#both of these artists are brilliant and were so lovely to work with so please do check out their pages!!

[rochellehassan]

🌟 PRE-ORDER CAMPAIGN 🌟

The Summer Queen (book 2 of The Buried and the Bound trilogy) is out next month! If you preorder a copy, I’ll send you a bookmark and sticker as a thank-you for supporting my work 💕

The adorable bookmark design is by danisaur.art, and the magical sword sticker is by emeldraws!

DETAILS/ELIGIBILITY:

* US & international OK. * Trade edition only (pictured above). * Hardcover/ebook/audiobook OK. * Open through 1/22/24.

GENERAL PREORDER: After pre-ordering, fill out this google form. You’ll be asked for a shipping address and to upload proof of purchase.

IF PREORDERING FROM BOOKS OF WONDER: You don’t need to fill out the form. I’ll be signing & personalizing all pre-orders through BoW, and your bookmark & sticker will be tucked inside your copy of the book.

[oshinohoshi]

Oshi no Ko chapter 166 thoughts - the end of all things

So uh... the only positive thing I can say here besides the beautiful Ai art is that I felt sad reading the page where Miyako was hugging Ruby. Everything else left me completely empty

This chapter is either:

A) A self-aware ending meant to show that life is suffering and the idol industry will suck out your soul if you let it

B) Outsourced to someone who skimmed OnK for 30 seconds on Wikipedia before putting pen to paper

It has to be A, right? You can't tell me that the same author wrote both of these pages without the right being ironic

But I don't think so because big brained Akane is the one clumsily narrating this crappy montage masquerading as a real ending

Aqua died for nothing. His sister is now a soulless cog in the idol machine

Ruby is mimicking Ai's speech - "Lies are an outstanding kind of love... We pile on the lies and no matter how hard things get, we sing and act happy onstage. It's a fun job!" But she forgot the rest of it: "Only, I'd like the 'being happy' part to be real. Nobody notices, but we have hearts and lives of our own. Happiness as a mother. Happiness as an idol. Normally you'd have to pick one, but I want both. Ai Hoshino is a greedy girl"

Ai wasn't only a misunderstood girl who worked hard to please her fans. That was a big part of her story but she also broke the rules to create her own family, her own happiness

Ruby, on the other hand, seems to have no real desires anymore, she's just following a path she believes her mother and Aqua paved for her. Never mind that Aqua only wanted it in the end because she wanted it and Ai just wanted her kids to be happy

You can tell that Akasaka is patting himself on the back for making a cyclical narrative where Ruby becomes Ai 2.0 by being commodified, scrutinized, and idolized like Ai was

But it's such a flimsy parallel when it comes to the theme of lies because lying to hide your grief =/= "lies are love" which was the only way Ai knew how to frame her genuine desire to love

And Ai's "I love you" to her kids was true whereas Ruby has swallowed her own lie that being an idol is fun even when you're just doing it to outrun your pain

What this chapter showed us is that the meaning of Ruby's life is to be Ruby of B Komachi and she was put on Earth to sing pop songs. Because that's what Ai did, right? If I remember correctly, her final words were "I'm so glad I got to be an idol #blessed"

My God was the Dome concert soulless. Miyako and Ichigo crying happy tears is a punch to the gut. Doesn't Miyako know her daughter is still hurting?

The last scene is so fucking depressing

Ruby, are you okay? Blink twice if you still remember your life outside the idol industry!

The last two pages work really well as horror. She has a brilliant smile but you can tell that she's dead inside. She's got more merch on her table than photos. Why doesn't she have a corkboard of family photos? Although I more or less have this Ai plushie and it's pretty cute so I'll give this a pass because it's hilarious

I guess the takeaway here is to live for others and life is painful so just grin and bear it. Oh yeah, and inspire other young women to join an industry where they get to act happy and lose their humanity. Cool

I mean I get that it's supposed to be about moving on with your life even while grieving and that's a good message, sure, but Aka's insistence on using the word "lies" multiple times as if saying it makes it make sense ruins the whole thing

The most insane part is that this chapter is a wholehearted endorsement of the lies sold by the entertainment/idol industry

I haven't even said anything about anyone besides Ruby because what's the point? Aka didn't have time to do justice to any of the characters I grew to love

It's clear something went wrong with the timeline of wrapping up OnK. No artist wants to execute a final chapter like this. I'm convinced the film reel edges are Aka and Mengo's way of telling the reader, "we know this is a shitty clips show so don't @ us on Twitter about it"

But it's so much worse than that. Aka really decided to tear to shreds everything he worked so hard on for 4 years. Damn

This is my favorite manga and I'll always love that it gave me Ai, my most beloved character of all time, but this leaves an extremely bitter aftertaste. It's really hard to believe that the same person who wrote vol 1 wrote this.

OnK has been pretty important to me. Reading weekly, chatting with fans, and reaching dangerous levels of Ai brain rot has actually been a helpful distraction. TBH I've been a little too invested in it but sometimes you need escapism. So it's crazy that I'm kind of glad it's over.

But this is why fanfic, fanart, and your own headcanons exist. In another universe, this manga wrapped up beautifully and I was depressed for weeks because I couldn't look forward to it anymore. In this universe, at least we're all suffering together here at the end of all things.

And at least the little Hoshino family is still adorable. Too bad Ai is dead, Aqua is dead, and Ruby desperately needs grief counseling. But NEVER MIND. Look at Ai's smile and the twins' faces. This was the Oshi no Ko I really loved.

[silmarillaure]

Elven tattoo headcanons

I think tattoos will never be fully permanent for elves, they fade every hundred years, maybe they'll last a few hundred if your ink is of the highest quality & your tattoo artist is exceptional. It's not a flaw with the tattoos that they're never permanent permanent, elven biology just doesn't allow for it.

Miriel, being brilliant with a needle as ever & Finwe, who was a patron of the arts, invented tattoos in Cuiviénen.

Most of the Minyar weren't so fond of them but they were appreciated by several of the Tatyar & Nelyar.

It started out as Finwe just… painting on himself & his GF because why not? He started out using henna commonly used by his friend Elwe & the Teleri but he liked color so then he & Miriel decided to be ✨experimental✨ & *boom* tattoos! He developed the ink & she learned how to work a needle in skin.

Finwe has one on his back that Miriel did right before she got pregnant with Feanor that he never let anyone touch it up after she died even though it was fading, until Feanor got older and asked for his dad’s permission to do it himself.

Miriel used to have a tattoo on her back as well like Finwe’s but she didn’t get it redone after getting reembodied. She also used to have a few on her arms and legs and was overall quite bohemian before what happened, happened. She doesn’t regret co-creating tattoos but they don’t fit her anymore.

Feanor has 1 segmented tattoo along his collarbone. He has 2 stars about an inch tall/wide closest to his heart representing his parents, a slightly smaller but almost as big one near them representing himself, and seven even smaller ones trailing his left collarbone representing his sons.

Nerdanel doesn’t have tattoos, she’s chill if her kids want them but they’re personally not for her.

Fingolfin doesn’t have any for several reasons, they don’t fit him, he’s half Vanya & they’re not really into tattoos, & they were partially invented by Feanor’s mother so it’s weird. Findis doesn’t have any for the same reasons.

Finarfin despite also being half Vanya & closer to that side of his family than Fingolfin, is actually open to them despite not having any yet. He just does not gaf about what other people think.

Earwen has a ton of aesthetically pleasing sea themed motifs on her body.

Fingon has an eagle tattoo.

Maedhros has the star of Feanor tattooed on him but that’s it.

Maglor has a bunch of well put together gorgeous tattoos including both music motifs and symbols honoring his family like the Feanorian star and something for Elrond & Elros as well. They fade after he starts wandering the shores but he gets most of them redone in Valinor.

Celegorm used to have tattoos symbolizing Orome’s hunt but he lets all of them fade away in middle earth. If he ever joined the hunt again after getting reembodied, I imagine he only ever got 1 more tattoo symbolizing Orome. He’s accepted a part of his old life again but it’s not going to be the same.

Aredhel has a bow & arrow tattoo.

Curufin also has the star the Feanor & that’s it.

Caranthir used to have some in the equivalent of his teenage years but cringes looking back at them. They didn’t actually look bad at all and were quite nice but he just gives off the impression of someone who’d be unimpressed with his old self. He has none now.

Amrod & Amras get whatever they’re feeling whenever they’re feeling and change up their tattoos every couple centuries.

Galadriel has none because she thinks Feanor would feel smug if she did get them & she can’t let him be satisfied. (She loves henna though!)

Finrod has a bunch of different motifs representing all 3 of the clans that make up his heritage.

[dionysusdecent]

I'm just gonna make this a full post because why not. As some of you may know, Project Moon has found itself in more drama. And surprise, it involves misinformation because people dont know how to read. Currently PM is in a legal battle against Monggeu, Mimi and the Game Consumer Association because Monggeu and Mimi are filing copyright on their respective works (Leviathan for Monggeu and Wonder Lab for Mimi).

I'm just gonna start with the GCS. If you've been a fan since before 4.5, you might remember the incredibly stupid Vellmori drama, where a bunch of incels hot mad at the CG artist because the ID artist drew Ishmael in a skin tight wet suit rather than a bikini. I bring this up because the GC went by a different name then, the PMUA, or the Project Moon User Association, a group with no official ties to Project Moon and who slandered the company relentlessly and wanted to bleed every penny from the company because....really just because they could. They are a group who will do anything to see Project Moon burn to the ground, and so in another brilliant idea, are backing Monggeu and Mimi in the lawsuit....except they arent because they themselves have stated that they do not have the money to do so and are asking for donations.

Getting to the copyright stuff, Monggeu and Mimi are filing copyright claims for Leviathan and Wonder Lab respectively, two comics/mangas that are set in the Project Moon universe. However they have an issue, they do not own anything within those comics. Nothing in either of them are by right theirs and are instead owned by PM in their entirety. The best they could hope for is owning the names. PM has already show proof that they worked with Monggeu when it came to Leviathan which completely destroys any claims they could make to owning Leviathan, as PM was working on it as well. Mimi......Mimi is in a weird case as her work would also technically not be hers as Wonder Lab is still set in the PM universe. But PM did take it down when she asked and also made Wonder Lab non-canon....but that just brings up the question of why even do this then? Her work is non-canon and can no longer be viewed officially so why would she even try and fight for the copyright? I dont have an awnser, I'm just asking the question.

This last segment will be used as a PSA for everyone. Please for the love of everything wait till both sides get their side of the story out and actually read what both sides say before making judgments. Regardless of your feelings and KJH (Kim Ji Hoon), that does not give you any right to not only go against everything PM says simply because you dont like the guy, and by every god, does not under any circumstances mean you get to spread misinformation. I have already seen a post showing the GCS/PMUA post about this and in that very post is misinformation. Specifically from GCS/PMUA, but since someone spread it here and others have reblogged it, they are also spreading misinformation. Vellmori WAS NOT FIRED. She left OF HER OWN ACCORD AND PM WAS FINE WITH IT. Not liking KJH because is isnt the sharpest tool in the shed does not mean you are allowed to spread any misinformation, and if you spread it unknowingly, then atleast they to correct it. And for the last gods damned time. VELLMORI LEFT OF HER OWN ACCORD, IT WAS HER OWN DECISION, PROJECT MOON DID NOT FIRE HER.

tldr: Project Moon is fully within their right to fight this false claim as these claims are coming from an outside source that does not own any of the IP and were simply contract work. And these false copyright claimers are also being backed by an organization who hates Project Moon and will do anything to see the company burn, and use misinformation to do it. Dont spread misinformation and if you do it accidentally, try to correct yourself. Misinformation is how innocent people get canceled, lose their jobs or possibly lose their lives. Dont. Spread. It.

I do wanna add something on here (so this is an edit fyi), but Project Moon isnt a perfect company. Perfect is an impossibility. Perfect cannot exist. PM has made mistakes and will keep making them, we all will. Does that mean they should be excused? Absolutely not, that's not how this works. PM isnt perfect, KJH isnt perfect, none of us are perfect, and no one can be perfect. PM has done some stupid things in the past, but they dont deserve this. They do not deserve to be continuously slandered against by a group who is out for their own gain when that same group said they were here to help people. PM is not perfect, but PMUA/GCS is far less perfect than PM could ever be. They are greedy and selfish and will continue to spread misinformation to make PM look bad. You do not need to support or even like PM, but please understand that the other side is far worse and do not care for anyone other than themselves. (This is not talking about Monggeu or Mimi, as far as I'm concerned, they are good people and nothing I'm adding here is against them. Just the PMUA/GC)

2nd edit: it has been confirmed with the official english translation that Mimi and Monggeu were both not just contract work, but effectively temporary PM employees during their contract. These means they were paid as much as any other employee. I did not mention this as I wasnt sure if this was accurate from the translations available. Along with this, according to PM, while Monggeu said it was PM's decision to cancel the manga for Leviathan, it was in fact Monggeu's choice and PM respected and accepted this. I would also like to mention that the letter from the PMUA/GCS stated that because PM didnt directly contribute to Leviathan or Wonder Lab, that PM owned nothing and only Monggeu and Mimi owned everything. One, this is false as PM has already said they worked with both during the creation of Wonder Lab and Leviathan (Wonder Lab had more freedom) and two, personally, that is incredibly insane. Just because I make a new comic in the DC or Marvel universe with some new characters does not mean I own everything in the comic.

link for anyone wishing to read PM's statement in English: https://x.com/LimbusCompany_B/status/1816630063154233644

[kbspangler]

ISSUES - Coping Strategies

Remembered this old story of mine that I had posted on my Patreon in 2017. In April of 2016, I donated an AGAHF story to Geeky Giving, an organization raising funds " to help advance research on Parkinson’s, ALS, traumatic brain injuries, brain tumors, Alzheimer’s and more. " At the time of writing, Geeky Giving was working with the  Barrow Neurological Institute to determine the causes and progression of these conditions. 

Alzheimer's took my grandmother; it took my husband's grandmother. Both of us watch our parents like hawks: both of us wonder what's going to happen to us in 50 years.  So I approached Geeky Giving and offered to donate a story to them. They said sure, and yes, it could be an in-universe AGAHF story as long as it touched on the importance of neurological research. 

I have a series of short stories called "Issues," mainly for topics which don't get a lot of on-panel discovery. This is the story of the brilliant oncologist who had to shift her specialty to cyborg research, and the damaged forensic artist who is slowly putting himself back together. AKA: How Jenny and Shawn fell in love.

Please be kind: this was written in 2015-16 and language changes.

The man on the other side of the bed was sweet and kind and completely insane.

She didn’t know how to feel about that. This uncertainty bothered her more than the act of sleeping with a crazed man. Five years ago, she would have been mortified with herself, with the idea of intimacy with someone such as Shawn. Even if he wasn’t her patient. Even if he was more than a friend. Today, he was just…Shawn.

She didn’t let herself think about it—she’d find fear down there, and maybe something else, something that could chase the fear away but leave them both forever changed.

Instead, she stared at the ceiling and pretended she couldn’t hear her machines call to her.

Shawn’s mental voice was strong, and ran as crisp as a winter river through her mind. “Go,” he said.

 “I thought you were asleep,” she whispered aloud.

“You’re too noisy. You should go. Go be with them.”

She rolled over to face him. He had cut his hair himself last week and had done an awkward job of it. Someone had given him a buzz cut to tidy him up, but aggressive neurosurgery and skull-shorn hair paired poorly. She traced his scars with her fingertips, feeling the bumps and twists of the ridges of his scar tissue, and beneath that, his drowsy tangle of emotions.

“They miss you,” he said in her mind. He reached out and traced her own scars, hidden beneath her short brown hair. “I’ll miss you, too, but I want to sleep.”

“All right.” She kissed him on his shoulder, and felt him drop out of her senses as his implant went into passive mode. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Take your time,” he muttered into his pillow, his voice cut down to nothing from lack of use. “I remember having more energy after sex.”

“You remember sex when you were twenty,” she said. Their clothes were a single knot on the floor; she yanked on loose ends until she had reclaimed her pants. “We’re getting old.”

Gentle snoring.

The other members of the collective slept around them, rooms and buildings and miles away. She felt them around her, off-line but still present in the back of her head, four hundred souls who shared their thoughts with her during the day but kept their dreams to themselves.

She opened the door to the crash room and stepped into her lab. It was a medical suite in name only, stuck beneath a crumbling mansion in what once had been a wine cellar. Federal funding only went so far: the government could front the costs for the cutting-edge technology that had gone into their heads, but resources for infrastructure and development? Please.

She didn’t mind. She had built her own diagnostic laboratory by scavenging equipment from storage, or buying what she couldn’t borrow. The room served double-duty as an emergency ward, but the worst injuries she saw tended to be exercise-induced, and not too many of those.

It left her plenty of time for her own projects.

Her computers whirred to life around her. There was no need for clunky access codes; they recognized her and welcomed her home.

“HELLO, JENNY.”

Theirs was a woman’s voice, false and mechanical. Most days, she told herself that they couldn’t feel, that she was projecting her own eagerness to get back to work on her machines.

On nights like this, when the rest of the collective was sleeping and she was nearly alone in her own head, Jenny wasn’t so sure.

“Hello, ladies,” she said. “Ready to play?”

A human brain sprung up around her in reply.

It was lovingly rendered in greens, and enlarged ten times life-size for clarity; if she looked closely, she could see the bright flashes of synapses.

(Which was something of a comfort—it was her own brain, scanned and digitized, and independent confirmation that your own brain is active is always welcome.)

 The implant rested against her parietal lobe, a small metallic sliver smaller than the head of a nail. At this resolution, she could make out the microscopic filaments connected to it; these ran throughout her brain, the majority twining into her brain stem. Heat regulation had been front and center on the developers’ own minds; without it, the cyborgs would have cooked themselves within their own skulls.

She ran her fingers through the hologram. The silvery filaments covered her holographic brain like cobwebs, shining brightly against the green.

“Ladies, overlay image JED-1 over master.”

A second brain appeared, the same general size and shape as the first but made from blues instead of greens. The opacity of the green brain diminished as the blue brain was positioned over it.

“File: Jenny Davis, late night ramblings,” she said aloud. Talking helped. Speaking directly to her computers through her implant was good for clinical analysis, but it was late, and she was tired, and it was time to purge her thoughts so she could, maybe, get some sleep.

“RECORDING.”

“Thank you, ladies. Subfile: Background, general.” She began to pace around and through the hologram, checking for oddities. The blue brain was hers, too—had been hers, once, nearly seven years and an entire lifetime ago. Before the surgery, and the collective, and the alien oddness of hiveminds had all had their way with it. “Image JED-1, brain of a healthy 22-year-old Caucasian female. Ladies, highlight parietal lobe.”

 A section of the hologram began to glow.

“Side by side, magnify, compare and contrast.”

The hologram divided itself again, blue and green enlarging to fill the room. She wandered through the colors, talking to her machines as she went, tracing lines and shapes and twisting flashes of—

“What’s this?”

Jenny swore aloud as her concentration shattered. Shawn flinched away from her sudden frustration and dropped to his knees.

“Oh, honey!” She knelt beside him and reached out through the link. His consciousness scurried away from hers, looking for an escape but unable to find it. “I didn’t know you were there. I’m so sorry.”

She pressed her bare hands against his bare shoulders: she pushed positive emotions—calm, peace, belonging—across the bridge of their skin until he believed it.

He uncurled, looking up at her like a lost lamb.

“I thought you were asleep,” she explained. “You scared me.”

 Shawn laughed at that.

She managed to coax him off of the ground, one arm around him to keep him steady. “Here,” she said aloud. “Look. Want to see something amazing?

“This is me,” she continued, pointing to the blue hologram. “You know those tests you hate so much?”

“The brain scans?” He shuddered, and the sensation of being trapped in a tight white chamber crushed against her. Of lying as still as death, of knowing the person on the other end of the monitor was looking for what was wrong about what the core of you…

“Easy,” she whispered. “Please.”

His fear let her go, slowly. It had managed to find the cracks in her own psyche and had set itself deep—What if these brain implants stimulate tumorigenesis? Or neurodegeneration, or arteriovenous malformation, or… An almost endless list of what could go wrong…

 But there was the green hologram, brand-new and still perfect, and she told herself to put those fears aside.

“Well…” she began, “you remember during orientation, when we all had full medical diagnostics done? This is a composite image from my first MRI and CT scans.”

He stretched out a hand; it passed through the hologram, layering him in a blue the color of a summer sky.

“And this is me, too,” she said, pulling the green parietal lobe towards them. “From last week. Notice the differences?”

“This,” he said, as he pointed to the bright sliver of light on the green lobe. “Obviously.”

“What else?”

He grinned at her. A sense of pleasure at the challenge came back to her over their link, and she turned away on the pretense of gathering up some fallen papers. Too easy to forget that Shawn had once been in the FBI, that he had once been a brilliant up-and-coming forensic artist.

That experimenting with the human mind could have consequences.

Shawn didn’t seem to notice. He moved between the holograms, sorting and poking. His own digital renders began to appear as he worked; the holograms he created were more stylized than her own, freehand sketches hanging in the air beside her still images.

“Here,” he said, once done.

She wrapped her arms around him and stood on her toes so she could rest her chin on his shoulder. His sketches were playful, with arcs of white light moving across the lobes in quick streams. In some places, they caught what she hadn’t: Shawn’s sketches moved across regions that seemed no different than the others, with—

Jenny squinted, hard. “Are those bunnies?”

She stepped away from Shawn and moved into the holograms. A tiny cartoon rabbit popped out of a fold in her green parietal lobe and scampered across her brain. That first rabbit was followed by a second, then a third…more rabbits, an infinite number of rabbits, each scurrying with purpose towards different destinations.

Not just arcs of light, then.

“There are cheetahs somewhere,” he said. “And horses, too. They don’t show up as often. I used rabbits to show the most frequent movement.”

Sure enough, a streak of light emerged across the green expanse before her. A herd of wild mustangs, manes and tails flowing together as they ran, moved in a single stream.

“Damn,” she said softly. “Baby, this is really beautiful.”

She felt his cheeks flush. “It’s just a clip from a YouTube video,” he replied. “I didn’t have time to render each horse.”

“But you drew the bunnies?”

“One of them. The rest are a copy-paste job.”

“These are neural networks,” she said, reaching out to touch the mustangs with her mind. They blurred beneath her thoughts: she hastily moved her mind away, scared she had damaged them. The herd reformed and continued its journey. “Your bunnies are action potentials. The horses—” Out of the corner of her eye, a tiny feline body bunched and shot across the hologram at an incredible speed. “—and the cheetahs are electrochemical neurotransmissions.”

He laughed aloud, a wild, coughing sound. “I can’t remember freshman biology,” he said. “All I know is that the green brain has more wildlife than the blue one. A lot more wildlife.”

“That’s because the implant’s been changing us.”

White light in her head, so bright and sudden it took her a moment to realize her words had stunned him. Shawn stood, motionless, before he turned and fled to the comfortable darkness of the crash room.

“Oh, no, no, Shawn honey…” Jenny hurried after him. If he managed to make it under the bed, he’d be there for the rest of the week. She reached him in time to lay both hands flat on his back and pushed calm, belonging, peace across their joined skin.

He let her pull him away from the bed, but no further. They huddled on the floor in a sad, uncomfortable pile, and she felt a spot on the knee of her jeans grow damp.

Shawn was crying.

“There’s always some good that comes with change,” she said gently.

He looked up at her, eyes wide and desperate, before curling in on himself again.

“You didn’t break. You got a little bent, but… Here,” she said. “Come back to the lab. I want to show you something.”

Bad days turned him mulish, but this was a good day: she was able to coax him off the floor and as far as the doorway. They stood in the void between rooms, cold tile beneath their toes and warm carpet under their heels, as the holograms spun before them.

Jenny pointed. “You said you noticed how there was more wildlife in the green brain?”

“…yes…”

“That’s because our brains—this part of our brains, anyhow—is more active than it was before we got the implant. No, not just active—it’s thriving! Want to guess why?”

His attention was fixed on the holograms, but the easy scorn of an eyeroll passed between them.

“Humor me,” she said. “I’m going to have to explain this to people who aren’t in the collective at some point. Help me find the right words for this.”

“Because we’re using our brains in new ways,” Shawn replied, his mood pulling itself a little higher. “Talking via a link, or this—” he said, and pushed sensations at her.

Unseen fur, coarse but soft, surrounded her hands. Beneath that was the heat from a living body. With these came the memory of a beloved family dog, long dead but not forgotten.

“Exactly,” she said, blinking back her own tears at the loss of a pet she had never met. “We’re the first humans to have been augmented in this way. It’s causing us to think and act differently. We’ve got these new skills that we’re just beginning to put to use. We’re barely seven years into this experiment, and there’s already observable growth in the parietal lobe. Can you imagine what we’ll be able to do after—”

 “Wait, Jenny, wait. Brains grow? Don’t we… I thought we started shedding brain mass once we turned eighteen.”

“That’s Hollywood science,” she said. “Outdated and chock full of errors, but it still fits the script. The reality is…”

—rabbits, horses, and giant cats, speeding over an expanse of green in endless knots of light—

“The reality is, we’re miracles,” she said to him. “Human beings weren’t meant to be networked together. We shouldn’t have the ability to survive as part of a collective, but we do. We change—we grow. We’ve barely begun to understand how we can do any of this, but the more we learn, the more we can use that to grow.”

Shawn broke away from her and stepped into the lab. Greens and blues moved around him, coloring him in a digital sea. He was still naked; the scars across his wrists were nearly as white as the glowing animals.

“What about me?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not…” Shawn’s hands clenched uselessly. “I’m not who I used to be. Does this mean I can go back to how I was, or will I…”

He opened his hands and let his mind pour into hers.

Memories. All of them, from the moment that his own mind broke under the weight of a new reality to living in the fear of staying as he was, unable to change, unable to grow, a roller coaster of emotions that threatened to tip off of the rails—

Too much: she cried out. Shawn lost focus: the memories faded.

Her world rebuilt itself in pieces. The floor came first: she had fallen to her knees. She concentrated on the patterns in the tile until she found the walls. Where there was a floor and walls, there was a ceiling…

She stood.

Shawn hadn’t noticed. “Is this me?” he asked. “This?! From now on?”

She closed her eyes and thought about impossible conversations. Then: “Ladies?”

The holograms stopped spinning.

“Replace current images with new holographic display. Show SEF-1 and SEF-46, parietal lobes only. Side-by-side comparisons.”

Blues and greens vanished; blues and greens returned. To the untrained eye, nothing had changed; the wildlife was gone, but the silvery rectangle was still there on the green brain, and the same flashes of light chased itself in purposeful patterns across both.

“Here,” she said, as she joined Shawn in the center of the room. “This is you. Your earliest scans are blue, and the most recent scans are green.”

He stared up at the twisting holograms. She felt his attention dart across the details, focusing like a laser on anything distinctive or different…

“They look just like yours,” he finally admitted.

“That’s the problem, baby.” Jenny pulled him close. “If you had typical neurological damage, it’d show up on the scans. Whatever happened to you, it’s…harder to find.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Mental illness can be caused by emotional, psychological, or physiological events, or a combination of these. We’re just beginning to scratch the surface of the causes of known disorders. Since your condition is almost unique, we’re flying blind.”

Sorrow. Loss. Anger—You’re a doctor! Why can’t you fix what’s wrong with me?!—and fear.

So much fear.

“We’ll get there,” she promised, as she pushed her own fear down below where she could feel it. “You’re responding well to medication and therapy. It’ll take time, and trial-and-error, and…and more tests, I’m sorry. None of this is easy, but we’ll make it work.

“You might never get back to who you used to be,” she admitted, as his heart hammered in her head. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t get to where you want to be, now.”

“I can do more tests,” he said quietly, even as the white chamber rose up again in his mind.

Together, they held their fears away.

[ssuperficialspacecadett]

i headcannon that benny and reader blast rihanna while closing the gym. it becomes a tradition that they blast music and dance around while closing. it gets to the point that the boys start wondering why benny keeps being late to their hangouts after his work. at some point they catch benny blowing his back out and reader recording and laughing at benny

Benny, Better Have My Money

Chapter Five | Drabble for the Through the Scope series | Chapter Six

*best read in between chapter 5 & 6*

Rating: IDK ?? everyone ??

Word Count: 1029

TW: tooth rotting friend fluff w/ Benny & some ass throwing ?!?!

Notes: anon, i wish i could kiss that beautiful brain of yours for thinking of this absolutely fucking hilarious scene thats now 100% canon in the through the scope series to me HAHAHA !! i hope i did some justice to your brilliant idea & thank u so so much for submitting it ((: this one is for u ! happy reading <3

*i wrote this w/o looking over it because the idea was just to good so if you see any grammatical errors.. no you dont*

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Closing up after a long shift was never fun. Well, it was never fun until you started working for Benny. After the last guests were ushered out and the doors were locked, you were put in charge of the gyms music. It was only fair since Benny had free reign during operating hours after all. Plus, your taste in music wasn’t exactly family friendly. 

“Alright, what are we feeling this evening? Lady Gaga? Megan Thee Stallion? Doja Cat? Maybe some Rico Nasty? What artist really says ‘I want to clean this whole gym and look hot while doing it’ to you?” 

“The evening song choices are all yours. I’m way too tired to even think about makin’ another decision right now.”

“Well,” You say as you start scrolling through artists on his phone to find one that will bring the energy that both of you need to get this done. “If you’re so tired, why are you going out with the guys after this?” 

“You know that doesn’t count.” He’s currently working his way through cloroxing all the workout benches and weights. “The only decision I have to make when I’m there is if I want another drink or not and that's easy. Of course I want another fuckin’ drink!” 

“Touché,” You laugh as you find the perfect playlist for the evening. “Let’s get this cleaning party started!” 

Rhianna’s Bitch Better Have My Money starts blasting at full volume from the gym's speakers as you make your way over to the basket full of used towels. 

Bitch, better have my money

Y’all should know me well enough

Bitch, better have my money

Please don’t call me on my bluff

Pay me what you owe me

“Oh fuck yeah! I love Rhianna!” He yells as he turns to you. 

You pull out a towel, point to him from across the gym, and start swinging it over your head as you lip sync to the song playing. 

Kamikaze if you think that you gon’ knock me of the top

Shit, your wife in the back seat of my brand new foreign car

Don’t act like you forgot

I call the shot, shot, shots.

Benny makes finger guns and pretends to fire them at you on each beat. “Sing it, girl!”

The two of you run dramatically to each other in the middle of the gym and start dancing like crazed animals. Each of your tasks having been long forgotten as soon as the music started. You both know by now that neither one of you will be leaving anytime soon.

***

“Where the fuck is your brother, Will?” Pope huffs.

Frankie, Pope, and Will have all been waiting at their table for Benny to show up for 45 minutes now. They turned the waitress away three times before they caved and ordered a round for themselves. Hoping that a light buzz would satiate them.

“I’ve been texting him, but he’s not answerin’!” Will explains. “His location says that he’s still at the gym.” He turns his phone screen over to show the others.

“This is the third time this week that he’s been late. He’s never taken this long to close up before.” Frankie adds. 

Pope tips his almost empty beer bottle in his direction and nods. “Fuck this. Finish y’alls drinks and let's go pay him a visit.”

They all do as Pope orders and make their way out of the bar. As they cross the street and enter the gym’s parking lot they see both yours and Benny’s cars in the same spots that they were in this morning. All of the lights in the building are still on as well. 

“Do y’all hear that?” Frankie asks the men walking next to him. “It sounds like -”

“Rhianna?” Pope says curiously. 

All three of them walk up to the gym doors and the sight that greets them will be burned into each and every one of their minds for all eternity. 

***

You’re currently holding onto one of the corner poles from the boxing ring with both hands and trying to explain to Benny how to shake his ass.

“Move your hips to the right, then the left, then shimmy down, and use your knees to help you bring your ass up and down!” You’re winded from both teaching your lesson and singing with Benny for almost an hour straight. It also doesn’t help that you’re trying to yell instructions over Rhianna’s S&M song.

“I think I got it now! Let me try!” 

He helps you down so he can climb up and get into position. You pick up your towel and phone off a nearby workout bench. There is no way that you aren’t going to document this moment.

‘Cause I may be bad, but I’m perfectly good at it

Sex in the air, I don’t care, I love the smell of it

Stick and stone may break my bones

“But chains and whips excite me!” You and Benny sing together.

You are struggling to hold your phone still as you record because you can’t stop laughing. Benny is throwing everything, and you mean everything, into his one man performance on the edge of the boxing ring. He definitely paid attention to what you showed him. Even put his own little twist on it by bringing his right hand back to slap his ass. You can’t help but get swept away in it all and you start hitting him in the ass with your towel as well.

“Let’s go, Benny! Shake that shit for me!” Your lungs threaten to burst from over exhaustion. 

S-S-S&M-M-M

S-S-S&M-M-M

Oh, I love the feeling you bring to me

Oh, you turn me on

***

“Should we tell them we are here?” Will ask hesitantly, still not entirely sure what he’s watching.

“I’m not even sure what we would say if we told them.” Frankie quips as he wishes you would get back up and dance again. “Pope?”

He looks to his left and sees him pulling up your contact information. “Let’s tell them that their audience wants an encore.” Pope presses ‘call’ and puts the phone to his ear with a devious grin.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

{tag list: @cutesyscreenname @rsquared31 @smol-beb @bitchwitch1981 @avastrasposts @hoeslingz @saltybutteredtoast @javicstories @c-justhere @pimosworld @modernperplexity @beboldbebravethings @modernperplexity  @mxtokko  @moonliqhtszn @tanzthompson @megcads @myloveistoolittle @casa-boiardi @jitterbugs927 @partyofone3413 @pedrit0-pascalit0 }

[gamergirl-niffler]

number 7, please write it with no one else but Keigo Takami ♥

Niffler's note: OoooOOooooOOOO! Painting together! With Hawks! As someone who likes to paint... I say YES!

Am I An Artist? || Keigo Takami x fem!reader

Taking your easel and painting equipment out onto the balcony was the first thing you did this morning.

You weren't given much opportunity to paint beautiful landscapes living in the city, but observing life below gave you ideas for new paintings. Particularly today, when the weather was nice and sunny, which meant more people came out.

In your little chair, you sat absorbed in thoughts, looking at the world around you.

Within minutes, you felt a weight resting on your shoulders, upper back, and head.

Keigo sighed, placing his head on top of yours. "You left me alone," he muttered. He had a rare day off, and you left him alone? He was all alone in the big bed! How could you do that? Another dramatic sigh escaped Keigo, and soon his tired, golden eyes landed on the still empty canvas. It made more sense now, whenever the weather was good enough, you loved to paint. He smiled and hugged you. "Any interesting ideas?”

Putting your palms on his arms, you shook your head. "Not yet. Sometimes it takes time."

Keigo nodded and yawned, stretching his wings lazily. "Yeah, right."

You stayed like this for a while. While you were deep in your imagination, he was basically lying on top of you, enjoying your presence and the warm sun kissing his wings.

In an instant, he was struck by a brilliant idea. It's probably the finest one ever. "Hey! I have a great idea! Let's paint together."

You looked up at him with astonishment as you blinked at the sudden idea. "Excuse me?" It's not like you thought the idea was bad, but he has never shown much interest in your hobby. It's true, he liked to watch you work and often complimented your paintings and hobby, but he never said anything more than that. That was quite a surprise.

As soon as you looked at Hawks, he smiled. "Like a couple spending some pleasant time together. Just us, doing something original. My little feather is already a pro at painting."

You eagerly nodded and hurried to gather your things as soon as possible. "We can go to my workshop! There is an additional easel, as well as more canvas."

Keigo watched you run back to the flat after collecting your stuff. As he followed you, he chuckled to himself and shook his head.

There was already a little workshop set up and ready for two people. As you waited for him, you sat in front of the empty canvas set on the wooden easel.

He sat down next to you and looked at the empty canvas. "I was wondering what we could paint," Keigo hummed.

You shook your head and smiled at him. "Maybe we should paint whatever we want, and then we can discuss it?" 

He nodded, agreeing to the idea after considering it.

At the beginning, you painted whatever came into your head, while Keigo worked hard on his own masterpiece. 

As he focused on his own masterpiece, you could see him painting with his tongue sticking out just a little - it was the cutest thing you've ever seen.

Despite working for at least an hour, you didn't paint anything interesting, just a random cat you spotted on the street. You couldn't focus and make better paintings when your beloved boyfriend distracted you, even if he wasn't aware he did.

You loved the faces he made while working and how eagerly he played with the paints. It was oh so cute!

“I'm done!” Keigo exclaimed happily and looked at your painting. “Wow! My work isn't as good as yours, but I'm so proud of it. Come see it!"

Standing right next to him, you tilted your head, watching the many colors. It was hard to tell what it was.

"Don't tell me you don't recognize that face," he sighed as you shook your head. "That's Endeavor, isn't that obvious?"

Despite not seeing it at first, you made an oh sound and nodded. Could it be that you needed to look closer? Ultimately, it didn't matter, he did an amazing job and you both enjoyed this activity and quiet time spent together.

As soon as Keigo returned home after another assignment, both paintings hung on the wall in the living room, framed in wooden frames that you had bought and painted yourself to match the paintings. As a result, he was even prouder of himself.

As a matter of fact, you were proud of him as well, since he had discovered his creative side that had been hidden for too long.

[imeternallylove]

Moulin Rouge Sous le Ciel Bleu - S.Strange

Red Mill under the Blue Sky: the roaring '20s era

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader

Genre: angst and fluff, mostly bittersweet 💔✌️

Warning: forbidden love, sexual content

Word: approx 4k

main mastetlist | request | prompts

theme song (im very rec to listen while reading this)

A brilliant red mill stood out among the other buildings in the Jardin de Paris, at the foot of the hill in the Montmartre neighborhood, commanding attention with its vibrant color and unusual façade. Large metal letters spelled out the word Moulin Rouge over the entryway to the colorful venue. The Red Mill, because it was exactly what the building looked like. It certainly drew attention to itself, and Monsieur Strange had no doubt that this was the proprietors' goal. Moulin Rouge had grown infamous in Paris, and he had no doubt that it was also infamous throughout the rest of France.

The building's bright scarlet façade contrasted with the pristine blue of the sky above it, making it stand out even more on clear days like today. Stephen would not have imagined, looking at the red mill, that this was the edifice known as The Bastion of Pleasures in the city of love. It wasn't visually appealing, but it was a novelty, and the mill at the entryway was one of the reasons for the establishment's notoriety. That, and the female cabaret performers.

Stephen Vincent Strange, heir of an eastern trade enterprise and an expert in oriental goods, was known as "young Monsieur Strange." He had been sent to France by his father a year before starting university to acquire the French language, and now, years later, he was studying for a degree in Orientalism at the famed Sorbonne. He'd become a go-to man for Parisian socialites, advising them on real Chinese and silk textiles, among other things, all sourced from his family's import business.

But, underneath the elegant and wealthy heir, he had become enthralled by the revolution, a movement that began in the middle of the last century, a stride towards freedoms and liberties that he had never known in his own home of New York.

That's how he ended himself in the Moulin Rouge cabaret. Stephen adored it. The excitement of doing something that would be considered inappropriate in his own nation was exhilarating. He wished he was an artist or a poet some days. Of course, he was brilliant at both due to his considerable schooling, so it wasn't that he couldn't do either. Nonetheless, he wished that he could live off his riches and do whatever he pleased, composing poetry, creating watercolours on rice paper, and attending the cabaret.

Most crucially, in those crazy daydreams, he could freely love you.

You'd met when he came to consult with you about some costumes you were working on for a Moulin Rouge performance. The surroundings were supposed to be inspired by the Orient, interesting, exotic, and beautiful all at the same time, and you required assistance with the designs. Young Monsieur Strange had paid you a visit in your sewing chamber as an orientalist. He was impressed by the attention to detail you had placed into the costumes and was eager to help you in perfecting the ideas.

He was back in your workrooms a few weeks later, checking the finished product as well as the music hall stage set. Because your lodgings were close to the Moulin Rouge, he stopped by to see you and your fellow seamstresses on his way back. He had admired your outfits and had recommended you to the proprietors.

That's how you met and then kept meeting, each one ending with you smiling a little brighter, his smile getting cheekier and cheekier.

Stephen often assumed that falling in love with one of the dancers would be simple. Monsieur Strange, on the other hand, was not one to take the easy way out. He had been unimpressed by the dancers' charm, flirty manner, and womanly figure. He was an orientalist visiting Paris from his hometown, and he had no interest for the loud women of the cabaret, famous for their cancan. 

Instead, he had chosen the difficult path. He fell for you.

It was an impossible love. Hopeless in more ways than one; not only had he fallen head over heels for you irrevocably and explicitly, but there was no future in which he could do so. Your love was ephemeral, not because the sensations vanished, but because you couldn't freely love each other in this world, neither in France nor anywhere else. It was a forbidden love. 

Something forbidden. 

It's a hopeless love.

You knew it wouldn't last, you wouldn’t; but nothing does, so you loved him the same way he loved you.

Stephen would never marry a mere seamstress. He was a class above you, and he was certain his father had already picked a merchant's daughter for him, one from New York, just like him, just like his father wanted.

Tonight, he could spend naked in your arms, snuggled in the warm sheets of his bed, listening to his heartbeat while his long fingers combed through your hair.

"The sky was falling," you said as his heat cock finally came out, weary, clogged, and squeezed all the air out of your lungs. The palm of his hand lingered warmly on your exposed breasts, like a boy's toy.

Your hair is wet, and so is his. You look at the mess on the bedsheet, it's like a war, so criminally. Unless, of course Stephen's sharp smile, the top of his chest breaths heavily, and the bottom is buried beneath his blanket, but you pull out it to cover yourself so you can glimpse his entire body again. "And I'm falling for you, amour."

It was a quiet night. He'd snuck you into one of his smaller homes, where no servants could spy on you two. You had a glass of dry red wine and a baguette with camembert and red grapes. It was a basic dish by his standards, but it was everything the two of you could have desired for dinner tonight.

You had been kept busy by the continual repairs of Moulin Rouge costumes, as well as other work sent to you by higher and middle-class women, in the heart of balmy summer, with the sun shining down in all its splendor, warming you up and making all proper ladies sweat under their garments. You made no complaint. It was good job, and there was always additional money, which you could never have enough of.

Stephen did all the whining for you, about how you didn't have time for him, about how he felt neglected, about how you were too gorgeous to spend the days in a workroom instead of on the garden outside, enjoying in the sun and definitely keeping him company.

Finally, your work was completed, and you decided to take the day off, and now, at the end of the day spent in his arms, you were falling asleep in his arms, his gentle breathing feeling like a summer breeze in your hair, and his golden skin was warm on yours. Because of your body heat and the warm night, you couldn't sleep beneath a blanket, so you slept on a light linen sheet.

"Mon plus cher amour," he said into the air, that’s the way he called; "my dearest love." And you had responded to his call through the thin veil of sleep, turning in his arms to face him, your lips brushing against his as he spoke, the delicate touch sending thrills down Stephen's spine.

"Mon cherrie?" You'd wondered, laying a sly kiss on his pouty lips.

"I cannot imagine living without you." He engaged, his eyes staring into yours with such affection that you wondered if a mortal man could be filled with so much love. Such deep feeling was surely destined for something more holy than you; for ladies whose beauty lived on in legend, a kind of beauty caught by poems, songs, and prayers. Not you, mortal, frail, and average.

"Don't say such things." You murmured softly, your tone echoing Stephen's love in his gaze. His breath caught, and you could feel his heart rattling against your chest, its steady beat matching the pace of your own. "They make me fall in love with you even more." Your lover grinned at your comments, his long fingers reaching to gently hold your hand before bringing it to his lips, kissing your knuckles delicately, his lips smooth like rosebuds, flushed a deep pink as blood flowed through him, red and strong. His aquatic eyes never left yours for a second. 

Hopelessly, you loved him so badly, too.

The days passed without him, and eventually, after all work was finished, Stephen decided to take you to the premiere of the new cabaret show, the one you had spent months sewing costumes for, and now he would allow you the pleasure of seeing the fruit of your labors, and you had a feeling it would be sweet.

Tonight, he had taken you to the cabaret. The moulin rouge was full with patrons, their cacophonous banter before the show was like the beginning of a birdsong, someplace deep in the rainforest, their words, not always French, rang throughout the room like a flock of tropical songbirds, unorganized but cheerful. You sat at a table for two, he in a magnificent black suit, you in your best dress, your hair done up in a stylish style you had seen many of your clients wear. When you looked in the mirror before leaving the house, you couldn't believe the lady in the reflection was you. You wondered if he had always thought you were beautiful.

"You are lovely to look at. Never forget that, mon amour." He leaned in to whisper into your ears, the dim light shimmering golden against his skin, making the shape of his nose and the plushness of his lips even more refined, even more seductive. Your heart skipped a beat despite your will. As the dancers entered the stage, the flock fell silent, leaving only the melody of the orchestra. Stephen relaxed in his chair, entirely at ease, sipping champagne.

The show was spectacular, but no one expected less from the legendary Moulin Rouge. The dancers glided around the stage in perfect synchronicity. Even their most frantic routines were carried out with beauty and precision. others gowns were shorter than others, and others were more scandalous. You hadn't skimped on the feathers and sequins. Each costume was meticulously fitted, with every thread perfectly in place and every color carefully chosen.

"Something like this would never be tolerated where I come from." Stephen whispered in your ear. Even without looking at him, you could tell that his gaze was drawn to the dancers and his lips formed a sneer against your ears. You knew he wasn't talking about the cabaret. "I'm glad it's allowed here." When you didn't react, he whispered, and you felt a delightful chill down your spine.

"They look gorgeous." Instead, you stated that your gaze never leaves the stage. The dancers span, their skirts swirling with them, exposing more of their legs, and the audience couldn't stop gasping.

He questioned as he took another sip from his flute. "The dancers?"

"Pretty women look good in pretty clothing." When another round of cacophonous delight rippled through the audience, you responded with a nod, a smile on your lips.

"Are those your dresses?" Stephen smiled, his eyes twinkling as he examined the colorful outfits, feather plumes, and embroidery on the bodices and skirts. 

“Oui.” You sipped your drink, allowing the buzz of alcohol to enhance your enjoyment of the evening. "What's the point of staring at me?" After a while, you said, the feeling of Stephen's deep ocean eyesight staring at you becoming uncomfortable as the night progressed, your second flute of champagne now standing empty in front of you.

"I can't stop myself. You are like the moon." He smiled, turning his head to look at you from a fresh perspective. "So attracting me." He spoke, and his hand moved across the table to grip yours, his long fingers weaving through yours.

You stayed like that till the end of the show.

When the night was done and he had draped your coat over your shoulders like a gentleman, a cheeky smile graced his lips, his eyes bright with mischief.

"We went to the pleasure palace, and yet my greatest pleasure was watching you." He told you, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, savoring the crimson that warmed your cheeks, both from the champagne and from him.

Another week passed, and you were again in his chambers, laying among the lovely covers, holding a book as Stephen dressed. He was dressed in a suit identical to the one he wore to Moulin Rouge, but he had changed the jacket to something more suited for dinner. You liked his straight brows and heavy lashes as you combed his hair back away from his face. 

"How do you think I look?" He approached, tying his black bowtie in front of the mirror above his dresser.

Looking at his tiny figure over your book, you told him. "Handsome as always." You said that when he turned around and winked at him. "You will be fine, Monsieur Strange."

"Whatever you want to say, Mademoiselle." He smiled as he walked over to the bed and knelt down. His plush lips were on yours in an instant, and you melted into the kiss. 

When he turned to slide into his jacket, he looked back at you, his eyes filled with concern. You could tell he was tense by the clench of his jaw and the strain in his shoulders. 

"Enjoy yourself." You smiled at him, attempting to cheer him up. Whatever was on his thoughts was weighing heavily on him. Enough to make him wary of telling you about it. It was a rare occurrence. 

"It's just another business meeting; I'm recommending teapot purchases." He muttered, presumably to himself, and you sprang from the bed, wrapping your arms around his torso and staring into his eyes. Their maritime blue reminded you of hot coffee and chocolate in the morning. "New York ceramics have grown in popularity among those who can afford to import them." He spoke, his arms wrapping over your shoulders. Stephen buried his face in your hair, and you gave him a minute of silence. He pressed you against him, and you listened to his heartbeat, sure and steady like him. 

"Selling a lot of teapots, then, mon cherie." You told him, and he let you go with one more farewell kiss.

"Don't worry about missing me too much, mon plus cher amour." He called out as he walked out of the room, and you couldn't help but smile as you watched him go.

Sadly, you do.

The dinner was drab. The hosts were rich, as they always were, and they loved to gossip, as they always did. Normally, Stephen avoided the ladies' gossip, preferring to sit and drink whiskey with the males, but tonight he found himself in the center of it. Not because he was really interested, but because he was the topic of it. 

Many guys stood around the room conversing, and some women avoided the host's wife, who was a nasty gossip who could run her mouth like no other. Unfortunately, Stephen was on his way to meet his business partner, Monsieur Holmes from England, when he overheard the conversation.

The guests sat on luxurious sofas, with a tiny wooden mahogany coffee table in the center, containing a lovely tea set, white porcelain with delicate lotus blossoms painted in red for adornment. Last summer, it was one of the models they carried. Surprisingly, it was not a high-end set.

"I heard he went to the cabaret with his mistress last week. I'm curious who she is." The harsh voice of one of the ladies pierced his eardrums. Stephen could tell she was one of your clientele based on her attire. In your shop window, a similar dress, however green rather than the caustic salmon color this woman was wearing, was shown. He could recognize your work from anywhere right now.

"There will be no high standing." Another woman interrupted him, and he wanted to stop listening. Morbid curiosity kept him quiet, listening to those women criticize you, his blood boiling under his skin. 

"A Frenchwoman and a New Yorker. In public!" Stephen tried to stop himself from cursing after hearing the woman in salmon scream. 

"How are you doing, ladies?" Instead, he put on a happy face and walked right into the women's chat, interrupting their gossip. "I heard you ordered two tea sets, Madame." He turned to gaze at an older woman sitting between the two who were chatting about you.

“Yes. My daughter is marrying into a good family, and I want to make sure she brings only the best to her new home." She had spoken, her nose turned almost comically high as she tried to gaze at him with contempt. 

"I hope you will be pleased with the quality of our products." He had bowed lightly, a sickly-sweet smile lingering on his lips, as rage had no doubt poked through his eyes. When you glanced into his eyes, you stated you could tell he was upset. He would have spoken more, but Shrr had come to his rescue, his cheerful attitude brightening the mood of the women.

"Ah, Monsieur Strange, I was looking for you." He talked, his rich voice filled with joy as he tried to pull Stephen away. 

He pushed him to the side and handed the shorter man a tumbler of scotch. Sherlock's massive body towered over him, hiding him from the gossips' gaze. His huge hand reached out and squeezed Stephen's shoulder in reassurance.

"Young men are young men regardless of where they come from." Do not listen to old rumor." Sherlock's powerful voice slowed to a mumble, and Stephen assumed his companion was growling rather than speaking.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He mumbled, gulping the scotch down, too frustrated to taste it. He found the burn of alcohol to be a pleasant distraction.

"Better to love one woman than to hate one woman." When his pal looked down on him, his teal eyes were soft.

Stephen asked shifting the conversation from one unpleasant issue to another. "Any news from my father?" 

“None yet. I’m not sure he even knows about her.” Sherlock reassured him, a small smile playing on his lips. He sipped on his scotch.

"If he knew," Stephen said, his heart pounding wildly against his chest, making him dizzy, before Sherlock cut him off. 

"You'd have been on a ship back by now, and that merchant's daughter would have been waiting for you at the docks." He finished for him, gulping down the rest of his scotch before proceeding to refill their glasses.Stephen received an increasing number of inquiries for imported pottery as the evening continued. Tea sets, plates, and bowls were among the items requested. By the end of the meal, his notebook was full of names and catalog numbers. 

Stephen had removed his coat and unfastened his bowtie when he returned home. His white shirt had a few buttons undone, displaying his golden collarbone. He sat on his living room sofa, sipping more scotch from a crystal glass. When he arrived, you tossed the book and sat alongside him on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder. The fabric beneath you was velvet, far more expensive than you could possibly afford. You could see he had it built to order.

Stephen had remained silent other than greetings and a couple brief kisses. Despite the drink he consumed, the worry shown on his face had not subsided. From the corner of your eye, you noticed his jaw clenched and relaxed.

"Are you ready to tell me now?" You asked him, and he turned his chin towards you. His gaze was drawn to your lips first, then up into your eyes. He'd always assumed they were sapphires. Not because they were blue, but because they reminded him of the sea, deep and uncharted. They hid your heart, so they gleamed like valuable stones and reflected light like the tumultuous waters of the sea. Deep, so deep that he lost himself in them and found himself in them as well. 

"I'm worried about my father." His heavenly voice broke, heavy with uncertainty, and he mumbled.

"We knew about your father from the start,” you told him as you pressed your palm against his cheek, allowing Stephen to sink into your contact and relish in how warm he felt against you. “We knew how this was going to end before it even started."

"What if I don't want this to come to an end?" He asked whether and you were the one to lose yourself in the depths of his irises this time.

You kissed him with your other hand on his cheek. Passionately and uninhibitedly. It didn't matter if the end was coming or if it was already here. You had feelings for him. You were hopelessly in love with him. 

Stephen went violet when you touched him. He felt it seep into him when he pressed his lips to yours with bruising force, and again when you grabbed him in his bed, and again when you left purple marks over his collar bones, each one a visible stain on his body; something to remind him he was yours, something to remind you that you were his. 

Days flew by in a blur of color. You awoke in his bed, went to work, and spent the evening at Moulin Rouge. Every night was spectacular; every night was the same. You had grown fond of Moulin Rouge. Stephen could sit by you in public and flaunt your devotion for him. In Montmartre, most people were preoccupied with the concept of liberty and freedom. You shared their hopes, that the world will be a better place to live one day. Both you and he fit in. It was simple to be at the Bastion of Pleasures.

After one of the shows, when you had finally returned home to recuperate, an unexpected guest appeared. 

Sherlock had come in one evening, just as Stephen was falling asleep in your lap, your voice calming him. The British man had arrived with a letter. It was obvious that it was from Stephen's father. Because the characters were strange, you were illiterate and blissfully unaware of the contents. 

"Not good." Stephen had risen from your lap and was pacing as he read over the letter. Sherlock had taken a seat near you, his form looming over you. You weren't bothered because you were used to being in his shadow, but the expressions on both men's faces made you nervous. 

Sherlock told them. "He wants you to return by the end of the next year." His strong voice boomed through the room, and his loving brown eyes looked down at you, and then at Stephen, with such sadness that you couldn't tell who was more saddened by the news.

"I understand." Stephen paused his pacing and requested that one of his assistants bring them some cognac. "To one more year." When the vodka was poured into crystal glasses and delivered to the three of them, he toasted.

You raised your glass with a cheeky smile, toasting with him. Sherlock raised his glass reluctantly and witheredly, the amber liquid shimmering in the faint light, before taking a gulp.

You lay wrapped in Stephen's arms that night, a pleasant breeze blowing through the open window, drifting over your naked shoulders as you glanced up at your sweetheart.

"Let us leave. Just… Run away with me." Stephen mumbled, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of his room, more pensive than you had ever seen him.

"Is this? …New Americana proposal’s? Where’s my ring?" You commented, a broad smile on your face, as though pondering of the possibilities, soon, your shoulders jolted down. "Where shall we go?"

"Wherever my father won't find us." You pressed closer to him, further into the protection of his arms, as he aware you. “Italy?” You sought out, considering locations too far away for the Strange business to pursue you to.

“Britain? Erm-”

"French Indochina?" You kissed his forehead, with an awkward smile on your lips.

"I don't care… literally. Where we go; my heart goes to loving you everywhere." He spoke softly, and you knew he loved you now more than ever. 

Stephen was ready to leave everything to be with you, where his father could not intervene, and you were ready to leave with him, you knew you would; for anything even your cabaret flora life here; for one condition… just be with him.

"Then let's go anywhere." You gave in, putting a kiss to his lips and whispering love words into his ears as he held you. He whispered them back, breathed love into you with his kisses, was firm and soothing alongside you, and despite the frost in the air, you were warm. 

His lengthy fingers knead over yours, enveloping them. You know he staked his entire future on it. You are mindful of this. "Whether it's an ice-covered world or warfare, I'll be the one that burns it." Your lips curled together, his words so sincere, and his rich tone melt with every emotion you've ever beheld. "Like frost and flame; hot and cold both evaporated."

You draw stars on his chest, another one, another one… Attentively paying attention to his heartbeat. The galactic cosmos feels incredibly near whenever you're with him, your Monsieur Strange, yours.

"Trust me?"

"Always have."

Love was occasionally hopeless, but maybe this time, just this time, there was hope.

And this is hope that you want would be go on survived.

For everlasting. 

a/t: how was it 🥹 idk why but the plot comes while i listen this so bitter, tortured but sweetener so it’s challenging me to write 1920’ era. Well… in fact, the forbidden love is my first time writing… so erm yk what i mean? just please give love to it bc Monsieur Strange is watching you 😂🥹🤭 the core of this story is foreign man who has love affair with the owner of cabaret and he bet everything on it to stay with his heart, so fucking romantic yeah? this side is so rare to see from Stephen x reader ff and that’s why, so sorry to bring him out of character again bc it’s not my first time actually HAHAHAHAHA xD well next story we will see new youtuber Stephen who open YouTube channel so bright the boredom of quarantine by corona, he’s doctor right? let’s go romantic comedy yahooooo

[opera-ghosts]

Pauline Viardot

Alfred de Musset covered Maria Malibran’s tomb with immortal flowers and he also told us the story of Pauline Garcia’s debut. There is also something about it in Théophile Gautier’s writings. It is clear from both accounts that her first appearance was an extraordinary occasion. Natures such as hers reveal themselves at once to those who know and do not have to wait to arrive until they are in full bloom. Pauline was very young at the time, and soon afterwards she married M. Viardot, manager of the Théâtre-Italien and one of the finest men of his day. She went abroad to develop her talent, but she returned in 1849 when Meyerbeer named her to create the rôle of Fides in Le Prophète.

Her voice was tremendously powerful, prodigious in its range, and it overcame all the difficulties in the art of singing. But this marvellous voice did not please everyone, for it was by no means smooth and velvety. Indeed, it was a little harsh and was likened to the taste of a bitter orange. But it was just the voice for a tragedy or an epic, for it was superhuman rather than human. Light things like Spanish songs and Chopin mazurkas, which she used to transpose so that she could sing them, were completely transformed by that voice and became the playthings of an Amazon or of a giantess. She lent an incomparable grandeur to tragic parts and to the severe dignity of the oratorio.

I never had the pleasure of hearing Madame Malibran, but Rossini told me about her. He preferred her sister. Madame Malibran, he said, had the advantage of beauty. In addition, she died young and left a memory of an artist in full possession of all her powers. She was not the equal of her sister as a musician and could not have survived the decline of her voice as the latter did.

Madame Viardot was not beautiful, indeed, she was far from it. The portrait by Ary Scheffer is the only one which shows this unequalled woman truthfully and gives some idea of her strange and powerful fascination. What made her even more captivating than her talent as a singer was her personality—one of the most amazing I have ever known. She spoke and wrote fluently Spanish, French, Italian, English and German. She was in touch with all the current literature of these countries and in correspondence with people all over Europe.

She did not remember when she learned music. In the Garcia family music was in the air they breathed. So she protested against the tradition which represented her father as a tyrant who whipped his daughters to make them sing. I have no idea how she learned the secrets of composition, but save for the management of the orchestra she knew them well. She wrote numerous lieder on Spanish and German texts and all of these show a faultless diction. But contrary to the custom of most composers who like nothing better than to show their compositions, she concealed hers as though they were indiscretions. It was exceedingly difficult to persuade her to let one hear them, although the least were highly creditable. Once she sang a Spanish popular song, a wild haunting thing, with which Rubinstein fell madly in love. It was several years before she would admit that she wrote it herself.

She wrote brilliant operettas in collaboration with Tourguenief, but they were never published and were performed only in private. One anecdote will show her versatility as a composer. She was a friend of Chopin and Liszt and her tastes were strongly futuristic. M. Viardot, on the contrary, was a reactionary in music. He even found Beethoven too advanced. One day they had a guest who was also a reactionary. Madame Viardot sang to them a wonderful work with recitative, aria and final allegro, which they praised to the skies. She had written it expressly for the occasion. I have read this work and even the cleverest would have been deceived.

But it must not be thought from this that her compositions were mere imitations. On the contrary they were extremely original. The only explanation why those that were published have remained unknown and why so many were unpublished is that this admirable artist had a horror of publicity. She spent half her life in teaching pupils and the world knew nothing about it.

During the Empire the Viardots used to give in their apartment on Thursday evenings really fine musical festivals which my surviving contemporaries still remember. From the salon in which the famous portrait by Ary Scheffer was hung and which was devoted to ordinary instrumental and vocal music, we went down a short staircase to a gallery filled with valuable paintings, and finally to an exquisite organ, one of Cavaillé-Coll’s masterpieces. In this temple dedicated to music we listened to arias from the oratorios of Handel and Mendelssohn. She had sung them in London, but could not get a hearing for them in the concerts in Paris as they were averse to such vast compositions. I had the honor to be her regular accompanist both at the organ and the piano.

But this passionate lover of song was an all-round musician. She played the piano admirably, and when she was among friends she overcame the greatest difficulties. Before her Thursday audiences, however, she limited herself to chamber music, with a special preference for Henri Reber’s duets for the piano and the violin. These delicate, artistic works are unknown to the amateurs of to-day. They seem to prefer to the pure juice of the grape in crystal glasses poisonous potions in cups of gold. They must have orgies, sumptuous ceilings, a deadly luxury. They do not understand the poet who sings, “O rus, quando te aspiciam!” They do not appreciate the great distinction of simplicity. Reber’s muse is not for them.

Madame Viardot was as learned a musician as any one could be and she was among the first subscribers to the complete edition of Sebastian Bach’s works. We know what an astounding revelation that work was. Each year brought ten religious cantatas, and each year brought us new surprises in the unexpected variety and impressiveness of the work. We thought we had known Sebastian Bach, but now we learned how really to know him. We found him a writer of unusual versatility and a great poet. His Wohltemperirte Klavier had given us only a hint of all this. The beauties of this famous work needed exposition for, in the absence of definite instructions, opinions differed. In the cantatas the meaning of the words serves as an indication and through the analogy between the forms of expression, it is easy to see pretty clearly what the author intended in his Klavier pieces.

One fine day the annual volume was found to contain a cantata in several parts written for a contralto solo accompanied by stringed instruments, oboes and an organ obligato. The organ was there and the organist as well. So we assembled the instruments, Stockhausen, the baritone, was made the leader of the little orchestra, and Madame Viardot sang the cantata. I suspect that the author had never heard his work sung in any such manner. I cherish the memory of that day as one of the most precious in my musical career. My mother and M. Viardot were the only listeners to this exceptional exhibition. We did not dare to repeat it before hearers who were not ready for it. What would now be a great success would have fallen flat at that time. And nothing is more irritating than to see an audience cold before a beautiful work. It is far better to keep to one’s self treasures which will be unappreciated.

One thing will always stand in the way of the vogue of Sebastian Bach’s vocal works—the difficulty of translation. When they are rendered into French, they lose all their charm and oftentimes become ridiculous.

One of the most amazing characteristics of Madame Viardot’s talent was her astonishing facility in assimilating all styles of music. She was trained in the old Italian music and she revealed its beauties as no one else has ever done. As for myself, I saw only its faults. Then she sang Schumann and Gluck and even Glinka whom she sang in Russian. Nothing was foreign to her; she was at home everywhere.

She was a great friend of Chopin and she remembered his playing almost exactly and could give the most valuable directions about the way he interpreted his works. I learned from her that the great pianist’s (great musician’s, rather) execution was much simpler than has been generally supposed. It was as far removed from any manifestation of bad taste as it was from cold correctness. She told me the secret of the true tempo rubato without which Chopin’s music is disfigured. It in no way resembles the dislocations by which it is so often caricatured.

I have spoken of her great talent as a pianist. We saw this one evening at a concert given by Madame Schumann. After Madame Viardot had sung some of Schumann’s lieder with the great pianist playing the accompaniments, the two great artists played the illustrious author’s duet for two pianos, which fairly bristles with difficulties, with equal virtuosity.

When Madame Viardot’s voice began to break, she was advised to devote herself to the piano. If she had, she would have found a new career and a second reputation. But she did not want to make the change, and for several years she presented the sorry spectacle of genius contending with adversity. Her voice was broken, stubborn, uneven, and intermittent. An entire generation knew her only in a guise unworthy of her.

Her immoderate love of music was the cause of the early modification of her voice. She wanted to sing everything she liked and she sang Valentine in Les Huguenots, Donna Anna in Don Juan, besides other rôles she should never have undertaken if she wanted to preserve her voice. She came to realize this at the end of her life. “Don’t do as I did,” she once told a pupil. “I wanted to sing everything, and I ruined my voice.”

Happy are the fiery natures which burn themselves out and glory in the sword that wears away the scabbard.

From Musical Memories by Camille Saint-Saëns

[jadedandconfusedao3]

Chapter 13 - Epilogue

1 year later

“I look like a peacock,” Draco complained for the fiftieth time.

Theo looked over and smiled. He did look a little like a peacock. His suit was bright royal blue. It would have been ridiculous on most people, but the smarmy son of a bitch looked good in almost anything. Pansy was sitting on a chair looking a million dollars in a dress of exactly the same colour. If he didn’t look phenomenal himself, he would have been upset that his best friends were such annoyingly attractive people. Luckily, he looked practically transcendent.

Theo checked himself over once more in the mirror and smirked just for good measure.

“You look fine,” Pansy said, slightly exasperated as she stood and smoothed down her silky dress.

Both men stopped what they were doing and looked at her.

She glanced between the two of them and threw her hands in the air. “Both of you! You both look amazing!”

Draco smiled to himself, but Theo clasped his hand over his brilliant white tux.

“Pansy!” he exclaimed. “You don’t compliment another man in front of the Gride!”

Draco rolled his eyes. Theo had created the word Gride when he had decided that he would be the one walking down the aisle. Gride because he is both groom and bride and because it sounds better than Broom which is what he has been calling Ginny and Harry, his logic being, that they’ve both been married before, so he gets the better title.

Pansy rolled her eyes.

 “You look so much better than Draco that he is practically a homeless bum,” she deadpanned.

Theo smiled and nodded, and Draco shot her a look. Theo pretended not to see as she mouthed, I had to say something, at Draco before standing and pouring herself a glass of champagne.

Draco drawled and leaned on the dresser, “Now, now. Pansy you want to be in top form for our trip down the aisle, don’t you?”

“Exactly,” she agreed as she poured even more into her glass.

Draco rolled his eyes again and turned back to Theo who returned to looking in the mirror. He was wearing a startlingly bright white suit and if he did say so himself, looked phenomenal. The makeup artist had highlighted the bottom corner of his eye and the bridge of his nose in white shadow. He looked almost angelic and couldn’t help but beam at his reflection.

“Are you ready?” Draco asked from where he was leaning.

Continue reading on Ao3

That's a wrap! Almost exactly 12 months and 123,980 words later PPPfSUWW has come to an end. I can't say that I was exactly ready for this to end. I love these characters so much but given that this is the longest thing I've ever written I'm just so happy that I managed to complete it.

On another note I'm looking for cheerleaders for my next longfic so if you are interested while I attack the marauders prequel of my fic "All Purebloods Must Die" (link below) please hit me up on discord. Username: sniper_jade.

[standupcomedyhistorian]

Today (12/16/23) is the 10th anniversary of one of my favorite comedy specials—

what.

Yes, it's been a whole decade since Bo Burnham graced the world with his YouTube special (and now major comics are following his model lol). While people think of what. as a Netflix special, Bo's plan was to distribute it freely via the internet on 12/17/13 (and he took a pay cut to make it happen!).

Here are some other fun facts about Bo's second comedy special:

1. The trailer is filmed in the Ruhm, Bo's guesthouse and studio that makes an appearance again in Make Happy and in a little special called INSIDE 😉

2. This comedy special was Bo's first professional collaboration with Chris Storer (creator of The Bear) after they met on Adventures in the Sin Bin and it marks Bo's first time directing. They would go on to co-direct Make Happy together and Bo's obviously directed MANY items since, including his incredible story about a teenage girl called Eighth Grade!

3. Bo begins the special wearing three pairs of pants—two red ones and one black pair—a white tee, a dark gray hoodie, confetti in one pocket, a pack of playing cards in his OTHER pocket, and his mouth is full of water. Damn, that's a lot of stuff! 🤯

4. But he doesn't have the water IN his mouth for the stool scene! That was spliced together with the live performance footage (and pretty seamlessly, clearly, since folks asked him about it online).

5. The song Repeat Stuff has a brilliant music video that accompanies it. And the girl that Bo murders at the end is none other than the Vice President's stepdaughter! That's right, Ella Emhoff is Kamala Harris's daughter through marriage, and she is a famous model and artist.

6. Speaking of that music video, the exterior of the house Bo breaks into at the beginning is Bo and Lorene's own home at the time. And that house was used in The Nightmare Before Elm Street franchise (a fact the realtors emphasized when selling the place in 2021—I would have focused on Bo's studio personally haha).

7. The music video also has a cameo from one of Bo's friends, Paul Scheer, as the manager! I actually met Paul at a Human Giant event back in the day, and he was very nice (along with Aziz Ansari and Rob Huebel).

8. While Bo released his special entirely for free, he did have two other items that were for sale at the time—the what. CD (recorded in Madison, WI, thus he says "Get on my level, Madison" in Sad) and his book of poems Egghead. I own the poetry book, obviously, but I cannot find the CD for sale anywhere.

If you or someone you know is willing to sell their copy, PLEASE DM me! It's the only item he put out that I don't own in some capacity—and I would love to complete the collection! 🥰

9. Egghead is amazing in both its print and audiobook versions. In fact, the latter is like a whole separate comedy special and well worth the price to hear Bo reading so enthusiastically and with different hilarious voices. Highly recommended...and I have a kid-friendly list of poems here if you're interested.

10. Finally, what. features two of my favorite subversive bits: Andy the Frog and the Fishing song.

I was thinking a fun video idea would be to create a Bo Burnham "Kids Show" with all of his darkest routines that seem like they came out of a demented Sesame Street (so like Wonder Showzen haha).

Here's the potential order:

-Disney Lessons (Words Words Words)

-what. Intro (starting with "melted into childlike wonder" to Lizard)

-How to Make the Perfect PB Sandwich

-A Slow Joke

-Andy the Frog

-The Squares poem

-Fishing in the Park

-How the World Works (can include Outtakes Bo and Socko as well)

-YouTuber Thank You

Anyway, I just think that would be hysterical if any editor wants to take a crack at it. Please give me credit tho! ✌🏼🐔

[casualtim2]

Tales of an Old Artbook

A few months ago I was searching through my things and stumbled upon a large record set under the name "The Story of Great Music" which was produced in the late 1960s under a company named "Timelife Records".

I assume these records were given to me by my father, as I generally have little interest in records or physical music recordings in general. And yet I opened them up to take a look anyway, I was pleased to find that each record set came with a listeners guide, and, more important to me, an old artbook.

Each of which contains short biographies of the artists on the records, historical information about the era, and, most excitingly for me, art from the time of the music!

Why don't we take a look together?

Today we will explore The Story of Great Music's Slavic Tradtions book. Which is my personal favorite, I pick it up on the regular.

Upon opening the book you are greeted with a page depicting a bright and blocky painting. Part of the image description reads:

"...The final scene of Mikhail Glinka's "Life of the Czar" is shown ... One of Russia's most popular operas, the work became the corner stone of the nationalist music tradition. It is still being perfromed frequently in the Soviet Union..."

Soon later we stumble upon Ilya Repin's painting "Slavonic Composers", this painting is very appealing to me. That line "The great and now obscure are mixed indesciminately." is so striking and raw. Who are you? Unknown creatives! What were you known for!

Now this was an interesting find, this map depicts various highlights in Slavic history, though not in a straight line.

This page folds outward and a lengthy description guiding you through history is visible on the opposite page.

On the next page we are greeted by paintings that decorate the great Old Town Hall Clock in Prague. Which are accompanied by the legend of the clock tower and an image of the clock itself in all it's glory.

Shortly later we arrive at a short description of my favorite art movement "Predvizniki" or as they are described here : "The Wanderers", I could go on for ages but we haven't the time!

This breif dip into the works is accompanied by the brilliant and awe inspiring "To All Great Conquerors..." painted by Vasily Vereshchagin in 1871.

This is followed by a few pages of paintings by the great Ilya Repin.

"The Wellspring of Russian Music", a fascinating section about, well, I suppose it is obvious isn't it? However I very much enjoy this beautiful sketch "PUSHKIN IN EXILE" a title very to the point.

""THE MIGHTY FIVE" CARTOONED." A very comedic piece, i laughed very hard to see that this artist had turned Rimsky (a personal favorite of mine) into a lobster. (Why? I am unsure.)

I do wonder if the artist who painted this would have ever expected someone to laugh at their mockery of the mighty five a hundred and fifty years later?

Onto fairy tales! The images have breif descriptions of the adventures they represent beside them!

On the left we see "Stupid Emilien" and on the right "The Flying Ship".

And above we see "The Firebird" what an exciting piece indeed!

Later on we encounter two lacquer paintings from the Russian village of Palekh. On the left we see "THE GOLDEN COCKEREL" and on the right "THE TALE OF CZAR SALTAN". Which are both scenes from poems by Pushkin, which were each the basis of the operas by Rimsky respectively.

Now the book winds through and out of it's lovely stream of paintings and plans to take us on a tour using photography! The image above shows some beautiful stained glass and the veiw of some stunning buildings in Prague.

After a couple more pages of some well cherished areas in Prauge we are taken to the countryside. This is one of my favorite pages in the book!

Near the end of the book we're greeted with some pictures taken during plays, what they are about you ask? Well the captions will tell you all that you need to know! (And all that I know myself...)

We have reached our journeys end and find a final painting awaits our veiw. Wassily Kandinsky's "Motely Life". Part of the images description reads as follows:

"a backward look at the dream-world of the artists Russian childhood" ... "Purely as a work of imagination, Kadinsky's glowing painting sums up in its crowds, castles, flowers, and forests the strange mixture of gaiety, oppresiveness, and swelling drama that was pre-revolutionary Russia- the world of the Russian nationalist composers discussed in this volume."

I hope that if you have made it this far you have enjoyed my post. It is the first time I have created a large blog post on Tumblr, as I mainly do on SpaceHey (the modern reproduction of MySpace) so I have never really posted seriously on here before.

I am very slow with serious posts on any website so if you would like to see more of me I hope that you could bear reblogs as well. (Though I do have another post I would like to work on...)

[peppered-imps]

Oh wow, what a quick response! Yeah, Obidala and Star Wars related resources would be amazing. (Never ever thought I'd be trying to write anything in the SW universe. Lol. But I just adore the pairing that much.)

and heres a very late response! I hope you're still around, anon. so sorry it took me so long. this isn't an exhaustive list, but I hope it's enough to get you started!

for general star wars:

my favourite resource by far is Wookieepedia. it's just an online encyclopedia of nearly every single conceivable thing in the SW universe for both canon and legends. Most articles feature a tab that can switch between canon and legends material, which makes organizing info really easy.

I also love @gffa for their incredibly well-informed posts, especially under their reference tag. But truly, the whole blog is a wealth of information and thoughtful takes.

I really enjoy Fit For a Queen a lot. its an extensive catalogue of outfits and costumes (mostly Padme's, but there are a few others) and how they were made, what their background is, etc. If anything, I find it really interesting, and it helps when I need to reference a certain outfit for art, fic, or whatever else. It's also a great source of Padme concept art!

I haven't used this one yet but I'm excited to. I was recently sent this post which features a link to transcripts from every episode of The Clone Wars.

I also highly recommend @nabooro, which is ran by my very brilliant friend. it's not a source of canonical info, but it is a really fascinating exploration into the culture of Naboo.

for obidala:

again @gffa because they have a really great obidala tag, with art, fic recs, etc.

@your-dose-of-obidala is a great source for art, edits, and fic (original and recs) as well!

@shierak-inavva is probably my favourite obidala artist and I often find great inspiration in their work (ie this post inspired part of the premise to this fic of mine, as well as a concept in another WIP). they do lots of other art too, and it's all very lovely. here's their obidala tag.

I personally track the obidala tag here on tumblr you'll find tons of really wonderful creators in it as well. I have found so many artists, writers, and friends there. At the risk of leaving any out, I will refrain from tagging anyone else and simply recommend you explore the tag.

and I keep an obidala tag on my blog as well, if you wanna check it out!

for general writing (which I know you didnt ask for but I thought I'd include a couple things):

@writingquestionsanswered is a phenomenal source of writing advice

this really helpful post about some of the basics of tagging on Ao3 if you ever decide you want to share your work there

aaand at the risk of sounding too self-promoting: I keep a reference tag on my blog where I collect various references and sources on writing in general. I also keep an inspiration tag of quotes, poems, book excerpts, etc that personally inspire or motivate me. feel free to check either out or use them as inspiration to create your own tags to help you!

i also have other random sources I use (most of which are saved onto my devices and not anything I can link), so please feel free to message me any time you need some assistance or advice and I'll do my best to help you out!

best of luck and happy writing!! 😊

[urbaneturtle]

Stan Sakai Reunites Iconic Heroes in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles/Usagi Yojimbo: WhereWhen

The Master Storyteller Hurls the Heroes in a Half Shell to The Rabbit Ronin's Timeline in Upcoming IDW Comic Book Miniseries

SAN DIEGO, CA (December 15, 2022) – In 2023, brilliant storyteller Stan Sakai will once again weave together two of the most beloved concepts in history with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles/Usagi Yojimbo: WhereWhen. This five-issue comic book miniseries, published by IDW in partnership with Dogu Publishing and Paramount Consumer Products features colors by Hi-Fi and will launch in March 2023.

In 1984, the indie comics scene erupted with the creation of two enduring phenomena: Stan Sakai’s Usagi Yojimbo, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles created by Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird. Given the two series’ anthropomorphic heroes, reverence for Japanese culture, and mutual respect among their highly skilled creators, it was no wonder that the two properties would crossover in comics, multiple animated series, and toy lines over the next four decades.

“I am so pleased with the story and art for WhereWhen,” says Sakai. “There is a lot of emotion and, of course, lots of action. I actually wrote this story about five years ago and had been anxious to get to it. In the past, the Turtles have met just a few of Usagi’s friends. This time, everyone is thrown in—Gen, Tomoe, Jotaro, Yukichi, Kitsune, Chizu, and more! This one is epic!”

The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pursue the evil cyborg genius Dr. WhereWhen through a time portal…and emerge in feudal Japan! There, they encounter Miyamoto Usagi, 20 years into the samurai’s future but decades after the arrival of Dr. WhereWhen—who has already carved himself a fiefdom using mechanized clockwork samurai robots, with the intention of conquering both the past and current timelines!

Each and every issue of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles/Usagi Yojimbo: WhereWhen will feature a glorious wraparound cover by Stan Sakai, plus alternate covers by TMNT co-creator Kevin Eastman, Sarah Myer (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Saturday Morning Adventures), and David Petersen (Mouse Guard). Issue #1 will also include a blank cover variant, perfect for artists or even convention commissions.

“Usagi Yojimbo arrived in the world of comics the very same year as TMNT, and our lifelong personal and creative relationships with the characters and each other were built on mutual love and respect for the medium. Anytime Stan Sakai wants to bring them together for a tale, I’m one-hundred-percent front row center,” says Eastman.

“Stan Sakai, aside from being a genius storyteller, is a kind and gracious person. It’s always a pleasure to work with him. WhereWhen is a truly epic story, filled with excitement and all-out action, and we at IDW could not be prouder to publish it,” says editor Scott Dunbier.

For information on how to acquire copies of IDW comic books and graphic novels, please contact your local comic shop or visit www.comicshoplocator.com to find a store near you.

[drsteggy]

I posted 1,166 times in 2022

406 posts created (35%)

760 posts reblogged (65%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@unmaskedcardinal

@drsteggy

@transformativeworks

@zeldaelmo

@silverjirachi

I tagged 517 of my posts in 2022

#legend of zelda - 120 posts

#my midlife crisis is more fun than yours - 115 posts

#my fic - 76 posts

#breath of the wild - 61 posts

#answered asks - 59 posts

#cosplay - 53 posts

#legend of zelda fanfiction - 52 posts

#link cosplay - 47 posts

#my writing - 45 posts

#the legend of zelda - 41 posts

Longest Tag: 90 characters

#massive brilliant final installment of the series you didn’t think would ever be concluded

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I am feeling super frustrated lately so days must be getting shorter again.

I made this the other day because I had time to kill. This is two versions of my cosplay. Both were taken by pro photographers at cons. 2019 is by Ashton Williams. 2022 is Bryan Humphries.

I was very, very pleased with both versions of this cosplay. In 2019 I was at my third con in as many months. I’d made myself a shield and custom painted my sword. I was asked shortly after that image if I was gender bending Link or crossplaying and I didn’t have an answer for that, so I had to do a lot of thinking on the subject, and that’s been really interesting. I wasn’t wearing makeup or contacts yet.

That 2019 photo sits in my kitchen, where I see it all the time.

So yes, very pleased with it, but it wasn’t where I wanted it to be yet.

In the 2022 image, the wig is the same, though it’s better styled. The pants and gloves are the same (the 2019 photo was the first time I wore leggings with this) The belts, bracer and the sword are the same. I thrifted the boots, but the tops were recycled out of the old pair. I have colored contacts and started figuring out how to change my face a little, and to hold myself different,y (both works in progress). I’ve started to learn to sew and the tunic is the second version I made- it’s linen and it hangs to the right spot. I had to make my own to get one that went over my hips. I made the cape you can see, too. I’ve got arm wraps that stay in place finally, and that Shiekah slate I made holds my phone.

I love everything about this 2022 photo, too. I think I’m going to get it printed out to sit next to the other one in my kitchen. It’s still not exactly where I want it, but it’s all just little refinements. Well, I want to make my own pants because I could use some more pockets. Plus pants look like a challenge. I can’t wait to see where he’s at in another year.

I’m a very competitive person and when I started cosplay it was easy to see someone who had been doing it a decade and feel discouraged. I still sometimes do that. It’s better for me to see where I’ve been and where I’ve gotten. I sometimes see artists here who redraw an image a year apart to show their growth. I think this is the same

93 notes - Posted September 11, 2022

#4

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93 notes - Posted September 10, 2022

#3

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100 notes - Posted August 21, 2022

#2

I was out getting selfies with that guardian and several other Zelda cosplayers geeked out over my phone case. One of them asked if they could take a photo of me taking a selfie, so I obliged. Then they sent it to me.

I love this image, it’s pretty much a capture of my whole weekend

118 notes - Posted September 4, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I’ll throw all my photos of all the Zelda I’ve been seeing (so many koroks!) but this deserves its own post.

Low key terrifying to stand near

2,918 notes - Posted September 3, 2022

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Blog Post #6: Exploring Mental Illness and Family in Chesya Burke’s “Please Mama”

Chesya Burke’s “Please Mama” is a complex narrative that seeks to explore the true meaning of Black horror, merging issues of family, trauma, and supernaturalism into a brilliant journey through paranoia and motherly love that never wanes. In reading this short story, I was both enthralled and unnerved by its employment of the horror genre to reveal the mental and emotional ordeals faced by an African American family, providing sad insights into what it is like to lose a child and be consumed by grief. 

The most remarkable aspect of this short story is how well it portrays the psychological battles that the characters go through. This story isn’t just about fear; it goes deep into the soul, picking apart the fears, attachments, and hopelessness that bind a family together. These ghostly aspects act as a sort of symbolism for unseen burdens borne out of psychological disorders which are triggered by social pressures, especially within the African-American society. By using horror as a medium to show this, Burke transcends fear and exposes the real abominations related to mental health treatment bypasses by many people thus making “Please Mama” become such a moving work on so many levels. 

However, some readers may find difficulty in narrative complexity or extensive reliance on supernatural metaphors. Bringing together actual horrors and magical realism is innovative but sometimes obscures what is being said about mental illness and family ties. It’s unclear whether one should read between lines drawn by ambiguity or take everything literally; nonetheless, both interpretations are provocative yet might frustrate those who would like more definite resolutions.

What I found unexpected about black horror is that, as shown in “Please Mama,” it has the ability to handle sensitive issues such as mental illness, family disintegration and enduring effects of bereavement and trauma within a marginalized genre. The horror example here is more than mere entertainment but a critique vehicle for cultural criticism and means of expounding on the complexities of being black in this racially charged world. The supernatural in this work offers an interesting way to address harsh truths by highlighting some uncomfortable aspects that make people think critically about their human nature.

The artist’s message in “Please Mama” involves various forms that love can take, struggles with unseen mental illness, and need to let go so as to bring about healing. It is a wake-up call against ignoring or evading internal and external terrors that have shaped our lives. This story effectively depicts how much having a mentally ill person can affect your family life stressing on the importance of understanding, support, and sometimes love through heartbreaking choices.

When I look back on my life, there is a time when a close relative of mine faced mental illness. The feeling of being helpless, and sometimes hopeful and other times hopeless as well as its deep influence on family relationship reflected the emotional storms that were gone through by the characters in Burke’s story. This personal connection to the narrative’s themes amplified its impact, illustrating how the horrors depicted in fiction often find echoes in our realities.

“Please Mama” by Chesya Burke is intelligently written literature that effectively uses horror conventions to explore societal issues rooted deep within us. The exploration of mental health, family affection and the hard choices humans face makes it an important contribution to horror category and also the general discourse on African American life. Black horror has presented itself through Burke’s narration as an instrument for glimmering into these hidden horrors; it offers a platform for questioning them so that they may enrich our lives with any worth.