before that season anyway, tamina and naomi are just beating the hell out of each other tamina like i'll see your bouncy moves and leg lariats and counter by PUNCHING YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF YOUR BODY try punching her leg off of her leg i hear that works against people with legs i don't think i will ever not love that somersault facelock escape naomi does although it does kind of pose the question why she doesn't just commit to it and do a shiranui and split moonsault for the pin good match lana blindisdes the champion incredibly slowly, does a weird-ass glam slam type thing, then gets the belt off an official just by asking for it didn't know you could just do that and all jbl can say is how the belt matches her dress siiiiigh

but now, here are the singhs to introduce their boss he comes in wearing the sharpest fucking blue suit you will ever see next up in entrance music i like way more than i feel i should... the ring is sporting a fucking lovely carpet jinder briefly calls out randy, then goes straight in to calling him a coward and insulting his father maybe ramp the smacktalk up there? and now we're up to the 'promise to dismantle your enemy's legacy backward through history' step this curve feels like it's going to end up in actual bloodshed very soon starts his promo to his people/shouting at the crowd in punjabi, gets partway through, randy's music hits sends the singhs down the ramp to head him off, only for randy to run in out of the crowd and rko jinder on that lovely carpet and then he just fucks back off throught the crowd who love him for being a dickbag but somehow also a babyface dickface? yeah, let's go with that even if it wasn't in his hometown, they could not be setting this up for a 'shock' randy loss any more cue several seconds too long of randy posing and glowering in the stands

and now we have kevin coming into the locker room to brief baron and dolph who don't give the slightest shit what he has to say he's just like guys, i don't actually like either of you, but it's mutually beneficial to work together to take out the babyfaces rather than being dicks for the sake of it and shooting ourselves in the foot which...actually makes sense? dammit, kevin, stop bringing logic and game theory into my wrestling leaves to let them process this, cut to ads

up next, charlotte/nattie

but first, renee interviews randy backstage and he's just like have you even been listening talk less hit more i'm win the thing and leaves well, at least he's sticking to his epiphanies

but yes, now we have the women's match natties back to her old gear, and i'm not thrilled jbl just used the phrases "most likely" and "statistical certainty" right the fuck next to each other in a sentence dude, words mean things and you need to stop just saying whatever but yes, charlotte is here too, with new gear patterned off the terrible moulding on your grandparents' bathroom fittings shot of becky watching the match backstage pull up a fucking chair for once, someone

more wrestling in a minute, but first, YOU WATCH THIS ADVERT BREAK MOTHERFUCKER including an advert romanticising the fact that people need stimulant shots to participate in capitalist society see, this is what happens when you make me watch adverts whioe i'm freestyling i just end up veering into political/economic philosophy, and it's hard to come back from that oh thank god, we're back

we come back on natalya surfboard stretching charlotte like fuck you, i'm a real wrestler charlotte moonsaults nattie for a nearfall as we pan out to carmellsworth watching the match on a tv bigger than either of them again with fuck you i can wrestle, nattie powerbombs charlotte out of the corner for a nearfall (don't tell anyone, but this is actually a good match) naturally, as i say that, it turns into a series of cheap rollup attemtps, then natural selection for the pin but it made charlotte look desperate, which it's always nice to see side note: they've recoloured the GBoF logo so BALLS is the least eye-catching part

time for fashion files noir bitches dango opens with a gritty monologue about his terrible parents cut to him admirin his pecs in a mirror and cut to tyler, lying in the trashed fashion police office dango gets a description of their attackers "One arm....No, two arms!" dango sketches something, tyler confirms that it was them who attacked him dango hustles tyler off to get help, and we slow zoom on the pair of stick figures as the segment ends

but now, let's have an inspiration porn segment about a kid not dying of liver disease let's not get into my ranting about disability politics

moving on, dasha grabs lana backstage for an opinion lana's like i don't actually give a shit what any of you think byeeeeeeee

but now it's main event time opening with kevin's massive distorted face it's like neville and tjp selling their names for power, this is clearly a 'you can be champion if we can reveal how you look like hodor when viewed from below' situation and now here's baron, accomnpanied by a vt of him being a twat last week (but which instance? we may never know) dolph's entrance is mostly overridden by an advert for talking smack, which i won't be watching because jbl's on it sami and aj enter with less fanfare, but they still don't want none to leave time for the best music in the company but how will he enter tomorrow night the suspense whoever the tommaso ciampa-looking dude in the corner is, he is freaking the fuck out about being within reach of shinsuke cut for ads, during which the match apparently started and as we come back, i realise that i didn't fully appreciate the awfullness of those godawful cyan tights dolph iswearing only emphasised by putting him in the ring with shinsuke shinsuke counters dolph's elbow drop through his signature technique of 'being elsewhere', hot tags aj in, and he opens by basically hitting dolph with the bitter end and then an ushigoroshi, except we don't say that any more ooh, nice counter goes for a styles clash, dolph counters to a tornado ddt everyone else gets involved, cut for ads, and we come back on dolph/sami natursally, kevin immediately comes in as i type that sami counters kevin's senton with his knees, basically turning it into a self-inflicted lumbar check as often happens, this heel team seems much more concerned with shouting at everyone within range than having the match sami gets the shit beaten out of him by kevin, counters to a blue thunder bomb, can't quite flop fast enough to make the tag takes some more punishment, pulls out a big lariat and then bullfights all three heels out of the ring in succession sloooooowly flops to his corner, and just as he gets there dolph and kevin pull aj and shinsuke off the apron lovely bit of timing so sami just goes fuck it and helluva kicks baron for the pin maybe lead with that general fighting ensues and now kevin has a ladder he and dolph hit sami and aj with it "Unforgiving impact of that ladder on your flesh." byron's freestyling for his upcoming black metal album meanwhile, baron gets the ladder and fucks on everyone with it sets it up under the briefcase, climbs sloooooowly enough for shinsuke to push it over and somewhere, randy orton began to bleed kinshasa to baron, and shinsuke dramatically climbs the ladder himself and retrieves the most important business supplies in the world and we fade on him posing

so yeah, setup show, but that was pretty good and it looks like mitb should be good better than extreme rules, at any rate and certainly less of a misnomer unless it suddenly becomes clear that shane's accounts were frozen long ago and there was never actually any money but in any case i'll try and get this up tonight (Saturday), and then it's mitb tomorrow hmu on twitter @waruce if you want to see me struggle not to fall asleep and also to reconcile my excitement for MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY with the failings of late-stage capitalism (shit, it happened again)

anyway, that ends this week's show, but up next, it looks like it's gonna get a bit finnegans wake