#but first off a lot of what people pass off as ''1950s fashion'' is just a fit and flare dress and not the right silhouette

[murderballadeer]

can someone please teach instagram users that a fit and flare dress is not automatically 1950s fashion

[whinlatter]

Hi! I wanted to ask you what's your take on clothes and how wizards dress? I've been thinking about this since the 'gettin ready fot the party' scene. What's a typical wardrobe for typical wizard in te 90's? I always imagined that they just dress like muggles (or maybe the younger generations?), and i when i read the books i always had a hard time imagining them when they are trying to pass as muggles, you know? Like what, they don't understans which clothes are for a specific event? Because Harry says that he could tell thay dress a bit diffrent, like out of place. I mean, it's probably just meant to be funny, but, how isolated are they to not knowwhat muggles wear? I guess it also has to do with how they are raised, i imagine blood-supremacists (is that how it's called?) use only 'robes' (whatever that is, and, also, what's under those robes? like, a thong? do they wear muggle underwear? SO MANY QUESTIONS)

So, i was thinking about this instead of working🤠.

I liiive for that part with tonks' clothes, i even got a litlle "oh i wanna be thereeee and try everything and make everything fit with magic!"

And this how i imagine wizards dress (according to jkr) in the muggle world

ok please know that this image made me howl

thank you for the super interesting question! i have thought a bit about typical wizarding wardrobes and familiarity with muggle fashion among wizards in the 90s as a worldbuilding question in beasts. it's definitely true that wizarding familiarity with muggle dress is another one of those worldbuilding points in canon where the text is unclear and at times inconsistent. i know people have different views on how much wizarding and muggle culture interact, especially in matters of popular culture and fashion. i've heard very convincing arguments that the cultural insularity and physical remove of the wizarding community from muggles would mean most children raised in wizarding households, especially pureblood families like the weasleys, wouldn't know that much about how muggles plausibly dress, what they listen to, or what forms of media are popular (books, music, sports, even less so tv and film).

while i do agree with some aspects of this, in my approach to wizarding youth culture in the 90s, i think young witches and wizards on the left know more about muggle fashion than they do about many other aspects of muggle culture, and that interest and ability to pull off muggle fashion depends on a person's background, politics, gender (because mostly, it does all seem to be about trousers - i reckon pureblood supremacists, as you say, are in their undies most of the time), but especially generation and the politics/patterns of consumption in the time period when they were a teenager. i think your desire and ability to wear muggle clothing varies a lot if you're born in 1950 vs 1980, partly because of changing wizarding politics and the difference between growing up in peacetime vs a world at war, but partly because muggle fashion changes as a market in the second half of the twentieth century.

basically, i think these young progressive millennial wizards would wear more muggle clothing because of changes in muggle fashions/consumption that allow for greater availability and access to muggle clothing by the 1990s, as well as access to information about fashion and trends, and i think they would want to because willingness to embrace muggle fashions would be a way of showing their commitment to their own politics and forms of teenage rebellion that were distinct from those practiced by generations prior living through the first wizarding war. a longer discussion with my reasoning for this is below the cut!

so - in general, in canon, gen X wizards and older (so the youngest of them born in the 1950s thru 70s, and everyone older than that) seem to dress in muggle clothing really only as a protective measure to prevent exposure/risk breaking the statute of secrecy. when bob ogden goes to the gaunts' house in the 1920s, even as the head of a major ministry department dealing with law enforcement, he does a terrible job dressing as a muggle (the bathing suit, pls bob, i beg). if you look at all the wizards trying to dress as muggles for the world cup, it's clear that the adoption of muggle clothing, for most wizards, is a strategic, defensive move more than anything else. in PoS, mcgonagall - herself a progressive woman in her politics - disdains wizards who are celebrating the end of the first wizarding war by celebrating in the street "not even wearing muggle clothes", which she thinks is reckless and risks wizards' exposure (love when mcgonagall dresses like a muggle briefly at grimmauld place in OotP and it freaks harry out lol). there is no enthusiasm or interest in it - there's just conformity for self-preservation.

for that reason, i think you can see why those on the wizarding right in the mid-twentieth century, especially those drawn to pureblood and wizarding supremacy, would come to see dressing like a muggle as a disgrace, a sign of submission to a lesser people, in a way that would become extremely loaded in the years preceding and during the first wizarding war (1970-1981). when harry sees snape in the flashback to his first trip on the hogwarts express in the early 70s, he notices snape is already wearing his wizard robes very early on in the journey, which harry's narration supposes is because snape's happy to be out of his 'dreadful Muggle clothes' (DH). those muggle clothes were a sign both of snape's poverty but also his outsider status in muggle tinworth: special, because he's a wizard, but otherwise socially inferior to other children in every other way. snape, of course, is raised in a wizarding household with knowledge of magic but has been wearing muggle clothing to avoid detection for his entire childhood, in ways that imbue the wearing of wizarding clothes and casting off of muggle garms with great political significance. in canon, we see that the vast majority of wizards, while not death eaters or rabid pureblood supremacists, tend to be small c conservatives in their view of wizarding cultural norms and tend to think they're better than muggles even if they don't necessarily want to go out and kill them all. for that reason, they remain loyal to wizarding traditions, and continue to wear robes, partly as a symbol of their proud cultural identity as wizards, in ways that they would likely only cling to as their society moves towards open war over muggle-wizard relations (as you say, robes seem to be worn without trousers underneath, so most wizards are just wearing underwear under their robes and going about their day. slay, honestly).

so, if the right hate muggle clothes, then the willingness of gen z+ wizards to engage with and adopt aspects of muggle attire and culture might map onto a progressive political outlook and a disavowal of wizards-first ideology. but a person's politics alone doesn't mean they know how to pull off muggle clothing, and in the years of brewing tension then open war, most wouldn't bother risking their lives to be caught wearing a pair of bell bottoms. arthur weasley is the best example of this. arthur is theoretically interested in muggle clothes because he's a progressive man who disavows wizard supremacy and believes in principles of tolerance towards muggles. now, he's not good at knowing how to pair a plausible muggle outfits. this is because he still lives at a reasonable remove from wizards, he's extremely busy with a demanding job and seven children to be staying up to date with changing fashions, and at the end of the day still spends most of his week among wizards in a civil service that demands a certain level of professional conformity. but i think it's also because arthur weasley is born in 1950 and therefore spent his young adulthood trying to raise a young family during a war. arthur instead channels his politics into support for muggle protection legislation rather than in wearing muggle clothing, which he might see as a limited individual act of symbolic resistance that would put his family at risk and also cost time and money he doesn't have. (if we look at the marauders, as an example of a progressive bunch in the interim generation between arthur and arthur's children, especially someone like sirius with greater financial freedom, it's very telling that sirius shows his politics off through riding a cool muggle motorbike and sticking up muggle soft porn on his bedroom walls, but not noticeably through fashion, as far as harry's photographs show).

but if you look at arthur's children, progressive wizarding millennials, it seems like more confident familiarity with muggle fashions and culture is generally more common. i think we can include someone like tonks in this, raised in a mixed marriage household by a blood traitor and a muggleborn dad. harry says that the weasley children are better than their parents at dressing like muggles. when harry sees bill weasley he doesn't think 'this is a man who looks like he's done a bad job dressing for a muggle rock concert' he thinks 'this is a man who looks like he could be going to a rock concert'. this suggests to me a difference, say, between bill and his dad. arthur likes muggles and believes engaging with muggle culture is important, but doesn't really succeed at it, but his eldest son manages to marry both a political commitment to embracing muggle culture with an ability to dress plausibly as a muggle so much so that he's able to ape a subculture in a way his dad doesn't really try to often and has never succeeded at.

why? i think there's a few things going on. one is that the majority wizarding millennials grew up in peacetime, after the fall of voldemort, in the 1980s and 90s, where wearing muggle clothing was less likely to get you killed and more likely to symbolise an individual act of rebellion against more low-level societal norms and cultural pressures rather than against a murderer in a mask. this, plus having the time and disposable income to follow muggle fashions more closely, as well as the opportunity to access about muggle fashions and celebrity styles, has a big part to play. bill weasley has more time and ability than his dad to stay up to date about muggle clothing tastes, as do his siblings. characters who went to hogwarts in the 80s and 90s also did so at the peak of a mass print consumer culture (one that was already on an upward ascent since the 60s) that was designed to be be accessible, inexpensive and create an appetite for following trends among consumers, and that could very easily be of appeal to progressive young witches and wizards. this is why in beasts i have ginny know about the spice girls and their iconic lewks from a copy of smash hits magazine because that seemed like the kind of inexpensive and highly portable source of information about muggle culture that a muggleborn or halfblood student (or even a pureblooded student with a parent with a progressive interest in muggle clothing) would be able to take to school and pass around a dormitory. on the gender point, too - donning muggle clothes, especially the more permissive and sexy clothing of the 80s and 90s would be a great way for a rebellious young woman raised in a wizarding household - eg. tonks or ginny - to stick it to the conservative gender norms in the wizarding world.

moreover, the changes in fashion as a market in the muggle world would make a certain base style of comfortable and inexpensive muggle dress much more readily available to younger witches and wizards than ever before. for kids born in the late 70s/80s, changes in muggle clothes consumption - aka. the globalisation of mass factory production of textiles, especially garments, and the early forms of fast fashion we now recognise today - would also have an impact on the ready availability of certain basic forms of cheap muggle fashion, including the ubiquity of cheap jeans and trainers/sneakers, that emphasise comfort and ease of daily wear at a low cost point produced in such high volumes such that if you wanted a pair of jeans, you could easily get your hands on one. this would have made a plausible muggle clothing a lot more accessible (there's only so wrong you can go if you're just wearing jeans, t-shirt, a jumper, and a pair of trainers, really), and explain why the clothes harry wears in the muggle world don't seem all that different from the clothes he wears in the wizarding world (admittedly usually under his robes), or indeed that different from what ron seems to wear most of the time. passing as a muggle in 1920 with little effort - à la bob ogden - would be a lot harder than doing so in 1990.

so - yeah. that's my take! i think it's mostly about generation, but also about politics, about war and peace, a bit about gender and a lot about capitalism. i hope this helps!

[virtue-boy]

don't really get the 'endangered butch' thing like I see a lot of butches in my day to day life. I just think soft butch is more normal now like you dont have to be a butch butch butch to survive as a butch anymore, just like you can be a masc gay guy who is also kind of a nelly. Like I have tons of butch friends and I probably half of everyone I do organizing with is butch. Like look I'm just one guy maybe you used to see 500 butches every single day or something but like I see butches all the time I just think people are discounting a lot of people's masculinity or something. Like people are like "When was the last time I saw a butch?" and I'm like bruh I saw like 4 yesterday at a queer meeting what are you on about. Like maybe not hard hard butches but like I kind of think every type of queer identity has loosened up a bit like everyone's more androgynous now. Idk its just maddening to me becuase this narrative makes no fucking sense with my own life. I legit just think that it is people discounting butches who don't fit a certain image of a 30 something hard white cis butch with a midsize to buff build in blue collar cosplay, which of course, shout out but like, that's one type of person. I literally see people alllll the time who would be considered butch if they were taller, cis-female passing, buff, less fat or more in line with ideas of white masculinity. And I mean, 90% of the time when someone says something like this they are definitely not including trans female butches in their definition of the category.

Or like, legit I think this must come down to hair. Like mullet and mid-length hair is big in masculine style rn for all ethnicities and genders. Like I know so many people who would be cookie cutter Butch if they got a crew cut instead of having like, Nickelback hair or a mullet. Like are we really declaring a postmortem on butches over what military conscript's hair looked like in 1950? Or like, what white bloggers in San Francisco were wearing 2006 - 2014? Are we really going to discount all the non-white men's fashions and styles that have mid and long length hair?

The other thing I think must be some kind of gender purity definition of butch as a cis woman, so people are declaring butch dead because people use they/them or identify as non-binary, as if "butch" historically was purely "woman-identified" that never used gender non-conforming language or there were never butches who never identified as girls or women. And of course like, ignoring butch trans women off the bat even through like, they are literally carrying the torch and understand butch more than any cis femme ever could as they are intentional butch women. Anyways.

I legitimately challenge people to think about the hair thing though. I actually think huge swathes of butches are being written off bc they have mid length hair or they dress more like an architect than an auto mechanic or something. Or just that they don't do any blue collar cosplay at all and just wear men's hoodies and shit. I don't know but like, I just saw a post about someone saying that someone said "you're the first butch I've seen in forever" and I'm just like ??? I've seen like 10 butches of various ages and backgrounds I know personally in the last month.

[kevinsreviewcatalogue]

Review: The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (2023)

The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (2023)

Rated PG-13 for strong violent content and disturbing material

<Originally posted at https://kevinsreviewcatalogue.blogspot.com/2023/11/review-hunger-games-ballad-of-songbirds.html>

Score: 3 out of 5

The Hunger Games was my jam in my college years. Even being just a bit older than its target demographic of teenagers, it was a series of books that I readily embraced as an antidote to the big young-adult literary sensation of my own high school years, Twilight. No sparkly vampires or Mormon abstinence messages here, no, these books were dark satires about teenagers forced to kill each other, like an American version of Battle Royale or a post-apocalyptic version of The Running Man, and what's more, they were actually shockingly well-written. Even if you were the kind of guy who'd never otherwise pick up a YA novel, there's no denying the appeal of that basic premise. And then came the film adaptations, which ranged from good to damn close to classic, even if splitting the last movie into two parts was kind of a dumb idea, and all the commercialism that got attached to the series was quite ironic given the messages in the books. It's those messages that are the big reason why I'm still nostalgic for the series today, long after the YA dystopia boom has passed us by. Suzanne Collins may not have been a subtle writer, but she was a smart one, and her books, for all their pulpy sci-fi flair, were fundamentally about how difficult it is to organize a revolution against even the most obviously unjust system, and how people you think of as allies may in fact have very different goals that stand opposed to your own -- a lesson that a lot of young people raised on the series and other teen-lit wastelands had to learn themselves as they organized against real-world injustices later in the decade.

Naturally, with the 15th anniversary of the original novel having recently passed us by, somebody decided that the time was right to revisit it. Three years ago, Collins, after having held off for years, wrote a prequel novel, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (a title evocative of the trend of epic fantasy novels that took over YA literature after the sci-fi dystopia boom), about the main villain of the series that explored his youth, the early years of the titular Games, and how they intersected to turn him into the bastard he became. I haven't yet read the book, but if the movie is any indication, I want to. It's a big and bloated movie that I thought could've stood to be trimmed down in some places and padded out in others, but it's one that boasts a star-making performance from Rachel Zegler as its heroine, an interesting new twist on its series' setting, and the same thoughtfulness that elevated the original trilogy above its peers. It had my attention from start to finish despite its length, and I'm not at all disappointed by my return to the world of Panem after all these years.

Set about 64 years before the events of the first book/movie, this one is set around the time of the 10th annual Hunger Games -- which is to say, ten years after the "Dark Days", the brutal war between the Capitol and the Districts for control of Panem, the post-apocalyptic wasteland formerly known as North America. The Capitol won the war, but ten years on, the scars are still visible. The film's retro-period setting was designed to evoke the 1950s with the technology and aesthetics on display, and in practice, it specifically evokes '50s Europe on both sides of the Iron Curtain, a time when the British were still winding down their wartime rationing, the cars were tiny econoboxes, the soldiers carried G3 rifles and traveled in Unimog trucks, the new construction replacing the bombed-out ruins was mostly shit-ugly brutalist monoliths, the old elite sought to maintain an appearance of propriety by dusting off old prewar fashions, and the scars of the war were still fresh in the minds of the younger generations. It's how I imagine a post-apocalyptic world that hasn't completely forgotten 21st century science would actually look once it had the time to start rebuilding itself, retaining some elements of modern technology (color TVs, certain plot-relevant biological weapons) but lacking the means to rebuild past a mid-20th-century level of technology, infrastructure, and industry; that would have to wait for later.

It was a creative choice that highlighted not only that this film is a prequel, but also the continuity between Panem's history and what it had become in the original trilogy -- because if "modern" Panem is an exaggerated parody of 21st century Western society, then it stands to reason that "historical" Panem might resemble a similarly grotesque version of what that society looked like seventy years ago. The world of Panem has always been part of the appeal of The Hunger Games, and this film did a lot to flesh that world out, showing us not only what it once looked like but also, more importantly, how it came up with the sick idea of the Games in the first place and how it might have possibly thought it a good idea. Watching the prologue set during the war, it took no time to realize the deprivation that the citizens of the Capitol experienced, and how pissed off they probably were when they finally won their hard-earned victory and peace, the future consequences of such be damned. The Capitol looks down on the Districts the way that Europeans at the time looked down on their colonies, or the Soviets looked down on their "fellow workers' states" in the Warsaw Pact (above all else the German "Democratic" Republic).

If the film's aesthetics look backwards, however, then its themes look forward, specifically to the life experiences that a lot of the books' readers in the years after their publication. Coriolanus Snow was, in his youth, a student at an elite academy competing with 23 of his classmates for a university scholarship, with the recipient of the scholarship decided by having the students each mentor a tribute in the Hunger Games, the winner being the one who puts on the best show for the citizens of the Capitol. Again, Collins wasn't subtle, and neither is this movie. The students' struggles may not be as life-or-death as those of the tributes, but direct and obvious parallels are drawn from the start, highlighting how the Capitol's system grinds down even the children of its own elites and turns them into the worst possible versions of themselves as they compete for favor and stab each other in the back. We see Snow, initially motivated by a desire to provide for a family that lost everything in the war, slowly but surely shed his morals as he comes up with a number of what would become the Games' signature concepts (particularly making the tributes into celebrities) and develop a star-crossed romance with his mediagenic, hot-headed tribute, District 12's Lucy Gray Baird. I liked Tom Blyth as Snow, watching him transform from a naive but well-intentioned rich kid into somebody who's willing to throw everybody and everything around him under the bus to advance his own interests, such that, by the time he finally, triumphantly returns to the Capitol at the end (not really a spoiler in a prequel telling the villain's origin story), even his own dear cousin Tigris barely recognizes what he's become.

The real MVP in the cast, though, was Rachel Zegler as Lucy Gray. Implied to have been thrust into the Games thanks to a corrupt mayor in District 12 and her getting on the wrong side of a love triangle involving said mayor's daughter, from the moment she made her grand "screw you" entrance I was immediately rooting for her. Zegler gave the kind of "star in the making" performance that Jennifer Lawrence had for Katniss Everdeen, albeit playing a very different sort of character who has to learn the opposite things that Katniss later would. If Katniss was an outdoorsy survivalist who the Capitol turned into a glamorous romantic figure, then Lucy Gray is a theater kid (specifically, part of a group of traveling musicians known as the Covey) who has to learn how to fight, but one whose charisma and presence become an asset, especially once Snow realizes their potential to sway the audience to her side. Zegler carried a lot of this movie on her shoulders, from her multiple musical performances (putting her background in musical theater to great use) to her being the one who initially forces Snow to confront the ethics of the Games, with the breakdown of their relationship marking the last straw in his descent into villainy. Mark my words, Zegler is going places.

The supporting cast, too, was filled with standouts. Viola Davis devoured the scenery as the loopy scientist Dr. Volumnia Gaul who helps design some of the Capitol's bioweapons, Hunter Schafer had a small but memorable presence as Snow's cousin Tigris who watches his transformation, Jason Schwartzman played the Games' host Lucky Heavensbee like a snappy yet flippant '50s game show host, Ashley Liao made Snow's rival Clemencia such an obnoxious and cocky jackass, and Peter Dinklage playing Snow's dean at the academy as basically Tyrion Lannister as a bitter prep school headmaster, but I'll forgive it because there aren't a lot of people who play "I drink and I know things" better than him. Josh Andrés Rivera in particular got a lot to do as Snow's friend Sejanus, somebody with roots in District 2 who, even after his family got rich enough to become citizens, never forgot where he came from and voices the loudest objections to the morality of the Games. When it came to the tributes in the arena, the film sadly didn't take a lot of time to flesh out the ones not named Lucy Gray, but there were still highlights like the butch District 4 combatant Coral, Lucy Gray's District 12 partner Jessup, and the District 11 guy Reaper whose scary name turns out to be not at all indicative of his personality. The action was up to par with some of the best scenes from Catching Fire, director Francis Lawrence having lost none of his touch since the last time he worked on these films, with the bloodbath that opens the Games in particular being a hell of a one-take action scene shot largely from Lucy Gray's perspective.

Where this film ultimately let me down was its structure. It is a big movie, and there eventually comes a point where it rapidly shifts gears into something completely different, pulling Snow out of the confines of the Capitol and out into District 12. And if I'm being honest, it felt like a completely different movie from the one I'd been watching until then. It was still a good movie and an interesting story, but it felt like a whole new chapter of Snow's life where the problems he'd encountered in the first two acts, while still there, got pushed into the background as new characters and problems were introduced and Snow got sucked into the personal drama of District 12's inhabitants. I would've liked to see another scene of him interacting with his friends and family back home and keeping tabs on what's going on in the Capitol, as well as, more importantly, an scene or two in the first half of the film establishing some more of the people in Lucy Gray's life before she's chosen as tribute instead of throwing all of them at us in act three, especially given how it's all but stated that some of this drama was why she wound up in the arena in the first place. It would've been a minor change that likely would've added only a few minutes to the admittedly long runtime, but it would've alleviated a big problem I had with the third act of this movie, suddenly being asked to care about people I'd only just met knowing that there isn't a whole lot of movie left and there isn't much time to flesh them out.

The Bottom Line

This movie has a lot of, well, movie to cram in, and I'm not sure it entirely stuck the landing, but overall, it's a welcome return for a series I love, elevated by an outstanding lead performance by Rachel Zegler. Whether you're a diehard Hunger Games fan who was one of the first to snatch up the book this was based on the day it came out or a total newbie to the series who only knows it from memes, I recommend this movie.

[route22ny]

BY MICHAEL J. MOONEY | PHOTOGRAPHS BY DAVE SHAFER

Staring at the front of the Royal Theater, I feel as though I’m looking backward through time. Taking in the cerulean marquee, the painted red fringe around the box office, the vertical ROYAL sign jutting into the afternoon sky—it’s easy to imagine why the denizens of Archer County flocked here for decades. The theater was a dark, cool respite from the blazing sun, a still escape from the whipping winds of the North Central Plains, a glimpse of entertainment from the outside world.

The theater—or what’s left of it anyway—peers out from the northeast corner of the town square. Without the storied theater, this could be any small town in Texas. Weathered barns and rusted oil pumps dot the landscape. Anchoring the town is the imposing three-story Romanesque Revival county courthouse, with stone archways and provincial peaks. There’s also a small café (Murn’s), a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it police station, a few antiques stores, and a single four-way stoplight swaying in the breeze like an apparition.

The Royal Theater as it is now and as it was then.

This isn’t just any small town in Texas, though. Archer City is the Texas small town. It’s the setting of both the novel and film versions of The Last Picture Show, a coming-of-age story rendered in black and white that earned eight Academy Award nominations, including Best Writing (Adapted Screenplay), Best Directing, and Best Picture. In Larry McMurtry’s book, published in 1966, the town is called Thalia. In the movie, directed by Peter Bogdanovich and released in 1971, it’s called Anarene—a name taken from an abandoned town 8 miles away. But rest assured, both places are Archer City: the looming courthouse, the blinking stoplight, and the Royal Theater, where so many of the most dramatic moments of The Last Picture Show take place.

The novel, which McMurtry called a “spiteful” book intended to “lance some of the poisons of small-town life,” received critical acclaim when it was published. But it was Bogdanovich’s film that truly introduced the entire world, in utterly unromanticized fashion, to the intense, sweeping sagas of everyday life in Archer City. The Last Picture Show turned this particular and peculiar town into art.

Both the novel and movie contain language that was considered lewd at the time. McMurtry’s own mother, Hazel, once said that after reading the first 100 pages she hid the book in the closet and called her son that night. “Larry, honey,” she said to him, he revealed in his 2002 travel memoir Paradise, “is this what we’re sending you to Rice for? Those awful words!”

The film, with its nudity and frank depiction of teenage sexuality—including Cybill Shepherd’s first and only topless scene—absolutely scandalized upright, moral Americans all over the country. Nowhere more so than in Archer City, where it was regarded at the time as a “dirty” movie.

Now, 50 years after the film’s release, the town’s past dalliances with Hollywood are somehow simultaneously scuttled and omnipresent. There’s no billboard at the city limit announcing the place’s cultural significance, no notation on the water tower. But there are echoes of the art formed here, about this place, along every street, around every corner. Some might even feel the spirit of McMurtry, who passed away in Archer City earlier this year.

Over the last five decades, Peter Bogdanovich, a New Yorker who operated in Los Angeles, has told the story of the movie’s origin many times. He’d seen the novel in a store, liked the title, saw what it was about, and immediately put the book back down. Then actor Sal Mineo, who’d starred alongside James Dean and Natalie Wood in Rebel Without a Cause, gave Bogdanovich a copy of the novel, saying he thought it would make a good film. Bogdanovich still didn’t read it, but gave it to his wife, production designer Polly Platt, and asked her to read it. When she inspired him to finally read it himself, he was intrigued by the challenge of conveying small-town life in Texas and eventually co-wrote the screenplay with McMurtry. Bogdanovich, Platt, and McMurtry took a long road trip scouting locations in Texas, but ultimately the director realized he wanted to shoot the movie in McMurtry’s hometown.

Set in the early 1950s, the story follows three teenagers—the co-captains of the football team and the so-called prettiest girl in school—through their senior year of high school, as they each struggle to make sense of adult concepts like love and sex and the fragility of human life. Sonny Crawford is the sensitive, thoughtful boy from a broken home. Duane Jackson is Sonny’s lovelorn best friend who escapes first into the oil fields and then the Korean War. Jacy Farrow is the coquettish rich girl who yearns wholeheartedly for something beyond the confines of her surroundings. The Last Picture Show also famously includes an ensemble of carefully rendered adults trying to cope with their own expired dreams and broken lives.

McMurtry repeated over the years that the characters he created weren’t based on any real-life individuals, but the people of Archer City always suspected otherwise. A man named Bobby Stubbs, who was photographed with McMurtry in their high school yearbook, believed he was the inspiration for Sonny. Stubbs had a troubled home life and worked nights like Sonny, and he drove the same kind of pickup truck. He was also once hit in the eye by the boyfriend of a girl he liked. “It kinda pretty closely followed me,” Stubbs used to say.

A woman named Ceil Cleveland Footlick was often asked if she was the inspiration for Jacy. She was “very good friends” (her words) with Stubbs and had been voted “Most Beautiful Girl” in her class. For years she brushed off the question, but in 1997 she published a memoir with the title Whatever Happened to Jacy Farrow?

Because of the book’s reputation, getting actors to audition was a challenge. Randy Quaid was cast as Lester, an awkward, sleazy suitor of Jacy’s. He’d only read the parts of the script that involved his character, which mostly centered on Lester taking Jacy to a naked swimming party. “I just thought it was going to be like this B-movie, teenage, soft-porn movie,” Quaid would later say. “Something you’d see at the drive-in.”

None of the young stars had much experience in film. Timothy Bottoms, who’d only been in one movie before, was cast to play Sonny. Jeff Bridges, cast as Duane, had been a professional actor nearly all his life, but at 21 years old, this would be his first major film role. And Bogdanovich cast Shepherd as Jacy after seeing her face on the cover of Glamour magazine.

Most of the adults in the movie were played by established Hollywood actors, including Cloris Leachman, Ellen Burstyn, and Eileen Brennan. For the role of Sam the Lion, the wisdom-dispensing owner of the town’s pool hall, Bogdanovich cast Ben Johnson, the champion-rodeo-cowboy-turned-stuntman-turned-Western-movie-icon. At first Johnson turned down the part on account of the foul language, but Bogdanovich called in a favor from his director friend John Ford, who convinced Johnson to do it.

Almost as soon as filming started, real life began imitating the art being created. While making a movie about illicit sex and barely veiled scandal, the set was awash in illicit sex and barely veiled scandal. The actors spent a lot of time drinking and smoking together in their hotel rooms 30 minutes north in Wichita Falls, and that led to drama. Bottoms fell in love with Shepherd. Bogdanovich started an affair with Shepherd, dissolving his own marriage while his wife, Platt, continued to work on the movie. (Most mornings Platt styled Shepherd’s hair.) “It was quite a soap opera,” Burstyn said in the documentary Picture This: The Times of Peter Bogdanovich in Archer City, Texas.

This was everything the locals had feared: all the immoral luridness of Hollywood, right here in a part of Texas not so comfortable with unwholesomeness that didn’t stay behind closed doors.

Outside of Archer City, it was a different story. The movie received great reviews from coast to coast. Johnson won the Oscar for Actor in a Supporting Role and Leachman won for Actress in a Supporting Role. The film is still beloved today and maintains a spot in the coveted National Film Registry.

But at the time of its release, most of the locals disapproved. Strongly. The Los Angeles Times ran a story about it with the headline “Movie Riles Town It Depicts.” McMurtry, who was involved in Bogdanovich’s vision, eventually got so annoyed by the vicious gossip in town that he sent a letter to the editor of the Archer City newspaper, challenging anyone in town to a public debate.

His offer went unrequited.

Archer City’s population is 1,848, only a couple hundred larger than it was when McMurtry grew up there in the ’30s and ’40s. The town is the seat of Archer County, created in 1858 by the Texas State Legislature and named after Branch Tanner Archer, former secretary of war of the Republic of Texas. Ranching and oil have long been the predominant industries—by late 1926, there were more than 400 oil wells within 13 miles of Archer City—but many people are increasingly attracted to the town for its proximity to prime hunting.

Many of the locations where The Last Picture Show was filmed are gone now. Where Sam’s dusty pool hall once stood, with its door flapping in the wind, there’s nothing but an empty dirt lot. The Rig-Wam Drive Inn, the burger joint where Jacy dangled french fries over Duane’s head as if he was a trained seal, is just a plot of asphalt and patchy grass. The West-Tex Theater in the neighboring town of Olney, used for the interior movie theater scenes, was torn down in the mid-’80s. Today it’s a small, quiet park with a gazebo.

Some places are still here, but different. The restaurant where Brennan’s character worked turned into Booked Up No. 4, one of four bookstores McMurtry set up around the town square before shuttering all but one in 2012. The high school has some of the same old features, though it’s been updated and decorated with a handful of granite statues marking state titles the school has won through the years.

Much of the town looks and acts remarkably like it did when The Last Picture Show was made. Boys about the age of Duane and Sonny still speed through town in pickup trucks. Men the age of Sam the Lion still stop them to talk about football. The dance hall at the American Legion, where Jacy and Duane twirled around the room and Sonny ran into his estranged father, looks like it could host the same event today. On a recent evening, four or five locals were perched on barstools, sipping cold beers, listening to songs on the jukebox. They got rid of the old Wurlitzer years ago, but the updated digital version there now still plays all the Hank Williams Sr. songs from the movie.

In time, feelings in Archer City softened a bit. Mostly, the people here don’t talk much about the movie, or about McMurtry, the town’s most famous son. You can spend all morning at Murn’s Café and all night at the American Legion, the only bar in town, and never hear The Last Picture Show mentioned once. It’s not the source of tension it once was.

The public change of heart was most apparent in 1989, nearly 20 years after The Last Picture Show was filmed, when Bogdanovich returned to Archer City to shoot the sequel, Texasville, based on a book of the same name by McMurtry. This time the townspeople lined up to participate as extras. People came from miles away to sell concessions or to take photos or just get a glimpse of the nearly $20 million production.

“The bad taste that the movie left for some folks, that’s gone now,” then-high school principal Nat Lunn told the Austin American-Statesman at the time. “Especially with money being short in town, they’re ready for another dose of Hollywood.”

By the late 1980s, the three leads in the first film—Bottoms, Bridges, and Shepherd—had all become stars. While the entire budget for the first movie was around $1.3 million, Shepherd alone was paid $1.5 million to reprise her role. Bridges was reportedly paid $1.75 million. Bottoms, who’d complained publicly about Bogdanovich and said he didn’t like any of his co-stars, would only agree to return if he was given an additional $100,000 to fund the Picture This documentary.

In the two decades since the first movie, Bogdanovich’s career had soared and crashed. He and Shepherd had broken up; he went on to have multiple relationships, and she had two divorces. Bottoms was also divorced and remarried, but on the set he confessed the crush he’d had on Shepherd. Platt returned, too, and brought the 21-year-old daughter she and Bogdanovich shared. It became a grand, twisted Hollywood reunion, right there on the streets of Archer City.

Drawn by the potential spectacle of what was by then some sort of love-octagon, media outlets from across the country sent reporters to town. There were long feature stories in both Entertainment Weekly and the Los Angeles Times. By all accounts, though, the entire production served as a therapeutic experience, healing the wounds of the past. At one press conference, the often-sullen Bottoms hugged Bogdanovich. Behind-the-scenes footage caught Shepherd hugging Bottoms. Residents of Archer County took photos of themselves on the set.

But when the movie was released, it tanked. It received middling reviews, earned back only a fraction of its budget, and even today it’s not easy to find on any of the major streaming services.

A lot of people associated with The Last Picture Show are dead now. Stubbs, who claimed to be the basis for Sonny, died in 1992. Johnson in 1996. Sam Bottoms, the real-life younger brother of Timothy Bottoms who played the mute boy Billy, died in 2008. Platt, the producer and production designer who somehow never pulled Shepherd’s hair, died in 2011. Then Brennan in 2013.

In January of this year, Footlick, the woman who wrote about being the real Jacy Farrow, died in North Carolina. Leachman died almost two weeks later. And on March 25, McMurtry, the writer who created all this beautiful trouble, died at the age of 84.

A few days after his death, nobody answered the doorbell at his house in Archer City, a majestic, three-story mansion just down the road from the high school. Looking through the front window, everything seemed to me to be just the way he left it, from the table made from a giant dinosaur fossil to the towering shelves of books in every room. McMurtry bought this place, the biggest home in town, after he won the Pulitzer Prize for Lonesome Dove. He’d wake up early in the morning, type for an hour and a half or so at his long oak table, then go to the bookstore to price antiquarian volumes. Most of the locals would leave him alone.

On the house’s front porch, a single rocking chair was situated to look out over the front yard into the surrounding neighborhood. Someone sitting there could see the comings and goings of a lot of people. As the early-evening wind moved through, the chair began to rock ever so gently.

These days, I sense the people of Archer City think differently of The Last Picture Show. It’s a part of the town’s story, just like the cattle industry and state titles. The movie is even mentioned on the town’s website, though it’s certainly not prominent.

There’s also a tiny park just off the square with a fiberglass horse covered in brands from local ranches and a display that chronicles a bit of the town’s history. The welded metal wall has separate panels for the town’s founding, the first successful oil well drilled here, and the giant fire that swept through in 1925. There’s also a panel explaining how the town was the filming location for The Last Picture Show and Texasville. Bogdanovich’s last name is misspelled.

A couple hundred feet away is the Royal Theater. Most of the building is a burned-out hull, popular for weddings, photo shoots, and occasional performances. The front of the building has been restored, though. It looks just like it did in the movie, the image that begins and ends the film. It’s haunting and beautiful, weathered and damaged—but still here, still standing, still looking at that single blinking light swaying in the wind.

***

The Last Picture Show wasn’t the first movie based on a novel by Larry McMurtry, and it certainly wasn’t the last. You might besurprised by just how many films and TV shows have been made from his novels. Here are a few:

Hud, 1963 (based on Horseman, Pass By) The Last Picture Show, 1971 Lovin’ Molly, 1974 (based on Leaving Cheyenne) Terms of Endearment, 1983 Lonesome Dove, 1989 Texasville, 1990 The Evening Star, 1996

https://texashighways.com/culture/how-the-last-picture-show-changed-the-worlds-view-of-small-town-texas/

[maxwell-grant]

I was gonna put the Spy Kids quote here but then I’d probably get an ask if they or Sharkboy & Lavagirl are pulp heroes. 

Okay, jokes aside I can’t put it into words just how much I appreciate the feedback and reception I get from you guys, never in a million years did I think I would ever get the notes I get or the amount of asks I receive. I can’t believe I’m nearing 200 followers as is, that’s insane to me. I am eternally grateful that this place lets me finally put out my essays somewhere people will read them and that you guys actually humor my ramblings, and frankly I don’t think I’m ever going to find an outlet like this elsewhere. Please don’t hesitate to send questions.

But I’m gonna have to start rapid firing a couple of those 50 questions so they don’t pile up more, and for these “Is X a Pulp Hero”, I’m gonna start off by pointing that I made a chart specifically to address this question, to try and at least give the cat I let out of the bag a structure to work with so it doesn’t destroy the furniture (not that it ever stopped my cat). Although again, the chart is just a basic attempt to put this on working order, sometimes it really is just a particular vibe that a character or property gives off. 

Anyhow, on a case by case basis:

Santa Claus: Not a pulp hero, waaay older than those, but has appeared in pulp stories (I mean, it’s Santa). There have been pulp stories that featured Santa, there’s a murderous Santa Claus in the canadian pulp Guy Vercheres, the Jimmieboy short stories had him meet Santa, and The Shadow’s killed at least one criminal dressed like Santa as well as posed for a holiday picture with the real one in Edd Cartier’s final drawing before he passed away, which is as official as a crossover could possibly get.

Samurai Jack: Maybe. The most directly pulp thing Genndy Tartakosvky’s done yet is Primal, that is just 100% cartoon pulp, the Conan/Lost World stuff bleeds through the screen. Samurai Jack is kinda near that ballpark but that’s because Samurai Jack has a zillion influences and pop culture references, most of it seems taken straight from comics.  Pulp stuff is in there but that’s because pulps run in the blood of everything, and it doesn’t make everything pulp. The whole premise of Samurai Jack is designed for the contrast between an old-fashioned samurai coming to face and adapting to whatever wacky future nonsense and pop culture archetypes Aku’s throwing at him that week because that’s what they felt like doing for the episode. There’s gangsters and Lupin and Star Wars and historical fantasy and robot violence and...shit, it really is pulp, come to think of it. Still not gonna say a definitive Yes to Jack being a Pulp Hero but the vibe is definitely there and maybe that’s all that really counts.

The Belmonts: Maybe. There’s definitely Simon, because Simon is Conan. Julius Belmont also gives off a strong old-school adventurer vibe. The others are a lot more distant but they are definitely a lot closer to that ballpark than most videogame heroes, characters like Richter and Alucard wouldn’t look that out of place fighting monsters next to The Spider or Elric. Again, there’s not many actual connections to pulp properties or periods, but the whole point of Castlevania is that you get to cartwheel through graveyards and whip your way through exploding skeletons and Frankensteins so you can give Dracula a wedgie. So I’m gonna actually say a Yes to this one. 

Scrooge McDuck: Yes. He’s in the chart already, and really I probably could have placed him in the True Neutral section considering Scrooge was created in the 1900s-1950s time period and was pretty explicitly modeled after a pulp magazine kind of adventurer. 

The Joestars: No. I don’t consider Joseph a Pulp Hero in the first place, it’s really more Battle Tendency having an Indiana Jones globetrotting vibe than Joseph himself, I put the characters in the Radical Pulp Anarchy section as extreme examples to show how far you can conceivably stretch the term based on superficial connections. But I don’t get neither much of a pulp vibe from any of the Jojo parts besides Part 2, and pulp material has never been within Araki’s influences, and I obsessively catalogued all of them in my Jojo phase. You could maybe make an argument for Jonathan since he’s the old-school adventurer of the bunch, and maybe Jotaro since he’s both the wandering warrior type as well as Clint Eastwood in a school uniform, but at this point you gotta separate what’s “genre” and what’s “pulp”, and they can intersect without being the same thing. 

Fast and the Furious: No. Pretty hard no, actually. I don’t think there’s even much of an argument there other than I guess they both have a reputation for being trashy low-class entertainment, but that kinda goes for way too many things to ever be placed under an umbrella term. The terms “high class” and “low class” don’t even really see much usage anymore in media discussion, they died and it’s a good thing we killed them.

Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys: The Stratemeyer Syndicate was pretty specifically centered around hardback publications of juvenile adventure series, which means they could not be considered pulp characters in their time despite being from the 1930s, and in fact were pretty specifically defined as being the opposite of the pulp publishers of the period. Still, that distinction hardly matters much once people started talking about serial and radio and comic characters as pulp heroes, and currently a lot of what it takes for a character to be considered a pulp hero is just being from any kind of 1930s fiction. I wouldn’t include them in any listings but, you do you.

Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction: I mean, it’s kinda the big thing you get when you even look up the terms “pulp” or “pulp fiction”, by sheer osmosis it’s replaced the things those terms were created to define in pop culture popularity. It’s been forever since I watched it and I don’t particularly have any interest in watching any Tarantino movie, but I guess the fact that this is a movie with several different stories interconnected on crime drama and doomed love affairs and philosophical hogwash and bantering men of action is very much structured like a typical pulp magazine, which usually consisted on an anthology format that I suspect is what the movie may have been homaging. Either that, or it’s just named Pulp Fiction because it’s sleazy and gorey and shamelessly excessive and those are terms that are very much associated with the pulps, for better or worse. 

[theladyofdeath]

Get a Clue {ACOTAR}

31 Days of Halloween: Day 30.

All installments co-written with @snelbz​

Warning: language.

Autumn/Halloween 2020 {Collection}

I know, I’m a little past the date....but, we wanted to post anyway. :)

Prompt sent in by @photofeesh​

Elain was dressed in her finest 1950s attire. It was her first character-themed murder mystery party, and she had decided there was no better time to throw it than on Halloween. The theme? Clue. And since none of them knew their character until everyone arrived, they decided to dress in 1950s wear, due to the fact that the board game had been invented around that time.

The girls used to love playing Clue as children.

Nesta would always get pissed if she didn’t win, Feyre was usually doodling while they were playing, and Elain just loved to have fun; but, no matter how the game went, they all got excited to play together. It was one of Elain’s fondest memories of her childhood: playing board games on rainy days with her sisters. 

“I look ridiculous!”

Elain rolled her eyes as she adjusted the gloves that she wore. “You look handsome!”

He stepped out of his closet. The blue ascot tied around his throat was loose, but he tugged on it as if it were a noose.

The dark blue naval uniform looked like it was made for him, but it hadn’t been. It had belonged to the girls’ papa and seeing Azriel wear it brought a huge smile to Elain’s face

He couldn’t complain when she looked at him like that. “I’m not putting the hat on,” he grumbled.

His hair was slicked back, and Elain found herself wishing that she was born in the 50’s so she could look at Azriel like this every day.

Heading downstairs to make sure everything was ready, she paused to press a kiss to his cheek. “Yes, you are,” she said, with a smile.

She could hear Azriel groan as she took to the stairs, knowing full well that he’d do anything to please her.

Mor was in Elain’s kitchen, sealing the final envelope.

“No!” she yelled, clutching all the envelopes to her chest. “I haven’t hid them yet!”

Elain chuckled. “I have to take out my chicken!”

Mor narrowed her eyes but hurried away, nonetheless, taking her envelopes along with her. When Elain mentioned that she wanted to throw a murder mystery party, Mor was the first to volunteer to be the mediator of the whole thing. Mor definitely had a flare for the dramatics, but she also loved to know things others didn’t. Therefore, she offered to be the one to hide the envelopes and watch everyone else go crazy trying to figure out her riddle. 

It wasn’t long before everyone arrived. Feyre and Rhysand first, having sent their three-month-old infant away with a sitter for the first time, even though the sitter was just Rhysand’s sister. Cassian and Nesta showed up next, and ten minutes late, in true Nesta fashion. Lucien was the last to arrive, bringing a plate of brownies. Unlike Nesta, Lucien’s late arrival was excused, considering he had to work until 6:45 on the opposite end of town. 

“Do we get to eat first?” Cassian asked, his stomach grumbling so loud that everyone could hear. Elain had to admit that the 1950s were kind to the men in their lives.

Cassian looked like an old-time greaser in his rolled up jeans, his black Converse, his plain white tee, and his leather jacket. A cigarette rested behind his ear and his newly cropped, chin-length hair was greased back. He was the complete opposite of Nesta, who wore the cutest, knee-length circle dress. Her hair was in tight curls, and she finished her outfit with a pearl necklace and white gloves.

They were the living image of Danny and Sandy.

Elain felt the sudden urge to sing, but controlled herself.

Feyre and Rhys, however, looked like the President and CEO of a very well established 50’s business. They weren’t, obviously, but the vest, wool overcoat and thin tie Rhys wore and the very smart, but powerful sheath skirt and top Feyre wore would have fooled anyone. The red bowler hat she wore complimented the look flawlessly.

Then there was Lucien in his khakis, suspenders, plaid button down tee, and slicked back, fiery red hair. 

Elain’s friends had done her proud. “Dinner is a part of the game. So, if you all would follow me to the dining room table.” 

No one complained at that request. Cassian was the first to sit down, and Nesta was rolling her eyes as she joined him to his right.  

“As we start our meal, I’m going to pass the basket around. There’s an envelope for boys, and an envelope for the girls. Pick your character.” As Elain sat down, she held her basket to her right, where Lucien was sitting, already filling half his plate with corn. 

She adjusted the floppy, but adorable hat on her head and said, “You can tell us all who you are, but the rest of the information needs to be learned throughout the night, as you’re being asked questions.”

Nesta took the basket from Lucien and she and Cassian both removed a small piece of paper. She glanced in the envelopes. “Why do the guys have an extra character that the girls don’t have?”

“Someone has to be the dead guy,” Mor shrugged.

“Sweet,” Cassian said, grinning. “I hope I get to be the dead guy.” He looked at the slip in his hand and groaned. “Man. I’m Colonel Mustard. I don’t get to be the dead guy.”

Without a word, Azriel dropped to the floor, making Feyre jump.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

He looked up at her with a smirk. “My name is Mr. Boddy. And I’m the dead guy.”

Azriel was laying on his stomach and when Elain rolled her eyes and held the basket out to Feyre and Rhys, he knocked the stupid hat off of his head.

If he had been murdered, the hat never would have stayed on anyways.

“I’m Miss Scarlet,” Feyre announced. “You?”

“Professor Plum,” Rhysand snorted. “Of course.” 

The basket got back to Elain, and she picked the last slip of paper from the girl’s envelope. She beamed, “I’m Mrs. White, which means Nesta must be Mrs. Peacock?”

Nesta held up the slip in her hand that proved Elain was correct.

“And Luce is Mr. Green,” Elain said, giving her best friend the side eye. 

Lucien grinned, stuffing his mouth full of chicken. 

Azriel reached up from the floor and stole a roll from the basket.

“So, how does this go, Mor?” Cassian asked, his mouth full.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Nesta muttered.

Cassian didn’t bother swallowing. “Okay, mom.”

“Well,” Mor said, clapping her hands together as Azriel dragged his entire plate down to the rug beneath the table. “On the back of your slips is a character description. You all need to follow the character description, along with the other details noted on your paper. We’ll start ruling people out until someone realizes who the killer is. In each room, there’s an envelope, hidden. Throughout the party, when you find an envelope, there are clues that will help you rule out specific characters, weapons, and rooms. I have an envelope inside my jacket pocket. Inside that envelope is the killer, the room in which Mr. Boddy was killed, and the weapon that was used to kill him.”

“Does the killer know who the killer is?” Cassian asked.

“We just picked our characters two seconds ago, Cass,” Feyre snorted.

“No,” Elain said, politely. “The murderer was chosen at random.”

“How do we know you didn’t rig the game?” Azriel asked, voice muffled by the table.

“Because,” Mor said, eyeing Azriel under the table. He smirked as he took another huge bite of green beans. “I am nothing but an honest woman.”

“This is actually your house though,” Cassian said, pointing at Azriel. “And Mr. Boddy is the owner of the house in Clue. What if I would have been the dead guy, would we have had to be at our place? A two bedroom apartment with three cats wouldn’t have been near as fun.”

Elain was pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing quietly.

Cassian took a drink of his wine and muttered, “It would definitely have been one of the cats.”

Mor rolled her eyes. “Everyone understand the rules of the game?” 

A series of nods rounded the table. 

Elain smiled brightly. “Then let the game begin!”

“Can we finish eating first?” Cassian asked, his mouth still full.

Nesta just sighed, and shook her head.

“I hope so,” Azriel muttered. “No telling how long it will take you lot to figure out who killed me, and I’m starving.”

“You can eat while you play,” Elain said, pointedly toward her fiancé.

“You mean while I’m dead?” He asked. “Because I’m dead, I can’t answer any questions, so…”

He trailed off and shoved a forkful of chicken into his mouth.

Nesta cleared her throat. “Professor Plum?”

“Yes, Ms. Peacock?” He said, falling into character.

She stood, picking up her wine glass. “I’ve run out of wine, will you accompany me to the kitchen? I’ve got some questions I need to ask you.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t out of wine.”

With a heavy sigh, Nesta said, “I’m trying to be in character.”

He took a drink of his own wine, but said, “Sounds like your character needs to get her story straight.”

Looking him dead in the eye, she tipped her glass back and drained it. “Okay, now I need a refill. Plum, you’re with me.”

Her heels clicked on the hardwood as she headed for the kitchen and Rhys glared at Cassian. “Now I’m not going to get any information out of her.”

Cass smirked. “I know.”

Rhysand just shook his head as he followed Nesta into the kitchen. Cassian was instantly eyeing Lucien, who was sipping from his wine glass.

“Mr. Green,” Cassian began, cordially. 

Lucien blinked. “Yes, Colonel?” 

“Shall we leave these ladies alone and go for a walk of our own?” Cassian asked.

Lcien lifted an auburn brow. “Sounds like you’re flirting with me, Colonel.”

Azriel snorted from his place on the rug.

Cassian grinned. “Don’t let Peacock hear you. She gets jealous.” 

Lucien laughed as he pushed himself up from the table. The men, with their plates in hand, went into the living room.

Elain faced Feyre, who was already watching her with narrowed eyes. 

Feyre glanced down at her card. “Where were you at five this afternoon, Mrs. White?”

Elain didn’t skip a beat. “Changing the sheets in the master bedroom, of course.”

Feyre sipped from her glass. “And why was there need to change the sheets?” 

Elain’s cheeks heated. “Shut up, Miss Scarlet, goodness.” 

“Can I go be dead in the living room?” Azriel asked from the floor. 

“Shh, you’re dead,” Feyre said, not looking away from the face of innocence in front of her. “What I meant was…” A dramatic pause. “There wasn’t blood on the sheets from where you stabbed him with a knife was there?”

Azriel murmured from the floor, “Jesus, Feyre, bury the lead.”

“Of course not,” Elain said, a hand pressed to her heart. “I always change the sheets on Tuesday.”

From the floor, “It’s Friday, babe.”

“…on Friday,” she corrected herself.

Feyre narrowed her eyes at her sister again, standing from her chair and walking around the table to grab a roll. “Your story checks out. You’re off the hook…for now.”

“I think a better question is where were you at the time of the murder, Miss Scarlett,” Elain asked, eyeing Feyre.

“Easy,” she said, pausing with a hand on her hip. “Professor Plum was teaching me a lesson.”

“Boooo!” Clearly, the rug hadn’t liked Feyre’s innuendo.

“You know, you’re loud for a corpse,” Elain said, looking down at Azriel, and back to Feyre, who was smirking. “And could he corroborate that story?”

“Professor Plum!” Feyre called.

He poked his head in from the kitchen a moment later. “Yeah?”

Feyre gestured to Rhys. “Go ahead.”

Clearing her throat, Elain asked, “Where were you at the time of the murder, Professor?”

“Banging Miss Scarlet,” he replied, without missing a beat, smirk growing.

Feyre’s grin widened.

Elain cleared her throat. “Thank you…Professor.”

“Anytime,” he winked, before disappearing back into the kitchen. 

“Is that all?” Feyre crooned.

Elain cleared her throat. “How is it that you know Mr. Boddy?”

Feyre’s brows scrunched together, unsure of how to answer, but then Elain cleared her throat and gestured down at the notecard in Feyre’s hand.

“Oh,” Feyre began. “We are….having an affair, it seems.”

“My, Mr. Boddy, Professor Plum. You sure do have a long list of lovers, Miss Scarlet. Perhaps a jilted lover had found out about your affair with Mr. Boddy. Or maybe Mr. Boddy found out about Professor Plum?”

“I was open about my promiscuous lifestyle,” Feyre said, yawning dramatically. “Now if you'll excuse me, Mrs. White, I’ve grown bored of this conversation.”

Elain’s mouth fell open but she did nothing more as Feyre dramatically made her exit.

Azriel snorted. “Ouch.”

“Hush, dead man,” she whispered, harshly.

The dead man's grin only widened.

As Elain made her way into the living room and snatched Lucien from Cassian’s attentions, someone new soon filled them. Mrs. Peacock perched herself on his lap.

“Well, hello,” he said, dragging a hand up her thigh.

“Colonel,” she said, with an over exaggerated southern drawl.

Cassian snorted. “I don’t remember Mrs. Peacock being a southern bell.”

“Instead of what you don’t remember, how about we talk about what you do remember?” Nesta reached into the pocket of his jacket. “How exactly did this wrench come to be on your person?”

Cassian took a long drink out of his glass of wine — which he used as an excuse to look at his character slip — before saying, “My cat broke down today and I had to fix it. Must have accidentally brought it with me.”

Nesta blinked, then whispered, “Your…cat, Cass?”

Cassian’s brows drew together as he looked back down at his notecard. “Car. My car. I meant….car. My car broke down, hence the wrench.”

“And when did your car break down?” Nesta continued, after she rolled her eyes. 

“This afternoon,” Cassian shot back.

“At what time?” Nesta asked.

Cassian looked back down at his notecard. “At four-thirty this afternoon. I then spent the rest of my afternoon working on my car, until I came here, of course.”

“For someone who’s been working on his car all afternoon you sure are clean,” she noted.

“I, uh-.” Cassian froze and glanced down at his card, for some fact of information that may help out. “I always carry a change of clothes with me. It never hurts to be prepared.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Prepared for what?”

He squeezed one of her thighs. “Prepared for anything.” He smacked her ass and asked, “What about you, Mrs. Peacock?” He enunciated the last word.

“What about me?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I can’t help but notice I missed you in the parlor for drinks,” he mused, raising a glass of whiskey to his lips. Nesta blinked. She wasn’t even sure where he’d gotten it from, the glass of wine was still sitting on the table beside him. “Mr. Boddy was also suspiciously absent.”

Nesta’s brows rose. “What are you implying?”

Cassian shrugged. “That Miss Scarlet wasn’t Boddy’s only lover.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed with such distaste that it was hard for Cassian to stay in character. “Is that what you think, Colonel?”

Cassian cleared his throat and muttered under his breath, “Just a side note, I love it when you call me that in that damned accent.”

Nesta gave him a small, mischievous grin. “Noted.”

“I think,” he began, slipping back into character, “Mr. Boddy told you your secret tryst was over and you retaliated.”

Nesta chuckled and squeezed Cassian’s leather covered shoulder. “A good theory, but you should have done your research, Colonel.” Cassian’s eyebrows furrowed but Nesta continued. “Mr. Boddy was my brother. Estranged. I was here tonight to make amends.”

He asked, “Peacock is your married name?” She nodded. “What happened to Mr. Peacock?”

“Nothing you can prove,” she said, with a smirk. “But I wasn’t present for drinks because I was doing drugs in my room.”

Cassian blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes, I have a drug problem.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really? Or are you making that up to throw me off?”

“Heroin.” Nesta’s face was deadpan and he was about to suggest they have a talk with Elain after the game when she smirked. “No, I fell asleep in my room. I had a long drive in and needed a nap before I was pleasant for company.”

“I see,” Cassian muttered. “Now, back to Mr. Peacock… Are you completely over him? Or…”

Nesta rolled her eyes but pressed a kiss to Cassian’s lips before pushing herself off of him and walking toward Lucien on the other side of the room.

“Finally, time alone with the colonel.” Cassian looked up to find Feyre, sipping from a glass of wine, plopping down on the couch beside his chair.

“That sounds terrifying coming from you,” Cassian mumbled.

“Don’t tell the professor,” she said with a wink. 

“It’s fortuitous that you were wanting to speak with me,” Cassian said, matching Nesta’s overly dramatic southern drawl. “Cause I was wanting to speak with you, Miss Scarlet.”

“Oh?” She crossed a leg and raised an eyebrow.

“Rumor has it you were quite familiar with our late host,” he said.

“Rumors can sometimes be true, and sometimes be false,” she said, adjusting her hair. At some she’s ditched the bowler hat. Cassian was willing to bet that it had something to do with the fact that her cheeks were as red as her hat was. And her glass was nearly empty again. A year of not drinking had turned Feyre into a lightweight.

“So, which was it?” Cassian pressed. “True or false?”

Feyre’s eyes narrowed as she finished off her glass. “Butler!”

With a snort, Mor came to Feyre’s side with a bottle of white wine and refilled Feyre’s glass. Before she left, she coughed, “Under the coffee table.”

Both Feyre and Cassian blinked as she walked away.

As Feyre started sipping her new glass of wine, Cassian was reaching under the coffee table, where he pulled out a manila envelope that read Living Room.

Feyre’s brow arched as she snatched it away from him and opened it up. She pulled out a single, white feather. “What the hell is this?”

“A clue,” Cassian whispered, taking it away from her. “A white feather.” He was looking around at all the characters, trying to scope out what their notecards said about their personalities. “What does it mean?”

Feyre stared at the feather for a second before saying, “I dunno, I’m too drunk to form a thought.” 

“Is it from a hat? One of those ridiculous things women wear around their necks like a scarf? From a pillow? Feather-duster?” Cassian guessed, then gasped. “What if it has to do with the color and not the feather itself?” His eyes shot to Elain. “Mrs. White is the murderer?”

Feyre shook her head. “I may be drunk, but even I know you can’t have a case based on one clue, Colonel.”

“No, but one clue can get you closer to solving it,” he replied, tucking it behind his ear.

Feyre looked at Cassian for a moment with the most serious of expressions before bursting into laughter. Cassian shot Rhysand a look from across the room, but Feyre’s husband was watching her with the utmost adoration. 

And so the night went on.

There were arguments and accusations and all the while, the wine continued to flow. At some point, Azriel excused himself to open a bottle of whiskey, which he generously offered a glass of to his brothers and Nesta, before he retook his spot on the floor, bottle still in his hand.

Nearly two hours later, the entire group was back in the living room. Azriel was in a chair now, thank the Cauldron, but now there was a prop knife jammed between his arm and side, “stabbing” him. He silently continued to sip on his wine, watching in amusement as Nesta and Rhys yelled at each other, arguing over whether he was stabbed or beaten over the head with a pipe.

“There’s not nearly enough blood for him to have been stabbed!” Rhys said, extending his arm towards Azriel.

“It’s not real,” Nesta cried, enunciating the words. “Did you expect Elain to let Mor spray her house in fake blood?”

“If she were committed, she would have,” Azriel said, but Elain glanced over at him and he became as quiet as the dead man he was pretending to be and put his glass back to his lips.

“I’m right,” Nesta hissed.

“Uh, no, I’m right,” Rhysand argued, his arms crossed. “I know who the murderer is, I’ve figured it out.”

Nesta scoffed. “That’s shit, but okay, go ahead.”

Rhyasnd lifted one brow. “Fine. Murderer? You. Weapon? Rope. Room? Kitchen.”

Nesta rolled her eyes but looked at Mor alongside everyone else.

Mor looked back and forth between Nesta and Rhysand before slowly shaking her head.

“Ha!” Nesta yelled, pointing her finger at Rhysand. “You failed!”

“My gods, I’ve never loved you more,” Cassian muttered, sipping from his glass.

“I win,” Nesta announced, simply. 

Rhysand was not going down easily. “No, you do not win.” 

“No?” Nesta asked, crossing her arms, as the rest of them watched her and Rhysand’s little display. “The killer is Miss Scarlett. Weapon? Rope. Room? Bedroom.”

The room was quiet for a moment before Mor said, “She’s right.”

“She killed him because he was going to end their affair, essentially cutting her off from the lifestyle she had grown accustomed to living,” Nesta said, not a hint of doubt on her face.

Rhys looked to Mor who shrugged. “She’s right again.”

Rhys breathed, “Damn it,” and dropped down next Miss Scarlett.

Who had been drooling on the arm of the couch since nine o’clock.

Rhysand shook his head as he looked down at his sleeping, drunk, passed out wife.

“I’m right?” Nesta repeated, and looked to Cassian with wide eyes. “What do I win?”

Mor hesitated. “What do you win?”

Nesta nodded, looking at Elain. “Yeah, I won, there’s a prize, right?”

Elain sucked in her bottom lip. “There’s….cake.”

Nesta followed Elain’s gaze to where the half-eaten cake sat on the dining room table.

“You win half a bottle of whiskey,” Az said, leaning forward and setting the bottle

and the fake knife on the table in the center of the room.

Nesta raised an eyebrow as she looked at Azriel. “That’s almost completely empty.”

He shrugged. “You got to enjoy your prize early.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled and grabbed the bottle regardless. They all couldn’t help the smiles on their faces, all except for Feyre, who Rhys had gathered in his arms, ready to take her home. More laughs and love had been shared tonight than some people got to experience in a lifetime.

None of them had a clue how they got so lucky.

[silent-era-of-cinema]

Colleen Moore (born Kathleen Morrison; August 19, 1899 – January 25, 1988) was an American film actress who began her career during the silent film era. Moore became one of the most fashionable (and highly-paid) stars of the era and helped popularize the bobbed haircut.

A huge star in her day, approximately half of Moore's films are now considered lost, including her first talking picture from 1929. What was perhaps her most celebrated film, Flaming Youth (1923), is now mostly lost as well, with only one reel surviving.

Moore took a brief hiatus from acting between 1929 and 1933, just as sound was being added to motion pictures. After the hiatus, her four sound pictures released in 1933 and 1934 were not financial successes. Moore then retired permanently from screen acting.

After her film career, Moore maintained her wealth through astute investments, becoming a partner of Merrill Lynch. She later wrote a "how-to" book about investing in the stock market.

Moore also nurtured a passion for dollhouses throughout her life and helped design and curate The Colleen Moore Dollhouse, which has been a featured exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago, Illinois since the early 1950s. The dollhouse, measuring 9 square feet (0.84 m2), was estimated in 1985 to be worth of $7 million, and it is seen by 1.5 million people annually.

Moore was born Kathleen Morrison on August 19, 1899, (according to the bulk of the official records;[4] the date which she insisted was correct in her autobiography, Silent Star, was 1902)[5] in Port Huron, Michigan,[6] Moore was the eldest child of Charles R. and Agnes Kelly Morrison. The family remained in Port Huron during the early years of Moore's life, at first living with her grandmother Mary Kelly (often spelled Kelley) and then with at least one of Moore's aunts.

By 1905, the family moved to Hillsdale, Michigan, where they remained for over two years. They relocated to Atlanta, Georgia, by 1908. They are listed at three different addresses during their stay in Atlanta (From the Atlanta-Fulton Public Library city directories): 301 Capitol Avenue −1908; 41 Linden Avenue – 1909; 240 N. Jackson Street – 1910. They then lived briefly — probably less than a year — in Warren, Pennsylvania, and by 1911, they had settled in Tampa, Florida.

At age 15 she was taking her first step in Hollywood. Her uncle arranged a screen test with director D.W. Griffith. She wanted to be a second Lillian Gish but instead, she found herself playing heroines in Westerns with stars such as Tom Mix.

Two of Moore's great passions were dolls and movies; each would play a great role in her later life. She and her brother began their own stock company, reputedly performing on a stage created from a piano packing crate. Her aunts, who doted on her, indulged her other great passion and often bought her miniature furniture on their many trips, with which she furnished the first of a succession of dollhouses. Moore's family summered in Chicago, where Moore enjoyed baseball and the company of her Aunt Lib (Elizabeth, who changed her name to "Liberty", Lib for short) and Lib's husband Walter Howey. Howey was the managing editor of the Chicago Examiner and an important newspaper editor in the publishing empire of William Randolph Hearst, and was the inspiration for Walter Burns, the fictional Chicago newspaper editor in the play and the film, The Front Page.

Early years

Essanay Studios was within walking distance of the Northwestern L, which ran right past the Howey residence. (They occupied at least two residences between 1910 and 1916: 4161 Sheridan and 4942 Sheridan.) In interviews later in her silent film career, Moore claimed she had appeared in the background of several Essanay films, usually as a face in a crowd. One story has it she had gotten into the Essanay studios and waited in line to be an extra with Helen Ferguson: in an interview with Kevin Brownlow many years later, Ferguson told a story that substantially confirmed many details of the claim, though it is not certain if she was referring to Moore's stints as a background extra (if she really was one) or to her film test there prior to her departure for Hollywood in November 1917. Film producer D.W. Griffith was in debt to Howey, who had helped him to get both The Birth of a Nation and Intolerance through the Chicago censorship board.

"I was being sent to Hollywood - not because anybody out there thought I was any good, but simply to pay off a favor".

The contract to Griffith's Triangle-Fine Arts was conditional on passing a film test to ensure that her heterochromia (she had one brown eye, one blue eye) would not be a distraction in close-up shots. Her eyes passed the test, so she left for Hollywood with her grandmother and her mother as chaperones. Moore made her first credited film appearance in 1917 in The Bad Boy for Triangle Fine Arts, and for the next few years appeared in small, supporting roles gradually attracting the attention of the public.

The Bad Boy was released on February 18, and featured Robert Harron, Richard Cummings, Josephine Crowell, and Mildred Harris (who would later become Charles Chaplin's first wife). Two months later, it was followed by An Old-Fashioned Young Man, again with Robert Harron. Moore’s third film was Hands Up! filmed in part in the vicinity of the Seven Oaks (a popular location for productions that required dramatic vistas). This was her first true western. The film’s scenario was written by Wilfred Lucas from a story by Al Jennings, the famous outlaw who had been freed from jail by presidential pardon by Theodore Roosevelt in 1907. Monte Blue was in the cast and noticed Moore could not mount her horse, though horseback riding was required for the part (during casting for the part she neglected to mention she did not know how to ride). Blue gave her a quick lesson essentially consisting of how to mount the horse and how to hold on.

On May 3, 1917, the Chicago Daily Tribune said: "Colleen Moore contributes some remarkable bits of acting. She is very sweet as she goes trustingly to her bandit hero, and, O, so pitiful, when finally realizing the character of the man, she goes into a hysteria of terror, and, shrieking 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!' beats futilely on a bolted door, a panic-stricken little human animal, who had not known before that there was aught but kindness in the world." About the time her first six-month contract was extended an additional six months, she requested and received a five weeks release to do a film for Universal's Bluebird division, released under the name The Savage. This was her fourth film, and she was only needed for two weeks. Upon her return to the Fine Arts lot, she spent several weeks trying to get her to pay for the three weeks she had been available for work for Triangle (finally getting her pay in December of that year).

Soon after, the Triangle Company went bust, and while her contract was honored, she found herself scrambling to find her next job. With a reel of her performance in Hands Up! under her arm, Colin Campbell arranged for her to get a contract with Selig Polyscope. She was very likely at work on A Hoosier Romance before The Savage was released in November. After A Hoosier Romance, she went to work on Little Orphant Annie. Both films were based upon poems by James Whitcomb Riley, and both proved to be very popular. It was her first real taste of popularity.

Little Orphant Annie was released in December. The Chicago Daily Tribune wrote of Moore, "She was a lovely and unspoiled child the last time I saw her. Let’s hope commendation hasn’t turned her head." Despite her good notices, her luck took a turn for the worse when Selig Polyscope went bust. Once again Moore found herself unemployed, but she had begun to make a name for herself by 1919. She had a series of films lined up. She went to Flagstaff, Arizona for location work on The Wilderness Trail, another western, this time with Tom Mix. Her mother went along as a chaperone. Moore wrote that while she had a crush on Mix, he only had eyes for her mother. The Wilderness Trail was a Fox Film Corporation production, and while it had started production earlier, it would not be released until after The Busher, which was released on May 18. The Busher was an H. Ince Productions-Famous Players-Lasky production; it was a baseball film wherein the hero was played by John Gilbert. The Wilderness Trail followed on July 6, another Fox film. A few weeks later, The Man in the Moonlight, a Universal Film Manufacturing Company film was released on July 28. The Egg Crate Wallop was a Famous Players-Lasky production released by Paramount Pictures on September 28.

The next stage of her career was with the Christie Film Company, a move she made when she decided she needed comic training. While with Christie, she made Her Bridal Nightmare, A Roman Scandal, and So Long Letty. At the same time as she was working on these films, she worked on The Devil's Claim with Sessue Hayakawa, in which she played a Persian woman, When Dawn Came, and His Nibs (1921) with Chic Sale. All the while, Marshall Neilan had been attempting to get Moore released from her contract so she could work for him. He was successful and made Dinty with Moore, releasing near the end of 1920, followed by When Dawn Came.

For all his efforts to win Moore away from Christie, it seems Neilan loaned Moore to other studios most of the time. He loaned her out to King Vidor for The Sky Pilot, released in May 1921, yet another Western. After working on The Sky Pilot on location in the snows of Truckee, she was off to Catalina Island for work on The Lotus Eater with John Barrymore. In October 1921, His Nibs was released, her only film to be released that year besides The Sky Pilot. In His Nibs, Moore actually appeared in a film within the film; the framing film was a comedy vehicle for Chic Sales. The film it framed was a spoof on films of the time. 1922 proved to be an eventful year for Moore as she was named a WAMPAS Baby Star during a "frolic" at the Ambassador Hotel which became an annual event, in recognition of her growing popularity.[13] In early 1922, Come On Over was released, made from a Rupert Hughes story and directed by Alfred E. Green. Hughes directed Moore himself in The Wallflower, released that same year. In addition, Neilan introduced her to John McCormick, a publicist who had had his eye on Moore ever since he had first seen her photograph. He had prodded Marshall into an introduction. The two hit it off, and before long they were engaged. By the end of that year, three more of her films were released: Forsaking All Others, The Ninety and Nine, and Broken Chains.

Look Your Best and The Nth Commandment were released in early 1923, followed by two Cosmopolitan Productions, The Nth Commandment and Through the Dark. By this time, Moore had publicly confirmed her engagement to McCormick, a fact that she had been coy about to the press previously. Before mid-year, she had signed a contract with First National Pictures, and her first two films were slated to be The Huntress and Flaming Youth. Slippy McGee came out in June, followed by Broken Hearts of Broadway.

Moore and John McCormick married while Flaming Youth was still in production, and just before the release of The Savage. When it was finally released in 1923, Flaming Youth, in which she starred opposite actor Milton Sills, was a hit. The controversial story put Moore in focus as a flapper, but after Clara Bow took the stage in Black Oxen in December, she gradually lost her momentum. In spring 1924 she made a good but unsuccessful effort to top Bow in The Perfect Flapper, and soon after she dismissed the whole flapper vogue; "No more flappers...people are tired of soda-pop love affairs." Decades later Moore stated Bow was her "chief rival."

Through the Dark, originally shot under the name Daughter of Mother McGinn, was released during the height of the Flaming Youth furor in January 1924. Three weeks later, Painted People was released. After that, she was to star in Counterfeit. The film went through a number of title changes before being released as Flirting with Love in August. In October, First National purchased the rights to Sally for Moore's next film. It would be a challenge, as Sally was a musical comedy. In December, First National purchased the rights to Desert Flower and in so doing had mapped out Moore's schedule for 1925: Sally would be filmed first, followed by The Desert Flower.

By the late 1920s, she had accomplished dramatic roles in films such as So Big, where Moore aged through a stretch of decades, and was also well received in light comedies such as Irene. An overseas tour was planned to coincide with the release of So Big in Europe, and Moore saw the tour as her first real opportunity to spend time with her husband, John McCormick. Both she and John McCormick were dedicated to their careers, and their hectic schedules had kept them from spending any quality time together. Moore wanted a family; it was one of her goals.

Plans for the trip were put in jeopardy when she injured her neck during the filming of The Desert Flower. Her injury forced the production to shut down while Moore spent six weeks in a body cast in bed. Once out of the cast, she completed the film and left for Europe on a triumphal tour. When she returned, she negotiated a new contract with First National. Her films had been great hits, so her terms were very generous. Her first film upon her return to the States was We Moderns, set in England with location work done in London during the tour. It was a comedy, essentially a retelling of Flaming Youth from an English perspective. This was followed by Irene (another musical in the style of the very popular Sally) and Ella Cinders, a straight comedy that featured a cameo appearance by comedian Harry Langdon. It Must Be Love was a romantic comedy with dramatic undertones, and it was followed by Twinkletoes, a dramatic film that featured Moore as a young dancer in London's Limehouse district during the previous century. Orchids and Ermine was released in 1927, filmed in part in New York, a thinly veiled Cinderella story.

In 1927, Moore split from her studio after her husband suddenly quit. It is rumored that John McCormick was about to be fired for his drinking and that she left as a means of leveraging her husband back into a position at First National. It worked, and McCormick found himself as Moore's sole producer. Moore's popularity allowed her productions to become very large and lavish. Lilac Time was one of the bigger productions of the era, a World War I drama. A million dollar film, it made back every penny spent within months. Prior to its release, Warner Bros. had taken control of First National and were less than interested in maintaining the terms of her contract until the numbers started to roll in for Lilac Time. The film was such a hit that Moore managed to retain generous terms in her next contract and her husband as her producer.

In 1928, inspired by her father and with help from her former set designer, a dollhouse was constructed by her father, which was 9 square feet with the tallest tower 12 feet high. The interior of The Colleen Moore Dollhouse, designed by Harold Grieve, features miniature bear skin rugs and detailed furniture and art. Moore's dollhouse has been a featured exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago, Illinois since October 30, 1949, where according to the museum, it is seen by 1.5 million people each year and would be worth $7 million. Moore continued working on it and contributing artifacts to it until her death.

This dollhouse was the eighth one Moore owned. The first dollhouse, she wrote in her autobiography Silent Star (1968), evolved from a cabinet that held her collection of miniature furniture. It was supposedly built from a cigar box. Kitty Lorgnette wrote in the Saturday, August 13, 1938 edition of The Evening News (Tampa) that the first dollhouse was purchased by Oraleze O'Brien (Mrs. Frank J. Knight) in 1916 when Moore (then Kathleen) left Tampa. Oraleze was too big for dollhouses, however, and she sold it again after her cat had kittens in it, and from there she lost track of it. The third house was possibly given to the daughter of Moore's good friend, author Adela Rogers St. Johns. The fourth survives and remains on display in the living room of a relative.

With the advent of talking pictures in 1929, Moore took a hiatus from acting. After divorcing McCormick in 1930, Moore married prominent New York-based stockbroker Albert Parker Scott in 1932. The couple lived at that time in a lavish home at 345 St. Pierre Road in Bel Air, where they hosted parties for and were supporters of the U.S. Olympic team, especially the yachting team, during the 1932 Summer Olympics held in Los Angeles.

In 1934, Moore, by then divorced from Albert Parker Scott, returned to work in Hollywood. She appeared in three films, none of which was successful, and Moore retired. Her last film was a version of The Scarlet Letter in 1934. She later married the widower Homer Hargrave and raised his children (she never had children of her own) from a previous marriage, with whom she maintained a lifelong close relationship. Throughout her life she also maintained close friendships with other colleagues from the silent film era, such as King Vidor and Mary Pickford.

In the 1960s, Moore formed a television production company with King Vidor with whom she had worked in the 1920s. She also published two books in the late 1960s, her autobiography Silent Star: Colleen Moore Talks About Her Hollywood (1968) and How Women Can Make Money in the Stock Market (1969). She also figures prominently alongside King Vidor in Sidney D. Kirkpatrick's book, A Cast of Killers, which recounts Vidor's attempt to make a film of and solve the murder of William Desmond Taylor. In that book, she is recalled as having been a successful real estate broker in Chicago and partner in the investment firm Merrill Lynch after her film career.

Many of Moore's films deteriorated, but not due to her own neglect, after she had sent them to be preserved at the Museum of Modern Art. Some time later, Warner Brothers asked for their nitrate materials to be returned to them. Moore's earlier First National films were also sent, since Warners later acquired First National. Upon their arrival, the custodian at MOMA, not seeing the films on the manifest, put them to one side and never went back to them. Many years later, Moore inquired about her collection and MOMA found the films languishing unprotected. When the films were examined, they had decomposed past the point of preservation. Heartbroken, she tried in vain to retrieve any prints she could from several sources without much success. In 1956, the material from WB and FN was sold to Associated Artists Productions, later to MGM/UA and then, Turner Entertainment.

At the height of her fame, Moore was earning $12,500 per week. She was an astute investor, and through her investments, remained wealthy for the rest of her life. In her later years she would frequently attend film festivals, and was a popular interview subject always willing to discuss her Hollywood career. She was a participant in the documentary series Hollywood (1980), providing her recollections of Hollywood's silent film era.

Moore was married four times. Her first marriage was to John McCormick of First National Studios. They married in 1923 and divorced in 1930. In 1932, Moore married stockbroker Albert P. Scott. This union ended in divorce in 1934. Moore's third marriage was to Homer Hargrave, whom she married in 1936; he provided funding for her dollhouse and she adopted his son, Homer Hargrave, Jr and his daughter, Judy Hargrave. They remained married until Hargrave's death in 1965. In 1982, Moore married her final husband, builder Paul Magenot. They were married until Moore's death in 1988.

On January 25, 1988, Moore died from cancer in Paso Robles, California, aged 88. For her contribution to the motion picture industry, Colleen Moore has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame at 1551 Vine Street.

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote of her: "I was the spark that lit up Flaming Youth, Colleen Moore was the torch. What little things we are to have caused all that trouble."

[fortheloveoffanfic]

The Arrangement

John Wick x Reader (A/n- I have no idea where this is going, but its definitely going. Also, just for some supplemental texture--> John’s townhouse   Y/n’s apartment)

The Arrangement 

Warnings- NSFW/SMUT, dom/sub, vaginal fingering, semi public sex, some angst, John being kind of an asshole.

Sweet Surrender

John leaned back in the dark leather chair positioned behind his mahogany desk, his elbows propped on the upholstered arm rests and his fingers touching at the tips. Besides work, there was a lot of his mind, most of it having to do with Y/n. They weren't his usual thoughts of her though, these were troubling. Something had changed with her and lately, he had been starting to sense that she was unhappy. Y/n hadn’t out-rightly said so, but it was in the little things; she’d stopped offering him details on the life she lived outside of their shared moments and all in all, she wasn’t her typical light, carefree self. 

In the beginning, it was Y/n’s bubbly personality that had attracted him, enthralling him. Before, he’d usually find his women via other means, there had only been a few others and they were all nice enough, good at following orders and fun in bed. But nonetheless, Y/n was certainly his favorite, upon meeting her, John could easily tell that she was a natural submissive and wasn’t thoughtless like those gone by. She didn’t take her role in his life lightly either, and John cared for her in a way that he hadn’t for anyone one else. Which was why it stung to think that he wasn’t doing right by her, their arrangement was supposed to bring them both pleasure, but if he wasn’t doing that for her, then half the purpose was lost. He wondered what had caused her discontent, up until then, he figured that he had been good to Y/n, he took care of her needs; sexual, financial and otherwise, he tried to listen when she needed an ear and always respected her boundaries. 

He’d have to bring it up soon, John wasn’t afraid of addressing it, besides, it was nearing the eleventh month of their first contract, they’d have to discuss whether or not they wanted to renew it or not. Usually, John never renewed them, by the end of the year, he'd often find himself yearning for a fresh face, letting his latest attraction go like dust on wind, but that year it was different and he couldn’t see himself growing tired of Y/n in the foreseeable future. John knew what he wanted, the final decision would have to be Y/n’s. 

“Mr. Wick?” his secretary poked her little brunette head into his office, interrupting his tumultuous thoughts. With a hum and annoyance expertly kept at bay, he glanced up, meeting a pair of clear green eyes. Abigail was just a few years older than Y/n and had been his secretary for going on three years. He could never tell what her angle was though, with all the tight shirts and short skirts, sure she was pretty enough, but it was the kind of beauty John could see himself getting bored of quickly. She didn’t really have much of a defining personality either, very two dimensional and he suspected that she didn’t have much more depth than she offered at face value. She was nothing like Y/n who was intelligent and exciting. “Your one o’clock is here,” even after she delivered her message, Abigail stayed there, still holding the door open.

With a quiet sigh, John sat up straighter, slowly moving to stand, “Is that all Abigail?” He didn’t even spare a minute to look at her, though, he could feel her eyes on him. When she offered a meek yes, finally turning to walk away, he called her back, just remembering something, “Did you finish the draft I asked you to work on?”

After a moment of hesitation, and shuffling her feet childishly, “No, Mr. Wick, I haven’t-”

“How the fuck am I supposed to start the deposition on Monday without it?” He snarled, glaring at her; John absolutely hated excuses, especially when he could tell they were going to be baseless.   Alarmed, Abigail jumped, her face going pale and her eyes glassy. Apologizing profusely, she cast her gaze to the shiny marble floor, but John was too irritated to care. He’d have fired her right on the spot, but he needed someone working his receptionist’s station and for that draft to be finished by the end of the day. So, he’d spare her, for now. “Just….get it done by five,” he’d wanted to leave by four thirty to get ready for dinner later that evening, but he’d spare Abigail the half hour, “And get the hell out of my office.” Without another world, Abigail scurried out and John  finished gathering his materials, almost ready to head to the elevator when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

It was a text from Y/n, and despite himself, he smiled, she never ceased to brighten his day a little. She had sent a picture of the dress she’d purchased for the night, per his request; a short, dusty mauve, chiffon one with a cowl neck and thin straps at the shoulders. Directly below that picture was another of strappy nude stilettos with thin five inch heels, John adored seeing her in high heels, especially those pencil thin, dangerous looking ones. The attachments were followed up by a simple question, “Are these okay?”

John moistened his lips, already able to picture how the outfit would look on Y/n, definitely good enough for him to want to keep her in the bedroom. She had a wonderful sense of style and normally looked good in anything. Usually, John preferred to be there when she shopped, ensuring that she wasn’t worrying about prices and that things like lingerie were suited to his tastes, but in the event that he was unavailable, John had found that she was fine on her own. “Those are perfect,” he sent the text, locking his phone and heading out of his office to the conference room.

John detested Y/n’s apartment. It was small, no, small would be an understatement, it was tiny and if he’d had his way when they were first checking places out for her, John would have seen that she’d gotten something bigger. But, he was deep in lust and Y/n hadn’t been happy with any of the other that the real estate agent took them to. In fact, it had taken almost a month for her to find that place in New York City and, when they had gone to see it, Y/n had instantly fallen in love with the quaint, cool-toned, vintage styled apartment with beige and mellow blue walls, light hardwood floors and white wooden doors that were intentionally made to look faded and unfinished. The decorator that John had hired kept with the natural vintage theme too, adding an old fashioned farm sink, a charming mix of stained marble and tiles on the kitchen counter, homely rugs and even a 1950’s refrigerator solely for aesthetic purposes. Thankfully, the running fridge was integrated and actually from their century. 

As time passed, Y/n had also ensured that her love for houseplants were reflected in her decor too. She had one in every room, always watered and tended to, some growing cheerful flowers while others just maintained a healthy greenness.

Before Y/n had moved in, John had been sure to ask her well over three times if she was sure about her decision, and each time she’d assured him that she was. Y/n had eventually explained that if she lived in something bigger she wouldn’t have a clue on what to do with the extra space, it was just her and Theo anyway.

John stood at Y/n’s door for a minute, searching for her key on his bunch, casually looking up and down the hall. Thankfully, the neighborhood and by extension, the building, was a nice one. Upon finding the right key, John slipped it into the lock, turning twice. As he entered Y/n’s apartment, John called out to her, though, before she could answer, he felt a gentle rubbing on his leg; Theo.

Chuckling, he bent, scooping up the grey Scottish fold. John held the cat to his chest, absently running his fingers affectionately on his soft head, “Where’s your mom?” He asked, already walking towards the living room, earning himself a meow.

“Oh,” Y/n was just hurrying out from the other side of the living room, barefoot and still in her silk lilac robe, though her hair and make up was already done, “John,” her eyes went wide and she looked down in embarrassment, clearly alarmed, “I’m so sorry, I must have heard the time wrong.”

“You didn’t,” he reassured sternly, “I’m early, don’t worry about it,” he waved off her worry, still holding Theo in his arms. John had never been a cat person, but Y/n’s four year old rescue had taken a liking to him upon their first meeting and John at some point, the furry fella had grown on him. 

“Thank you,” she smiled lightly and John offered a faint smile of his own in return, “Theo!” Y/n scolded just realizing that he was in John’s arms, “You’re gonna get cat hair all over John.”

“It’s okay, he just wants a little attention,” John sat himself on her olive colored living room sofa, the length of his legs exaggerated by how low it was, “Go finish getting ready,” he urged and after a brisk nod of compliance, Y/n  hurried off again.

John’s hand was low on Y/n’s back as they followed the hostess to their party’s table in the high end French restaurant. Their table was near an elaborate indoor fountain, beneath a glittering chandelier and as they approached, Y/n could see that a middle aged couple was already seated with a round of drinks. Putting on her best smile, she waited for John to introduce her before offering her hand, “Ellis, Lauren, this is my girlfriend, Y/n.” Her breath hitched excitedly at the word, even if that was the way John always introduced her, it wasn’t like he went around telling people that he had an, by all intents and purposes, a paid for fuck doll. Still, it was enough to feed her hope that one day, maybe in the distant future, he could actually see her as that, as his girlfriend, that the word wouldn’t just be a cover. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” after a moment of bewilderment and obvious hesitation, they took turns shaking her delicate hand, and Y/n did her best to maintain her trained smile; she was used to dealing with snobs anyway.

Even as they introduced themselves; Lauren and Ellis Capeldai, Y/n could see they were judging her; a girl her age, with a nearly middle aged, rich, powerful man? In their minds, Y/n could only be one thing. But alas, she was used to it, and if John had taught her anything, it was that opinions didn’t matter, they were consenting adults, and whatever they did with their personal lives was no one’s but their business.

John pulled out her chair and just as Y/n sat, John did too, immediately engaging conversation with Ellis. They glazed over small talk for a couple minutes, before getting into the specifics of a case; the Capeldais’ owned a private clinic in the city and had recently had a malpractice suit brought against them. Quietly, from her position next to John, she tried to keep up with their conversation, though, she only knew that much when it came to legal and medical jargon; an English degree could only take you that far in certain directions. In fact, the only thing she could deduce was that someone’s relative had died and that John was positive that he could prove that it wasn’t anyone’s fault but the dead patient’s. 

Eventually, it came to the point where the more they spoke, the less Y/n wanted to hear. There was a dirty side to John’s job, or maybe it was just John himself, though Y/n could never bring herself to see him like that, so she blamed it on the trade instead. He was always willing to go the extra mile, or twenty, for his clients, just to make sure that they won, even going those miles meant getting his hands dirty. It was rare for Y/n to see that side of him, the side that he showed clients, that was ruthless and capable of anything in the name of victory and though John’s power and confidence enthralled her, it also scared her.

If he was like that, what else could he be?

Slowly, Y/n retreated into herself, no longer paying any mind to how their conversation unfolded. Working on autopilot, she steered her gaze to the plate before her, using her fork to shift around what was left of her entree, punctuating her movements with the occasional sip of Pinot Noir. Y/n sunk into her own little world until John’s grip held firm on her exposed thigh, his warm breath fanning her ear as he leaned in to whisper, “It’s rude to play with you food darling.” His gravely drawl sent shivers up his spine, “You don’t want to ruin our night by being punished, do you?”

Hastily, Y/n shifted her dilated gaze to meet John’s whiskey pools, the new rosiness in her cheeks brightening her sparsely applied blush, evident to those that sat across from them, “No sir,” she cast her head down out of instinct, “I’m sorry.”

Surely, the Capeldais’ were spectating with intrigue, though, thankfully not hearing a word of John and Y/n’s exchange. “It’s okay,” his rough fingers inched higher, sneaking beneath the hem of Y/n’s dress, “But don’t do it again,” he warned, covering his tracks with a peck on her cheek.

Even when John redirected his attention to his food, his hand still lingered on her upper thigh, slowly working its way further up, his feather light touch ticklish and reflecting in the pooling moisture in her panties. “So Y/n, dear,” Lauren turned to Y/n, her distaste masked under a stiff smile, “What do you do when you’re not being wined and dined by Mr. Wick?” There was malice in her words, Lauren had apparently decided that Y/n was nothing but a gold digger or something of the sort. 

For a moment, Y/n glanced towards John, who cleared his throat loudly, thankfully, opting to answer for her, “Y/n works at a bank, you probably know it; Fraser Holdings,” John gave her leg a reassuring squeeze, and by then, his fingers were close enough to brush her crotch, “It’s where we met actually, I had some business there and she caught my eye.” John was a master of controlling narrative Y/n knew that every word of his explanation was chosen carefully, with the intention of carrying an air of vagueness. Y/n wasn’t ashamed of her job as a secretary, it paid the bills, at least, it used to, and she knew that John probably wasn’t either, but some people just weren’t worth the whole truth. 

“Oh,” Lauren's stiff, condescending smile was apparently permanently plastered to her no doubt Botox infused face, and her nosiness was proving to be relentless, “And how long have you two been dating?” At the question, the graying Mr. Capadali looked up, he too was intrigued by the question.

Just as the query hit the ear, John’s stocky index brushed her lace clad folds. Caught off guard, Y/n jumped, her eyes going wide and breathing an alarmed gasp, her knee made painful contact with the bottom of the table as she crossed her legs, only serving to squeeze John’s hand in place. Again, she looked to him, but that time, he indicated for her to take the question, a slight smirk tugging at his lips, his trimmed scruff hiding it almost perfectly. “Um…” her words wavered as he rubbed gently, just barely grazing her nub with his pointer, the lace of her panties adding extra, effective friction. “We’ve been together for about a year.”

A slight tugging on Y/n’s thigh was enough of an instruction for her to uncross her legs, parting them slightly. Under the security of the pristine white tablecloth, John pushed aside the crotch of her panties, rubbing Y/n’s cilt slowly with the ‘v’ of his index and middle fingers. Once again startled, she glanced his way, but he merely offered. Her swollen bud throbbed beneath his expert touch and Y/n had to hide the moan that threatened to escape her matted-burgundy painted lips with a lengthy drag of her wine. Her breath shuddered as she set the glass down, quickly looking to John, who'd already rekindled conversation with the older couple, seemingly unaffected by her plight.

Her eyes stayed trained on his side profile though her attention waned; John's handsome features blurring as her orbs glazed over with desire. By then, it wasn't hard to identify the distinct pink hue standing out on her otherwise flushed cheeks and the absence of focus was blatant. The more prolonged John's ministrations became, the closer Y/n got to her tipping point. Just out of the corner of her faulty vision, Y/n could see when John carelessly let the fabric napkin fall over his hardened crotch, the creases and haphazardness of the eggshell material masking his hard on. 

Another hitch of her breath came when one of John’s fingers slid further into her drenched heat, her posture, maybe thankfully, not allowing him access to her entrance. Though, John had a solution for everything, no mind how harsh or abrupt it may be, “Well, Ellis, Lauren,” he cleared his throat, pretending to check his watch. A waiter had just cleared their plates and had promised to be back soon with a desert menu, “I think we’ve covered a lot tonight, but Y/n and I have an early start tomorrow,” for the first time in a while, he removed his fingers, dragging them along her inner thigh, messily spreading her slickness. Now hot, bothered and still in the middle of a packed restaurant, Y/n could quickly feel herself growing frustrated at the loss of contact, ready to grab her clutch off its resting place on the table as John signaled a waiter, handing over a business card and requesting that the final bill be sent to his office. Y/n doubted that it was something the establishment regularly did, but there wasn’t a soul willing to deny John Wick. Besides, if he said he was going to pay, there wasn’t a bit of doubt that he wouldn’t. John was a man of his word. 

After they’d bid their companions goodnight and safe travels, John led Y/n out of the restaurant, holding onto her into her light petite coat as the valet brought around his navy Maserati, the dark coat shining even in their dimmed surroundings. John, as Y/n had learnt, was quite the car enthusiast and he’d collected quite a few over the years, enough to supply a small dealership, with almost everything from prized, classic muscle cars and widely adored classics to flashy sports cars and of course, some more sophisticated ones. 

After they’d gotten in, John had tossed her coat to the back seat and then peeled away from the curb, navigating the car onto the busy street, easily weaving through the thinning traffic. Stealing a glace, Y/n found that John’s expression wasn’t readily readable, though, when, not too long after they’d left, he turned into a deserted, poorly lit, damp alleyway between a shady Chinese restaurant and a low grade department store, she got a pretty clear idea of he wanted. “Do you know how fucking sexy you look in that dress babygirl?” His question strained and mumbled as John undid his seat belt and used the lever beneath his seat to push it back a little. Excitement had Y/n breathing heavily, and she didn’t think to answer his question. “Didn’t I ask you something?” He probed roughly, undoing the belt, button and zipper on his black slacks.

“I don’t know,” she breathed, blushing and blinking quickly, her stomach fluttered when John reached over to undo her seat belt, easily manhandling her over the console and into his lap.

“Well let me show you,” he grunted, grabbing her hand and shoving into his undone pants, over his erection, gasping quietly at the distinct firmness overtaking his member, “See what you do to me? This is all you baby,” he whispered harshly, catching her ear lobe between his teeth. 

The alluring aroma of fine wine and musky cologne clouded her senses and Y/n’s breath hitch, the sound quiet, and pitched. “Sir,” she moaned, eyes wide and pupils lust blown as her hand lingered in John’s pants long after he’d stopped applying pressure. 

John trailed feverish kisses down the column of her neck, high on the scent of her perfume, occasionally alternating between lapping his tongue over her vein and nibbling her skin. He was definitely going to leave marks, claiming her as his own. As his mouth ravaged her throat, John fiddled with the thin straps of her dress, letting them slip carelessly down the curve of her shoulders, eventually urging her arms out of them and pushing the top down, exposing her breasts, pushed together enticingly by a simple, cream colored strapless bra. “I want you to ride my cock,” John’s fingers slid up her body, thumbs brushing the smooth, stain covered padding over her nipples, before easily undoing the front clasp and freeing her full, voluptuous breasts, “Now,” he growled, pushing aside the crotch of her flimsy thong, his digits brushing the lips of her swollen, soaked pussy.

With anxious hands, Y/n helped John shove his pants down to the area right above his knees, “Come on,” he slouched further into the leather stead in an instant, John’s hands were up her dress, holding her hips in place as she eased down on him. Feeling how he bottomed out inside her, stretching her tightness so wide it burned, Y/n’s head lolled back, squeezing her eyes shut as her loud moan bounced off the windows. “Move, now,” he managed through his clenched jaw after he’d given Y/n a minute to adjust. 

Desperate, filthy mewls swirled in the heavy air around them, joining John’s languid grunts as his hips rose to meet hers. Each time Y/n came down on him, her bouncing erratic and harsh, her core slapped his balls, rendering loud, wet, perverted sounds. “Sir,” her breathy cries were the only interruptions of her heady noises.

"Fuck," John hissed, just before taking one of her breasts in his mouth, his tongue swirling around her pebbled nipple and one hand sliding up her back, pressing her chest to his face, "Faster," he urged.

Y/n's eager hands slid up John's chest, the material of his grey button up smooth under her palm, his carnal heat seeping through. She settled them beneath the lapels of his tailored, black blazer, bunching the fabric up in her fingers as she quickened her pace with renewed vigor. 

The tinted windows around them fogged over and the purring of the engine fell on deaf ears. John could feel her nails digging into his skin, even through his shirt and the throbbing veins running up his shaft offered Y/n an irresistible friction. Every time she came up, only to sink back down on him, John’s swollen tip reaching her end, Y/n could feel herself drawing closer to the edge. “Please,” she whimpered, pleading for John to permit her release.

John’s hips  jerked upwards to slam into Y/n’s center, the remaining hand caught under her dress now aggressively squeezing and kneading her ass. The other violently grabbed a fistful of her head, rearing her head further back so John could ravish her neck without resistance, “Do it,” he commanded between skin pulling bites, “I want to feel your cunt squeezing my cock. You’re my little bitch and I need to feel you cum.”

Before long, Y/n was shuddering; her legs straddling John stiffening and her pussy convulsing as warm juices gushed from her center. Her gasps were broken and her breaths ragged as Y/n’s eyes rolled back and her hold on John’s now wrinkled shirt loosened. With a slackened jaw, the rest of her body went limp and John was the one still moving, though, his thrusts rigid. 

The feeling of Y/n milking his cock entwined by the ecstasy that always accompanied being buried deep inside her was pleasurably unmatched and soon, John was following her to release, “Fuck Y/n,” he sputtered, slowing his movement as he spurted bursts of hot seed inside of her, their products mixing as it seeped out, coating Y/n’s thighs and dripping onto his.

It took awhile for their breaths to slow and for any sense of coherence to make its way back into the stilling running car, and even after; they lingered, John’s now flaccid cock still cocooned in her settled center. When he finally guided her off him, John used tissues from the glove compartment to clean Y/n up as she still sat in his lap, and she let him readjust her dress, forgoing her bra, instead just pulling the straps over her arms. When he set her back in the passenger seat, Y/n winced, though she wasn’t half as sore as she’d usually be after sessions with John, when he had more room and time to work with. In fact, hot, spontaneous moments like that one were rare, which arguably only made them more enjoyable.

Except, that night, as Y/n silently watched John clean himself up, his expression stoic, as it typically was, she couldn’t help but feel a little dirty, and not just in a physical way. That dinner hadn’t been her best one with him, she didn’t particularly enjoy seeing him as the villain, willing to desecrate the name of a dead man. Logically, she knew that it was the job, and someone had to do it, but being that good at it? It took guts and a certain kind of coldness that frightened her. 

And then, of course, there was the typical issue of their otherwise unattached status. Because, as scary as John was when he was in his element, she still found herself falling deeper and deeper in love with him, which wasn’t exactly ideal, considering the more she fell, the more it hurt when she remembered that she was just his sub. It was confusing, but mostly it hurt.

The drive back to Y/n’s place was without conversation, though, when John parked on the curb and Y/n had gathered her stuff, namely her purse with generous bits of her bra sticking out the top and her coat draped over it, John grabbed her leg before she could get out, “Do you have vacation days?”

“Yes,” she nodded firmly, intrigued though not daring to say anything further.

“How many?” John’s eyes were void of anything telling and he wasn’t going to give her more without Y/n’s compliance.

“A month.”

“Good,” John reclaimed his hand, immediately fishing his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and his fingers going to dance on the unlocked, brightened screen. He didn’t look at her again, leaving her bewildered as he came out and jogged to her side, opening the door for her. John helped her out of the car, and with a hand low on her back, he walked to the front double doors of the building, holding one side open but making no move to go in himself. “I want you to take two weeks,” he said, putting his cell away, “I’m taking you to a summer home in North Carolina. Abigail will book a jet for Sunday afternoon, call your boss and tell him you won’t be in on Monday,” and before Y/n could protest that she actually needed to give H.R. a month’s notice, John intervened, “If he gives you any trouble, let me know and I'll talk to him, okay?” By ‘talk to him’, it was quite possible that he meant bullying her boss into giving her the time off without consequence.

“Yes,” her lips quivered in surprise, and Y/n nodded again, “Okay.”

“Okay,” John repeated, stiffly reaching across to peck the side of her lips, “I’ll send you the flight details, and I’ll taking you shopping tomorrow afternoon,” when Y/n agreed, they exchanged pleasant good-nights and John finally let Y/n go, secretly hoping that their trip would do them both some good in terms of their upcoming discussion. 

******

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana   @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx​  @danceoftwowolves​

[enkelimagnus]

Chevra Kadisha

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1260 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 1 New World Order

After his date with Leah, Bucky finds himself thinking about what she said about parents losing their children.

TW: pas murder, loss of child

Read on AO3

Part 15 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

---------------

There's no word for someone whose kids die. Because it's like the worst thing that could happen.

Leah’s words resound in Bucky’s head as he lays on his back on his living room floor, with a flat pillow and a ratty blanket, looking up at the ceiling, eyes stuck on a thin mark that slashes through the white of the pain right above him.

They’re about Yori, of course, about that little altar to his son that stands behind him in the doorway of his apartment, about the look on his face when he talks about RJ. He loved the red bean mochi. Guilt rises like bile in his throat every time he sees that look on his friend’s face.

Is he really his friend though? Bucky’s just playing a cruel game with the man, after all. Selfishly satiating his own guilt by befriending someone he’s hurt so incredibly badly, without them knowing. He’s a predator playing with his prey, and they don’t even know that his jaws will bite down on their neck one day and snap it in one clean crunch.

He knows it’s not technically his doing, that he’s as responsible for this as a predator’s tooth would be for biting down on a prey’s neck, but he also knows that he pulled the trigger. It’s a bullet from his gun that pierces through the young man’s skull in his nightmare. No one else dreams of that moment, because the Winter Soldier was the only witness.

He can’t count the number of people whose death he’s the only witness of. Like a twisted member of the Chevra Kadisha. Maybe he should do that. Show up one day and become part of a society here in Brooklyn. Would they even want him?

Actually, no. He shouldn’t do that. Being a member of the Chevra Kadisha is about giving without asking anything in return. It’s about a pure act of chesed, of loving-kindness. Signing up to witness people passing as a way to make amends would be contrary to that principle.

There is no absolution for what he’s done. He needs to remember that and stop trying to make his own existence easier.

He’s seen the kind of damage losing a child can do and not only on Yori. He’s seen it from parents losing their kids to disease in the 30s, when medicine was hard to come by and disease ran through the neighborhood every night like the Angel of Death in Egypt.

He’s helped his mother bake food for neighbors who’d lost their kids and sat shiva on too many occasions. She would pull him close and kiss his forehead and whisper how thankful she was that all four of her children lived strong healthy lives.

All for him to rob that from her by falling off of that damn train.

Did the neighbors help his mother and sisters sit shiva with his empty coffin? Did the letter from Europe arrive before Steve was declared dead? Had the beit din waited until there was certainty that Steve was dead as well, or at least missing and unable to testify that he was actually gone before allowing his mother to bury him? Did they consider the message from his superiors enough proof?

He has no idea, and he doesn’t know where he’d find that knowledge, if he wanted to find it.

Grief has a way of clawing gouges into people.

Did losing him change her forever? Did she stop baking his favorite hamantaschen flavors for Purim, the plum ones he could eat dozens of without blinking, because, like Yori’s red bean mochi, they reminded him too much of him? Did she miss him the way Yori misses his son?

A part of him hopes she didn’t. Because that kind of pain seems too big to bear. She’d already lost her husband, and probably some of her family in the Iași pogrom and the waves of massacres in her homeland. And she’d lost her son now too, to the hands of the Nazis who’d already robbed so many and so much from their people.

Yes, a part of him hopes she didn’t love him as much as she showed, so that the blow was softer on her heart.

He’s seen the damage of losing your child on countless faces, in countless minds. Of those, perhaps the most recent was Helmut Zemo’s.

Bucky doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that man, or the look in his eyes the very last time he saw him, talking almost face to face with Steve. The eyes of a man gone mad with grief. He recognized that look. He recognized a lot of things from Zemo, not only his grief. He recognized the authority of a commander when the lights went out and the act of meek psychiatrist dropped, when he ordered him to report a mission for him, when he ordered him to fight anyone who tried to come after him.

Bucky’s good at parsing out the commanders out of a crowd of strangers. He has practice. They carry themselves a certain, obvious, way to someone who has learned very early how to figure out which person is the man in charge. They’re always the most dangerous, no matter how sadistic their underlings. Those who wield power, those on top of the food chain, they feel different.

And when the red book came out, Zemo felt different.

No matter how broken the man, the power to order men to live or die never goes away.

He won’t forget that man, and not only because of the horrifying grief he carried but also because he was the one man who succeeded in something no one had managed since Arnim Zola in 1950, when they’d told him Steve was dead. He’d robbed his mind from him.

That, Bucky could never forget. No matter the efficiency with which the Wakandans had scrubbed his psyche free of the trigger words, no matter the horrible way in which Zemo was probably the best handler he’d ever had, because he didn’t make him kill anyone and didn’t take advantage of his position of power to hurt him.

He’ll never forget that man’s face, that man’s eyes, the red book in his hands.

He’ll never forget that he was the first psychiatrist that Bucky ever knew, even if he was pretending, that Zemo might have fucked up his chances at getting therapy even more than Raynor’s methods did.

And it’s not like he was given the chance to forget. Zemo might have had the words, but he didn’t have the chair. The memories of those few minutes they’d been alone in the dark are forever engraved in Bucky’s mind, whether he likes them or not.

Remembering is a blessing, he has to remind himself some days. Remembering means you can also recall Rebecca’s giggles and Leah’s smile at his old-fashioned antics, her laugh when he told her his real age. Remembering means you can recall the scrape of Steve’s beard against your cheek when he hugged you close after Wakanda healed you.

Remembering means you can light candles for the ones you love who have passed, honor their memory because you have it.

Remembering all the people he killed with no witness means they will not be forgotten, that they will live on with him. He won’t forget them. He will do better, for them. He’ll try and mend the gashes he’s made into the world, for them.

They will not have died alone, because now he’s free. And he remembers.

[aguagua]

haha fuuuuuc I wrote a novel of headcanon for possible backstory for Donna B from re 8. I don’t really wanna share it in the tags. I just wanted a place to put it bc she is my beloved. Read it under the cut if you want 👊🤪

content warning : suicide and a lot of death

Donna Beneviento :

Born - 1947?

1950s - Sister passes, parents commit suicide

1986 - Claudia born

97 - Claudia passes

Approx. 97/98 - Joins M. Miranda

—-

Family / History / Backstory :

Benegario - Family ancestors branch off from Village and migrate to Italy —> Alps regions // Lombardy, Capo Di Ponte, Val Camomica

Leonardo Beneviento - Father

Andrea Fioralba - Mother

Leonardo was a puppet and mask maker, as well as a costume designer for operas staged at La Scala in Milan, and other more local theaters. His work was commissioned by many. He would also travel to Venice to sell and make masks for Carnevale. Eventually, he would begin to make toys, for his children, and sell them when they’d move to Village.

Bernadette Beneviento - Sister, b. 1942. Sickly child on and off.

Donna, b. 1947. Leonardo + Donna are close. He mentors her in making puppets + masks, she has an affinity for puppets. Spent many times in the backs of theaters, helping her father fit masks, alter costuming, and repair puppets. She loves opera. She’s gone to Carnevale w/ her father as well to make masks.

Possibility of move?? Bernadette is very sick?? M.M. Constantly reaching out to Benevientos anyway to get them to return to village. Possibly convinces them to move by saying she will help their daughter.

Father eases Donna’s nerves and tries comforting Donna about the move (leaving her friends and life behind) by crafting her Angie, a friend she will always have wherever they go. Donna is six.

Bernadette obviously does not survive MM’s experiments. Late 1957. Parents are both in hysterics. Andrea commits suicide in the following weeks, Donna witnesses this. Leonardo finds them both and is beside himself. Donna picks up the knife that Andrea used to end her life. Father tries to take it from her bc he doesn’t want her hurting herself. She freezes up and it’s like wrestling to get it out of her hands and accidentally, Leonardo severely wounds Donna. In immediate response, Leonardo in a state of pure lunacy, losing his eldest daughter, his wife and now assuming he had killed his youngest, ends his own life in front of her. Donna witnesses this too. This all happens extremely fast. It’s really volatile // reactive.

Donna just barely survives but her face is scarred and partially blind in her right eye. Clearly traumatized horrifically by the incident, she’s taken care of by the staff of the estate and Mother Miranda checks in often ((keeping her influence there))

Donna cannot communicate anymore herself, she’s latched onto her puppet, Angie and uses her to speak. Has bouts of isolation and has difficulty growing up w/o a family and navigating a very intense injury.

Inspired by MM’s “tireless work” to help save Bernadette and her being a sort of constant in her life now, she delved into studies of medicine and plants. Wanting to help other people who are sick.

Doll making, though, is a very sacred and special hobby to her and a craft she continues to hone privately. She’s extremely attached to Angie, treats her as her own sister. It’s all she has left.

Extremely sensitive about her facial scar + right eye, hides the right side of her face as much as possible.

Becomes a sort of medic to the Village. She sells salves, ointments, and medicines through Duke. Gives him toys and dolls she’s made to also sell, occasionally.

Beneviento staff raised her and helped her to slowly come out of her shell. Still very awkward, socially, and reclusive though. But, in becoming more social, she began to take patients in-house. Helped plenty, most of the time free of charge. This is how she had come to meet her eventual boyfriend, which was a very clumsy relationship that ended with her being pregnant, him leaving her and her trust broken.

Though, that resulted in Claudia being born! 1986. Donna is 39. Motherhood is what pulled Donna out of the dark. Even bringing her to much better communicate without Angie, though she still uses her. She’s a loving and very giving mother to Claudia who is very talkative and curious. Donna doesn’t mind all the chatter, she loved to listen to Claudia speak. There was a liveliness in the Estate and in Donna that hadn’t existed in a long long time. Claudia also adored Angie, Donna was at first hesitant and protective of Angie, but eventually permitted Claudia to take Angie and play with her however she wanted. Because of Claudias love for Angie, Donna began to make dolls for Claudia, often. Brilliant and beautiful toys with elegant and carefully detailed features + clothing. They’d even, a few times, gone down to the Village. Socialized some. Donna felt very Secure and in control for once.

But, like her sister Bernadette, Claudia was also sickly. Donna was just more equipped at giving Claudia the care and medicine she needed to live life happily. But, it came to a point in late 96, when no medicines or health care seemed to work anymore and Claudia was always bedridden and weak. Seemed only way to help Claudia at this point was to make her dolls that comforted her, But did not help her. In an act of desperation, being at a loss at what to do to save Claudia anymore, Donna turned to her idol, her new mentor of sorts, Mother Miranda. She pleaded for her to help Claudia and save her.

And MM did what she does best (lol).

** I think also MM might have been interested in using Claudia as a vessel for Eva so that doesn’t help either.

Donna snapped and snapped hard. Completely regresses to the way she was before. Is an Intense Agoraphobe. MM used the situation to her advantage. Manipulated her way further into Donnas heart empathizing w her Loss w her own and got her to join the family.

——

Post Cadou :

97 - Receiving the Cadou did not help her mental state. Actually became frightened of her own face At first because of the Cadou overtaking her scar and eye. reliving many traumas. this is an especially bad year.

Highly anxious, a manic depressive, still wont leave home unless it’s to see MM.

Attempts in some way to still cope with Claudias death by making and perfecting her dolls, has filled the whole house. She eventually learned of her ability to spread her Cadou amongst her dolls. Immediately does this with Angie + Angie very quickly became her own entity, Donna’s guardian, and lifelong companion.

Begins to experiment with what also she can use her Cadou for. She futzed with various plants and medicines, Angie once suggested she try reanimating the dead (that didn’t work) but Donna did end up accidentally making herself hallucinate, inhaling some pollen of an affected plant and she briefly saw Claudia. Began carefully studying this yellow flower and experimenting with it to see Claudia again. Tested it with her gardener, who then saw his late wife. Finding it worked, Donna, she tells the Gardener to come back again and she will show him the rest of his family. Before then she used the pollen to see Claudia again, but when she did it left her thinking :

“This is not Claudia, she will never be Claudia. I will never get her, my parents or sister back ever again. Why not just join them?”

—> in this hysteric state, she has a nervous breakdown, and when the gardener arrives, she doesnt end her own life. Instead, she took his. Donna still shows him his lost loved ones one last time, controlling the hallucinations to lure him around and out of the house and fall off of the cliff, crashing with the waterfalls.

She gave him the Gift of joining them. After taking the Gardener’s life, she fashioned a doll in his likeness and strung it up in a tree as if reaching toward the heavens.

She began to do this to any villager, who fell prey to Angie, who would come down to the Village, convincing them to experience Donna’s Gift, seeing their lost loved ones and subsequently tossing them to their own demise to be with them.

“None of her playmates have ever come back from that dank old estate.”

*** Donna really believes she’s doing these people a favor, “giving them a gift,” by luring them to the estate and killing them. It’s ultimately what she wants herself but won’t bring herself to act upon. ***

Okay woof holy shit that was a lot. I’m done for now. 😚

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

Psycho: A Product of the Times

1960 was an interesting year.

Bridging the gap of the 1950s to the 1960s, the first year of the new decade was both the last hurrah of the outwardly ‘squeaky clean’ ‘50s, and the beginning of a new decade fraught with change and unrest.  The Civil Rights Movement, the Vietnam War, and the continued strain of the Cold War brought with it societal changes as the youth rose up, forming a new culture that further widened the gap between the old and the new.

And as society shifted to a new age, so too did its media.

Every piece of art ever made is a direct result of the culture and the times it was created in, each story the product of beliefs, and values of the era it is in.  Whether it supports, criticizes, or simply demonstrates the society it lives in doesn’t necessarily make it good or bad, merely expected.  No matter what, every movie ever made has the fingerprints of the culture.  Even fantasy and science fiction stories demonstrate the values of the time they were made in.  

Like I said, this isn’t a bad thing.

Some things hold up, very well, in fact.  Other stories tend to find themselves tarnished by the passing of time.

Today, we’re seeing which category Psycho fits into by answering a simple question:

Is Psycho too dated to be enjoyed by a modern audience?

Depends on what you mean.

In hindsight, it’s kind of obvious that Psycho is fifty years old. (Spoilers below!)

The fashions, cars, and highways are very obviously from the 1960s, (it was much easier to find yourself accidentally off the highway back then) and the old-school style of film assists with that ‘old movie’ feeling.  The gothic look of a few scenes almost hearken back to the old Universal monster films, and overall, the movie does show its age with camerawork, although it does all look very good for its age.

But that’s not really the question here.

Like I said, every movie has that cultural fingerprint.  We can overlook some editing styles that have gone out of fashion, or some fashions that have gone out of style.  Plenty of older films still hold up in a visual way, because we know and understand the limitations of the time.  In that sense, every movie is dated, and most of us can accept that.

Harder to accept are the old-fashioned ideas.

It is ideas that make films like Sixteen Candles harder to watch in hindsight, or Grease a struggle to sit through.  It’s the ideas, the core themes that a movie is centered around, that really determines whether a movie is dated or not.  It is the values of a culture that, looking back, can make modern viewers uncomfortable from a standpoint of progress.

The question is, does Psycho fit into that category?

Honestly…it’s a little bit of both.

There are plenty of elements of Psycho that speak to a different culture.  The social stigma surrounding Marion and Sam’s relationship wouldn’t exist today, and the likelihood of Norman’s isolation and abuse would be lessened in a world with more organizations designed to ensure the well-being of children (though not rendered impossible).  While the technical advancements like cell-phones and the increase of paperwork may have changed the story in small elements, for the most part, the film still holds up.  Marion’s story is not alien or invalidated in a culture with people that still understand the desire to get married and settle down.

There are other elements that give the impression of an older culture.  Marion being punished for her morally reprehensible behavior isn’t a trope that has died off, but for the most part, the uncomfortable objectification of female vulnerability has become more scrutinized (rightfully so) in modern culture.  Hitchcock’s fascination with his beautiful, fair-haired women (“Blondes make the best victims. They’re like virgin snow that shows up the bloody footprints.”) is well known to those familiar with the film world, and the disturbing trend is continued in Psycho, used in a voyeuristic way in the admittedly brilliantly-shot shower sequence.

So yes, there are some things about Psycho that haven’t aged the best.  

However, with that in mind, it’s important to note that a lot of Psycho actually is ahead of the culture.  

Sure, Marion Crane is on the receiving end of some weird voyeurism, but that doesn’t change the fact that she, and her sister Lila, are the most interesting characters (besides Norman) in the film.  Neither character are the submissive stereotypes more popular in decades past, and neither are ‘put in their place’.  Marion almost gets away with her crime, only stopped by her death.  She’s got goals, plans, and she’s smart, albeit not a great criminal.  In other words, Marion comes across like a real person, and so does Lila.  Even though Lila’s not the main character of the film, she too is an interesting, intelligent, competent woman, again, playing the part of detective more successfully than Arbogast, and even Sam.

As a horror film, Psycho isn’t especially sexist, (the ratio of dead people is 1:1 for male/female) and although there is a lack of ethnic diversity (as was unfortunately common for the time), there is another point that Psycho shows with remarkable sensitivity: that of mental illnesses.

As I’ve said before, Norman Bates suffers from Dissociative Personality Disorder.  That, on top of an abusive childhood, drives him to fits where his personality is taken over by his ‘alter ego’, Mother, who kills people.  Despite the name, there is no real ‘psycho’ in the story, (except perhaps the Mother personality) as Norman does feel empathy, and is a sympathetic character.

Psycho was the first real example of a character being shown as having a real mental illness, and having it be explained, rather than the simple explanation of: “he’s just crazy”.  While our understanding of mental illnesses has grown since 1960, this film was one of the first to bring these ideas to the public eye.

In short?

Psycho has its flaws, sure, but it could just as easily been made today.

As the (awful) reboot would demonstrate later, Psycho as a film is not outdated in terms of ideas or core concepts and themes.

Psycho is as scary, and as interesting, as it was when it was first released in 1960.  It’s twists, turns, and legitimately unsettling atmosphere make it a horror classic, as well as a mystery/thriller for the ages.  It’s still considered a classic for a reason.  No matter how much times passes, the horror of the idea that any person, no matter how nice, could be concealing a killer is just as potent as it was in 1960.  Its characters and story are just as clear and relatable now as they were then, and as much as they will continue to be.

Yes, Psycho is a product of its times, but that makes it no less enjoyable.  It was influenced by its culture just as much as it would go on to influence.  That in and of itself doesn’t necessarily make it a good or bad movie, but it does show us that filmmaking, as a part of society, is always changing.  

In 1960, Psycho was a creepy story that subverted expectations in the best way, and just because we’ve seen stories like it since doesn’t take away any of its punch.

Thanks so much for reading!  Don’t forget to use that ask box if you have your own ideas or thoughts that you’d like to share.  I hope to see you in the next article.

[fatgirlsguidetodating]

Blog: Almost 40.

I’ve never been one for posting particularly introspective blog entries publicly. It’s not that I don’t contemplate things, or even write about them, but for the most part those meandering musings are confined only to my phone’s notes app- my most used app behind Facebook. And on those rare occasions that I *do* publicly blog about them I usually keep it on a relatively superficial level as I don’t necessarily like opening up my mind (and insecurities) to strangers.

But I’m turning 40 in less than a month and I think this is the catalyst that’s prompted a lot more thought about things than I’d ordinarily give them. I’d always considered 40 old but, as I approach it, I don’t *feel* old. And my family and friends would be rather quick to point out I don’t act it either. I always thought by 40 I would be much further along in life than I am. That I’d have a good job, a nice husband, a nice house, kids, that whole suburban dream. But... I haven’t.

And I started thinking if I’m a ball of mixed emotions about turning 40 maybe there’s other women- and men for that matter- who are feeling the exact same way so perhaps if I’m to break my self imposed cocoon of privacy around my innermost thoughts now might be the perfect time to give it a shot. So, with that being said, here goes nothing...

Here’s the thing: I remember my Mum’s 40th. I had just turned 10. I was sitting outside with my cousins, all of similar ages, and we were making fun of what we considered to be the appalling music taste our respective parents had. I even remember the leather pants Mum was wearing. She claims to have forgotten them but I think she’s faking that despite her bad memory. It didn’t even occur to me for a millisecond that my 40th wouldn’t be spent in a similar fashion. I just assumed life would follow the same path most women’s lives had followed for generations (with one caveat- I was planning to be the first one to go to uni): I’d find a job, I’d find a husband, we’d buy a house with a white picket fence, and we’d have 2.5 kids and a dog. And that all of that would be well and truly achieved by the time I turned 40. Just like it had been for my mum, and her mum before her, and hers before her. It was just the way things went, you know?

And then life happened. There’s a line in “Beautiful Boy” one of the John Lennon songs that I love that says “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” and it couldn’t be any truer in the 21st century than It was when it was written in 1980. (It’s a cruel twist of fate that it was written not long before he died and released after his death.)

For me “life” was all about my health, or lack thereof. I’ve mentioned the back issues before and the many hospital visits, and the 70 plus back ops. In essence this put things on hold: work, getting a home of my own, finding a guy (hard when you are always in and out of hospital and have problems losing weight) and having kids. So as I approach 40 without those things I’m not necessarily looking forward to it the way many do. (Plus if I get one “over the hill” card the person giving it to me shall be in a body bag.)

One thing I noticed when researching this blog post was Google searches about turning 40 seemed to concentrate on two things: what your health would be like post 40 and life as a Mum. Well what about those of us who are single and childless? Are we invisible? This didn’t particularly help with my mixed emotions about this supposed great milestone.

And it seems I’m not alone. Dr. Nancy Oreilly wrote about women’s aging anxiety that regardless of how you feel towards turning 40 you’ll still do what everyone does at this juncture and take stock of your life thus far. Things like “what have you done with your life? Are you the person you intended to be and are you living the life you want?” (1.)

In Lisa Bono’s interview with author Glynnis MacNicol about her book “No one tells you this” for the Sydney Morning Herald about life as a single 40 year old woman MacNicol admits she approached her 40th with “so much dread and shame" because she didn't have what she was "supposed" to have - a husband and a kid or two.... (because) we don't understand how to talk about women's lives as fulfilling unless we incorporate babies or weddings.” (2.)

Meredith Goldberg, in her article about age being just a number posed the question that if indeed age was just a number why was she feeling so apprehensive? Was it because she felt “like (she) had not accomplished enough in (her) 40 years on earth?” (3.) After all she hadn’t gotten married, hadn’t had kids, didn’t have another advanced degree.

Interestingly studies over the last decade or so have shown that the start of middle age (which, much to my chagrin given my belief I’m still like a much younger woman, is considered to be 40) often correlates with the time when people are the least happy, have the lowest levels of life satisfaction and highest levels of anxiety. A study at the University of Warwick and Dartmouth College attributed this to the facts that at this stage “adults are often faced with the pressures of raising children and looking after aging parents while simultaneously dealing with mounting financial and career pressures.“ (4)

Is it all too late for me- and other women turning 40 without a child- though? This is one of the most common thoughts going round and round in my head as I approach 40. I mean we all know about the whole ticking biological clock right? Even when I was doing my first postrgrad degree at 24, working part time, still single, still living at home, I still thought well there’s plenty of time. At 28 when I was finishing with postgrad, working full time but still single I *still* thought well there’s still a fair bit of time. At 33 it changed to well I guess there’s still time if I get a bit of a hurry on now. And now, at 39, single and childless, I think well maybe it’s too late now.

In her article about turning 40 whilst single and childless Bethany Jenkins wrote that it’s not only common but practically universal for a woman to expect and long for children, “to bring new life into the world; to put her hand on her belly as her baby grows; to wonder whether the newborn will have her or her beloved’s eyes; to hear “mom” not as a word uttered by her own voice to her own mother but as a call from her child’s voice for her.” (5) MacNicol in her book echoes that saying “as women, we’re taught to expect our stories to turn to marriage and children at a certain point in time (namely, before 40.)” (6)

Robin Deutsch, a psychologist and associate professor at William James College in Newton also points out that women reaching 40 tend to be more confident, have more wisdom and make better choices. (4) (Does she even know me?) But when you really think about it the whole “life begins at 40” theory has some merit. Julia Child didn’t publish her first cookbook until she was almost 50. Vera Wang didn’t start her fashion career until 40.

The fact that these women have the same feelings surrounding turning 40 whilst single and childless gives me some comfort. There’s a quote from Jung that I remember from philosophy at uni. He said that life begins at 40 and until then you’re just doing research. And maybe I’ve got to look at the positives in my current circumstances? One big upside I see is freedom. I plan to travel and return to uni to study something I’m passionate about and it’s doubtful I could do this had my life taken that path I was so sure it would.

So does this mean that the formula that my mum and all my ancestors followed, that unsaid life plan of when to get married, buy a home and have kids, is a thing of the past? We know women have children later these days. In fact the median age for a first kid these days is 30.6 as per the ABS reports

From the 1950s to mid 1970s, the fertility rates of women aged 20–24 and 25–29 were patently higher than that of all other age groups. Since then, the fertility rates for women in their 20s have been steadily declining whilst rates of those aged in their 30s have mostly increased since the early 1980s. Since 2000, the fertility rate of women in their early 30s has been higher than all other groups. It’s not just that women are having babies later but also the birth rate has declined. In 1950 the birth rate was 23.124. Its predicted 2020 will be at 12.561. (ABS yearly reports.)

We know women have children later these days, preferring to be settled and to have done the things they thought they’d not be able to do after before becoming a parent. Compared to our mothers, our grandmothers and so on we have more choices and not every woman’s first goal in life is having a child. (8)

The differences between say baby boomers and millennials are striking. It’s not just the fact that they settle down later but there are also other factors that mean by the time we turn 40 we may not have all the things our ancestors have but there are other priorities we have. For instance more women go to university now than they did when my Mum was turning 40. And after spending the time, work and money to get a degree it’s only natural that it follows that they want to get more out of their careers. Whilst baby boomers are more driven by loyalty, often staying at the same company for years, millennials are more interested in achieving more, whether that’s at the same company or not. (9) My father, for example, worked for the same company his entire life. He could have gone to many others with the knowledge he’d accumulated but he liked his job and he was happy there so it didn’t even really occur to him in more than a passing thought.

Then you look at things like buying a home. It’s ironic given that pay has increased that millennials are putting home ownership off longer than previous generations. Whilst people of my parents generation were content with a “starter home” these days more and more first home buyers want a bigger home, with bigger and better appliances, closer to the city than the suburbs etc. Research has found that rather than jump straight into a mortgage millennials look at travel, and spending their pay on things like Ubers and Lyfts, coffee, gadgets, clothes, and live entertainment and sports. (9)

Marriage is also something we do later. Consider the fact that whilst almost “50% of baby boomers were married between the ages of 18 to 32... a mere 26% of millennials are married in the same age range.” (9)

The fact that so many other women have the same feelings surrounding turning 40 whilst single and childless gives me some comfort. There’s a quote from Jung that I remember from philosophy at uni. He said that life begins at 40 and until then you’re just doing research. And maybe I’ve got to look at the positives in my current circumstances? One big upside I see is freedom. In the next 12 months I plan to travel and return to uni to study something I’m passionate about and it’s doubtful I could do this had my life taken that path I was so sure it would.

In an article published on mindbodygreen.com the writer spoke about how well-meaning friends had been asking her did she not want to have kids, did she not want to get married, etc, and she was quick to say that this can actually be the “most celebrated time of your life (and to) consider yourself blessed and enjoy the freedom.” (10) She listed some of the things to celebrate about turning 40 whilst single and childless. Like me travel was up there on her list as was the time to Perdue your passions. She also mentioned “(the) opportunity to nurture your friendships and relationships with family...(and that) the dating pool is large in your 40’s (given) a large majority of our population is divorced... there are so many

social media dating sites and social events in every major city... (and) you know what you're looking for.” (10)

So maybe instead of worrying about why I’m not where I wanted to be turning 40, worrying that it’s too late, worrying that my friends are further along than I am, I should be embracing it. The future is mine. I’ve just got to find a way to embrace it.

Fatgirl.

Sources:

1.) https://www.drnancyoreilly.com/40-2/

2.) https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/no-one-tells-you-life-as-a-40-year-old-single-woman-can-be-like-this-20180717-p4zs16.html

3.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.sheknows.com/health-and-wellness/articles/1140197/anxious-about-turning-40/amp/

4.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.bostonglobe.com/magazine/2017/06/01/seriously-now-what-traumatic-about-turning/UVnbdmxVvLSzwoB8Yo4wGP/story.html%3foutputType=amp

5.) https://ifstudies.org/blog/reflections-on-turning-40-while-single-and-childless

6.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.wellandgood.com/good-advice/single-at-40-glynnis-macnicol-interview/amp/

7.) https://aifs.gov.au/facts-and-figures/births-in-australia

8.) https://www.mamamia.com.au/average-age-to-have-kids/

9.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.businessinsider.com/difference-millennials-baby-boomers-2019-4%3famp

10.) https://www.google.com/amp/s/amp.mindbodygreen.com/articles/so-im-single-40-and-childless-now-what--10631

[keeroo92]

True North Part 2

Part two of the commission sent by @clevermentalitybeliever, 

Part 1

Word count - 3,219

Apologies for any issues, my editing tool crashed so back to old techniques. And I really hope you like Lord of the Rings XD

_______________

---V---

The work wasn’t easy. The customers often browsed for over an hour and left without buying anything. At first, he tried to help them, but quickly learned his previous retail experience of assistance and urgency barely applied. If someone needed help, they asked. Otherwise, his offers of help met incredulous looks and confusion.

After the first week, you started training him in appraisals with the help of several reference books. As much as he loved old fashioned furniture and classic décor, determining its value was challenging. You spent as much time as you could spare teaching him, but you had several demands on your time.

And it doesn’t help that we spend half the time laughing.

He smirked, leaning closer to the ornate vase on the counter. Early 1950’s, judging by the decay of the enamel and the geometric pattern. It was in good condition, no major cracks despite its age. He scrawled a messy thirty on the sticker, setting the item in the growing pile of glassware with one hand while his other reached for the next piece.

“You’re getting faster. Might be time I popped your cherry,” you said over his shoulder.

He choked on his tongue, coughing loudly enough to echo in the massive storage area.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Acquisitions. Why, did you have something else in mind?”

Well, if I didn’t before…

“Ha! Made you blush.”

“Yes, that’s a point to you. Twenty-three to seventeen, correct?”

You nodded as he stood and stretched, stealing a moment to recover. He tried not to picture a whole new way to win the ongoing contest; you were his boss and quickly becoming a friend. To imagine you naked and wrapped around him, flushed and sighing as he lifted your small form and held it against a wall was unquestionably inappropriate.

Not to mention I owe her three grand.

“In my favor, don’t forget that part!”

He grinned and did his best to adjust his suddenly too tight pants without drawing your attention. “I wouldn’t dare. What do acquisitions entail?”

You chuckled and grabbed your purse, digging through it until you found car keys. V always got a kick out of your quirky keychains and focused on the myriad of shapes to push away the last of his lingering arousal. None of them made sense to him, other than the lucky rabbit’s foot.

“Sometimes folks want an appraisal before they decide to donate or sell us their stuff. Got a call this morning, a death in the family and they aren’t sure what to do with what’s left behind. Might be some sad people there, but the house is on a beach at least.”

A beach. He hadn’t been in years, but the thought of salty air and rolling waves brought a smile to his lips. There might even be time to look for seashells.

“What are we waiting for?”

---Reader---

A fifteen minute drive later and you were knocking at the sandy front door of a single story beach house with paint that matched the sky. It was the perfect day for being on the sea, not a cloud to be seen and a gentle breeze relieving the worst of the heat from the hot sun. You scraped your feet on the entrance mat, losing the bulkof the sand stuck in your shoes as a middle aged man opened the door. His face was strained in grief and you met his mournful eyes with sympathy.

“Hi, you must be Mr. Sutherland. I’m Y/N, from Another Man’s Treasure, this is my associate V. I’m so sorry for your loss,” you said, reaching out to shake the poor man’s hand.

“Right. Thank you, please come in.”

With one last run over the rug, you followed him with V a step behind. Inside, the home was bright and cheery. Yellow pastel walls and light wooden furniture set a welcoming tone in the living area. Only the outlines of where photos once decorated the room reminded you of the reason for your visit.

“Mom kept her collection in the back, it’s this way,” Mr. Sutherland remarked.

He shuffled down a dim hallway to show you a back room stuffed with treasures. A beautifully preserved secretary’s desk, an intricate standing mirror and a stunning collection of porcelain plates caught your attention right off the bat, but that was only the beginning.  

The morose man led you through a narrow gap in the items to show the rest. The pristine bassinet from the 1800’s was a joy to behold, the vintage lamps a close second. This was going to be fun. You turned to the client and hid your excitement behind a tight seal of professionalism.

“We’ll treat each item with the utmost care, you have my word.”

He managed a small smile and left you to it.

The hours passed in a haze of assessment and discovery. Since the client was still in the home, you kept the laughter and joking to a minimum, and V was perceptive enough to follow your example. He worked diligently, and by early afternoon you had a final offer ready. You carefully returned the last of the plates to its stand and went to find Mr. Sutherland in the living room, typing away on a laptop.

“Mr. Sutherland? We’re finished,” you said. He closed the computer and waved you and V over to sit on the grey couch.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I can offer you $7,863.47 for the lot, and here’s a breakdown of each item. Do you have any questions?”

He accepted the folder and opened it, glancing at the figures within.

“I’ll have to run it by my sister, she might want one or two things. Can I email you next week?”

You stood and smiled, extending a hand for another shake. “Of course, take all the time you need.”

He gave you a sad smile and escorted the pair of you to the door. V paused by the car, taking a deep sniff of the sea air before climbing in. It was easy to see how much he liked the beach, and you smiled as your stomach rumbled and an idea popped into your head.

“Wanna grab lunch on the pier? Maybe a quick walk on the sand after?”

His wide smile was all the answer you needed, and you guided the sedan back to the main road with several options to choose from. In the end, you wound up grabbing street tacos from a food truck and sitting at a picnic table. It was heating up and as you chewed, you wished you had a skirt to change into before taking that stroll.

You swallowed. “Mind if we hit the surf shop before that walk? I don’t know about you, but I need something less hot to wear.”

V nodded mid-chew, a sprig of cilantro stuck to his lips. You chuckled and handed him a napkin, pointing at your own mouth to guide him. His hand paused and he smirked, staring you right in the eye as he slowly, teasingly licked his lips and hummed. Blood rushed to your face.

“Ha, now it’s twenty-five to nineteen!” he crowed in triumph.

Huh? What?

It took a few heartbeats for you to come to your senses. The glimpse of his tongue had you thrumming and you shifted your weight to ease the tension. It was impossible not to notice how attractive he was, but this was all in good fun. Right? He was only trying to even the score, using every tool at his disposal.

It didn’t matter. You were his boss. Self-control didn’t come easily to you, but this time it mattered.

That didn’t mean you couldn’t beat him at his own game, though.

You sighed and nodded, admitting his point as you reached for your milkshake. This was going to be so good. Your tongue wrapped around the straw and you closed your lips, sucking deeply so your cheeks hollowed. The faint remains of your blush still colored your face as you closed your eyes and hummed at the flavor.

V's breath audibly hitched. It was too much and you opened your eyes to see his gaze fixated on your lips as you withdrew the straw, his lids wide and pupils dilated. You cleared your throat with a smirk and his eyes shot to yours, his blush a stark contrast to his normally pale skin.

Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have done that. I’m torturing us both…

His lips parted. “Make that twenty-six to nineteen.”

Victory was sweet.

 _____________________

You backed off for the rest of the meal, too aware of your own attraction to dare pushing the envelope any further. V followed your lead, though he tried a few raucous jokes he probably got from Peter. Nothing new and you kept your cool with ease. You headed to the surf shop with the same score.

It didn’t have much outside swimwear, a few wraps and the like but nothing that wouldn’t be above the knee. You took a small bit of comfort in the fact that V had even fewer choices, only a speedo, swim trunks or board shorts.  You ducked into the only changing room and arranged the sarong with care. It was the only one they had that wasn’t transparent, and it barely brushed your kneecaps.

Well, here goes.

Why were you so nervous? It was just skin, and not even that much. Nothing to worry about, he’d seen worse from some of the vintage comics at work.What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe you’d score another point.

You pulled back the curtain, stepping aside so V could take his turn but he didn’t move. His brow was furrowed, more confused than anything else.

“What?” you asked.

He pursed his lips and shifted his weight. “Is that skirt supposed to be so short?”

“Shorter, actually.”

You pushed past him with a smirk and took a seat on the bench to wait as he changed. It didn’t take long, he probably didn’t have to adjust anything like you had. Men had it so easy with clothes. As the curtain parted, you couldn’t help the twitch of your lips and the cough of laughter that slipped through.

I can’t… I can’t handle this. I have to say it!

He was staring at you, the first hint of a blush appearing as he waited for some indication of the reason behind your strange reaction.

It’s so rude, though! But it’s too perfect!

He raised an eyebrow and the dam burst.

“The beacons are lit! The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid!”

A second eyebrow joined his first. He didn’t speak and as the seconds dragged on in silence, you realized why. Your jaw dropped and you looked at him with new eyes.

“Wait… have you never seen Lord of the Rings?”

“No. What is it?”

Oh my god… he must be joking.

“Frodo and the One Ring? One of the greatest fantasy stories ever told? The cornerstone of fantasy tropes for decades?”

He shook his head. He seriously had no idea what you were talking about.

Unacceptable.

You marched forward and grabbed his hand, tugging him to the register to pay. There was no time to waste. Did V live in a cave? How could he not even know what Lord of the Rings was, let alone have never watched the films?

“Come on, beach is cancelled. I hope you like sword fights.”

This is going to be so good! If he doesn’t even know the story it’ll just be that much better!

“Wait, what? Where are we going?”

You smirked. “My place. I have popcorn and all three extended editions. You didn’t have plans for tonight, did you?”

---V---

It was truly as you said – one of the greatest stories ever told. He was hooked in ten minutes, laughing along at Bilbo’s party shenanigans and furrowing his brow as Gandalf confronted him. The world of Middle Earth entranced him with its complexity and detail. It felt as real as the world he actually lived in, as real as the Qlipoth. And the music! Superb.

His soul shattered as Frodo screamed for Gandalf. The raw grief reminded him of his own losses and he found tears spilling from his eyes as Aragorn dragged the hobbit away. The sheer heroism of Borimir’s last stand left him speechless, a stunning display of redemption. He hoped he could redeem himself so thoroughly. As the credits rolled on Fellowship, you turned to him with a huge grin, a gleam of excitement in your eyes.

“Well? What did you think?”

He struggled to find words for a moment, finally settling on a question. “You did say there’s three of these, right?”

The leather couch squeaked as you bounced happily, clapping your hands. It was easy to see how much you loved the story, and his heart warmed at how quick you’d been to demand he experience it. Inviting him into your home, making popcorn and dimming the lights. He didn’t even mind that he’d missed the beach, this gave him far more enjoyment. Especially when he glanced at you and saw you biting your lip, watching his reactions throughout the film.

Her joy is contagious.

“Yes! I knew you’d like it! Who’s your favorite character? Actually, no you should watch the rest first! Do you want more popcorn? I have some chicken too if you want something more substantial.”

He smirked, pitching his voice as close to Gandalf’s as he could. “Just popcorn, thank you.”

“You did not just do that! I’m so proud of you!”

And then your arms were around him. Hugging him. Squeezing his shoulders. He could smell your hair, feel the warmth of your body. Who was the last person to hug him? How long had it been?

It didn’t matter. He lifted his arms and returned your embrace, trying to toe the line between friendship and something more intimate. The moment he felt you pull back, he mirrored you and schooled his features into a smile.

“Bathroom’s on the left there, if you need it. I’ll get the popcorn!”

That seems wise.

He forced his legs to move at a normal pace to the bathroom. He didn’t need to use it, but a moment to clear his head was too valuable to refuse. The lines were clear, the boundary should be easy to respect. But somehow, it was becoming more difficult. V splashed some cool water on his face and sighed, staring into his green eyes in the mirror.

This was supposed to be simple. Make amends. Nothing more.

As long as he was careful, there was no reason anything had to change. It was just a hug, it didn’t even last that long. He’d tone down his jokes, but he was too selfish to push you away outright. Fool that he was.

He sighed again. Maybe he should just leave? Make some excuse and go home? No, too obvious. You’d see right through it. Plus, he really wanted to finish the movies.

He was starting to understand what Bilbo meant by feeling like butter, scraped over too much bread.

“Hey, you want something to drink? I’ve got some light beer, or water,” you asked from the hall.

Alcohol would be extremely unwise. I’m already barely holding on.

“Water sounds lovely,” he called back. He waited a moment longer and flushed the toilet, hiding his absurdity. A quick wash of his hands and he rejoined you on the couch, picking the same exact spot he sat in before so nothing seemed amiss. A glass of water was waiting for him and he took a few sips as the second film opened.

The hours flew by in a whirlwind of rocky plains and horses, black orc flesh and white wizard robes. If the first film left him speechless, the second left him gob smacked. Never would he forget the image of the Rohirrim, riding over the cliffs to save their king with the sun streaming over their armored shoulders. He’d been a little worried that the battle was lost and cheered at the victory. As the credits rolled, he stood to stretch with a smile.

“Ready for more?” you asked. He glanced down at you and nodded, his earlier discomfort forgotten in his eagerness.

By the end of the conclusion, he was crying again. What a beautiful ending. Even the credits were gorgeous and he couldn’t look away from the perfect artwork of the characters.

“So, now that you’ve seen them all! Who’s your favorite?”

Before he could answer, the front door creaked open, a thick figure stepping through. Your face went slack, the blood draining away in panic. V was instantly on alert, muscles coiled and ready to react if something went wrong. You hadn’t mentioned a roommate, but the dull resignation in your eyes didn’t speak to this person being unexpected.

It was a man, bearded and stocky. V thought he looked a bit like a dwarf, but knew better than to say so aloud. He stomped into the living room with an intense glare, taking in the scene.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man demanded, staring right at V.

You stood and approached the man, hand raised in a placating gesture. “This is V. He works with me and had never seen Lord of the Rings. We just finished watching. V, this is Caleb. My brother.”

Caleb snorted, derision in every feature. “Stupid name. Get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

“Come on, I’ll drive you back to the store,” you began, reaching for the keys. Caleb wrapped a meaty fist over your wrist before you got far.

V’s eyes narrowed in anger at the flash of pain on your face, quickly wiped away to pretend everything was fine. He missed his three familiars with every fiber of his being, wishing he could bring out Shadow to maul this asshole or at least get him off you. The fragments of their bond twitched at his thoughts, but the lines led nowhere. They were gone.

He was alone.

“Nah, he can walk,” Caleb said.

V knew there was no way he could fight the man; he was massive, a single hit would break his ribs. And who knew what would happen to you if he tried anything risky? It wasn’t worth it.

“That’s fine. Good night, Y/N.”

To say anything further risked angering the giant still gripping your forearm. He didn’t dare. Instead, he stood and gathered his things, shooting a worried glance at you as he left. He waited outside the door, listening for any hint of distress.

Nothing. All was silent.

This is wrong, this is so wrong.

But what else could he do? With only five minutes of interaction, how could he assume anything about your brother? Maybe this was unusual, maybe he was normally a kind man.

But your face when he walked in the door…

V growled in frustration. He still couldn’t hear anything from inside. There was no proof, no reason for him to intervene. And what if Caleb came out and found him still here? That could be disastrous. He had no choice but to leave. If you didn’t come to work tomorrow, he’d come back. For now, he needed to retreat.

His heart ached with every step.

_______

If you aren’t familiar, google the beacons are lit beach meme. One of my favorites!

Part 3

[artgurusauce]

Haven’t posted here in a while since the guidelines changed but I thought “Fuck it why not” since this is so huge.

Yup just go ahead and throw some shitty google translate kanji up there you dumb American hahaha Seriously tho I was just too lazy to do dialogue in english ;w; Anyways, been scrolling through the Haudion tags on here for the past couple of days and while I already have a Haudion fic on my plate and I'd rather not do 3 fics at once, I got inspired after watching "A Silent Voice" by Kyoto Animation on Netflix after being recommended to me by several people (Yes, I am aware of the arson attack btw, that was mostly why I was getting recommended). So I decided to make a special secluded AU thing here and share it with y'all. Not gonna elaborate on this further so please don't ask me. You guys are all free to write something of your own out of this if you want, though. But this little binch is just too tired and too overworked -▽- Now I did a doodle page of Gladion and Hau as Shoko and Iida but after clicking around on here and AO3 some I decided to make a new and more original doodle sheet. Gonna go over each doodle one by one, starting from left and going to right and also starting at the top and going to the bottom. Hopefully it's not too confusing lol. Context: This AU essentially is just "If Glad was a greaser" but also "Hau is blind/deaf". Gladion is a gang member, straight up. Not much to comment on, other than he is in constant conflict with an opposing gang that sometimes trespasses on his turf (The Skull Gang). He is in fact an ex-member of this particular gang, but quit after a huge falling out in which he actually left the leader with a scar on his face. Unfortunately, I didn't get to build much on his background for this since I wanted to keep the focus on the relationship. But you can fill in the blanks. Hau is basically a Helen Keller type deal, and while he can speak it is slow and stunted and sounds very awkward. Usually when talking to someone he doesn't know, he will attempt to sound out words while using his hands to communicate. He has a special sign language he performs by tracing and moving his fingers a certain way along someone's palm. 1.) Greaser Glad Reread an AO3 fic that was Haudion drabbles. I came across a chapter titled "Seven Kisses" and a particular scene was rather interesting. After reading the comments, I found someone who I was actually familiar with and has sent me fan art before talking in-depth about a possible Haudion Greaser AU and I thought it was a pretty cool idea (Obligatory shout out to @the-kawaiifan you should totally check out her page). So this first doodle is just concept art basically. I looked up Greaser fashion and I do in fact have my own Southside Serpent leather jacket so it was pretty easy for me to draw up lol. 2-3.) First Meeting I would imagine they first meet when Hau is being mugged on Gladion's turf by Skull Gang grunts. Of course, Gladion is mostly just beating their asses for trespassing on his turf, and he drives them away pretty quickly. At first he mistakes Hau for a girl as he is rather small and feminine looking with long hair. At first he warns "her" to leave but he quickly notices it seems that "she" can't hear him. Hau eventually manages to communicate with Gladion and figure out what happened to him and he speaks aloud while tracing on his hand to thank him for his help. Gladion is off-put by this and quickly realizes Hau is actually a boy and while he feels embarrassed and shameful he shakes it off. (Dialogue in number 3 translates to "Thank You") 4.) Chibi Smoking Sucks Just a cute doodle of the boys. Hau don't like the smell of smoke. 5.) You're Beautiful Now I've been taught a lot about how blind and deaf people work and the thing I hear most often is that their other senses are extremely heightened as a result of their other senses being cut off. Basically, since less attention is put on those senses, way more attention is put on others. And in Hau's case, I'm sure that's probably double the case. Just a generic scene of one of the first times Gladion realizes he's totally in love with this cute clueless boy. He's beaten up (Fill in your own context by whom and why, personally I'd insert a Skull Gang beat down here lol) pretty badly and Hau touches his face and basically examines him and he just says out loud that he thinks Gladion is beautiful. This pretty much has greaser boy totally head over heels for him buuut he hides these feelings cause he feels like he'd just be taking advantage of Hau. (Dialogue in this one translates to "You are beautiful") 6.) Obligatory Rain Snuggle Poor poor Hau is not very popular with other kids in his neighborhood. On a particular day going on his way to visit his best friend Gladion he's cornered and beaten up by a bunch of jerkwads in his class. They steal his jacket when they see it's about to rain and leave him there. He keeps on his way to visit his friend even in the pouring rain and starts to catch a cold. By the time Glad finds him he's pretty much blubbering incomprehensibly aside from Gladion's name and sobbing profusely. Gladion offers him his jacket and lets Hau trace on his hand to tell him what happened. He just hugs Hau and takes him inside somewhere to get him warm. Gee, what a nice gangster. Is his heart warming up lately? 7.) Confession Time Obligatory confession scene. This is pretty basic. After learning from Hau how to speak in his special signing language and eventually getting over that god darn insecurity of his he confessed to Hau by tracing on his hand. Hau is shocked initially and Gladion immediately regrets it. He decides it'd be best if he just went away. He tries to leave and Hau trips trying to follow him and begging him to come back and Hau confesses he's super in love with this dumb greaser boy. They kiss and hug and all that good stuff. Happily ever after, yay~ Or is it...? (⚆_⚆) 8.) Blind/Deaf Hau I tried looking around at 1950s-1960s wear that might look cute on him, but I ended up half assing on the clothing for this one. Hope it doesn't look too out of place lol. I imagine since he's blind wearing his long ass hair up is probably unnecessary. Not much to comment on here, tbh. Ain't he cute? .w. 

I haven’t slept since yesterday when I started editing this bout to pass out now bye

[beautifuljuleisha]

Images of Females Advertising Dove

Dove has been around for decades since the 1950’s and it has changed its marketing style since launched. Dove in the beginning had only white faces and today its very diverse. Dove now aims towards diversity and produces products for different skin types. Within the last two decades the brand has promoted positive body image, became more diverse in terms of ethnicity, gender, and race. From the beginning where the models were white and thin until present time, where we have a host of many beautiful shades and sizes of women. 

“The Use of Black Models in Advertising” This article was published in 1971, the article was about the reasons why black models are used for advertising. According to the article black models are used in marketing to sell products to black people. After the civil rights movement and new laws created in the legislature, marketers had to prepare for a new world in which black people would have a voice and more money to buy their products. As well as whites realizing that “black money” is the same as “white money”, both are green; so, with that realization, white businessman became smarter and began marketing black people in positive light for profit.

In the 1950’s concerning size, women were more concerned about having a slim figure, the ‘ideal’ size for attracting a man; Most ads you see on tv or in the magazines/newspapers in the 20th century would be of a slender sized woman, in addition, everyone was attracted to that size. Most of the advertising from the 50’s to the 70’s lacked people of color and of plus sized. I noticed that they choose light skinned black women over dark-skinned black women. As time passed, they began implementing dark skinned women. Marketers usually produced what they felt would sell and what attracts people to buy their products. The secret to advertising is subliminal messaging; subliminal messages is to gain favor with the consumer you’re targeting. For instance, if marketers placed more curvier women in their ads the world would be more accepting.

The early 2000’s Mo’nique (comedian/actress) sort of pushed away the fat shaming when she glorified her size. Mo’nique made ‘fat’ girls feel more beautiful and accepted. In 2005 She hosted the first televised beauty competition and boot camp for full-sized women “F.A.T. Chance,” on the Oxygen station. Mo’nique encouraged other plus size women to love the body they’re in and that they too are normal. “With its debut in 2005 it was the highest-rated original show in the company’s history, and in the second season it had a total of 4.8 million viewers for the premiere and its encores” (Luckily, There’s Plenty of Her for Everybody). There's a market for plus sized women just as there is for ‘regular’ sized women. The views on that show proved that people are interested in a plus sized/curvy woman's lifestyle also people support the body images. The ratings definitely boosted confidence in other plus sized women. Everyone comes in different sizes and should love every inch of themselves and only change for themselves, and of course for a healthier you. “Women are more than the labels that are given to us, they're more than an age, more than a size, more than a name...” (Dressbarn Launches an Empowering Campaign Starring Ashley Graham).

You’d be surprised the amount of negativity and pressure women endure daily, in terms of body image. Super model Tyra Banks has been shunned for her body a few times in her modeling career. It has become so bad that it took a toll on her career.  “Banks said her desire to be her own boss came from rejection she faced for her skin color and curvier figure, which she said was not desirable in the world of high-fashion modeling. “Me being a boss came from pain,” she said. “Being told no you can’t.” ...” Those experiences “created in me an empathy for women and physical discrimination,” (Tyra Banks on Body Shaming in the Fashion Industry: ‘My Pain Turned Me Into a Boss’). Banks kicked off her own show “Americas Next top Model”, there she featured models of many sizes and ethnicity's. She also featured women who were more on the heavy side, also known as ‘plus sized’. Banks also bridged the way of women flaunting, loving their bodies no matter their size. “Body-positive advertisements often feature individuals helping others recognize their inner beauty, and these images of support and kindness could potentially evoke elevation in audiences” (Feeling Bad About Feel-Good Ads: The Emotional and Body-Image Ramifications of Body-Positive Media).

In 2017, Dove offered a Nigerian lady Lola Ogunyemi, to be the face of a new body wash campaign. Lola was excited for the Opportunity, stated, “Having the opportunity to represent my dark-skinned sisters in a global beauty brand felt like the perfect way for me to remind the world that we are here, we are beautiful, and more importantly, we are valued” (I am the woman in the 'racist Dove ad'. I am not a victim), however the commercial sparked a lot of negative backlash due to the content of the advertisement. Due to all the negative comments and controversy around the ad, it was removed, and Dove apologized if they came off as ‘racist’. Besides the backlash the brand has received, I thought it was a great opportunity for Dove to display a dark-skinned person and show the world that dark skin women are real, and beautiful.

“I know that the beauty industry has fueled this opinion with its long history of presenting lighter, mixed-race or white models as the beauty standard. Historically, and in many countries still today, darker models are even used to demonstrate a product’s skin-lightening qualities to help women reach this standard” (I am the woman in the 'racist Dove ad'. I am not a victim).

Although women are still body shamed and go to extreme measures to get the ‘perfect’ body Dove has launched a “Real Beauty campaign”, encouraging people all over the world to flaunt their imperfections and love themselves. “...viewing body-positive advertisements, as compared to traditional beauty ads, sparks stronger emotional responses, including both positive and negative emotions” (Feeling Bad About Feel-Good Ads: The Emotional and Body-Image Ramifications of Body-Positive Media). Under the Real Beauty campaign is the “Self Esteem Project”, “According to the research, 61% of girls between the ages of 10 and 17 in the U.K. lack confidence and body esteem, while nine in 10 girls with low body esteem are likely to put their health at risk trying to conform to what they believe is expected of them. Dove is spending 1.5 million pounds on the campaign, which also offers free advice and support around the issues of self-esteem on the Dove web site” (Dove spearheads ‘Self Esteem Project’ to salute and honor real girls). Dove works with non-professional models to help with the campaign to help build positive body confidence in the girls.  

Over the past few years Dove has been pushing towards more diversity and knocking out beauty stereotypes. Dove works with people nationwide from infants to elderly people from shades of lighter skinned to shades of darker skins. Big, small, short, tall, slim, hefty, you name it, all types of people. People with physical disabilities, skin conditions i.e, vitiligo. People with ‘bad’ acne, crooked teeth, missing teeth, birth marks, nappy hair, straight hair, short hair, long hair, locked hair, a whole variation of people. Size and color of skin doesn’t define you, when you look at yourself in the mirror you should love every inch of yourself, and if weight is an issue that bothers you, get in the mind set of changing your weight. I just want everyone to know we all are beautiful in our own way.

On their website, Dove welcomes everyone and gives you a feel of comfort that purchasing their product would be one of the best decisions you’ve made in terms of beauty. “Welcome to Dove…the home of real beauty. For over a decade, we've been working to make beauty a source of confidence, not anxiety, and here's where the journey continues. Beauty is not defined by shape, size or color – it’s feeling like the best version of yourself. Authentic. Unique. Real. Which is why we’ve made sure our site reflects that. Every image you see here features women cast from real life. A real life version of beauty...” (Dove). Dove is displaying that there are different forms of beauty.

I love the approach that Dove has taken, it’s allowing the younger generations to see that they are beautiful and that the models they see on tv are superficial, yet the models are beautiful as well. Society has deemed being ‘fat’ to be ugly! Being darker skinned to be ‘ugly’! Being gay abnormal! The beauty campaign of Dove has helped millions recognize that you can look pretty without any makeup and you can love yourself no matter what condition you’ve been diagnosed with. You can still relate to others because we all have imperfections.

Society today has left many of us questioning our true selves. "Am I too fat?", "Am I really ugly?" , "Will I be accepted regardless of my sexual orientation?". Despite pondering our insecurities, DOVE has helped many people like you & me recognize our natural beauty. From my personal experience, using DOVE has made my skin feel so radiantly beautiful which has reflected beauty in my self image. Using DOVE has not only allowed me to recognize the beauty in myself but also in the beauty that would open up to those around me. The DOVE campaign demonstrates a relatively natural use of soap that encompasses beauty and self-image. This soap has a diverse ability to help make us appreciate both our physical and mental forms.   

References

Kraus, A., & Myrick, J. G. (2018). Feeling Bad About Feel-Good Ads: The Emotional and Body-Image Ramifications of Body-Positive Media. Communication Research Reports, 35(2), 101–111. https://doi-org.libserv-prd.bridgew.edu/10.1080/08824096.2017.1383233

JOHN J. WHEATLEY. The Use of Black Models in Advertising. Journal of Marketing Research, [s. l.], v. 8, n. 3, p. 390, 1971. DOI 10.2307/3149585. Disponível em: http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=edsjsr&AN=edsjsr.10.2307.3149585&site=eds-live. Acesso em: 26 nov. 2019.

“Dove Spearheads 'Self Esteem Project' to Salute and Honor Real Girls.” Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles Times, 27 Dec. 2017, https://www.latimes.com/fashion/la-ig-wwd-dove-self-esteem-project-20171227-story.html.

Lee, Felicia R. “Luckily, There's Plenty of Her for Everybody.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 5 Aug. 2007, https://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/05/arts/television/05lee.html.

Lopez, Ricardo. “Tyra Banks on Body Shaming in the Fashion Industry: 'My Pain Turned Me Into a Boss'.” Variety, 6 June 2018, https://variety.com/2018/film/news/tyra-banks-on-body-shaming-in-the-fashion-industry-my-pain-turned-me-into-a-boss-1202834241/.

Ogunyemi, Lola. “I Am the Woman in the 'Racist Dove Ad'. I Am Not a Victim | Lola Ogunyemi.” The Guardian, Guardian News and Media, 10 Oct. 2017, https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/oct/10/i-am-woman-racist-dove-ad-not-a-victim.

“Welcome to Dove.” Dove US, https://www.dove.com/us/en/home.html.

Williams, Lashauna, and Lashauna Williams. “Dressbarn Launches an Empowering Campaign Starring Ashley Graham.” InStyle.com, 7 Dec. 2019, https://www.instyle.com/fashion/ashley-graham-dressbarn-more-than-a-name-campaign.