#de aged victor

[sugarbunbie]

for my love on ice

by AG1234VL

Summary: When Yuuri is confronted with a much younger version of his husband one morning, he decides to take him to the rink.

A soft, fluffy fic with de-aged Viktor and Yuuri showing his love on ice. Roughly 1.5k words. Rated G.

Written for Yuri On Ice Gotcha For Gaza.

Thank you @lamusadelils for the donation and prompt! I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you enjoy this little fic <3

Thank you @yuri-on-ice-action for making this all possible.

[bernard-the-rabbit]

Il me semble que je vais fusiller une fleur.

[edwardian-angel]

Maureen O'Hara as Esmeralda

The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1939)

[illustratus]

Frontispiece to the book Le Conte de l'Archer by Armand Silvestre

Illustration by Victor-Armand Poirson

[satoshy12]

Toddler Danny Fenton and Arkham psychiatrist Jazz

After a attack had gone horrible wrong, Jazz ended with a toddler Danny and a infant Ellie. Well she already raised him once a 2 time will be easier. She had gotten even a Job in Arkham and was protected by Clockwork. It was a normal day for the young promising psychiatrist Jazz Fenton at her working day in Arkham as she was in a therapy season with Victor Fries.

As Danny walked just in. And saw the Super Villain Mr Freeze and had gone:" Ah!" The Ice villain already used to it:"Yes I am Mr. " "YOU ARE DOCTOR VICTOR FRIES! Why did you not said you meet him! I read his study of the Cryotherapy and Cryogenic." (And yes Danny had read the books as he had gotten his Ice powers to learn more about the element.)

Jazz:" I am really sorry Dr. Freeze about my Son." Jazz had not gotten the talk back as Danny started to talk in a storm about what he learned and asked question who the scientist answered with a smile, he was much more relaxed then with him and was kind of happy that this tiny toddler understood the talk from Cryogenic to pathology and neuroscience too.

[uwmspeccoll]

Decorative Sunday

In 1823, an aspring young lawyer named Jules Labarte (1797-1880) married Joséphine Debruge-Duménil*, the only daughter of the wealthy art collector Louis-Fidel Debruge-Duménil (1788-1838). He was enthralled by his father-in-laws collection, one of the first major private collections of Medieval and Renaissance Art in France, and by 1835 he had abandoned the law to dedicate himself to the study of art history. A few years later, Debruge-Duménil passed away unexpectedly, and Labarte was charged with identifying and cataloging his collection of over fifteen thousand artifacts, a task he took on with great meticulousness. 

The resulting catalog was published in 1847 by La Librarie Archeonologique de Victor Didron with a 400 page introduction. This well-researched introduction became a highly sought after text, and Didron pressed Labarte for years to produce a second edition. Labarte refused for years, but allowed for a English translation, published in 1855 by J. Murray of London as Handbook of the Arts of the Middle Ages and Renaissance as Applied to the Decoration of Furniture, Arms, Jewels, Etc. 

The English edition only increased the appetite for a revised French edition, to which Labarte finally agreed. Between 1864 and 1866, Histoire des arts industriels au Moyen Âge et à l'époque de la Renaissance was published in Paris by A. Morel et Cie. in four volumes, with two additional volumes of plates. Printing was done by Henri Plon, an ancestor of 16th century Danish typographer Jehan Plon. The plates are primarily chromolithographs produced by Lemercier, the largest lithography firm in Paris at the time. Keep your eyes peeled for a follow up post where we will share images from the second album and discuss Rose-Joseph Lemercier (1803-1887).

The above images are all sourced from the first album of plates. Critics praised the book’s illustration for its rich colors and “photo-like accuracy.” You might look at the last image above (of the statue St. Anne and her Children by German artist Hans Greiff) and question that characterization based on the somewhat bizarre faces, but lo and behold, the faces on the actual statue are a bit strange! See for yourself:

Find more posts on publisher August Morel here. 

Peruse more Decorative Sunday posts here. 

-Olivia, Special Collections Graduate Intern

*Special shout out to Institute National d’Histoire de l’Art (INHA) for providing me with the first name of Labarte’s wife Josephine, who is most commonly (and annoyingly) referred to in the literature as “daughter of Louis-Fidel Debruge-Duménil” or “wife of Labarte.”

[neonjstr]

bro why'd they make him ugly 😭😭

[clemencetaught]

@jeoseungsaja sent in: things you said when fear cut deep (THG verse? 👀) || when the unspoken is named ( things you said prompt. )

13. things you said when fear cut deep

What was the point of two years ago?

He rushes past the receding crowd, past the faces of shaken children dressed in their evening best clothing. Some will be going to the red bean pastry booth by the entrance of the reaping. Some will linger at the edge of the square. Some will return to the safety of their parents’ arms. All are safe from the Capitol for another year. It’s a luxury that, even after winning the games, he’ll never have again.

There’s a stone anchored in his stomach, which is ironic considering that his head feels light. Dizzying as if someone has filled his lungs with smoke.

I won the Games. I survived their game.

His bag is slung loosely over his shoulder. He learned that the lighter he packs, the better- the less of District Three, the less of him the Capitol will find out and if there is one thing Patrick knows about the Capitol, it’s that they will take, take, and take until there is nothing left to take from, like a towel wrung of all the water it can hold.  Ignoring the shouting from the head peacekeeper and the mayor of their district ( both of whom, he can’t help but wonder if they played any role in the selection this year- ), he slips past the peacekeeper guarding the room farthest down the hall.

It was the room he had been taken to when he volunteered for the games- Patrick never thought he’d see the inside of it again.

Fingers trembling, he grasps the doorknob. The rusted brass scrapes his right palm.

I did it so he wouldn’t have to.

Ambrosia’s voice keeps echoing in his head- the way that cloying voice called for Lee Hyuk and the way the silence in the following moments rang so clearly in tandem with his own silent screaming for someone to volunteer, it could have been even louder than Ambrosia’s voice.

And he never thought his dear friend would either.

He’s not going to make it.

He opens the door.

Inside, Patrick finds Hyuk pacing. Where are the other people, he wants to ask- where are Mister and Missus Nam? He would have thought they would be one of the few, if perhaps the only two who would want to say goodbye…it’s a stark contrast to the female tribute whom from what Patrick observed in passing, to have quite a few people coming in and out of her room. She’s lucky in that sense- knowing she has a family. Knowing that she is loved.

But Hyuk-

His hands are shoved inside his pockets. From afar, Hyuk looks no different than usual, a solitary figure with a permanent frown etched onto his face- they always said that if he smiled more he could actually be considered handsome. Hyuk would always snap back saying to mind their own business. It’s Hyuk’s default, showing a stony resolve in the face of adversity-

But Patrick knows, knows his friend better than anyone else. Knows from the pallor on his face, from the way he can’t sit still otherwise he never move again, to the way his jaw is set even tighter than usual-

For a moment, Patrick stares at him. He opens his mouth- what does he say here? How does he help his best friend who is about to be carted off to the Capitol as cattle?

Patrick closes his mouth. He can’t. But he swallows the lump into his throat and without warning, tackles Hyuk in a hug.

I failed.

He tucks his face into the crook of his dear friend’s neck as his hands grip the back of his button down for dear life. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm the shaky breaths that come out. This is all Patrick is going to take. One moment of despair, of selfishness and then it’s all about Hyuk.

Patrick looks up and rests his hands on his dear friend’s shoulders.

“You’re not going to die,” Patrick says finally. “Not if I’m here.”

His fingers dig into Hyuk’s shirt. He doesn’t know who he said that for- for Hyuk or  himself. That Hyuk is still here. That the Capitol hasn’t made a feast of him yet. No Hyuk is still here right now. They may have been given the worst cards, but the round hasn’t started yet. If played well, Hyuk might just make it through.

“I’m going to be your mentor; I know a few people in the Capitol- I-I’m sure if I convince them, they’ll sponsor you. They’ll give you the supplies you’ll need to survive in the arena. You’re strong and you know how to fight- they’ll back someone who they think has a chance of winning. We just need to make sure you leave a strong impression. I’ll teach you everything you need to know about the Games. I know it’ll look like the odds are against you, but, but-” A shaky breath. The 54th Victor of the Hunger Games blinks, rapidly.

I don’t want you to die.

“We’ll get through this together. I promise, Hyuk-ah. We…you-“ He pulls Hyuk into another tight desperate hug. “You’re going to be okay; I’ll make sure of it.”

[secretmellowblog]

Les Mis Canon-era Paris Photographs: Jean Valjean and Cosette’s route to escape Javert, in Pictures!

Jean Valjean's escape through Paris is Victor Hugo's way of mourning the Paris he knew from before his exile, the Paris before the modern renovations.

Hugo wrote Les Mis from exile in Guernsey, at the same time as Paris was undergoing a series of massive renovations. The "Old City" of medieval Paris that Hugo loved was being replaced by the “New City" of Baron Haussman. The dark medieval labyrinth lit by oil lamps was being replaced by modern wide streets and standardized architecture lit by gas lamps. Victor Hugo is nostalgic for the Paris he remembers before his exile-- so Jean Valjean is able to escape Javert using things unique to the Old City. He escapes through a labyrinth of tiny medieval streets in a neighborhood Hugo claims was destroyed during the renovations; he climbs over the convent wall using the rope from an oil lamp, the very oil lamps that were being replaced by the more modern gas lanterns. The dark maze hides him from police surveillance in a way modern streets cannot.

A man named Charles Marville photographed Paris shortly before many (though not all) of the renovations occurred. In this post I'll go through all the different streets mentioned in the Valjean-Javert Paris chase chapters, and provide Marville's photographs whenever they the image has been labeled with the name of the street. Note that there may be some inaccuracies. Some street names changed over time.

Here is a map of what the chase looks like, taken from the book "Paris in the Times of Victor Hugo."

A quick overview: Jean Valjean starts in a slummy half-built suburban area. This area is highly associated with the King; the royal Jardin des Plantes is nearby, and King Louis XVIII often rides by in his carriage during the afternoons. After travelling down a bunch of streets, "zigzagging" back and forth, Jean Valjean decides to cross the Seine over the Bridge of Austerlitz (a bridge named after one of Napoleon's victories.) Then he reaches the areas of the city near the Faubourg Saint Antoine that are more associated with working class rebellion. From there he enters a dark isolated half-built medieval neighborhood near marshes and timberyards, with narrow mazey alleyways, that Hugo mostly made up. Hugo pretends this medieval neighborhood used to exist, but was destroyed like many others during the recent renovations. Now that we've gotten the overview out of the way, let's go more specific!

The chase starts out in "the old quarter of the Marche aux Chevaux." At the time, this was a less inhabited and poorer area of Paris; it's described as basically a slum. Here are some of Marville's photographs :

Then we're told "Jean Valjean described many and varied labyrinths in the Mouffetard quarter, which was already asleep, as though the discipline of the Middle Ages and the yoke of the curfew still existed. He combined in various manners, with cunning strategy, the Rue Censier:"

"and the Rue Copeau," (according to the map I linked earlier, the Rue Copeau is now the Rue Lacepede. Here is Marville's pic:)

"the Rue du Battoir-Saint-Victor and the Rue du Puits l’Ermite. There are lodging houses in this locality, but he did not even enter one, finding nothing which suited him. He had no doubt that if any one had chanced to be upon his track, they would have lost it."

"As eleven o’clock struck from Saint-Étienne-du-Mont:" (note: this refers to the church of Saint-Etienne)

"he was traversing the Rue de Pontoise, in front of the office of the commissary of police, situated at No. 14." (Jean Valjean sees Javert and the police following him on this street, because they're visible in the light of the lantern from the police station.)

"He took a circuit, turned into the Passage des Patriarches, which was closed on account of the hour,"

"strode along the Rue de l’Épée-de-Bois

and the Rue de l’Arbalète, and plunged into the Rue des Postes."

"At that time there was a square formed by the intersection of streets, where the College Rollin stands to-day, and where the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève turns off." (Note: these streets are labeled Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève, but not Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, so they may be different streets! But I'm putting them here anyway.)

"It is understood, of course, that the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève is an old street, and that a posting-chaise does not pass through the Rue des Postes once in ten years. In the thirteenth century this Rue des Postes was inhabited by potters, and its real name is Rue des Pots." (Annotation: Hugo's bein silly and making little puns. He's snarkily pointing out the "new saint-genevieve street" is old, and the post street rarely has post-chaises/carriages go through it.) (Jean Valjean hides in the shadows and watches to see who shows up in this big square intersection of streets. In the moonlight, he recognizes Javert.) "He slipped from under the gate where he had concealed himself, and went down the Rue des Postes (which I shared a picture of previously), towards the region of the Jardin des Plantes." (Note: the Jardin des Plantes is a royal garden. Here is a modern photo from Wikipedia.)

"He left behind him the Rue de la Clef,

"then the Fountain Saint-Victor, skirted the Jardin des Plantes by the lower streets, and reached the quay. There he turned round. The quay was deserted. The streets were deserted. There was no one behind him. He drew a long breath.

He gained the Pont d’Austerlitz." (The Pont d'Austerlitz, named after Napoleon's victory at the battle of Austerlitz, is a very famous bridge. Marville has no photographs but here's an 1830 engraving:)

"The bridge once crossed, he perceived some timber-yards on his right. He directed his course thither. In order to reach them, it was necessary to risk himself in a tolerably large unsheltered and illuminated space. He did not hesitate. Those who were on his track had evidently lost the scent, and Jean Valjean believed himself to be out of danger. Hunted, yes; followed, no." Here's the quai by the pont-au-change-- a different quai, but gives you an idea of what the areas around the Seine often looked like.

(Then Jean Valjean sees Javert and the other police on the Bridge of Austerlitz, following him. He hurries towards the darker alleys of the city.)

"A little street, the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, opened out between two timber-yards enclosed in walls. This street was dark and narrow and seemed made expressly for him."

Here's an abandoned timber-yard-ish looking picture:

But Marville has no photographs of this street. I'd have to double check, but iirc this is the part where Hugo starts to 'make up' more street layouts. I wouldn't be surprised if this street really WAS made expressly for him (meaning Hugo made it up.) "The point of Paris where Jean Valjean found himself, situated between the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and la Râpée, is one of those which recent improvements have transformed from top to bottom,—resulting in disfigurement according to some, and in a transfiguration according to others. The market-gardens, the timber-yards, and the old buildings have been effaced. To-day, there are brand-new, wide streets, arenas, circuses, hippodromes, railway stations, and a prison, Mazas, there; progress, as the reader sees, with its antidote."

(Here Hugo talks about the Haussman renovations directly, claiming that if his street layouts are "inaccurate" it's because these are some of the Old Medieval Streets that were razed during Paris's recent renovations. He goes on for a while comparing Petit-Picpus to various other areas that were changed during the renovations.)

"Le Petit-Picpus, which, moreover, hardly ever had any existence, and never was more than the outline of a quarter, had nearly the monkish aspect of a Spanish town. The roads were not much paved; the streets were not much built up. (....) Such was this quarter in the last century. The Revolution snubbed it soundly. The republican government demolished and cut through it. Rubbish shoots were established there. Thirty years ago, this quarter was disappearing under the erasing process of new buildings. To-day, it has been utterly blotted out."

The Petit-Picpus, of which no existing plan has preserved a trace, is indicated with sufficient clearness in the plan of 1727, published at Paris by Denis Thierry, Rue Saint-Jacques, opposite the Rue du Plâtre;

and at Lyons, by Jean Girin, Rue Mercière, at the sign of Prudence.

Petit-Picpus had, as we have just mentioned, a Y of streets, formed by the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, which spread out in two branches, taking on the left the name of Little Picpus Street, and on the right the name of the Rue Polonceau. The two limbs of the Y were connected at the apex as by a bar; this bar was called Rue Droit-Mur.

The Rue Polonceau ended there; Rue Petit-Picpus passed on, and ascended towards the Lenoir market. A person coming from the Seine reached the extremity of the Rue Polonceau, and had on his right the Rue Droit-Mur, turning abruptly at a right angle, in front of him the wall of that street, and on his right a truncated prolongation of the Rue Droit-Mur, which had no issue and was called the Cul-de-Sac Genrot." Here is @everyonewasabird's attempt to puzzle this out:

It was here that Jean Valjean stood."

Then Jean Valjean escapes by pulling down an old oil lantern, strung up by ropes. Hugo notes that this would have been "impossible if the streets were lit with gas, the way they would be after the renovations. This picture shows an old oil lamp strung up by ropes:

Finally, Jean Valjean climbs over the wall into the Petit-Picpus convent. This convent is fictional. Hugo pretends it used to exists but is no longer around-- another relic of the early 19th century that has been lost over time.

TLDR:

Jean Valjean's escape through Paris is Hugo way of mourning the Paris he knew from before his exile, the Paris before the modern renovations. To quote Volume 2 Book 5 Chapter 1:

The author of this book, who regrets the necessity of mentioning himself, has been absent from Paris for many years. Paris has been transformed since he quitted it. A new city has arisen, which is, after a fashion, unknown to him. There is no need for him to say that he loves Paris: Paris is his mind’s natal city. In consequence of demolitions and reconstructions, the Paris of his youth, that Paris which he bore away religiously in his memory, is now a Paris of days gone by. He must be permitted to speak of that Paris as though it still existed. It is possible that when the author conducts his readers to a spot and says, “In such a street there stands such and such a house,” neither street nor house will any longer exist in that locality. Readers may verify the facts if they care to take the trouble. For his own part, he is unacquainted with the new Paris, and he writes with the old Paris before his eyes in an illusion which is precious to him. It is a delight to him to dream that there still lingers behind him something of that which he beheld when he was in his own country, and that all has not vanished. So long as you go and come in your native land, you imagine that those streets are a matter of indifference to you; that those windows, those roofs, and those doors are nothing to you; that those walls are strangers to you; that those trees are merely the first encountered haphazard; that those houses, which you do not enter, are useless to you; that the pavements which you tread are merely stones. Later on, when you are no longer there, you perceive that the streets are dear to you; that you miss those roofs, those doors; and that those walls are necessary to you, those trees are well beloved by you; that you entered those houses which you never entered, every day, and that you have left a part of your heart, of your blood, of your soul, in those pavements. All those places which you no longer behold, which you may never behold again, perchance, and whose memory you have cherished, take on a melancholy charm, recur to your mind with the melancholy of an apparition, make the holy land visible to you, and are, so to speak, the very form of France, and you love them; and you call them up as they are, as they were, and you persist in this, and you will submit to no change: for you are attached to the figure of your fatherland as to the face of your mother.

[hedgehog-moss]

Loved your mentioning of learning poetry by heart: this is something I haven’t done since school! What are some of your favs that you’d suggest to ease my brain back into it?

(Française ici donc les options 🇫🇷 autant que anglais sont welcome :) merci!)

Hi :) You can look at the poem tag of my quote blog if you want—some of the ones I've learnt by heart (or excerpts from them) include this one by Sara Teasdale - Nanao Sakaki - Velimir Khlebnikov - Wallace Stevens - Rabindranath Tagore - Archibald Macleish - Howard Nemerov - and these paragraphs by Henri Peña-Ruiz which I consider prose poetry... My favourite French verses (from Corneille, Aragon, Anna de Noailles, Hugo, Valéry...) are all alexandrines and I find it to be the easiest type of verse to remember, as the structure is so rigorous and consistent. I sometimes translate English poems into alexandrines (like this one) to make them easier to learn in this more familiar form—I think even after all this time English prosody still feels foreign to me; the patterns of sound and rhythm in French are more deeply embedded in my brain so it can more easily predict what comes next...

Re: easing your brain into it, I guess that depends on your style of learning? For me the best way to learn a text is to spend time with it in written form, be it by translating it, or by writing it down by hand (slowly) and then (sometimes) keeping it for a while in a place where I often stand idle, like taped to my microwave so I re-read it as I wait 1 minute for something to heat up.

One thing I like about learning poems is that it's a costless, always-accessible way to get a sense of personal accomplishment. Beyond that, I've got three categories of poems I like to learn for different reasons—I'll go into some detail in case it can help you figure out what you're after :)

1. Classic poetry, because it's just fun to have little snippets of ancient tragedies or epic Victor Hugo poems living at the back of your mind and accompanying you through your own everyday tragedies—as an overdramatic person who tends to feel devastated or exasperated over tiny stuff, it helps me to take some distance from my feelings. Like if I spill a bucket of manure on my boots and my first reaction is rage and despair and my second thought is a couple of verses by Euripides where Iphigenia bemoans her relentless fate, it's a way to make fun of (and get over) myself.

My grandmother did this a lot, she knew so many poems by heart and often used them ironically. If I went whining to her when I was little she'd recite to me the last few verses of Alfred de Vigny's La Mort du Loup (it sounds better in the original but):

[...] With all your being you must strive To that highest degree of stoic pride [...] Weeping or praying—all this is in vain. You must instead shoulder your long and heavy task In the way that Destiny has seen fit to ask Then suffer and die without complaint.

(Let me tell you, that's just what a five-year-old wants to hear after scratching her knee at the park) But really I admired this treasury of poetry she carried within her, especially as she only went to school until age 14 and came upon most of it thanks to her own curiosity; as well as the way she used it playfully in everyday life, using dramatic classical verse to de-dramatise minor annoyances.

2. Nature poems are great in the opposite way, to magnify minor positive things :) Like seeing a fox and having a few lines by Mary Oliver come to mind, seeing a frog and thinking of that Basho haiku... I recently discovered Jean-Michel Maulpoix and I also love his nature poems, like 'The recovery of blue after a downpour', the way he describes snow melting in the spring, or golden-blue evenings:

[Snow] takes some time to leave, but delicately. She doesn’t insist, hardly persists, never roots… She gives way. No one else dies so merrily With such good humour Unmatched is her disdain for eternity…

L’azur, certains soirs, a des soins de vieil or. Le paysage est une icône. Il semble qu’au soleil couchant, le ciel qui se craquelle se reprenne un instant à croire à son bleu.

3. And then there are the poems that proudly serve no purpose. <3 I mean beyond distilling language in a beautiful way. No deep meaning—or no meaning at all, e.g. surrealist poetry. I learnt this passage from Les Champs magnétiques back in middle school:

La fenêtre creusée dans notre chair s'ouvre sur notre cœur. On y voit un immense lac où viennent se poser à midi des libellules mordorées et odorantes comme des pivoines. Quel est ce grand arbre où les animaux vont se regarder ? Il y a des siècles que nous lui versons à boire. . . Prisonniers des gouttes d'eau, nous ne sommes que des animaux perpétuels. . . Nous ne savons plus rien des astres morts ; nous regardons les visages. . . Quelquefois, le vent nous entoure de ses grandes mains froides et nous attache aux arbres découpés par le soleil.

—and I've often recited it to myself just to enjoy these gratuitously nice sentences that aren't here to deliver information. Like Kay Ryan said, "Poetry makes nothing happen. That's the relief of it." It's a nice break, a way to remember that communicating isn't all language is for; beyond the social dimension there's also an intimate one that relies on our own aesthetic sensitivity. Most of the time we look through language, to access ideas, meanwhile enjoying poetry means looking at language, for a change, appreciating it for itself.

I just realised I'm paraphrasing John Brehm here—in The Poetry of Impermanence he wrote something that can be read as an ode to learning things by heart:

When you read lines that seem especially lit up—that move or intrigue you in some way, or that are simply pleasing or even dazzling—don’t focus on being able to formulate a statement about what they might mean, as if you might be called upon to explain the poem, to yourself or to someone else. Just linger with those poems or passages that resonate with you. . . Rest your mind on them; let them live inside you.

[puppetmaster13u]

Well the brainrot is real.

So the war going outside, is the result of a failed marriage between Aquaman (Who in this world was never really taught kindness for his human half as Atlanteans killed his dad when retrieving him) and Wonder Woman, because during the wedding, Queen Hippolyta is killed. This is a plot of Aquaman's brother and his lover, but no one knows. And when WW eventually finds out and informs Aquaman said brother launches a failed attack that makes it look like WW led him into a trap. So Aquaman doesn't believe her and it's an utter mess lemme tell you.

But Anyway. Kal. Local test subject turned slightly feral (if polite) dad now. Has no clue what he's doing, but he's trying. Figures out what settles the smaller sorta-hims and how much they all need to eat and that holding them helps. Has pushed the scratchy blanket towards the edge of the blanket nest to bulk it up as he curls around the three babies. Very much in awe as one manages to determinedly grab onto his finger. Also very upset about them being here where they'll get sickly or trained like he was and is, but unable to express it.

Danny? Just doing his best to comfort his dad (this is his dad, even if the situation is fucked up) as best he can and is not letting go of this finger since he's too small to hold his hand. Also just realized, would Danny even know that the three of them are clones? @radiance1 @hdgnj ?

Got an Idea based off of our Reblogs of @radiance1 Danny Reincarnates as a Clone Prompt.

But. What if, it's in Flashpoint timeline. Now you might say, but wait, isn't that timeline destroyed? Actually there was a continuity where it didn't, and we got to see more of Batman Thomas Wayne. But that's not what I'm getting at Because more importantly? At least for this? Kal is stuck in a lab under Metropolis, treated as an experiment and specimen. Like literally known as Subject 1. He's been there since the ship crashed as a baby, never ended up with the Kents, has never seen the sun or anything. He's kept in a room with red sun lights and is visibly Not Healthy. So why not add in clones to this?

Now does Danny know why he reincarnated? No. He doesn't really remember. What he does know? Is that he's physically baby. And he thinks he might be sick?

He's not to sure what's happening at first, vision not the best while he adjusts to suddenly being aware and able to move. But he recognizes labs. He recognizes cold halls and is understandably upset.

He sees himself in the glass- a tiny toddler with black hair and inhumanely blue eyes wrapped in a blanket that feels scratchy against his skin. Then he's in a room- more akin to a box with a wall cot- too big for him- a desk, and toiletries. And then there's a face peering down at him, gaunt face of a teenager- maybe young adult- looking starved, the same inhumane blue eyes wide in near awe and perhaps a hint of panic as they let out a raspy chuff.

What the fuck kind of place is he at...?

[tossawary]

One of my favorite Discworld books is actually one of the more obscure ones, "Moving Pictures", which is about the invention of films and the movie business in this fantasy world that has dwarves and trolls and wizards and so on. It has its rough patches like every early Discworld book, but Ginger's speech about people who were born in the wrong time or wrong place for their dreams really gets to me in a good way, and I love all of the references to classic films and commentary on fame and creativity. It also has classic characters like Gaspode the Talking Dog and C.M.O.T. Dibbler, and it introduces Detritus's romance with another troll named Ruby.

Perhaps most importantly to me is that this book introduces Ponder Stibbons, who is a wizard, and who goes on in later books to be one of the most important members of the Unseen University (he holds like twelve different positions), in that he's one of the few people who can competently manage a project and so ends up managing nearly everything. (Bear with me, it's been a while since I read any Discworld and my memory is a little rough.) In "Moving Pictures", Ponder is the classmate (roommate?) of a fellow named Victor Tugelbend, who is one of the main characters.

Victor begins the book as a career student, in that a wealthy relative left him a great deal of money exclusively for school; so as long as he STAYS in school, all of his living expenses are paid for. If Victor graduates, that's the end of the money. If Victor drops out, that's the end of the money. But if Victor manages to hit a specific mark range in the 80s every year, then he gets to stay on for another year and try again, and so Victor is perhaps the most dedicated and knowledgeable wizardry student in the university's history, because you have to know what the right answer is in order to intentionally get a certain number of the questions wrong, so that you can continue to coast along on your college fund.

Ponder's graduation is (accidentally) Victor's fault, because Victor runs away to get into the movie business. (I won't spoil what happens, but it's VERY funny.) Now, I like to imagine after the events of the book, after Ponder holds a faculty position in the university, Victor comes BACK to the university occasionally as a disgustingly well-paid external consultant, which drives Ponder UP THE FUCKING WALL. Like, people are so stingy all of the time but SOMEHOW the university budget has room to bring your offensively handsome dropout roommate back just to say, "Hmm, yes, that looks bad. Have you tried turning it off and on again?" I'd throw a fit, honestly. (As soon as Ponder has enough seniority, he probably puts his foot down to stop this if Victor isn't actually useful. Maybe he is, idk, but maybe not for THAT consulting fee.)

I also like to imagine that Victor Tugelbend and Theda "Ginger" Withel are still together, maybe even still acting (badly? mediocre-ly? decently?) together, in some dingy little theatre (Ginger is the director and runs their acting troupe like a tyrant) where the front seats are regularly filled with middle-aged folks who still sigh over the memories of moving pictures. (Moving pictures are now, presumably, VERY illegal in Ankh Morpork.) Victor and Ginger have only because even more attractive as they've gotten older, which is EVEN MORE OFFENSIVE to poor Ponder because his former movie star former roommate is married to another gorgeous former movie star?! I'd throw another fit.

Anyway, I think Ponder deserves to have an affair with a pair of aging former movie stars. I like to imagine this purely because I think it's funny. He seems kind of busy for marriage, so joining someone else's marriage part-time might be good for him. It probably makes most of the rest of the Unseen University faculty breathlessly envious and that really does it for him.

And I think that this affair would OF COURSE be covered by every newspaper and tabloid in the city, including The Times, and William de Worde and Sacharissa Cripslock don't fully understand why their entertainment reporter is so breathlessly excited about people who were famous over a decade ago? (Supermarket tabloids love to tell me about alleged affairs of people who were famous 20+ years ago.) The article on Victor Maraschino and Delores De Syn's failing marriage* is their bestselling newspaper in months and William puts his head down on his desk in despair. (He's fine. This happens on a weekly at least basis. He just needs a minute.)

*Victor and Ginger are very happy with this situation, actually. They're going to take Ponder to dinner to go on a double date with Ruby and Detritus soon. Victor and Ponder are going to get distracted arguing about some of the Inadvisably Applied Magic research projects, but that's fine, because Ginger wants to talk to Ruby about this one-troll-woman-show concept. (Detritus will proudly hand out tickets at the Watch station and accidentally intimidate all of his coworkers into accepting the invitation.)

[f6bron]

you adored me before.

pairing : chamber x fem!reader x deadeye

note : victor is deadeye (fanon), 3 of them are around high schoolers’ age, childhood friends to lovers trope, reader comes from a lower-class background

The sun had just begun its descent, casting a golden glow over the prestigious school grounds. You stood anxiously at the entrance, feeling out of place amidst the affluent parents and well-dressed students. You couldn’t ignore the whispers and glances of disdain, the way they were judging you for your worn-out clothes.

It made you feel small, like you didn’t belong in their world.

But it’s just how the world works, on your part. You’re used to it.

Just as your discomfort peaked, Vincent and Victor entered your vision.

“Y/N!”

Vincent, the ever-energetic and cheerful twin, sprinted towards you, his face alight with excitement. Victor followed behind at a more leisurely pace, a small, reassuring smile on his lips at the sight of beautiful you.

“Sorry for making you wait for us. Victor was being too slow.” Vincent said, only to be interrupted by a warning smack at the back from Victor.

“He’s lying to you. He spilled his food on his book, and [sighs], well… someone had to help him clean it up.” Victor corrected, making you chuckle shyly.

Vincent rolled his eyes at his brother dramatically before turning his attention back to you.

“Shall we get going?”

You nodded, a soft smile spreading across your face. To your surprise, Vincent grabbed your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. Victor, not to be outdone, gently took your backpack from your shoulder.

“Oh, Victor you don’t have to–” you started, but were cut off by his soft smile, which is a rare sight coming from him.

“No worries, okay?” He said, with a soft but firm voice.

“Thanks…” you mumbled, turning away to hide the blush that crept up your cheeks.

The twins shared a knowing glance, both wearing smiles that hinted at their not-so-secret affection for you.

Arriving at the aquarium, your excitement was palpable. As soon as you stepped inside, you were captivated by the vibrant displays and the myriad of sea creatures swimming gracefully behind the glass.

A few days earlier, the three of you sat together at the neighbourhood park, your usual hangout spot. You mentioned in passing that you had never been to an aquarium.

“What do you mean you’ve never been to one ?!” Vincent exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief.

You shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed. “The tickets are too expensive…”

Victor hummed thoughtfully, “Well, if that’s the case, we should go to one this Friday. Take it as my treat.”

Oho, finally! A reason to bring you out on a date, Victor thought. Until…

Vincent’s eyes widened in offense. “Hey, I should be the one saying that!”

“I want to bring Y/N only. You, on the other hand… You’re on your own.” Victor said, shooting his twin a deadly glare.

Vincent gasped dramatically. “Espèce de fils de pute! (You son of a bitch!)” he retorted, earning a laugh from you as the twins bickered.

You darted from tank to tank, your eyes widened in wonder. Vincent and Victor hung back, watching you with adoration in their eyes. Your enthusiasm was infectious, and they found themselves so whipped over you.

You had become an important part of their lives, and they had to protect you from all the dangers in this world. They were determined to keep you close, to make you stay with them.

Forever.

Victor pulled out his phone, snapping a candid photo of you. The way your face alight with joy as your doe eyes admired the marine life, it’s too adorable for him.

He’s going to make you his. One way or another. Victor has to.

But, too bad, he has a competition. Who might that be? If it’s none other than his younger brother.

Speak of the devil. Vincent nudged his brother, noticing your picture on his phone.

“Send me that.” he whispered. Victor scoffed lightly, “Certainement pas (No way). This one’s for my eyes only.”

Vincent pouted. “Allez (come on), now. I got some of her photos too. Do you want them? Y/N looks so pretty–”

“What are you guys talking about?” You questioned, which startled them both.

“We, uh– we were talking about those fishes,” Vincent stammered. “Yeah! It’s just, uh–”

“But I heard you said my name.” You asked, curious eyes staring into their souls.

Trying not to cause more suspicion, Victor quickly cut him off. “Oh, the showcase is about to start. Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for, Y/N?”

Your eyes lit up with excitement. “Yeah, let’s go!”

You took off towards the showcase location, with Victor following close behind, after giving Vincent a narcissistic smirk.

You bitch.

He lingered for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief before catching up.

(A/N): a drabble for now… huhu

masterlist.

[worldofkuro]

I SWEAR! EVERY TIME I READ YOUR CHAPTERS I ALWAYS HAVE A MINI HEART ATTACK OMFGOSH!!!!! AAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

On another note, what would it be like if Reader was a Latina?

Like, she would curse under their breath in Spanish if she got annoyed or she would say something to Alastor in Spanish, instinctual or not, like “Mí Amor” (My Love) or “Mí Vida” (My Life)

Or, like, even curse out someone in Spanish,

for example, when Victor wasn’t leaving when they both were at Alastor’s door at the fire, or even when Trey went to go 'Talk' with Reader in the paramedics van,

(or generally any situation, It doesn’t even have to be all angsty like that, Idk, I’m not a writer, lol)

Generally, she just says stuff in Spanish and it can be instinctual, or it can just be that she just wants to

Maybe even teaching Alastor (or generally anyone else) some words in Spanish, if they’re willing or are just curious

MAYBE EVEN SHOW ALASTOR SOME FOOD OF HER CULTURE!!! (I’m sorry, I’m getting way too excited, I’m Hispanic, and I’ve just been wondering, for quite a while, what it would be like if Reader was any sort of Spanish culture) Again, I truly love this story, and I can’t wait to see more!!!

Oh thank you dear, I’m pleased you enjoy this story so much. I hope you will keep loving it :)

Now, now, if you were a latina, Alastor would want to learn everything about your culture from a very young age. When he was a child, it was mostly childish curiosity. Why couldn’t he understand you when you were talking with your mother in a language he couldn’t understand? Would you teach him so he could speak like that with his mother and his father would never understand them?

Alastor is intelligent so he would catch some sentence without you being aware of it. You would be having a tantrum with your mother and Alastor would take your hand, speaking in perfect spanish. 

“ Cálmate, eres demasiado ruidosa.”

Your mother and yourself were so shocked Alastor thought he made a mistake but when you jumped on him with a big smile he would let out a sigh of relief. Your mother and Marie would be surprised, Alastor was only 9 years old and he already could understand most of the words you were saying.

As he grew older, his curiosity with your culture and language became less… innocent. His obsession was the main cause of it, of course. But as an adult, he would be almost completely fluent in Spanish and knew most of your culture.  He also enjoyed the attention of course which made you repeat to him so many time:

“ A donde te quieren mucho no vengas a menudo.” 

He loved your food, the spices would almost make him moan of delight. Give the man Cochinita Pibil or Tortas Ahogadas, please, he is salivating. You both would spend so much time in the kitchen trying new recipes.

Alastor loved when you were so mad you would switch languages. Even more when you were in front of John who couldn’t understand anything you were saying.

“ ¡Háblame una vez más, te reto y te colgaré delante de toda Nueva Orleans, hijo de puta!”

“ Alastor… What is she saying..?”

“ Oh, she wants you to keep talking.”

Your best friend Alice would learn the language to gossip with you 100%. Sometimes Alastor would join the two of you and you would have three people in a coffee shop, gossiping in spanish.. Even if sometimes it would be so obvious who you were talking about.

“ Mira a esa perra.” Spat Alice which made you and Alastor turn around. You were already joining Alice in her harsh words as Alastor smirked before drinking his coffee before speaking.

“ ¿No es ella profesora de español?”

“ …”

He enjoyed your accent. He had a list of words that he loved hearing from your mouth. He didn’t know why but when you were stuttering on those words, he would smile, finding you so cute.

He would smile when you would call  him “ Mi Vida.” more than “ Mi Amor”. The fact that you saw him as your whole life made him lightheaded.

When Alice was born, he would ask you if you wanted to teach your daughter your language. No matter if you wanted it or not, Alastor would be happy with your choice. If you didn't want to share your culture and language with your daughter, that meant it was something secret between the two of you.

If you wanted it, he would be confused about the warmth inside his chest when you were teaching your daughter some words and you would hug her when she had the words right. He would find himself smiling when your daughter had the same accent as you and would stutter on the same words as you do.

[pinkv-0-dka]

Media and information about Guilherme Taucci

For those who don't speak Portuguese and want to know more about the Suzano massacre and Guilherme

About Guilherme

Guilherme Taucci Monteiro was born on 07/05/2001 in the city of Mogi das Cruzes, in the interior of São Paulo.

He moved to Suzano at a very young age to live with his grandparents in the Jardim Imperador neighborhood.

He came from a humble family. At the age of 6 months, he began to be raised by his maternal grandparents, Benedito Luiz Cardoso and Arlete Taucci, because his parents, Tatiana Taucci and Rogério Machado Monteiro, were drug addicts. His mother already had a son before him, Victor, who was raised by his father's family. Years later, she gave birth to two girls, who lived with Taucci and his grandparents. In 2015, she had Vitória, who lives with her father.

He was a quiet boy until his teenage years. In 2017, he dropped out of his second year of high school at Raul Brasil, claiming he had no friends. Some people remember that he was not bullied, while others claim that he was teased because of the acne on his face and back – one of his biggest insecurities. Benedito even paid for him to get acne treatment. “He studied until his second year of high school, last year. Then he dropped out of school. He complained that people were making fun of the pimples on his face and back. They gave him embarrassing nicknames. I even paid for his [acne] treatment,” he recalled. He worked with his maternal uncle, Jorge Antonio Moraes, but was fired in 2017.

Antonio was not the only family member with whom Taucci had disagreements. Benedito stated that Guilherme had never drunk or used drugs, at least not in front of him, and used to say that he “wanted to burn all drug users”, referring to his parents. Taucci and his mother didn’t get along and rarely saw each other. His grandfather, relatives and people who knew Taucci all had good things to say about him and said it was impossible to imagine he would do something like that. His grandfather said, “He was a good boy, he didn’t have any drug problems and he never gave me any trouble.” Loving, obedient, passionate about games, polite, careful with his sisters – a 9-year-old girl and a 7-year-old girl – quiet and shy, these are adjectives he likes to describe his grandson. “If someone told me that, I would say it was a lie. He was always very polite, very reserved and very respectful. He was very fond of his grandfather. I can’t understand what could have caused such an outburst,” says his aunt Karina Morais. “They were normal boys (Luiz and Taucci). They said good morning, good afternoon, good night. They didn’t do drugs,” says driver Cássio Nogueira, 39, a neighbor who saw them grow up. “He always liked Nazism, gothic clothes and that emo fringe. The boys have fun with these things, it wasn't just him. My poor son,” says his mother. Benedito claims that Taucci had plans for his life.

Months after the massacre, he would turn 18 and Luiz Henrique de Castro's father had promised Taucci a job in the same position as his friend, cleaning and preserving squares in São Paulo. According to Benedito, he would earn R$1,400 per month and would receive food vouchers. He told his grandfather that he would give him the voucher to help with household expenses, since Benedito has a minimum retirement income. He also said that Taucci used to accept short-term jobs to buy games or other items online. The last job he supposedly got was at a hot dog stand, earning R$600.00.

Taucci’s grandmother passed away in December 2018. Benedito recalls that Guilherme seemed indifferent at first, but when asked if he wasn’t suffering the loss, he replied: “Grandpa, I felt it on the way.” On the morning of the attack, Guilherme left a burned photo on the floor of his room, which his mother recognized as being of him with the teenager’s father. Benedito also talks about his grandson’s behavior the day before the massacre, “Yesterday, when he came home from the street at night, I heated up dinner for him. Everything was fine,” Guilherme ate rice, beans and a hamburger. “He loved hamburgers.”

We can’t pinpoint the exact reasons for him carrying out a school shooting, since Benedito always gave him what he wanted: his computer, TV, internet and, as he has said several times, he seemed “fine” with his life. No one would ever know what they planned to do.

translation: pinkv0dka

sources: https://blogfamigerados.wordpress.com/2020/08/23/infancia-e-adolescencia-de-guilherme-taucci/

[thenightling]

Pet peeve about the Internet *Pretending* to have read Frankenstein

I am so tired of everyone and their dog on the Internet saying "Actually the monster was The Doctor." or "Frankenstein was the Doctor. Not The Creature." And no one notices what's wrong with this. First, Victor Frankenstein (in the novel) was no doctor. He was a student of metaphysics. He never graduates. He's not a medical doctor at all. He found the secret of life while reading the works of Agrippa and Paracelsus. A self-proclaimed sorcerer and alchemist. Now what makes Victor a Monster? He had f--king postpartum depression. No. Seriously. THAT is what makes everyone call him a monster. The term Postpartum didn't exist yet but that's what is described. He's excited about creating life. He even chose various parts for their beauty. The Creature has luxurious black hair, and perfect teeth (a detail left out of most film adaptations). But the eyes are yellow and watery. There's an effect that we'd today call Uncanny Valley. Victor does not find him hideous until he comes to life. Then Victor flees. It takes him months to recover from his "Brain fever." He has a sort of nervous break down. When he finally comes home it's to discover his youngest brother has been killed and The Creature has framed an innocent maid for the murder (and is hanged for it). YES, The Creature is sympathetic. Abandoned by Victor and rejected by the world but both make horrible mistakes. Victor is no innocent but he isn't Satan either. Someone on Tumblr even blocked me for trying to point out that Mary Shelley wanted us to sympathize with BOTH Victor and his Creature. It's not black and white. The person claimed I clearly never read the book and then blocked me after saying "Another person who didn't read the book trying to school me." Not only did I read the book but Frankenstein is in my top four favorite novels. To me, seeing the Internet constantly parrot the "The Doctor was the monster" is like seeing the rather sexist "Beauty and the Beast is Stockholm Syndrome" (which actually means "I don't trust Belle and will ignore her agency as a character.") Or the not-so-subtle transphobia attached to the Hot take of "Disney's The Little Mermaid gave up who she was for a man." which requires ignoring that Ariel wanted to be human before she ever saw Eric. I even got into an argument with someone about that once who insisted that she only sang "Part of your world" after she saw Eric. No. That was the reprise. The first time she sang it was before she ever saw Eric. Also I'm sick of people "correcting" those that call The Creature Frankenstein. The Creature views Victor as his father. Usually a son takes his father's surname. On a lighter note we have the people who PRETEND to have read Dracula, sharing the old man image of him with the handlebar mustache as being "This is what Dracula actually looked like in the book." I often point out to them that he de-ages in the novel and is later described with dark hair with grey in it. And a pointed beard. One person, who didn't want to admit they were wrong, tried to claim he was disguising himself so no one would reocognize him. That the beard was false and the hair was a wig. Umm... Why? The only person who knew what he looked like was Jonathan Harker. And at the time Dracula thought Harker was still in his castle. I know this is a long post but to sum it up... Please, stop repeating memes about classic stories as if they are fact and try reading them for yourself. It may not quite be what you've been lead to believe.