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fourseasonsfigs · 2 years ago

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New Year Joint Special Project - Bedema Lake

At long last, I'm posting about the final set in this amazing series! It's been a long time coming.

This is one set in a collaborative series of six among five fig makers that were designed for the Lunar New Year 2022. This project launched on February 22, 2022, and included 4 Wenzhou sets and 2 Junzhe sets:

If you ordered during the early bird period, you would get a piece of a magnet which formed part of a larger piece of art. If you got all 6 magnets, you could complete the whole art piece.

My first post in this series was back on October 6, 2022, with the Armory set. I received this final set in the warehouse right around December 2022, but I had some delays of my own sending it out from the warehouse, and then I've been holding off on posting it until I had enough time, since this is gonna be a long post.

This was the fig set I was most excited about all of them (and I was very excited about them!), because the Episode 6 lake raft scene is 1) epic, and 2) so active it seemed incredible we could get a fig of them in motion.

This was not an easy set for the fig maker to make, either. She was displeased (to say the least, her text messages berating the factory boss for changing the specs without asking her were hilarious) with the factory's initial run of the lake water, as they modified it significantly from the sample. She had it re-run, and then had the factory include the version she rejected since it had already been made. After seeing the two versions, I really appreciated her care and thoughtfulness as to detail, because she was right - her original IS way better.

You can see all the pieces here. There's a lot of them! The fig maker helpfully posted a step by step guide to putting it together. The lighter plastic lake base on top is the one the factory initially made - it's just a light clear water colored plastic. The one on the left side is a much, much heavier, thicker piece of solid resin (? I think it's resin?) that not only looks way better but is much more stable. The figs are there in their sealed foil bags, and the lake raft together with it's bottom logs are in pieces around them. I usually have the warehouse toss the glue (it's restricted) for mailing, but this appears to have accidentally slipped on through.

Here's the logs attached to the bottom. I tried museum putty first...and then museum wax...but neither was strong enough for the weight of the figs. I had to end up cleaning all of it out and just using my glue. Funny I didn't even think to use the glue that was sent - I just pulled out my trusty industrial strength glue. You can see where the thin rectangular slot at the bottom fits into the lake base. I just flipped it over and glued it in.

A better comparison of the lake bases. You can see even more clearly here how much better the top one is in every respect. I'd make a horrible pun that the bottom one should be called Badema Lake, but we're all better than that.

We're gonna forget that pale imitation lake ever existed. Here we are with the real deal! You can see the peg up there on top for Lao Wen, and it's a bit hard to see, but there's an indent down at the base for our temporarily-still-Hobo-Xu.

By the way, I never knew this lake even had a name before this fig set, much less that it was called Bedema Lake. I feel like we're all better prepared for SHL quiz trivia now.

Here's Lao Wen with his balancing foot ready, and A-Xu with a very sturdy wide stance. No one told him when he was practicing martial arts that one day he'd be doing horse stance on a raft, fighting off weapons-grade flirtation.

Lao Wen would be delighted over this picture, since it looks like A-Xu is chasing him! I love the expressions on their faces - A-Xu looks wary, and Lao Wen looks absolutely, delightfully incorrigible.

Here we go with A-Xu getting fitted out for his pose...

...and Lao Wen landing as light as feather on the raft end!

Here's the best angle to see how both of them attach to the base.

Alright, we're going to go for a spin around the lake raft. This was a bit of a hard set to photograph, with the phone focusing on some areas and leaving others blurry, but please don't mind the amateur work. Here we go!

Looks like I'm going to use up all 30 of the allowable pictures per post for this one! Let me get one last angle...

And last but not least, the box cards and box:

Absolutely delightful, isn't it? I like the dog on the raft, and the cat just peeping out of the bushes. Too cute.

Material: PVC (figures) and resin (lake)

Fig Count: 283

Scene Count: 22

Rating: The pinnacle!

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

#word of honor #word of honor merch #episode 6 #zhang zhehan #gong jun #zhou zishu #wen kexing #lao wen #a-xu #shan he ling #figthusiast

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criticalbennifer · 2 years ago

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Inside Jennifer Lopez’s Pop Culture Empire

After an acclaimed role in ‘Hustlers’ and a showstopping performance at this year’s Super Bowl, the star is back with new music and a new movie, ‘Marry Me.’ Next up, a beauty line and a plan to build her brand into a global business.

By: Jonathan Van Meter

Nov. 18, 2020

Jennifer Lopez is sitting at the table in her kitchen in Los Angeles, palm trees soaring outside the picture window behind her, and I’m in my kitchen in New York, and it only takes a second of getting the angles just so before it feels like we’re both sitting in the same kitchen, across from each other, having a normal conversation. Once we’re settled, I notice that Lopez is shuffling a stack of papers, like a lawyer who doesn’t want to forget her talking points during a hearing.

It’s a Sunday afternoon in early October and because Lopez has just finished working out, she’s wearing a black sports bra. “Let me put a sweatshirt on so my boobs don’t assault you,” she says as she reaches out of the Zoom frame. The hoodie she grabs is emblazoned with a smoldering photograph of Lopez and Maluma, the Colombian pop star with whom she’s recently made a movie and an album. Originally scheduled to come out this fall, because of the pandemic the release was pushed to February—just in time for Valentine’s Day, a spot on the winter calendar that actually means something to an unreconstructed romantic like Lopez—and then got bumped again, to May.

At 51, Lopez has built one of the sturdiest careers in show business as one of Hollywood’s most bankable stars (global box office receipts estimated at $4.3 billion) and one of the most successful pop singers on the planet (roughly 70 million records sold worldwide). Although the new music (the first two videos with Maluma, sung mostly in Spanish, dropped in late September) and new movie are what her fans will be buzzing about in the coming months, there is other big news in J. Lo’s world—and the reason she’s got talking points in hand: a new beauty line launching any day now (details of which are being kept under wraps); a pending IPO for a startup in which she’s a key investor; and perhaps most tantalizing, persistent rumors that she and A-Rod, to whom she is A-ffianced, have been in a bidding war to become the next owners of the New York Mets.

Lopez has never been afraid to show off her boss moves—and has always evinced the aura of la jefa, a woman who thinks strategically, especially when it comes to her career—but get her talking about how she’s juggling the intersecting parts of her portfolio and she goes full C to the E-O. “There’s the entertainment silo,” she says. “There’s the investment silo. There’s the building businesses silo. And in the entertainment silo, there’s a producing silo, an acting silo, a performing silo and the music silo. And everything needs to be managed and looked after properly, right?”

The biggest piece in the entertainment silo right now—her new film, Marry Me—is, on its face, a romantic comedy, because Lopez is an incorrigible lover and maker of romantic comedies. Long since women like Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock and Reese Witherspoon have aged out of the genre, Lopez soldiers on as one of the art form’s last great practitioners. Elaine Goldsmith-Thomas has been Lopez’s producing partner these past eight years; she co-wrote Lopez’s 2018 romantic comedy, Second Act, and was both her and Julia Roberts’s agent during the golden age of the genre. Those films remain a sweet spot for Lopez, she says, because she is a girl’s girl. “There’s an authenticity about her that is deeply touching,” says Goldsmith-Thomas. “She doesn’t root against anyone. She sees the good in people. She doesn’t judge. For all of the glitter, gloss and sparkle, what’s underneath is an authentic, honest, good friend.”

“We love these movies,” Lopez says. “These movies are necessary. Elaine and I have kind of built a career on, you know, incorporating romantic comedies into our lives in a very real way. You can watch people find their way and figure it out and fall in love over and over and over. It never gets old.”

Lopez seems to never get old either—and not just in that she looks younger than her years. There has always been an endearingly naive, almost immature aspect to Lopez, most obviously exemplified in her chaotic romantic life. She still has a girlishness that for most women might be hard to pull off once you’re the mother of 12-year-old twins (a daughter, Emme, and a son, Max, from her relationship with ex-husband Marc Anthony) and on the cusp of your fourth marriage. But in a nod to reality—a capitulation to the fact that, despite all physical evidence to the contrary, J. Lo is indeed in her 50s—in Marry Me she plays a pop star approaching middle age.

The script is based on a graphic novel of the same name by Bobby Crosby and was initially in development as a television show at Lopez’s production company, Nuyorican, before they decided to turn it into a movie. “The character Jennifer plays has been married many times,” says the film’s director, Kat Coiro. “She’s had ups and downs in the press. There’s a mention of a sex tape. She’s been in the public eye in a very vulnerable way.” When Coiro talks about the film, the line between the character and the star gets blurry. “I think that if people can persevere through that kind of scrutiny and, you know, manage to stay on top and stay positive and keep working, it eventually fosters a lot of good will, because there’s a realness to that. They end up being very beloved.”

Sound familiar? “It was very meta,” says Lopez of playing a character so close to herself, shooting footage at Madison Square Garden and the Hammerstein Ballroom, her Bronx-to–Manhattan superstar stomping grounds. “It was a cathartic experience, and I had to constantly remind myself: Put everything that you’ve lived here. I play a pop star who has her own brand and has been around for a while and has been in and out of bad relationships. I would say to myself, You don’t have to act here. You just have to show your pure essence and it’s gonna work. It’ll be right.”

Marry Me is a musical in the way that A Star Is Born is a musical: a movie about a pop star who sings and dances her way through several scenes of live concert performance, many of the songs playing out in their entirety. In A Star Is Born, Lady Gaga brought her enormous gifts of singing and songwriting to a character that wasn’t Lady Gaga, but she was also playing an ingenue, a woman at the outset of a journey. Lopez’s Kat Valdez is world-weary from getting it all wrong—A Star Has Been There, Done That. Lopez sings most of the songs on the album—a bilingual soundtrack, with Maluma recording a few of his own. “I’m really proud of the music,” says Lopez. “It’s super-authentic. At the same time, I had to perform music that I loved and responded to, but it wouldn’t be a J. Lo album.”

But this is a J. Lo movie, which means if it’s a comedy centered on a romance, it must have a happy ending. Enter Owen Wilson, who plays the Brooklyn math teacher whom Lopez meets cute. Because of his all-around normal-guy decency, the superstar winds up humbled and humanized and, presumably, happy ever after. Wilson’s big takeaway from working with Lopez (aside from what a “formidable person she is”) is not so much about Lopez as the fuss she inspires. “I don’t know if I’ve ever worked with anyone where there is that much curiosity from my friends, wanting to visit the set so they could see Jennifer Lopez,” he tells me. “Part of it is that she looks so great, and I think women really admire how she’s so strong and beautiful. I was surprised by, you know, my mom, but also almost all of the women I’m friends with—they really want to see her with their own two eyes.”

Marry Me fires all of J. Lo’s cylinders at once and serves as a reminder that she has always been both ahead of her time and a quadruple-threat who cycles through various phases of surprising her audience, being underestimated by them and then surprising everyone once again. Right out of the gate, her Golden Globe–nominated performance in Selena in 1997 was followed three weeks later by Anaconda (which has a 38 percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes and also co-starred Wilson). If historians were asked to pinpoint the precise moment of the J. Lo Event Horizon—when her nova went super—it would be January 2001, a month when she had both the No. 1 movie (The Wedding Planner) and No. 1 album (J.Lo) in America at the same time—the only woman to do so.

As the Harvard Crimson pointed out last year in an earnest/hilarious pitch-perfect essay, “This Year in J-Lo History: 2001,” it was also when—after breaking the internet with a green Versace dress that she wore to the 2000 Grammys, the incident that became an impetus for Google’s invention of Google Images—Lopez founded her hugely successful clothing line, J.Lo by Jennifer Lopez. At the press conference for the launch she said, in an early burst of prescient confidence: “It’s time for the world to wear my look.” As Amelia F. Roth-Dishy wrote in the Crimson, the sporty chic clothing line “cemented Lopez’s status as the aughts’ supreme arbiter of mass culture in nearly every conceivable realm—the stage, the screen, the radio, and the all-important closet.” It gets harder every day to keep the history of this sort of pop culture effluvium straight—with a firehose of celebrity news on social media—but women like Kim Kardashian West, Rihanna and Beyoncé have clearly taken a page out of the original J. Lo playbook.

Yes, we watched Lopez make her way through the Puffy phase (rapper and entrepreneur Sean “Diddy” Combs), the Bennifer spectacle (actor Ben Affleck), the “Get Right” Marc Anthony cool-down period. Sure, she was sublime in Steven Soderbergh’s Out of Sight, but there was also the spectacularly awful Gigli. We were treated to the delightful Judge Jennifer era of American Idol, when at long last America got to really be with her, to finally see that she’s a lover, not a fighter. Then she seemed to disappear for a few years: into a Vegas residency and the concomitant Shades of Blue, a forgettable, two-star cop show on NBC that you probably didn’t watch.

And then came 2019. Lopez began the year working out like a madwoman so she could believably, comfortably shoot the thrilling stripper-pole opener (her idea) for Hustlers last spring. As soon as they wrapped she began rehearsals for a tour, which lasted most of the summer. Once that ended, she flew to the Toronto International Film Festival in early September, after the studio, based on wildfire word-of-mouth that movie producers dream of, decided to fast-track Hustlers. It opened to raves for Lopez as Ramona, the stripper with a heart of a gold brick.

Lopez was born to play Ramona, the man-eater in a big fur, partly because it’s a character she’s toyed with over the years in her public persona, but also because she is Jenny from the Block, that gum-snapping tough girl with the door-knocker earrings whom you might not want to cross. I was once in a nightclub in Manhattan in the late ’90s when Puff and J. Lo (both in big furs) made their entrance—as if Bonnie and Clyde themselves had arrived to part the sweaty masses.

“When I read the script for Hustlers, I knew that there was a character there that was a f—ing badass that I hadn’t really done,” says Lopez. “I understood Ramona. Being a mom and being the mother-bear figure and stuff like that. But there were parts of her that I had to delve into and, you know, figure out. She’s a ruthless character. She really doesn’t give a shit about anybody or anything—except money. And I know people like that. They seem kind, and you’re drawn to them; they’re like, the center of attention, the life of the party. But they’re also like, Don’t f— with my money!”

Award nominations rained down on Lopez (though not the expected Oscar, a big letdown, she admits). “I was really taken aback by the reaction,” she says. “Not that I didn’t think it was good. I was proud of my performance. But that hadn’t happened to me since Selena. It’d been more than 20 years since I’d gotten those kinds of accolades.”

If Lopez’s stripper-pole voodoo bolstered her status as an avatar of a kind of timeless, ageless, all-around Latina moxie, her Super Bowl performance a few months later burned it more deeply into the cultural consciousness. It was more than just how she looked: It’s that she suddenly seemed to stand for something. When I put the question to her longtime manager, Benny Medina, he says, “She has just started to get a sense of who she is and what she represents: the limitless potential of women and how they can work hard, stay focused, multitask and not accept a shelf life—even if they get knocked down or ridiculed or fail. I think she became a bit of a poster girl for that resilience combined with her own cultural and ethnic pride combined with being a mother.” Or as Goldsmith-Thomas puts it, “I think she’s become the symbol for Why not? If you want more, do more.”

It is a truism that female entertainers are quietly indoctrinated to believe an expiration date applies to them that does not exist for their male counterparts. Which is why some can seem almost in a panic to stay relevant. There is an impatience that can tip over into trying too hard, a kind of brittleness that exhausts audiences. The one-two punch of Hustlers into her triumphant Super Bowl performance has delivered Lopez from this fate. She seems to have relaxed into herself. As Owen Wilson says, “I think if you sort of stay around long enough and continue to produce the way she has, you sometimes enter into—I almost hesitate to say it—national treasure territory, and I think she is a woman who has entered into that realm. You know how you put things in a time capsule and send it off to Mars or something? She would be one of those people.”

“There is something in me that wants to endure,” says Lopez. “I feel youthful and I feel powerful and I want to show women how to be powerful. There was a lot of symbolism in the performance at the Super Bowl. I wanted to be at the top of the Empire State Building, like King Kong, beating my chest: ‘I’m here!’ You know? It’s a very powerful thing to use your femininity and your sensuality. We are here and we matter. We deserve to be equal. You have to count us.”

At one point, Lopez tells me a story about a meeting she had with her fragrance company several years ago. “I had been challenging Benny for a while on our business stuff. Because I just felt like we weren’t doing it right. I realized this when I sat down with my perfume company and they showed me all these numbers. And they said to me, ‘We’ve made a billion dollars.’ ”

She stared at me and blinked a couple of times. “A billion. Dollars.” She let out a mordant chuckle. “And then they said, ‘We have a plan to get to $2 billion and this is how we’re going to do it and we want to re-sign you.’ I’m sitting there going, ‘You made a billion dollars? I came up with the perfume. I came up with the name. I’m marketing it. It’s my face in the ads. I didn’t make that kind of money. Where is the billion dollars?”

Early in her career, she says, Lopez intuited that “people want to smell like their favorite pop star or they want to look like their favorite actress or they want to wear what their favorite models wear. There are brands to be made here from these people. But we were in a licensing model. And the licensing model doesn’t really make you any money.”

In the past year she’s done deals with everyone from Versace and Coach to DSW and Guess, a high-low mix that has always been her signature. But it was in that fragrance meeting a decade ago when the seeds of discontent were planted, which ultimately led to a wholesale re-engineering of Lopez’s business ventures, what Medina describes as “ramping up of our investment profile with the idea that we’re going to start to not just be an endorser of things, but more a partner in all of our businesses. That is the pivot: She is no longer just putting her name on things and then going out there and singing and dancing.” Now, he says, “a lot of people come to us initially for endorsement; some come to us for investment; but in all cases, if we decide to endorse, we’re usually going to invest.”

This new approach puts her in a league with other celebrities who have leveraged their image and lifestyle—notably, the Kardashians—into astonishingly lucrative empires. Indeed, her hope is to try to capture a slice of the estimated $100 billion beauty market in the U.S. with her own line of cosmetics, JLo Beauty. It’s all part of a master plan: to be that wiser, older (but still youthful) role model for women who want to take control of their bodies, their beauty and their sexual health. “The whole inspiration of: If I can do it, you can do it,” says Medina.

The biggest move Lopez has made since she’s committed to this new strategy, with Alex Rodriguez as her co-investor, is with the health and wellness brand Hims & Hers. The couple are not just the face of it; they stand to see a windfall as investors (they would not disclose the size of their stake). Among other things, Hims & Hers facilitates telehealth and offers subscriptions to dermatological, sexual-health and hair-loss remedies. “It’s really about bringing health care to everybody online at an affordable price,” says Lopez, “which for me and Alex is very on-brand because we grew up in those neighborhoods where you didn’t always have access to everything and certain prescriptions were too expensive.” (Hims & Hers filed to go public through a merger with Oaktree Aquisition Corp. , a special-purpose acquisition company; the deal could be valued at $1.6 billion, according to the two companies.)

Lopez has also made investments in energy drinks (Super Coffee), sports (NRG Esports) and virtual entertainment/social media (Wave; Community). The larger goal of this flurry of investing is that she and Rodriguez have had something much bigger in mind: buying the Mets. “We have a plan for the Mets and the city and the fans,” says Lopez, “but we’re still waiting in the wings. They’ve chosen who their first bid is, and that person still has to be approved, so we’re kind of hopeful.” Part of what makes the possibility of Lopez in the owner’s box potentially game-changing is that most of the individuals who currently own teams are white men, with relatively few minorities or women. “We would be honored to be the first Latino couple.” A big smile spreads across her face. “We’re not giving up!” (An agreement to move forward with a rival bid, from billionaire hedge-fund manager Steven A. Cohen, was announced by the team in September and expected to close in November.)

Medina tells me that at first Lopez was taken aback to discover that many of the boardrooms where she’s been spending time recently are filled mostly with men. “She said to me, ‘They’re thinking about how to sell us, they’re thinking about how to buy us, but they’re not thinking like us,’ ” says Medina.

It’s been yet another life lesson for Lopez leading to her late-blooming maturity. “I’ll be sitting there with 20 people,” she says. “Men! From the ages of 30 to 70 sometimes. You know what I mean? Men who have been doing it for the longest are not used to having a girl in the room. You see them test you with, like, the first time they throw the boy talk in there to see how you react. You know?” Medina, who often accompanies Lopez to these meetings, says that you can tell a lot from who’s the most surprised. “ ‘Oh, we’re just blown away with your business acumen and your savvy and your focus,’ and we’re like, ‘Dude, how do you think she f—ing stayed on top for 25 years? What did you think was going on all this time?”

Medina also points out that Rodriguez has been “a major influence on Jennifer’s business thinking,” and that eventually, as a team, they both completely (edited) embraced it. “When Alex came into my life,” says Lopez, “he was like, ‘Let’s build your skin-care company. This is a dream of yours. Let’s do it together. Let’s own it.’ It’s like when somebody opens up your eyes to something new—it’s like a broadened horizon.”

The couple started dating three years ago “and realized we could help each other really grow to another level,” says Lopez. “I think where we’re twin souls, or whatever term you want to use, is in the way that there are no limits. That we’re limitless. That’s my thing, but he helped me realize how true that is. We can do anything. We both have that DNA—like, why not? Why can’t we build not one multibillion-dollar business, but three or four? Why can’t we own the Mets?”

Toward the end of our Zoom call, I hear a dog bark. “That’s Lady,” says Lopez. “A white Lab. She’s a little bit older now. But she is everything her name implies: She is beautiful and she is the sweetest—the perfect lady. And then we have a brand-new dog, Tyson. He’s our pandemic puppy. I call him a menace to society. He eats garbage.” When one of the twins comes into the kitchen with some kind of electronic device blaring, Lopez shouts. “Max! I can’t hear, baby. Thank you.” Later, she tells me, “The twins are 12 now. It’s crazy. I’ve got to get them off those electronics for the rest of the day. I let them have them in the morning on the weekends but then I’ve gotta snatch ’em.”

It was one year ago when the shoot for Marry Me wrapped in New York City during the week of Thanksgiving and Lopez flew to Los Angeles and went straight into two months of rehearsals for the Super Bowl on February 2. “I filmed another season of World of Dance right after the Super Bowl,” says Lopez, “and on our last day, I flew to Miami and stayed there for the quarantine.” Like several other stars, Lopez and Rodriguez were dragged on social media for the tone-deaf celebration of blended family life inside their luxurious bubble. I ask Lopez what she’s learned from quarantine.

“I actually loved being home and having dinner with the kids every night, which I hadn’t done in probably—ever. And the kids kind of expressed to me, like, the parts that they were fine with about our lives and the parts they weren’t fine with. It was just a real eye-opener and a reassessment, to really take a look at what was working and what wasn’t working. You thought you were doing OK, but you’re rushing around and you’re working and they’re going to school and we’re all on our devices. We’re providing this awesome life for them, but at the same time, they need us. They need us in a different way. We have to slow down and we have to connect more. And, you know, I don’t want to miss things. And I realized, ‘God. I would have missed that if I wasn’t here today.’ I feel like everybody aged, like, three years during this pandemic. I watched them go from kind of young and naive to really, like, grown-ups to me now. When did this happen? They’re not our babies anymore. They’ve been given a dose of the real world, with the knowledge that things can be taken away from you and life is going to happen no matter what. They had to grow up.” She gets distracted for a second by something off-screen but then refocuses. “So did we.”

#jennifer lopez #jlo #wall streeet journal #press/article #2020 #marry me

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marleneslovely · 4 years ago

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Lily Evans Potter headcannons

•She was named after her grandmother, Lily I Evans. Her grandmother was a lovely and kind woman, who enjoyed botany. Lily inherited from her not only a name, but also a nature and a love of botany.

•Sometimes she took her grandmother's old diaries from the attic, where numerous types of flowers were recorded. In this way, she felt like she was meeting and getting closer to her grandmother, whom she had never met

•She is very talented in oil painting. In fact, she is talented in all types of painting: portraits, self-portraits, landscapes ... Whatever comes to your mind, really.

•She attended a painting school, which was located a few streets down her house. Her parents enrolled her and Petunia, but unfortunately, Petunia was not particularly talented. She told their parents lies until they dropped them out of school.

•Her favorite subject was art and her works have always been on school exhibitions.

•She wanted to be a teacher. She saw the job as perfect. She will help the children, and through play they will gain knowledge. She will teach them to love school and to be friends and family to each other.

•She loves to dance in the rain. Lily is an incorrigible romantic, and when it comes to dancing ... She could play in the January rains that mix with the snow, and not just in the summer and warm rains.

• She made friendship bracelets for Severus and her. The bracelets were sewn with thread in the shape of red words: "My first wizarding friend". Still, she threw that bracelet into Black Lake, when Severus called her “Mudblood”. She threw the bracelet at the same place where she gave it to Severus a couple of years ago. Of course, he kept his own, as a memory of what he had and what he lost.

•She gave James a huge, teddy bear for the anniversary of the relationship. They called him Teddy. Teddy became Harry’s favorite toy, without which he couldn’t sleep.

•She didn't have a nice opinion of Slughorn. She didn’t like the fact that he favored students from rich and famous families, because she loved equality. Still, she gladly became part of the Slug Club, to show that Muggle-born students can be just as good as purebloods.

•In Amortentia, Lily smelled vanilla, pages of an old and faded book, and fresh morning grass, bathed in dew, before Quidditch's first practice.

•Lily bought a ginger cat, in Diagon Alley, on the occasion of her first year at Hogwarts. She called him Ginger. Ginger later became a loyal member of the Potter family, but after October 31, 1981, the locals found him. No one wanted to take poor cat because it reminded them of a tragic event. They left Ginger in Diagon Alley, where Hermione Granger will buy him after many years.

•Lily loved to read books. Especially Muggle books. They reminded her of her family and hometown while she was at Hogwarts. Her favorite book was "Romeo and Juliet". She read it four times, but the cover faded after a while. Lily didn't want to replace her because she didn't see the need for it. Still, James bought her a new one on the first date and wrote her a dedication on the first page.

• After that, she realized how well he knows her and how romantic he is. She began to develop feelings for him.

#lily evans #lily potter #lily evans potter #jily #jilly #james potter #prongs #padfoot #moony #sirius black #marauders #themarauders #hogwarts #snily #severus snape #wolfstar #remus lupin

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virtueangel · 4 years ago

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limitless.

chapter nine.

wc: 2,350. original publish date: october 19, 2020.

The morning fog is crisp against the windows of the car, condensation bubbling against the glass.

"Do you actually have a plan, or are we just driving willy-nilly?"

JFK grins at his reflection in the rearview mirror. "I have a plan!"

Van Gogh glares at the boy playfully.

"Okay, that plan might involve driving willy-nilly."

"Well, I guess that's still technically a plan..." Vincent laughs. And then, "Wait, I actually have a legitimate idea."

"No you don't," Kennedy jokes.

This earns him another glare from his best friend. "Did you see the general store when we first drove in?"

JFK nods. "You think they'd have stuff there?"

Vincent shrugs. "It's worth a shot. I mean... someone's gotta be living in this town, right?"

"Well, they don't have to do anything. It really could just be abandoned."

"So why are the roads so fresh?"

"Fresh?"

Gogh rolls his eyes impatiently. "You know what I mean. Clean. Maintained."

JFK goes silent, and at first Van Gogh worries that he's been too pushy, too pretentious, but Kennedy is only thinking.

"Maybe there's a groundskeeper," he suggests, and Vincent looks up at him with knit brows.

"One, for a whole town?" He sits back in his seat. "That hardly seems feasible."

John shrugs, keeping his eyes on what he can see of the road. "The wear in the houses is... I don't know. Formulaic, I guess is the word."

Vincent raises an eyebrow at the boy. "Maybe you mean fabricated?"

JFK nods eagerly. "Yes! Fabricated! That's exactly the word!"

Van Gogh snorts. "What, like someone built this hellhole to look the way it does?"

"It doesn't sound ridiculous coming from your mouth."

"Maybe not, but it would sound ridiculous coming from yours."

Kennedy shoves the boy playfully. "Asshole."

Vincent shoves him back, but doesn't throw an insult.

The boys drive in pleasant silence for a few moments longer, both sitting contentedly in their pyjamas, the seat heaters turned up to high. The windows are fogged over and Van Gogh draws a smiley face with his finger, dotting the eyes so firmly his bent finger turns yellow.

"You know that won't come off without, like, Windex or something, right?"

Vincent flashes his most innocent smile. "Oops."

JFK grins without looking at the boy, and Gogh's breath catches at the sight of his Colgate-white teeth.

"We're here," Kennedy says not a minute later, the low rumble of the car engine ceasing. He and Van Gogh unbuckle their seatbelts at the same time; they seem always to be in unison.

The wooden porch is wet and soft, lichen eating away at it. The door is hanging lopsided off the hinges, but only just enough; there's nothing wrong with the hardware.

"Looks like someone hung it like that on purpose," Vincent mutters as he walks through the door.

JFK turns around, his lips parting in satisfaction. "Told you."

"No, John, you did not 'tell me' anything. This is one bang-up job. Next you're gonna say someone planted the lichen on the porch?"

Kennedy lengthens his gaze to the deck. "It's possible."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes. "You're incorrigible."

"And you're fastidious."

"That's not even how you use that word!"

"Fastidious!" JFK insists.

The boys bicker all the way through the store, picking whatever looks edible off the shelves. Vincent checks a few expiration dates, and most of the refrigerated items have gone bad, but the shelved items are still safe to eat. He makes JFK carry it all, and to his pleasant surprise, the boy doesn't protest.

"Are we just supposed to steal all of this?" Gogh asks, concern washing over his face.

"There's no cashier."

"I know. That's what prompted the thought."

John looks around some more. "We could leave a note and check back tomorrow," he suggests, which is a real solution. Van Gogh didn't think he had it in him.

"Do you have a pen and paper?"

JFK peers over the counter and nods toward something. "Behind the cash register is a stack of Post-Its and a Sharpie. I obviously can't get it, with all the shit you made me hold."

Vincent rolls his eyes. "Everything's so difficult."

"Hey, I'm doing a good thing for you!"

Van Gogh turns around to show his best friend his smile. "I know that. I'm just kidding."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell."

"I guess that's one of my many shortcomings." When JFK doesn't reply, Vincent adds, "That was a joke. You can laugh."

But John doesn't.

Van Gogh doesn't seem to notice his best friend's silence as he scribbles down on the Post-It. He turns around and takes bags of chips from Kennedy's arms, recording the prices and the quantities. "Can I have your phone?" He asks.

"What about yours?" JFK replies, holding the snacks against his chest with one arm while pulling his phone out of his back pocket nonetheless.

"It's dead. I forgot to charge it last night. And you know its battery doesn't do well in the cold."

"Neither does yours, apparently," John says under his breath, but he doesn't mean it as a jab.

Vincent ignores the boy's comment, choosing to interpret it as a joke. He begins punching numbers into Kennedy's calculator app, adding up the prices and writing down a grand total at the bottom of the Post-It. He peels it off from the rest of the pad and is about to stick it to the desk computer before deciding to leave their names and JFK's phone number, just in case.

John glances over Vincent's head at the neon green paper stuck to the computer and snickers to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing, just... are they going to know that we're clones? They might just think we're trolling them."

Van Gogh looks back at the Post-It and can't help but giggle. "God, you're right. Here, we can give ourselves fake names."

"I'll be Jack Kensington, FBI detective."

Vincent laughs, scribbling over the boy's real name. "I'm not writing the last part."

Kennedy shrugs. "Suit yourself." And then, "Who are you going to be?"

"I'll be Victor Hughes."

"That's so boring."

"Who should I be instead? Victor Frankenstein?"

"Yes! That's better."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes, but there's still a smile on his rose-painted lips. "No, that's ridiculous. I can't steal Mary Shelley's OC."

"OC!" Kennedy laughs. "Frankenstein is a classic novel!"

"Mary Shelley still thought of Victor Frankenstein herself! That's what an original character is."

JFK shrugs. "Fair enough."

John and Vincent walk back to the car in favourable silence, smiles still pulled taught across both of their lips. Van Gogh has to channel every ounce of restraint in his body to keep his lips from parting into an overeager grin. He can't remember the last time he was this happy. It's always been him and JFK, but never like this. There was always someone else in the picture, someone Kennedy had to get away from to tend to Gogh. But now, it's just the two of them without any responsibility. Just the boys and a shiny red convertible, with all the time in the world.

"Oh, wait, I have to run back inside real quick," John says, dumping his armfuls of snacks into the backseat.

Van Gogh freezes, his arm hovering above his seatbelt. "How come?"

Kennedy shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull a secure lie out of thin air. "Uhh... I think I left my phone on the counter in there. I'll be right back."

When the boy turns around, Vincent can see his bright red, caseless iPhone tucked into the back pocket of his khakis.

Vincent waits in the car, staring out the windshield and picking at a loose thread in his flannel pyjama pants. God, I can't believe I'm wearing these out, he thinks. They're so ugly. Who even wears flannel anymore?

Kennedy comes out of the general store four minutes later, hugging two pairs of dark green rain boots to his chest.

"It's not raining, John. It's just fog," Vincent says with a smirk as the boy gets into the car.

He passes the smaller pair of boots to his best friend. "I had to guess your size. Six, right?"

Vincent takes the boots skeptically. "Yes... What are these for?"

JFK looks at Van Gogh with a wide grin. The grey light from the fog bounces off the white of his teeth. "You'll see! Just put them on."

Van Gogh obeys, and begins untying his Keds. His socks only go up to his ankles which may be a problem in the boots, but he doesn't care. His stomach is doing that whirlpool thing again, but this time, it feels good. He could drown, but it wouldn't hurt because he knows he'd be drowning in Kennedy.

John exchanges his sneakers for the boots before buckling his seatbelt and starting the car. He holds one hand over the clutch, the other draped over the steering wheel. He turns to his passenger, the orange of his hair bright against the cool paleness of his skin. JFK sinks in his brown eyes, but it's not suffocating like it usually is. His stare is soft, inviting. Kennedy relaxes, his eyes smiling in conversation. "Ready?"

Vincent nods eagerly. "Yeah. Yes, I'm ready."

The boys drive through town, and Vincent is convinced that they're lost. He's about to open his mouth in protest, but JFK shushes him. "We're almost there, I promise."

"Do you actually know where we're going?"

John giggles. "Yes, I know where we're going! I know you're not used to not being in control, but please trust me."

The comment stings, Vincent has to admit. But paired up with please trust me, he lets it go. He does trust JFK. He didn't always, but he does right now. Their silence is pleasant, and Kennedy says he knows where they're going.

Kennedy stops the car at the far end of town, past all the houses. The thick grove of trees is spread out through the windshield, but there's still a fair bit of marshland in front of them, sticky and wet under the car.

"Your tires are going to get so dirty," Vincent comments.

JFK leans forward to pinch the boy's cheek. "Nobody cares about that except for you, Vinny." He opens the car door and climbs out, the mud of the marsh oozing around his boots.

Vincent, still in warm and gooey shock from the nickname, melts into his seat until Kennedy knocks on the window. "Hey, Minivan! You coming, or what?"

Van Gogh pushes the door open, playfully knocking John in the hip. "I'm coming!"

The boys slosh through the marsh, the mud squeaking beneath their boots. Vincent nearly slips and has to grab onto Kennedy's arm for support. JFK sneaks a glance at the boy, smiling to himself as he struggles to keep steady through the wet earth. John stealthily wraps his arm around Vincent's torso, pulling him close and holding him firmly. Van Gogh slings his own arm across John's back, letting the boy support him as he walks through the uneven terrain.

"Thank god you bought us boots," Vincent laughs nervously, an unsure headache starting to set in. His nostrils are clogged with the scent of JFK; this, too, is uneven terrain.

John glances down at the boy affectionately, his gaze soft. "I know you don't like to get dirty, Vincent."

Van Gogh looks up at Kennedy then, and it's a miracle the taller boy had looked away before Vincent could catch him staring.

They walk through the marsh, commenting and giggling, pointing out frogs and funny-shaped pebbles and whatever thoughts pop into their heads. The boys sneak glances at each other as they walk and talk, their stomaches lurching with excitement and nervousness each time they think the other might've caught them staring.

At one moment, though, Vincent and John glance at each other at the same time, their cheeks immediately flushing pink as they look into each other's eyes. Neither of them look away, waiting for the other to say something, to know if this is safe territory or not.

Van Gogh takes a deep breath in preparation to speak at the same time that Kennedy says, "Vincent."

His voice is breathy and serious, and Vincent can't look away. He swallows. "John."

Gogh takes a deep, shaky breath, summoning all the courage he has left in him. "I really want to..." He lets his voice trail off into the cool April air, his eyes flicking between Kennedy's lips and the rest of his face.

"I know," JFK replies. He opens his mouth to agree, but his voice gets stuck in his throat. Instead, he repeats himself. "I know."

"Can I?"

"Yes," John replies too quickly.

It doesn't matter to Vincent. Consent is consent, and he's been waiting for his best friend's for years. He hasn't known it until now, but it's an explanation for all of his stomachaches, all of the twisting he felt in his chest when he saw JFK with Cleo, with other girls.

His eyes flutter shut as he raises himself to his tiptoes, shifting his arm from Kennedy's back to cradle the nape of his neck. John leans down to meet him halfway, his arm still wrapped tightly around the boy's abdomen. Their lips brush softly, innocently, and Vincent is immediately filled up with butterflies, their wings eager and flapping rapidly against the inner walls of his body.

JFK kisses back just as softly, and it's a different kiss than anything he's ever felt. His stomach knots itself with excitement, and he's falling through the sky, but he knows he's going to have a soft landing.

Vincent breaks away first, his eyes staying shut for a millisecond longer than they need to.

"I've been waiting years for that," JFK replies, his voice low and his eyes twinkling.

"How long?" Van Gogh whispers back, his tone just as light.

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

"Can we go again?" Kennedy asks after a moment, his eye contact with Van Gogh never breaking for a second.

Vincent nods, and John leans in. They are arms wrapped around torsos and around necks, hands in hair and on faces. In this moment, Van Gogh doesn't mind the ooze of the mud beneath his feet, and Kennedy doesn't mind the stillness of the kiss.

#limitless #clone high jfk #clone high van gogh #jfgogh

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tellywoodtrash · 4 years ago

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shaadi mubarak 28 + 29.09.20 lb

lol sorry for the delay, i woke up yesterday (my day off) and decided i wanted to tick off one of my bucket list items: bleach my hair and give it a red/purple/blue ombre. and so i did. poora din ussi mein nikal gaya. it was an exhausting all-day project, but i’m happy with how it turned out (even with the uneven blending and all, lol. not bad for a first time DIY attempt!)

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28.09.20

lmaooooooooo the horribly cgi'd shaadi mubarak sign on top of the building.

also why do they need THIS WHOLEASS KOTHIIIIII as an office? like, damn.

KT's praise kink is outttaaaa fucking control.

his good mood is infectiousssssss though.

MY GOD HE'S SO MANIC AND ANNOYING.

ok i don't like sheena's attitude. bitch tu kaun, main khaamaakhaaa?!!?

god, i don't wanna see preeti attacked by a makeup artist.

UGH CHANDA. FWDING. THIS IS MY HAPPY SHOW AND I REFUSE TO WATCH ANY MOOD KILLING ASSHOLESSSSSS.

lol ofc KT recruited the preeti wrangler - kusum.

ooooh is rajeshwari coming backkkk????

KT is too polite to this sample.

A CACTUS?!? THIS BITCHHHHHHHH.

BLESS HIS HEART, HE'S SO GRACIOUSSSSSSS (BUT NOT WITHOUT SOME SASSY SNARK!) A GENUINELY GOOD BEAN.

yeh dialogue tumhara nahi, anushka sharma ka hai ADHM mein. kuchhhhh bhi!

lol get wreckt, chanda.

OH DANG, PREETI. I MEAN THE CURLS ON THE RIGHT ARE A BIT AINVAYIIIIII, BUT DAAAAAAAANG. SUBHAN ALLAH INDEEEED!

KT SAA IS DICTIONARY DEFINITION OF HEART EYES MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRRRRRRRR

preeti is me, severely uncomfortable with any comment on her corporeal self.

lmaooooooo “ab aapki baari”. THIS MANNNNNNNNN IS INCORRIGIBLE.

LMAO PREETI'S LOOK AT THE BAAJA AND THEN HER HOLDING IT LIKE A GUN HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

i am preeeeti. i love having photos of me BUT THE PROCESS OF GETTING THEM TAKENNNNN IS MAUTTTTTTT.

this dude and run away from camera???? hard to believeeeee.

awwww man the way he got her to opennnnn up!

oh that isssssssss a really nice pic!

sheena is such a thaali ka baingan.

lol preeti se tareef nahi mili, toh shyaam se hi sahi. KT ka praise quota toh poora hona chahiye na.

UGH FUCKING TARUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN I HATE HIM SOOOOOO MUCHHHHH. HE'S GIVEN HIS POOR MOM SO MUCH TRAUMAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

oh great, these fuckers plus the buzurgs are waiting in the house for preeti again.

i am sumedh, who looks like he really wants to kick them all the fuck out.

okay what is this randommm scene with these gossipy aunties?!??? tell me it's a dream sequence. it legit came outta nowhere and makes no damn sense.

OH GOD FROM THE FRYING PAN INTO THE FIREEEE

ughhhhhhh fwdinggggg this old bat's pallu waala bhaashan.

ok this is a dream sequence right???? coz this is just toooooo fucking dramatic.

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29.09.20

ugh why do we have to watch this tarun-filled episode?!?!? haven't we suffered enough in 2020???

YES JUHIIIIIIIIII FUCK HIM UPPPPPPPP

rati is asking for an ass-whooping from juhi.

anyway i'm fwding her bullshit.

OH NO BUASAA IS AGREEING WITH RATI???

UGH BUASAA WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!!?!!? YOU LOVE HER AND TRUST HER JUDGEMENT THEN WHY CAN’T YOU JUST EXTEND THAT TO THIS SITUATION TOO??????

tell me preeti is gonna stand up for herselffffffff.

lol no need to smile, rati. preeti is gonna win over buasaa with one heartfelt speech. dekhnaaa.

i swear to god, every time tarun literally opens his mouth, mera bp shoot kar jaata hai. if this show keeps giving him ore than 10 mins footage per week, imma be dead by next month.

preeti gonna school son on AATMASAMMAAAAAN.

rati's terrrrrrrrible "shocked" acting lmao.

yeh phupaa-saa khaali footage khaane ke liye aatein hain pushkar se. kehte karte toh kuch nahi hain.

sumedh yaar, why are you standing here letting these ppl waste all your time like this?!?!?

lmao his "i'm so fucking done" face when she trots out the beti ke ghar ka paani bs. i honestly love sumedh.

YES THIS HOUSE IS YOUR REALLLLLLLLLLLLLL HOMEEEEEEEE.

KUSUM THE REALLLLLLLLLLLLLL MVPPPPPPP AND WE LOVE TO SEE HER BEING GIVEN THE CREDITTTTTTT

yessssssssssssss preeeeti askkkkkk the questionssssssssss to these nonsense ppl.

LMAOOOOOOOO TARUN FULLY BREAKING OUT THE JOKER CLAPPPP

whyyyyy does he yellllllllll like this?!?!?!?! son, you gonna give yourself a goddamn aneurysm like this.

man why isn't anyone slapppping the fuck outta him?!?!?!

OMG KUSUM IS BAAAAAAAAACKKKKKKKKKKK RAJESHWARI IS BACK AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

“haan kuch na seekha thaari maa ne, APNA HAATH CHALAANA SEEKHNA CHAHIYE THA!” askjhskdfhksjfhkdshfkdsj my queeeeen i love her more than there are stars in the skyyyyyyy

“ram ji ke ghode, sansaar ke sabse bade nigode!!!!!!!!!” je baaaaaaaaaaat!

omggggggggggggg she's systematically destroying himmmmmmmmmmmm on an atomic level!!!!!

lol pulled ratiiiiiiiii in to listen too.

SHE'S INDIRECTLY GIVING IT TO BUAASAA ALSO. MY GOD I CAN ONLY WATCH IN AWESTRUCK SILENCE, WITH MY BEATING HEART IN MY HANDS TO OFFER HER!

i'd really like to know more about kusum's husband. he must have been a real good man too, if the kids (esp. sumedh) turned out this well. tarun toh apne haraami baap pe gaya hai. BE CAREFUL WHO YOU RAISE YOUR BABIES WITH, LADIES.

lol sumedh coming in to rein kusum and her wildly gesticulating hands that just MIGHT ~~~accidentally~~ smack tarun in the face.

DSLKFJLDSKJFSDLKFLKSDJF YES KUSUM BREAK THAT FUCKING FINGER OFF AND SHOVE IT IN HIS EYEEEEEEEEEEE

all i want in the month of october is for tarun to get slapped. by anyoneeeeeee, seriously ANYONE, I'M NOT PICKY. sabziwaale bhaiyya muraari bhi ho toh koi masla nahi. someone just give him ek kheeeeeench ke.

LMAOOOOOOOOO RATI SLINKING BEHIND TARUN AND HISSING AT HIM. honestly iski harkaton pe gussa nahi, hassi aati hai. (i truly LMAOd in that ep where she was thinking about how preeti must have found no other job other than being a housemaid and says “bechaaaaari, preeti baai.” with that nonplussed face.)

ugh literally who gives a shit about your "timeline"???? tu kaun hota hai 25 days dene waala. we’ll take as long as we want, bitch.

lol rati knows this is inviting trouble. pairrrr, meet gulaati.

———————————————————————

who we kidding, we all know preeti's gonna take up this dumbass challenge.

#shaadi mubarak #sm lbs #episode liveblogs

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lazywriter7 · 5 years ago

Text

Five Bells

Written for @lightsonparkave prompt one and two. Cheers to the delightful @firebrands for all her words of encouragement.

Summary:

After returning the Stones, Steve takes a detour through time.

First few lines of dialogue taken from Avengers: Endgame. All other lines in italics, as well as the title, are taken from Kenneth Slessor’s Five Bells.

________________________________

“How long is this gonna take?”

“For him? As long as he needs. For us? Five seconds.”

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels Is not my time

the flood that does not flow.

I have lived many lives, and this one life

“You know which bagel,” Steve says – mostly distracted. Cross-legged, notepad on thigh, he is drafting new training plans for the team; Pietro is proving to be a unique challenge.

“I do?” Tony queries, standing above his shoulder. The couch is low and he towers over Steve. “I don’t remember that being covered by the history books… unless I’d fallen asleep, of course.”

Steve freezes. No, no, he stills. The setting sun angles over Tony’s cheekbone, a deep, burnt red.

Steve lowers his gaze, his skin shivering with the afternoon chill. “Sesame seed, please.”

Why do I think of you, dead man

You have gone from earth,

Gone even from the meaning of a name;

It is in the little things. Natasha’s surprised blink when Steve brings her a peanut butter sandwich, the hollow silence when he curses on the comms and no one chimes the L-word back at him.

It is nothing. It should pale before the face of the big things, the earth-shattering, the miraculous – the reality of getting to hear their voices, see their faces, unblemished, every day.

Even Christmas. Clint snags a thumbnail under the wrapping paper and peels it open from the middle; lifts the box set of Jurassic Park colouring books in the air and shakes it. “Right, ‘cause I’m the toddler of the team, I geddit. Thanks, Cap.”

It’s for Cooper, Steve thinks; it’s dumb, I couldn’t help myself, you haven’t told us and I’m so sorry–

“Did you not have presents in your time?” Tony asks, part snark and mostly befuddled, the multicoloured gleam of fairy lights dappled in his hair.

I didn’t have you in my time – and. And. It is in the little things.

Yet something's there, yet something forms its lips

And hits and cries against the ports of space,

Beating their sides to make its fury heard.

“They’re shiny. Silver.” Tony says, bruised eyes, dim with a kind of terror Steve has lived through first-hand. “These big, heaving whales in the air… and everything else is dark. All of you are dead.”

It’s been twenty-three days since Steve told him about December 16, 1991. New traumas evoking older nightmares.

“And I’m alone.”

It wasn’t real, Steve should say. That is the correct response to a nightmare.

It was real, in another, deliberately forgotten lifetime. Five years, and they weren’t even the worst of it.

“We can prepare,” Steve fists his hands by his sides, so as to not reach for Tony’s trembling ones on the kitchen countertop. Everything around them is night and still, but for the flickering of the bulb overhead. “We’ll be ready for them when they’re here.”

It’s like a face shifting from the shade into the light; the gratitude moving over Tony’s features.

The kettle whistles, Tony pads over to the stove – and for an instant, it’s as if a cloud passes and Steve is convinced this is a BARF memory. There by the corner, the real Tony stands with shoulders curled in – gaunt, emaciated, mouthing words.

Liar. Thief. Liar, liar.

Are you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face

In agonies of speech on speechless panes?

Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl your name!

Tony, Steve breathes – and Tony catches it on his lips.

This has never happened before. Steve has no memories to compare it with, and catalogues every detail to add to a rolodex of sensations, for safekeeping; Tony’s eyelashes fluttering against Steve’s skin, the way the callus on his thumb digs into Steve’s chin when he’s holding it steady, the soft skin in the crevices between his fingers as their hands wound tighter together, the happiness of an impossible moment.

Tony pulls back, smiles softly.

Steve closes his own eyes, brushes his mouth over the corner of Tony’s, where the wrinkles begin – the place missing just a few extra lines.

But I hear nothing, nothing...only bells,

Five bells, the bumpkin calculus of Time

Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by Life

“I have… Arlington.” Steve awkwardly presses himself against the wall of the overfull coffeeshop, paper cup oozing warmth through to his palms. Sometimes, if he lets himself forget, the crowds piling through the street and bustling indoors can still stun him. “There’s a memorial there, I mean. But if I could pick, after I eventually… Brooklyn, probably. In the Barnes family plot, if they allow it.”

“What,” Steve asks – turned morbid by the laughter and press of people around him. Fifty percent. It never happened here. “What about you?”

Natasha looks at him, brow crooking high enough to reach her hairline. Steve used to think that blistering colour came from hair dye, but he knows better now.

“Where I’d want to be buried?” She summarises bluntly. It’s like a wound getting cauterised – relief and pain making everything insensate.

The answer is a farm that isn’t supposed to exist, in the middle of nowhere. “Minsk,” Natasha says instead, and it doesn’t sound like a lie he’s heard before.

Nothing except the memory of some bones

Long shoved away, and sucked away, in mud;

And unimportant things you might have done,

Or once I thought you did; but you forgot,

And all have now forgotten

“Happy Sputnik Day!” Tony choruses, Thor’s deep base rumbling alongside his. Bruce is in the attached kitchenette, peering at jar labels in the shelf; Clint and Natasha playing Borderlands on the couch.

Steve comes further in from the doorway, gaze flitting incorrigibly from person to person. “What?”

“You know, Sputnik. The day all of humanity became a little cooler, and the Russians successfully launched the first satellite into orbit, driving the Americans insane.” Tony springs to his feet, wide grin approaching for a morning kiss. “October fourth.”

He barely catches Steve, fingers clamped about the arms, just as Steve pitches into the floor.

One year, one year one yearoneyearone –

Past, present, future swirls together in his serum-perfect brain, gibbering over two words, a fact so carefully forgotten; his breaths grow shallower and shallower, pain shooting through his chest with every hitch, black-spots-inverse-stars shimmering in his vision–

“You’re dead.” Steve rasps out, Tony’s face shuttering in confusion. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it. “You’re dead.”

Where have you gone? The tide is over you,

The turn of midnight water's over you,

As Time is over you, and mystery,

And memory, the flood that does not flow.

He’s curled on the couch, apostrophe-like; dry-mouthed but breathing slower against Tony’s denim-covered thigh. Tony drags blunt nails over his scalp, quietly humming under his own breath.

I’ve watched you, Steve thinks hazily – watched you raise a child, watched you be blissfully married, watched you speak to Howard, father to father, and dole out more understanding than he deserved, and let me walk you away from your pristine life and give me more trust than I had ever earned. I watched the silver grow from the temples of your head to the longer hair-strands, to the scrub of your goatee, up to the fleck of your brows. And the longer I keep watching you now, the more I know I’m watching someone else.

“Was so sure,” He can hear his voice reverberate off the floor, more of a croak than anything– “tha’ I wasn’ gonna leave you this time.”

Tony regards him, hum falling silent. There’s a dam there, in those eyes, holding back a wave of slowly stirring anger and injury that Steve fully intends to weather – but is leashed now, for some reason.

This Tony doesn’t have grey in his beard yet, but even as his lips move and Steve braces himself, he says–

“I’ll forgive you.”

The night you died, I felt your eardrums crack,

And the short agony, the longer dream,

The Nothing that was neither long nor short;

But I was bound, and could not go that way,

But I was blind, and could not feel your hand

After he’s said his goodbyes, Natasha follows him back to his room.

“Is he still in the plane somewhere?”

Back at the beginning, when he’d been dropping off the Tesseract at Camp Lehigh – he’d briefly considered it. Dropping off an envelope on Peggy’s desk with the coordinates of the Valkyrie, so that the other him could find… something. Maybe a happy ending, maybe just a chance. But all of time and its knowledge had been laid out before Steve, and he hadn’t resisted one extra indulgence.

It was only time before he met Scott, after all. One extra Particle than he had, one trip to the forties and back – and his self could be spared the pain of thirty years in the ice.

In twenty-twelve, Steve changed the course of history merely by showing up; all deep sea vessels, search parties in the Arctic called home. Captain America was alive and well.

“Seventy five, point two three zero six north, ninety nine point one one three zero west.” With every blink, Steve can see her memorising the numbers. “Find him, kick his ass into gear. Don’t let him run.”

She nods, and remains waiting in the doorway. Steve is motionless on the bed, the looming weight of the future wrapped around his wrist.

He looks at her. Natasha’s lips curve straight up, soft and reassuring.

“See you in a minute,” Steve whispers, and disappears.

If I could find an answer, could only find

Your meaning, or could say why you were here

Who now are gone, what purpose gave you breath

Or seized it back, might I not hear your voice?

Back on the platform, Bucky runs to him first. His brows are furrowed with faint surprise.

In that other past, and now that was The Other – Peggy had set him free in the seventies, aided by information that Steve left behind. When Steve re-emerged in twenty-twelve, he had no idea where Bucky was and how the years had passed for him – fettering his impulses in steel, and letting it remain that way. His interference would accomplish little, and Bucky had always managed on without him.

Or maybe that had just been easier for him to believe.

“Not the end of the line just yet,” Steve says.

The surprise smooths out of Bucky’s features, so does the staidness; he squeezes Steve’s elbow once and for a second, that grin seems alive.

“I hate running alone,” Steve tells Sam, who’s standing but two paces behind. He strides forward to catch up, reaches out and wraps Sam’s solid fingers over the strap of the shield in one motion. “Hold this for me, will you? Be back soon.”

He turns and walks. It’s a short one – the lakehouse property isn’t really big. There’s grass everywhere, and dandelions, and no headstones.

Just a tall, stately oak towards the side – foliage in full summer splendour. There’s already a circle of dropped acorns around the base, ready to sprout into a hundred, newer lives.

“Hey.” Steve strokes his fingers over the burnished bark. “I’m back.”

I have lived many lives, and this one life

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels

Is not my time, the flood that does not flow.

Outside the lakehouse, Laura is bundling the kids into a van. Clint steps down from the porch, murmurs something to her, then jogs over to where Steve is watching, arms folded.

“She did have family,” Clint says, almost as an aside. “Sisters, a few others.”

Steve breathes the news in. The scent of summer is strong in the air, lilacs and crabapples and the soil itself.

“I have a few of her effects. They must’ve heard, already, but someone should tell them in-person.”

“I’ll find them.” Steve affirms. Clint nods, and walks back to the van, where Cooper sticks his head out of the open windowpane and gets his hair ruffled teasingly for his efforts.

Steve watches, the warmth of the sun beating down his arms and back. He has a feeling Minsk is pretty nice this time of year too.

#lightsonparkave #stony #steve/tony #steve pov #time travel #grieving #endgame fix it #canon compliant #yup it's both #bittersweet #poetry #nat and tony live #in another timeline #steve rogers #tony stark #natasha romanov

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amuseoffyre · 5 years ago

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October Prompts - 6th

Prompt - ‘I can’t decide if this is the best, or the worst way to die’

Aziraphale couldn’t recall the last time he had stayed at the bookshop overnight.

Oh, he was there often enough during the day. He had business to attend to after all, but his evenings were usually spent in the chapter house and his nights found him in Crowley’s bed, the angel wrapped up in his arms.

Sometimes they talked into the small hours of the morning. Sometimes, they would watch some nonsense on Crowley’s outsized television. Sometimes – and he had to admit he was partial to those particular occasions – Crowley would soften into his embrace and spend hours just kissing him.

Only kissing, of course, and occasionally, he would pet and caress the angel until Crowley was reduced to a shivering mess in his arms. But all quite innocent.

It was something he had known for as long as he had known the angel. Sex was not – and would never be – on the table. It was a shame, because he always found it rather fun, but he knew Crowley was discomfited by the concept of changing more than the mere surface appearance of his body. It was not something to push for, not for his own indulgence.

On some memorable occasions, Crowley had taken him in hand and he had spent himself like an inexperienced lad and they had both laughed about it. They could do things like that. Crowley thought it was hilarious and took great pleasure in tutting and sighing about how quickly he finished.

And so, it came as quite the surprise when, on a warm Sunday morning, a naked angel climbed on top of him, pinning him place with knees on either side of his ribs.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

Crowley smiled down at him. In the year since Armageddon, there was a healthier glow about him, his eyes brighter, his cheeks rosier, and his smile much more frequent. “I have a present for you.” He rubbed his hands together. “Do you trust me?”

“Well, obviously, my darling…”

Crowley held up both hands, palms out. “I want to try something.”

Aziraphale, puzzled, lifted his hands and pressed them palm-to-palm with the angel’s. “What…” He cleared his throat. “Darling, you don’t need to do anything physical. I know you don’t–” A thrill of something surged through his blood, making his breath hitch, like a spark at the point where his hands met Crowley’s. “Oh!”

Crowley’s honey eyes shone, and he folded his fingers between Aziraphale’s. “You might want to hold on,” he warned.

Aziraphale blinked stupidly at him then gasped out as another surge of… oh Lord…

His hands clutched at Crowley’s. “Angel!” he croaked, his feet digging into the bed beneath him. “Wh-what is that?”

Crowley squeezed his fingers, leaning forward over him. “Bliss.”

Aziraphale’s words were strangled by the moan rising in his throat and it only got worse as Crowley laid himself down over Aziraphale’s chest. Every point of contact was like a surge of the best and most overwhelming pleasure imaginable, making him writhe and shudder and when Crowley’s lips ghosted over his, he halfway to sobbing.

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley’s words were a star-hot breath against his lips, every whisper a fresh surge, stealing Aziraphale’s breath away, his body arching up, his hands squeezing Crowley’s desperately tight. “I love you. I love every part of you, you filthy terrible wonderful person.”

“Oh fuck…” Aziraphale keened.

Crowley smiled against his lips. “No, love,” he breathed, that beautiful bastard smile on his face. “Something better.”

And when he kissed Aziraphale, the demon’s world went white, the surge of pleasure and love and adoration burning through him like fire. He probably screamed. Certainly. Didn’t hear it himself, but probably. Definitely cried. Definitely was still crying when his world tuned back into reality, his chest heaving and his face wet.

There was, he thought dazedly, a brief moment where he was almost sure he was about to come apart from pleasure. Not simply apart, but utterly undone. His mortal shell fractured into a thousand pieces by love. Both the best and worst of ways to shatter.

Crowley gently wiggled his fingers free of one of Aziraphale’s hands and brushed the still-flowing tears from one cheek, kissing the tears from the others.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I wanted to show you.”

Aziraphale lifted his trembling hand to wrap it around the angel’s back, pulling him to lie flush over him. No words left. He stared mutely at the ceiling slanting above them and shivered pleasantly as Crowley sighed, soft and warm, against his sweat-damp skin.

“I didn’t hurt you?” Crowley murmured against his throat. He sounded so worried that Aziraphale swallowed hard and gathered his wits that were scattered around like confetti.

“N-not at all,” he breathed in slowly and out, Crowley rising and sinking with his ribs. “I– overwhelmed. It–” Another swallow in a mouth bone dry. “Darling… I didn’t… is… how?”

Crowley lifted his head to look at him. “I know a lot of things,” he admitted. “About body, mind and soul.” He smiled that adorable crooked, self-conscious smile of his. “I’m not good with the words or the… human squishy stuff… so I wanted to show you how I felt my way.”

Oh Lord…

“That– that was you? All that?”

“Mm.” The angel worried his lip. “I mean, I know it’s weird, but–”

Aziraphale caught him by the back of the head and claimed his lips gently. Crowley relaxed into his embrace, then buried his face back in Aziraphale’s throat.

“That,” Aziraphale murmured, squeezing Crowley’s hand in his, “is definitely far superior to… what did you call it? Human squishy stuff?”

Crowley gave a laugh so small and bashful it was almost a giggle.

“Though,” Aziraphale added, his other hand settling back between Crowley’s shoulderblades, “if you feel the need to do it again, perhaps a little notice?” He tilted his head to kiss Crowley’s hair. “You… do plan to do it again?”

Crowley’s smile was soft against his throat. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”

Aziraphale beamed at the ceiling. “You, my love, are an incorrigible monster.”

Crowley snuggled closer. “I learned from the best.”

You know, Aziraphale thought fondly, perhaps you did.

#fic: inverse omens #october prompts #reverse omens #demon aziraphale #angel crowley

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blackirisposts · 5 years ago

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Of Ghosts and Coffee Shop Whispers

This work is part of Spoopy October Writing Challenge 2019 (SOWC19) hosted by me, annnnnnd Happy Steve Bingo (HSB) by: @happystevebingo !!! ❤

Prompt: Day 6: Ghost for SOWC19 && Romance Novel for HSB ❤

Pairing: Darcy Lewis x Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes x OMC, Jane Foster x Thor ❤

Word Count: 2404

❤ Book Shop && Coffee Shop ❤

Reblog will include links and tags! ❤

Warnings: Swearing, Mild Crack and the occasional cameo ❤

A/N: Special thanks to @pegasusdragontiger and @heartbreaker6995 for both shocking my brain into actually working and cranking out this fic ❤

Darcy’s eyes follow the blond man across the room as he moves to wait for his coffee order.

“You’re staring.” Jane says, not looking up from the small wired contraption she was fiddling with.

“Yep.” Darcy pops the ‘p’ like the word’s made of bubble gum. “What a sight.”

Jane hums not fully paying attention to Darcy.

“Thor’s off world, your loss.” Darcy says with a slurp of her coffee.

“Thor?” Jane looks up and around in confusion.

Darcy pats her hand, “Off world, dear.”

“Right. I knew that.”

Darcy pushes a barely touched panini sandwich towards Jane.

“Eat, my scientific one. It shall give you strength!”

“Eat later. Science now.”

“Eat now. Science, well, also now?” Darcy sighed dragging her eyes back to Jane. “Don’t make me take whatever the hell that thing is away from you until after you’ve finished your no longer hot sandwich thingy.”

“I dare you.” Jane stares at Darcy.

“Jane.” Darcy arches a brow.

“Fine.”

“Love you too.”

Jane takes a few bites as she fiddles with her contraption.

“Still staring.”

“He’s still a sight to behold.”

“You stare at him whenever you see him here. Go talk to him. Dazzle him with your wit.”

“Yeah. That’s likely to happen.”

“Where else are you going to run into him? The lab?”

“No.” Darcy huffed, fixing her mass of curls. “Maybe a bookshop.”

Jane scoffs.

“You never know.” Darcy takes a drawn-out sip of her nearly empty coffee mug. “Okay, but if I ran into the glory of that in a bookshop, I’d die happy. . . oh, and then I could haunt the bookshop, too. . . okay, Jane. New plan!”

As Darcy dreams out loud, a half-asleep man in a stained purple shirt and black apron sidles up to her.

“It’s your lucky day then, Dee.”

Darcy squeaks in an undignified manner, startled by Clint’s sudden appearance at her side. She glares at him, her cheeks tinted pink. Clint’s an incorrigible gossip. And he will definitely tell Nat, another incorrigible gossip. This will not end well.

“Where’d you crawl out of?”

“I’m on break.” Clint shrugs and sips his coffee.

“You know something, Barton?”

“I could use more tips.” Clint arches a brow at Darcy.

“Ha! You’re lucky you make the best coffee in the city.”

Clint chuckles and takes the empty chair at their table, partially blocking Darcy of her glorious view.

“I might know a little something-something about a certain possibly haunted book shop on 66th street. If you’re planning on taking up an additional post to haunt it.”

“Possibly haunted?” Jane asks, suddenly interested in the conversation and not believing a word he says.

“Yeah. There’s like at least two ghosts. They’re—well they’re really annoying. Funny sometimes but mostly annoying.”

Darcy and Jane share a look and Darcy snorts turning back to Clint.

“So, what are you actually saying?”

“Maybe he’ll be there. Maybe he won’t be.”

“But?”

“But I’d check it out if I were you.” Clint grabs the empty cups and crumpled wrapper that once contained Darcy’s Danish. “You two check each other out far too much for you both to not have noticed yet. It’s driving everyone insane.”

“Whatever, dude.” Darcy rolls her eyes, biting her lip to keep her smile at bay. “If this bookshop is real, it’d be worth it to run into him there. Haunted or not.”

“Whatever you say, Dee.” Clint says walking back to the front counter.

“Okay, Jane, new plan. Same plan. Whatever.”

“Darcy. No.”

“Darcy. Yes.”

“Wait, what’s the address?” Darcy looks from Jane to Clint.

‘Look at your phone.’ Clint signs from behind the counter.

Darcy looks down to her phone to see the address and several emojis light up her phone.

“Who put this here?”

“You know who.” A tired voice replies, muffled by the rows of books.

“Dude. You can’t put this here.”

“I can. And I did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Fix it!”

“There’s nothing to fix. It should go here.”

“No. No, it shouldn’t.”

“Guys.” The tired voice calls out.

“You cannot put Tolkien in the romance section.”

“Yeah. I can.”

“No.”

“It’s totally a romance novel. You’d know that if you ever learned to read.”

“Guys!” The voice calls out again.

“NO!”

“Yes! He goes in every section!”

“Tolkien. Does. Not.”

“Yep. Every one. That’s what everyone wants to read anyways.”

“Oh my god. It’s like arguing with a wall.”

“Guys. Knock it off.” The tired voice shouts.

A barely discernable pair of ‘sorry’s are uttered without feeling. Hushed arguing can still be heard throughout the book shop that finally stops when a book is thrown down aisle slamming into a wall with a harsh thud.

“You done yet?” Darcy asks, tapping the end of her pen against the table top.

“Does it look like I’m done?”

“No. You’re never done. Even when you are, in fact, done.”

“What?”

“You started spouting equations when you were asleep. Remember? I recorded it incase it was something import.”

“I don’t remember that.” Jane eyes Darcy. “There’s no way I did that.”

“You did.” Eric taps his head. “I remember. It was odd. All your equations where correct but they had nothing to do with each other.”

Jane huffs. “Typical.”

“Nah, just proof you need more sleep, Doc.”

“I need more sleep? Or you want to go ghost hunting?”

“Maybe both?” Darcy holds both hands up defensively. “Can’t we have both?”

“Take the rest of the day off, Darcy.” Eric chuckles grabbing the pen from her.

“Really?”

“Yes.” He gives her an incredulous look. “Go have fun with the—ghosts.”

“I don’t think they’re—”

“I don’t want to know. Just call us if you need help or are pulled into another dimension again.”

“Thanks, ma dude.” Darcy bounces on her toes and presses a quick kiss to Eric’s cheek. “And you’ll take care of Jane-y?”

“Yes. Now, go before you convince yourself not to.”

“Alright, alright. Don’t science too hard.”

Darcy bites her lip, checking her phone one more time for address to the bookshop. The entrance is warm and charming. Totally inviting. Not that there was a bookshop that hadn’t agreed with Darcy yet.

The door chimes softly as the smell of fresh coffee and paper flood her nose.

“Yeah. This is a place I could call my forever home.” Darcy mutters to herself.

Not a soul in sight. Only books and a mismatched pair of leather chairs and a purple velvet couch.

Mismatched fairy lights hang crisscrossing overhead, leading to a small stage. A framed chalkboard sign reads: Poetry reading, Tonight 8pm.

Darcy snaps a pic and sends it to Jane and Eric, found my happy place.

She wanders farther into the bookshop when she hears it.

“Was the fair palace door—”

First it sounds like a whisper.

“Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing—”

Now a little louder. The disembodied voice sounded pensive, annoyed even.

“Flowing, flowing, flowing—”

Darcy’s curiosity gets the better of her and she follows the voice, stifling a snort when she hears it curse in frustration.

She hears papers moving and an irritated sigh.

Rounding a corner, she sees the source of the voice. Not a ghost by any means, but definitely something that took her breath away. Before her perched precariously on a stool is a rather large man in a rust colored sweater, his dark hair tied messily in a bun.

“That was really beautiful.”

The man looks up and blushes. “Th-thanks. I’m trying to memorize it before tonight.”

“You’ll get it.”

“I better.” He sighs, his voice dropping low in embarrassment. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“Oh, for who?” Darcy beams a toothy grin at him as his blush darkens.

He hands her his book, an anthology of Poe, open to the poem that he’s struggling with.

“It’s for my boyfriend, it’s his favorite. If I can pull it off, I’m going to ask him to move in with me, too.”

Darcy squeaks out a noise that makes him chuckle.

“I’m Bucky by the way.”

“Darcy.” She replies. “And that is possibly the sweetest thing I’ve heard all month.”

“I call bull, Bucko.”

“What the fuck now, Sam?” Bucky asks, features going neutral.

“No way.” The man referred to as Sam crosses his arms over his chest making himself look intimidating in the small book aisle. “You paid her to come in here and say that. Admit it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

Darcy snorts, drawing their attention. “You two don’t sound like ghosts.”

“What?” They ask in unison.

A low chuckle is heard an aisle or two over.

Darcy points in the direction of the laugh. “Now there’s your ghost.”

“Ghost?” Sam asks.

“A friend recommended this place, said it was haunted by at least two ghosts, annoying but sometimes funny. I imagine he was talking about you two. You’re not the boyfriend, are you?” Darcy asks Sam as she draws soft lines of graphite in his book.

“Oh, hell no. He wishes.” He chuckles, holding out a hand. “I’m Sam. I can only stand that man as far as I can throw him.”

Darcy takes his hand, offering her name in return.

“What the hell man? You know you can’t throw down like I can.”

“Knock it off, guys.”

“So, is he the ghost then?” Darcy snickers referring to the voice as both men roll their eyes at the phrase they’ve heard far too often.

“No.” Sam seems to pout. “You’d think so, but no.”

Darcy shrugs and hands Bucky the book back. “Here, try to memorize it in chunks, it has more rhythm that way, might be easier.”

“Thank you so much!” Bucky’s face brightens and he wraps Darcy in a quick hug, nearly crushing her. His movements startling her into laughter and cause Sam to roll his eyes.

“Why you gotta hug everyone, man. Some people don’t like it.”

“I don’t mind.” Darcy shrugs with a laugh. “Some people need kindness in physical platonic gestures.”

Sam hums, eyeing Darcy and then Bucky.

“What?” She asks confusion written across her face.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, Buck?”

It takes Bucky a moment, but he gets there. “Oh. Stevie. Yeah.”

“Who?”

“They’d be perfect together.” Sam nods, giving Darcy his sweetest smile. “You’d really love him.”

“No, seriously, who’s Steve?”

“For us to know and you to fall in love with.” Sam arches his brows at her.

“Hey, maybe then he’ll spend less time here giving us a hard time.” Bucky says, nudging Sam.

“Give the lady some room otherwise she’ll never come back here, ya crazy mutts.” Says the voice again, this time closer.

“What?” Darcy asks while Bucky shakes his head and goes back to his book. She looks to Sam who throws his hands in the air in mock defeat.

“We try and we try, Steve.” Sam says, his smirk growing into a full smile. “But we can only do so much for you, old man.”

“This is why business is erratic.” Says the voice, who Darcy is now assuming to be the Steve formerly mentioned. “You two aren’t sharing shifts anymore if you keep this up.”

“Uh oh, looks like you’ve upset the man behind the curtain.” Darcy quips, earning a fist bump from Sam and a chuckle from Bucky.

“Yeah! Good one.” Scott cheers coming around the corner, bowl of orange slices in hand. “Who’s the new girl?” he asks, offering everyone to take from the dish.

“Scott, be cool, man.” Sam shakes his head, grabbing a handful of oranges before walking out of the aisle.

“When am I not cool? I’m cool right?” Scott looks to Darcy, like she’ll back him up.

Bucky chuckles and disappears around the corner before being dragged into it.

Darcy laughs and nods, her words caught in her throat as Steve rounds the corner, rolling his eyes.

“You’re the coolest Scott.” Steve confirms, eyes tired until they fall on Darcy and light up. “Can you finish inventory in the back?”

“Can do Cap!” Scott mock salutes, shoving the large bowl into Steve’s hands as he leaves.

“Sorry about him.” He shuffles his feet a bit, suddenly shy at finding the ‘cute coffee shop girl’ in his shop. “’Bout all of them, really.”

Darcy shakes her head “You must be Steve?” Darcy smiles at the flush starting to color his cheeks.

“Yeah,” He says softly, smile as bright as she knew it’d be. “And you’re—”

“Darcy. It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

“How’d you survive the minotaurs that work here?” He asks, putting the bowl on an empty shelf, his free hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“I know how to get around a maze with minimum casualties.” Darcy laughs, the sound feeling like a wave of sunshine rippling through his veins.

Steve can’t help but laugh with her. He should have listened to Clint and Nat and talked to her sooner.

“Would you—” He’s interrupted with a tap on the shoulder by a guy with a creepy yet happy smile holding three pizza boxes.

“We didn’t order anything.” Steve says with a confused look. “Wait. Guys? Did you order take out again?”

“No!” Come Bucky and Sam’s reply almost in unison, followed by a late and muffled ‘no’ from Scott.

“Sorry, man.”

“Smells good, though.” Darcy murmurs.

“Eh, thought I’d just say hi. This goes next door.”

“What?” Darcy takes a step closer to Steve.

“Hi. Wade Wilson.” The man says with a sigh of admiration. “Big fan.” And turns to leave.

The door hasn’t shut yet and they hear his voice again from the street.

“Fuck! I got distracted by those baby blues. What was my line? ‘Everything’s better with pizza?’ Fuck it, close enough! Can’t I do it again? Shit!”

“What the fuck was that?” Darcy asks, holding a hand over her mouth as she laughs.

“You keep the pizza, boss?” Bucky yells.

“Or are you two too busy making out already?” Sam sticks his head around the corner waggling his eyebrows.

“Why did I agree to hire you two?” Steve asks, giving Darcy an apologetic look.

“Wanna get out of here?” Darcy slips her hand into Steve’s.

“Yeah.”

“Buck!” Sam yells over his shoulder. “They’re holding hands!”

“Ha! Nat owes me twenty bucks!” Comes Bucky’s voice from behind the stacks of books.

“Coffee shop?”

“Coffee shop.” Steve agrees, his smile faulters. “Wait, do you know Clint?”

“Shit.”

#Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes/OMC #bipspoopy19 #happy steve bingo 2019

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tenderblues · 6 years ago

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“Mitya, I wish you weren’t so beautiful! Supposing I had ceased to care for you and had dismissed you, trait by trait− finally there would come the insurmountable stumbling block of your beauty, and I should be as hopelessly inveigled as I ever was! [...] You are just as undeniably beautiful as the cathedral in Seville or the ‘view from the Acropolis.’ There can be no two opinions about that. You are indomitably, incorrigibly beautiful and I wish to Heaven you weren’t because it’s the only thing I can’t resist.”

Violet Trefusis to Vita Sackville-West, October 1920

#violet trefusis #love letters #100

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aftgficlibrary · 7 years ago

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Minyard-Josten Rivalry Masterlist

coin toss by sashasea (shcombatalade) (G | 1/1 | 1,573)

A sort-of AU set during the single year of post-college pro-level where Andrew and Neil play for separate teams and the eight week period where their ‘rivalry’ was all anyone could talk about. Part 1 of coin toss universe

how it all starts by keihtkogane (T | 1/1 | 1,770)

Timestamps for the Minyard-Josten Rivalry ft. Neil and Andrew being shits, annoyed Kevin, trendmaker Nicky, etc. Part 1 of the minyard-josten ‘rivalry’

minyard-josten: a rivalry for the ages by dustbottle (M | 1/1 | 4,203)

After four years of playing together at Palmetto State University, Neil and Andrew end up on different professional teams. Neil is the new striker for the Atlanta Hawks; Andrew is goalie for the Boston Rebels. This is the story of their so-called rivalry. Three guesses as to who starts the rumours. (Spoilers: It’s Neil.) Part 2 of andreil: into the future

please tell me it’s just the fandom freaking out by onesweetmelody ( T | 7/7 | 16,573)

And finally, the Minyard/Josten Rivalry as told through social media. __ Neil Josten @neiljos10 Sadly @ajminyard isn’t too excited about that face off Neil Josten @neiljos10 Maybe @ajminyard will learn how to block an offside bouncer before then. Or any shot.

in which neil josten is a pr nightmare by coveryoureyes (T | Incomplete | 12,442)

Eve was not the best person in the world. Sometimes she didn’t hold the elevator open when she saw people rushing to catch it from the other side of the lobby. Cutting the line at Starbucks was a semi-regular action. But Eve did not deserve to be Neil fucking Josten’s publicist. Or, the one where Neil does what he wants, picks fights with reporters, discovers Twitter, breaks the internet, and really shouldn’t be allowed out of his house. Andrew does nothing to discourage him.

shut up and kiss me by emmerrr (G | 528 | 1/1)

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m proud of you,” Neil says. “What’s wrong with being proud of you?”

Part 17 of To live will be an awfully big adventure

Wait, Neil Has a Boyfriend? by samaykay912 (Not Rated | 1,231 | 1/1)

It was all Matt's fault that they were here. Who drops the bomb that the boy who doesn't swing have a boyfriend, and not expect them to do anything about it?

Or, where two of Neil's teammates walk in on the morning after Andrew and Neil reunite after they played against each other.

Chapter 18 of Glipses by goldveines (E | Incomplete | 21/?)

andreil + "your sarcasm is not amusing"

Cover Story by FreakingOutGirl (G | 1,015 | 1/1)

Neil doesn't like it when he sees the newest Exy Today!'s cover and Andrew is just having fun seeing Neil getting angry at everyone from Kevin to the editor.

Thea and Kevin grace the cover of a magazine and Neil is having none of it with the bullshit tagline.

The Name Game by minyrrds (G | 3,042 | 1/1)

What happens when Andrew and Neil change the names on their jerseys.

(also available as a podfic here)

Clickbait by Frostandcoal for ilgaksu (T | 5,431 | 1/1)

It is fitting that Josten is set to don a Dragons’ uniform. Like his new mascot, Josten is a fire-breathing, relentless, somewhat mythical creature whose very existence seems larger than life. And Minyard is the perfect manifestation of a Cyclone; an inescapable, violent maelstrom of unpredictability, where your only chance of survival is to hunker down and wait out the storm.

What happens when a dragon battles a force of nature? That’s what we’re all waiting to find out. The media reacts to teammates-turned-rivals in the summer before Neil Josten’s first year in the pro’s.

those to come by jaylocked (T | 4,282 | 1/1)

Neil Josten @njosten @aminyardofficial did they skip English lessons at angry midget academy? 5:23 PM - 94,203 likes - 84,502 retweets

Andrew Minyard @aminyardofficial @njosten i will fight u 5:30 PM - 84,302 likes - 68,394 retweets

(an AU where everybody plays Exy professionally, there is no backstory at all, Neil is technologically illiterate, and Andrew and Neil somehow develop a rivalry anyway)

Part 1 of pro exy, pro twitter au

The Future Is Brighter Than We Thought It Would Be (Social Media Is A Disaster) by CasTheButler (Not Rated | 2,695 | 1/1)

Georgie O'Reilly is freaking out. Andrew Minyard just called her to willingly arrange an interview. Not just any interview. An interview where he's going to tell everyone who his boyfriend is. Live. On Television. The ratings are going to sky rocket.

This took me a ridiculous amount of effort. A ridiculous amount for a ridiculous fic and I'm a little proud.

"I can't stop thinking about you." by drugstoreperfume (T | 1,696 | 1/1)

Neil and Andrew are on separate teams, and Neil has to come to terms with how much he truly misses Andrew when the distance is so far.

Series: Part 4 of drabble prompts for the exy kids

Goalie by IceAngels (Not Rated | 835 | 1/1)

This was just supposed to be a short thing about Exy players doing that thing that hockey players do when there's a fight, partnering up, but instead it became a kind of genesis story for the Josten-Minyard Rivalry.

Really just a short fun fic

Captured moments by simplydevotedtoyou (G | 8,710 | 1/1)

Neil has finally made it to pros, joining the RedSock Lions in Chicago. Andrew however is with the Houston Hornets.

When Andrew is asked about how he feels about seeing his ex team mate on an opposing team, he makes a comment which starts the supposed 'rivalry' between the ex team mates.

What the majority of people don't know is that Neil and Andrew are in fact together and have been since college, well that is until someone releases photos of them which show that the whole rivalry wasn't 100% real.

or Neil and Andrew are both too stubborn to let the other have the last word.

Series: Part 3 of What everyone doesn't see unless they look close enough.

'cause it's not what it seems by flickerfonds (Not Rated | 1,252 | 1/1)

based on a prompt from @exyprompts on tumblr -- okay but like an outside pov of the Minyard-Josten Rivalry where they’ve recently been transferred to the same team and the team is really edgy and tries to keep them away from each other, but then they get put in the same hotel room for an away game (obviously they request this) and the whole team goes through all of these antics to separate them because they think it is a mistakeTM

The Self I Am by dustbottle (E | 5,536 | 1/1)

Though Neil and Andrew have been on the same professional team for years, the Minyard-Josten rivalry is still going strong. No one has caught wind of the truth of their relationship – but maybe it’s time for that to change.

(Or: Neil and Andrew decide to come out. This is how it happens.)

Series: Part 4 of Andreil: Into The Future

The Truth Behind It by wematch (T | 2,801 | 1/1)

Neil finally makes a Twitter account the year after he leaves the Foxes. His PR has been nagging him about making a social media account since he joined the team but ultimately he uses it to annoy Andrew. Of course things escalate and the rumours of a rivalry between the two form, that is until Neil clarifies everything.

updated: october 29, 2018

#masterlist #masterlistmonday #theme:rivalry #theme:andreil #andreil #andrewminyard #neiljosten #futurefic #postcanon #theme:andrewminyard #theme:neiljosten #theme:postcanon

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ask-frederick · 6 years ago

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With October coming up, I'm sure you have plans for when Henry's hex's is out of control, but may I suggest something? Considering your handling the super natural, why not ask Luigi and Ricter Belmont from Smash Bros? Luigi's device can not only capture ghost, but can turn them in to decorative paintings. Ricter however, can destroy the undead with his special chain. If Robin and them were to team up, even Grima might surrender at their presences.

“I’m afraid the only counters for a hex are an abundance of magical resistance or a counter-curse... neither of which I have readily at my disposal. Inviting visitors from other worlds would only give Henry a broader pool of victims, and encourage his already incorrigible behaviour.”

“No, the best thing for it is to stock up on extra treats for the Harvest Festival and to hand them out liberally... though they really ought to be sugar-free if possible. Henry is almost as bad as Nowi when he’s on a sugar rush, but instead of bursts of giggles and dragonfire, Henry is a repeating crossbow of bad puns, idiotic questions, and accidental hexes for which he conveniently forgets the remedies.”

“...Ugh, poor Gaius got the worst of it last year when he refused to share one of his suckers and got his eyebrows hexed off in turn. Until they grew back naturally, that unfortunate man looked so incredibly oafish that we had to get Maribelle to draw them on for him... with a cherry-red pastel pencil.”

#fire emblem #frederick answers #pretty sure a ghostbuster vacuum and a holy whip wouldn't do much against to counteract a curse #...or slay a dragon the size of a mountain #sometimes you just gotta fight fire with little boxes of raisins #long'queue #Anonymous

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carolinemillerbooks · 2 years ago

Text

New Post has been published on Books by Caroline Miller

New Post has been published on https://www.booksbycarolinemiller.com/musings/the-futures-emerald-city/

The Future's Emerald City

A strategist for the democratic party, Lisa Smith, sums up her political view of the world. It’s radical that being reasonable is radical and being normal is abnormal. ( ”Radical Reason” by Joe Hagan, Vanity Fair, October 2022, pg.43.) Profound as well as surprising, the comment comes from a magazine with a picture of an actress exposing skin on the cover. Incongruity is a specialty of human beings. Whether it works as a successful survival tactic remains to be seen. The average span for a mammalian species is 1 million years, so ours is young by 700,000 years. (“The Beginning of History,” by William Macaskill, Foreign Affairs, Sept./Oct., 2022 pg. 13.) Having proved we are clever enough to plunder the earth to meet our desires, we appear to have brought ourselves to the brink of extinction. Either we will go up in a cloud of nuclear smoke because we can’t get along with each other, or we will compete until we fish the oceans dry. The world we have created is one we no longer can manage with ease. As Smith portends, humans must reach a consensus about what is normal and abnormal soon. Most of us agree we aren’t in Kansas* anymore. Bill Clinton, our 42nd President, believes we can find our way to the Emerald City if we bypass a divided political system and place our faith in philanthropy. The basis for his sentiment is insubstantial hope. I think there is a longing for people to get together and meet with an end in mind. I want to ask what people and what end Clinton promotes. The guiding principle at the moment seems to be the will to power. Without a driving incentive for cohesion, cooperation has as much chance to survive as a dead Lilly that is plunged into a water glass. William Macaskill, a philosopher who teaches at Oxford University, approaches human survival differently than Clinton. He begins with a question. Can humanity manage “the danger of its own genius?” (The Beginning of History,” Foreign Affairs, Sept/Oct 2022 pg. 12.) He believes we’d increase our longevity if we shifted our attention from the present to the future. Do we want to preserve the planet for our descendants? Regardless of differences in religion, culture, or politics, a majority would opt to save the planet for our unborn generations. The question is, how do we achieve it? Macaskill isn’t alone in his concerns for the future. Writers Dani Rodrik and Stephen M. Walt make a startling proposal in “How to Build a Better Order.” (Foreign Affairs, Sept./Oct., 2022, pgs. 142-155.) Past attempts to reign in repugnant governments with sanctions do little to effect change or liberate the oppressed. Generally, the pain falls hardest upon the powerless. A future world, they say, will need to accommodate non-Western powers and tolerate greater diversity in national arrangements and practices. (Ibid, pg. 145) That means the political stage must make room for dictatorships like North Korea, the Taliban, and the military dictatorship of Myanmar. Macaskill agrees and points out the benefits of bringing incorrigibles into the fold. With their existence no longer threatened, military spending in those countries would decline, and, presuming corruption doesn’t explode, some money might be left over to feed the hungry. The arrangement would reduce the need for cyber war, or nuclear and bioweapons. (“The Beginning of History,” by William Macaskill, Foreign Affairs, Sept./Oct., 2022 pg. 19.) History shows us cooperation between advisories is possible when mutual destruction is at stake. After World War I, nations turned their backs on gas warfare. A few leaders have flaunted the Geneva Protocol, but they are deemed to be war criminals and imprisoned if caught. Nuclear agreements, though old and out of date, remain in force for the same reason. Cloning is another example of universal cooperation. That scientific breakthrough may be appropriate for farm animals, but no nation has broken with the consensus that human cloning is abhorrent. Using the future to guide the present provides a greater incentive for cooperation than Clinton’s call for collaboration. His appeal to our better angels ignores nature’s pecking order, the instrument for natural selection. Mutual survival is a more compelling incentive, especially when, today, people of all philosophies recognize that human life is at a flexion point. Those who imagine we can save the future by returning to the past are already dead, fossils of a bygone era. Humans have no choice but to observe the dictates of time. We must go forward. If the future threatens our extinction, then we must change the rules of engagement. To quote Eric Hoffer, In times of change, learners inherit the earth, while the learned find themselves beautifully equipped to deal with a world that no longer exists. *Reference to The Wizard of Oz.

#Bill Clinton #Dani Rodrik #Eric Hoffer #Geneva Protocol #human cloning #humans on the brink of extinction #including our enemies #Josh Hagan #Lisa Smith #mutual destruction and cohesion #nuclear agreements #philanthropy as world changing #Stephen M. Walt #The Emerald City #using the future to guide the present #William Macaskill

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incandescent-justice · 6 years ago

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Every 5th question for the book ask :)

😆 You don’t ask for much…I love it!

5. What book or book series would you like to see turned into a film/ TV series?Hmm, the issue with this is that all my favourites that have been turned into films/tv series have almost always been ruined in the doing (see, for example, The Little White Horse fiasco/Voyage of the Dawn Treader). So, with the caveat that I would only like to see this happen if I were the sodding producer (and Director?) - Violent Needham’s Stormy Petrel series. I remember @girlonabridge and I dreamcast it once, but i am struggling to remember who we cast asides from Gary Sinise as Far Away Moses, and the Fiennes child who played young Tom Riddle as Dick (although at the age he was then…) Thinking on it now, I reckon Jemma Redgrave would make a delightful Wych Hazel, and Mark Strong would be a good Black Mask. Gary Oldman as Count Jasper, maybe?

10. What is a book that you own more than one copy of?Oooh, there’s a few of these. I have various of EBD’s Chalet School books in duplicate, partly because @girlonabridge and i consolidated our collections, partly because Granny just picked up copies when she found them (we have 3 hardbacks of Princess, for ex, and at least one paperback). Technically i have two Midnight Folk by John Masefield, because I cannot and will not throw out the remnants of the very battered paperback that Granddad gave me of it, despite having a full identical copy. I also have two copies of the Pope’s encyclical Evangelii Gaudium, because I bought one, and then a friend bought me one too. Oh, and I have the french Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, and the german Prisoner of Azkaban (as well as the english, obvs.), bought at various times when I was trying to improve my fluency in both those languages.

15. What book made you cry?Many and various! But the most memorable are Gay from China at the Chalet School (I’m sure you know why) and (when I first read) The Last Battle by CS Lewis, many moons ago. Now I utterly love it, and while I may get a little teary, it’s nothing like the grief when I was 7!

20. Have you ever been glad to not finish a series? Which?Hmm. There have been many series I haven’t - yet - finished. Technically, I haven’t finished the Chalet School! But one comes to mind, and that’s GP Taylor’s Shadowmancer series, and that’s because they’re the most woefully awful books ever. I can’t quite credit that I finished one. Also Robin Jarvis’ Whitby Witches series, because they scared the living daylights out of me, and I still occasionally have nightmares 20 years later.

25. How many books do you own?Haaaaaaaaaaaha. I was kinda hoping someone would ask this… So. Um. We have 70 (mostly longer than average, sometimes deeper) bookshelves *stuffed* and sometimes double layered, plus various piles of books as well. Spread across 14 bookcases, if you were wondering. When we moved into the flat, I took great delight in organising everything by subject/topic/general area, so they are at least organised. Sort of. If you squint at the piles, and one of the newer bookcases which just got the overflow. But I didn’t count, and even if I had that was 7 years ago, and we are incorrigible book buyers.

30. What book are you planning on buying next?On that note…. 😂 I have a list of books on my phone that are potential presents for @girlonabridge, so obviously can’t put them here! Probably some more law books tbh. I have a book voucher for No Alibis in Belfast, and they’re the official stockist of my uni, as well as being a crime and thriller specialist. But I’m not normally a planner outside of law and presents, so, who knows! Whatever takes my fancy….

35. What three books are you most looking forward to reading this year?Well, I have now - finally - completed one of them! (it is nearly September, I’ve had the book since last October) - Hidden Nature by Alys Fowler - 10/10 would recommend. Her journey of kayaking Birmingham’s canals for a year, whilst she came to terms with being a lesbian, who had been married to a man for 15 or so years. Part naturalist observations, part coming-out autobiography, it’s fabulous.) Asides from that, I’m actually really looking forward to re-reading Good Omens, because it’s a delight. And I’d really like to read Lies we tell ourselves by Robin Talley, because I read bits of it over @girlonabridge‘s shoulder and it sounds great.

40. What is the weirdest book you have read?I really don’t know how to answer this tbh. Weird in what way? I suppose most Jeanette Winterson books might count as weird to the uninitiated, but I love her style dearly, so they don’t seem weird to me… Maybe reading a Viz annual when I was, idk, 9, was pretty damn weird? (I mean, I thought it was weird at the time, and haven’t ever gone back to see if my childhood self was correct in this theory.)

45. Do you own a poetry anthology? What is your favourite poem from it?We have a variety. Only a few of them are specifically mine tho. I *ahem* stole my copy of Seamus Heaney’s Opened Ground (his collected works) after AS Level English Lit, because buying a new copy would have meant losing all my precious notes - and my favourite in that is probably Bogland. I also somehow mysteriously ended up with A Choice of Poets - my GCSE Eng Lit anthology, of which Thomas Hardy’s Woman Much Missed was always my favourite. More recently, I bought a copy of Poems for Refugees, edited by Pippa Haywood after 9/11 and the ensuing wars. It’s a fantastic anthology, and I’m hard-pressed to pick just one poem out of it, because they’re all superb. Many old favourites, a few lesser known. I’ve just picked one at random - This above all is precious and remarkable - by John Wain (1925-94), selected by Judi Dench. (Interestingly, when i put the title into ecosia, to search for a link, the first link that comes up is from a Mercy website I get weekly emails from, and the recommendation is made by a Sister I have met in the past! Small world.)

50. What book got you into reading?I think it must have been The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by CS Lewis. I can remember Granny reading me the beautiful A4 unabridged illustrated (by Pauline Baynes, naturally) version when I was about 4 or 5, and I wanted more… That or the Orlando books by the artist Kathleen Hale, again, I’d have read those when I was *very* young - after having had Granny read them to me.

💜

#asked and answered #book ask

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crimehathnofury · 4 years ago

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Love. Such a simple thing right? Well it can be simple, sometimes. As for other times it can be complicated and chaotic. I've heard that people in love can do extraordinary things. Good and evil. Like the things Cathy and Gwen did. However, that’s a story for another time. Today’s journey is going to take place in Manchester, England. A couple of lovers known as the Moors Murderers. What do you say we dive in?

Ian Brady was born Ian Duncan Stewart on January 2, 1938 to a tea-waitress named Margaret (Peggy) Stewart. He didn’t know much about his father. Although Peggy said it was a journalist. Peggy found it difficult to raise her son on her own and with little income, so she gave him up to a young couple. The Sloane family adopted young Ian and raised him as their own. Early on Ian had shown signs of troubling behaviour. He’d throw violent tantrums if he didn’t get his way that would end with him banging his head against the walls. Peggy would come visit him from time to time and give him gifts. Eventually Peggy stopped visiting Ian and he figured out who Peggy was and deduced that the Sloanes were not his family. There were others in the neighborhood that caught on to his illegitimacy and then coupled that with his sullen personality made him unpopular. Ian came to resent this and thought of himself as a rebellious outsider not bound by the same rules as others. He was a smart and handsome kid at school, just not well liked. At 11 he had passed a test that got him into Shawlands Academy. Sadly his potential was never really recognized. He was lazy, never applied himself, and misbehaved. Eventually he took up smoking and gave up on school work. He also started developing an interest in Nazis. He would ask for souvenirs from the boys whose fathers would bring back from the war. When playing war games he would insist on being german. Also at this point in time he became very perverse and sadistic. He would bully small children. Also he would torture animals in various grotesque ways. When he was a teenager he was brought to Juvenile court for burglary and housebreaking. The first 2 times he was given probation but the 3rd he was considered incorrigible and was told to leave Glasgow. In November 1954, 2 months before his 17th birthday, Ian left the Sloanes and moved to Manchester England where his mother, Peggy, and her new husband were. Even though Ian did not get along with his step-father, he took his last name. Brady. Ian felt like a scot exiled in England and that his compounded feelings of isolation and hostility began to manifest in different ways. He began to take interest in the writings of the Marquis De Sade and Friedrich Nietzsche. He focused mainly on The Will of Power and Nietzsche theories of Ubermensch. He adopted the philosophy that championed cruelty and torture as well as the idea that superior creatures had the right to control and destroy the weaker ones. He avidly collected books on torture, sadomasochisms, and other paraphilia about domination and servitude. Around this time he was working at a butcher shop as an assistant. This caused speculators to think that this job nurtured his growing interest in mutilation and murder. He began drinking heavily, frequenting the cinema, and gambling. He needed money to fund these new habits so he resorted to thieving. Which led him to be convicted a few times which then led to his eventual incarceration. While behind bars he learned ways of illegally obtaining money. Also he entertained the idea of becoming a grandiose criminal. Pulling off lucrative bank heists. Ian wanted to avoid manual labor and aimed to seem respectable. He studied book keeping. After his release, he had a hard time finding a job. He worked as a laborer for a brewery between April and October of 1958 before spending a few more months unemployed. Ian had ended up finding a job in February, 1959 as a stock clerk at Millwards Merchandising. About 2 years later he met Myra Hindley, who was recently hired as a typist at the same place he worked. Now before we go on with the case I must tell you a little bit about Myra.

She was born on the 23rd of July in 1942 in a suburb of Manchester known as Crumpsall. She was the first child of Bob and Hettie Hindley. Her father, Bob, served in the parachute regiment in World War II, so he was absent for the first 3 years of Myra’s life. When he returned home he worked as a machinist. When Myra was 4 her parents had another daughter. To make room for this new addition, they sent Myra to live with her grandmother. Myra never went back though. To my knowledge people have said that she came from a broken home. To be clear, she didn’t come from a broken home, and she was very loved. Bob was a roman catholic and had both daughters baptized, which was a compromise for both parents. Bob said that if the girls were baptized they wouldn’t have to go to catholic school. Hindley struggled though in primary school and failed her 11 plus exams. She then went to Ryder Bow secondary modern school where she proved to be the most intelligent in her class with an above average IQ. She always earned good grades, however her attendance record was bad. Apparently her grandmother was very lenient and usually let her stay home from school to keep her company. As she grew into a woman, she was known to be tough and aggressive. Some even considered her to be masculine. She was made fun of because of the shape of her nose and her peers gave her a very cruel nickname ‘square arse’, because of her broad hips. As a teenager she was also a very responsible babysitter. She befriended a 13 year old boy named Michael Higgins when she was 15. Sadly he drowned in a reservoir and she was devastated. She said ‘If i had been there it wouldn’t have happened. She was a very strong swimmer and would have been able to save him. At this age and because of what happened to her friend she quit school. Finally when she was 18 she got a job at MIllwards Merchandising. And that is where our lovely couple met. Myra was enamoured with Ian’s dark hair, blue eyes, and fair complexion. He was also well dressed and fingernails were well kept, which apparently no other guy had done according to Myra. Ian also drove a motorcycle. Everything about Ian Fascinated her. He however was very aloof and didn’t really show much interest in Myra until an office party. After he had gotten a few drinks in and relaxed a little he asked her on a date. Myra became so infatuated with him that whatever he said became law. She even took to being more germanic for him; Apparently by wearing short skirts. Is that really more germanic? Anyways She bleached her brown hair to platinum blonde. She wore red lipstick to seem more aryan and to please Ian. She adopted his anti-social philosophy and became anti-social. She kept a photograph of Irma Grese who was an SS guard at a couple concentration camps in her bag, meanwhile Ian had started to call her Hessie in homage to Rudolph Hess.

As obsessed as Myra was there were also indicators that she was also afraid of Ian. She once sent a letter to a friend that if she ended up dead that Ian was somehow involved. She wrote a letter after she was imprisoned that ‘within months he had convinced me that there was no god at all; He could’ve told me that the earth was flat, the moon was made of green cheese, and the sun rose in the west, I would have believed him, such was his power of persuasion.’ Time went on and as it did he revealed his innermost twisted fantasies. Hindley agreed to pose in sexually explicit photographs. Soon enough the couple started talking about robbing banks, soon after that it turned to talk about sexually abusing kids and murder. Then in July of 1963 they started to discuss committing the perfect murder.

On the 12th of July, Ian and Myra targeted their first victim. A young 16 year old named Pauline Reade. Pauline vanished on her way to a local disco in Gorton. A few months later they abducted 12 year old John Kilbride and strangled him at the Saddleworth Moor. The following year, they took 12 year old Keith Bennet. 10 year old Leslie Ann Downey disappeared 200yards from her home on Boxing day of 1964 at a fairground. Finally their last victim was 17 year old Edward Evans, whom They had bludgeoned to death in the home they shared. The way they got caught was Ian trying to persuade Myra’s brother in law to help them. Her brother then went to the police and told them about everything. During the trial Myra’s obsession was very evident when she said, ‘I loved him. I still love him.’

The jury found them guilty of 3 of the murders. They were sentenced to life imprisonment. I feel so bad. Four of the victims were sexually assaulted, and I think two of the five were never found. People dubbed Myra the most evil woman in Britain for just following Ian’s fantasies. Personally I could understand wanting to do everything for the one you love but this, killing people, is not a line I’m willing to cross. Myra and Ian both died while in prison. Myra died of bronchial pneumonia on November 15th of 2002. Ian died of obstructive pulmonary disease on the 15th of may in 2017. Wow not that long ago right. Horrible acts done for love. Earlier I did mention Cathy and Gwen. Let me know if you want to hear about them next week. Message me also if there’s another crime that has caught your attention. I’m all ears. Well until next time guys.

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franzis-frantic-thoughts · 2 years ago

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Oh hey, by the way, did you know that the Audio Verse Awards are happening right now?

Because I don’t think RQ does.

None of the Rusty Quill Originals are nominated.

Not the new shows like Trice Forgotten by Nemo Martin, or Chapter & Multiverse by Maddy Searle, which aired this year and could benefit so much from the exposure and free advertisement that a nomination would bring them.

Not Helen’s baby, the ongoing feel-good talk show Enthusigasm.

Not RQ’s first ever show and Alex’s baby Rusty Quill Gaming, which only ended earlier this year after over 6 years and more than 220 main-story episodes.

Not their fabulously whacky sci-fi improv comedy show Stellar Firma, creation of the incorrigible Meredith brothers Tim and Ben.

Not even their cash cow The Magnus Archives, written by Jonny Sims, which has already pulled in so many awards and would surely have come out with even more this time around.

If RQ is laying off staff due to financial incentives, then surely they should have jumped at this chance of free advertisement. The AVAs are set up in a way that makes you vote in every category for the explicit purpose of making you check out shows you don’t know.

A bunch of Rusty Quill Network shows are nominated, which is great! If you enjoy them, go vote! Voting is open until October 30th, 11:59pm PST.

[ID: A screenshot from the Audio Verse Awards website, it shows black on white text, reading “By submitting a ballot in this round you agree to be contacted by the awards about the results and the next round of voting opening. Voting is open through World Audio Drama Day Sunday, October 30th, 2022 at 11:59 PM Pacific Time. Best of luck to all the nominees! -The Audio Verse Awards team.” /End ID]

thanks for the updates from Maddie and Twitter! I can’t believe whats going on. The relaunch of Magnus in combination with stopping so many cool ongoing shows is so weird

You are very welcome! I actually revived my Twitter account to be able to check regularly for new posts, either from Maddy or others. There doesn’t seem to have been anything new in a few hours now, even if I personally missed it, I’d have heard about it via one of the multiple discords I’m on.

Yes, RQ has made incredibly strange decisions this past year (or even beyond that) which leave me as a fan - and highest tier Noble - incredibly frustrated.

When they shut the discord down, they said they’d reevaluate six months later. RQO recently “celebrated” its first death day. Personally, I don’t want RQO back. But I would have liked to have that promised reevaluation.

The reason the discord had to be shut down can apparently also be traced back to shit communication between RQ and the team of volunteer and unpaid mods.

When Chapter&Multiverse, Trice Forgotten, and Cry Havoc (Ask Questions Later) were announced in late 2021, they were projected to air within the first half of 2022. Instead, only C&M aired “on time”, Trice has a change in director and was delayed until summer, and Cry Havoc has now been pushed back until 2023. It’s great that they don’t want to burn out their cast and crew, but they’ve also been releasing Enthusigasm episodes twice a week and C&M main campaign and specials in parallel earlier this year. Clearly, someone didn’t think their schedule through properly.

Instead of making sure their new shows are taking off, they instead drag TMA’s corpse out of its grave. I love Magnus as much as the next person, it was an incredible show. Writing, acting, soundscaping… but the way RQ keeps pushing it into the limelight and down our throats to the detriment of their other shows (formerly only RQG and STL, but now even more shockingly also new shows like C&M and Trice), has fostered a real resentment towards TMA in me and others.

When the transcripts were put out, after literal years of delay, they were - and still are - full of errors, inconsistent, or incomplete. There have been no responses to feedback given via the appropriate feedback form, there have been no responses to emails, and there have been little to no corrections made to the transcripts, whether for old shows or new ones. Transcripts are Accessibility tools and should fulfil certain standards. Apart from that, the quality of these transcripts offends me on a professional level. RQ has referred to an agency multiple times in their updates. That agency clearly didn’t work to professional standards and RQ didn’t have any quality assurance process internally either. What an utter waste of (my and other patreons’) money.

Some of the TMA transcripts were apparently taken down this week for maintenance, which was ridiculous timing that made people think it was related to the ARG. Again: shit communication.

They’ve lost so many great people in the last two years: Auto and all the mods, Bryn, Mike, now Maddy. I didn’t listen to RQ podcasts, because they were RQ podcasts. I listened to them, because I enjoyed the content and creators. If the creators leave RQ, I’ll follow them to their next endeavours. Go check out @re-dracula for Karim, Jonny, Beth, Alasdair, Sasha, and Ben; @thekilda for Alasdair, Ben and Sasha; @faustiannonsense for Alasdair, Ben, Tim, and Jonny. I hear Mike is in Tiny Terrors. Sasha and Jonny create TTRPGs. Jonny just published his second book. Also check out everyone’s streams (I particularly enjoy Bryn and Auto struggling to solve puzzles together) and individual patreons and kofis.

Sorry this reply turned into a rant. I’m just fed up at the moment. I’ll go to bed and probably feel better in the morning.

#franzis thoughts #rusty quill #audio verse awards #RQG #TMA #STL #C&M #Trice Forgotten #EGSM #AVA

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