#bootstring

[sexypinkon]

Sexypink - NEWS - Never give up.

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Douen | A Trinidad Folklore Short Horror FilmWhen Steven's little sister Emily mysteriously goes missing, no one can point any fingers, until the truth slowly starts to unfold, leading them to discover Emily's disappearance similarly follows the old Trinidad folklore tale of the Douen. 

This film is an official selection for the Film and Folklore Festival 2022.

[cerastes]

Whats wrong with Near Light?

It is completely clueless as to what its own point is.

"Maria Nearl" made an excellent job of portraying the capitalist bloodsport known as "the Kazimierz Major" as a soulless venture meant to sell dreams and deliver bloodshed, propaganda, and ad revenue instead. It is impeccable in its themes, to the point that Blemishine is in fact told that she is expecting far too much, by EVERYONE else, when she says she'll compete in the Major for the sake of House Nearl having a Knight Primus. Her closest associates end up supporting her not because they truly believe she's right, they support her because they literally don't want her to end up dead. Zofia, Vogelweide, Kowal and Marcin know there's no actual stopping Maria once she sets up her mind on something, so they choose to train her not so she can win, but so she can survive at all in something she's woefully unqualified for. There's absolutely no glory to be made. This is a vie for survival first and foremost.

Near Light then completely disregards all of this and makes Margaret Nearl, a character I really like, into a generic fantasy hero that Must Fight To Achieve Things. It takes the very grounded "meaningless fight for something" from the first event, which is completely in line with old knightly literature, and turns it into a shonen, which I found pretty, well, insulting. Victory equals successful ideals now, because she's Margaret "Kirito SAO" Nearl, so if she does it, it's Fine now. It spins everything into seemingly being honorable knightly duels (but we're the good ones), while giving a horribly passive centrist narrative to what was purely a criticism of late stage capitalism in the prior event. Margaret wants to change things systematically from within.. Which is just a load of hog-fucking-wash when we already established from moment one that the system is in itself flawed, corrupt, and a cesspit of maggots trying to eat each other. It makes you wonder if it was the same writer that wrote both events, because it sure as shit doesn't seem so, and if it was, did they get into NFTs in the meantime or subscribe to Infowars or Andrew Tate or whatever equivalent there is mainland China or something? It went from a clearly muddied look at a system that is inherently flawed into "Actually, if we win enough fights... We can begin the Change Everything castbar, it's pretty simple, actually".

And I bring up those particular shitstains because Margaret Nearl, VERY uncharacteristically, pulls off a "no handouts, let them pull themselves up by their bootstrings" in the event: She refuses to go rescue Pinus Sylvestris because "they can't be saved by those who already have true conviction, they must do it themselves"... Actually what the fuck? You see in Chapter 0, 1 and 7 of the main story that Nearl will go out of her way, risk her very own flesh, to rescue those who are hopeless because that's what she believes in, that's why she's admired, because she'll fucking pull through in these situations... And then she says this shit in Near Light? AND THEN, as if that wasn't enough, smashing a fucking broken thermometer over a salted wound, it is then stated in god damn Operators Files that she did rescue Pinus Sylvestris off-screen anyways, because whoever was responsible for "writing" this, and I'm being fucking magnanimously generous with that word, couldn't just have their cake, but also had to devour it wholesale in one single bite? Get the fuck out.

On screen: Yeah, they gotta earn their lives. [Some fakedeep shit about needing to be devoted enough to their own cause and beliefs] Off screen: Oh I saved them anyways lol, I need to Look Cool.

It's not good writing, g, I'll tell you that fucking much, and it makes me upset because it's a character I like in a setting I love.

Of course I'm not going to like if they Kiritofy a character they had consistently written real damn well prior to an event meant to star her.

It makes me mad because the ultimate resolution of it all is a very cowardly "I Will Now Improve Things From Within" yeah okay and Suzaku was right in Code Geass too, right? Jesus fucking christ, man.

Bottom line, it all feels like they set up something incredible in Maria Nearl, right up until the very end, when Fan Favorite comes out of fucking nowhere to save the day, and then her event contradicts the key tenets of her character thus far to boot.

So you'll have to forgive me but my opinion on Near Light is not particularly positive because it became a "Wow look at how COOL this character is!" kinda shonen shitshow when we had a very "The system is inherently wrong, the solution is not at all simple" sort of seinen narrative going on. It should be telling when Mlynar embodies a more scathingly apt take on the sides Maria herself did not cover in her event towards the narrative than whatever the hell they decided to tarnish Margaret with. It's like the Twilight of Wolumonde writer handled Maria Nearl until the end and then they put the Sword Art Online writer on for Near Light.

It's not because I dislike Margaret Nearl that I feel this way. It's because I like her and they did her dirty. But sure, wau cool horse dom wife mommy or whatever.

[oculusxcaro]

So... you remember me talking about maybe getting a snake the other day? Well, guess who just arrived home.

He's a wee bootstring right now and the photo doesn't really do him justice because he's always on the move but he's an Anerythristic corn snake (confirmed male) and the first thing he did when the owner put him in my hand was nom my finger very gently. I was so tempted to get the Palmetto BUT didn't know they had a genetic default known as bug-eyed. 😔 Very gorgeous snake and the owner showed me the father but in the end, my heart chose the anery (or rather, his mouth chose me!) Not quite the ball python I was intending to get but since it's been so long since I've had a snake, I'll hold onto this wee danger noodle for now to make sure I can take care of him! Managed a quick journey home but now he's sitting inside a nice warm cave, chilling. When he's settled in a bit, I'm going to spoil the fuck out of him with some little plants and so on but for now I'll let him destress. Haven't picked a name yet but... maybe Rorschach? Because he'll grow up to become black and white. :D

[violettduchess]

Leon and this prompt: laughing at their messy hair in the morning

He has the perfect hair for this 😉

A/N: Ok no, its not angst but I saw @leonscape feeling so down about there being not a lot of Leon content and I remember when I said the same thing and asked for requests and wrote like, 2 of them 🙈 So I decided to set Silvio aside for a moment and give Leon some love.

For you, Sui 💜

Fluff/ a tiny bit of angst, Leon x f reader

💥Spoiler warning for Leon's route 💥

WC: 941

Sunday mornings are made for lounging in a cozy bed, surrounded by bed sheets that are still warm with the night’s body heat. They are made for flagrantly ignoring the sunlight peeking through the curtains of the arched palace windows and for pretending that if you don’t get up, the day will wait for you. Sunday mornings are for sleepy smiles, warm embraces, softly-spoken words. For gathering the energy you’ll need when facing an austere, humorless Monday.

He’s usually the one who wakes up first. Leon has always been a light sleeper and an early riser, a survival tool built into the very bones of his character, carved there by his nightmare of an early childhood. If you woke first, you weren't kicked awake by a slaver’s heavy boot. Or worse, by the sting of their whip. A light sleeper would hear when another slave, creeping slowly to keep their chains from rattling, was trying to sneak up and steal his treasured items: a small metal coin, a bootstring, a leathery piece of jerky. Waking easily and early is just one more scar courtesy of the sharp claws of his past.

But Sundays….there is something about the safety of a Sunday morning that allows him to sleep, to let leisure and peace sink into his mind and keep him dreaming. You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. His golden eyes are closed, fringed by lashes dark as pitch. His mouth, always ready with a smile, is relaxed, more serious in sleep. And then there is his hair…..

It is a jungle of dark locks, a wild cacophony of brown spikes that sits upon his head, reminding you of….you consider a moment….reminding you of a fluffy, self-righteous hedgehog, daring you to just try and tame it. The image makes you laugh out loud and one golden eye slowly opens.

“I know what you’re doing.” His voice is thick with sleep, sandpaper-rough.

“Me?” You press a hand to your heart, eyes wide with feigned innocence, bright with amusement. “I don’t know what you mean, your highness.”

“Hmm.” He stretches his body languidly, the bed sheets sliding off of his bare shoulder. You resist the urge to keep pulling it down since you know for a fact he sleeps without a stitch of clothing. “You….,” he murmurs, stifling a yawn, “are…..” And then he moves with a speed that his sleepy stretching left you unprepared for, rolling until he has you pinned underneath him, caging you in as he supports his weight on his strong forearms. “...a terrible liar, love.”

Laughter, bright as sunshine on water, escapes you. You meet his beautiful gaze with a grin.

"I have no idea what you mean." 

There it is. The radiant chord of connection slowly winding itself around both your hearts, binding you to each other. You feel it in the thrill of his skin against yours. You see it in the twinkling of tenderness in his eyes.

“Fess up. What have you decided my hair looks like this morning?”

Sunday mornings are a time for tradition and you two have fallen into this one completely by accident. Maybe because you have the time to linger in bed or because for once he isn’t up and dressed before you, but somehow Sunday mornings have become a time for you to affectionately laugh at the tornado of bedhead that he never fails to wake up with and tease him for it.

You slide your palms, one right next to the other, over the hard planes of his chest, the feel of the muscle and sinew a delight to the touch. Up over his broad shoulders, your fingers curling over the rounded edges. Eventually you reach his neck where they interlock and you glance up at him.

“Maybe….I thought this morning’s hair….resembles…an indignant hedgehog.”

There is no sound as musical to your ears as when he laughs and you are rewarded with an entire concert. The initial burst of surprised laughter and then he lowers his body, covering you entirely with it as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his shoulders still shaking with every chuckle. You join him, his amusement contagious as your laughter intertwines with his.

He lifts his head, a wide grin lighting up his handsome face.

“You do know you’re speaking to a Prince of Rhodolite, yes?” His voice wraps itself around you, flows over you like warm water.

You return his grin, one hand brushing the rowdy locks of hair away from his forehead. “Oh dear. I’ve insulted the crown. Whatever will become of me?”

His smile turns wicked, as does the press of his body against yours. In the space of a heartbeat the morning mood has shifted from something warm and soft to something sharp with heated potential. He turns his head, pressing a kiss into the corner of your mouth.

“For the crime of mocking a member of the royal family, I hereby sentence you to a lifetime of kisses, to be delivered by you to the offended prince.”

You would laugh but he’s shifted, his head dropping to leave a soft line of kisses down your neck and your breath has quite rapidly abandoned you.

“A whole lifetime, huh?…..I suppose….” You reach for him, gently urging him to raise his head. “I better get started.”

He leans down and you angle your head to meet in a kiss that glows with the heat of desire and the brightness of affection. 

As you wrap your arms around this man who owns your whole heart, you know what else Sunday mornings are for.

Love.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart

[nostalgiachan]

Baldurian Finger Trap

Second Prompt: One of the companions has been gone from camp for a very long time

Act Three Spoiler Warning

---

“Darling, it’s Minsc,” Astarion sighed, his hand gently landing on Vier’s shoulder. “That lummox would get lost on a straight path, I’m certain. And lest we forget, he’s a grand world-saving hero…twice over, yes? So any poor soul dumb enough to try to jump him on his little outing will get the quite literal spanking of a lifetime.”

Vier reached a hand up to meet Astarion’s. In any other circumstance, she would have agreed with him. But in the last tenday or so, their camp had been met with one attempted abduction, one successful abduction, and multiple visits from a deviless who she was sure would look for any excuse to cause them problems. The party had relocated to a room in the Elfsong Tavern in hopes that it would prove a slightly more defensible location than a wide-open alleyway in the slums by the docks, but that did little to put Vier’s mind at ease. On top of all that, the last time Minsc ‘went missing’, he’d gotten a worm jammed in his skull, and before that, turned into a statue. She trusted him to take care of himself, but there was no denying the man’s a lightning rod of misfortune.

It had been a day since Minsc had headed out into the Lower City on some sort of errand. About the only person who knew where he was headed was Jaheira, who’d lightly scoffed when asked. “Why does everyone seem to think me the man’s keeper now?” she’d replied when Vier asked about him. “He’d said something about taking Boo to the marketplace. Something ‘urgent’, apparently.” She did admit that it shouldn’t have taken him this long to come back from market, and he wasn’t exactly the type to go carousing through the streets and accidentally fall asleep in an alley somewhere.

Vier wasn’t prone to assuming the worst, but in this case, she could no longer take chances. “I know,” she answered Astarion as she ran a thumb over his hand, “but I’d be much more at ease if I knew for certain. I’ll go out to look for him by myself. No sense dragging anyone else along just to soothe my paranoia.”

“Well, I’d be remiss if I let you go looking on your own,” Astarion replied with faux exasperation. “Two sets of eyes will get the job done faster, after all. I do hope you appreciate this.”

“You know I always do, dear.”

. . .

If there was anywhere Vier had expected to ultimately find the Mad Rasheman, it was not facing a stone wall just off the marketplace, two of his fingers jammed in a tiny hole. He looked deep in concentration, attempting to wiggle his hands together, apart, this way and that. He didn’t seem to notice Vier and Astarion as they approached him. The startled roar that escaped the man as Vier spoke up was one for the ages.

“Friends!” he cheered at last when he realized who was speaking to him. “Hurrah for you, that you have finally come to free Minsc and Boo from this dire situation!”

Vier couldn’t keep her clear befuddlement from her face. “What, erm…’dire situation’ is this, precisely?” she asked.

“To put simply,” Minsc began in earnest, “I am stuck. You see, Boo wished for me to take him on a trip to market. He’d heard word someone would be selling a foreign nut he’s grown quite fond of, and he would not stop chewing at my bootstrings until I agreed to buy some for him. Oh, you should have seen his joy as he stuffed his chubby cheeks!”

The mountain of a man practically glowed for a moment as he recalled the sight, but he quickly returned to himself. “But for a split second, I turned my eyes from Boo, that I might pay for his meal, and when I looked back, he had vanished! I cried out for him, looked everywhere I could, but I couldn’t see the tiniest hint of his fuzzy self anywhere!”

For a moment, Vier found herself caught between wanting Minsc to cut to the chase and wanting to listen patiently, deeply curious as to how all of that led to all of this. Her curiosity won out in the end.

“I nearly tore the marketplace apart in my search,” he continued, “but then, I heard it! The cry of a hamster in deep distress! I followed the noise, and came upon this hole in the wall here - and trapped deep inside was Boo! I wondered if perhaps he had developed a nut-induced teleportation ability, but Boo was quick to explain what had happened. As I was paying for the nuts, a young child in the market had mistaken Boo for an escaped pet of hers, and snatched him away! She’d made it quite some distance before realizing he was not, in fact, her beloved Tummytuft, and released him promptly on the other side of this wall.”

“Boo took to his tiny feet as quickly as he could, doing his best to return to me, but he made a fatal mistake. He was feeling far too sluggish to run around the wall, so attempted to take a shortcut through this hole here. But he had gorged himself on far too many nuts, and had grown too bloated to make it through. Thus, when Minsc came upon him, there was only one thing to do! I simply had to reach right in and get him out! But, it seems, my fingers are far too large, and became stuck between Boo’s girth and the stone as surely as if he was covered in sticky glue! And thus, here we are.”

There was hardly a second of silence between them before Astarion could no longer hold back his laughter. “What a wonderfully convoluted predicament,” he snorted. “You’ve been stuck with your fingers in this hole for an entire day?! Absolutely incredible!”

Vier, at least, made the attempt to be nice about it. “I assume you called out for help. Did no one answer?”

Minsc replied, “I most certainly did! And most saw fit to pass me by, notably averting their gazes. The one or two brave souls who did lend a hand, however, had little success in freeing us. In fact, as time has gone on, it seems to have become even harder to make any sort of progress. My fingers may have begun to swell in there, I fear.”

“Oh dear, alright,” Vier sighed, and she swung her supply bag off of back, setting it on the ground and rifling through to produce a brown bottle. “Fortunately, I tend to keep a bit of grease on hand for just such an occasion. Should be able to get you out with just a bit of finesse.” She dipped a small wooden applicator into the grease as she approached the stone wall. “Pardon me, Mr. Boo,” she attempted to speak into small gap between Minsc’s fingers. “You may wish to hold your breath a moment. Don’t want you swallowing any of this. Won’t kill you, but it won’t be pleasant.”

After about half an hour of wiggling, liberal applications of grease, and plenty of moral support from Astarion (read: laughter), Minsc and Boo were finally freed from their stony prison. Boo looked like he’d been through the first layer of the hells, his fur matted with finger sweat and grease, a look of pure frazzlement on his furry little face - or at least as much of one as a hamster could show. He’d be headed straight to a warm bath as soon as they got back to the Elfsong, and Minsc would be getting a healthy dose of ice against his fingers to get the swelling down.

As they tromped their way back to the inn, Vier breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, she’d been right about Minsc being in trouble, but in light of everything they’d faced up until now…well, this was just the low-stakes sort of adventure they needed.

[dnangelic]

would daisuke or dark KILL IT with karaoke?

@paraleech

short answer pretty much yes

long answer it depends

dark already sings to daisuke on occasion at night to help him relax or fall asleep. karaoke would be nothing to him since he's a natural performer and proud of his voice. onosaka as my preferred va for him also has a very nice singing voice, (if not just a very nice voice in general) even if his discography repertoire doesn't have a ton - here's him singing the bleach ED, travelog, or some france songs (which he said himself he had a lot of fun with lmfao) for example.

i don't have a set vc for daisuke but i will admit i do lean more towards soichiro hoshi between his canonical choices, which is funny because as good and iconic of a va hoshi is, he can't sing for shit. seriously. i'm sorry. it's the truth. almost completely tone deaf 'cause of those crazy vocal cracks and warbles, poor guy. dai's other va, miyu irino, can sing pretty well though - here's his under the sea and brand new world, but i never really hear my or the manga's daisuke in any of his vocal portrayal, if that makes sense. the closest i've ever felt 'oh, that's how daisuke'd sing!' is with sena kiryuin's covers. (like this for example!)

either way rl seiyuu aside, in any kind of ic performance setting dai specifically is going to be a) probably wracked with anxiety at first then b) ricochet into giving his 200% (like during freedert arc) so things might start off a little shaky for him, but he'll ease into something stable if he's allowed enough time. this also applies when/if he's in dark's form and likewise stuck with dark's voice- he remembers and can sing just as well as dark cause.... well, duh, they're still the same person, but there are also scenes in the manga where they have to get around things like vocal locks and passcodes, so they've pretty much got complete mastery over anything from mimicry to ventriloquism to karaoke night.

"sound" and one's voice being a metaphor for feelings (and likewise, transmitting or hiding them from another person,) is also a huge theme in dnangel just in general, so it really feels like a disservice to my own muse if i ever said they sucked at singing. even if dai's the one who has to pull up his metaphorical bootstrings a bit more than dark, he'll still do it - he'll stand up and grab a microphone!! he's not a coward!! so the real q for dai n dark here is: who would LISTEN to them kill it at karaoke, huh??

[robocops-a-christ-allegory]

Its so fucked up how the boomers are always telling us we just have to work hard when we all know theres societal factors at play for why things are so screwed up! Its not like its just our fault! Anyway if you actually think being disabled and/or poor prevents you from being a professional concept artist then youre a dumb little cry baby techbro who just needs to work hard and pull yourself up by your bootstr- I mean just pick up a pencil. Its easy! Its your own fault if you cant draw!

[jtpoint]

Looking to master WCF? This beginner-friendly tutorial from TAE breaks down the essentials of Windows Communication Foundation. Learn step-by-step how to create secure, scalable services and build your first service-oriented application with ease! Perfect for beginners.

[jobs-in-south-africa]

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[aparticularbandit]

Finding Family: Part Five: Chapter Forty-Eight

Summary: When America begins universe-hopping again to try and find her moms, she realizes that’s too much scope for her.  She looks for smaller scope, and instead she finds Wanda.

AO3

Every morning, when America wakes, she turns to where Wendy lies so still in her bed, gives her hand a gentle squeeze, and then says, voice soft, “I’m still here, Wendy.  I’m not going anywhere,” hoping for a reply but never quite expecting one.

This morning, when America wakes, Wendy’s hand isn’t in hers, so she can’t give it a gentle squeeze, and when she turns to her, Wendy is sitting on the edge of her bed, fingers clinching the mattress, legs swinging idly as though she has been waiting for America to wake up instead of the other way around, as though nothing has changed, as though nothing is different.  She isn’t even in her nightgown anymore; she’s found a lace dress, a denim vest, leggings, combat boots.  It’s like—

“I’m dreaming,” America says, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.  “Except I don’t dream, so this is....  I’m hallucinating.  There’s no way—”

“You’re awake, America.  This isn’t a hallucination.  Honest.”

America moves her hands away and stares at Wendy, who stares right back at her, head tilted to one side, curious smile half-pulling on one corner of her lips.  “Starlight,” she corrects, gentle.  “You call me Starlight.”

The almost smile drops from Wendy’s lips, and she nods, but her whole body moves with the motion.  “I did, yes, but I think....”  She hesitates, averts her eyes, and tucks strands of her dark hair back behind her ear, which just makes the white streaks look so much more prominent, her matching bootstring – or maybe it isn’t even the same one anymore; there’s no way of telling – wrapped thick around her wrist.  “I think I’m done with all of that Neverland nonsense.”

Someone else might have taken Wendy at her word, but America hears the disgust underlying the statement.  She reaches out instinctively to take Wendy’s hand in her own.  “It wasn’t nonsense.”

Wendy moves her hand away before America can reach her.  “It doesn’t have to be nonsense for me to be done with it.”  Her gaze flicks back up, curiously examining America. “Wouldn’t you be happy with that? Me using your real name and everything? Being...normal?”

“Where are...where are you getting all of this?”  America looks up at her, searching her eyes.  “I...I never said any of that—”

“You didn’t have to say it, America.”  Wendy takes a deep breath and stares down at her combat boots, knocks the heels together three times, and then lets the breath out.  “I just need to let Neverland go, okay?  So...so I’m trying to use people’s names.  Even yours, Starlight.”  She glances back up and meets America’s eyes, searches them, head tilting ever so slightly to one side.  “Is that...is that okay?”

America rubs her hand across her eyes.  It is...it’s so early.  She hadn’t expect her first conversation with Wendy after everything to be like this. In fact, she’d almost expected to never really have another conversation with her again, had fully expected that Wendy would stay in the same position in bed without ever moving again, and if that wasn’t the case, that it would be like in those shitty movies where Wendy barely wakes up and then struggles to get better while America sits next to her and helps her feel better about all the shit she’s having to go through.

She hadn’t expected to wake up and find Wendy suddenly finally one hundred percent okay.

It’s....

Wendy isn’t one hundred percent okay if she’s suddenly going to start using people’s real names when she’s never once done that in the entire—

“Does that mean I can’t call you Wendy anymore?” America asks, meeting Wendy’s eyes again.  “I have to call you something else?”

Something in Wendy’s eyes breaks.  Just the barest sliver of something.  It flickers across her eyes and then is gone.  “No-o,” she says, drawing the word out into a second syllable.  “I don’t....  I can’t....”  She pushes a hand ragged through her hair and then pulls it down in front of her face, magic threading through her fingertips, eyes wide.  “I’m always only ever Wendy.  I can’t be someone else.  I...I named you and made you something else by naming you something else, but now you’re you because you’re always only ever you except when I make you something else, but – but if you call me something else, then I will be made something else, and I’m – I’m only ever always Wendy—”

“Hey, hey, hey.”  America moves from the spot where she has spent sitting next to Wendy’s bed for days – for weeks – and moves onto the bed next to Wendy, taking her hands in her own. As she does, the magic shifts just as it had in Neverland, no longer weaving through Wendy’s fingertips but instead encircling their hands, never really dissipating, just moving, leaving space for her.  “It’s okay, Wendy.  It’s okay.” She reaches up and smooths Wendy’s hair gentle, gentle.  “What if,” and here she hesitates, uncertain, “what if I like being the person you made me?”  Her gaze flicks to Wendy’s briefly and then returns to her hair, to the white streaks, as she continues to smooth it out.  “What if I like being Starlight?”

Wendy bites her lower lip, tugs it between her teeth as she stares down at their hands.  “There’s no Neverland anymore,” she whispers, “and I can’t go back – I can’t—”  And the words come out panicky, almost, her eyes wide and frightened.  Terrified.  “—and you want....”  She swallows, glances over to America.  “You hate Neverland, so why would...why would you want to be Starlight?”

“I don’t hate Neverland,” America says, voice soft, as she threads her hand through Wendy’s hair, still gentle.  “I liked Neverland.  The first time.”  She meets Wendy’s eyes briefly.  Then her gaze drops as she squeezes Wendy’s hands.  “I just didn’t think it was safe for us.  It...it wasn’t safe for us.  That doesn’t mean....”  She struggles to find the words.  “That doesn’t mean that it didn’t exist and we have to just pretend that...that it was all horrible one hundred percent of the time or anything like that.  And honestly, it would just feel weird if you didn’t call me Starlight anymore.” Her brow furrows.  “You’ve never called me America before – except on Neverland, except when you were...when you were mad, when you weren’t thinking, and....  It feels bad when you call me that.”  She scowls. “I don’t know if I’m explaining this right.”

“You still want to be my Starlight,” Wendy says, hesitantly, as though trying to understand what she’s hearing. “You still want to be my port in the storm, the one bright light in the darkness that guides me home, even when I’ve lost my way.”  She reaches up and gingerly traces her fingers through America’s hair, just the same as America has been doing to her, and gently tucks it behind one ear.  “Is that...am I getting that right?”

“That’s a lot of complicated words for what I said, but yeah, I...I think that’s right.”  America meets her eyes, searches them, and then falters.  “You...you wanted me to stab you with a dagger, Wendy,” she says, hands dropping to her lap, unable to meet her eyes any longer.  “You wanted me to kill you because you couldn’t do it yourself, and you were so tired, and so you were in pain, but you thought...you thought you were saving everyone, so you couldn’t stop, so you needed me to stop you, and....”  She shakes her head.  “You can’t make me do that again, okay?  You can’t....”  Her lips press together in a thin line.  “You made it look like killing you would save you, and I wanted to save you, but I didn’t want you to die—”

Wendy kisses America’s forehead, and America quiets. She brushes the tears from her cheek and says, soft, “Out of everything I did in Neverland, I’m the most sorry for that.  I shouldn’t have...I shouldn’t have done that to you, Starlight, but I knew....”  She wets her lips, hesitates again.  “Scarlet or Agatha...wouldn’t have been able to do it.  Scarlet would have hesitated, wouldn’t have struck deep enough to do anything, and Agatha....  I think she would have killed me, wouldn’t have meant to, but wouldn’t have been able to stop herself.  There’s a universe where she does, you know, where I choose her over you, but I...but I chose you because I knew....”  She tugs her lower lip between her teeth again.  “I’m never going to make you do that again, okay?”

On instinct, Wendy takes one of America’s hands and guides it to the star-shaped sunburst etched into her skin, to the scar where the dagger pierced her.  “See? You left a mark on me, right here, and I shouldn’t scar, but I did, and it looks like you.  Another star to guide me.”

America runs her thumb along the white lines like a beacon in Wendy’s skin, like the white streaks in her hair. “Two stars,” she murmurs, hesitant. “That’s almost—”

“Second star to the right,” Wendy says, “and straight on til morning.”

For a moment, there is nothing, nothing to be said, in the space between those words.  They linger in the air like the remnants of magic, not a spell or anythng like it, but there all the same.

America runs her fingers along the scar, hesitant, and then breaks the silence.  “You know,” she says, “maybe Neverland isn’t...isn’t there anymore.  Maybe Neverland is here.  With...with us.”  She hesitates then continues without thinking, “Maybe Neverland is what you make it.”

Wendy raises an eyebrow.  “I made Neverland already, Starlight.  I don’t want to do that again.”

“That’s not what I meant!”  America glances up, but she sees only mischief sparkling in Wendy’s eyes.  That’s normal.  That’s right.  “You’re kidding.”

Wendy grins.  “I’m kidding.”  She leans forward until her forehead rests against America and then hesitates again.  “Is this...is this still okay?” she asks.  “I...I don’t want to—”

America leans up and kisses her.  It’s a small thing – it is always a small thing for them – but it isn’t, really.  “Yeah,” she says when she breaks away, fingers soft on Wendy’s cheek.  “I’m pretty sure that’s still okay.”

When Wendy kisses her back, America can feel the smile there, but it isn’t the joy that stands out to her.  It’s the relief and that feeling of finally coming home.

~

“There’s something else you don’t know,” Wendy says as she and America walk down the stairs, still hand in hand, fingers laced together.

America just shakes her head.  “I don’t need to know.  Probably don’t want to know.  Not knowing is great, actually—”

“No, I think you maybe need to know this—”

But America hears the voice before Wendy can explain further – one that she’s quite familiar with, unfortunately, given how much time they had spent walking down that yellow dirt road in Neverland – Agnes, from the kitchen, saying, “Wanda, your kitchen is just aces.  Who’s your decorator?  I would love to give them a call, hon.”

America turns to Wendy.  “You didn’t.”

And – again, before Wendy has a chance to speak – a voice equally familiar, although more from other versions than the one who is speaking – “I don’t think we get service out here, dear.  You might want to talk to your new friend.”

“You’re my new friend, hon.”

“Your other new friend.”

“You’re the only new friend I’ve got—”

“What the—” ��America turns away from Wendy and makes it the rest of the way down the stairs, almost dragging Wendy along behind her, their hands still together, fingers still interlaced, as she heads into the kitchen.  As she does, Wanda glances up, meets her eyes, and gives a little nod, but America doesn’t notice that so much as she notices the pair of – the pair of – Agatha and Agnes. Together.  As separate.  Separate—

Wendy calmly places a hand on America’s shoulder.  “I’ve been a little busy while you were sleeping.”

“You...you did this?” America asks, staring at them.  “How did you...how did you—”

“A lot of work,” Wendy admits, moving her hand and resting her chin on America’s shoulder instead, “but they seem happy, don’t you think?”

America listens to the petty, familiar bickering between the two of them – or perhaps it’s only bickering on Agatha’s end, because Agnes seems forthright and honest in whatever she’s saying – and then glances over to Wanda, staring at them.  Wanda seems...less than thrilled, but that may just be how tired she looks.  If this had been...if this had been when they first started meeting, long before any of this happened, America is certain this would have been one of those days that Wanda would have refused to meet with her.  Her gaze turns back to the other two, sees the easy way that Agatha keeps touching Agnes, as though needing the confirmation that she’s really there – rarely anything odd or uncomfortable, just brushing past her, tucking her hair back, letting their fingers graze against each other as she hands her a towel or a plate or anything – and she nods slow.  “Yeah,” she says, because sometimes it is all about the seeming and not the actuality of a thing, “they do.”

As she speaks, Wanda moves from the table and just touches Wendy’s elbow.  “Can we talk for a minute?”

Wendy turns, meets her other self’s eyes, and stutters, “Y-yeah?  Sure?” Her gaze quickly flicks to America’s. “I’ll...I’ll be right back, I guess?”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

America notices how Wanda’s eyes shift to her, and she feels something of that old panic, something familiar to the haunting, needing gaze of the Scarlet Witch in them.  Her heart skips a painful bea.

“No, I’ll be fine.”  Wendy smiles and pats America’s shoulder.  “You get food or something.  I’ll be right back.”

But America knows that look in Wanda’s eyes, knows that Wanda very specifically does not want her around for this conversation, and knows, too, that these are usually the conversations that maybe a third party should be present for.  She stays in the kitchen as they walk just outside of it, but pulls close enough so that she can overhear what they are saying.

“Wendy, what you did for Agnes—”

“I know, I know.”  Wendy sounds ashamed of herself.  “I should have told someone.  I shouldn’t have just thrown that on you.  That wasn’t very—”

“No, not that.”  Wanda’s voice grows soft, hushed.  She whispers, “Could you do that for my boys?”

America’s eyes widen.

“Your...your boys?”  Wendy pauses, and America can’t tell if that’s a hesiation or not because she isn’t looking at her face to read it.  “But Billy and Tommy...they’re not—”

“My boys,” Wanda insists, voice tightening.  “Those are...those are Ash’s kids, but mine....  Could you bring mine back?”

Another silence.  “You...you have the same power I do, Scarlet.  You could...you could do that yourself.”

“I don’t know how.”  A hesitation.  “I’ve tried.”  An admission.  “But whatever I did to make them the first time, I’m never able to...to recapture it. That’s why the Darkhold was so appealing.  If I couldn’t remake them, then maybe I could...I could find them, wherever they were.  I thought that it would give me the secrets to remaking them,but it didn’t, it just...wanted me to seek out more power.” She cuts herself off.  “But if you have figured it out, then—”

“I didn’t make Agnes from scratch,” Wendy interrupts.  “I made her body, but I didn’t make her.” She pauses, again, and this time America is certain it’s a hesitation.  “You did that.  You made Agnes.  Agatha just...protected her for a while.  All I had to do was move her from one body to the next.  I didn’t make her.”  Her lips press together.  “Whatever you did with Agnes, you can just do that again.”

“No, no, I can’t.”  Wanda shakes her head – or America can imagine her shaking her head, can see the desperation that she hears in her voice.  “Agnes was Agatha’s construction, I just.  I didn’t even mean to make her. She was just supposed to be...lines on a script, not an actual person. That was an unfortunate—”  She stumbles, corrects herself.  “That was an accident.  She was never supposed to be real.”

Again, silence.  Longer, this time.  “Well, she is now.”  Wendy, huffing a bit, probably with her arms crossed.  “You’ll get over it.”

“That’s not what I—”

“You don’t have bodies, you don’t have your boys stashed away somewhere waiting for bodies, I can’t help you out.”  The words tumble out all one after the other.  Wendy’s voice is strained.  “I can’t, Scarlet.  They aren’t Agnes.  Even if I did try to make them, they wouldn’t be....  I never knew them, so I wouldn’t even have a beginning to—”

“It’s okay.”  Wanda interrupts.  Probably puts a hand on Wendy’s shoulder.  “It’s fine.  You’re fine. I just—”

“Eavesdropping, are we, hon?”

America jumps back away from the wall, turns to see Agatha peering down at her.  Agatha’s arms are crossed, but she doesn’t seem particularly upset.  “Think maybe that’s bad manners.”  She glances over her shoulder to Agnes.  “Eavesdropping’s bad manners, right, dear?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Agnes taps her chin with one finger. “You get some of the juiciest gossip just from listening in when no one wants you to—”

“Fine, fine.”  America moves away from the wall, shoving her hands in her pockets.  “I didn’t really want to listen to them anyway.  It’s all just stupid stuff.”  It feels uncomfortable, though, knowing that Wanda had even asked.  Even after everything, she hadn’t asked America to help her.  It shouldn’t matter, really.  If she’d asked....

America might have said yes, in those early months, although she would have been terrified to do so.  She would have had to explain that her control wasn’t quite that complete, that she couldn’t just open up a portal to anywhere she specifically wanted, that it would probably take a lot of hopping through multiple universes before they found one that they wanted.  Even then, she wouldn’t have known what Wanda wanted.  She couldn’t just rip her boys from another universe and bring them here, not without—

She pauses.

Considers.

“Agatha,” America says, voice hushed, hesitant, “you trained Wendy.”

“Yes, hon, I believe we have had that conversation—”

“Could you train me?”

Agatha doesn’t hesitate, but she does take the moment to consider.  “You’re not a witch, child,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “and you’re not a sorcerer—”

“I can—”

“But,” Agatha continues, holding up one hand to stop America before she can push any further, “I think I might be able to help you.”  She glances uneasily back to Agnes, who isn’t paying them any attention, and then turns back to America, gaze resting on hers.  “What is it that you’re wanting to learn, kiddo?”

America opens her mouth, but at that moment, Wanda and Wendy start to head back into the kitchen.  She changes her words immediately.  “Can we talk about that later?”

Agatha glances past America to the other two, gives a little hum of understanding, and then nods.  “Later, then.”  She pats America’s shoulder and then returns to where Agnes is....

Honestly, America does not know what Agnes is doing, and she doesn’t much care.  Instead, she goes to join Wendy, who stands at a distance apart from Wanda. “I take it that wasn’t a good conversation.”

Wendy crosses her arms.  “It wasn’t a bad one,” she says, hesitant, “but let’s...let’s not think about that. There’s only so much I can—”  She cuts herself off, shakes her head.  “I’m hungry.  It’s breakfast.  You don’t hate me anymore, I’m actually awake when the sun is out, let’s just....”  She meets America’s eyes.  “Let’s just be us for a little bit, okay, Starlight?  And not...not think about any of this hard stuff for a while?  Is that okay?”

America gives a gentle nod.  “Okay.”  Then she leans forward and presses a kiss to the tip of Wendy’s nose.  She grins when Wendy doesn’t try to wipe it away, even though her nose scrunches up.  “You’re cute when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“That nose thing.”  America scrunches up her nose like Wendy just did.  “It’s cute.”

Wendy just sticks her tongue out at her. Then she grabs America’s hand, interlacing their fingers again, and tugs her into the kitchen.  “Food, Starlight.  Then I’m going to show you and the boys my impressive new video game skills.”  She taps her forehead.  “You learn a lot when you live in the minds of video game playing legends.”

“Legends in Neverland,” America corrects.  “Not legends here.”

For a moment – just a moment – Wendy’s face falls.  Then she shrugs it off.  “If I can whoop your ass, then I think they’re legends anywhere, Starlight.”  She leans up and presses a kiss to her lips, smiles.  “It’s nice to be able to do that again.”

“Really nice.”  America kisses her back.

“Look, if you two are just going to keep doing that, do it somewhere else,” Agatha interrupts.  “People are trying to eat here.”

“Wait.”  Agnes glances at the two of them, eyes widening.  “Aren’t you...aren’t you related?”

America’s eyes widen, too.  “Nope.  No. Nuh-uh.  Absolutely not, we are definitely not—”

And then they proceed to explain how, exactly, while Wendy is Wanda’s sister (this is far easier than trying to explain the concept of the multiverse to Agnes, who would not enjoy that conversation), America isn’t technically Wanda’s daughter, it’s just a general thing and definitely not something she should think too terribly hard about.  Every now and again, Agnes glances to Wanda for some sort of confirmation, and America notes just how often Wanda avoids Agnes’s eyes.  She’s not sure what to think about that.  It can’t really be that important, though.  Especially not with the way Agatha is keeping such a close eye on Agnes, not when America clocks Agatha noting the same thing she is.

But that isn’t any of her business. That’s between them.  Right now, she’s just happy that Wendy is back.

...and that Agnes is not going to think their being together is as awkward as she initially thought.

[gablr]

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[cerastes]

for some reason I feel that thing about movie romances is the fault of the medium itself, and the fact that directors have to just direct people to act certain ways to make the story hold together even when it’s clear people Do Not Act Like That. Regardless of who you put behind the camera, it takes real skill to realistically capture people falling in love, and it’s probably even harder to capture people faking it convincingly

That's a good point in regards to the medium in itself, especially since movies have a short runtime, so they have to get things going and doing in more of a hurry than most other artforms. Where I think this doesn't hold up too well, however, is on the realism part of what you said: I don't think anyone with realistic expectations wants a realistic depiction of falling in love in the runtime of a movie, with all the flesh and meat that entails -- you go to other artforms with longer runtimes for that, like books or games -- what I think people want is anything that isn't the whole "Male Main Character annoys and forces himself onto Uninterested Female Character until she gives in" thing. There's definitely WAY more ways in which romance can be shown, in which romance should be shown.

I'm going to run a very different, yet comparable situation by you: The Denko situation.

If you're not familiar with the Denko story, good ol' piece of netlore, it's about a guy without social or romantic skills, well, stalking a girl because he considered her his girlfriend just because he'd sent her a truly absurd amount of texts with small talk in them, inane stuff like "do you like the new McDonald's burger?" or "I wear my socks two days in a row, by turning them to the other side" or "what a nice weather!". When people in 2ch. asked him if he was trolling or if he was seriously thinking they were a couple, the guy answered he was not playing around, and then someone else mentioned "this guy thinks real girls work like dating sim characters" as in, just by talking to them a lot, about whatever, you win them over, and if you don't win them over, then they are heartless bitches that play hard to get, and you have to talk to them more.

The Denko story is about a lot more than that, but that's the part I want to focus on for the purposes of this: Moviebros feel much the same, and it's a pretty fucking sorry state of things having to see yet another article in the newspaper being like "THIS POOR ROMANTIC PLAYED PIANO OUTSIDE GIRL'S HOUSE SO SHE WOULD ACCEPT HIS FEELINGS..." sympathizing with the guy and not with the girl. Sympathizing with the guy! The guy being a public fucking nuisance that doesn't want to take no for an answer because Popular Mainstream Media taught him that a no is just a yes waiting to happen if you try harder and taught the general populace that these constitute romantic gestures and not stalking and harassment. He's suddenly not a creep that doesn't know when to back off, he's an underdog. We root for him.

And we should not root for him for the same reason we should not root for the Denko Guy: Because That's Fucked Up! And Women Deal With This Shit A Lot!

In the end, it's all part of a bigger Alpha Male Fantasy of "pulling yourself by the bootstrings" that a lot of the mainstream film industry seems to have a raging veiny throbbing hard-on for because a lot of them are narrowminded fossils: "The girl hated me at first, but through MY perseverance... Heh, well, I ended up winning her over!"

And it's that part that I think is really bad: That's not perseverance, that's just self-aggrandizing baby behavior. It's such an easy, basic, generic, digestible plot device to sell, despite how bad and silly and overused it is. I don't think anyone wants realism, I think what we want, is not that.

[ronearoundblindly]

If autum ss reader meets peter . Both get along shes curious till shes comfy to say she sees peter p as a little brother . But when she meets yelena Fun chaos even kate bishop or steve rogers cant help but inhale so deep . With bucky ..she feels as if a boss figure or now mellow chill autum mode he sees her like a dad or brother

Wha do you think?

oooo, fun!

Peter Parker--I think Autumn would be overwhelmed by him at first. He's very bouncy and maybe even Steve or Bucky tells the kid to calm it down a little bit, but Peter is too wound up because he's heard that you did see and did like one Star Wars movie before being turned and iced. He wants to be there when you see the rest of them, and he excitedly talks over every bit of the movies with trivia. Steve thought you'd be annoyed, but then he realizes you're just staring at Peter remembering what it was like to be a young kid before all the Hydra stuff. You wouldn't dare interrupt Peter's fun.

Yelena--oh christ, you two do not get along at first. You're recovering from being used as a weapon but aren't a contentious person. All of your training happened after you were serumed and programmed. You now know how to fight, but it's not fun or a hobby for you. Yelena loves to spar; she loves to fight even for fun. She picks fights with you to see what you can do. Yelena is competitive like that, and she's mocking that you're probably slower like the bulky male supersoldiers. At some point during her playful bobbing and weaving to get a rise out of you, you look to Steve, and he gives a little shrug-nod like "ok, do it." You sweep a leg under Yelena and have her hog-tied by her own bootstrings within a few seconds. The former Widow wiggles in confusion for a bit before finally exploding. "You have to teach me that right now." You're friends now, and once you showed her one or two things, she moved on to actually talking about other stuff you like.

Bucky-- Buck was your only lifeline at first. Your brain was a complete mess. There was your life before Hydra (born in 1963 and captured/taken from a drug den in the early '80s because no one would come looking for you [long story, we'll get back to that]) and then a whole other person of Autumn in your head. She knows all the fighting and the languages. She lived all the memories you have from the past forty years. She has all the nightmares, but you're the one who wakes from them now. Steve's very understanding, but Bucky is more than a superior officer, mentor, or brother really. He becomes your twin in a lot of ways because your minds are programmed to work the same way. You can sense triggering things for each other before they happen, and you're both protective, trying to either talk or help each other to not react like the Soldiers would. Bucky is obviously better at this than you; he's had more time, but you're observant and less involved in the team's work, so you can see some things coming/brewing while Buck's distracted and working with others. However, you still tend to make assumptions that are wrong about Bucky himself because you don't know his personality and likes outside of Winter, and that takes some adjustment. For example, since he actually was a soldier before he was turned into a Soldier, he enjoyed riflery and marksmanship, whereas you did no fighting and don't like any of that as a hobby.

Also, when playing games with the group, you pair with Bucky a lot and yell "twinning" and high-five each other whenever you beat others. Steve is wonderfully annoyed by this behavior (and losing), so you will never stop doing it.

Autumn Is Healing Masterlist

[scarletwelly-boots]

Quotes from the Campaign 96/??

Jinx:

“Yay…trauma…”

“So I can only assume that I’ve died. There was pain, I saw a bright light, and now I’ve been picked up.”

“All right, look here, bag die. You have one chance, and then I’m throwing you at the wall.”

“Okay. This thing is still hurting me.”

“I am no longer in your debt. I am now your problem.”

[To her dice] “Look at me. Look at me. You hit my boyfriend. The least you can do is give me a wisdom save.”

“Now can we all…YOU ARE CHEWING ON MY BOOTSTRINGS.”

“I’m done with all of you, including you, you furry little bastard.”

Ray:

“If you put your heads together it’ll look like a butt.”

“In hindsight, I see where this might have been misinterpreted.”

Lugh:

“Why did you bless the monster dice??”

“This is some Scooby-Doo shit.”

“Nothing too bad has happened so far… [Lugh gets spirited away to nowhere] Fuck, I spoke too soon.”

“Come join me in nowhere!”

“Yeah, I’m not doing great, fam. Can we maybe take five?”

“I don’t know, the void I guess.”

DM/Waylan:

“That’s really great. No. You see no shelter.”

“Come on. No mental breakdowns yet. You are literally the leader.”

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[afro-elf]

May I have a goodly decent man since you have so many? I am poor and needy. Gimme one please, or else you are a man-capitalist.

it’s not my fault that my big cowabungas have man-magnets in the areolas? eventually it’ll trickle down, you just have to pull yourself up by your bootstr