#and they’re never really referred to singularly

[unknownarmageddon]

[ there’s something in these woods, and no one knows where they came from or what they are. all they know is that they need to be fed. ]

[hottpinkpenguin]

Easy Company HCs: Coming Home To You After the War

A/n: ahhhh my first time writing for a new fandom always makes me nervous. I'm rewatching BoB for probably the 5th or 6th time and just felt compelled to start writing for some of these incredible characters. please note all writings are based solely on the BoB TV characters and not the actual veterans. Let me know if you want any other BoB HC's or oneshots!

*Please refer to each character for warnings*

Dick Winters Warnings: angsty Major Winters, vague references to PTSD/war trauma

Dick is standing outside on the deck of the ship before the sun is up on the day they’re due into port. He can’t stop looking towards the horizon, waiting for the shoreline to swim into view.

He’s melancholy, thoughtful. Reflects on all he’s seen in the war. He feels different than how he was when he left almost 3 years ago. He thinks about all the men he left behind in Normandy, in Foy, in Bastogne, in Holland, in Hagenau, in Germany. And he looks around at the men whose bodies are coming home, but who lost pieces of themselves in foxholes, in the bombed out streets of Europe, on the beaches. 

He also finds himself wondering what it’s been like for you. He hasn’t thought about that much, hasn’t let himself think on it too hard. He feels ashamed that he never asked much in his letters about how you were. He knows it was to protect himself. If he’d asked, and if you’d been honest and told him about the rationing, the fear, how many of your friends were losing their brothers, husbands, and lovers overseas, the suicides of the men who couldn’t go… well, Dick knew he’d have been distracted. And distracted leaders got men killed. So Dick had sealed off his thoughts on that account. He knew it was the right choice. But now, he doubted. 

So as the ship pulls into port, he’s sad in a broken way. Like the war has finally caught up with him. And he’s terrified, suddenly. How is he going to see you like this? What are you going to see in him when you finally do? More importantly, what are you not going to see? 

He lets all of his men debark before him. Partially because that’s what a good officer does, but partially to try and collect himself. 

You know what to expect. You know Dick Winters isn’t going to really stop fighting the war until he sees every last man in Easy Company off that ship and safely home. So you wait. You’ve waited this long, after all. You can wait another thirty minutes.

When you finally see him in the thinning crowd, you call out his name and break into a beaming smile. He’s here, he’s home. He’s safe. 

As soon as he sees you, the ice in his veins thaws. The sun is warm on his skin, he’s surrounded by clean sea air far from the burnt out husk of Europe, and you’re there. You’re smiling at him. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen something so singularly beautiful.

He strives over to you, taking his cap off as he approaches. His stomach is flipping like a schoolboy and he couldn’t keep the smile from his face if he had an entire firing squad of Krauts in front of him. 

You run the last few dozen paces into his arms. He catches you easily, spinning you around with a long, languid sigh of contentment. Your laughter is like a peeling bell in his ear. 

Richard, how dare you make me wait? you tease him. 

He can’t find any words except to smile at you, looking into your eyes, memorizing your smile, reacquainting himself with the dusting of freckles across your nose, the scent of your shampoo, basking in the feeling of you in his arms. He smiles, then laughs. Your hands frame his face and suddenly he’s kissing you. 

Dick Winters’ mind goes blissfully blank. The harsh edges of all his worries, his responsibilities, the burden of leading a company of men and ordering some of them to their deaths. It’s all soft now. There’s just you. You and that piece of land he’s been dreaming about.

Lewis Nixon Warnings: alcohol abuse, war-time violence, detailed reference to parental suicide

Lewis Nixon came back from the front with an exorbitant amount of contraband, shadows in the back of his eyes, and a terrible drinking habit. You had no idea what to do with any of it.

Two months after his return and you found yourself staring out across a sea of boxes piled haphazardly in the foyer of the summer home Lew had bought you for your six-month wedding anniversary. Your home had never been more crowded, and yet you’d never felt so lonely. 

You wiped the damp tea towel you’d soaked in the kitchen sink against the back of your neck in a vain attempt to keep the heat at bay. 

Lew! you called up to him, although you knew he wouldn’t answer. A brief glance at the clock - 2:15 pm - told you as much. Since coming back, Lew hadn’t woken up before 3:00 pm and you’d yet to share a goodnight kiss with him because he was liable to stay out until sunrise. Doing what, you’d rather not know. 

With a weighty sigh, you decided you might as well pick a box and get started. Otherwise, this ridiculous maze of illegally shipped stolen goods would just go to rot in your foyer. And with your in-laws due in next month to visit your shell of a husband, you’d better try to clean up the mess. 

You chose the box closest to you. It came up to your waist. As you ripped into it, you realized it was incredibly heavy, and you heard the unmistakable tinkling of glass on glass. You sliced the tape open with the boxcutter, marveling at how sharply the instrument cut into the flesh of the tape and cardboard. One of the first few nights after arriving back home, Lew had managed to stay at home and get drunk rather than do so out on the town. Somewhere between bottle three and four of the Chateau Rhone that you’d served at the reception, Lew had started to talk. Once he’d started, he hadn’t seemed willing to stop, as if he had one chance to pour out all the misery and regret and terror he’d accumulated in Europe. You remembered that at one point - one of his more lucid memories, when the slur in his words was light enough for you to understand him - he’d told you that he had seen a whole platoon of men shredded to ribbons by a Kraut tank. He’d recounted in excruciating detail how one of their fingers had landed on him, the blood and sinew drying on his uniform like an adhesive, and he hadn’t noticed it until the next day. You’d never seen anything quite so distasteful or violent in your life, but you imagined that it might be something like watching someone get sliced apart the way your boxcutter glided through tape.

With a shiver, you sheathed the blade and set the boxcutter aside to rip into the contents of the box. Tipping the heavy box sideways a bit, you spooned out the top layer of packing peanuts to reveal a familiar sight. Four corked bottles of wine sat at the top of the box. You stopped, staring down at the wine in the box in disbelief. This was the precious contraband that Lewis had spent thousands on to smuggle out of Europe? Fucking wine?

Your temper flamed to life with a vengeance. You pushed the heavy box over, letting loose a scream of frustration as you did. One of the bottles shattered as the box tipped over, a puddle of red wine staining the white marble floor. Once again, your mind flashed back to the war. Not to Lew’s memories, but your own. To the black-and-white films you’d seen in the theaters, to the newspaper clippings, to the reports that had come out of Germany about the death camps and the killing fields and the brutality of the war, to the letters your brother had written to you before his death at St. Vith. You thought of all the men you’d known who hadn’t come home - your brother Johnny, your childhood neighbor Tim Viens, your cousins Luis and Giovanni, the florist’s son from your hometown, your girl friend Jill’s fiance… 

Your head was spinning and your blood was boiling as you summited the stairs to the darkened upstairs two at a time. When you flung open the door to Lew’s study where he’d taken to sleeping, you were seeing black at the edges of your vision.

Lewis fucking Nixon, you better wake the fuck up or so help me God I will strangle you in your sleep!

The words flew off your tongue faster than you knew what to do with. You’d never had a foul mouth, and you’d certainly never threatened your husband before. Despite his obvious hangover, he snapped to wakefulness faster than you’d expected him to. He regarded you with a wary, tired expression, and you wondered for a half second if he was going to ask you to make good on your threat. 

Saints above woman, what is it? he demanded, reaching around the graveyard of beer and wine bottles strewn about the floor next to him. You noticed a particularly foul smell in the room at the same time you noticed the stain of vomit caked on one of the pillows he’d propped under his head. 

The sight of your husband fumbling around for another drink at 2:30 in the afternoon with vomit caked on his cheek did something to you. You weren’t sure if the sight broke you or if it snapped you into form. Whatever it did, it took the wind out of the hateful words that had been boiling in your gut. You snapped your mouth shut as you became acutely aware that you had nothing left to say to him. You’d said it all already. You’d cried, threatened, screamed, pleaded, reasoned, demanded, and done just about everything you could think of in your power to bring Lewis Nixon back to something resembling sense. You weren’t without feeling - you knew that he wasn’t the only man who hadn’t fully come back from the front. Memories of your father’s glassy, empty-looking eyes flicked in your mind like a silent movie. Your father never really left the trenches, your mother used to say by way of explanation and apology. Some men just can’t come home after a war like that. 

The last memory you have of your father was the sight of him leaned back in his chair, his head bent away from his neck at an unnatural angle, with a ghoulish bloodstain on his chest from the hole his pistol had left where he’d fired it under his chin and up into his skull. You’d found him like that when you were just six years old. At almost twenty six now, you were resolved never to see someone you love waste away like that again. Yet here you were, watching someone who’d once been your brash, fun-loving, hot-headed husband fade away like a ghost.

As Lew braced for what he felt sure was going to be a proper dressing down, you felt yourself deflate like a punctured balloon. Something final and irrevocable had happened in those few moments since you’d come running up the stairs, and you knew deep in your bones that there was no going back. 

I’m leaving. 

It was all you could say. Lewis looked over at you through slitted eyes, stifling down an acidic belch as he tried to figure out your angle. Usually your arguments started with much more heat than this, but he wasn’t sober enough to hear the goodbye in your tone. 

After a few agonizing moments, he grunted at you by way of dismissal. Get me some Vat 69, while you’re out. Vat 69 was the only thing that Lewis Nixon had asked from you since he’d gotten back to the States. 

You didn’t have the heart to answer him, so you just turned on your heel, letting the boxcutter that you hadn’t even realized you’d been gripping like a vice slide out of your hand and land with a thump on the carpet. 

You descended the stairs with a strange buzzing in your head. You wondered if you should pack something, although you realized that all you really wanted to was to get as far away from the time bomb that was Lewis Nixon as fast as you possibly could. You called your mother from the kitchen phone. She didn’t need to hear you say the words to know what had happened. Come on home honey,  she said gently. I’ll make your favorite key lime pie. The kind and simple gesture brought tears to your eyes.

After a few minutes to gather the essentials - your wallet, your pearls, your father’s WWI medals - you thought of one more phone call to make. A parting kindness, you thought, as you sifted through the Rolodex you kept next to the phone until you found the card you wanted. 

The phone rang twice before a voice you knew well picked up. 

Hello? Dick, it’s me, it’s y/n Nixon. Listen, you better come get Lew. He’s… he’s not well. And I’m leaving. 

You didn’t wait for a reply before you clicked the receiver. If there was any saving of Lewis Nixon now, it wouldn’t be by you. 

With one final glance at the house and the sad trove of memories it contained, you closed the door on your past and left, hoping that both you and Lew would find some corner of peace to spend the rest of your days. 

Ronald Speirs Warnings: smut, sweet baby boy Speirs

Ron doesn’t even tell you that he’s coming home. You know it’ll be soon, and you’re waiting for a letter. None come. Years of waiting, years of him faithfully writing, years of dreaming and praying for this day. Now? Radio silence. 

So when this man shows up at your door, his duty bag in one hand and his hat in the other, the first thing you can do is scream at him. 

Ronald fucking Speirs! You didn’t fucking write me, I thought you were dead or lost or just done with me! Why didn’t you tell me! You fucking bastard, you utter fucking bastard! 

You’re hitting him and screaming and tears are everywhere. Ron just smiles. You’re precisely how he remembers you. Better even. 

He wraps you up in a hug, so tight that you can’t move. You’re still struggling, wiggling and sobbing into his shirt, trying to beat your fists against him. 

When you feel him kiss the top of your head, it all just melts. Your knees buckle and instead of beating on him you’re clinging to him. Realization hits you in waves. Ron is home. Those are Ron’s arms around you. Ron’s voice murmuring into your ear. Ron’s breath on your forehead. 

When you finally look up to him - eyes bloodshot, nose running, mascara streaking, cheeks tear stained and red - Ron smiles down at you. My beautiful girl, he says softly before catching your lips in a kiss. Everything breaks loose in that kiss. You practically want to crawl into his mouth. It’s all need: lips devouring each other, hands grabbing and nails dragging, tongues invading each other. Ron moans and you’re done, you’re a mess. 

He knows. He pushes you across the doorway, his hat and duty bag long forgotten on the porch, lifts you up and carries you to the nearest couch, undressing on the way. He rips your blouse, knocks over one of your side tables when he kicks off his shoe, and almost drops you to let you rip off his belt. 

Ron’s home to you when he slams inside of you. Your thoughts disintegrate as the two of you collide together, alternating between frenzied ferocious fucking and softer sweeter sensuality as lust, love, longing and whatever lives between those things rips open the walls you’d both built up around your hearts. 

But Ron isn’t home until after, long after, hours even. The house is trashed, clothes and pillows and furniture disheveled and everywhere. You’re both in bed, exhausted from countless rounds of tangling, with dawn threatening. You’re asleep, and Ron’s watching you dream. There’s a small crease between your eyebrows, and you’re muttering. You look troubled; and he wonders if he should wake you. He can’t stand the sight of you in anything resembling pain. But then, suddenly, you roll towards him, your head settling on his chest and one of your legs slung over his. 

Your face relaxes. You nuzzle into him. You sigh, a gentle smile on your lips. The crease is gone, your face smooth and peaceful. 

He marvels. His head tips back against the headboard, looking down at you in awe as a distinct wave of content washes over and through him.

Ronald Speirs is finally home.

Carwood Lipton Warnings: just Lip and his perpetual angel-status <3

Lip is standing with the throng of men on the deck, watching as they pull into port. The crowd below is cheering and waving American flags, popping off champagne, and the women are waving handkerchiefs. There’s a band somewhere playing patriotic songs and jaunty marches. Home has never looked so good.

‘Ey, Lip, I think I see your girl

It’s Malarkey who spies her - why and how he picked her out so easily, Lip didn't rightfully know nor want to know. But Malarkey was right, there she was.

White ribbons in her hair, white dress on, white handkerchief waving. She’s craning over the other sweethearts and mothers and fathers, eyes combing the deck of the ship. Her expression - impatient longing - snaps Lip in two. How the hell did he ever leave that girl halfway across the world?

Carwood?! Carwood Lipton?! 

He can’t hear her, but he sees her lips moving and he knows that she’s calling out his name. He doubts that any of the deck goers are having luck finding their men that way. The ship is alive with soldiers and airmen buzzing with excitement, calling out to the shore and cheering. The dock is no less vibrant, so the entire place is drowning in the sounds of joy.

Lip stares at her, unwilling to lose sight of her ever again. He vaguely registers the ship jolting to a halt at its berth, the enormous horn announcing the official arrival and, for all the men on board, the uproarious end to the war from Hell. Lip exchanges hugs, slaps on the back, firm handshakes with the men of Easy. It’s strange to have so many painful goodbyes at the same time as a long-awaited hello, but Lip knows he’ll see these men again. He can’t imagine life without them, just like he can’t imagine living without her.

The crowd of soldiers and airmen begins to move, a mass of jumbled emotions with a healthy sprinkling of joy. He watches as the first few men off the ship are swept up into the awaiting crowd as they step off the planks. He can still see her, a beacon of white. An angel, he realizes. 

He shuffles forward with the rest of the disembarking ranks. The process is painfully slow, and he’s not close enough to call out to her yet. He tries to catch her eye with a few waves, but he can only imagine how many waving hands and beaming faces she can see at once. She’s almost passed him on the dock, and Lip feels himself losing patience with the slowness of the men around him. He contemplates yelling at the men to keep it moving or don’t stand at the end of the ramp, but he doesn’t. He can’t bear to ruin a moment of this, for anyone. 

Suddenly, she sees him. Her hands fly to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. That handkerchief blots at her face. She’s gone quiet; just staring at him, waiting. He waves at her, swallowing down the tears threatening in his eyes. She waves back, unsure whether to laugh or cry, so she ends up doing both. Once again, Lip wonders how he’d ever left her. He realizes he’ll never be able to again. He’s stuck to her like glue now, it can’t be helped. And he’s got his eye on a ring. He’ll buy it tomorrow, he decides. Maybe even today, if he can find a jeweler. No more wasted time.  

The wait is agonizing. Every few minutes, she waves at him again, as if afraid that he’ll disappear like a ghost. He can’t stop smiling at her. He doesn’t notice, but the Easy men all softly agree that they’ve never seen this Lip before. A smile reserved all for her.

He steps off the ramp and she’s there, pushed through the crowd. He envelopes her in his arms as she peppers his face and neck with kisses. Soggy ones, from the tears. His or hers, anybody’s guess. She keeps repeating his name like a prayer and a plea. He holds her as she comes undone in his arms, body-wracking sobs and her head buried in his neck. He tells her it’s alright, I’m home and it makes her squeal with delight. Then they’re both laughing. He carries her a bit, not trusting her legs quite yet, and honestly unsure if he trusts himself to walk without her weight in his arms holding him to Earth. She babbles, he listens, she asks something, he talks. It’s easy - so easy - and Carwood Lipton feels himself stepping back into himself after so many years of being Lip and First Sergeant. 

Her hand in his, they walk the streets of this strange town that neither of them are from, but yet somehow always find themselves feeling right at home. He has to squeeze her hand every once in a while to remind himself that she’s real, and he’s really here, and the war is behind him. All day and late into the evening, Lipton and his girl stroll together, two friends, two lovers, one very happy ending. 

Buck Compton Warnings: cursing, references to alcohol abuse

No one’s there at the train depot when Buck gets home. His mother is tied up taking care of his baby sister and her new baby, sick with colic, and his dad is too frail to make the forty-minute trip by car to the station. And you’re done with him, as of Christmas time. 

Some homecoming.

He wanders through the town’s sleepy Main Street, killing time before his brother-in-law’s shift ends at the munitions factory and he can pick Buck up. It’s a hot day, sweat runs down his back. It reminds him of Toccoa. He chuckles darkly, grateful that he’s not running up Currahee with Sobel’s sour puss hot on his heels. He’s grateful for a moment, but then he wonders if maybe those were the best days of his life, and he just didn’t know it. So far, the end of the war hasn’t brought much happiness his way. Maybe the best is behind him already. 

He stops for a root beer float at the local soda counter. He brought you here for the first date. He still remembered that your lips tasted like strawberry milkshake later when he’d parked his truck in front of an empty cornfield and kissed you until he was dizzy. He knows he’ll never be able to order a strawberry milkshake again.  

A couple of the old men sitting in the window side booths nod at him, one even pays for his tab. Buck thanks them but makes no move to engage in conversation. He’s not gloomy, exactly. Just lonely. He thinks about Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere, about the marrow-deep cold of Bastogne, and about just how far away he feels from the taste of strawberry on your tongue. Despite the scorching summer heat, he suppresses a shiver. 

Buck’s sitting on a bench in front of the depot when his brother-in-law pulls up. 

Hey Buck! Welcome home, buddy.

Thanks, Dickie.

His sister’s husband has a noticeable limp, one of his legs visibly wasted and bent at an unnatural angle from the knee down. Bike accident when he was six, kept him out of the war. From his sisters letters, Buck knows that Dickie’s been hitting the bottle hard after he got 4F’ed and told under no uncertain terms that he won’t fight for Uncle Sam. Buck can see the strain in Dickie’s smile, the dark bags under his eyes and the faint stain of gray at his temples. Buck feels about three decades older than when he left home, but Dickie looks it. 

The ride home is quiet. Buck asks after his sister, Dickie asks after the war. Neither of them really listen to the answers. 

When Dickie cuts the engine off in front of Buck’s parents’ place, the porch light is on and there’s a lamp in the front room window, shining merrily. Buck sighs deeply. He’d expected to come home to you, a little apartment somewhere. He’d planned on picking up his life from there, but instead he’s here, looking at a place he calls home without feeling at home. He thinks he might prefer a cot in Toccoa, or a hot cot on a transport ship, or maybe even a foxhole. 

Aight Buck, you take it easy. I’ll see you ‘round. Make sure you stop in and see Kitty soon, she’s dying to see ya.

Sure, Dickie. Thanks for the lift. 

The sun is setting fast behind the mountains. Cicadas are beginning to strum and the fireflies dance in the fields gone farrow behind the house. Buck climbs up the front steps, his duty bag slung over one shoulder. 

Buck?

He freezes where he is, hand outstretched towards the doorknob. It can’t be… can it?

He hears the creak of the swing from the darkened corner of the porch as you stand up. 

Welcome home, Buck.

It is you. Buck is still frozen, his upper lip beginning to tremble. He wished it were darker, wished the damn light was off so you wouldn’t have to see him like this. He feels the boards vibrate as you step towards him, hesitating at his side.

I’m sorry, Buck. I… I made a mistake…

A tear slips out. He swipes at it angrily. What the hell is he crying for? he wonders. 

It’s just that Louise told me she read in a magazine that it’s harder for the men sometimes if they’re worried about someone back home and in your letters you were just always asking about me and how I was and what I was doing and I just knew that you were going through it, Buck, you know, I read the news and I knew you were right on the front lines and I started thinking about you being out there and distracted and what would happen if you lost your focus at the wrong time and you got shot or you got hit by a grenade or a sniper and I thought about losing you, Buck, and I just couldn’t, I couldn’t lose you, and I started to think maybe I needed to make it easier on you and I wrote you that awful letter and it was terrible Buck it was so bad and I hated writing it and I hated sending it but I convinced myself I had to and-

Buck silenced you by pressing his lips to yours mid-sentence. Whatever other explanations and apologies you had died in your mouth with a soft whimper, and suddenly your hands were traveling up his arms and tickling the base of his neck and you were sighing like you hadn’t really exhaled in months. Buck swallowed it up, kissing you deeply and gently. He didn’t know how to say that he didn’t care about all that, that all he wanted was you with him. The rest would work itself out. Buck knew from the war that if you surrounded yourself with good people, then you could get through anything. 

He laughed when he tasted the strawberry milkshake on your lips. Smiling against your mouth, he broke the kiss and held you in his arms, his hands at the small of your back. 

Why are you laughing you ask incredulously. Did you hear what I said? aren’t you mad? You hadn’t expected this reaction. In fact, you’d prepared yourself for Buck to be so furious that he wouldn’t even speak with you. It was less than half of what you felt you deserved. 

Buck just shook his head, smiling to himself at a private joke. You wondered if he was laughing at how easily you fell for that kiss before he told you to take a hike and disappeared from your life forever. 

Mad? He sounds incredulous, like that’s the most ridiculous question anyone’s ever asked him. 

Yeah, Buck. I mean… I know I broke your heart.

He doesn’t deny it, just nods simply and looks deep into your eyes.

Don’t leave me again, darlin’, and I’ll consider it even.

You can’t reply because his lips are on yours again. All you can do is smile as you kiss your apology into Buck’s mouth until the sunset has faded and his dad calls out to the two of you to come inside already!

Bull Randleman Warnings: angst (you have been warned!!)

Something strange happened to Bull in the convent at Foy. He hadn’t expected it. But suddenly, there you were. Sitting in the back of his mind like an itch he just couldn’t scratch. His third grade crush from Ms. Wheeler’s class. And his eighth grade crush. And his prom date. 

Bull grew up in a small town, and it had only gotten smaller to him since he’d left. Sometimes in quieter moments he’d wondered if he’d ever be able to go back home. He’d seen a lot of the world - granted, most of it with the threat of German artillery at his back - but still. His hometown felt so far away and so small that he couldn’t imagine fitting the size of his memories back there. 

And yet, sitting there in the dim candlelight of that convent, listening to those angelic voices, that tiny podunk town was all he could think of. Why couldn’t he remember the name of that street, the one with the post office on it? And what was the name of those neighbors with the herd of basset hounds? He couldn’t recall what kind of flowers his Ma planted in front of the house, facing due east. Bull realized that he was forgetting home, and it opened a gaping wound in his heart.

One thing he did remember clearly was you. He hadn’t seen you in a long time, maybe not for months before he’d signed up for the 101st. You’d been working at the florist right off 1st Street the last he’d heard. Why he hadn’t looked in on you after high school, he couldn’t say. He’d been sweet on you back then, puppy love head-over-heels type stuff. You were his first kiss, his first date, his first of just about everything. Including his first love.

Somewhere along the way, Bull had gotten the hare-brained idea that he’d outgrown you. He’d stopped calling, stopped asking you out to the movies or to the diner. He remembered how he’d seen you out one night, his arm slung over some other girl that his buddy had set him up with. He remembered the way you’d stared with your lip shaking, your eyes welling with tears, before you’d practically run off into the Sears department store. Bull knew damn well you couldn’t afford anything in Sears; all of the money you’d ever made working as an English tutor and a nanny went to taking care of your eleven foster siblings. He knew you ran in there just to get away from him. At the time, he’d laughed about it. He’d told himself you’d be fine, you’d grow up eventually and get over it. He told himself that’s exactly what he’d done - grown up - but now he realized quite the opposite. He’d been intimidated by how much he’d liked you, how much he’d thought about you and worried after you and how scared he’d been when he’d realized that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed you anymore. You with your hand-me-down dresses and your sweet, shy smile and your head always in the clouds of a romance novel. His buddies had commented on it, and suddenly Bull had felt jealous, insecure even. He’d hated it, and he’d run from it. 

But that night in Foy, you were the only place his mind could land. You were all he thought of. And he’d promised himself that if he somehow managed to walk out of hell at the end of the war, that he’d ask you out again. Who knew what you were up to now. He thought he remembered his Ma make an off-hand comment that you’d started working at the hospital in the next town over, but he couldn’t be sure. But Bull knew you’d be back in that small town, probably just as sweet as ever. And if you gave him another chance, he’d never let you go again.

Three days after stepping foot back in the States, and Bill was standing outside your house in his Army dress uniform, a bouquet of orange lilies in his hands. He wondered if you’d remember that he’d gotten you those same flowers for your prom corsage. They’d stood out against the baby pink of your dress that you’d borrowed from your cousin. Every time Bull saw a sunset or a flower bed, he thought of you. In fact, there wasn’t much that Bull saw these days that didn’t make him think of you.

He knocked three times sharply on the door. Your house looked just the same as ever: the front porch sagged in the middle, the curtains drawn and stained, the paint peeling. There was a ruckus inside, and what sounded to be about a dozen kids all screamed out “DOOR!” 

A severe woman with dark gray hair slicked back into a tight bun answered. Her mouth was a thin, straight gash and her eyes narrowed in something between distaste and disbelief. She glanced down at the flowers in Bull’s hands and at the sharp, crisply ironed lines of his uniform.

Mother Beatrice, Bull said with a slight bow. Not sure if you remember me, ma’am, but I-

I remember you. Randelman, right? You here for the girl? 

Your foster mother looked older but her manner was as cold and loveless as ever. She never used names for the children she took in - just called them by various impersonal monikers. For some reason, yours had always been “the girl”. Bull wasn’t the only one who’d overlooked you.  

He nodded, thinking that if Easy had Mother Beatrice in their ranks then Germany might have fallen about a year earlier. He’d have to be sure to tell you that. He was certain you would laugh.

I wondered if anyone would come Mother Beatrice commented as she shut the door behind her, muffling the sounds of screeching children. She walked down the front porch steps and turned towards the back of the old farmhouse without a backwards glance. Bull followed, his brow furrowing slightly at her cryptic comment. He figured you might have had a few pen pals on the front, some girls would do that sort of thing, write to strangers to try and keep their spirits up. He’d heard that some of the men had made a point to look in on their pen pals when they’d gotten back home. Maybe that’s what she meant.

She’s back here? Bull asked, taking in the sight of the rundown farmhouse-turned-orphanage and its weedy lawn. As long as he’d known you, he’d never known you to linger here. Too loud, no privacy you’d always told him. Bull usually found you in the library or a park bench. Somewhere quiet. 

Mother Beatrice nodded, shooting him a strangely exasperated look. Course she is, where else would she go? The girl doesn’t have any other home.

Bull chewed his lip thoughtfully. He supposed that was true. Maybe things had changed. 

Mother Beatrice led him around the backside of the dingy farmhouse, past a rundown chicken coop with a few mangy looking birds pecking at the dirt. There was a dilapidated stable off in the distance with one bony mare grazing on the tall grass and an overgrown vegetable garden. The tree line off in the distance looked ominously dark, like a line of guards sent to make sure the misery of this place didn’t spread.

Mother Beatrice stopped short, and Bull almost walked into her. There she is.

Bull looked around but didn’t see you. In addition to the forlorn horse, the garden and the coop, he noted a greenhouse missing more windows than it had and a towering oak tree reaching up for the sky as if running away from the unfortunate place it’d been planted. But no sign of you anywhere

Mother Beatrice looked at him intently for a moment, making Bull squirm in his boots, before sharply turning on her heel to leave. She called back to him at the base of the tree and vanished around the side of the house. 

Alone at last, Bull looked at the shadowy trunk but didn’t see anything. Must be around the backside, he reasoned. He started walking towards the tree, but a strange quiet settled over him. Suddenly, his collar felt too tight and his chest felt hollow. Something wasn’t right.

As he approached the tree, he began to make out what Mother Beatrice was referring to. He could hardly believe his eyes, and with each step forward he felt his feet grow heavier as if his boots were filled with lead. About ten paces from the trunk, he stopped, unable to go any closer. His shoulders sagged and he felt the bouquet slip out of his hands.

There you were, your name staring back at him from the headstone. 

Y/n Y/l/n October 11, 1924-January 9, 1945 Army Nurse Corps May she rest in the peace of the Lord

Bull wasn’t sure how long he stared at the stone. At your name. At the words Army Nurse Corps. Bull hadn’t known you were a nurse. He hadn’t remembered your birthday. He realized he’d been misspelling your last name this whole time.

Bull stood and stared until the light was almost gone from the sky. The sound of Mother Beatrice ringing a bell and calling out dinner! from the front porch jarred him out of his reverie. He hastily wiped the tears that had long ago dried on his face, feeling out of place and like an unwelcome intruder. 

He left without saying goodbye. He did manage to tilt the bouquet against your headstone, and run his fingers over the cold edges of your name cut into the marble. He didn’t feel entitled to much else. 

It wasn’t until he was home that night, deeper into a bottle of whiskey than a grieving man ought to be, when he realized something.

January 9th, 1945. The day you’d died. It was the same day he’d sat in that convent outside Foy, listening to that angelic choir, reminiscing about you and imagining a future that would never come to be.

***********************************************************************

Still working on... Joseph Liebgott Doc Roe Maybe David Webster too? *let me know if you have any other requests

[n7punk]

“Slipstream” Fic Notes

Slipstream is done after growing far beyond the “simple hacker fic” concept and honestly Mara’s so cute I can’t even be mad. Fic notes below.

Playlist:

I’ve got the playlist here, but other honorable mentions I listeded to on repeat during this just because I wanted to: The Sex Was Good Until It Wasn’t album by XANA (it dropped in May and that shit is still on repeat), SUCKERPUNCH album by chloe moriondo (for chapter 6), PVRIS’s entire discography (I was going through something).

The Kicker — XANA

Good Luck, Babe! — Chappell Roan

Diet Heartbreak — chloe moriondo

TRAUMA BOND — poutyface

Albi — XANA

Rly Don’t Care — chloe moriondo

Chaos Is Love — K.Flay

Teenage Nightmare [unreleased demo]

What’s My Age Again? — Emilia Ali

Late Bloomer — Allison Ponthier

Holy Revival — Maisie Peters (ignore the verses)

Femininomenon — Chappell Roan

Mercury In Retrograde — Avril Lavigne

NIGHT IN JAIL — Rachel Bochner

my best friend’s ex — emlyn

Even If It Kills Me [unreleased demo]

Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl — Chappell Roan

Sirens (feat. Sophie Powers) — MOTHICA

Homewrecking Era — XANA

Obsessed (feat. Ashley Sienna) — Sophie Powers

Obsessed — Astrid S

Look At Her Now — Selena Gomez

Pretty Girls — Renee Rapp

Cruel Summer — Taylor Swift

Picture You — Chappell Roan

Epilogue Life:

It takes a few months for Catra to feel like she has any handle on “parenting” or any right to even think that term about herself when she’s still a newcomer to Mara’s life, but Mara has accepted her at that point, it’s Catra and her own lack of a parental figure that is stopping her. She never would have accepted someone trying to come in and parent her after being so jaded from the first few years of her life (see her  relationship with Adora’s parents in high school), so she’s expecting Mara to be a lot more hesitant and take “convincing”. She wants to give her the time she needs, but Mara had a loving parent growing up and doesn’t see adding Catra to that role as a bad thing.

Mara also has a little kid understanding of the world, so to her the instant Catra and Adora are dating she’s her stepmom, not because it’s that easy, but because obviously dating = will get married, so there is no point “fighting” something that is inevitable. Even though her parents don’t talk to each other, it doesn’t occur to her that people break up under normal circumstances. Her dad has hurt her mom and her a lot, he’s a bad guy, and Catra isn’t that, so why would she ever leave. They’re both girls and gay, they have no need to breakup. Life isn’t that simple, but it does make their relationship transition pretty smooth from Mara’s perspective.

Catra still insists on the stepdad thing and it becomes a family joke. Catra tells Mara it’s because it would be too confusing if they were both mom and Mara accepts that without question, because she is actually right. The reasons for stepdad are multi-layered, like this addition which helps Mara accept it: Mara wants someone good to replace the force of rejection and imbalance her bio dad was, so she’s more than happy to have Catra take that mantle instead. Catra wants to replace him as well, for many reasons including her own selfish hatred of him, but also her own insecurity. She knows she can be a better parent than Falcon, but she doesn’t think she can ever be equal to Adora and thus an equal mom. Adora’s parents weren’t 100% wrong when they mentioned the butch thing either because it is my headcanon Catra is a little GNC at times. Not really anything deep or strong enough for her to identify any particular way, just something that means she wouldn’t mind stepdad or “sir” even without all those other layers. Eventually a lot of those factors stop seeming like such a big deal but at that point it is just a family joke that never really dies. Occasionally once she’s in high school Mara calls her mom, but mostly Catra is “Dad” or “my stepdad” when being referred to singularly, and then when Mara is referring to both her parents she calls them “my moms”. Which does confuse people and Catra finds that funny.

When Mara is in high school and the age Adora and Falcon were when they started dating, Falcon finally tries reaching out again. That was a phone call Adora never wanted to get, but he’s not coming back to the country — he does still have those debts waiting for him, after all, and unable to pay them back, the stress would take him right back to that mental state he fled — and he’s not trying to rejoin their lives, he just kind of wants to know what happened after he left. Adora is angry and tells him he doesn’t have the right to know that after what he did — and she’s right — but later she still regrets it and, after talking to Catra (who also tells her she was right and she shouldn’t call him back and open that door back into their lives for him, but sits by her side when she’s on the phone to support her when she insists on going through with it), she calls him back. She only gives him the very high level stuff: she started dating someone right around when he disappeared, and they’re married now and happy, and she has become Mara’s new stepdad — something Falcon thinks she says as a pointed jab not knowing that’s really what Mara calls her — and Mara is doing well despite Falcon messing up her sense of trust and safety as a little kid, and definitely doesn’t need him fucking with her again by trying to contact her now. Adora makes it clear this is a courtesy she is giving him with the understanding that, now she has volunteered the information, he isn’t going to seek any more out or bother them.

That holds kind of true. He checks in with Adora around high school graduation just to make sure Mara made through it okay — he can’t help but remember around this time he was ruining both their lives — and to see if she plans to go to college, which she does, and then he calls again three years later just to see if she’s still on that track, which she is. He never calls again and Adora never knows if that’s because he moved on, or got closure, or lost their number, or died. Mara knows he called to check in on her once or twice but Adora didn’t tell her until she was an adult because she worried about reintroducing all that old uncertainty and fear back into her life, and at least now no one can force her to see Falcon if she doesn’t want to.

Catra seriously considers hunting him down after he goes dark, but she has done what she can to close the illegal chapter of her life and she knows Adora wouldn’t be happy with her reopening it — especially when she’s a little rusty — for their own closure with him. Catra didn’t exactly succeed in turning over a new leaf overnight, but she did greatly reduced her law-breaking, leaving only little slip-ups that happened every few months until she managed to stretch a gap long enough for it to become permanent, the impulse no longer second nature and her episodes of feeling untouchable either more rare or focused on something other than being unafraid of the government. She does stay in the cybersecurity sector professionally for a long time and works alongside Entrapta several times throughout the years.

I’ve kind of talked about this before and even included it in the concert scene, but Catra and Entrapta do kind of keep  referring to each other as partner occasionally and honestly neither of them are really sure how they mean it. They never formally said “QPR over”, they said “no more physical affection (sex)” and they remained very close, though it felt like it did end more definitively when Catra eventually moved in with Adora. That took her longer to do than it usually does in AUs due to both her happiness/comfort with Entrapta, trying not to “upset” Mara by forcing the change on her, and Catra still needing the ability to get distance from them for the night sometimes while dealing with her own demons, but those slowly disappear as Mara lets her heal her own childhood and she sees she can be a good parental figure with experience.

Chapter 1:

⦁ “Slipstream” was once again a temporary placeholder name that became permanent. It’s a reference to the hacker Slipstream, one of the names behind the Nintendo gigaleak.

⦁ Entrapta’s daily energy drink limit is by no means her daily average, but any day drinking seven energy drinks is a bad one. She doesn’t actually drink Monster every day… Just like 95% of them. And she is a lot more likely to drink 1-3 than 5.

⦁ Okay I’m like half bullshitting the tech speak in this fic. The 20 minute decryption Waffle House thing? Yeah that’s actually optimistic. The kid who hacked the CIA did that exact thing and took 30 minutes to log on and he still eventually got caught.

⦁ Close followers of my Tumblr will already know Adora Maria is reference to some terrible  “wrong” trivia answers to a question about She-ra’s names.

Chapter 2:

⦁ Steps (loosely): 1) Identify absolutely necessary files and save them, 2) Paste contents of other important word/text files into empty cloud documents she can download later (cleaning metadata), 3) Create a new encrypted email on a totally different machine (in this case, Catra’s clean laptop she had with her), 4) Forward absolutely necessary emails to new address (being very selective), 5) Delete what accounts it’s reasonable to just nuke, 6) Completely wipe computer and reset it, 7) Change first the associated email and then the password of all other accounts in a closed environment (Catra’s laptop) and turn on two-factor for absolutely everything that has the option, 8) When all information has been reset, delete old email in closed environment as insurance.

⦁ Adora’s scent changed some with pregnancy and then the rest with lifestyle changes.

⦁ Mara comes out to check on them because Adora told her an old friend from high school was coming over and she wasn’t making the happy sounds she makes with her friends. When she realized Adora was stressed she got worried, doubly so when she said it was grown-up stuff, because that grown-up stuff could be Mara-related — especially since she knows Falcon is causing problems with child support even if Adora tries to keep her from hearing about it too much — which is why Adora invited her out to see it’s really okay.

Chapter 3:

⦁ Originally when I wrote the group chat there was nothing differentiating who was speaking, but I had the idea to use emojis like profile pictures to make it more clear. The scorpio icon was originally head-in-the-clouds (high af emote), the star was originally just a sassy emote, and the dragon changed the same. I ended up changing them because a reader sent an ask letting me know that the emotes wouldn’t translate to epub format and the Scorpio and star “emote” are part of the standard unicode colored symbals, so I’m hoping they’re included, but I also don’t have any way of checking without just uploading the thing so this was my best effort. I kept the dragon even though it’s not included because I was too attached and only one person missing an icon would at least differentiate it from the others still.

⦁ Adora named Mara after her old teacher Mara because she was the only out lesbian she (knew) she had ever met. She was pretty quiet about it to not get harassed by parents, but she wasn’t about to lie about it, and she would talk about Hope when prompted. Adora admired that back in high school thinking she just Respected Her Ideals™️ and later realized it was more than that.

⦁ Catra’s conflicting feelings looking at Mara hugging Adora’s hip are actually less because she’s remembering her father and more remembering she was doing that to feel safe and she doesn’t like to think she’s making a kid feel unsafe too.

⦁ Adora’s habit of rubbing at her tattoo (versus something like the back of her neck) started when it itched a lot while healing. She has terrible tattoo discipline and really shouldn’t get another one because she couldn’t leave it alone.

⦁ You might be able to tell here, but originally Mara was intended to be older (8-ish or something) but I didn’t want them to separate that long. The timeline is already kind of screwy because even with Adora a year older Mara should actually be four with pregnancy time, but shhhhhh.

⦁ Oh my god I wish more people knew the difference between the deep web and the dark web. People act like they’re interchangable when Facebook qualifies as the deep web. Catra is a deep web miscreant, not the dark web.

Chapter 4:

⦁ Perfuma doesn’t know they’re cyber criminals but given the jokes about felonies she can guess that’s the only thing that makes sense, and then she elects not to think any more about it because they’re really important to Scorpia and she wants plausible deniability.

⦁ Obviously Catra hadn’t said Adora’s name yet, but Adora is such an Entity in her mind it feels like everybody should think about her as much as Catra does.

⦁ Perfuma would have to be totally oblivious to not pick up from the conversation that Catra had a crush on Adora in high school, and knowing what she does about Adora’s comphet she just kind of assumes it was the classic “crush on a straight girl” that went nowhere until Catra left school. She’s not about to embarrass Catra by bringing that up to Adora, but if she knew how serious it was and had a hunch how Adora felt she might interfere.

⦁ Table break lore. I wouldn’t say this is a reference so much as a shared headcanon that previously came up allllllllllll the way back in Drawn Into The Music, where Scorpia breaks a table trying to lean on it while drunk because Biceps.

⦁ Mara’s set up is basically what I had as a kid. When we were little we had the “kid computer” which belonged to someone back in the day when it was actually considered a good machine. It didn’t have internet and was just for playing games (which were all offline at that point in time). When we got old enough for the internet we had a  software that only let us browse for like 30 minutes each day and I think had an automatic filter of inappropriate sites? If it did, the site list was very minimal and I never ran into any issues personally, but a software that blocks pornhub isn’t a bad thing for a five year old to have even if I’m generally against online surveillance lmao. It’s not making a list of sites she visited for spying purposes or anything, and generally Adora tries to be in the room with her when she’s online (in-game or not) because you know. Super young. She’s really busy though and sometimes has to rely on the idea that the parents of Mara’s friends are doing the same thing and monitoring them so they can keep safe. That is not always true.

⦁ Adora tousles Mara’s hair and pets her so much because that became one of the ways she knew how to express affection with Catra and now it’s just ingrained as a part of her.

⦁ Semi-related, she and Catra didn’t actually meet until middle school in this ‘verse and had about five years together before Catra’s breakdown.

⦁ Adora’s tattoo is the season one sword in a deep maroon and then the gem in the center of the hilt is the sunset ombre from the lesbian flag. Catra just thought the lines were black because she couldn’t see that shade of red.

⦁ “The breakup” here is code for “uncomfortable sex experience”.

Chapter 5:

⦁ Catra was about to say she doesn’t get on her knees unless a pretty girl asks nicely before her brain caught up with her mouth.

⦁ Adora was absolutely not going to interrupt because she was smitten watching them interact. She never in her wildest dreams thought Catra would do more than tolerate her child at best, but she forgot the factor of her kind of outweighed the factor of child.

⦁ Uhhhh. So. Alright fuck it. Catra was in a mania fit when she broke into the mall. That can come from a couple things and I’ve experienced it once I think, but yeah she really should be on mood stablizers and just refuses to see a professional about it. Once her life stabilized and she essentially had Entrapta as a safety net, knowing she wasn’t going to kick her out if her work lapsed, it made things a lot easier, but her constant vigilance against authorities could just as easily be seen as appropriate vigilance as it is paranoia (primarily socially-unacceptable anxiety).

⦁ Catra doesn’t know how to categorize her emotions outside of bad criteria so any strong emotion gets categorized as “breakdownable” or not but that’s definitely not what she’s feeling here, having emotions just feels like she’s dying.

⦁ Bella Sara supremacy !! 🗣️🗣️I don’t think it was available on the Vita lol but it was in THIS universe.

Chapter 6:

⦁ Catra was, subconsciously, still trying to delay the inevitable of Adora and Entrapta meeting by meeting with Adora and Scorpia downstairs. When they finally came home and it was time, Catra basically tried to get everyone settled in the living room and her own bedroom without “bothering” Entrapta, but she did vaguely greet them when they got home. Their first real conversation was the one in the bed, though.

⦁ Adora is the type of drunk to try to perpetuate her own existence. If you look away from drunk Adora for a second she’s doing another round of shots and trying to get herself hospitalized.

⦁ “Adora shouldn’t be worrying about this” yeah this reaction has nothing to do with cheating, Catra, that’s just all she can do with her jealousy reasonably.

⦁ The Scene (1)

⦁ Belgian Boys mini pancakes my beloved

⦁ Okay so “cheating” per se isn’t so much a thing in their relationship, but by the idea that there are rules and they have an understanding which involves not messing around with other people without notification/permission, then yes cheating is a thing. It would  be shitty for Catra to do anything without letting Entrapta know she intends to, which is the entire point of the fun pass.

Chapter 7:

⦁ Catra didn’t really have a sex addiction or anything she was just really, really lonely, knew people found her hot, and needed reasons to stay at other people’s places, so it ended up as a perfect storm.

⦁ “Put the kid on and let me talk to her” from Catra “I’m just tolerating the kid” Meow Meow.

⦁ Yes I know that “bludgeoning weapon” was not at all correct. But it sounded good, and that’s what writing is sometimes.

⦁ “She tells herself Mara would miss her gifts and then immediately questions why she needs to tell herself anything at all.” Idk Catra I think Mara might miss you as a little more than a gift-giving source. She might be really broken up by you not coming around. (You would also miss her but I’m not even going to pretend you’re open to that idea)

⦁ IDK CATRA MAYBE THE KID WANTED TO BE AROUND AND TRUSTED BY YOU. IDIOT

⦁ The Scene (2)

Chapter 8:

⦁ Turnabout’s fair play and we’ve gone from Adora thinking she can’t stay over to Catra thinking it. These two lesbians just need to accept they’re equally needy.

⦁ “Hoodwinked” agenda !! In all seriousness I haven’t watched it in years so I’m not sure if it holds up, but I loved that movie as a kid and so did my mom. I watched it so many times.

⦁ “Tax-free” is in reference to the final line of the chapter, where Catra has some (minor) dues to pay for how she has lived her life, but it’s nothing more serious than what she has already done, because as awful as she often thinks herself, most of what she did was just surviving under hard circumstances.

Chapter 9:

⦁ Adora has it right with Falcon. To him, he and his girlfriend had sex bad enough for her to realize she was gay (he was not being a good partner for that because he didn’t notice she was uncomfortable, he was just thinking three years together made it about time), he suddenly has a kid at only 19, and his now-ex he was planning to marry can’t even look at him. He already had gambling tendencies and really fell on it with the stress of college and navigating the kid situation, and then everything snowballed because the debt got bad enough he couldn’t make tuition and his stress went even further through the roof when he was forced to just get a job to pay what child support he could, and then he starts getting these threats and at that point completely starting over is looking pretty attractive. Whether or not he was in the right has no effect on how his brain was able to handle it and Mara’s inception turned out mildly traumatic for everyone involved.

⦁ “The fact that Adora is right to have her suspicions is annoying.” That’s a little thing called guilt, kitten.

⦁ I don’t know what my thing with Albuquerque is but whenever I think of someone going into hiding/leaving the country I think of them doing it there. I’m sure it was used in some piece of media I consumed when I was young and that’s where it came from because to my knowledge it’s not an international flights hub.

⦁ Glimmer is one of those people who will drop in the group chat like hey who wants to see a show in two weeks and then just buy tickets for everyone. This was actually arranged months ago, hence the Star siblings not thinking about the timing and having a conflict, and it was before Perfuma and Scorpia even started dating.

⦁ Melendy Britt was a voice actress on the OG cartoon and like a third of the female characters, playing Adora amongst others. She was recently at the MOTU SDCC panel.

⦁ In most ‘verses I think Catra loves music, she just has a specific history in this AU that makes it a weird thing for her because she knows it was robbed of her but can’t try to get into it now because that’s acknowledging everything she has lost.

⦁ The brain development thing is actually a myth and it varies wildly between people, but Adora’s parents are also the kind to sincerely believe you’re only using 10% of your brain at any given time.

Chapter 10:

⦁ When I was initially figuring out what to do with Falcon, I wasn’t really sure what to do with him. I wanted to get him involved in criminal stuff Catra could uncover so he couldn’t be around Mara anymore, but I was also hesitant to do that because Adora’s life is in a precarious place without the child support. I also didn’t want to make him into this caricature of awfulness when he was once Adora’s longterm boyfriend and thus at least seemed decent. Then I remembered Catra has a tech sector paycheck and I could easily just run him off at that point.

⦁ Honestly, now is probably the time to admit that every third time I went to write Falcon’s name I almost wrote Sea Hawk just because they’re so similar, which makes sense since Falcon was invented to be Sea Hawk’s ex, but it was a struggle the whole fic lol.

⦁ Okay, but what did happen with Falcon and the money/threats? Well, Catra had it pretty right: they were sketchy people, and criminals sure, scammers definitely, but they weren’t actually going to send hitmen after him or anything. He was never in any danger. Leaving the country did actually give him a new leaf though and he was a better person with it, managing to build something even though he was still struggling with his gambling addiction. He wasn’t able to keep any kind of savings going as a result but he at least learned not to spend money he didn’t actually have and get in debt. He managed to find a small pension job and get help for his anxiety, which let him at least a small modest life.

⦁ Mrs. Bee is Sweet Bee.

⦁ I meant to have a conversation about swearing they never ended up having. Basically, Adora vaguely tries to censor herself, but things like “oh stars” come naturally to her from her parents, “fuck” just also comes naturally from everyone else in her life lol. Mara knows kind of what swear words are and that they’re “adult words” you need to be older to understand the impact of, so when Catra (or Adora) does inevitably swear in front of the kid, it’s  not much of a big deal. Catra ends up making it out to be a bigger thing in her head and putting more effort into censoring herself (read: any effort) than Adora does or cares. Eventually they do talk about it when Catra takes a bit more of a parental role in Mara’s life and is trying to figure out what that entails.

⦁ There’s this tendency for people talking to kids to refer to their parents as “your mom” rather than like, their name which you would be using in any other context. Catra has had a secret rule — secret even to herself — that she’s going to keep Adora’s name and not do that “your mom” shit. Well, here she is doing that shit, and it’s because she feels a lot less like she needs to distance herself from Mara — and thus the concept of Adora having kids — than she did at first when Mara quite frankly terrified her.

⦁ “I didn’t remember your phone number-” a straight up lie, “-and I wasn’t about to go back home under any conditions to ask your parents what you were up to,” will turn out to be a lie.

Chapter 11:

⦁ “It’ll even look bad on Mara by the time of their next zoo visit.” Oh? Are you planning to be part of that visit, Catra?

⦁ (I am not personally a big fan of bucket hats but there are times when they look really cute — yes even on adults — Catra’s just a hater)

⦁ Catra’s description of how the magicat crowns work is actually how her mask works on her official doll. In the case of the magicat queens, though, the hooks were more like a fallback because the mask was made to be so perfect against their face its weight was distributed over the entire thing and the small hooks just kept it from getting out of place.

⦁ Catra’s freakout is very funny to me because kids will play with literally anyone they like but Catra has so little experience she thinks this is what fatherhood is. Not that she isn’t a Trusted Adult to Mara but most of her “signs” would be there whether or not they were dating.

⦁ “It’s also partially that she isn’t ever going to be a father to anyone, and thus using it has more joking distance that feels marginally more acceptable.” She’s a dad within six months lmao.

⦁ Being a parent doesn’t come naturally to a lot of people, and Catra is one of those, so for most of the fic you don’t really get to see her in “parent mode”, and I do worry where it leaves off some people will see her as not a good step-parent for Mara, but that’s a slow process for her to reach. The fic would have to drag out a lot longer before it could reach  the point where it’s natural for her. For most of the first year she feels like she’s horribly flailing during every interaction with Mara, and that doesn’t change with this chapter, but she does internally accept that this is a role she’s going to have and wants to take  up, so while she still jokes and occasionally slips up, she does love the kid and is doing her best.

Chapter 12:

⦁ I’m basically picturing the Home Alone house for Adora’s parents but I don’t remember it from the movie, I remember it from the LEGO set. So do with that what you will.

⦁ Marlena knows what she’s doing and she’s just trying to feel Catra out because she never would have pictured her becoming a parent in high school, but she also knows, both logically and from her phone calls with Adora, that Catra has grown a lot.

Original Outline:

I actually have my original idea for the fic still written down from a Discord conversation with a friend so here it is in its entirety:

vague idea is catra + entrapta are a hacker duo and they’re a thing. adora's organization is data compromised, forcing catra to get back in contact with her to help her fix it (vaguer idea is adora works for a nonprofit or something. dont hold me to that) like catra independently finds out there's a security vulnerability and is like fuck i have to be a good guy about this Maybe Catra tries to hack them to spy on adora because she misses her and then she gets way too much way too easily.

So yeah obviously a lot changed. Another idea was that Catra had to protect Adora from people trying to get her for… IDK, something Catra uncovered that Adora didn’t even know she knew (or at least didn’t realized was incriminating enough for people to want to cover it up), but I don’t really like writing action lol.

Everything changed because I had been wanting to write a single mom Adora fic too, just didn’t have anything written for it. In the initial version of Slipstream, I had no background for how they drifted apart, and the comphet backstory for the single mom Adora fic slotted nicely into Slipstream’s empty past, so I combined them so I could write both at once, especially because (as evidenced by how little was in the outline) I didn’t have any kind of ongoing plot after they reconnected that I actually wanted to write (again, action ideas are fun, but not for me to write). The new story gave me a lot more avenues to explore relationship dynamics as a big element for all the characters, and thus gave the QPR more relevance and let me portray something I think is kind of rare. Entrapta’s relationship with relationships in this fic is really personal to me and it kind of stuck out as a little out of place in the old idea, but in this version of the fic it works into the overall themes of relationships, self-denial, and accepting that what satisfies you isn’t necessarily the thing that will make you happiest and that’s worth whatever risks are associated with it.

I want back and forth on the club chapter and the following revolving around a few points: should they actually kiss in the club or just come close, should they kiss in the kitchen, and should they get evolved enough in that kiss for Adora’s hand to reach Catra’s tail. I kind of knew the latter would be too far, but ultimately decided the first two were permissible within their rules.

Meta:

Adora’s floorplan

Upcoming:

Next up will be an OotW oneshot. I’m also working on the Lightbeam sequel fic, and lowkey another AU I’ve been teasing, but I don’t think I'll have time for them before Sapphic September starts and I chip away at some of those prompts, so we'll see what’s going to shove to the forefront first, so stay tuned IG lol

[jibbi]

Unpopular opinion: Sam Smith is cool & valid

CW: transphobia, nonbinary hate

Every time I see an article pop up about Sam Smith, there’s a bunch of nasty, transphobic comments and jokes from people even if it’s not an article related to Sam’s gender. And, additionally a lot of people keep saying “Sam Smith has changed so much!”

It all makes me genuinely angry because Sam Smith is such a cool person and talented singer.

So, here is my post defending them because they are so valid and undeserving of the hate and ruthless laughs they’ve been getting.

Their gender identity

I can’t remember when exactly, but I BELIEVE it was a few years ago that Sam came out as nonbinary, stating their preferred pronouns are they/them. Cool. Good for Sam. I was and still am happy for them!

But of course, after this, a lot of people didn’t want to respect this. So, Sam has been continuously misgendered and called “delusional” (which is sadly very common transphobic behavior).

It’s really sad to me that there are still so many close-minded people out there who can’t accept people using gender neutral pronouns and don’t understand that they literally use they/them pronouns singularly ALL THE TIME for strangers with indeterminable gender. Like, bigots, use your brain for two goddamn seconds…

“Oh there’s someone sitting over there. I don’t know who they are.”

“I haven’t met my new neighbor yet but I heard they have a dog. Their dog barks a lot at night. I don’t know how that doesn’t bother them.”

You can also do a very quick Google search and find out that they/them has been used singularly for centuries now. It is basic English language.

It is not strictly plural and not used only when referring to more than one person. The proof is there.

Also if you’ve had the luxury of never having to worry or question your gender at any point in your life, it must be fucking nice, because us trans and enby people have not had that luxury. And, what makes it even harder is that society squishes gender into boxes.

But, you see, enby folks don’t fit into these boxes. They don’t fully identify (or don’t identify at all) with their assigned gender at birth.

Coming from me who’s trans enby, at first, I didn’t fully understand how someone can internally feel that they’re a woman, a man, or neither. I can understand where that confusion comes from. However, I got some clarity and realized there can be a lot of internal discomfort over having to view yourself as the gender you were given at birth and that others perceive you as that gender. Or, that maybe you simply have a stronger preference of feeling a different gender (or none) over the one given to you.

I remember reading a really great article about Sam Smith regarding their perspective on this. Sam said they’ve always felt they’re nonbinary, and that they feel just as much womanly as they do manly (not the exact wording, but something along the lines of that). And seriously, good for them for confidently explaining that! That open representation is so important.

The change in their appearance

I will say that this is absolutely a mountain made out of a mole hill.

Sam gets put down for their weight and their fashion choices that don’t “flatter” their figure. It is truly disgusting to me that people bring their weight into this. People naturally lose and gain weight, it’s not uncommon. It shouldn’t be seen as gross or controversial. We’re all human.

In my opinion, Sam’s outfit and costume designs are so amazing and very fitting for who they are as a person. Also, you can just look at Sam and see how happy they are being themselves and wearing what they want to wear. There’s so much pure joy and confidence.

I feel like Sam really came into their own with both their identity and fashion sense, which I have such strong admiration for. I don’t know how people can tear others down for finding themselves and doing what obviously makes them very happy. I think it’s a lot of self projection.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with wanting to fit into the typical styles women and men have - that’s perfectly okay! It’s a problem when you feel it’s okay to force others to fit into the “normal” type of fashion. And, honestly, I’m willing to bet if all kinds of style were completely acceptable in society, a lot of those same people who make fun of people like Sam would also develop their own sense of style that wouldn’t necessarily fit what’s currently deemed as “normal.”

Also, I wanted to mention one of the most controversial outfits (aside from the one where Sam’s nips were out) - the devil suit and hat. This was seen as worshipping and promoting Satanism despite it being one of Sam’s more reserved outfits.

But, legit, it was a costume for a song that is called Unholy?! It fits the narrative of the song and doesn’t even measure up to the level of controversial past singers’ costumes that are - as we’ll say - unholy.

The change in their music

Putting Sam’s presentation aside, there are people who think Sam has changed their style of music, too. But, as an active listener of their music, I can tell you this has only been the case for their more popular songs lately.

Unholy and I’m Not Here to Make Friends are undeniably different from Sam’s old popular hits. However, if you are in fact a big fan of theirs, you would’ve listened to their latest album and known that most of the songs on there are still in fact very much the same style as their past hits.

If you preferred Sam’s style of music before Unholy and I’m Not Here to Make Friends became popular, listen to their other songs on the latest album Gloria. I highly recommend How to Cry, Fire on Fire, No God, and Lose You. They’re still very much the same as Sam’s older hits and are absolutely beautiful songs.

Conclusion

I think Sam is amazing. They’re just being themselves and they’re incredible for showing others it’s okay to embrace your own personal identity and style.

I don’t think Sam has done or said anything foul that would make people hate them, unless I’m unaware of something that happened. So, from what I’m understanding, they’re a joke to a lot of people - particularly the bigots - simply because they’re being the person that they are.

It’s easy for these people to sit behind their computers at home and pitch a fit about Sam “changing” and say nasty things about them. They’re definitely jealous that they don’t have half the talent and confidence Sam has, plus the super cool outfits. However, I can’t let these people continue acting this way towards Sam without calling them out. Why? Because it’s still spreading more hate that ends up extending beyond the internet into the real world.

Sam Smith has not only received this wave of hate on the internet, but they’ve gotten insulted (and I think even spat on) in public just for living their life authentically. It makes me so upset. These people need to be stopped and called out for their disgusting behavior.

Leave people alone for being who they are. They’re not hurting you. And if you feel hurt by just them existing, go touch some grass and figure yourself out, pal.

[rekikyan]

the first thing the show tells us about luke is that he loves music. when rose tells them that she was “really feeling it”, luke replies with “that’s what we do this for.” it’s more than just a love for music, though, luke loves the way it allows him to connect with other people -- “no, it’s what that girl said in there tonight. about our music, all right? it’s like an energy. it connects us with people. they can feels us when we play. i want that with everybody.” music is luke’s way of leaving his mark on the world.

that’s another thing that the show tells us about luke very early on -- he is very concerned with what kind of legacy he’s going to leave and is very confident that it will be through his music. when it comes to this, there are no “if’s” for luke. during the hotdog scene, he says “we’re gonna be legends.” he doesn’t use passive language, not even in death. of course, luke isn’t the only member of sunset curve who talks like this, they all refer to the fact that the orpheum gig was going to change their lives in very definite language. of course, we learn later on that they were right, they were going to be legends.

for luke, the band and music is often his biggest priority. when he finds out that living people can hear them play, he doesn’t bother to question it like alex does, he’s just thrilled that they still have their music -- “well, i’m sorry you had a bad day, but three guys just found out that they had a bad 25 years, and then they found out that the one thing they lived for in the first place, they can still do.” luke lived for music -- “...but what i just felt in there actually made me feel alive again. we all felt alive again. so, you can kick us out if you want, but we’re not giving up music. we can play again.”

it’s no surprise, really, that luke is so upset when he finds out that trevor stole their music, their legacy. and it isn’t a surprise that he becomes so singularly focused on getting back at trevor that it overshadows everything else for him -- “you guys need to grow up, okay? we’re gonna get back at bobby. he needs to pay for what he did to us.” at this point, the show has made it clear that these two things are incredibly important to luke, almost to the point where it seems like they’re the only things that matter to him in some moments.

this is what caleb is banking on, of course. luke and caleb share some similarities. caleb is a magician who died performing a trick and has found a way to continue his stage presence in the afterlife. he’s obsessed with his own power and with himself. luke is an entertainer at heart, he wants to connect with people through music and even in his death, he’s still invested in that. caleb picks up on this. a lot of the lines in “the other side of hollywood” appeal to this side of luke -- “we could go make history or you could rest in peace”. even more so, caleb knows exactly what to say to luke -- “yes, but when you’re done performing, you disappear. you cease to exist. no bows. no...no soaking up the applause. no real connection with the audience. yeah? here the audience knows what you are, and more importantly, they know how special you are.” luke’s face just lights up at this and, for a moment, caleb’s almost sold him on it.

caleb only sees luke at face value, though. namely, luke would never be content playing someone else’s music, that isn’t the kind of connection he seeks. luke craves a connection to the audience through his music, not the kind of power trip that caleb gets from performing. more importantly, luke does care about more than just his music.

he cares about his band, his family -- julie, alex, and reggie. luke is consistently portrayed as caring deeply for the people around him, even if he is sometimes blinded by his desire for other things. from the second episode, we’re told that he considers the boys to be his family and that, even though they’ve lost so much, it’s important to him that they still have each other. he starts caring for julie early on, instantly softening towards her when she says her mom has passed, and easily recognizes how much she needs music. in the club, he’s the first to snap out of the time warp and he cares enough about julie that he dismisses caleb’s offer -- “...we got this with julie. we don’t need him.”

luke is flawed, though. he does mess up by getting distracted by his vendetta against trevor/bobby. and, for a moment, he is tempted by caleb’s offer. luke can be selfish, julie isn’t entirely wrong when she accuses him of this. despite acting casual about death and viewing the afterlife as a second chance, luke is a little obsessed with the past. even alex admits that luke can be selfish -- “we wanted you to know that luke isn’t as selfish as you think he is.”

the thing is, luke knows this -- “look, i know i’m not the easiest person to work with...” he knows he can be selfish, and stubborn, and prideful. it’s why he’s so upset when julie calls him out on it. in “unsaid emily”, we learn a lot about luke and, through the song, luke admits to these flaws. he ran out on his parents because he prioritized his dream above his relationship with them and he was too stubborn and prideful to ever make it up with them. then, of course, it was too late. we also get more context as to why luke was so upset by trevor’s betrayal. yes, luke cares about his legacy, but more importantly, it would have shown his parent’s that he wasn’t entirely wrong in what he did. more than that, they might have understood just why his dream was so important to him. his music did have the ability to reach people and form a connection with them, enough so that it’s relevant even 25 years later.

luke’s got a lot of layers to him and that’s where caleb misjudges him. even though it’s clear at the end that luke has made his mind up and chosen not to join caleb, he tries again with the same kind of things that should tempt luke -- “and on my stage, you don’t vanish when the music stops. you soak in the applause for as long as you want. the connection that you will feel with that audience will be like no other.” from what we know about luke, this seems like a fairly easy sell.

the thing is, as much as luke cares about his music and the way it lets him connect with people, it’s far from the only thing he cares about. he’s learnt a lesson, there, in a way, through how things went with his parents. he cares about his family. when he says “no music is worth making, julie, if we’re not making it with you”, he means it. though at the beginning of the show we’re told that luke would never give up music again, that he’d never turn the gift of being able to play again, that isn’t true. in the past, luke had put his music first and chose not to give it up, which lead to his only real regret in life. he fully means it when he tells julie that and it really shouldn’t be a surprise. if playing music meant not being able to be with a part of his family -- julie -- he was never going to chose music.

[thedefenderoftheearth]

slide

summary: Rose and TenToo start their journey together and it isn't always perfect but they're good together.

rating: T

word count: 2200

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30290310

On Day One, he knows the TARDIS is leaving before Rose does. She’s entirely captivated by this kiss, and he wants to be too (and is…mostly), but it’s his TARDIS, and his mind is big enough to think of both things at once–the love of his life re-entering it and the companion he’s not sure he can live without fading from it. He hates the thought but knows it’s true. He’s lived without Rose, knows he can do it…but he’s not sure if he can live without his ship. 

When Rose breaks the kiss with a gasp and bolts toward his disappearing girl, he’s certain that he can’t.  He takes the few strides to Rose, interlaces his fingers with hers because it’s the only thing he’s sure it’s okay to do. When they turn to look at each other, he wonders what he’ll be sure of tomorrow.

On Day Two, he wakes to a soft whirring sound--an electric toothbrush, he realizes. Rose is awake and coming out of the en suite. He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he flings the covers aside and hops out of the bed to meet her. 

"Oh," she says, and she won't meet his eyes. "Um. Hi. You're awake."

"Yes," he confirms. "And you have a bit of toothpaste just...there." Without thinking and before she can stop him, he licks the pad of his thumb and swipes the corner of her mouth.

"Um. Thanks," she says, and she still won't look at him properly. "Um...I thought...I thought I'd pick up your suit from dry-cleaning. And then we could go shopping, get you some things. I won't be long." She hurries from the room with her head down, not even pausing to wait for an answer.

He's puzzled, but when he's certain she's gone, he sucks his thumb. He can't taste every component of the toothpaste, can't determine the exact structure of the methylcellulose like he used to. What he can taste is Rose, and that, he thinks, could merit a full day's worth of analysis.

It isn't until he goes into the bathroom to relieve himself that he realizes why Rose did her best not to see him.

He wonders if this is a problem human males have every morning.

If so, he wonders how he could possibly bear this every morning--this heat that's spreading across his face, down his neck, and to his shoulders that makes him feel like he could disintegrate on the spot and like he wouldn't mind if he did, because at least he wouldn't have to face Rose again.

On Day Three, she catches him in the kitchen with two fingers in a jar of raspberry jam. He freezes, smiles sheepishly, grows nervous when she doesn't say anything.

"You know," she finally says, taking the jar from him and replacing his fingers with her own, "this is an awful habit to get yourself into." Her tongue darts out to clean the messy glob on her fingers.

"Dreadful," he agrees, when he can finally speak. "Terribly rude." He takes the jar back to help himself to more jam.

They pass the jar between them a few times before she stops and places it on the counter.

Sticky fingers weave through his perfectly tousled hair as she pulls his mouth to her and he wants to whine about it, but his brain shorts out as she swipes her tongue along his bottom lip and oh--all right then.

On Day Nine, they're okay. They've fallen into a safe routine: she cooks breakfast and he cleans the dishes; they share the bathroom (and it's not long before they decide it isn't big enough for the two of them); they reach together for two Torchwood IDs hanging near the door; she drives and he changes the radio fifteen times before they arrive.

Neither of them takes any risks with the other, but it's good. They're good together.

On Day Twenty-Eight, he cooks breakfast and doesn't burn the toast. It earns him a proud hug from Rose. He thinks back to a day when a shop girl from the Powell Estate pronounces a word correctly and elicits the same response from him. He wonders what happened to that girl and marvels at the woman before him who has all of herself pressed up against all of him.

On Day Forty-One, he goes on his third date with Rose. He's not sure why she keeps referring to it that way but she does and has more than once--to her mum on the phone and even to Jake at Torchwood.

He doesn't understand why she emerges from the en suite in a dress he's never seen before and strappy heels that couldn't possibly be designed for comfort (and definitely not for running) or why she smells flowery and certainly good but not quite like herself.

When they return to the flat, he doesn't understand her frustrated sounds when he kisses her, when he tries to slow their snogging back down to just that, just like always, just like normal. She finally relents and succumbs to his pace. When they're both breathless, she snuggles close to him...until she can't anymore.

He's utterly baffled when he's suddenly asked to sleep on the couch, but for the first time since he came to live with Rose--the first time in his existence--he does.

On Day Fifty, he understands why they call it "getting lucky." His brain is shrouded in a blissful haze, yet singularly focused on one thing: he has just had sex with Rose Tyler. He's done the deed, gotten busy, mattress mamboed, knocked boots--he doesn't have boots; maybe he should get some--and he feels a little bit like whooping...but his bones are liquid and he's melting into the soft down of the bed. His hair is in a state of permanent shock, his eyelids droop half-mast, and his mouth is set in a goofy sort of half-grin that doesn't seem to want to fade, but he doesn't mind. He fights to keep his eyes open just to keep looking down at an equally happy Rose falling asleep with one arm across his chest, her hand above his single heart, and her legs tangled with his.

On Day Seventy-Seven, they spend the entire day in bed. He moans loudly.

She tells him through a stuffed-up nose to "shu' ub."

"'Shut up'? Really? These could be my last words, Rose Tyler. I'm going to die!"

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"It's just a cold."

"Is not. It's swine flu, bird flu, SARS--No." He gasps. "The Plague!"

"It's not the Plague. They didn't even have that here."He whines and moans and groans and "But Roooooose"s, and even though she's miserable herself, she brings him soup, blows on it when it's too hot, and patiently cleans him up when he sneezes in her face and half the bowl goes down his front.

On Day One-Hundred Twelve, they're not okay. Neither of them knows how they got to this point, but hurtful things are being flung carelessly to the air between them. Things like maybe if he came back, she'd leave with him--back to her own universe, back home. Things like maybe if the wanker did come back, he'd just steal his TARDIS, and he could be the one stuck on this stupid planet in this stupid world.

He pulls at the doorknob, tries to flee with some dignity, but the jamb sticks. He twists and pulls and jiggles the lock and finally it breaks free. Tears prickle in his eyes, and he wants to know why this stupid body has his tear ducts hardwired to his frustration. It's a dumb design; he doesn't feel like crying, he feels like running.

He winces when he hears the door slam behind him--he didn't really mean that--but it's done. He can't take it back. He runs.

On Day One-Hundred Fourteen, he runs home. She's ready for him when he walks in, and he isn't expecting that. He's expecting to at least be able to change out of the clothes he left in, the ones that are soaked through and clinging to his cold skin. Maybe even a shave and a steaming cup of tea. He doesn't get those things; they're going to have it out right now.

She unfurls herself from the blankets, rises from the couch with an un-drunk, already-cold mug of tea in her hand and strides toward him. They're toe-to-toe before he can find his voice.

"Still mad?"

She leans in close and he's nervous. "Yes," she says against his temple. "Definitely," against his jaw.

He shivers, swallows thickly, and thinks--knows--they should solve this with words, but when she pulls back to look at him like that, he thinks the words can wait.

They're both sorry, and that's enough for now.

They're a mess of tangled limbs and warm breath as they fall to the bed. His wet clothes are left on the carpet and oh, she's not going to like that later. He wonders how he has room for that thought when he's got a half-naked Rose Tyler in his arms, then he knows: he never wants to make her mad at him again.

Right now, he decides, he's going to make her very, very happy with him.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty, he thinks Rose might be pregnant. He wants to believe it's his superior Time Lord brain counting thirty days to the millisecond. He knows it's his human brain and his human something else.

He's not sure if she thinks that--that there might soon be three heartbeats between them again--but he thinks he's scared, delighted, anxious, proud, reckless, loving, loved, amazed.

He wonders if it's a human trick, to feel all these things at once and not explode into light. If so, it's better than any trick any Time Lord ever had.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty-Two, he finds out he's wrong when she throws a pillow at him and demands toffee and a backrub.

He's not sure why he isn't relieved, or of the reasons he should be.

On Day Two-Hundred Two, he drops a ring--the ring--down the garbage disposal and panics. He stares down the dark void of the drain in horror.

Neither of them are ready for the question to be asked, but that ring....It's The Ring, and he's not going to find a replacement. When his own hand fails him (as does chewing-gum-on-a-wire and the vacuum hose with a bit of nylon over the top) he admits defeat and calls a plumber.

When Rose asks what happened, he has to tell her he finally finished that sonic prototype, and it was rather less successful than one might have hoped--wellll, by that he means it was a complete failure.

She rolls her eyes and asks him what's for supper.

On Day Three-Hundred Ninety-Eight, he thinks they are ready, but she comes home with two zeppelin tickets.

"Fancy a trip?"

"Yes!" he exclaims too loudly. He's done so well so far. He's only had a few freak-outs--no, they weren't freak-outs. Slips, lapses, tiny episodes, he thinks. But oh, would he love to travel. He doesn't have the universe at his fingertips anymore, but this world is still different, still has a lot to offer. Maybe the Sphinx still has a nose because he wasn't there to meddle, and maybe the sand feels different under his feet there because the silicon dioxide content isn't the same in this universe. Maybe the Great Wall of China wasn't built, but there's one in Mexico, and maybe the view is still spectacular. Maybe the best chips on the planet aren't at their old haunt at the hole-in-the-wall on Baker and Twenty-Fourth. Maybe they're across the globe in Sydney, and maybe they can find them.

"Yes," he says quieter, and then, "Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Okay."

"Okay."

And they go.

On Day Four-Hundred Twelve, they're running for their lives from a hunter-gatherer group in the Amazon that he's managed to insult.

They run, and the humidity gives them an endless supply of sweat. Huge droplets pool from every pore making their hair stick close to their scalps and their clothes stick to their skin as though they'd just emerged from a swimming hole fully-clothed and a muddy one at that, with the way the forest wants to cling to them and never let go.

He knows it's just something in the way this adrenal-cortical system works that makes him think that maybe they're really going to die this time, something about these rubbish--wonderful--human hormones, but he says the words anyway.

"Will you marry me?"

"What?" she says between tight gasps for air.

"Marry me.”

"Her answer doesn't come immediately. He doesn't know if she's thinking or trying to find the air for the words or both, but he's dying every second.

"Okay," she says, then looks over her shoulder to the group gaining on them. "Can it wait?"

"Yes!" he exclaims. He hollers an indecipherable word, grabs her hand, and they run faster.

[bastardtetsu]

critical thinking | ch④

pairing: kuroo tetsuro x gn!reader

genre: college au, enemies to lovers, tsundere!reader, slow burn

wc: 2k

warning: alcohol & drug use (oui’d), swearing

※ mlist | ① ② ③ ●

the next time you see him is at a house party.

he has to be the first person you see when you walk in too, dammit. you are not emotionally prepared for this.

after the incident during finals week you hadn’t had anymore tutoring sessions, leaving you with a weird lack of closure you’ve been trying to move past for the last couple weeks. you’d spent the whole semester wishing to be free from chemistry, and subsequently your tutor’s godawful personality - so why aren’t you more relieved?

you chalk it up to the weirdness of your last interaction with him, and the underwhelming “thank you” you gave him as you said goodbye.

not that he deserves anything more than that though, you think as you remind yourself of all the condescending smirks and patronizing remarks that made your blood boil. just because he was nice to you that one time doesn’t cancel out how annoying he is.

he does look good tonight, though, you find yourself thinking. you had almost forgotten how frustratingly hot he is, but his towering athletic form and perpetually messy black hair are quick to capture your focus and remind you. already tipsy from the pregame, you make the mistake of letting your gaze linger on him just a little too long, until his suddenly his eyes are locked with yours.

fuck. he definitely clocked you staring at him.

you quickly look away and hurry after your friends, who are already making their way into the kitchen for drinks. however, you can practically feel that laser beam stare on you as you scurry away, and it isn’t long before you notice his stupid rooster head slinking into the kitchen after you.

“all that help passing chemistry and you’re not even gonna say hi?” he says, leaning across the kitchen counter between you with that shiteating smirk plastered across his face.

you roll your eyes. “i need more alcohol in my system if i’m gonna interact with you.”

“oh? and why’s that?” he leans in, feline eyes boring into yours. they actually look kinda nice in this lighting.

“because you’re insufferable.”

“ouch, y/n, is that any way to talk to the person who so kindly saved you from failing??”

“okay fine,” you relent, only half-begrudgingly, “you did save my ass.”

“and what do we say...?” he hums.

“BUT, you’re still insufferable.”

“awwww, come on y/n!” he exclaims, draping his large upper half across the counter dramatically.

“will you shut the fuck up if I do a shot with you?”

“ooh,” he perks up with a grin, “maybe.”

“fine.”

you pour up the shots and set them on the counter between you. “to chem 1,” you say, raising your glass, “thank you.” your gratitude is genuine, which somehow makes it harder to say out loud. his face lights up with a smile at your words.

“to chem 1,” he repeats, clinking his glass against yours. his stare is burning. “you’re welcome.”

the liquid stings a bit as you knock it back, but you’re drunk enough already to not taste the bitterness. you can feel the warmth permeate your cheeks as as the alcohol enters your system. or was that there before?

“wanna dance?” he asks. your face is definitely burning now.

“absolutely not,” you reply hastily. he chuckles a bit.

“what do you wanna do then?”

“smoke.”

he’s smirking again.

“bet.”

—

there were definitely more people on the roof when you first got up there. but as the smoke fills your lungs and that familiar sense of heaviness overtakes your body, you find yourself transfixed by the smallest of things. like kuroo’s long, slender fingers brushing against yours just slightly as you pass him the blunt. or the smoke slowly escaping his barely-parted lips as he exhales.

it wasn’t until halfway through the blunt that you notice everyone else had at some point migrated back inside, leaving the two of you completely alone.

before your mind can start to panic about the sudden intimacy of the setting, his voice cuts through your thoughts.

“i have to say, i’m impressed with your skill,” he muses, referring to the blunt you had rolled for the two of you.

“thanks, believe it or not I have a few,” you respond sarcastically. he snickers at this.

“don’t worry, i’m aware,” he says as he passes back to you.

“are you??” you question, “you sure didn’t act like it when you were tormenting me all semester for not understanding chemical equations.“

he laughs. god, what a stupid laugh, you think as you take a hit from the blunt.

“sure, i mean, why else would i give you so much grief over the one thing you’re bad at?”

now it’s your turn to cackle. “ONE??? that’s funny,” you reply, a little confused by the sudden praise from him, “i figured you just thought i was stupid.”

“i mean, i definitely haven’t met anyone as bad at chemistry as you-”

“careful.”

“BUT,” he emphasizes before softening a bit, fixing his gaze on you, “i also haven’t met anyone as cool. or funny. or knowledgeable about so many things i know nothing about.”

your heartbeat speeds up. his stare is more intense than ever, almost agonizing. he’s never talked like this before. is this actually what he thinks of you? how is he looking at you so hard it physically hurts?

“...or hot.”

his words hits you like lightning, sending an electric shock through your body. is he serious?? no. yeah he’s definitely serious. right???

his eyes are practically boring into you as you sit there dumbfounded, trying to process this. he tried so hard to irritate the shit out of you… because he thinks you’re hot?? HE thinks YOU’RE hot??? oh. he tried so hard to irritate the shit out of you because he thinks you’re hot.

unless he’s still messing with you. maybe this is just a big prank on you, and he’s about to let out another godawful hyena laugh and dunk on you about this for the rest of your life.

“... are you trying to flatter me?” you ask, trying to maintain your cool.

“that depends. is it working?”

“hah. fuck off” you mutter, looking away from him. your face is burning again, & this time it’s definitely not because of the alcohol.

kuroo, on the other hand, doesn’t take his eyes off you. they’re practically glowing as he moves in and turns your face back towards him, gripping your chin with his fingers. his touch is gentler than you expected.

as he leans in, he stops right before your lips meet to see if you pull away.

you don’t.

in fact, it barely takes a second before you’re kissing him back, suddenly overwhelmed with all of the wanting you’d been suppressing for the past who knows how long. all the desire you’d been trying so hard not to feel was suddenly bursting forth as you deepened the kiss, barely thinking as you snaked a hand behind his head, entwining your fingers in his messy black hair.

he wastes no time following your cues, parting his lips for you and finding your waist with his hand, pulling your bodies closer together. your kisses, only a little sloppy with inebriation, tingle with a mounting sense of need as you grip each other tighter, your tongues beginning to tease each other’s mouths. the maelstrom of thoughts & feelings in your mind doesn’t settle, but instead becomes singularly focused on one thing: him.

the taste of his lips moving against yours, still tinged with the tobacco-y flavor of the blunt wrap. the feeling of his hair entwining with your fingers as you tighten your hold. his hands beginning to roam your body, messily gripping and caressing their way up and down your form. the smell of his dumb cologne that had been driving you crazy all semester, mixed with the faint scent of alcohol, finally engulfing you. intoxicated by both the substances and your overwhelming desire, you let your pride fall away as you lean into him, desperate for more.

when the two of you finally break apart to catch a breath, kuroo keeps his forehead pressed up against yours, eyes closed, as you both drink in the moment. his thumb draws gentle circles against your cheek while you try to find your words.

“we never finished the blunt.”

he lets out a small chuckle.

“we can save it for later,” he says softly, “i’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

that statement sends another jolt of warmth and electricity through your body.

“for real?” you whisper, trying to catch your breath.

“was it not obvious?”

“um, no, not really,” you respond plainly. come to think of it, he did get pretty flirty with you on multiple occasions, but you’d always assumed that was just him trying to mess with you some more. he chuckles again, smirking up at you with those teasing eyes.

“you’re a dense one, you know that?”

“shut up,” you protest, your cheeks suddenly feeling hot, “maybe if you were nicer to me—“

“nicer!? i AM nice to you!”

“are not.”

“i literally did an entire final project for you so you wouldn’t fail.”

“yeah, but you were a dick about it.”

“i was not!”

“were too.”

“i bought you mcnuggets!”

“oh pardon me, romeo,” you jeer sarcastically, “how foolish of me to forget that mcnuggets are the universal currency of romance.”

“you’re right, you are foolish,” he responds with another smirk.

before you can retort, he pulls you in for another kiss, silencing you. part of you wants to yell at him, but it’s hard to focus on anything but his mouth moving against yours and his fingers gently tangling in your hair as they find their way to the back of your head.

maybe you had been dense not to notice his advances. looking back, he really had been pretty fucking obvious, but you were so focused on suppressing your own desire that the thought had never occurred to you. instead you were concentrating on everything you disliked about him, subconsciously hoping that would quell your growing infatuation.

obviously that didn’t work.

you lean deeper into the kiss, allowing your hands to graze over the toned muscles you’d wanted so badly to touch that you literally started to resent the man they belong to. you don’t even remember when or why you decided to despise the way he makes you feel, but now that you’re finally in his arms it all seems inconsequential.

“wanna get out of here?” he whispers, breaking from your lips but keeping his face barely an inch away. his gaze is on you, piercing as ever.

“and go where?” you never thought you’d be looking into his eyes so close. you finally notice the glimmer of longing buried in his stare, and you feel a sudden swell of power: you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. you always have.

“well not mcdonald’s, since apparently nuggets aren’t romantic.”

“hey, that is not what i said,” you protest, then coyly, “and didn’t you say you were gonna cook for me next time anyway?”

a smirk widens across his face. a familiar sight, which you never expected to fill you with warmth the way it does now.

“just promise no fish,” you add playfully.

“hey,” he pouts, “i’m just trying to make sure you get your docosahe—“

“kuroo, i’m gonna need you to shut the fuck up about whatever the fuck type of acid, i’m not eating your nasty ass fish”

“well what do you want then?” he complains. you shoot him a devilish smirk of your own.

“how about breakfast tomorrow?”

the look on his face is priceless: his eyes widen as his face flushes red, like he didn’t just practically invite you over himself moments ago. he stares, speechless, while you can’t help but widen your grin.

“that— that sounds. y— i can do that,” he stammers.

yeah… you can get used to this.

a/n: writing this hurt my feelings bc it reminded me how long it’s been since i made out with someone dsdsxzds but there u have it folks !! i really hope you all enjoyed reading this lil fic of mine :) & happy bday to the insufferable smartass who owns my heart ♡

[dragonquill]

Durin’s Day: Boxing Day Edition??

Here is my fic for Durin’s Day!  It was inspired by the amazing @ofahattersmind, who was 100% more patient than I deserve with my writing issues this month. 

See the lovely art here!

Happy Durin’s Day ah....delayed!

----

Fili is five the first time it happens. 

It begins with a sense of warmth and contentment that almost makes sense - he’s by the fire with his parents, and happy enough - but the warmth is stifling and the contentment brief.  But what follows - a sense of searing brightness, fear, indignation, is so clearly foreign that he bursts into tears, burying his face in his father’s chest and shaking with the power of it.  

He tries to explain, but he’s only a child, five years old and precocious but with no point of reference for what’s just happened to him.  It passes in minutes, and his sobs give way to little gasps for breaths and the occasional hiccup as his father rubs his back and kisses his hair and worries over him.

His mother has her suspicions, but keeps them to herself.

Keep reading or Read on Ao3!

----

For Kili, there is no “first time.”  From the day he’s born, he seems oddly mercurial, his mood shifting suddenly from time to time.  He’s a cheerful, loving child, outgoing and friendly nearly to a fault (“We don’t talk to strangers,” he recites after his mother, but once someone says hello, they’re not a stranger anymore!).  But there are times when he goes quiet and thoughtful, watching the world instead of forcing himself on it.  He likes those times, he says.  He feels peaceful.  Like he’s not alone.  

“That’s our Kili,” his mother says fondly, watching him go from spinning in hyperactive circles to curling up happily on the couch, watching the crackling fire. 

----

Kili hears words first.  Perhaps it should frighten him, but it doesn’t.  It feels like his quiet times, and the voice in his head isn’t saying anything scary.  It’s a little boy voice, like his, and it’s studiously practicing multiplication tables.  Kili’s years from learning them, though when the day comes he’ll already know them and won’t quite be able to explain how. 

In the stories about soul bonds, the first communication is usually dramatic and meaningful, the beginning of something otherworldly.

For Kili, it makes his nines tables a sinch five years later.

----

Fili’s parents die when he’s twelve.  His uncle takes him in, serious Thorin with his Durin-blue eyes and limited understanding of how children work.  He is the one who tells Fili about soulbonds, how rare they are, how their minds meet across the entire world.  He suspects Fili has one.

“And if you do,” he says, as gently as he knows how, “they’ll be feeling all the pain you’re feeling, and might be very scared by it.”

Maybe it’s a dirty trick, using a boy’s empathy for others to dry his tears and toughen up, but it appears to work.  Fili stops crying so much, starts getting out of bed and living life.

But what Kili feels, far away, isn’t the facade but the real thing.

His parents worry and fuss and arrange for therapy as he cries himself to sleep, night after night.

-----

Fili is rather secretive by nature.  He doesn’t want to bother anyone into worrying about him, and by the time he’s fourteen, he certainly knows they’d worry if they knew he talks to himself in his head all the time. The fact that the voice is different from his own only makes it more disturbing.  

I hate living with Thorin he’ll sulk, because Thorin is trying but he isn’t Fili’s parents. And his own mind answers Yeah he seems like a and a stuttering pause before dick that makes Fili laugh.  

And then he’ll find himself defending Thorin, who isn’t so bad, and the voice makes up a silly song about Thorin’s tendency to talk like it’s 1854 until Fili is sprawled in bed grinning to himself over how clever the voice in his head is, and why can’t he be that clever in real life?

----

Kili is an open book, and he forgets not to just talk back to the voice in his head.  It’s cute when he’s a little boy with his invisible friend, but the older he gets the more concerned the adults in his life get.  

He doesn’t know about the quiet meetings among counselors, teachers, and his parents.  He doesn’t really understand the new doctor who tries to convince him the voice isn’t real.  

He doesn’t like the summer he has to leave home and go stay in a hospital for two weeks during his vacation.  He’s furious, and lonely, and everyone is telling him to lie about the friend in his mind, but he’s not a good liar by nature.

I’ll know the truth his brain-friend says.  We’ll know.  Just tell them you don’t and then tell me you do.  It’ll make them happy.

Kili is reluctant, but he does as he’s told.

He still slips up sometimes,and he sees the worry in his parents’ eyes and laughs it off.  He’s a class clown, right?  He can get rid of these things.

Only his friend knows he hates it, hates the lies, curls up in his covers and sniffles some nights, feeling like a bad person.  

For a while, his friend promises to go away, and leave him alone. But that is so much worse, because it’s quiet in his head and he’s all alone and. “Is this what people want me feel?” he asks the dark, arms wrapped around a well-worn blush manatee he’s too old for as well (keeps it under the bed so his parents won’t take it away, as his friend suggested).  “It’s awful.”

And he tells his friend just how awful it is, until he comes back.

---

It’s sensible enough to name his inner voice Kili, Fili figures.  As good as anything else.  It is just an aspect of himself.  A..creative one.  Who tells stories about a life different from him.  Who lives out some of Fili’s fears (is he not quite sane?? Is his inner voice too much??  Don’t writers and such have this??  It’s fine, it’s fine).  Who is warm and funny and optimistic in a way Fili isn’t, but wants to be.  

Just a way of thinking things through.  It’s fine if he gives it a name.

He hopes.

----

His friend’s name is Fili, and Kili loves how they match. It’s like destiny in his favorite tv show!  They’re meant to be the best of friends!  The show is all about a legend about soulmates being bound from birth, and talking to each other, and finding each other and--

---

Fili visits the library, and researches, and wonders.

---

It happens on a lovely fall day in Fili’s home town. Fili is working on his post graduate degree in business administration - not the most interesting, but it’ll help out his uncle’s business, and that’s a guaranteed job that will pay enough that he can hone his own hobbies and interests on his off time. He’s still sensible, but that doesn’t mean he can’t turn some of that practicality to funding his personal interest in writing and travel. 

He’s also working at the business’s central office, actual pay instead of an internship, so he’s stayed close to home.  He’s saving money for a trip down south, for warm weather and sprawling beaches that remind him of stories he’s heard.  Or.  Made up.  Via Kili.

Fili tosses hair back over his shoulder, adjusts his coat, and walks into his favorite park.  The trees here were selected to look as colorful as possible in autumn, and he loves it.  Best time of year, hands down.

-----

Unlike Fili, Kili traveled for university.  He’s on the archery and lacrosse teams, with actual scholarships, and he’s studying English, which is mostly so he can go on into a proper specialty in myths and folktales.  He secretly believes he is a folk tale, despite the counseling and medications to convince him otherwise.  He loves the city, filled with carefully maintained parks and currently a chaos of fall colors.  It’s too hot back home for anything like this-

He sees someone out of the corner of his eye, and turns his head with practiced nonchalance for a better look.  Kili is a man who appreciates the human form.  Oh ho, he thinks, he’s hot.

And he is, all long golden hair and neat beard and fur lined leather jacket.  He’s shorter than Kili, but more solid.  He looks delicious, in the best way.

Stop creeping people out, says Fili in his head, and Kili laughs.

The man stops, frowning a little.”Odd,” he says aloud in a soft tenor voice that makes Kili’s heart thump.

He gives his head a little shake before looking around.  Blue eyes- so blue Kili can make them out from a fair distance - flicker in Kili’s direction.  He doesn’t seem to have a bit of Kili’s secret shyness.  He smiles, slow and inviting.

Never mind, I’ve found a pretty one, too, Fili says in Kili’s mind.

Kili nearly chokes on his own spit.  

The blond man turns and walks closer, more than a hint of swagger in his steps. 

“Hey,” he says smoothly.

-----

Kili feels his jaw drop.  His heart is racing.  He can hear it in his ears.  He bungee jumped once, Fili refusing to have anything to do with it.  It felt like this, like ziplines and roller coasters that flip you upside down.

He clicks his jaw shut.  

“Ah...hey,” he says back, intelligently.

---

Fili feels a flash of concern, and steps closer.  “You okay?”  He puts his hands up.  “Promise I’m not a serial killer after tourists.  I’m honestly just flirting.”

---

“I’m not a tourist!”  It’s not what Kili means to say, because he knows, in his bones, who this guy is.  He wonders why he never really thought about what Fili must look like.  He’d have thought taller, but everything else…

Yum.

“I’ve been here a year!”

----

“Oh, pardon.”  Fili grins and bows like an old-fashioned gentleman.  “Practically a local, then.  Does that mean you’re familiar with the Ri Family Teashop?”

Fili is forward, but not usually this forward.  But somehow, he wants to know this person.

Or already knows him.

Something.

----

Kili starts to grin.  “Are you asking me to tea?” he asks, because oh, good, Fili knows him too.

“Hmm.  I don’t know.  My mother said never to have tea with strangers.”  Fili holds a hand.  “Fili Durin, local peacekeeper and not an axe murderer, and you are?”

----

The cutie is staring at him, and the stare is starting to look singularly unimpressed.  “You know who I am, Fili.”

“Ah, afraid not,” Fili answers, but there’s a tug in his belly like he’s lying to his uncle Thorin about why he was out so late as a teenager.  “But I very much hope to.”

The definitely a nine sighs and puts his hands on his hips.  “I honestly thought you were smarter than this.  But you can’t be completely perfect, I guess.”  But he’s smiling, fit to battle the sun, and Fili can’t even work up a sense fo indignation.  “It’s me, Fili.  It’s Kili.”

-----

Fili will deny it until they are old and grey, and Kili will just keep telling the truth anyway.

Fili’s eyes roll back in his head, and he stumbles, and Kili grabs Fili in his strong arms like the hero he is.  It’s not fair to say Fili passes out, maybe fades a bit would be more accurate.

Either way, he regrets it forever because it makes him the damsel who wakens (blinks and sees better, because he wasn’t unconscious or anything that dramatic, correct?) in the arms of a stranger who is no stranger at all.  And dammit, Kili even kisses him awake.

(It’s soft and chaste and sweet and Kili, a press of lips just like his voice, beloved and real and everything Fili ever wanted to be real.)

“Hi,” Kili says again, grinning down at him.  “Welcome back.”

Fili will argue later that he didn’t go anywhere and he would have been fine and etc. etc, but for now, he reaches up from his awkward arching slouch in Kili’s arms and brushes hair from those playful hazel eyes, and tugs him down for their second kiss.

----

Nice!, they think, and the kiss turns into laughter.

[erictmason]

The Road To “Godzilla VS. Kong”, Day Four

(Sorry for the delay on this one, Life proved just a bit too busy the other day to finish it; my “Godzilla: King of the Monsters” review is gonna be pushed back as a result too.  But!  No worries, on we go. ^_^)

KONG: SKULL ISLAND (2017

Director: Jordan Vogt-Roberts

Writers: Dan Gilroy, Max Borenstein, Derek Connolly, John Gatins

Starring: Samuel L. Jackson, Tom Hiddleston, Brie Larson, John Goodman, John C. Reilly

Technically speaking, Gareth Edwards’ “Godzila” from 2014 was the first entry in what is now generally referred to as “The Monsterverse”, an attempt by Warner Bros. Studios and Legendary Pictures to do a Marvel Studios-style series of various interconnected movies (and which, like most such attempts to cash in on that particular trend, hasn’t really panned out; “Godzilla VS. Kong” seems likely to be its grand finale as far as movies are concerned, the only two “names” it had going for it are Godzilla and Kong themselves, and even at its most successful it was never exactly a Powerhouse Franchise).  But the thing is, when that movie was made, the idea of a “Monsterverse” did not yet exist; it was only well after the fact that Legendary and Warner Bros. got the idea to turn a new “Kong” project into the building block of a Shared Universe of their own that they could connect with the 2014 “Godzilla”, with a clear eye on getting to remake one of the most singularly iconic (and profitable) Giant Monster Movies of all time.  As you might guess from that description, however, said “Kong” project also had not originally been intended for such a purpose; it would not be until 2016 that it would be retooled from its original purpose (a prequel to the original “King Kong” titled simply “Skull Island”) into its present form, which goes out of its way to reference Monarch, the monster-tracking Science organization seen over in 2014’s “Godzilla” and which includes a very obviously Marvel-inspired post-credits stinger explicitly tying Kong and Godzilla’s existences together.  

The resulting film is fun enough, all things told, but that graft is also really, distractingly obvious.

Honestly, I wish I knew why I’m not, generally, fonder of “Skull Island” than I am.  It’s not as if, taken as a whole, it does anything especially bad; indeed it does a great deal that is actively good.  Consider, for example, the rather unique choice to make it a Period Piece; that’s decently rare for a Monster Movie as it is (indeed one of the only other examples that springs to mind for me is Peter Jackson’s 2005 remake of “King Kong”, which chose to retain the original’s 1933 setting), and it’s rarer still that the era it chooses to inhabit is an immediately-post-Vietnam 1970’s.  Aesthetically speaking, the movie takes a decent amount of fairly-obvious influence from that most classic of Vietnam-era films, “Apocalypse Now” (a fact that director Jordan Vogt-Roberts was always fairly open about), and it results in some of the movie’s strongest overall imagery (in particular a shot of Kong, cast in stark silhouette, standing against the burning sun on the horizon with a fleet of helicopters approaching him, one of a surprisingly small number of times the movie plays with visual scale to quite the same degree or with quite the same success as “Godzilla” 2014).  It also means the movie is decked out in warm, lush colors that really do bring out all the personality of its Jungle setting in the most compelling way and, given how important the setting is to the film as a whole, that proves key; Skull Island maybe doesn’t become a character in its own right the way the best settings should (too much of our time is spent in fairly indistinct forests especially), but it does manage to feel exciting and unusual in the right ways more often than not.  The “Apocalypse Now” influence also extends to our human cast,  which is sizeable enough here (in terms of major characters we need  to pay attention to played by notable actors, “Skull Island” dwarfs “Godzilla” 2014 by a significant margin) that the framework it provides-a mismatched group defined by various interpersonal/intergenerational tensions trying to make their way through an inhospitable wilderness, ostensibly in search of a lost comrade-is decently necessary.  Though here we already run into one of those aspects of “Skull Island” that doesn’t quite land for me.  Taken as a whole, it sure feels like the human characters here should be decently interesting; certainly, our leads are all much better defined and more engagingly performed than Ford Brody, to draw the most immediately obvious point of comparison.  Brie Larson (as journalistic Anti-War photographer Mason Weaver), Tom Hiddleston (as former British Army officer turned Gun For Hire James Conrad), and John C. Reilly (as Hank Marlow, a World War II soldier stranded on Skull Island years ago) definitely turn in decently strong performances; I wouldn’t call it Career Best work for any of them (Hiddleston especially feels like he’s on auto-pilot half the time, while Larson has to struggle mightily against how little the script actually gives her to work with when you stop and look at it) but they at least prove decently enjoyable to watch (Reilly especially does a solid job of making his character funny without quite pushing him over the edge into Total Cartoon Territory).  I likewise feel like Samuel L. Jackson’s Preston Packard has the potential to be a genuinely-great character; his lingering resentment at the way the Vietnam War played out and the way that feeds into his determination to find and defeat Kong is, again, a clever and compelling use of the 70’s period setting, it gives us a good, believable motivation with a clear and strong Arc to it, and Jackson does a really solid job of playing his Anger as genuine and poignant rather than simply petulant or crazed.  But there’s just too much chaff amongst the wheat, too much time and energy devoted to characters and ideas that don’t have any real pay-off.  This feels especially true of John Goodman’s Bill Randa, the Monarch scientist who arranges the whole expedition; the Monarch stuff in general mostly feels out of place, but Randa in particular gets all of these little notes and beats that seem meant to go somewhere and then just kind of don’t.  Which is kind of what happens with most of the characters in the movie, is the thing; we spend a lot of screen-time dwelling on certain aspects of their backstories or personalities, and then those things effectively stop mattering at all after a certain point, even Packard’s motivations.  A Weak Human Element was one of the problems in “Godzilla” 2014 as well, though, and you’ll recall I quite liked that movie.  There, though, the human stuff was honestly only ever important for how it fed into the monster stuff; it was the connective tissue meant to get us from sequence to sequence and not much more.  Here, though, it forms the heart and soul of the story, and that means its deficiencies feel a lot more harmful to the whole.

Still, those deficiencies really aren’t that severe, and moreover, like I was saying before, there’s a lot about “Skull Island” to actively enjoy.  The Monsters themselves do remain the central draw, after all, and for the most part the movie does a solid job with that aspect of things.  It does not, perhaps, recreate “Godzilla” 2014’s attempt to make believable animals out of them (even as it does design most of them with even more obvious, overt Real World Animal elements), but there is a certain playful energy that informs them at a conceptual level that I appreciate.  Buffalos with horns that look like giant logs with huge strands of moss and grass hanging off their edges, spiders whose legs are adapted to look like tree trunks, stick bugs so big that their camouflage makes them look like fallen trees…the designs feel physically plausible (especially thanks to some strong effects work that makes them feel well inserted into the real environments), but there’s a slightly-humorous tilt to a lot of them that I appreciate, especially since it never outright winks at the audience in a way that would undercut the stakes of the story. Kong too is very well done; rather than the heavily realistic approach taken by the Peter Jackson version from 2005, this Kong is instead very much ape-like but also very clearly his own creature (in particular he stands fully erect most of the time), with a strong sense of Personality to him as well; some of the best parts of the movie are those times where we simply peek in on Kong simply living his life, even when that life is one that is, by nature, violent and dangerous.  Less successful, sadly, are his nemeses, the Skullcrawlers; very much like “Godzilla” 2014, Kong is here envisioned as a Natural Protection against a potentially-dangerous species that threatens humanity (or in this case the Iwi Tribe who live on Skull Island, but we’ll talk more about them later), and while they’re hardly bad designs (the way their snake-like lower bodies give them a lot of neat tricks to play against their enemies in battle are genuinely fun in the right sort of Scary Way), they’re also pretty bland and forgettable, even compared to the MUTOS.  That said, they serve their purpose well enough, and their big Action Scene showdowns with Kong are genuinely solid.  Indeed, the movie’s big climactic brawl between Kong and the biggest of the Skullcrawlers has a lot of good pulpy energy to it (particularly with how Kong winds up using various tools picked up from all around the battlefield to give himself an edge), likewise there’s a certain Wild Fun to the sequence where our hapless humans have to try and survive a trek through the Crawlers’ home-turf.

Where things get a bit tricky again is when the movie attempts to put its own spin on “Godzilla”’s conception of its monsters as part of their own kind of unique ancient eco-system. The sense of Grandeur that gave a lot of that aspect such weight there is mostly absent here, especially; there are instances where some of that feeling comes through (Kong’s interactions with some of the non-Crawler species, for example, do a good job giving us an endearing sense of how Kong fits into this world), but far more often it treats the monsters as Big Set-Piece Attractions.  Which is fine as far as it goes, it just also means a lot of them aren’t as memorable or impactful as I might like.  Meanwhile, the way the Iwis have built their home to accommodate, interact with, and protect themselves from the island’s bestiary feels like a well-designed concept that manages to suggest a lot of History without having to spell it out for us in a way that I appreciated (I would also be inclined to apply this to the very neat multi-layered stone-art used to portray Kong and the Crawlers except that the sequence where we see them is the most overt “let’s stop and do some world-building” exposition dump in the whole movie).  But the Iwis in general are one of the more difficult elements of the movie to process, too; it seems really clear there was a deliberate effort here to avoid the most grossly racist stuff that has been present in prior attempts to portray the Natives of Skull Island, and as far as it goes I do think those efforts bear some fruit; we are, at the very least, very far away from the Scary Ooga-Booga tone of, say, “King Kong VS. Godzilla”, and that feels like it counts for something.  I just also feel like there’s some dehumanizing touches to their portrayal (in particular they never speak; I don’t mean to imply that Not Speaking equals Inhuman, but the fact that we are not made privy to how exactly they do communicate means we’re very much kept at arm’s length from them in a way that seems at least somewhat meant to alienate us from them), especially given their role in the story as a whole is relatively minor.  

At the end of the day, though, all the movie’s elements, good and bad, don’t really feel like they add up together coherently enough to make an impact.  And I think if I had to try and guess why, even as I find it wholly enjoyable with a lot to genuinely recommend it by, I don’t find myself especially enamored by “Skull Island”.  It has a lot of different ideas of how to approach its story-70’s pastiche, worldbuilding exercise, Monster Mash-but doesn’t seem to quite succeed at realizing any of them fully, indeed often allowing them to get in each other’s ways.  It isn’t, again, a bad movie as a result of that; there really isn’t any stretch of it where I found myself bored or particularly unentertained.  But I did paradoxically find myself frequently wanting more, even as by rights the movie delivers on basically what I was looking for from it.   

[96thdayofrage]

Just a theory: the Pan-Africanists who hate #ADOS don’t hate #ADOS because of the latter people’s actual politics. Pan-Africanists hate #ADOS because the people who are involved in that movement are pointing out something that no one else will: that Pan-Africanism in 2021 feels like a response to a question that basically no one really even asks anymore. That for all of their grand pronouncements—the epic and almost mythic sense of their project’s historical certainty—it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore how Pan-Africanism today just sort of feels in a lot of ways like the soggy nub of a joint being passed around at a dwindling party.

Think about it. Does the strangely visceral opinion about #ADOS held and oft expressed by Pan-Africanists really spring from the former’s politics? Yeah? Really? Well, what is it about the #ADOS political agenda specifically that they so hate? Is it that they would like the U.S. government to continue holding onto the trillions of dollars that it owes these people? Is it that they approve of chemical plants and refineries and waste dumps being strewn throughout black American communities in such a way that basically ensures those residents—simply by going outside and inhaling oxygen—contract what are 100% lethal diseases?

Or is it more likely that these people feel somewhere deep down that ADOS are like some kind of apparently lower form of oppressed subjects? And that, as such, they simply aren’t entitled to (or even capable of?) determining their own fate. Is it that they feel ADOS are being insubordinate and unmanageable and refractory and childish? Is it that in their assertion of agency and in their unsparing critique of the international movement that has patently failed them ADOS are hurting the feelings of many people who are—let’s be honest—way too emotionally overinvested in what’s mostly become just a quaint area of scholarship in our universities’ Africana Studies departments?

Just a theory! But doesn’t that seem like maybe a more honest answer?

Maybe those Pan-Africanists just hate that #ADOS has been quite successful in its reparations advocacy despite the movement’s refusal to conform to Pan-Africanist orthodoxy. And maybe it’s that these Pan Africanists have a faint notion that wounded pride isn’t exactly a sophisticated reason to critique #ADOS, so they instead invent some bullshit political pretext about how #ADOS’s advocacy is ‘ahistorical’ or totally reactionary or that those in the movement are corrupted by a strain of American exceptionalism or whatever.

That, anyway, is the basic defensive crouch position from which Broderick Dunlap writes his recent article, “A Dose of Reality for the ADOS Movement”. Adhering tightly to what is now the standard formula for a Pan-Africanist-Critique-of-the-#ADOS-Movement think piece, Dunlap’s essay is deeply fucking boring, stiff, and backward-gazing. It is obsessed with identifying earlier modalities and pointing out the completely obvious fact that #ADOS’s approach does not correspond with them (which, given the failure of those forms of identity and resistance to offer a bulwark against something as basic as inadequate sewage treatment, let alone unify an entire continent, well, duh!). But mostly Dunlap’s essay just aims to persuade the reader that reparations isn’t about money; that the real and most vital question that black people in America need to consider (black people who are forced to live under regularly occurring boil water advisories, mind you!)—is: “what will it take for Black folks to forgive the United States?”

It is true that, in the #ADOS political literature, this inquiry into the capacity of black people to forgive their victimizer is never raised. It also seems true that it is difficult to imagine a less radical and more insulting position than that, but, anyway, I digress. Thirdly, the suggestion that the only thing that #ADOS is concerned about is a simple transaction of overdue funds—after which they just sort of dust off their hands and raise a glass to victory while beginning to contemplate their new investment portfolios—is totally absurd, very easily disproven, and yet another example of the strong tendency among Pan-Africanists to feel that it is their right to define the #ADOS movement however they like.

But if the demand for monetary compensation to be paid to their group is what makes #ADOS a supposedly purely avaricious movement—if that is why they must be vilified and opposed and viewed as a blasphemous and debauched form of a black liberation movement—then what is one to make of similar demands for material redress made throughout the diaspora directly to that nation’s former colonizer? Here’s one such example involving Barbados’s demand for the United Kingdom to pay it reparations. Or when Hilary Beckles, chairman of CARICOM’s reparations commission explains that the organization of Caribbean member states is “focusing [our reparations claim] on Britain because Britain…made the most money out of slavery and the slave trade – they got the lion’s share,” where is the prolonged outrage from the Pan-Africanists who would otherwise decry the omission of other diasporic groups from this one-nation-in-the-crosshairs look at who owes who what? Why don’t the people making the argument for those reparations get accused of merely wanting “crumbs” from the old imperialistic British pie or whatever? Again, we are asked to believe that the Pan-Africanist antipathy toward #ADOS is rooted in a fundamental political disagreement, or like some inviolable set of internationalistic beliefs. But when demands that are analogous to those of #ADOS receive effectively none of the hostility and outright disdain that the #ADOS’s demand for reparations appears to singularly attract from the rest of the diaspora, it sure becomes hard not to see a more cynical motivation at the core of the their ‘critique’ of the movement’s political aims.

Here’s what I think: I think that the refrain of reparations not being about money is a slogan that is 100% designed to sheepdog would-be serious reparations advocates into supporting business as usual forever here in America. I think once you say something like that you have been brought right into the Democratic Party’s orbit and the DNC will make short work of turning your little proclamation of righteousness and purity or whatever the fuck it is into a feel-good campaign of money-free ‘justice.’ I think the accusation that monetary reparations for ADOS are viewed by that group not as the seeds to self-determination but rather as the harvest itself is a lie concieved in malice and spite—that it is a mischaracterization that strives to bastardize a project that has only ever argued the need for a significant restructuring of the (highly group-specific!) maldistribution of wealth in America before their group could ever meaningfully participate in any kind of internationalism. But what I really can’t account for though is why ADOS saying that activates some serious lizard brain shit in a whole lot of people. Or why those people apparently feel the need to gussy up that brute emotional response in some bogus political principle that they can’t really criticize without hypocrisy: it is OK for CARICOM to explicitly exclude ADOS from their reparations claim against imperial powers (and merely refer them to another organization trying to make additional pecuniary arrangements for Caribbeans), but it is a cause for moral outrage when #ADOS tries to take their group’s case to the U.S. government? I don’t know. That sort of unevenness of application strikes me as people who are motivated way less by actual ideas and more by the people themselves who are doing what they’re doing. And what are ADOS even doing that’s so totally unconscionable anyway? Turning to one another and becoming passionately invested in their shared experience instead of performing a committment to something that is no longer really a relevant force in the world but which will get them meaningless approval by lots of strangers? Again, I don’t know. It just seems like a lot of the time that what governs opinion about #ADOS involves a lot more high school lunchroom behavior than what those people would like us to believe.

[angrycowboy]

Okay, time for coffee and rewatch!

I did a rewatch last night after watching it live and flailed at @haloud​, because this episode was everything I wanted for the premiere and getting the show back. It made me hurt and it made me happy and it made me excited for all the things to come.

After I’m done with this, it’s off to find a decent download and start giffing!

- I love the little Echo flashback. I mean, I think it’s interesting to include Max mentioning the Alighting and the whole “savior” thing. Though, I wonder if it’s going to come into play more than just the mentions in this episode that allowed Liz to connect the dots about Max. But I am heart eyes at this cute Echo moment.

- Liz’s “you smell like rain” comment is also interesting. I am just gonna sit here and think about Maria’s comment about Michael smelling like a river now and what is up with these aliens.

-Jeez, Liz and Rosa. Oh my god, Rosa. And Liz, with tears on her face, needing to switch into crisis mode. 

- Graffitti! Omg Rosa’s artwork. “We don’t believe in humans” Omg I love it.

-This is an Arturo Ortecho appreciation blog. He’s adorable being so proud of Liz. I just smile at this scene so hard. It’s perfect.

- “I reject good-bye” I love Maria DeLuca, y’all. 

- So in my happy place headcanon, Michael did just get some sort of flash about Max’s death, left the Pony, and basically has been avoiding Maria ever since. Simplest explanation and I can live with it. 

- BUT as always, my biggest gripe with the show, it’s been two weeks and no one has talked to one another. Though I kinda understand Liz avoiding everyone while she’s trying to deal with Rosa. 

-”Came to vent about Michael Guerin ghosting me” Yeah, I mean, I’m glad that the show established this right off the bat. Especially after this fucking hellatus this fandom decided to go through in regards to Miluca. I’m actually happy about this. But see ya’ll? Fucking overreaction central.

- “And now just one more Roswell good time before I hit the road.” The delivery on this, and the look on Liz’s face. Fuck, Jeanine just nailed every scene in this episode.

- Michael Guerin, Resident PigPen and Disaster Bi, stumbling int the church and shoving his way into a filled pew. Oh, Michael, you are a mess and I love you so much.

- Oh, Isobel. Also, I love the overacting in the beginning when Isobel is trying to talk about Noah vs how she changes when she starts speaking about Max instead. I love that use of Noah’s funeral to publicly mourn Max. It’s so good. 

- Fuck, this flashback to the cave. To Isobel seeing Max dead. OUCH.

- Oh my god, the staple of every funeral and wake - people bringing way too much food and it’s all the same fucking thing. ISOBEL GIRL, I FEEL YOU.

- “Mrs. Evans! That’s a phenomenal cape.” Listen y’all, have I mentioned how much I love this sad disaster alien cowboy? Cuz I do. A lot. He is a MESS.

- I really love this shot of Alex watching Michael at the wake. Just that little bit of concern - it’s so Alex and I love him so much. And I operate under the “if Alex knows, Kyle knows” and vice versa, which means that Alex isn’t watching Michael like this because he knows Michael is spiraling because of Caulfield and Max, he thinks Michael is only spiraling because of Caulfield. 

- Kyle being all practical and realistic about dealing with Jesse, and Alex is just like YOLO LET HIM DIE. Like I kinda love how Alex just kinda doesn’t want to deal with Jesse.

- “I’m not a murderer.” “No, you’re not. But he is.” Also, are we gonna talk about Alex’s little eyebrow raise and the look in his eyes, and how he’s still possibily talking about himself? Cuz, oh my god. I have feelings. Alex Manes, you stubborn bastard, I love you so much. (cc: @ober-affen-geil)

- “Seemed like a kiss at least worthy of a text back.” Oh Maria, my darling. You keep holding onto the hope you have for him, because girl, you are gonna need it with this massive spiral of his. 

- “Regulars shouldn’t drink alone when they’re grieving.” Oof. The fact that Maria thinks Michael is acting like this because of Noah is dead kinda yikes, and really just makes me desperately want her in on everything else that is going on, because it just makes it so obvious how little she knows. But I also like that line because he comforted her in 1x07, no questions asked, and in a way she’s doing the same back for him. She’s telling him she’s there if he needs someone.

- SHERIFF VALENTI WITH HER HAIR DOWN. I LOVE IT.

- Also her and Ann. “Graffiti is an early indicator of gang violence.” Ann Evans is the epitome of suburban white mom. I love Michelle Valenti just nodding along, like yeah, I’ll get right on that and not looking into this suspicious shit surrounding your son and your son-in-law.

- Lol @ this little public display of anger between Liz and Isobel.

- Oh shit, the fact that Liz hasn’t told Rosa about the cover-up is interesting, because that means that’s definitely coming. And oh my god, I cannot wait. 

- ALSO I CANNOT BELIEVE WE WERE ROBBED OF THIS HUG.

- “a glowing ooze filled egg coffin from outer space” Listen, if that’s not the most accurate outsider description of the pods ever. (Also creepy Noah scenes are creepy.)

- Liz talking about burying Max, y’all that shit HURTS. Like, obviously we know that isn’t gonna happen but the fact that Liz and Rosa are sitting talking about it as a finite ending in that moment is just... OUCH.

- “...where’s my hole t-shirt?” um... as of 1x04 it was in the backpack that Fredrico returned! What’cha doing with it, Liz?

- God, Liz and Rosa is just so perfect. “I never thought we’d get to have this stupid fight again.” I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.

- Isobel, darling. What are those pajamas. They’re wild.

- “I meant to call - I heard you and Evans broke up” So that does establish that Kyle was too preoccupied dealing with Jesse, and Liz has been singularly focused on Rosa that they haven’t talked in the two weeks. Cool cool cool.

- “Lemme guess? Alien thing?” Kyle is so tired of this shit.

- Omg Maria beating people at pool. I love it. I love her. More of that please! Also this outfit she wears is super cute. FIGHT ME.

- Mimi and more alien movie references!

- “It’s been ten years since [Rosa] died.” “Not always.” I love love love the roundabout ways Mimi is telling the truth about the things she knows. When you don’t have all the facts, of course it would sound like she’s not making sense, and of course it would appear to present as dementia. But what does she know that she’s even talking in this kinda code at all? And why? And what’s up with the wandering?

- This scene with Kyle and Rosa is fabulous. “Ten years and my half-brother is still pining for my sister. Cool cool cool.”

- Hahaha “What’s your drug of choice?” “Why quarterback, you wanna party?” I LOVE THIS ENTIRE SCENE SO MUCH IT’S HILARIOUS AND FANTASTIC.

- Upon rewatching, it’s much more obvious about the hows and whys of Kyle not knowing Max was dead. Because I missed all of that the first time around, and thought it came out of left field, but it really actually doesn’t.

- Rosa is clearly like, “when the hell did Kyle fucking Valenti get so smart?”

- this continued implication that Alex shows up at the Airstream and just basically invites himself in will never not completely fuck me up about them

- A FUCKING GUITAR LIKE HOW DARE THIS SHOW

- Okay first off, where the fuck is Alex? Is this his new house? Why does Michael know where to find him? Is this Jesse’s house and Alex is housesitting while he’s in a coma? It’s also the same place as this shot Carina posted over the summer that we all died over. Can’t wait to maybe get an definite answer to that (and also, what happened to the cabin). Just the fact that Michael knows exactly where to find Alex when all through S1 Alex always came to the Airstream is again, more shit about them that just fucks me up.

- Michael mentioning Alex had said he was getting out of the Air Force to make music... um, question. Where? When? I am going to handwave this because I can handle it may have gotten cut, and Alex did talk about fighting his own battles and not his fathers in 1x13. And I can see them having talked a bit about it during their junkyard talk in 1x10 too.

- “came back the next morning after clearer heads had prevailed - wanted to show you something.” Okay, Alex, honey, We need to talk about this. Michael just saw and felt his mother die, giving him a folder with that information, with that photo, is not how you should be going about this. I get it - Alex operates on having as much information as possible. If it exists, he wants it to make the informed decision. But that’s not Michael. And Alex pushes just a bit too hard, and Michael snaps. And I love this scene because Michael says things that needed to be said between them. Michael needed to say them, and Alex needed to hear them.

-ugh that photo... but if there’s prop consistency, then it’s interesting that it took a year after the crash for Michael’s mom to end up a prisoner at Caulfield. It really makes me excited for the flashbacks, because if she wasn’t caught in the initial melee after the crash, how did it happen?

- Alex’s little “hey” when MIchael pushes the folder back into him. Just. Fuck me up, okay? I’ll be here, in the middle of the floor, sobbing. It’s just, it makes it so obvious they’re no where near being on the same page. And Alex’s asking if he left, and if Michael would come with him - it really reads like a hail mary attempt on his part. Because he’s still thinking in that moment, that Michael will say yes, like Michael always says yes. Alex doesn’t really know what it’s like for Michael to say “no” to him.

- “I wanna be good for somebody.” (and with the fucking Malex theme playing over them what the fuuuuuuuck) 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

- Hahaha Isobel using the good crystal to practice - THAT’S MY GIRL

- Handprint talk! Also lol @ Liz mentioning the handprint Max gave her in 1x13 during sexytimes and Kyle, not knowing what she’s talking about immediately just assuming she’s talking about the one from the pilot. Though it’s interesting that neither Liz nor Michael had residual physical handprints show up, but we know Liz was able to still feel Max die in 1x13

- “exorcising demons” Yoooo, I am here for this Isobel. She is determined, and she wants her life back and she is going to take it by force if necessary. Also, that’s a fantastic use for that good crystal.

- But it also breaks my heart a bit because she clearly is in this huge denial about Max. She really believes that she can bring him back if she tries hard enough, if she focuses and learns. And the way Michael is just... so resigned to this whole thing. His hope is just... gone.

- “Max’s heart was weakened before he decided to lasso lightning” Michael really does get some great lines. But omg he’s so angry, and he’s so determined to get Isobel to see reason.

- Ahhh Liz and Rosa. Also, Liz in the bathroom. Breaking down because she’s got that moment to herself to finally break. That scene in the shower. It always just fucks me up. It’s fucked me up since the first time I saw it at NYCC, and it still fucks me up now.

- These nightmares are creepy as fuck. 

- ‘Don’t treat me like the little sister.” OH SNAP, LIZ ORTECHO.

- I adore messy flirty disaster Michael. And smiling through a punch? Oh, Michael.

- The way Liz’s mind works, just bouncing and making those connections and conclusions and realizing how there might still be hope for Max. Woo boy, I need to take some time to process that (and don’t get me started on Michael’s loss of hope).

- “So she wants to use Noah’s heart? He’s the actual devil.” TOO RIGHT YOU ARE, ALEX.

- Also, this is @el-gilliath‘s fault but Alex brings up that when cremated, the aliens give off toxic fumes - so what does that mean for Caulfield? All those aliens would have been burned alive someone somewhere would have noticed then, right?

 - Alex is so soft looking in this scene. 

- Which is hilarious cuz the next scene is him throwing the morgue doctor agains the wall.

- “I thought he was you.” Oh boy. Let’s not even begin to unpack that.

- Aaaaah this scene. Okay first off, fuck Flint. I hate him. “There’s a chain of command in this family.” Oooooh boy, so we’re gonna see that this season, right? Cuz I am so curious about the other two brothers and their involvement as well.

- “there’s a sealed incinerator at area 51, can’t exactly storm the place” I’VE GOT NEWS FOR YOU, ALEX. But it’s nice to see confirmation that Liz knows that Alex knows about everything too. Woo hoo, communication!

- “Flint was the Manes in my grade. He was always such a dick.” YESSSSSSSS.

- Michael’s speech about hope. Shit. He is just. “Hope screws people up. Hoping that your family will come and save you from the system. Hoping that anyone can be saved at all.” And poor Maria, she doesn’t know anything. Did she know about how Michael grew up? Because even Alex only knew he was living out of his truck as a rumor, and didn’t know the full extent until the junkyard talk in 1x10. So maybe Michael did have that hope for a moment in 1x13, that he went to the Pony thinking things could be different. But then Max died, and it reminded him that hoping just means more of the same shit.

- Also, Maria. Honey. Taking Michael’s keys doesn’t really mean anything. He’s a mechanic and a telekinetic alien.

- “Need help moving a body.” “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that.” LOL!

- No Kyle, your life is never going to be normal again. Nope.

- “The last thing Isobel needs is to get her hopes up.” Lots and lots of talk of hope this episode.

- “I always thought it was synthetic but if it’s organic” YOU MEAN LIKE HOW LIZ HYPOTHESIZED IN 1x08? Cool cool cool. I also love how their brains work, speaking of that callback. Liz is a biomedical engineer, this is her jam. Michael seems to lean more towards mechanical engineering, especially in 1x08 how he talked about the pods being “tech” and having a seam. But I am super curious about this idea that the alien organs can be fixed in a way, essentially being in line with Liz’s chosen field of study and her career path.

- It’s so cute how Michael gets a bit squeamish before he’s just totally in awe, like he’s probably never really gotten the chance to actually know anything about his own biology, and how it differs from humans - especially not before working with Liz in S1 to develop the serum antidote.

- Liz and Rosa, omg I love them so much. This conflict Liz is dealing with, she’s so happy to have Rosa back, but she’s so angry and so mad and so upset over losing Max at the same time. i LOVE LIZ ORTECHO.

- “I’m gonna fix it” GODDAMNIT Y’ALL LIZ ORTECHO. JUST... LIZ FUCKING ORTECHO.

- I am so looking forward to figuring out what’s up with Mimi and this wandering and why she had Rosa’s bracelet from the roadside memorial.

- Poor Isobel. This is gonna be an interesting story arc to see play out. Knowing what Carina said about it, I am much more interested in letting it play out before making any decisions on it. I’m not crazy about a pregnancy story line, but who knows what Carina has in store with it.

- Zombie!Max I think it’s interesting he says, “you’re the only one I can reach” and how that ties in with Liz’s earlier remarks about the handprints. Why was Rosa the only one to get a handprint? Is it because she was the most recent one Max healed? In the pilot, Max did say, “the mark could show up” so he knew there was a possibility it wouldn’t. But what does that mean? There’s definitely something more there, and I am excited to find out.

[ratherashleigh]

killing eve, queerbaiting, and why what sandra oh said in that interview is both 100% true and also entirely irrelevant

1. your personal disappointment that a tv show did not do exactly what you want is not queerbaiting just because what you wanted involves queer characters.

1a. yes, i'm going to refer to characters as queer. no, i do not take feedback.

2. actually i don't think 1. is sufficient to cover this topic. so i present:

What Are We Talking About When We Call Something Queerbaiting In 2019?

because this isn't just about language and how words may or may not have evolved to mean different things or include more things or people are just misusing a word because they just don't know. forget about the word. the word is irrelevant. WHAT IS THE ACTUAL COMPLAINT BEING LEVELLED BY FANDOM AT KILLING EVE RIGHT NOW?

pre-that gay times interview: they are never going to get together in a romantic relationship, i feel tricked into watching this on the promise of Queer Content.

post-that gay times interview: the show is denying that it is queer at all. fuck them they're wrong.

3. why the pre-interview complaint is, uh, wrong: queer content is queer content even if it's not the queer content you want.

fandom in general is obsessed with relationships. literally the verb for our single unifying activity is derived from the word relationship. the reason we, fandom, exist as a group at all, by and large, arises out of our collective desire for something that performative media does not do particularly well: relationships, specifically romantic ones, very especially queer romantic ones.

maybe it needs to be pointed out at this point that the relationship between fandom and the source is a bit like a dog chasing its own tail. or a snake eating its own tail, depending on the way the wind is blowing. fandom exists because it's not getting what it wants. and fandom turns on the source when it doesn't get what it wants. the problem: performative media, and especially longform media like television, is pretty much constructed by design in such a way that it will not give fandom what it wants.

(and it's weird that "fandom" is a term reserved pretty exclusively for ship-based fan activity, right? it's weird because fandom seems to imply we are fans, but all of this is about how the thing we are supposedly fans of is in some way not giving us what we want.)

i keep saying "what we want". i'm going to pause for a moment here to say something controversial: the story queer fandom wants has almost never, ever in the entire history of television, been provided to straight ship fans. because it's not a thing television provides, generally, at all. let me spell out what i think fandom wants, a conclusion based on excluding all the things i see being complained about, and attempting to find common elements in what's left over: queer couple in an expressly declared romantic relationship without conflict and with storylines centering around said relationship.

don't get me wrong, sometimes those things magically happen on tv, and overwhelmingly the examples of that will be het couples. H O W E V E R. those het couples are rare as fuck.

it's actually pretty straightforward as to why this is the case, and it is the reason i say performative media, especially television, does not, by design, give us what we want: narrative storytelling revolves around conflict. whether or not this is a good thing or not is irrelevant to the fact that it just is. romantic relationships in film and television tend to have two modes: UST and relationship problems. both of which involve conflict that impedes the relationship itself. the reason UST is generally what gets people shipping things is because the conflict is what's keeping them from being together, the implication being that but for the thing getting in the way the narrative has made some effort to show that these two characters WANT to be together. the reason tv tends to piss people off so much is because the default conflict once there IS a relationship is something that is going to break them apart. maybe they DON'T want to be together. the first inspires that sportsfan-like mentality that if we just try hard enough, we the characters but also we the fans cheering them on, will overcome the obstacle in the way. but overcoming something trying to break a couple apart is one of the singularly most unsatisfying narrative resolutions because the very fact of it required us to believe on some level that they could be broken apart. when your team is on top, it's not triumph you feel when they win but relief that they didn't lose. "they survived" is not the same happy ending as "they're together now," even if functionally it is the same outcome.

the other is more a function of how a tv show (much more than film) is actually constructed: a two lead cast with only minor secondary characters is RARE now. the kinds of shows that have the largest fandoms tend to be long season, large cast ensembles with either a plot of the week that means different characters interacting each episode OR is beholden to a larger narrative arc that needs to work to bring those other characters in over and over again. either way, the focus will never be exclusively and exhaustively on the two main leads interacting with each other.

4. so is killing eve not giving fandom what it wants?

like i said, the way stories are told does not, usually, facilitate this hypothetical dream ship: conflict free and the focus of the story. the thing being asked for barely exists at all. killing eve, magically, manages to tick one of the boxes, because the show does indeed revolve around the relationship between eve and villanelle. but the conflict? OH BOY IS THERE CONFLICT. it's not the relationship that fandom wants. it's not even close.

i'm not even going to pretend to understand how anyone watching this show concluded that the logical or even rational outcome for these two characters was happily ever after. but i'm also not going to straw man that extreme and dismiss the argument entirely. they certainly could have been together, even in an entirely fucked up manner. but what does that look like? sexual intimacy? i would argue we got that. expressions of attraction? we got that too. YALL. THAT'S QUEER AS FUCK.

what else, exactly, is required of this particular relationship to legitimize it in the eyes of fandom that doesn't take these characters entirely out of who they are? this is where i draw the line: WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT, GIVEN WHAT THIS SHOW IS? based on everything i have seen, apparently the answer is a kiss between them. and i think that ties back to this very specific fandom desire for evidence that the relationship isn't JUST queer, but also romantic. that distinction is the one that i'm starting to feel is the true conflict between those who call something like killing eve queerbaiting and those who think calling killing eve queerbaiting is bonkers.

and to be real fucking honest now, i don't just think it's bonkers, i also think it is misleading as fuck. because let's go back to what queerbaiting is, really, when you don't start trying to roll in every damn sin of storytelling about queer characters: queerbaiting is a maliciously intended trap. it's behaviour that is meant to entice people who want queer storylines, only to offer them nothing.

AND NOW TO BE REAL CLEAR: being offered nothing is NOT AND WILL NEVER BE the same thing as being offered something you don't like, or don't want, or don't give a single fuck about. it's not even the same thing as being offered something queer but harmful.

5. LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK: QUEERBAITING IS MALICIOUS WITHHOLDING OF QUEER CONTENT SAID TO BE ON OFFER.

the fact that metro dot co dot uk in 2019 had to define queerbaiting as "marketing an LGBT romance to attract an LGBT audience without exploring it properly on-screen" is honestly offensive in how it completely manages to miss the mark on what exactly is the harm caused by actual queerbaiting, and yet that really is the claim being made, isn't it? it doesn't count unless it's a romantic relationship? so let me say this: if one more person implies i'm not queer because i'm not in a romantic relationship, i'm gonna lose my shit.

(5a. and inb4 BUT THAT UK ADVERTISING CAMPAIGN. if you read that as a promise that the show was going to be ROMANTIC and not VILLANELLE IS A LITERAL PSYCHOPATH, i'm surprised you read this far.)

it's really obvious how this became the catchcry of the campaign for queer representation. it's a moral judgement against creators' manipulation of people's desire for something we are coming to recognise as an important aspect to popular media. representation IS important, and taking advantage of people's need for that is at the bare minimum a shitty thing to do.

it's not shitty to give people that representation. it's not shitty to write complex characters with queer sexualities that are not demonized but are also not in a romantic relationship. this endless cry of being baited with the promise of a romantic relationship only sends a message that we don't want actual representation, we only want one kind of representation. and that's not representation at all.

6. why the post-interview complaint is also totally wrong: literally all sandra oh said is that it wasn't a romantic relationship.

see: literally the last 1500+ words about why not giving fandom queer romance is not the same fucking thing as queerbaiting.

WHAT SANDRA OH SAID IS 100% TRUE: IT IS NOT A ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP. IT'S STILL QUEER AS HELL.

the actual literal entire quote from the interview: 'And could that possibly mean a romance together? It's a discussion that the show's star... was quick to dismiss, saying to Gay Times that the idea is sadly not a "focus or a message" for the show.' in case long sentences are a struggle: the idea of a ROMANCE is not the focus or the message of the show.

7. and in case i haven't made this abundantly clear, killing eve isn't a romantic show?: GOOD.

[maddiebrecks]

◊ ♫ ◊— look what the cat dragged in! that’s MADDISON BRECKENRIDGE and SHE is an around 29-year-old CASUAL VISITOR to the store, but they’ve been in the neighborhood for 29 YEARS. I think they’re a CEO and I overheard them listening to I GET MONEY by 50 CENT, and, I dunno man, it seemed pretty fitting. Like, call me shallow but I look at them and think of DAKOTA JOHNSON and STABBING SOMEONE IN THE FRONT, A CITY VIEW, and SLEEPING ON A BED OF MONEY. (ooc info: essy, she/her, nzt, 23)

look to ur left. look to ur right. both empty. it’s just us here, me and u. essy and u. now look me in my eyes. it’s time to know maddison. 

nicknames: maddie, ‘son’ to her father who wishes he had a legitimate son haha we love to have fun here at essy hq

sexuality: hey hey, bi bi bi bi

traits: ambitious, calculating, entitled, daring

likes: expensive wine, the outdoors, taking her moods out on others!

dislikes: inefficiency, people who make excuses, not being in control

family: william breckenridge (npc, father), michaela breckenridge (npc, mother), more probably but what does she know

INFO

MADDISON! BRECKENRIDGE! is an only child. and by that i mean the only child her father had with his wife, maddie’s mother. willy brecks is a proud man who very much does not reference the multiple children he’s fathered with other women because frankly, it would be impolite to bring it up. he feel so strongly this way that despite the fact he really kind of envisioned leaving everything to a son, with maddie being the only of his legitimate children, by the time she was eight he started preparing her for a life of Telling People What to Do.

boy is she a quick learner. maddison is an unapologetic nightmare whose only grace is her ability to convince herself she can handle any situation she’s in. let me be clear, this is not a conscious effort: being raised richer than god himself means that it’s maddie’s second nature to assume everything the light touches is hers. 

unsurprisingly? she’s not great at connecting with people on a normal level. most of the connections she made growing up were similarly spoiled brats, or people who were along for the gravy train. not that it mattered to maddie, though. she’s been singularly focused on business and breaking people for as long as she can remember.

so, maddie can’t lie. when her father finally had a stroke at the age of 63, leaving him conceding to an early retirement, she was ecstatic. it’s not like he died, after all, and finally at 26, she would be in control! n*ce.

surprisingly, breckenrige & co’s employees and clientele alike weren’t expecting things to go from bad to worse when maddie took over from her father. perhaps they’d assumed the apple would fall a little farther from the tree? or at least? be the same? tree? but, no. while william breckenridge, who built his business himself, saw the value in treating your talent well, maddie’s outlook is this: it’s a dog eat dog world, and the only people she wants to do business with are the people who have the biggest teeth.

because of this! however! maddie doesn’t have a wealth of friends. never has. which means that she kind of gets attached to people in ways you wouldn’t expect. an excellent example of this is her personal assistant, lina, who she takes joy in torturing but who is also? quite literally? one of her favourite people. she does this with a lot of people. you may not know it, but maddie loves you.

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

STEP SIBLINGS: I AM BEGGING U. illegitimate children of william breckenridge put your paws up! maddie, if she knew of her siblings, would be fond of them in a i would kill you if i had to but i’d be sad about it kind of way.

FRIENDS: i don’t know who you have to be to get behind this, but if we can make it work? we can make it work.

EMPLOYEES: there is no limit to  how many businesses are shadow owned by breckenridge & co, but working in the building in particular? will mean you know the nightmare CEO

BUSINESS PARTNERS: now i’m having flashbacks to my business degree

HOOK UP: no strings! 

ANYTHING  ELSE!!!

[takerfoxx]

An entirely too long ramble about how much Imperfect Metamorphosis means to me

(Tumblr please actually show that submissions are not just text posts please)

So. It’s almost the last day of the decade. I usually get weirdly sad and nostalgic in the last 30 minutes of New Year’s Eve, but this time it’s been like, a whole week, and I’ve been reflecting on this decade as a whole as well as like, my path in life.

The 1990’s were the decade of my birth and early life.

The 2000’s were the decade of being REALLY into Harry Potter.

And my 2010’s were, wholly and singularly, defined and shaped by Touhou. 

I got into Touhou sometime around Easter 2010 when McRoll’d came into my YouTube feed, and something about the music was just so god damned catchy I just had to know where it came from. So I discovered Flandre’s fight and from there, I learned just how great the music of this weird bullet hell game made by some rando in Japan. It quickly became my Thing. When I wasn’t playing sucking at the games, I was listening to the music, and if I wasn’t listening to the music, I was at school (where I’d probably not be paying attention let’s be real here).

So there I was, happily consuming fanart and fansongs and fangames and doing that little smile in appreciation when you see a reference to a thing you like (shoutout to raocow for also playing a few Touhou fangames way back when). It expanded my gaming interests into the sphere of “modding games to make them harder can be fun and cool”, which then lead to a general interest in playing modded and moddable games. It even made me interested in visiting Japan (on my bucket list), not in that stereotypical “weeb” way of visiting all the anime and manga stores, but more in the “something I like put a country on my radar and holy shit some of those restaurants, l want to eat at ALL of these places because they’re gorgeous” way.

You’ll notice that I specifically withheld from mentioning Fanfiction. See, as a teenager who did have the “try something once and if I don’t like it I’ll probably hate it forever because it’s always like that” mentality, I had the unfortunate experience of coming across My Immortal. 

That, and the fact that one of my close friends in High School had taken to reading Twilight Fanfic (and complaining at almost every story she read and their bad use of tropes) kinda solidified fanfiction as “something dumb and stupid written by people who solely want to roleplay fucking the protagonist”. And on that pedestal sat the entire concept of fanfiction for a long-ass time (actually it was about a year and a bit).

Fast forward a while. Patchouli had cemented herself as All Time Favourite Character, I’d begun to grow out of my Harry Potter phase in search of new stories, and I’d made some new friends, one of whom said they read fanfiction all the time and some of it was actually better than original, published books because they had the freedom to explore ideas that weren’t entirely publishable. But also to roleplay fuck their waifus.

At some point in Summer 2011, not too long after it came out, I decided to replay Portal 2, and something about the story left me feeling… incomplete. Empty. I sought people discussing what they thought of the story and hidden nuggets of info peppered throughout the game, and at some long buried comment section on YouTube, someone mentioned how some fanfiction went into a headcanon and took it further. I read it, considered it for a moment, deemed it worthy of being called “not trash”, and immediately set to looking at the Touhou section on FF.net.

The first fanfics I read of Touhou were… Well, they were. There were some good ones and not so good ones. But they were all, in some way, at least interesting. I quickly discovered the frustration that New Friend had brought up once, of when you discover something great but it’s over all too soon. Setting FF.net’s search to include only 100k and up fanfics, I was delighted to discover that there was a fanfiction called “Imperfect Metamorphosis” that was over 350,000 words long. And then my carefully crafted plan of going to bed at a sensible time to maximise Summer Gaming Time was devoured by staying up until 4:30am, reading fanfiction on a shitty laptop that could barely run UFO. Thank fuck it was the summer holidays.

There was something special about Imperfect Metamorphosis. The characters all had their own personality, their own history, their own implied history beyond what was written, they had goals, thoughts, feelings, and different takes towards other people working to further their own goals. And it was all wrapped up in a package that started with a simple premise, grew to encompass a world more broad than mere canon or fanon, and then billowed into an eldritch monster of ungodly size (hi, Yuuka!)((kind of like this post huh)). 

I was so fucking hooked on IM. I went back to school with theories buzzing about my brain as to what was going to end up happening, my mind wandering to the latest chapter and the bits I thought were cool, actually having the drive to focus and actually learn something about story structure in English Literature. I suddenly had the tiniest flame of interest in creating. Maybe one day I could write fanfic, and do my tiny part in expanding the universe of fan-content.

Regardless of the fact that my own attempts at conjuring stories weren’t successful (for a while), IM was there to be read throughout my last years of Normal Schooling, and it served as both a rock and an escape from the stress of school. I laughed with the jokes, I took Marisa’s death harder than the sum total of Harry Potter’s entire bodycount, and I could never hear Soulja Boi without thinking of Mima trolling Satori.

Just like how Touhou expanded my gaming and cultural horizons, Imperfect Metamorphosis expanded my horizon with Literature. I got into reading Neil Gaiman’s work, I read some Lovecraft, I consumed all kinds of works of fiction, across a multitude of genres, which all felt, in some way, like I was reading them because of IM. I mean I only started watching Madoka, and any anime beyond that, because of Resonance Days. Interesting way of coming across a show filled to the brim with spoilers.

It’s been three years since you put Imperfect Metamorphosis onto hiatus, and I have never read anything that has filled me with such emotion to the same extent. Other things have come close, some of them were even written by other people! (the most recent mega-update of Walpurgis Nights hit me particularly hard). And Swiftly Descending Darkness has been such a great read thus far, the slowly ramping tension is so. god. damned. good.

And as I think I mentioned a while back, I finally managed to start grinding out a touhou fic at my own, absolutely glacial, pace. I always find myself asking “is this canon to Touhou, or is it just canon to IM?”. The line has forever blurred in my mind.

I’m not asking anyone to read my work. This isn’t a plea for you to return to the original IM at any speed, I just wanted to say thank you.

Thank you for writing Imperfect Metamorphosis. For the work that’s been a steady constant throughout the vast, vast majority of this decade. For inspiring a wealth of emotions and ideas in the mind of a British guy who you’ll never meet. For just, plain writing a good story.

And for making Marisa the biggest badass to grace the land.

Here’s to the 2020’s not sucking, and to the ever expanding list of stories written by Internet user Takerfoxx. Here’s hoping you find great success.

Thank you.

P.S. Oh, and The Friend Who Said Fanfic Was Good Actually? They’re now my Fiancée, as of last month. Funny how the world works like that.

@diggertron, dude, you honestly have me feeling pretty humbled right now. I have to admit, it’s getting harder and harder not to see anything but the flaws when I look back on IM or RD, to the point when anyone compliments me about my writing my reflexive response is to be self-deprecating about my weaknesses, but this has helped me gain some more perspective about my older work, and for that I thank you, and am glad you have stuck around for so many years. 

And congratulations on your engagement as well!

[momentofmemory]

fictober - day thirty-one

Prompt #31: “Scared, me?”

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe (Spider-Man/Tom Holland Films, Captain America)

Characters: Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Michelle Jones (mention)

Words: 2917

Author’s Note: i have been patiently waiting for an opportunity to pair these two all month, and today i happened to see a still from ffh that showed art supplies in peter’s room and just. bam. practically 3k. having also done inktober this month, this serves neatly to combine the two. oh—and this occurs about 4-5 months post endgame.

>>Brooklyn & Queens (don’t throw shade, draw it)

Signing up for Ms. Hart’s Drawing I class is the most singularly idiotic thing Peter’s ever done, and considering he accidentally hitched a ride into space four months ago, that’s saying a lot.

It all started when he found Ben’s old film camera in the storage boxes they’d gotten post-Blip. He’d showed it to MJ—it’s artsy and it’s old, so she was sure to know what to do with it—and she’d looked at him with her usual level of curiosity disguised as ambivalence.

“You know Midtown’s offering a Darkroom Photography class next Fall, right?”

Peter didn’t know that, but once he did it was all he could think about.

He brings it up to his guidance counselor, and while she’s surprised by his interest, she tells him he can fit it into his schedule—but only if he takes the spring semester drawing class to meet the prerequisites.

It’s that fateful decision that leads to him sitting in Yellowstone Park for two hours straight, trying and failing to translate the still life from this morning’s class onto the paper in front of him.

He holds his pencil at arm’s length and tilts it to the side, one eye closed. He’s not entirely sure how that’s supposed to help, but it’s what all the artists in the movies do, so he figures it’s worth a shot.

The image looks just as small and useless as it did before.

(Although to be fair, that might be because it’s a photograph on a 4.7 inch phone screen, and not an actual, full-sized object.)

Peter wishes MJ were here—he’d initially picked the park because MJ said she’d help him figure out lighting, but she’d gotten caught up in some kind of decathlon prep right as they were leaving school. He hasn’t heard a word from her since, so he’s honestly given up on the idea of her coming at this point.

Peter groans and flops back onto the grass, notebook falling onto his chest and arm across his eyes.

“I should have stayed Blipped.”

He’s fully intending on lying there until nature takes over and he’s turned into ant food, when he’s interrupted by an elderly gentleman’s voice.

“You all right there, son?”

“Only questioning my own mortality for want of a stable light source—” Peter halts mid sentence, realizing the voice sounded weirdly familiar.

Peter lowers his arm from his face and finds himself staring into the eyes of none other than Captain Steven G. Rogers himself.

“Holy shi—” Peter nearly punches a hole in the ground with the amount of force he exerts in leaping to his feet. “—shingles. Holy shingles. Sir.”

He only just remembered that one story Mr. Stark used to tell about the language thing, but Captain Rogers just seems amused by his slip up.

“Sorry if I scared you there, Queens.”

There’s a twinkle in his eye that makes Peter wonder if he didn’t do it on purpose, but he feels the need to defend himself either way. “Scared? Me? No no no no, I was just… cold.”

It’s seventy-five degrees in the shade, and Peter’s been sitting directly in the sun since he got here.

He shoves his notebook behind him with his foot and brushes non-existent grass off his jeans. “Um, anyway, what’re you—what’re you doing out here? I mean, not that you need a reason, since it’s a public park and you’re part of the public I guess, I mean you’re like half of the reason the public is even still here, so, uh—”

Cap looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and Peter wishes the ground would swallow him whole if only to get him to stop talking. “—what I mean is that I uh, I didn’t realize you were still hanging around in New York, Captain Rogers. America. Sir.”

He’s not entirely sure what the ex-super soldier’s official designation is these days, but Cap just starts to sit down on the grass, gesturing for Peter to do the same.

“Just Steve is fine,” he says, legs folded cross-legged under him. “Pretty sure Sam’ll kill us both if he hears you referring to anyone but him as Captain America now. He’s pretty taken with the new title.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Peter crosses his own legs and twiddles his thumbs. The politics of legacy heroes must be wild. He makes a note to never let anyone go by Spider-Man except himself.

“So can I… help you?”

Even as Peter asks, he can feel his throat seizing up at the thought. Before Thanos, he’d have given anything to team up with Captain America, but now…

Now, his heart’s accelerating from than just hero worship.

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Steve’s looking at him closely, eyes strangely sharp for the hundred plus year old body they’re staring out of. “Actually, Tony asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Peter looks up in surprise. “Mr. Stark said that?”

“The words he used were a bit stronger, but yes,” Steve says. “Not that he needed to. Even if you’re from a trashy borough like Queens, you’re still a New York boy.”

Peter gasps in horror, tensions forgotten. “You’re literally from Brooklyn! That’s like, infinitely worse!”

“Not according to ExtraSpace.com, which ranks it as the best borough for housing.”

“Whoever taught you how to use the internet should be criminalized, sir.”

“Steve,” he repeats.

“Right. Steve.” The name still feels weighty on Peter’s tongue. “…If I’m Queens, can we make it even and I call you Brooklyn?”

Cap laughs, and Peter barely has time to think oh my god Captain America laughed at one of my jokes before he realizes the man’s nodding towards Peter’s sketchpad. “Tell you what, you can call me Brooklyn so long as you tell me what’s got you longing for death this evening.”

“Uh…” Peter flounders, trying to find a cooler way to say homework. “Just some bottles.”

Not cooler, Peter. Very, very not cooler.

Steve raises his eyebrows.

“By which I mean drawing bottles! Glass, still-life bottles. Totally kosher ones. Not like, alcohol ones.” Peter scrambles for his notebook. “I’m not legal yet.”

To his surprise, though, Steve holds out an open hand. “May I see?”

Peter turns red enough that if he looked in the mirror, he’d probably think he had his costume on. “…Sure?”

Steve takes the notebook from him and starts paging through it, lingering every so often to trace over his lines. Peter watches the other man’s gnarled hand to avoid thinking about the fact that Captain America was looking at his high school level, B graded sketchpad.

What even is his life.

The only benefit from Steve looking at his drawings is that it meant the other man’s eyes weren’t directly on him, and that lends Peter the courage to ask the question that’s been in the back of his mind ever since he first saw Steve’s white hair.

“…Did you really go back?”

Steve’s hand stills over a poorly done rendition of an onion skin. “By go back, I assume you mean ‘stay.’”

Peter’s not sure he hasn’t just walked into a dangerous topic, but he’s never been good at knowing when to stop. “Yeah.”

Steve nods in a way that makes Peter think he’s probably a lot like that, too. “Then yes.”

A young couple walk by a few yards away, but pay them no mind—Peter’s not in his costume, and the general public doesn’t know what happened to Steve. They could easily pass as just an average grandfather and grandson, enjoying a day in the park. Peter’s eyes follow them until he’s sure they’re out of earshot, anyway, then he turns his attention back to Steve.

“So that makes you like…” Peter pauses, quickly running the numbers in his head. “…A hundred and ten? A hundred and eighty if you count the ice?”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches up. “Something like that.”

There’s a glint in Steve’s eyes that makes Peter think he might have wildly missed the mark; he stows that tidbit away for later. “Huh. Wow.”

Steve turns another page. “Does your professor know you’re drawing from photographs?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess?” Peter frowns, wondering how Steve could tell. “Does it matter?”

Steve hums, his brow furrowed in thought. “Camera lens aren’t the same as an eye—flattens the shapes differently. It can throw off the lighting, too.”

Peter tilts his head, then looks at his phone, still lying abandoned on the ground. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry.” Steve turns the page. “It’s a disadvantage when drawing, but it’s also the main advantage of actual photography. You can distort the world to fit the message you’re trying to tell.”

“Isn’t that lying?”

“All of art is a lie if you think it’s a direct interpretation of reality, Peter. The truth of art isn’t in always in what it depicts. It’s in how it depicts.”

Even though they’re his own drawings, Peter cranes his neck over Steve’s shoulder to look at his sketchbook. To him, they just look like the average still life. 

He wonders what Steve sees.

“How’d you know so much about art?”

“I was planning on being an art major, before the war,” Steve says. “And then I became one in 1957.”

Peter starts, eyes widening as Steve turns the page and finally reaches the sketches he’d been working on that afternoon. “You…”

He trails off, unsure of how to pursue that without offending the older super. Steve, for his part, says nothing further and just flips back and forth between Peter’s second and fourth failed attempt at the three-bottle composition.

Peter clears his throat. “When you—when you decided to go back. Was it hard?”

“Dr. Mortyn’s decision to grade on the curve was infuriating.”

Peter scowls; frustrated at what he can only assume is Steve being deliberately obtuse. “No, I mean—not being able to… change things.”

If Peter’s honest with himself, he’s both a little confused by and a little jealous of Steve’s decision. Confused, because he can’t imagine walking away from the fight when there’s still so much work to be done, can’t imagine going backwards in time when all he ever wants to do is move forward. But also jealous, because…

Because Peter’s tired, and he’s only been doing this for two years—if he’s tired now, then he can’t imagine how he’ll feel once he’s been doing this for as long as Cap did (if he makes it that long). Because Peter’s watched superheroes fight and die and sacrifice everything, and the memorials he passes in the street make him feel so small and insignificant that when he goes out on patrol, it makes him wonder if anything he’s doing really matters. Because he feels like he’s doing nothing right now but he’s terrified he’s going to be called on to do everything one day, and he’s just not sure he’s enough.

Steve finally reaches the last sketch in the notebook—the one Peter’d been working on before he’d given up on the whole thing. Steve looks at the forms for a long moment, then flips to the back of the book and carefully tears out a blank page.

“Where’s your pencil, Queens?”

“My—” Peter’s not entirely sure Steve isn’t just changing the subject on him, but he scrambles for the writing utensil regardless. He finds it and two more laying a few feet away, and gently blows an ant off the tip of the black one before offering it to Steve.

Steve accepts it, and starts sketching an outline of the composition.

“Your grasp of form is good,” he says, shapes quickly coming to life under his deft fingers. “Your proportions are mostly correct; there’s not too much difficulty on perspective. The composition is already set for you, so that’s no issue.”

He finishes the draft, still unshaded, and hands the sketchpad back to Peter. “So why do you keep redoing the same drawing?”

Peter looks between the sketched lines in Cap’s drawing and his own iterations. “Because they’re not the same?”

“The outlines are. Does the rest matter?”

“Well, yeah. Once you add in the shading…”

Peter flips through all the sketches he’d made today—one, two, five, seven; hundreds of eraser marks on all of them. They’re all wrong, but they’re all wrong just a little differently. One has light sources that seem to defy all the laws of physics, jumping in every which direction. Another has marks that were supposed to be highlights, but wound up being darker than the actual shadows. Still another has values that are so close together the shadows make the image look flatter than even Steve’s quick sketch.

He looks up at Steve. “It makes the final thing totally different.”

Steve smiles in response, and starts filling in his own sketch.

“Local colour is your biggest problem,” he says. “You’re trying to match everything to the colour your eye thinks it’s seeing in the photo—like in this one, where your darkest shadow on the white bottle is still brighter than the lightest highlight on the black bottle.”

“And that’s bad?” Peter frowns, catching his lip between his teeth, and starts his eighth version of the image while Cap continues.

“Not necessarily.” Steve runs the pencil over the edge of one of the bottles, darkening its side. “Shading is always a tricky thing. There’s a lot of things to pay attention to—shadows, highlights, halftones. Local colour. One of the most important rules is making sure your lightest dark is still darker than the darkest light.”

“Is that last one supposed to be a metaphor?”

“It wasn’t intended, but you can certainly take it that way.”

Peter hums in response, and moves on to outlining the second bottle. “So in my drawing, do I just ignore the colour?”

“The original context always matters,” Steve replies. He pauses to point out a discrepancy in one of Peter’s lines before continuing. “Your white bottle is always going to be whiter than the black one overall. But if you’ve got a highlight on both—that highlight’s the same. And if you’ve got a dark shadow on something, don’t be afraid to make it as dark as it needs to be to provide contrast.”

Peter nods, and after a few minutes, finishes his outline and starts shading. Steve offers pointers every so often, and he’s barely a quarter of the way through the first bottle before he can see a marked difference between this sketch and his last one.

“So,” Peter says eventually. “When I asked how you handled not being able to change things…”

Steve pauses, his pencil hovering above the page, and waits for Peter to finish. 

Peter looks down at his drawing and thinks about how it’s exactly the same as all the others, and yet totally different, too.

“…The answer is that you did.”

Steve smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkling, and turns his attention back to his sketch. It’s all the confirmation Peter needs.

The scritch-scratch of pencil on paper fills Peter’s ears as he thinks about that revelation. Whatever Steve did, it can’t have been major—not in the universe-shaping, blatantly obvious kind of way he’s used to Avengers working. He wonders if it was enough.

Peter erases a shadow on the middle bottle he’s decided has gotten too dark, and then glances at Steve, who’s started adding all kinds of textures and details to his own drawing.

It’s clearly the same picture, but the art is something else entirely.

It’s enough.

Peter’s certain Steve has better things to do, but the retired soldier stays with him for another hour, either telling him stories about the Avengers or old school New York, or gently correcting something about his art form. By the time Peter’s done, the sketch isn’t great, per se, but it’s at least good. Steve helps Peter pack his things back up, and then hoists Peter to his feet with a strength that belies his older body.

Steve then hands Peter the drawing he’d made, and Peter almost refuses until he flips it over and sees that Steve’s written a phone number on the back.

“Let me know if you ever need anything, Queens. Including, but not limited to, more art lessons.”

Peter grins from ear to ear. “Thanks, Brooklyn. You too.”

The next morning, Peter turns in a drawing that still looks a little wonky, but it’s so dramatically improved from last time that MJ gives him a halfway impressed thumbs up, and it’s enough to make him take back every disparaging thing he’s said about the class.

That evening, Spider-Man heads out onto the streets with more excitement than he’s had in a long time.

He doesn’t do anything of a particularly groundbreaking nature—nothing that will change the outlines. There’re no aliens, no world-ending weapons, no last minute, jaw dropping rescues.

But there is Mr. Delmar, who needs help repainting the store sign that’s too high for him to reach. There’s a sixth grader, who’s putting up posters for her lost dog until he finds it eleven blocks away. There’s a would-be mugger, who’s had one too many bad days but Spider-Man listens to them all, and then helps him register at a homeless shelter.

It’s nothing so grand as saving the universe. It won’t get him shrines in the streets, or murals on skyscrapers, or even a mention in the paper.

But it’s something: a few more highlights, a little more definition, a bit more right in a world where there’s so much wrong.

And that, Peter decides, is not nothing.

[beholdthemem]

Do you think Travis and Megan knew each other?

The Phelps Ministry seems to be the main, if not only church in Nockfell- I assume the choices for the Holmes family would have been there, or somewhere out of town, and I can’t imagine they’d go to that much trouble. Travis and Megan would have been in roughly the same age group. They probably went to Sunday School together.

I don’t think they would have been friends. Not at first. Not without some effort.

They’d know each other really just by virtue of proximity. All the kids born and baptized between 1980 and 1981 got shoved together all the time to make it easier on the group leaders- one age group per area.Travis and Megan grow up seeing each other every week- in nursery school, in Sunday school, in children’s choir and in church, and they manage to know each other both very well and not at all. If you showed Travis a million pictures of a million babies, he’d know which one Megan had been, but if you’d asked him her favorite color or even her last name, he’d have no idea.

When they were very little, back before the boys and girls learned to hate each other, they used to play together and pretend to be dogs.

Travis stops playing with her when he turns six and the congregation members who say hello to him after church as he waits in the hall for his dad to put away his robes start referring to her as his girlfriend.

They say it nicely, like they think it’s sweet. He hates it anyway.

The next time they’re all sent out to play and Megan comes over to him like usual as they sort themselves into their default groups, he tells her very shortly that girls and boys can’t be friends and that he doesn’t want to play with her anymore. She looks a bit taken aback as he walks away and forces himself into a group of boys playing with sticks, but she doesn’t protest. They weren’t really close enough for it to be a loss. It’s more like a break in routine.

The other boys are not fun. All they ever want to play is pirates. As Travis whacks somebody over the head with his stick, he decides his pirate is also secretly a dog.

When the boys finally start interacting with the girls again, it’s to antagonize them. Travis isn’t totally sure why they do this, but he doesn’t want to be the only one who won’t, so he does it too. It’s not intentional, but his main target somehow ends up being Megan. 

She just makes it so easy. He doesn’t even have to try to upset her. It’s like she’s scared of everything, bugs, loud noises, the dark, spiders, that stain behind the choir room radiator that looks like a face, but she still wanders around with this dumb smile like she’s not even ashamed or upset about it, and he has this overwhelming urge to wipe it off her face. It just makes him so ANGRY, and he’s not even sure why. People should be ashamed of their weaknesses. They should fix them. But she never does anything about it, like there’s nothing wrong with the way she is, and he hates it.

She never does anything about him picking on her either. All she does is ignore him for as long as she can and runs away when she can’t. 

Megan is the biggest pushover he knows, so when she comes to Sunday school one day wearing a necklace, he immediately decides that he’s taking it from her before the day is out. She doesn’t need something that fancy anyway. He’s not sure how to tell, but it looks like it might be actual gold. Who gives a kid real gold? It’s her mom’s own fault that somebody’s going to end up taking it, putting it on her dumb daughter was a dumb idea.

He’s used to taking stuff from Megan without her doing anything more than whining, so when they go to the play area and he yanks the necklace off her neck “Just to see!” he is entirely unprepared for the scream of rage she gives before lunging after him and tackling him to the ground. 

They scrabble in the dirt, clawing and punching and snarling. Megan’s giving as good as she gets, singularly focused on getting that necklace back and away from him, with no qualms about doing as much damage as possible as she does it. As she scratches his face, narrowly missing his eye with her needle like nails, Travis is shocked to realize he’s actually kind of impressed.

Then suddenly the Sunday school teachers are there, dragging them apart and hollering about unacceptable behavior and would have expected better and disappointed and parents and as Travis feels the sudden stab of fear in his stomach as he imagine his father hearing about this, he recognizes an identical look of terror on Megan’s face.

Their eyes meet.

And then suddenly the dam breaks and he’s frantically trying to get the teachers to listen, insisting that no it was HIS fault, Megan didn’t do anything wrong, while Megan tries to talk over him about how it was HER fault, she should never have hit him, Travis didn’t do anything, and a combined chorus from the two of them of please, please, please don’t be angry!

From a few yards away, the other children watch in amazement.

In the end, nobody tells their parents, but Travis and Megan are both put in time out for the rest of the day and have to (with stern help from the high school volunteers from Youth Group) write each other letters of apology.

They sit in the classroom in silence, Megan’s necklace back around her neck, and watch as the other kids play outside. Travis crushes his alphabet cookies one by one and sprinkles them into his apple juice for something to do.

“Why do you have that, anyway?” He finally asks when he runs out of cookies, eyeing the necklace as sunlight winks off the cross. Megan fidgets with it for a moment, almost unconsciously.

“My mommy says it will protect me from the evils of the world.” she says haughtily, and refuses to look at him.

“Oh,” says Travis, looking out the window at the others playing on the swings. “It’s pretty.”

“...thank you.” Megan says, after a moment, then silently slides her own alphabet cookies over to him.

It’s not quite a truce, but it’s something like it.

Over the next year, Megan and Travis become nearly inseparable. If anyone asks if they’re friends they will strictly deny it, but it doesn’t stop them from making mud soup together in the sandbox, drawing on any surface that stays still long enough, and hoarding snacks in the tiny broom closet nobody else uses anymore in the choir room.

The broom closet can fit two small children in relative comfort, and it is claimed almost immediately as a clubhouse. They fill it with snacks and interesting rocks and old beach towels, and when Mr. Holmes has a day where he goes all strange or Pastor Phelps has a sermon where he gets particularly fire and brimestone-y, they hide in there together and carefully talk about absolutely anything else.

Megan is still scared of all sorts of weird things, and Travis is still kind of a jerk, but they learn to work around it. They have... an understanding now.

The day the Holmes family disappears, Travis knows long before they’re officially declared missing that something has gone badly wrong. He doesn’t know what exactly, and he can’t explain why, but he has this sickening feeling that something very bad has happened and whatever it is he’s not going to be able to fix it.

Early the next morning, as he crouches behind the doorway and watches his father staring at the TV news, he learns that he was right.

Went fishing, the reporter says onscreen.

A mudslide, she continues, face solemn.

Three bodies recovered, she finishes, and Pastor Phelps turns the TV off.

As he wanders off towards the kitchen, Travis sits numbly, clutching his knees to his chest, staring at nothing, and thinks of mud, and screams, and how Megan, who couldn’t even handle spiders, who was terrified of the dark, who’d jump whenever somebody slammed a door, must have been so, so scared.

A service is held for the Holmes family that evening.

A lot of people are crying, even people that Travis thinks really didn’t know Megan’s family that well. He wonders, through the fog that seems to have taken up residence in his brain since this morning, extinguishing the panicked, rapid-fire energy from yesterday, if it’s bad that he isn’t.

It’s probably okay. Dad says that men don’t, anyway.

It’s fine.

At the pulpit, Pastor Phelps begins talking about Luke Holmes, describing him as a loving family man. A memory of the terror in Megan’s eyes any time a teacher threatened to talk to her father abruptly cuts through the haze in Travis’s head and he suddenly fiercely, selfishly, wishes that Luke had died somewhere else, alone and away from her.

He’s immediately ashamed and afraid for thinking that. Dad’s always talking about how only God can pass judgement on others, and Travis has a vague sense that God can probably read minds. If he thinks something that awful, God will know and get angry.

But there’s a part of him that thinks it anyway.

The funeral is held a week later. Travis wonders numbly during the days leading up to it if he should ask to go, but is spared from making a decision by coming down with the flu the day before. While Megan Holmes is being laid to rest, Travis Phelps is staring up at the ceiling of his room, trying to figure out, in between doses of medicine, if he ever gave her back that rock she found that looked like a fossil.

That Sunday in Sunday school, the teacher talks to them about heaven.

She talks about how sometimes God, in His infinite wisdom, takes some people to be with Him in heaven sooner than we expect. That we miss them, and that’s okay, but that we should take comfort in knowing that there is always a reason for everything He does, and that those people are in a better place now. That as long as we are good, we will see them again someday, and join them in heaven.

Most of the girls are crying. A few of the boys are too. Travis can feel the high schoolers staring at him reproachfully from the back of the classroom, and thinks, with no real emotion, that it probably seems kind of mean that he isn’t.

Men aren’t supposed to cry.

Do they just never feel like they want to?

When they all go out into the play area, Travis wanders vaguely alongside the fence, thoughts filled with fog. Lately he’s been feeling like his head is stuffed with cotton. Everything feels... weird. Quiet. Muffled. It’s like life is in slow motion and he can’t figure out how to change it back.

He comes to a stop by the gate and sits down, watching the other kids. There’s that same group of boys playing pirates, a couple of girls being horses, and some other people engaged in a halfhearted game of catch. He wonders why nobody ever wants to be dogs.

Something glints at the edge of his vision.

There’s something shiny half buried in the dirt by the gatepost. As Travis digs it out, he discovers it’s a rock, but a familiar one. It’s smooth and polished, looking more like something bought at a museum gift shop than anything found in nature, and it’s almost identical to one that Megan found a month ago not too far from here. Cleaning the dirt off with his sleeve, he shoves the rock in his pocket, takes a quick look around to make sure nobody’s looking, and clambers over the gate, stumbling slightly as he lands on the other side.

He makes a beeline for the choir room. The youth choir should have finished practicing a while ago, and they never remember to lock up. If he’s quick...

Travis makes it to the choir room, checks to make sure there’s no one left from choir practice, and dashes over to the broom clubhouse, flinging the door open before slowing to a halt.

The clubhouse has always been a meld of his and Megan’s personalities, but as he looks, he can see little things that are Megan’s alone. The beach towels wadded up in that one corner she always sits in, because she likes to have a nest. The crayons that she’d brought from home because the ones at Sunday school are all broken. The dried leaves that she taped to the walls last fall and still haven’t quite fallen apart yet. The special rocks she’d collected, carefully lined up and arranged on the lone shelf in the room.

Travis slowly makes his way over to the shelf, examining each rock before pulling out the new one to compare. He knows all the rocks in here. Megan showed him every time she found a new one, telling him all about where they came from and the special powers they might have.

At the very end is the shiny rock that she found last month, glittering in soft gray. Travis places his next to it, wiping off a little more dirt with his thumb. 

They do look alike. Maybe they came from the same place. 

Megan would have been really excited to find out.

The new rock goes clattering to the floor. 

Travis doesn’t move to get it, clenching his trembling hands into fists. 

The room is too big.

It’s not a big room, they’d both been thinking it was starting to get a little small lately, but now it’s too big, way too big, big and echoing and empty, and he suddenly feels very small and alone. It’s too big with just one person, it’s too big with just him, there’s supposed to be two people in here but now one of them is gone and she’s never coming back and THE ROOM IS TOO DAMN BIG.

In a sudden fit of rage, Travis snatches his rock off the floor and throws it as hard as he can against the furthest wall. It hits and shatters upon impact, spraying shards of stone everywhere and leaving a mark in the wood.

Travis glares at it, teeth clenched, breathing hard, and when the tears start to fall he tries to fight them off, snarling, before giving up at last, knees folding as he slumps to the ground and buries his hands in his hair and sobs and screams and shatters like the stupid, stupid rock.