#but then again that was over a decade ago

[mousetaur]

The Treaty of Waitangi is not even that good of a treaty. But it is better than any treaty the Crown signed with indigenous peoples

And it absolutely was not meant to be

The treaty as written screws over Māori, and was written in Te Reo Māori and English with deliberately misleading translations to Te Reo Māori. I'm not an expert by any means, but basically the Te Reo Māori version has clauses that promise much more independence and sovereignty, while the English version does not

However

The English version promises them rights as Citizens

From what I remember from University 10+ years ago, this clause, this sentence, was added last minute by the writer of the treaty. Like, right before the big signing at Waitangi.

And the Crown was PISSED

Because now they had a legally binding document that promised, in their own language, to treat Māori with the same rights as they would English. Which was absolutely not the goal. The goal was to trick Māori into signing away their lands and that honestly still did happen. The treaty was not a good faith proposal by the Engliah.

But its still better than anyone else got, and it's better than no treaty. And because nowadays we can't just ignore the Te Reo Māori side of the treaty, the government's of the past few decades have been honouring Māori sovereignty, honouring their stewardship of the land, and undoing a lot of the bad faith "sales" or straight up stolen land.

Except our current fuck nuggets, who want to make Te Reo Māori an endangered language again, and steal back that land because they want to mine on it and sell it and they hate that Māori stewardship is so environmentally focused and not profit driven.

So, in a way, the current government is more true to the intentions of the Crown who initially came up with the treaty.

But since those guys were colonising bastards, I don't see "honouring" them as anything good.

Even with criticism of the treaty, without it, Māori would lose a lot of protections to their lands, their culture, their language, and as a country we would go backwards to a time when they were even more discriminated against

Toitū te tiriti

Uphold the treaty

Hana-Rawhiti Kareariki Maipi-Clarke, the youngest MP in Aotearoa, starts a haka to protest the first vote on a bill reinterpreting the 1840 Treaty of Waitangi

[aquaticmercy]

Blood Bar

Part 4 of Dark Necessities

Series Summary : You drink Bucky’s blood out of necessity and accidentally form a primal bond that has the ability to unlock an ancient ritual magic.

Chapter Summary : Blade takes you and Bucky to a Vampire Bar

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x half-vampire!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Blood. Death. Cursing. Violence. Pleasure from a vampire bite (?). The reader is a dhampir/half-vampire/daywalker like Blade, and Blade is a mentor figure in this. Established relationship.

Word Count : 3.3k

Note : This series has so much potential world building and I am sooooo excited to share it with you guys! Let me know if you wanna be on the taglist. The name Dead Club City is taken from the Nothing but Thieves album. Enjoy!

Before you entered Dead Club City, Eric had grabbed your shoulder in hushed tones, his voice dripping with warning. “Keep the bond a secret. If anyone suspects—” He stopped, glancing at Bucky before locking eyes with you. “Just… keep it hidden.”

As you walked into Dead Club City, you felt the strange, cold familiarity of the place settle—a memory surfacing from a night long past. It had been decades ago, and you’d been a reckless teenage daywalker, newly turned and testing boundaries you didn’t yet understand. You’d come crashing into this very bar, pushing limits in ways only the young and foolish dared. The memory flickered through your mind: your younger self brashly demanding what no one here allowed themselves anymore.

The bar sprawled in shades of scarlet and purple, lit by dim sconces and vintage lamps. The velvet-lined walls that absorbed the soft music humming in the background. The air was tinged with the metallic scent of old blood and the faintest hint of incense. There was a haunting glow over the place, and high on the back wall, a neon sign pulsed in crimson letters: ALL THE HEAVEN, ALL THE TIME — perhaps a sardonic promise, perhaps a cruel joke.

Everyone here was teetering on the edge between indulgence and restraint.

Vampires filled the room, but they were unlike the ones you usually hunted— these vampires had an almost serene existence, a kind of peace that came from surviving many lifetimes, finding a truce with the living world.

These vampires have sworn off human blood, choosing to feed on animal blood instead. 

Some lounged in booths, others spoke in hushed voices over candlelit tables. When you and Bucky walked in, though, the conversation softened, a few heads turning as eyes tracked you both with subtle curiosity. Whispers drifted around you, brushing against your heightened senses like moths against a flame.

As you approached the bar, the bartender, a woman with sharp, dark eyes and a cascade of silvery hair tied in a braid, looked you over with an expression you couldn’t quite recognise. There was something ageless in her stare, a weariness, but the years had been tamed it to appear kind.

When her gaze settled on Eric, her expression shifted to recognition. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Eric,” she said, her voice smooth and smoky. “I didn’t expect to see you here again. Thought you’d switched to the synthetic stuff decades ago.”

Eric inclined his head slightly. “Liona,” he replied, a hint of warmth in his voice. “Good to see you still run this place. It hasn’t changed much.”

“A blood bar this old doesn’t need to change,” she replied, chuckling softly.

“And you,” her eyes flickered to you, “Some nerve, coming back here,” she said, an amused edge to her voice. “The last time you walked in, you were practically a bloodthirsty child, causing trouble and trying to get your hands on human blood where there wasn’t any. Made quite a scene.”

Back then, you could feel their judgement in the air, the way they called you insane for seeking human blood in a place of sobriety. 

Human blood was strictly forbidden here, the way alcohol might be in a sober house—a choice made by each vampire, a discipline kept in this sanctuary.

“Guess you’ve changed since then,” Liona added, her gaze assessing, as if trying to gauge just how much you’d really grown since that reckless time. “You were violent. Wanted to prove you didn’t need limits.” She chuckled, shaking her head. 

Heat crept into your cheeks, an unspoken apology in your eyes. Her eyes finally settled on Bucky, “New friend?”

Eric nodded.

Liona poured a drink, a dark, crimson liquid that looked like blood but smelled faintly of… cranberry juice. She set it down in front of him. “For you—a mocktail,” she said with a hint of a smile. “Some vampires bring their human partners here. Figured you might be one of them.”

Bucky gave a brief nod. His hand brushed yours as he reached for the drink, and Liona’s eyes tracked the movement, her brow creasing ever so slightly. When she turned to you, she placed a drink in front of you—an ornate glass filled with rich, dark blood— a mix of cow and camel. The bartender leaned on the bar, her gaze lingering with a faint smirk as she watched you bring the glass to your lips.

You took a sip, but the taste that once filled you with strength now felt wrong. Flat. Your stomach tightened, your senses rejecting it almost instinctively. You only wanted Bucky’s blood now; anything else was empty, hollow. 

The bartender chuckled quietly, catching the way you recoiled, her eyes glinting with understanding. “So you are still drinking human blood, then.”

You froze, wondering how much Liona had truly seen to have possibly come to a correct conclusion from just looking at how you reacted. 

Still, she did not know the severity of the human blood you drank.

Eric leaned in, his voice low. “Liona’s older than most in this room,” he murmured to you. “She was around for the last recorded Blood Bond in the 1600s.”

Liona straightened, her gaze sharpening. “Blood Bond, huh?” she asked, her voice suddenly a pitch higher. “Why does that interest you?”

Just then, Eric turned to Bucky, reaching across the bar. He held Bucky’s gaze as he took a small toothpick from a dish. With a quick flick of his wrist, he pricked Bucky’s human arm. The bead of blood welled, dark against his human skin—and instantly, you felt a sharp, sudden pain in your own arm.

A gasp escaped you, and you clutched your arm instinctively, feeling the ache like it was your own. Liona’s eyes went wide as she processed what your reaction meant, her vision darting between you and Bucky. Her lips parted, the hing of sadness in her expression. “A true Blood Bond,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone. “It’s been centuries since I’ve seen this…”

The room seemed to quiet around her memories, her voice carrying an almost ancient longing, as if she were recalling something from a different lifetime.

Liona let out a long, resigned sigh. When she looked back at you, her features softened with… pity?

“Come with me,” she said, her tone gentler, as if she understood all too well the path you’d found yourself on. She gestured toward a door tucked into the shadows behind the bar. As you followed her, the room seemed to press in around you, quiet with expectation. 

And with one last look at the glowing neon sign—ALL THE HEAVEN, ALL THE TIME—you stepped through the back door, the familiar hum of whispers fading as you crossed into the unknown. 

—

Liona led you and Bucky down a narrow, dim hallway that seemed to fold in on itself, the shadows lengthening and wrapping around you. Each step you took felt muffled, as though sound itself had been dampened in these hidden corridors. Bucky walked beside you, close enough that you could feel the tension humming beneath his skin, the way his hand would occasionally brush against yours, grounding you both in a place that felt almost haunted.

You entered her room. It was a small, sparse space, walls bare except for the few paintings and photographs hanging like relics. The air felt dense with the weight of things left unsaid, as though every inch of the place was steeped in memories that were too painful to release. Bucky shifted beside you, his brow furrowed as his eyes scanned the room, his shoulders stiffening with a tension that mirrored your own. He reached out, almost unconsciously, his fingers grazing your hand before he seemed to catch himself, pulling back slightly, but not before the touch anchored you both.

Liona’s voice was almost a whisper as she gestured to the oldest painting on the wall. A past version of herself stood in front of a wooden cottage, a small plaque beneath reading, 17th Century. You felt Bucky’s hand slide into yours, his grip tightening as he took in the figures in the painting: Liona, a woman who looked identical to the bartender, save for the black streak in her hair, and a third woman— human— leaning into Liona’s doppelganger’s arm.

“That’s my twin, Joanna,” Liona murmured, as if sensing your curiosity. “And the one beside her… that was Celine. Joanna’s love.” Her words were fragile, as if saying the name might tear something already broken inside of her.

You felt Bucky’s grip tighten. His posture tensed, his stare unwavering on the painting.

“They were more than lovers,” Liona said, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the image of her twin, as if she could reach through the centuries through the painting. 

“Celine was everything to Joanna… and she meant a lot to me, too. Celine kept us safe, shielded us when we were weak. Brought us animal blood from the butchers when we couldn’t hunt ourselves.” Her voice cracked. Liona looked down, her hand dropping to her side. “What Joanna and I had was a bond of birth. But with Celine… it was something different, something ancient.” She looked over at you and Bucky, her eyes heavy with warning. “A blood bond, much like yours..”

You felt a cold shiver sink into your bones, bracing yourself for whatever came out of Liona’s mouth next. The hand Bucky had on yours grew tenser, his fingers pressing into your skin as though he needed the reminder of your presence. As if he needed so desperately to feel you. He swallowed, already imagining the worst.

Liona’s voice grew hollow as she continued, each word carefully measured, as if dredging up memories from a wound still raw, even though it had been over 300 years. 

“The night it happened, when we shared Celine’s blood… It was desperation, not intent. We were starving, and Celine offered herself to keep us alive.” She closed her eyes, pain etched into every line of her ancient face. “I drank, and all I felt was gratitude. But when Joanna drank…” She drew a shaky breath. “Something awoke, something none of us could understand. The bond was formed.”

You thought back to that night when you first drank from Bucky, the night that bound you to him in ways you hadn’t fully understood. The memory was vivid—the rush of his blood filling you, flooding your senses with a euphoria that drowned out everything but the feel of him. It had been bliss for the both of you, pure and consuming. It was a pleasure so intense it left you dizzy for days, caught between the high it gave you.

For a moment, you wondered if that was what Joanna and Celine had felt, too—a bond so powerful it eclipsed everything else, a love that filled the world until nothing else mattered.

Bucky’s star was fixed on Liona with an intensity that bordered on dread. He rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand, almost unconsciously. 

“Joanna and Celine felt everything together,” Liona continued, her voice slipping into a hollow, distant tone. “Every joy, every pain, every touch. It was beautiful… until it wasn’t.”

This time Bucky’s grip turned into iron.

“One day… we woke to Celine’s pain. She’d been taken by the town, accused of witchcraft, of something unnatural… She wasn’t even a witch.” Her hands shook, her shoulders tense as though bracing against the memory. “We wanted to save her but the sun was out. We were not as lucky as you, Daywalkers,” Liona glanced at you and Eric, a hint of jealousy in her voice, perhaps a craving to feel heat in her skin once again. 

She continued, “Joanna felt it all. She felt the flames eating through Celine's skin, heard her screams as if they were her own.” Her voice broke, and her fists clenched. “Celine’s agony… it tore her apart.”

The horror of it sank into you like a stone, your stomach twisting at the thought of such a pain shared across their bond. Bucky’s hand left yours for a brief moment, and you felt exposed, vulnerable. Then you felt his arm slip around your waist, pulling you close, his body tense as though shielding you from something you could not see, as if he could hold back the terror in Liona’s words from reaching your heart.

“When Celine’s heart stopped, Joanna… felt every second of it.” Liona’s words were low, guttural, raw. “It was the grief, the rage that consumed her— It hollowed her out until she was nothing but vengeance. She tore through the village that night, killing anything in her path. She was lost to the bond, to a hunger that had turned her… monstrous.”

Besides you, Bucky’s breath hitched, and you felt his heart pounding. You felt panic through the bond, knowing in his head lay the same question that echoed in yours—could this happen to us?

Liona’s hand drifted to her side, lifted her shirt ever so slightly, tracing a faint scar on her hip with a haunted gaze. “I was the one who had to stop her,” she said, her voice a mixture of regret and resignation. “My sister was ready to kill me. She could not tell friend from foe. I had no choice… I drove a stake into her heart.” Her voice softened, barely audible. “I ended her suffering.”

A suffocating silence settled over the room. You could barely breathe, Bucky’s fingers digging into your arm, his grip painfully tight as he processed the memory. You could feel the worry clouding his mind, and in that moment, your bond felt as fragile as glass.

Finally, Liona looked at you both, her gaze distant, filled with a sorrow that spanned centuries. “This bond,” she whispered, “it is beautiful, but it is dangerous. It can consume you, burn through every part of you until there’s nothing left.” She held your gaze, a glimmer of sadness hidden in the depths of her eyes. “Be careful with what you’ve awakened.”

Her words lingered, settling into the silence like ashes. He reached for your hand again, intertwining his fingers with yours, the pressure grounding both of you. Neither of you spoke, but in that shared silence, there was a mutual understanding, an unspoken promise.

Liona’s gaze softened as she looked at your joined hands, something wistful in her eyes. She stepped over to an old cabinet by the bed and pulled out a worn leather-bound journal, its edges frayed, the cover etched with symbols faded by age and touch. She held it for a long moment, brushing her fingers over the faded leather with the tenderness of someone touching a memory.

“This was Joanna’s,” she said finally, her voice just above a whisper. “It’s all that remains of her. I’ve read it only once; I couldn’t bear it again. But maybe… maybe you would understand, better than I can explain.” She extended the journal toward you, a cautious invitation to the memories contained within— the only thing she had left of the sister she shared a womb with.

You glanced at Bucky, He didn’t need to say anything; the bond was already tethering you in ways words couldn’t.

You took the journal, feeling its weight in your hands, the smell of old leather and ink mixing with the soft, lingering scent of blood that clung to everything in this room. Liona watched you with a cautious sorrow, as if passing on a piece of her sister’s broken spirit. 

You realised, Liona had loved Celine, too, deeply but differently—a platonic love free of the bond’s consuming rage. And in her eyes, you saw the unhealed wound of it, the pain of watching someone she loved unravel, bound to a fate Liona could neither share nor break.

“Thank you,” you managed to say, your voice shaking slightly. 

The words felt hollow for all that Liona had endured, but there was nothing else you could possibly offer her. 

Bucky squeezed your hand, and you could feel his unspoken promise there, one that felt almost desperate: I won’t lose myself to this. I won’t lose you to this. 

You weren’t sure if either of you truly believed it. You weren't sure if either of you had the choice.

You looked over at Eric, a hollow ache settling in your chest. Guilt stirred within you— how you kept this from him, how it took you so long to open up to a man you thought of as your brother. You hadn’t meant to bring Eric into this, not into something that could spiral so dangerously out of control.

And yet, here you all were, bound by decisions none of you could take back.

Eric seemed to understand the look in your eyes, letting go of usually guarded stance. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled you into a rare, rough embrace.

You let Bucky go, only for a moment, as Eric’s arms wrapped around you in a gesture that spoke louder than anything he could say, reminding you that neither you nor Bucky were alone in this.

When Eric finally pulled back, you wondered if what he felt now was how Liona felt then— a sister, taken by this ancient bond. And he was helpless to stop any of it.

He wondered, if one day, Eric would have to run a stake through your heart, just as Liona did to Joanna, because he was the only one who could possibly stand a chance against your all-consuming rage.

Liona cleared her throat, her eyes tracing over you and Bucky with a mix of caution and pity. “Your blood is… rare, to put it lightly,” she said, her voice sombre. “People will hunt you for it. You’re already a daywalker—that alone makes your blood potent enough for sacrificial magic. But now…” She paused, her gaze sharp and sorrowful. “A blood-bonded daywalker? Your blood will be worth its weight in gold. They’ll come for you both.”

You nodded slowly, letting the gravity of her warning seep into your bones. This bond felt like it had already set forces in motion that you couldn’t control. 

With a final nod to Liona, you, Bucky, and Eric left her quarters, stepping back into the throbbing, shadowed depths of Dead Club City. 

As you made your way toward the exit, something caught your eye—a man standing near the edge of the bar, watching the journal Bucky now carried with unsettling focus. He wore a long, regal coat in deep purple, lined with gold accents, and a lavish feather boa draped around his shoulders. His presence was impossible to ignore. 

He didn’t approach, didn’t move at all, just followed your movement with a steady, unnerving calm that felt like he was measuring you, understanding things about you that even you didn’t yet know. 

You exchanged a glance with Bucky, feeling the tension shared between you. 

As you, Bucky, and Eric pushed through the doors of Dead Club City and into the night, you felt the weight of the stranger’s gaze still on you, like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

 —

Back in your room, Bucky settled beside you, the soft rise and fall of your breathing calming him down. A soft strand of hair had fallen over your face, and he couldn’t resist brushing it aside, his fingers lingering just above your skin, as though even the slightest touch might wake you.

But it wouldn't– he knew it wouldn’t. He could feel that you were too tired to be aware of anything else, he could feel your heartbeat beating steady as if it was next to his own heart.

He carefully reached for the worn leather journal on the nightstand, his fingers grazing over the cover as if trying to absorb a piece of the memories locked inside. With a cautious exhale, he opened it, each page creaking gently as he flipped to the section where Joanna’s handwriting —a mixture of delicate loops and hurried scrawls— began.

Celine’s heart is steady tonight, a rhythm I know even in my dreams. I can feel her joy, her sorrow, all her memories as if they are mine. How strange and beautiful it is, to feel so complete. And yet, part of me wonders how much love one heart can bear before it burns.

-to be cotinued...

Taglist :  @mystictf @chimchoom @crdgn @a-crying-fandom-lover @otterlycanadian 

@sebastians-love @intelligenceofapineapple

[maddiedott]

It Will Come Back

Pairing: Logan Howlett x GN! Reader

Warnings: Very rushed ending, Logan through various different movies/timelines, gn! reader, fluff and tad bit of angst, sexual implications but not explicit, alcohol consumption (let me know if i missed anything)

Hi! Hope everyone is having a great day! I've been struggling with some Wolverine hyperfixation and Deadpool Wolverine being released on Disney+ like 2 days ago didn't help much. So, I decided I would finally post this fic thats been in my drafts for like a month now? It's heavily inspired by Hozier's 'It Will Come Back', so please enjoy!

Time was always a fickle thing for someone who could never age, who had lived centuries and watch as it affected everyone you loved and yet hasn’t graced you with the same courtesy, a long stretch that dipped into the horizon and melted against the inevitable void. There were times when you yearned for the ice cold grip of death, the blissful eternal sleep that most try to run away from, to prevent. But that was before you had met him, before he whispered life back into your hollow bones.

It was a fleeting encounter, words exchanged in a fraction of a second. You couldn’t recall how long this cat and mouse game played out, but you eagerly waited for the next moment you would see him, even if just for a glimpse. It started out slow, the long pull and stretch of time that came with his absence.

The first time you had met was in 1932, a time where many longed for the cold, dark Earth to envelop them so they wouldn’t have to suffer much longer. The interaction was brief, a swift knock to the shoulder as you passed down the street. He grumbled an apology, his voice rough and with an accent that didn’t quite stick in your head enough to name. There was a hesitation in his step as his gaze met yours, more of intrigue than anything else. He stopped completely as you called out, brows furrowed in annoyance. He turned towards you, apology leaving his lips. He introduced himself as James Howlett. An odd last name. You gave your name in kind with a smile.

He looked exhausted, although there wasn’t anyone in This Depression that wasn’t. So, despite your better judgment, you offered him a place to stay and some lukewarm meals to hold him over until he could find work. You never were much of a cook, even now you struggle to prepare much of anything, but it’s not without lack of trying.The rundown country home had been your home for a little before the dust bowl and the drought begun since you had moved into it, trying to busy your lonely mind with farm work. You had set the loft in the barn on your sparse and dusty property for him, giving him plenty of blankets and cloth that would make for a functional and maybe comfortable bed. He mentioned a brother who you had seen only briefly every now and again entering the barn before leaving a few minutes later, always snarling. And even though your instinct was shouting at you to question it, you never did.

There was always an objection to the kindness you showed him when you would bring meals, to leave him to the land as that’s all he knew- how he sleeps, to not be kind. But each time he only came back. It was routine until you found a small note etched in charcoal with the words ‘I come back’. And just like that he had vanished as if he had never existed, disappearing and leaving a strange ache in your chest.

You couldn’t tell when the next time we met was as the years turned to decades. People like you had gained a name; ‘mutants’ and they were becoming more and more common around the world. As narcissistic as it sounded, you thought you had been the only one, cursed to roam the Earth for eternity while watching everyone grow old and die around you. You hadn’t expected to run into him, not after 3 decades, and you surely did not expect for him to look just as the day that you last saw him, nor to recognize you.

You sat beside him on the barstool, not speaking until a whisper of your name fell from his lips as if he had figured out the answer to all of the prayers he’d whispered in the dead of the night to an unseen God.. A smile graced your face before you could stop it, turning in the seat to give him your undivided attention.

“You shouldn’t smile at me like that, you know better.” He gruffly spoke.

You didn’t realize how easy it would be to miss someone’s voice until you heard his. It was as if his words were a melody and you had been searching for the right tune all your life. Just the sound of his voice had been enough to cure you of any ailments for the day. You continued to show him the kindness he so desperately wanted to refuse. To offer him a hand and a soul, one that he feels less deserving of. This time was shorter than the last.

A few drinks, some chatting, walking, and a stumbling mess of feverish, open-mouthed kisses as we reached your apartment and found your way to the couch, the floor, and then the bed. He had ruined you, that much you knew from the very first press of his lips against yours, from the whisper of your name in the bar just a few blocks away, or perhaps it was the very first time his shoulder hit yours.

Towards the end of your euphoric highs, you had noticed the extension of bones from between his knuckles as they dug into your mattress and utterly destroying it. It led to a pensive conversation that eased as you revealed your own curse, your lack of morality. He showed off his claws, explaining his own hyper senses and regenerative properties. You admired the bone that extended from the divots between his knuckles, fingers ghosting over the claws. The night morphed into day as you both recounted stories, although you could tell his were vague and lacking details, keeping them for the darker parts of his mind away from the light.

You hadn’t realized him to be an army man before that night, but sure enough he was being shipped out that next day. So the reunion was cut painfully short and you had to wish him farewell from the comfort of your apartment’s sheets, tangled and damp with cold sweat from the previous night.

It was the middle of winter the next time. You moved from place to place as to not raise suspicion on why one of the neighbors never aged, stuck in a younger body than that hasn’t changed in the last few years of where you stayed. You could never forget James, he was always a lingering thought, a distant wish to run into him once again. As the seasons transitioned from to another, that wish slowly fizzled out.

It burned brighter one particular night, when there was a strange howling outside your door. There had been wolves hanging around, but they sounded nothing like this. So, with little fear to your well being, you opened the door.

He looked different, scruffier and wild. There was a metal contraption on his head that wired down to two boxes on either side of hips. The machinery and mechanism was complex as if he were some part of someone’s cruel experiment. There was a snarl sound emanating from his throat, sitting on his haunches. But his state of undress in the dead of winter was not what caught your eye but the sharp metallic ‘shik’ as metal drew from the divots where bone once did. A sharp gasp left your lips as he slowly stood to his full height, eyes locked and unwavering. He sniffed the air like an animal before taking a step forward, his instincts fueling his muddled mind, the movement subconscious.

He had found his way back, but at what cost? What had this poor man endured to become this way? This feral?

As he took a step forward you mirrored in a step backwards, crossing the threshold of your home and he simply followed. His wild eyes darted from corner to corner, sniffing once more and then taking a deep inhale. He visibly eased up, although still had the behavior of a cornered animal. You let him into the warmth of your home, let him wander and orient himself with his surroundings despite your conscious telling you not to.

It took multiple hours of gentle coaxing and many more attempts of snapping from him until you managed to get him to sit and settle down enough to remove the headpiece and electroids from his body, having them fall to the floor with a thud onto the carpeted floor. He just stared, even a whisper of his name had his head cocked to the side like an animal in a state of confusion.

There was dried blood under his nails, hair greasy and filled with mud and- you didn’t think you wanted to know what else it contained. Bathing and feeding him was no easy feat, metal meeting flesh and red decorating the floor; but, you eventually got it done and even had him dressed in sweatpants that were a bit too tight and the cuffs raised to his mid calf. It would have been comical if he wasn’t so out of his wits.

The next few weeks were awkward, each time you tried to leave he would grab your arm and tighten his hold in an attempt to get you to stay, but you needed food and he needed clothes that actually fit him. He still didn’t speak, just low huffs and grunts. When he finally did speak, it was low and broken as if he had forgotten how.

“Lo… gan…”

The words confused you. Why was he saying a stranger’s name?

“Is he the one that did this to you?” You ask softly, swiftly sitting beside him on the couch. You received a shake of his head in return and another mutter of the man’s name.

“I don’t understand.”

He ruffled into his pocket until a small clink of metal emerged and he withdrew dog tags with the name ‘Logan Howlett’ engraved. It was his last name, but the first one made no sense. On the opposite side it read ‘The Wolverine’. Was that his army name? You had heard of getting nicknames when in service but had no real idea about it.

“You’re Logan?” You clarify, eyes moving from the metal within his palm to his own eyes, still wild but tamed for now.

You received a nod from that, signifying you were correct in your assumption. That would make sense why he had never acknowledged me when you had called him James. So, from then on you referred to him as Logan.

You try not to think about the time during which you helped bring him back to a state of humanity, finding out his memories were scattered and he held no recognition in his eyes other than finding the smell of your home, of you, familiar. You cared for him, allowed him a place to stay and took him with you until he suggested a RV bed for an old truck. With the stash of cash you had dwindling, not expecting to care for another person, you hastily agreed. From there you traveled. City to city, province to province, finding cage fighting bars for cash while trying to bring peace to Logan’s mind and retrieve the memories lost or stolen from him.

Finding Rogue was a blessing, even more so when Scott and Ororo had rescued you both. You had been given a home and a lead on Logan’s missing memory and a chance for him to be a part of a team. So, when he was given information on a location that might jog his memory and insisted he would go alone, giving you his dog tags as a promise, you held some worry of course, but knew that he will come back.

[askthesmg4apprenticeshipau]

So do Puzzles, Three and possibly the others know about what happened at 2:29 back in Wotfi 2014 or is that one of those “we will never speak of this again” moments?

A lot of people may have forgotten it but I sure as hell didn’t!! >:D

*after watching the video in question-*

SMG3: …

Mr. Puzzles: …

*both turn to SMG4 and Mario*

Mario: Oh yeah! Mario forgot about that!

SMG4: Uh…… my…….. uh…… man, these memories of the original SMG4’s sure are fuzzy! Heh…..

SMG3: … SMG4….

SMG4: Don’t remember anything important happening in 2014-

SMG3: SMG4

SMG4: Damn, the original 4’s memories are all out of whack! Can’t remember anything before 2017-

SMG3: S.M.G.4

SMG4: …

Mario: Never again though. Mario found the spaghetti of his eye in my Amore

Mr. Puzzles: I’m flattered, honestly. But… um… what the fuck??

Mario: And Mario knows SMG4 and SMG3 are much better together. SMG4 never ran out of the room immediately after-

SMG3: I. Have heard. Enough.

Mario: What? About SMG4 running away like a chicken after-

SMG3: Shut up, or I will cause half of the world to end.

SMG4: Awwww. Are you actually jealous of Mario?

SMG3: No! Shut up!

SMG4: Aww come on, there’s nothing to be jealous about!

SMG3: ‘M not jealous…

Mr. Puzzles: To be honest, I am far from jealous considering how much I’ve heard Mario talk about getting you two together before you became a thing, so I know there is definitely nothing there. Besides, that was over a decade ago now.

Mario: But no one else knew before now! Not even us actually! We both completely forgot about it! Besides, it wasn’t that memorable anyway-

Mr. Puzzles: Alright, Dear, now you’re pushing it…

[paulgadzikowski]

Unless OP is talking about previews of Season 2025 I haven't seen, the purported controversy must be over this character design from last decade

which is a redesign of this character design from the 1970s

who are related to but not the same thing as the turtles in the OP photo, who appeared side-by-side with them in the 80s,

and who also appeared again just a few years ago without their cousins and without being made into elves

because they were made into pirates instead.

EDIT followup

dr who is (apparently) redesigning this turtle from the classic series to be just a green human elf lady instead and twitter is eating it up because "no one would take the show seriously otherwise" and "the audience isn't able to empathize with something that doesn't look human". another fascinating data point in the psychology of doctor who fans.

[feligayzed]

YEAH IM HERE AGAIN ABOUT TO ASK ABOUT YOUR FUNNY FISH MAN AU YEAH THATS RIGHT

Okay okay, so we've seen you absolutely are a firm believer in Animal sounds and behaviors Sebastian right?

Now it makes me curious.. do you think some of these habits he ever accidentally carried over into being back to his mostly human daily life? Whether is be some sounds, old behavior he just didn't scrap, or otherwise; any of them that might've stuck with him?

🥹🥹🥹 I'M SHAKING I THOUGHT YOU'D NEVER ASK

Oh they absolutely do ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ very much so. Wayyy back I was supposed to draw up some scenarios about this specific thing in mind but uh. Oopsie *executive dysfunction blast*

Being a Creature for over a decade comes with its quirks, many of which are not easy to shake...not that he'd even care to try to, tbh. Old habits die hard and he's just tired, man, he couldn't be bothered to rein it in to appeal to the public anymore— this is as good as it's gonna get and if you have a problem you can take it up with the wall

That being said, let's talk about em!! The most obvious is his lil ear fin thingies; they still very much respond to emotion and he's actually become quite reliant on them for nonverbal communication. As a matter of fact, he didn't realize just HOW much he relied on it until after his big ole tail disappeared and he remembered rather quickly that humans have extremely limited variations of social cues (no this isn't an autism moment what pfft.....totally)

Smiling was also an adjustment he had to acclimate himself to. He couldn't recall when baring his teeth became a sign of aggression/fear to him, but the discomfort other (well-meaning) people brought him was realized very early on. On that note, he tends to get snarly when troubled or anxious, so. A good chunk of the time LOL. A small inconvenience happens and his lip is twitching

AS FOR NOISES his vocal chords were pretty much returned back to normal, so physically he isn't capable of a lot of the ones he used to be able to do, but that doesn't mean he won't give it his best shot. Unconsciously. He never tries to purposefully recreate any of the sounds because he just assumed they would make themselves known whether he liked it or not LMAO (it would be because. Embarrassing. But he bid farewell to his dignity a LONG time ago and now he's just resigned). Like if he stubbed his toe or some shit he would hiss from deep in his chest, and that's about the extent of his current range 😭 now me personally I like to think that he can purr still but it is a Deep Dark Secret the likes of which are career-ending

And now misc thangs 🕺

he was weird about food for quite a while, and it took a lot of work with Pai to get over it. This kinda looked like: refusing to eat anywhere other than his room, refusing to go out for dinner, staring long and hard at the raw meats section in the supermarket and consequently making the butcher uncomfortable. You get the idea

He'll instinctively reach for his non-existent lure when he enters a dark room, effectively grabbing at nothing

Avoided bodies of water at all costs for a hot minute. Took to washing his hair in the sink while he begrudgingly worked through some things with his lovely spouse whom he is so grateful for

His bed? Nest. Painter? Making it every morning without fail

He doesn't have to worry about shedding anymore but the Trauma of the experience was so great, he is thoroughly lotioned

[imagineitdearies]

~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe. 🩵 Special thanks to @secretbraintwin for the ko-fi request! 🩵 Also as a love letter to you PS enjoyers still out there--as braintwin put it, "this is terrible but we're going to help each other through it" is a sentiment many of us could use right now.)

~

In which Astarion gets worse and worse at not being in love, i.e. Chapter 22. Content warning for dubious consent.

~

Astarion didn’t like magic on principle, after how many ways it had been used to make his life a living Hell. Not that he would dissuade Tyrus from all the useful tricks the drow creatively employed to make their existence a bit less miserable. To feed Astarion, even, despite what it cost him.

And until recently—until Cazador took Tyrus away for an entire year, and then just a single, life-ruining night—the little magic Astarion had a knack for seemed useless anyway. Right up until he started secretly researching Polymorph for the chance to give Tyrus something for once, and happened upon Prestidigitation in the opening chapters of an arcane book.

It felt dangerously easy, practicing the incantation and hand somatics just a few times one morning until Astarion felt the spark of something in his hands. But that was just before the door opened and Tyrus walked in late with a flat, empty look in his eyes, pulling Astarion away from the little discovery.

Astarion tried to cheer him with a warm, “Good morrow, love,” as Tyrus shut the door, wondering if he should share his private studies now to lift the drow’s dour spirits. 

But Astarion quickly forgot the notion when he saw Tyrus’s face crumple into something terrified and broken as their eyes met.

Astarion didn’t think further before snapping the book shut and tossing it onto the bedside pile, going upright. He had to hold himself back from a faster speed, really, not wanting to rush Tyrus despite his hurry to reach him.

In the meantime, Tyrus was murmuring something Astarion only belatedly realized must have been a few spells, his dark ruby eyes flashing with just the smallest twinkle before he stared at the wall to Astarion’s right. And the terror faded back behind that flat, empty expression again, in the bare seconds before Astarion stood in front of him.

“Tyrus?” When Tyrus made no answer, Astarion reached out—then stopped himself. “ What’s happened?” he entreated instead, stepping just a bit closer.

Finally, Tyrus looked at him again, his pale brow furrowing as he asked the last thing Astarion expected: “Can I kiss you?”

Astarion wanted to kiss him every day. He wanted to hold him and touch him, make him smile and bring him pleasure. He wanted Tyrus, with a true desire he’d thought had been lost decades ago.

But in his imaginings of how it would go, the first time they tried intimacy again after Cazador’s assault on Tyrus, Astarion had pictured kissing him after some lovely day of reading stories, or listening to Tyrus ramble about the arcane, or once Astarion had provided Tyrus with a bit of blood.

Not when Tyrus looked the way he did now: scared, resigned—hopeless.

Astarion could only make terrible guesses as to why. “Darling, what’s the matter?” he asked, just barely stopping himself from reaching out a hand and cupping the other man’s cheek.

“I . . .” Tyrus grimaced, looking further crestfallen as he admitted, “I just wanted to ask, before I explain.”

Explain what, part of Astarion wanted to ask right away. But the rest of him didn’t look forward to bad news. Clearly, Tyrus was holding onto something terrible. And the fact that he wanted to kiss Astarion first was concerning on top of strange—but as Astarion looked over Tyrus’s face, he could somehow tell the question was genuine. The desire for Astarion was there, only half-smothered by a thousand other worries and fears and needs at the moment.

It wasn’t close to the ideal kiss Astarion had imagined . . . but outside of whatever else was going on, it seemed to fully be Tyrus’s choice.

With that knowledge, “How could I say no?” 

Astarion took the chance to hold him a bit, on top of joining their lips. And just sliding his palm to press against the small of Tyrus’s back felt like so much combined with the way Tyrus was kissing him, his lips clinging to every movement of Astarion’s as if unwilling to let the kiss end. Whilst a growing flame of desire flared within him, Astarion wrapped his other hand around Tyrus’s shoulders, felt a greedy satisfaction as Tyrus reached up to do the same, and wondered if he needed to know about whatever Tyrus thought should be explained. If they couldn’t just lay down and get lost in each other, just like this, instead.

But Tyrus broke from the kiss and spoke poison into the air: “He’s watching.”

The fire in Astarion’s belly abruptly died a cold, damp death.

The gift of permission into the favorite spawn chamber, so long as Tyrus allowed it, was already tarnished by why Cazador had granted it. And anytime Astarion forgot and felt himself growing too happy, a haunted look would cross Tyrus’s eyes and remind him. Or worse, something dead would flatten the drow’s expression. And Astarion had nothing save useless words and the futile effort of gathering gold to offer.

Nothing, save his own blood.

Considering how long it’d been since Cazador’s fuck-feeding of the poor man, Astarion had guessed another encounter was imminent. Tyrus would have little chance to resist if he didn’t get a single drop of sustenance in the meantime—and perhaps this was the price.

Maybe Astarion should be grateful it was him Tyrus was likely being forced on again, not Cazador himself. 

He wasn’t.

“He wants us to do something,” Tyrus explained, confirming his guess, and Astarion felt abruptly nauseous. Grateful in a rational way that Tyrus was telling him the truth, while also furious in a childish way that he couldn’t have continued on in blissful ignorance. “For me, to—to—”

Astarion’s mind flashed through a dozen terrible possibilities, and suddenly he had to know, so his mind could replace the disgusting, terrifying memory of hurting Tyrus in the kennels with anything else. “For you to what, Tyrus?” he asked, keeping his voice slow and careful despite his inner rage.

It burst out of Tyrus like a convoluted geyser, then. Something to do with Cazador blackmailing Tyrus into performing oral sex on him, first with the promise of blood, then a threat on Astarion, before settling on the likely-more satisfying conclusion of getting to watch the both of them in misery while Tyrus went to Astarion instead.

Not so bad as Astarion had feared, truly. But the misery on Tyrus’s face made sense—Astarion knew the withering, soul-crushing pain of guilt well, despite his own best efforts to cultivate a bit of sadism to counter it. With how much Cazador pulled the strings, the few semblances of choice he offered were almost always equally terrible, detrimental to the soul. But certainly in this case, Tyrus had correctly chosen the lesser of two evils, he thought.

Not that Tyrus seemed to believe it. Either that, or they had already run out of time—for then Tyrus began moving to his knees in front of Astarion as if to start things here. With such a miserable, forlorn expression on his pretty face, Astarion didn’t think even a direct compulsion from Cazador would manage to stir interest in his groin right now.

“Tyrus,” Astarion entreated, putting a hand on the man’s robed shoulder as he checked, “can you wait?”

Tyrus’s eyes widened in sudden horror. “Yes, sorry, whatever you’d like,” he said in a hurried, guilty tone, head ducked as he rose back up and nodded.

Astarion couldn’t stand to see him so unsure, so afraid, when he could still do something about it. So he took a page out of the drow’s own book and pulled Tyrus in, wrapping arms tight around him and feeling his throat tighten at the slight tremor he could feel in Tyrus’s body. 

“That’s alright,” he assured carefully, biting back his usual indignation at useless apologies. Now wasn’t the time to chide Tyrus; it was the time to do everything in his power to make this a neutral or even good experience, if that was possible. “It’s just, the first and only time we did something like this you seemed . . . very hurt, afterwards. Do you remember?” he asked, though it was highly unlikely Cazador would make Tyrus forget anything about initiation. “I even very uncharacteristically agreed to stay a while after, I felt so terrible leaving you in that state. And that was before the—the whipping, the party, and Cazador.”

Tyrus winced against him, even as he mumbled, “I’ll be fine,” into the crook of Astarion’s neck.

But Tyrus was trembling even harder at the reminder, and Astarion refused to simply weather through this, to just try and minimize damage like he had the first time. It hadn’t destroyed them before, but that was likely because nothing had been built yet to destroy. If they just numbed themselves and behaved like rote, obedient animals now, he had a feeling Tyrus wouldn’t be able to enjoy intimacy together ever again. Maybe, neither would he.

So Astarion let out a scoff and pulled from the hug to grab one of Tyrus’s hands, nodding down at how Tyrus’s fingers shook. “Will you?” he pushed back.

Tyrus didn’t answer right away, Astarion was happy to see. The drow’s pale brow furrowed while his eyes began flicking about. Calculating, if Astarion had to guess, in a quick, intelligent, self-aware manner that reminded Astarion of one reason why he was so deeply fond of the man.

The fear was slowly replaced by a small but firm resolve in his expression, before Tyrus asked, “Could you hold me, after?”

And there exemplified yet another reason. 

While the warmth in Astarion’s chest was just as terrifying as it was wonderful and precious and rare, what could he do but lean into it and promise, “After? After you can have whatever you’d like, my love.”

By now, he knew better than to think Tyrus would want the act reciprocated, even if Astarion would happily even their score that way. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to give Tyrus what he truly needed, if the arcane text was correct in saying Polymorph was not a self-casted spell only.

Once they were on the bed—Astarion purposefully on his back to impose the least amount of control, Tyrus kneeling with hesitant movements between his spread legs—Astarion wistfully thought of how he’d imagined their first array into consensual, sexual pleasure. They’d just start out kissing, like they used to when he snuck down to visit in the spawn dormitory, until Tyrus instinctively started grinding against him. Then Astarion would sneak a hand into his trousers, kiss his neck and ears until Tyrus was a whimpering mess again, except this time take him in hand . . .  

It didn’t matter. Instead, no instincts would be allowed save the one to protect, Astarion sternly reminded himself.

But then Tyrus leaned down and just kissed him for a while. And oh, how dearly Astarion had missed every second of this. It wasn’t a mechanical, precise act to satisfy his prey; it wasn’t a loathsome, dominating assault from Cazador. It wasn’t even a performance to please their unwanted audience—Astarion doubted Cazador was enjoying this part. It was simply something soft and warm and blooming between them, growing in passion with slow but reciprocated care. 

Astarion didn’t think twice about it, when he felt Tyrus pulling his shirt loose from his trousers, stroking the skin of his belly under it with soft fingertips. Just felt a swift punch of arousal, once Tyrus broke away to lean down and trail kisses there with his even softer lips instead. By the time Tyrus’s hand trailed lower, Astarion could already feel his cock hardening. And with just a few strokes of Tyrus’s hand over the fabric, it was starting to strain against his trousers.

Once Tyrus had unbuttoned them he hesitated, however. His eyes began to wander about the room, body tensing—remembering, as Astarion suddenly was too, now, who exactly his performance needed to please.

But Cazador apparently hadn’t given them any sort of timetable, and Astarion prided himself in being a seasoned expert at finding loopholes in the bastard’s commands.

“Tyrus,” Astarion murmured, “come back up here,” smiling at him as Tyrus gusted out a sigh and gratefully crawled up his body again. Then Astarion eagerly went back to showering the drow in kisses, on his lips and down his neck while Astarion removed the last barrier of clothing between them and what unfortunately needed to happen next.

Only on Tyrus’s timetable, however. Astarion would be happy to kiss forever—until Cazador gave up his hiding spot, banged down their door, and made them suffer the consequences, even. Rather that, than prod and persuade and gently pressure Tyrus into it for the sake of minimal pain, like Astarion had their first time. He loved . . . he cared for Tyrus much too deeply now for that. 

Where Astarion’s self-preserving nature had run off to, he didn’t know—which only seemed to prove Cazador’s point about things like love only making a person weak. 

But maybe, just maybe, whatever would replace it could be just as strong.

Astarion wasn’t to find out that day—for, a couple minutes later, Tyrus did pull away of his own accord again. And every touch of his hands and his mouth that followed was a painful reminder to Astarion that he hadn’t lost enjoyment of sex. He simply couldn’t call any of what he’d done in the last eight decades something close to it.

Tyrus went slow, of course, some touches starting hesitant, but he didn’t look to be retreating into the back of his mind or reliving some terrible memory, at least. Especially when trying to fit more of Astarion in his mouth, he didn’t seem very at ease—and if this was just the two of them, Astarion would have told him to not bother with more than the head if he didn’t want to. Given everything, he simply kept an eye on Tyrus and made sure to hold his hips perfectly still as the drow set his own pace.

But once a rhythm picked up, Astarion admittedly couldn’t pay attention to the subtle indications of how Tyrus was doing when the mere sight of him taking Astarion in deeper was enough to wash Astarion’s senses in sharp, full-body pleasure. And beyond the sight, the feel of his wet, warm mouth, the tight circle of his lips, and the steady strokes of his hand around the base of Astarion’s cock—it was enough to pull thoughtless, brazen words of affection from Astarion’s lips as he smoothed away the other elf’s silky hair from his face and rode the building waves of pleasure.

Astarion was fairly certain he attempted to warn Tyrus when he was close, but to no avail. Tyrus only seemed to take him in deeper, more determinedly, all at once until the pleasure reached a tipping point and suddenly flooded through Astarion’s entire body. He didn’t think much after that as he groaned through the consuming, bright pleasure of it, vaguely aware of Tyrus dutifully swallowing and continuing to gently stroke with his mouth and hand as Astarion shuddered through a slow, glowing comedown.

Eventually the sensations carried over into over-sensitivity, not prolonged pleasure, not that Astarion had the presence of mind to explain that to Tyrus. He only reached down and nudged at the man’s shoulder, sighing in relief as the stimulation stopped.

That sigh caught in his throat, when Astarion heard Tyrus suddenly speak in a hoarse, deadened tone, informing him: “This was a gift from your master.”

Then the afterglow sputtered out as quick as water over a flame.

Tyrus had put a hand over his own mouth, his eyes wide as silver platters before squeezing shut the next moment in clear shame. But Astarion didn’t need to see such a reaction, to know exactly who sent the message.

Every good, temporary enjoyment he’d felt during the act just made him angry now. But of course, Cazador wanted them to be intimate on his terms. But of course, he couldn’t just allow Tyrus to do this to Astarion instead without having the last word. And of course, he had to remind Astarion in yet another visceral way, that he’d poisoned this tree from its very roots.

Yet somehow, Astarion kept hoping the fruits of their relationship wouldn’t ruin them both? Cazador was somewhere laughing at Astarion for his own stupidity, right now.

Somehow, he did still hope, Astarion realized whilst quickly redressing and running to fetch something he could wrap around Tyrus’s trembling shoulders. Somewhere along the way, it had become second nature to fight for something he could only hope for, to always put someone else before himself—even to learn a bit of magic, after all these years.

As Astarion tried to cast Prestidigitation on the blanket in his hands, a small voice in his head whispered, What else could you call that, but love?

[d-criss-news]

From Hedwig to Helperbot: Darren Criss Looks Back on His Stage Journey

It’s nap time for Darren Criss’s newborn son, Brother, when the Glee star hops on our video chat. The camera’s off, but he quickly turns it on to say hello face-to-face dressed in workout clothes — a green sleeveless top and a ball cap — as he tries to do some chores at the same time.

Criss has a limited window at home as he prepares to star in the new musical Maybe Happy Ending, now playing at Broadway’s Belasco Theatre. The story, with book, music, and lyrics by Will Aronson and Hue Park, takes place 100 years in the future in Seoul, South Korea. Criss plays Oliver, an obsolete Belperbot along the lines of Siri or Google, “except more human-like, who is definitely past his prime and has been just waiting [in a Helperbot retirement facility] for his owner to pick him up,” Criss describes to Broadway Direct of the role. He stars opposite rising star Helen J Shen, who plays Oliver’s retired Helperbot neighbor. “It almost feels like two people in an old-folks’ home trying to connect with a family member.”

The plot sounds dramatic, but “make no mistake: This is a musical. It’s a musical comedy,” says Criss. “It has a lot of heart and a lot of joy and a lot of humor and amazing music, and it’s a hell of a spectacle.”

His friend Michael Arden, who won a Tony Award for his direction of Parade, was a big reason for Criss to sign on to the project — and serve as an executive producer as well. Arden brought the show to Criss’s attention many years ago, and again recently when Criss was starring in Little Shop of Horrors Off-Broadway.

“This had been kind of percolating for a while, and between the pandemic and strikes and just a lot of other things, that really comes down to timing. So the stars just kind of aligned,” Criss says.

Criss, a figure on Broadway for well over a decade, started to gather a following while at University of Michigan as a founding member of Team StarKid, the student-run theater company behind the viral Harry Potter musical parody A Very Potter Musical. His big break came on the hit Fox TV show Glee back in 2010. The show had already aired for a full season before he was cast as Warbler Blaine Anderson and future love interest to Chris Colfer’s Kurt Hummel. If not for Glee, he believes his career would not have had the same trajectory.

“I felt like this was my master’s in performance of music on camera,” Criss says, admitting that, until Glee, he didn’t consider himself a singer — rather, a musician who acted. “I have that show to thank for giving me any headway in the musical-theater space.”

In the middle of filming Glee in 2012, his Broadway debut called. Criss was asked to succeed Daniel Radcliffe in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying for three weeks during a winter break from filming Glee. “I left on, like, a Friday night from my last day of shooting. I started rehearsal on a Saturday. Within 10 days, I was on a Broadway stage. I left my Sunday matinee, got on the plane, and went to work [at Glee] Monday morning as if nothing had happened. So it was a bit of a fever dream. It goes by as quickly as it came, like all other moments in life.”

Three years later, Criss stepped into his next Broadway role. This time, he played Hedwig in Hedwig and the Angry Inch for about two and half months, succeeding John Cameron Mitchell. “People always ask me, ‘What’s your dream role?’ I’m like, ‘I kind of did it,’” he says of the opportunity. “Hedwig was a role I always loved so much when I was a teenager, and getting to jump into it was so special to me and my wife. We both love Hedwig so much. It’s a big part of our relationship.”

More recently on Broadway, Criss starred in the play American Buffalo with Laurence Fishburne and Sam Rockwell in 2022 for a three-month limited run. “I completely idolized them,” he says of his scene partners. “I mean, if you see a pattern here, I recommend this to everybody, to just chase their heroes. I’ve just been chasing my heroes my whole life, and I’m not being bashful about it at all.”

Getting Rachel Evan Wood to play Audrey opposite Criss’s Seymour in Little Shop of Horrors at the Westside Theatre earlier this year was something that he says was his idea.

“I pitched her pretty hard,” he said of getting casting directors to choose the Westworld actress as his costar. “When they heard her sing, I think it was very clear that this wasn’t like a favor to anybody. She was doing us a favor. The fact that she said yes just blew my mind.” The role of the nerdy floral shop worker wasn’t something Criss thought he’d get the opportunity to add to his résumé “because it just was never something that I thought anybody would let me do. … I wasn’t sprinting to that in the way that I was the other things in my life.”

Criss welcomed Brother, his second baby, this past June with his wife Mia. The timing couldn’t be more coincidental, since their first, Bluesy, was born during his run of American Buffalo.

As our conversation comes to a close, Criss says he kind of got all of his chores done and haphazardly put things away and folded laundry. The next project he wants to pursue is his writing, something he hasn’t tackled much in five years. Until then, he’s reveling in Maybe Happy Ending.

“I do find myself at a loss for words, trying to truly put into words how special this experience has been,” he adds. “I think it really is a thing of beauty that can really add quite a bit of ornamentation in perhaps a grim world.”

[awkward-teabag]

"Seriously considering" with it not being expected to be operational until the mid-2030s with an election a year away and two parties were committed to it over a decade ago without a word since...

I'm very much for passenger rail but I have very little expectations for this to happen given the project was announced in 2021, the winning bidder hasn't been selected yet, there's been no public input, and the whole thing has been in limbo for over a decade.

It smacks of a "concept of a plan" and the Liberals announcing it's considering it (yet again) to try to get votes without breaking election campaign laws with no commitment to follow through on it.

It's not like Trudeau has had a majority for just shy of a decade, the framework of this hasn't existed before that, or there hasn't been demand for this if it was really such a priority to get done.

Also with VIA being involved, I doubt it will be affordable. Reliability may increase by not having to give way to freight trains (frequency is also unknown and they aren't big on frequency to begin with) but the company has jumped feet first into embracing air travel baggage fees and restrictions while charging as much or more than a plane ticket would be.

It's almost like selling off nationalized rail to freight companies was a bad thing, as was expecting a Crown corp to figure out its own funding to minimize how much the government subsidizes.

The federal government is "seriously" considering building the country's first high-speed rail link between Quebec City and Toronto, says Public Services and Procurement Minister Jean-Yves Duclos. Ottawa announced plans back in 2021 to build what it called a "high-frequency" (HFR) rail corridor with stops in Toronto, Peterborough, Ottawa, Montreal, Trois-Rivières, Laval and Quebec City. At the time, the government estimated the cost at between $6 billion and $12 billion. The federal government identified three qualified bidders for the project last year. A spokesperson for VIA HFR, the VIA Rail subsidiary set up to oversee the project, said the bidders have been asked to provide the government with two options: a "conventional" rail network with trains reaching speeds of 200 km/h, and a network with trains reaching speeds "comparable to those of European trains."

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Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

[writeroffantasy03]

I really wish Vax would give a proper goodbye to Keyleth. They seem to think if the Matron dies or lets him go, he’ll somehow be alive again, but logically it makes more sense that he’d just… die. He was disintegrated after all. I understand holding on to hope… but he’s dead, and watching Keyleth still suffer after three decades is horrible.

I guess what I’m saying is that I would love a proper goodbye scene, and to see Keyleth take steps towards moving on. (And besides that, I’m just annoyed watching a woman torture herself over a guy she lost 30 years ago, especially since even if he did come back, she would still lose him eventually and continue on living for centuries and then what? She’d continue torturing herself after that too??)

I just want Keyleth to be happy again.

Aside from this, great episode. Really cool to see a lore bard on the field again. I missed Sam’s take-over-a-battlefield shenanigans.

(I was scared at several points they were going to obliterate Vax lol or fuck up the magical ley lines but it thankfully all worked out. Wondering where Lieve’tel took the Beacon, though.)

[animeyanderelover]

This song was randomly recommended to me on YouTube and brought back some fond memories as I watched Sweeney Todd over a decade ago. Now that I have a Yandere blog though I can’t help but image that this song in particular could be such a fun little dynamic between an obsessed character and their shell-shocked darling. This scene is basically already about Todd having to deal with the fact that he found out after 15 years in exile that his wife was raped and killed herself whilst his daughter was adopted by the same judge who framed him wrongfully and who is the rapist of his now dead spouse. Meanwhile Mrs. Lovett is imagining her future with him whilst he is too busily grieving/planning his revenge.

Now imagine this concept but it is you who just received terrible news about the death of your loved ones, about your exile or some other horrible news which cause you to be so emotionally shocked that you’re just numb. All whilst your Yandere is daydreaming about the future you two could have now together.

Alternatively we can also imagine that you were isekaid and just found out that there’s no way home for you. You’re literally stuck in a world you only thought was fictional. Sure, it might have been fun at first but now that you figured out that you can never return you realize how screwed you are. After all you’re in a world stuck with insane abilities and powers, depending on the world no modern technology and your own obsessed freak who will never leave you alone now that they now that you can’t return.

Sure, you may have experienced a great tragedy. The people you love might be dead or you’re unable to ever see them again but you should look at it from the positive side as well!! Not everything is as grim as you imagine it to be.

I’m literally posting this during a break between my courses in university so I only had little time to think about who this would fit and I only chose female characters but feel free to write your own suggestions in the comments.

Black Butler: Grell Sutcliff

My Hero Academia: Toga Himiko

Fairy Tail: Seilah

One Piece: Perona

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

got a worm nibbling my brain. can someone help me find a piece of obscure media?

webcomic/indie comic from the 2010s. basically a sci-fi short story about a young girl (with red hair?) who was being raised by scientists as part of an experiment. she receives a haircut/has her head shaved, in preparation for her annual brain scan/testing. it is revealed that while her body is human, her "brain" is artificial, made of computer implants throughout her skull and spine. at some point her biological mother (also a scientist on the same campus?) encounters her and is repulsed, viewing her as a machine who has murdered her daughter.

it was very poignant and it bruised my heart and i can NOT find it anywhere

[daddyd0nt]

Again, I coped through BDSM/CNC for over a decade and a half. I was famous on fetlife 16 years ago when I was a 10th grader. Most of the fiction I write revolves around SA/CSA as a coping mechanism, I can understand and sympathize with coping mechanisms. What I can't understand or sympathize with is feeling entitled to expose nonconsenting parties to that content with no warning or filter. I didn't come to your profile because I dont follow and have no interest in following you, somebody reblogged your post onto a non-kink blog with no tags or warning and thats what I have an issue with. If you have a clearly labeled kink blog then my issue is literally not with you. I have no problem with kink/fantasy, I have a problem with posting unlabeled adult content on a multipurpose media blog. Nobody is coming for your gross vanilla "kinks" (again it is not particularly kinky/subversive is it if you are literally just fetishizing misogynistic violence) literally my only one single problem is that it was posted on my dash with no warning or label for a blog that i was following for unrelated content

Sequestering shit to a kink blog is one thing but why TF are there multiple people on my timeline sharing rape-fetish text posts I hate it heal your fucking selves or at least contain it somewhere private if i follow you for fandom art i dont need to read how you want somebody to spank your clit while you pretend to be committing incest channel it into art or keep it separate

[repsolhonda]

HONDA x MARC: you don't have to go home. there's a long way to go.

[canisalbus]

you say machete has to be closeted then why's he always wearing them little heels

Maybe he thinks he's a tiny bit nicer looking in them.

[pasta-pardner]

undead nightmare pinups