#grace is feeling unnecessarily insightful

[animalsandskyyy]

I will forever stand by the thought that simply “being online” and consuming or even posting content, takes a completely different amount of energy than messaging or interacting with others online does.

but that’s something I had to train myself to acknowledge and learn. because it used to hurt and make me overthink when i’d message someone and they wouldn’t respond, but would still be active or posting. like I wouldn’t say that to them, but it overtook my thoughts.

then somehow I just stopped and realized- maybe they’re just tired. or maybe they’re scrolling on the phone in their 5 minutes of free time. maybe they’re in the middle of 3 conversations and are trying their best. maybe they’re in the middle of making a post and didn’t see your message. maybe they’re deep into searching a topic and can’t be distracted. or maybe they just don’t want to talk to you rn, and that’s perfectly okay and valid.

all that to say- it can still hurt sometimes, but giving people grace and thinking the best of them and their intentions, and sincerely hoping they do the same for you, makes life so much more enjoyable, and I highly recommend ♡

[folliesandfolderols]

Writing prompts day 88

From this prompt list. If you’ve read this far, I’m not sure you need any explanation, but the short version is I hadn’t written any fiction since 2019, I set a goal to write at least 150 words/day in 2024, and this list was my way to restart. Also I abruptly decided on day 2 I would write an entire Tim/Damian story connecting all the prompts, because I am Good at Judging My Limits. /sarcasm Anyway, I finished the rough draft a while ago and am now unlocking the old entries as I edit.

Read from the beginning here, or on ao3 here.

Day 87 here

***

137. “Christ, I wanna fuck you so bad[ly].” “You’ll get to do that once we get home.”

***

The sound of retching behind the bathroom door woke him. He groaned and looked at his phone: 6 AM. He’d gotten about two hours of sleep. He padded to the door and called through the wood, “Damian? You okay?”

More retching, then Damian’s irritable, “I’m sure you realize the common after-effects of ingesting the sort of drugs I did last night, Drake. This is a momentary inconvenience. My superior constitution will deal with it shortly.”

Tim started to reply, but was cut off by the sound of continued vomiting. With a shrug, he went to the kitchen to brew some ginger tea. He couldn't prove Damian was wrong about his "superior constitution." God knew what Talia had done to him in that artificial womb. But it sure didn't sound like it was doing him any good at the moment.

A few minutes later, Damian stumbled out of the bedroom, his customary grace clearly having deserted him. He winced at the kitchen light, though Tim had dimmed it to the lowest possible illumination. "Why are you awake?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Hard to sleep when the person you're with is puking their guts up." Tim brandished the mug at him. "I made you some ginger tea. Do you want honey to go with it?"

"Completely unnecessary," Damian grumbled, plopping into a kitchen chair and lowering his head to rest on his arms, crossed on the table.

Ugh, he was such an ass when he didn't feel well. Tim shrugged. "Fine, I'll drink it."

"No," Damian said, eyes still closed. "You went to the trouble. I'll take it with honey."

Pleasantly surprised, Tim prepared it as directed and set the mug down on the table next to Damian's face. After a second, Damian heaved a sigh and sat up enough to cradle the mug in both hands.

Tim broke the silence after a minute. "I still don't get why you didn't just fake it."

Damian took a sip of the tea. "She is a brilliant woman. Motivated, sharp, and insightful. Her real name is Yekaterina. She came over here believing she had been recruited for a program to teach Russian to English speakers."

Tim stared at a remnant of lipstick on Damian's earlobe and tried not to feel sick with jealousy. "Not seeing the connection here."

Damian shrugged. "She is also terrified. Her hands were shaking the entire time she spoke to me. She brought up the sex trafficking. She had heard that the Waynes have ties to Batman, and she hoped the Justice League would do something for her." Tim winced. Damian gave him a slight nod. "I didn't disabuse her of the notion. It seemed unnecessarily cruel. In any case we'll be doing something, and our efforts will undoubtedly prove superior to anything they could do."

By now Tim thought he had figured it out. "So you drank the drugs because you didn't want her to be scared of reprisals."

"Exactly." Damian sipped more tea, eyes unfocused as he remembered. "She was sick with fear when she told me about her orders to drug me. If I could undergo a few hours' discomfort to spare her that, I saw no option to do otherwise."

Tim couldn't stop himself from reaching across the table and grasping one of Damian's hands. Damian glanced from his fingers to Tim's face, questioning. Keeping his tone light, Tim said, "You're a real hero, aren't you?"

Damian sniffed dismissively, but his answering grip was warm. "As no one doubts."

"And you saved some of the sample so we can synthesize an antidote, right?"

With an almost imperceptible wince, Damian said, "I did not see the point."

Because it didn't occur to you at all while you were busy flinging yourself onto the altar of sacrifice, Tim thought, but he just shook his head and said, "Well. Next time." Given their lives, why wouldn't there be a next time?

***

That night, they were both scheduled to patrol, so Tim headed to the Cave to do his pre-patrol briefing in person and update Bruce on the latest developments in their case. Damian had already shared some of it, but Bruce listened intently to Tim's recitation.

"Falcone," he said after flipping through the electronic dossier. "That's my best guess. Damian tells me he had contact with one of the exploited women?"

"Yeah, though he doesn't remember much from their actual conversation so we're waiting for Jason to finish cleaning up the audio." At Bruce's eyebrow lift, he clarified, "Because of the drugs she put in his drink. He drank them voluntarily but they had the usual effect on his memory."

"I wish I were surprised he was that foolhardy." Bruce gave him the barest hint of a smile. "Unfortunate, that neither you nor I can be the ones to lecture him about that."

Tim laughed, but felt the need to say, "I know my limits better than that, Bruce."

Bruce wisely didn't say anything directly about that statement, merely mused, "I should tell Dick. He might be able to rein him in," as he swiveled his desk chair back to face the screens.

Tim took that to mean the conversation was over, and headed for his motorcycle, hoping Nightwing wasn't going to visit Gotham anytime soon. Dick understood Damian in a way that surpassed conscious thought, and could make leaps of logic about his former sidekick that led to correct deductions as easily as he performed a quadruple somersault.

Damian sought him out a few hours later, coming to rest on a crane near the port as Tim perched on its jib, looking for suspicious activity.

"Why is Father telling me to check on you after last night?" he demanded, without bothering with inconsequential things like greetings. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Tim straightened from his crouch, mental gears clicking. "Shit. What did you tell him when he said that?"

Damian paused, but pushed forward after a second. "I said I would do so, of course."

With a heavy sigh, Tim rubbed his forehead. "Dammit. He's on a fishing expedition. If you had said," he imitated Damian's haughtiest tone, "'you may check on him yourself, as you are the one who insists on maintaining his incompetent presence,' that would've sent him off the scent, but this? He knows."

Damian went silent in the way that meant he realized he'd messed up. In a quieter voice, he said, "I had thought you said you wouldn't mind if he did know."

"I don't." Tim shrugged and redirected his gaze out over the harbor. "I don't like when he outmaneuvers me like this, though. He could just ask."

“If he wanted you to lie to him, perhaps.” Damian drew alongside him, looking in the same direction. "Any activity?"

"Nothing. It's quiet as a tomb." Tim turned to examine what he could see of his face. "How about you? Are you okay? Any lingering effects?"

"Barring the memory loss, none. It's an odd feeling to watch the footage Hood provided and not have a recollection of my own actions."

Tim came to attention. "You've watched it? What does she say?"

"She's willing to help us. She can give us information about meetings she goes to with Waters, because he often takes her along as a status symbol. And she gave us a name." Damian couldn't hide the triumph in his tone. "It is Falcone at the head of the operation."

For some reason, Tim couldn't muster up the same level of enthusiasm. "Great. Well, that's our next step planned for us, then. We've gotta gather enough information to get him put away in a federal prison forever."

Damian's brow quirked. "I thought you would be more excited about the news. But I suppose you already knew."

Tim struggled with himself for a second. He enjoyed his reputation as someone whose investigative deductions were infallible, but he couldn't lie to Damian. "No. I talked to Batman about it tonight. He said it was the most likely option. I wasn't sure. In any case, it's good work. You should be happy about it."

"I am pleased. Why aren't you?" Damian made an aborted movement, as if he would've taken Tim's hand, and then decided against it.

"I'll be happy when we wrap this up. For now, it's just—" Tim cut himself off with a giant yawn. "It's just more work for us," he finished, then yawned again.

Damian did reach for his shoulders now. "What's wrong? How long has it been since you slept?"

"Well, I had an hour-long nap at my desk today while Sarah from Payroll gave us a webinar on the new system for requesting time off." Tim dragged his hand down his face. "Hope I don't have to use my PTO anytime soon because I am fucked."

"I don't understand why you're on patrol at all in this state." Damian stepped into his space, grip tightening. "You're in no condition to make life and death decisions."

Tim pushed back and away, the banked embers of rage that always lay at the base of his need to prove himself flaring. "Hey. I've been making those for a long time. I don't need you to tell me how to do this. Speaking of, don't you have your own patrol route to get to?"

Damian dropped his hands, clenching them into fists. "Of course I do. I only took time away from it because Father requested I do so." He took a backwards step, then another. "I won't detain you from your urgent surveillance tasks any longer."

A sudden realization struck Tim before he could leave. “Ah, shit. Hold on.” He leaped toward Damian and grabbed his wrist. “What am I doing? I don't even want you to go. I'm sorry."

Damian actually stepped from one foot to the other in a display of indecisiveness foreign to his usual surety. He tapped his domino until the white-outs cleared, revealing his eyes. "If you don't want me to go, what do you want?"

Tim considered that. What did he want? Well, mostly he wanted Damian to swear he'd never look at anyone else sexually ever again, but that was deeply fucked up and not feasible to share. He compromised with a watered-down version of the truth that possibly would help him avoid a psych eval. "I want you to stay. And I want you to kiss me."

Damian stepped back toward him and kissed him without hesitation. Tim clung to his shoulders to keep his balance. The gentle pressure of Damian's tongue, so at odds with the harsh grab of his hands on Tim's waist, had him opening up, letting him in deeper. His knees turned to jelly. God, he really was exhausted.

"You are maddening," Damian growled, wrenching his mouth away and glaring down at him.

"I mean, likewise," Tim said frankly, and pulled his head down again.

Damian yanked him closer and kissed him until the plates of their respective body armor caught uncomfortably, angling his tunic in a way that pulled the collar tight. He dislodged himself with a disgruntled "tt," but his eyes were bright with furtive happiness. Tim had a feeling he had a similar dopey look on his own face.

"Christ, I want to fuck you so badly," Damian whispered.

Tim cradled his face in his hands and kissed his chin. "You'll get to do that once we get home. Promise. For now you should get back to your own part of the city."

It wasn't until hours after Damian leaped off the top of the crane that Tim realized he'd referred to his Nest as Damian's home.

days 89-91 here

[erabundus]

@momijiba &&. said... 🍫 uwu

fingers  tap  idly  against  the  side  of  the  box.  he  stares  at  the  design  emblazoned  across  the  front  —  an  eye-catching  gradient  of  rich  greens  upon  which  a  veritable  bouquet  of  candy-coated  sticks  are  tastefully  arranged  to  look  as  tantalizing  as  possible.   ❝  pocky ...  huh.  ❞   ren  muses  aloud.  he  wrinkles  his  nose  ever  so  slightly,   ❝  you  remember  how  i  feel  about  SWEET  things,  right?  ❞  he  would  assume  it's  some  joke  meant  to  poke  fun  at  him  (  in  kazuha's  usual  irreverent  way  )  were  it  not  for  the  flavor.  matcha  —  that  doesn't  actually  sound  completely  insufferable.  he  pops  open  the  box  and  pulls  out  a  stick,  taking  care  not  to  touch  the  end covered in chocolate.  his  body  may  run  at  a  colder  temperature  than  that  of  a  human,  but  he  still  doesn't  want  to  risk  making  a  mess  on the off chance  it  MELTS  between  his  fingers.

for  a  moment,  ren  simply  stares.  twisting  it  this  way  and  that,  as  if  looking  at  the  treat  from  different  angles  allows  him  to  glean  some  sort  of  INSIGHT.  ❝  there's  a  game  that  goes  along  with  this,  isn't  there?  ❞  he  shakes  his  head,  breathing  a  faint  (  amused  )  laugh.  ❝  how  absurd ...  humans  sure  like  to  complicate  things  unnecessarily.  ❞  yet  no  sooner  do  the  words  leave  his  mouth  than  the  wanderer  turns  his  attention  to  kazuha.  lips  quirk  —  a  crooked  little  half-smile  most  often  found  gracing  ren's  face  when  he's  up  to  something.  though  the  specifics  only  become  clear  when  he  suddenly  straddles  the  ronin's  lap.

❝  i'm  not  interested  in  EATING  this.  ❞  one  finger  curls  beneath  his  human's  chin,  tilting  his  head  up.  ❝  but  if  you  want  to  have  some,  be  my  guest.  ❞  he  pops  the  candy  in  his  mouth  biscuit-end  first  and  raises  a  brow.  the  implication  is  clear  —  come  and  take  it.

[whatsinyourstory]

Ideas for Books on Religion and Spirituality

 Hi there, fellow enlightened beings! We're going to explore the personal realm of religious memoirs today; this is going to be more than just words on paper. Writing a religious biography is akin to inviting readers to walk along you through the doors of your soul. It's about talking about the intimate experiences, thought-provoking lessons, and life-changing occurrences that have influenced your spiritual development. So grab a cup of coffee or tea, settle into a comfortable chair, and let's discuss how to write a religious biography that appeals to people who are looking for deep spiritual understanding.

Chapter 1: Accept Your Narrative Our lives are like a book of stories, with every chapter adding to the overall picture of who we are. The first step in writing a Christian memoir is to accept your story, imperfections and all. The untidy bits and the times of uncertainty are what give your story its authenticity, so don't be afraid to embrace them. Consider the experiences that have had a lasting impact on your spiritual development. It might be a sequence of fortunate encounters, a moment of insight, or a crisis of faith. Your tale is one-of-a-kind, and its authenticity gives it force. Chapter 2: Consider Your Spiritual Development As you begin this writing journey, consider how your spiritual development has unfolded. What did you believe when you were a child, and how have you changed your mind over time? Think back to the persons, texts, or events that shaped your conception of the divine. Writing a religious memoir requires you to go deeper into your soul and explore all the facets of your spirituality; it's not simply about recounting experiences. Talk about the defining experiences, epiphanies, and introspective times that helped you form your convictions.Chapter 3: Establish a Relationship with Your Audience A religious memoir that connects with its audience is deemed successful. Talk straight to their hearts. Talk about your weaknesses, phobias, and grace moments. Readers receive comfort and motivation when they recognise themselves in your tale. Picture yourself having a cup of tea with a friend while you sit across from them. Do not unnecessarily formalise or preach; instead, let your words flow organically. It should not feel like a sermon to your readers, but rather like a real interaction. Buy second hand books from the best online bookstore - Whats In Your Story.

[appleflavoredkitkats]

discussing phil’s perspective & his genuine compassion for fundy

word count: approximately 1.3k

this is going to be very all over the place, but there are some things i wanted to discuss about the new lore drop from phil and fundy.

for a long time, there were many fundy enthusiasts, including myself, who did not understand phil’s resentment towards fundy and the rest of new l’manberg. sure, we understood that he probably hated them because of the butcher army fiasco, but there was always something more, especially with how phil felt incredibly disconnected with the rest of nlm at the beginning of season two.

we thought it didn’t make sense, but that new piece of information from the most recent lore stream just. makes EVERYTHING make sense. if i had the time, i’d dig into more on how perspective matters in the dream smp, and how every action, no matter how crazy or nonsensical it may seem, would always have a reason.

but again, i have no time for that, and i know other people have already made essays for that, so let me focus on how wilbur’s letters to phil gave us a reason as to why phil acted like an asshole at certain times. because for the longest time, we thought that phil was being unnecessarily harsh on tubbo and fundy, but after this, it made sense!

wilbur painted a picture in phil’s head that l’manberg was beautiful. it was infallible. it was grace, it was hope, it was overall perfect. this piece of information is crucial as to why phil resented tubbo, fundy, and quackity. wilbur told phil that l’manberg was developing, and of COURSE phil would also think that tubbo, fundy, and quackity would be grateful for l’manberg! with the image wilbur made, phil would automatically think the other three would be grateful for everything l’manberg and wilbur has provided them.

so when phil sees these three as withdrawn or violent or overly defensive that they’d looked down upon techno, dream, and wilbur, of COURSE phil would think they were ungrateful little bastards. because in phil’s head, he thinks that “why would these three act so violent when they had such a great life before nlm?”. phil thinks that they aren’t traumatized, that they haven’t been exposed to violence, so to phil, HE thinks that THEY are the ones being nonsensical.

the only thing he believes that the three have suffered is witnessing wilbur’s death, which is also the only other thing phil suffered! phil’s problems root a lot from wilbur’s death, but with the perfect image of l’manberg in his head, he also thinks that the other three’s issues only stem from wilbur’s death as well. so when phil finally moves on, when phil finally finishes grieving but then sees that the other three are still defensive and on guard? of course phil would think that they are ungrateful shitheads! this doesn’t excuse phil’s actions of course, but now, we finally realize WHY he did the things he did. WHY he was so rude towards fundy and tubbo ESPECIALLY. 

it’s all just miscommunication! phil thought that nlm was being awful because phil thought there would be no reason to be ungrateful, but nlm thought phil was the one being ungrateful because he never acknowledged that the three HAVE been through traumatizing events in the past. it’s all a misunderstanding gone awry. 

now, with that point out of the way, i want to discuss one more thing: phil’s apology to fundy. i’ve seen two takes about the way phil interacted with fundy that i don’t necessarily agree with: 1.) phil’s apology to fundy was awful because he never outright said “sorry”, and 2.) phil never really intended to reconnect with fundy, only viewing him as a tool to help him find wilbur.

these two takes are not something i necessarily agree with, so i’m here to expound my thoughts on that.

on the first point, why do we need phil to verbally tell fundy he’s sorry? i know that sometimes, people would still think highly of themselves that they would refuse to say “sorry” outright, but i think that, for fundy, it doesn’t really matter.

fundy is extremely alone. point blank. if you’ve watched fundy’s perspective from the beginning of the election arc up until now, he has always loathed wilbur because he left him alone. that was always the main point: that fundy was alone, that fundy has no one, or that wilbur was just always absent. 

companionship and just the presence of someone caring for fundy already means SO MUCH for fundy. fundy complains and cries about loneliness, and what did phil do in the entire stream? he stuck to fundy. he listened. fundy has talked about how he felt like people weren’t listening, that when he needed others the most, they would leave. but what did phil do? after fundy confessed his dreams, after fundy confessed the truth about the election, after fundy cried and shouted at phil- phil remained. he stayed. he listened, he didn’t berate fundy, and most importantly, he stayed.

and while phil still didn’t say he was sorry, sometimes those little, subtle actions could be enough. maybe it would even be seen as something more powerful than a “sorry”.

and also! phil not saying sorry could direct back to my main point: he didn’t know the gravity of fundy’s situation. because fundy tells him that wilbur left him alone, but in phil’s perspective, he thinks that fundy’s only talking about wilbur’s last canon death. phil doesn’t think that fundy’s hurt originates from events WAY BEFORE THAT. so, it’d make sense why phil didn’t apologize in the most proper way he can. he just didn’t realize how much deeper fundy’s issues are. 

and again, it doesn’t mean phil is a 100% good person and everything he did was excused! i just mean that every action has a reason behind it. and even THEN, phil still acted so kindly towards fundy.

AND THAT PROCEEDS TO THE NEXT POINT: did phil only call fundy just because of wilbur’s revival, and not because he cared for him? well, NO. why can’t we have both? why couldn’t have phil called fundy for wilbur’s revival AND genuinely care about him at the same time?

because the thing is, the fact that phil called fundy because he thought fundy had the right to know IS PHIL GENUINELY BEING CARING TOWARDS FUNDY. phil knows what wilbur meant to fundy, because wilbur means a lot to phil as well. if phil truly, truly hated fundy, he wouldn’t even call fundy in the first place. and when fundy arrived, phil didn’t eyeroll at him, or interrupt his rants, or do anything awful. he was calm, kind and lighthearted- phil didn’t feel like he was forced to call fundy at all.

phil called fundy about wilbur because he has a genuine care FOR fundy. i think this was especially seen at the end when phil was telling him to prepare mentally. when phil told fundy to not lose himself. would that sound like a man who ONLY CARED ABOUT WILBUR? NO! OF COURSE NOT! phil seemed like he genuinely CARED about fundy’s wellbeing, and he didn’t want him to destroy himself! 

sure, this meeting would have only happened if wilbur was revived, but it doesn’t change the fact that in this meeting, phil still showed that he had genuine compassion for fundy. he can be concerned about wilbur’s resurrection WHILE ALSO CARING FOR FUNDY, it isn’t a this or that situation.

(ps. also, other note to add: if you still continue villainizing phil for being x and y, it erases the importance of that one scene where he revealed that he’s been heavily lied to by wilbur.)

tldr; perspective is very important when we want to make sense of actions done by characters in the dream smp. it doesn’t excuse any character’s actions if they did something wrong, but it gives us an insight of why characters do these things. additionally, phil genuinely cares about fundy. he may not outright say “sorry”, or he might’ve only called fundy because of wilbur’s revival, but phil showed that he DOES care about fundy nonetheless.

[ad1thi]

2020 fic recs!! [Part 1]

this idea was stolen from @iam93percentstardust cuz i just,,,thought that this year was absolute shit and it would be nice to make a fic rec list of fics from this year that helped me through it. this will be over a range of fandoms and ships, but all fics were written this year. 

fics are ordered by the month they were published. ive tried to keep to five fics per month, but this is not obviously all the fics ive read that month - i just didn’t want to make this insanely long. 

im releasing the first half of this on the 1st of December, and the second half on the 1st of January 2021 - because otherwise it would just get so long (and also so i will actually have fics for December)

happy reading!! hopefully you find fics on this you haven’t read yet

***

January

The cat is mighty dignified (until the dog comes by): @five-wow

Steve and Danny find them on the pillow in the corner of the dining area, where Eddie is on his side, ass half on the floor because the pillow is more cat-sized than lab-sized, and Pickles is nestled between Eddie’s front legs, essentially being spooned and looking very I-got-the-cream about it. Pickles’ head is tucked into the crook of Eddie’s neck and Eddie’s head slots perfectly on top of Mr. Pickles’, like a furry jigsaw puzzle.

“They’re cuddling,” Steve points out, unnecessarily.

Or: There is a love story unfolding under the McGarrett roof.

Captain ‘Socialist Rage Muffin’ America: @baffledkingcomposinghallelujah

It takes three months of dating Steve Rogers for Tony to understand why Aunt Peggy once shot at him in sheer frustration.

Alternately titled, Honey, I committed treason again.

The Best Laid Plans (Of Mice and Men): @arboreal-elm-ash-oak

His Dark Materials AU

It was Annalise who noticed their small visitor first.

“Tony,” the spider daemon said softly, skittering up the collar of his dress shirt, two of her eight legs resting delicately against his cheek, “Don’t startle them, but I believe we have a guest. Look, by the coffee table.”

Fourteen Million to One: @tunastorks

Six months after Thanos, six months after Tony’s death, six months after Steve returns to his own timeline, Tony Stark turns up on their doorstep.

Brewed Awakening: @iam93percentstardust

Two years after he comes out of the ice, Steve is drifting through life. On his teammate's recommendation, he decides to go back to school where he meets the grandson of an old friend. He finds happiness with Tony but Steve won't be in Boston forever and someone is out to hurt the Starks. Will Steve and Tony be able to reach their happily ever after?

February

the young, the reckless and the foolish: @bruciewayne

In most universes, they don't know each other, not in the slightest, or they hate each other, in a way that's perfectly logical for anyone who were to find themselves in a similar situation.

In this one, they've known each other since they were four years old and naively idealistic.

This is them over the years, against the odds.

a giant sign: @areiton

“Think you can get him to open the weapons division up again?” his CO asks, his voice hungry and Rhodey laughs because this--

“No. Tony hung up his weapons.”

“That’s not what the suit says,” his CO objects, and Rhodey shrugs.

Tony has always had rules, rules he expects the entire world to live by.

And then there was Rhodey, slipping under them.

my heart is driftwood, floating down your coast: @nethandrake

Tonight, there’s a stranger in his backseat. That’s not unusual.

He’s also sad. That’s not unusual either.

What is unusual is that the stranger is silent.

(One night, a stranger enters Steve's taxi. Nothing is the same again.)

Just A Cold: @/delighted 

There’s a new text waiting for him. It’s from Steve of course, and it’s vaguely threatening as most messages from Steve are these days. Still Danny ignores it, and now he’s really playing with fire. Maybe it’ll burn the cold out of him.

Or, Danny’s sick, and Steve can’t stay away. The usual comfort fluff. With a little cameo from a gently meddling Grace.

An Unexpected Guide: @/Rachel500

Danny Williams has hidden his Guide status to keep being a detective, but his time of hiding is up when he unexpectedly finds his Sentinel, Steve McGarrett in the midst of a tragedy.

March

Why don’t we (Collide the spaces that divide us): @five-wow

When they finally catch sight of each other again through the milling crowds, they’re both a little worse for wear. Danny’s left side is covered in glitter and every time he brushes a hand over his hair, more blue and purple confetti rains down. Steve is- Well, Steve is randomly shirtless, which is all things considered not excessively remarkable, but he’s also covered in smudges of colorful paint and has a very nicely printed bloodred lipstick kiss mark on his cheek.

“What did you do?” Danny asks, because it looks like Steve had a lot more fun than he did.

Or: Steve and Danny accidentally end up in the middle of something entirely new.

A Little Unsteady: @finduilasclln 

Written for the Tumblr prompt meme : "Hey! I was gonna eat that!"

Tony lashes out at Bucky for eating his dessert. Only, it really isn't about the dessert.

a national treasure: @starklysteve

Steve isn't looking for an apple and Tony decides his passion is to inspire young souls. -x- OR: the AU where Tony is a Youtuber and Steve is Captain America and somehow they still save the world together.

April

cycle through: @ambivalentmarvel

Twenty-five years ago, Tony Stark disappeared from his family home a month after the tragic deaths of his parents, Howard and Maria Stark, leaving a billion-dollar tech conglomerate without an heir and the world wondering what happened.

Twenty-three years ago, HYDRA gained another super soldier.

Ten years ago, Peter Parker’s parents died in what is ruled as a home invasion gone wrong but he knows was murder, plain and simple, because he spoke to the killer.

And in the present, Project Insight fails, and the Iron Soldier pays the price.

FOREVER-LOVE YOU-I: @/Eudoxia

Tony Stark is twenty-one when he loses his voice. It shouldn't matter, but in a world where the first words your Soulmate says to you are marked on your skin, it can be pretty damn annoying.

Especially for Tony's soulmate.

--

Companion piece to my fic Thumb, Index, and Pinky Extended. This is Steve's POV, with a few extra scenes, as a treat.

(Edit: Sorry if you guys get multiple notifications for this. I just realized (about two hours after posting it) that I fucked up the grammar in the title and I HAD to fix it. YOLO, I guess.)

come build a home out of me: @maguna-stxrk

Steve clears his throat.

“What if I went with you?” he asks nonchalantly, like his heart isn’t threatening to beat out of his ribcage.

Tony blinks a few times, looking at Steve, his mouth ajar. “As a— As my date?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods, feeling a little breathless.

“You don’t mind?” Tony furrows his eyebrows.

“I don’t. In fact, you can just tell them I’m your boyfriend. I’m sure they’ll back off, wouldn’t they?”

What.

“I— Huh?” Tony stares at him, brown eyes blown wide open.

What. What. What.

“Huh? Uh, I mean— You know, that way people will see that you have definitely moved on. Monica will see that you have moved on. Right?” Steve smiles, hoping that it masks his inner panic, because what?

Steve Rogers, what have you done?

i don’t have a choice (but i’d still choose you): @nethandrake

There’s a name inked onto his chest, a name written in an all-too familiar scrawl. And it’s— It’s—

Steve doesn’t realize his body is quaking until he’s tracing the tattoo with a shaky finger.

Because of course that is the name etched into the skin. Like a brand, a reminder for everything he has done. An appropriate retribution.

Anthony Edward Stark.

(When Thanos snaps half of the universe away, he unknowingly leaves the other half with soulmarks.)

ua haʻalele ʻoe iaʻu (a ua hoʻomālamalama ʻoe iaʻu): @just-fandomthings

"The truth is, I was shot in the chest and nearly died, and not even three days after I was released from the hospital, you up and left-- and of those two, I'm not sure which one hurt me worse!"

(Coda to 10x22 because come on, we all need a better ending than the one given to us.)

Title loosely translates to: "You left me in the dark (you lit me up)" -- inspired by the brilliant song "Say You Won't Let Go" by James Arthur

May

A Piece Of The Past: @hddnone

It had been so many years since Bucky had gone undercover in the Stark family's mob, he thought he'd gotten away clean.

Then Tony Stark slid into the seat across from him at his breakfast diner, and Bucky's boss has a new case for him.

the privilege of loving you: @starklysteve

“Why won’t you let me touch you?”

It’s a desperate plea, half-shouted and half-whispered, Steve’s voice cracking at the end. Tony stops in his tracks, halfway to the stairs. He doesn’t dare to turn back, and he really doesn’t want to fight, or to leave, to spend the last month of his life away from his husband and their son. But Steve can’t know, can he?

-x-

Or: Tony has palladium poisoning, but he doesn't tell Steve and Peter

your pillow feels so soft now (but still you must advance): @firebrands

When Bruce is 13, he decides to go to boarding school. It's an opportunity for him to learn about other people, and how to interact with them.

Bruce has the misfortune of meeting Tony Stark upon his arrival in Roxbury. Bruce is moving into his room, and Tony opens the door of his room to watch. He looks a bit younger than Bruce, hair wild and eyes bright. Bruce has never seen a boy like him before—handsome and confident.

Bruce doesn’t like it.

IMPORTANT: This fic has them meeting at 14, then progresses slowly until they’re 17. Includes underage drinking and kissing.

This is set before Bruce becomes Batman and Tony becomes Iron Man and I have no explanation as to how or why they just DO Canonically, Bruce is 17 when he finishes school and goes around the world to train, so we're sticking with that

The Real MVP: @sword-and-stars (part of a series)

[“I have saved this Tuesday!” Sokka announces, rattling the bag upon reentry.

Zuko doesn’t even look up from his phone as he deadpans, “It’s Thursday.”

Okay, so Sokka is still having trouble getting his days right without checking. At least he’s gone back to sleeping at night! Going to bed at night is way easier when you have a cute, cuddly boyfriend who starts falling asleep around eleven o’clock. It also helps that he and Zuko are on solid gold butt-touching terms.

It’s been a while since Sokka has been on butt-touching terms with someone and it’s amazing.]

Or,

Sokka knows a guy, gets laid, and introduces Zuko to the merits of an afternoon delight.

When is a bed not a bed? (When you’re not in it): @riotwritesthings

There’s a tiny safe house, with one tiny window and one tiny couch.

And one tiny little bed.

June

Nice Fingers: @anthonyed

A single compliment given by Tony stirs Bucky restless until he caves in and asks him out on a date.

With Steve’s help of course (whether he likes it or not).

The Darkest Touch: @starkrogerrs

This is the story of how Steve finds that it has been ordained that he is to marry a monster he cannot resist aka the God of Love himself, Tony.

It's Cupid x Psyche retold, but with thrice the amount of porn.

The Night Shift:  @weethreequarter

Welcome to the Emergency Department of San Antonio General where Dr. Tony Stark joins the team fresh from his most recent tour in Afghanistan and - much to the consternation of the other staff - strikes up an instant rapport with Nurse Steve Rogers. Meanwhile, new resident Bruce Banner refuses to give up on his patient, and Dr. Sharon Carter learns something from her own patients. Throw in a pissed off hospital administrator, Clint using the coffee pot as a mug again, and a major car crash and you have, well, just another night shift.

Wind Beneath My Wings: @iam93percentstardust

Sam first meets Tony Stark in 2005 when he joins the EXO-7 Falcon program.

In jest: @/apathyinreverie

“No, babe,” Danny shakes his head with a grin. “If the apocalypse were to go down while I’m elsewhere for some godforsaken reason, then you stay put and I’m coming to wherever you are.” His grin widens. “And I expect you to have cleared any aliens or zombies or whatever else might be messing with us off the island and to have set up a nice, comfortable military dictatorship for us to rule over by the time I get back.”

It’s a joke.

Of course it’s a joke.

Until it isn’t.

(A the-day-after-tomorrow-style apocalypse AU, where the world decides to end right when Danny is visiting one of the other islands with Grace. Because, of course, it does.)

[himbowelsh]

If you want to, 9 or 19 with webgott? I hope you have a wonderful week 💕

i’ve got another prompt for #19, so how about #9?

sha-la-la-la my oh my, looks like the boy’s too shy  💋 (accepting!)  9.  one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other 

The stars are brighter tonight than any other time in recent memory... and it’s not like Austrian skies aren’t impressive as a rule. The nights shine brighter in the countryside than they ever did over the bustle of New York City. No matter how many times he sees the skies alight, David will never get used to it. Something divine shimmers in each blinking star, something earnest and mythical in the constellations strewn like New Years’ confetti across the sky. He is not a spiritual man, but Austrian nights make him feel like he could be, maybe.

Tonight, the sky is putting in extra effort. Each star feels like a beacon, calling him away from war and mourning. One of them, he muses, might be Janovec. 

He spun off the road just that morning, with little warning and no fanfare. One second, he was alive. The next... the war had claimed him too, and he didn’t even have a bullet wound to show for it.

The men who died on D-Day were heroes. David saw them drown in waist-deep swamps... gurgle to death on blood and bullets... strangled by their own risers and left hanging from trees like Halloween decorations. Heroic deaths, all of them, and their parents must claim some sense of pride in knowing their sons lives ended, not in agony and fear, but in resolute patriotism.

American heroes still sob for their mothers in their last moments. David still hears their screams.

Isn’t it such a privilege to die for one’s country?

Janovec didn’t even get that. He wasn’t taken out by enemy gunfire — only it was an American Jeep, and an enemy tree. Hoobler didn’t die in the heat of battle. His killer was a German pistol, but an American hand. Van Klinken caught machine gun fire, but he bled to death on Dutch soil, with Dutch dirt in his mouth and Dutch ash mixing with his tears.

Will they be called heroes, now that the fighting is done?

Austrian summer is warm, but there’s always a chill this high up. It bites at David’s exposed skin. He draws himself up a bit tighter, knees pulling close to his chest. There’s no real danger of overbalancing. The street may be a dizzying distance below, but this part of the rooftop is steady and nearly flat. He’d never have climbed out otherwise. David is not in the business of risking his own life unnecessarily. He fought a war, which ought to be enough; he’s got no intention of dying now that it’s done.

(Done for some, in limbo for others. In a few months, will they all be speaking Japanese?)

It’s chilly up here, but quiet, and perfectly dark — exactly what he was looking for. The sky sprawls above him, endless and alive with constellations. Each one welcomes him, calls out to him, tugs at the exposed threads of his soul. There, glistening brightly off to the right — is that Janovec? There, the one with the steady glow — Hoobler? Or maybe it’s Jackson — maybe those twin stars, glittering playfully side by side, are Muck and Penkala. Maybe there’s a place in the sky for more — hundreds, thousands, him —

“You gotta be kidding me.”

The unexpected voice jars him, like waking from a deep sleep. David flails. If the roof were any more perilous, he’d have certainly gone over the edge — but if this occurs to the intruder clambering out the rooftop window, he doesn’t seem to care.

“Of all the places — ow, fuck —“ Joe Liebgott smacks his head against the top of the frame. He’s too lanky; on the ground, he carries his long limbs with the grace of a feline, but he clearly wasn’t made for cat burglary. David sucks his lip, determined not to laugh, as Joe awkwardly forces his too-big body through the opening. “Of all the places to get yourself killed, Web, you know how to pick ‘em.”

“Figured it would have happened by now, in some way or another,” he replies with an easy shrug. “Why wait for anyone’s help?”

Joe says nothing — unless another muffled curse as his foot gets caught on the frame counts. By the time he manages to haul himself out onto the rooftop, he’s got a tear in his shirt sleeve, and multiple bruises to show for the effort. Never mind the fact that David didn’t invite him, or tell him where he was going; Joe still huffs at him as if it’s somehow his fault.

“People who can’t climb out windows typically shouldn’t,” is all David has to say on the subject.

“If they were made to be climbed out of, they’d be bigger.” Joe inches forward on his hands and knees, peering over the ledge with his typical morbid curiosity. A low whistle echoes through the quiet night. With a sigh, David settles back in his comfortable spot, watching the interloper warily. He doesn’t know why Joe’s here. Nevermind what he wants — he’s never been able to figure that out, and they’ve known each other for nearly a year now.

Instead of explaining himself, as he can usually be relied on to do, Joe goes quiet. It’s... somehow worse than chatter. Silence is heavy, like a lead blanket draped over their shoulders, weighing them both down. It feels more intimate, somehow. There’s not much space on this rooftop, only a few feet of distance between them, but the longer the quiet stretches on the more that distance shrinks to inches.

If only he’d brought cigarettes — that’s something to share, and a good excuse for sitting alone at night. As it is, if Joe asks what he’s doing out here... David doesn’t know what he’d say.

Joe isn’t paying attention to him, though. His gaze, too, is trained on the sky. No one can escape it tonight.

Unexpected, unbidden, Joe breaks the silence. “You ever think about what’s up there?”

David tenses. Too close to home. “I mean... sure. Sometimes. I guess... lots of gasses, and dust particles, water vapor... and that’s just in our atmosphere.”

Joe casts him a glance that’s half-annoyed, in the way that isn’t really annoyed at all. David hates how  accustomed he’s grown to all those outspoken looks. “You know what I mean,” Joe says — and David says nothing, because he does.

“I used to... think there had to be something up there. Not really people, y’know? My Mom, she tried to raise us the right way — when our pet hamster died, she told us about immortal souls, olam haba, everything that’s supposed to come after. Except I never really...” He gestures for a minute, snapping his fingers like the words elude him. “Got it. My Mom will give you her opinion on anything, but even she can’t say for sure what happens when you die. It was all too hazy for me as a kid. I didn’t know what to look for, or... what it meant.”

David tries to understand. He comes up short, in ways he can’t identify but is painfully aware of. Even so, he tries.

“My mother’s family was Protestant. She used to say there were angels watching over us all the time.” His nose crinkles. “Just to get me to eat my Brussels sprouts, I think. The angels saw me feed them to the dog.”

Joe laughs, sound sharp as a knife in the gentle night. David can’t say why he’s pleased.

“Exactly, though. You Christians pretend to have it all figured out. God’s up there, he’s watching everything, and when your time’s up you’ll either go upstairs or downstairs.” His lips purse, the way they do when he’s trying and failing not to grin. “Jews are still arguing about how many heavens there are.”

“What do you think?” He asks the question before he means to, without really thinking. As soon as it’s out, David regrets it... but Joe doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“Aliens. Real ‘War of The Worlds’ type shit.” Finally, he allows himself to grin, and it only widens as he keeps talking. “Like to think Flash Gordon’s saving the universe up there somewhere. Maybe Superman too, but he’s kind of a chump. Probably some planets we ain’t found yet, suns and moons we ain’t seen.” He’s hesitates. “But I think I like that other idea now... that maybe there are people up there. Maybe there is something... something real after.”

He falls quiet. His hands are braced in front of him, taut as straining metal. David studies them, and doesn’t dare look at Joe.

“How many stars d’you think there are, Web?” Joe asks after a moment.

David has no damned clue. “A lot,” he answers confidently. “Millions.”

“Millions,” echoes Joe. The glittering stars are reflected in his eyes, like black pits sending each beam of light back outward. It’s almost hypnotizing, the way they flicker. If he stares too long, David knows he will get lost in them, so he forcibly tears himself away. Wherever Joe’s mind is going, he can’t — possibly shouldn’t — follow.

Guessing isn’t safe. Wondering isn’t safe. Seeking insight into Joe Liebgott’s mind, when it’s so… enigmatic to Webster’s own has never been, and will never be, safe.

The acrid smell of tobacco startles him. When he looks back over, Joe has lit up a cigarette, and is blowing a long cloud of smoke against the black sky.

“No, really, I’m fine. Thanks for offering,” David drawls, inching closer. Joe’s eyes flicker towards him; his mouth curls up around the cigarette. 

“Only got this one left, Web. If I had one to offer, you know I would.” He clicks his tongue. “I’m generous like that.”

“A modern day Santa Claus, huh?”

“Ho ho,” Joe replies.

David reaches for the cigarette. He doesn’t know why — it’s not like he really wants a smoke — but the idea of doing nothing, of letting silence linger between them as they both stew in their own thoughts, is worse. Also, if Joe gets a bit of relief via Lucky Strike, he’s got no right to hoard it. Determined, David leans forward, even as Joe angles away from him.

“Yeah, no, nice try.”

“Share! You — quit moving, we’re going to fall off the roof.”

“You’ll fall, and I won’t catch you.”

“I’ll drag you down with me!”

He catches the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, and deftly plucks it from Joe’s grasp. Victorious, David brandishes it high, letting a thin stream of smoke blaze into the night. Over the chorus of Joe’s curses, he takes a drag. It goes too deep into his lungs, too quickly; he ends up sputtering, lurching forward in a chest-rattling burst of coughs. His grip on the cigarette goes loose, and it falls from his hand.

“Shit, Web!”

David is too preoccupied with his lungs turning themselves inside-out to pay attention to Joe… until a hand finds his back, rubbing steady curves between his shoulder blades. He sputters, but Joe is there, coaching him through it, until he’s finally able to take a breath without gagging.

“Oh boy,” he mutters. “Oh god.” Then, realizing Joe’s last cigarette has fumbled straight off the roof, to the cobblestones down below, he hisses. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Nah. Don’t bother.” Joe is still rubbing his back, even though there’s no need to — really, he’s fine. “I can get more when I need ‘em.”

“No, I’ll — I’ll give you some of mine when we get back inside.” He breaks off with another harsh cough. By the time he’s done, David is spent; only a moment too late does he realize he’s slumped back against Joe’s chest.

The other man doesn’t pull away. Joe supports him, easing David upright and bracing his weight. He handles him like a delicate thing… and from Joe Liebgott, who David has never known to be delicate in his life, the treatment is jarring. David looks up at him, gaze pulled as though caught in a magnetic current; he finds Joe staring back. His eyes are dark as ever, still lit with starlight. His lips are wet.

“You okay?” Joe asks.

“Yeah. Fine,” David replies.

“I ain’t mad, Web,” he says, “but I would’ve liked a little more of that smoke before you tried to eat it.”

“I got enough of it to share.”

David’s not sure what the hell he's saying. It doesn’t matter. Joe’s lips twitch.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His head tilts. David’s eyes close. A second later, Joe’s mouth is on his, warm and tender, and he couldn’t exhale even if he remembered how.

Maybe David’s the first one to cup Joe’s face; maybe Joe’s hand is the first to find his hair; maybe they're twined together for hours, or only a few precious seconds. When they break apart, none of it matters. Joe’s eyes are wide, pitch black. Surely his incredulity must be reflected back in David’s own face, because right now, his heart wants to pound out of his chest.

Joe’s hand is still on his face. He only realizes this when a rough-padded thumb caresses his cheekbone, unspeakably tender. “You okay, Web?” Joe asks again.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice shuddering. “Incredible.”

He’s not sure who moves forward then — it’s probably both of them at once, seizing that impossible instinct driven only by heat and instinct. Everywhere Joe’s skin brushes against his, his nerves explode into an electric shower; his mouth is hot and needy, consuming David’s as soon as they find each other again. Joe draws him in like he’s the only thing left that matters, and David is helpless in his desire to give himself up.

Please, he thinks desperately, kiss me like I matter. Kiss me like we’re both alive, and going to stay that way. Kiss me like the stars aren’t watching, and we’ll live forever.

Joe’s lips are a fantasy, and they thoroughly carry him away. For a moment, he lets himself go. Nothing matters but the pressure of Joe’s lips, sucking dark bruises along his jaw, or the determined hands that grasp at his shoulders. In the heat battle, you learn to zero your focus in on one thing, and that concentration keeps you alive. This is a different heat, a different ear waging between them, but David gives every ounce of attention to Joe all the same. He drives him forward, keeps them moving even when their hearts are beating out an urgent symphony in twin ribcages, and David’s is ready to burst.

“Joe —“ He gasps, over the sound of the other man’s harsh breathing. Joe shushes him, fingers brushing his swollen lips. David leans into the touch. Joe leans back to accommodate him. They both lean too far.

“Shit!”

For a second, it’s blind terror — the ground sliding away beneath them, fumbling for a hand of foothold as the ledge looms closer… 

David catches them both, his heels catching on a gutter and halting his descent. Joe’s still holding onto him, so the momentum carries over. They’re dangerously far down the inclined roof; a certain broken back looks twenty feet below, the ledge within spitting distance. They don’t go over, though, and that makes the difference.

After a moment, Joe exhales a great, shuddering breath. One hand runs through his hair. “Fuck. Jesus fuck. Just lost two decades off my life.”

“Better than losing it all,” David mutters. He’s determined not to look over the ledge. Unconsciously, his grip tightens around Joe; he doesn’t realize Joe’s holding him just as fast until a small tug pulls him back from the roof.

“Come on,” Joe mutters. “Let’s get the hell outta here before we both end up weird stains on the ground.”

He doesn’t need to tell him twice. David casts one last look up at the night sky — serene, twinkling like it knows a secret but doesn’t dare say — before huffing, and clambering up in Joe’s wake.

Existential questions can wait until morning. Joe, on the other hand, has never been good at waiting.

[the-blue-fairie]

Why Elsa’s arc in F2 doesn’t work for me (and why it does.)

Yesterday, I got into a conversation with a friend where I tried to articulate why I disagreed with certain writing decisions made in Frozen 2 pertaining to Elsa’s arc. It was tricky for me to articulate because, on paper, Elsa’s arc is pretty solid. There are many good ideas and compelling aspects to Elsa’s arc and I can see why a portion of the fandom likes it so much. Elsa coming into a better understanding of herself is a great concept. Elsa being able to broaden her horizons and create a larger support network is a great concept. Elsa and Anna both coming to terms with Arendelle’s colonialist past is a really great concept. While I might personally have issues with the ending and Elsa staying in the Forest based on the material we were presented in the film, I can’t deny that conceptually, that is compelling.

Conceptually, Elsa’s arc works. My issue is in the finished film’s execution.

Personally, I feel that the plot device of the Voice unnecessarily distances us from Elsa’s emotions. By making the catalyst for Elsa’s emotional journey the Voice, the film distracts audiences from Elsa’s internal journey. Instead of having a song that fully explores Elsa’s conflicting feelings and own personal sense of denial and yearning, we focus on an argument between Elsa and an External Force. 

Yes, the film tries to make connection between the Voice and “a little voice in the back of your own mind,” but it isn’t from Elsa’s own mind. The writers could have written a less convoluted conflict for Elsa by making “the Voice” Elsa’s own personal internal conflict, but they didn’t. Instead of seeing Elsa simply making a decision for herself, we have to watch her be acted upon by an outside force first.

Now, defenders of the Voice plotline will likely say to me, “But, Liza, Elsa wants to follow the Voice. The Voice gives comfort to Elsa, allows her to realize that it’s okay to express feelings that she has already been having!”

And that’s where my frustration with the film’s execution comes into play again. Because the film never gives us a time of self-reflection for Elsa before she starts hearing the Voice. We are told in Into the Unknown that she wants to come into a better understanding of herself independently of the Voice, but we are not shown it. 

What makes this even more frustrating is the deleted moment from the prologue where Elsa asks Iduna about her powers. This little moment (which was already fully animated apparently?) does show that Elsa has this yearning even from childhood, long before the Voice. It actually sets up that Elsa wants to know the source of her powers, which is a major motivation for her actions as the film proceeds. BUT IT’S NOT IN THE MOVIE. THEY CUT IT. It’s like the filmmakers just assumed, well, audiences want to know where Elsa’s powers come from, so obviously audiences will accept that Elsa wants to know too, even though that was never a plot element of the first film, so we don’t have to clearly establish that motivation until Show Yourself an hour into the film.  

The finished film, intentionally or not, distances us from Elsa’s emotional journey. It has an amazing conceptual arc for Elsa that could provide great insight into Elsa’s internality, but, in my opinion, it fails to live up to the potential of that concept. 

Moreover, there are lyrics from Elsa’s songs in F2 that I feel put the focus on Elsa’s “destiny” and her abilities rather than on Elsa herself and her inner feelings: 

“Or are you someone out there who's a little bit like me? / Who knows deep down I'm not where I'm meant to be?”

“Every day's a little harder as I feel my power grow...”

Now, partly, I acknowledge that I am speaking from personal preference. I don’t like destiny narratives. I don’t like narratives that hinge on “the reason I was born,” as Elsa puts it in Show Yourself. I don’t like narratives that focus on a character’s birth and make so much about them rooted in their birth instead of who they are as a person - and I feel like Frozen 2 ind of falls victim to that. The film handles itself better than, say, Star Wars - but the awkwardness of certain implications leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And the funny thing is, I think those implications could have been cleared up with just a little bit more time.

I think the film wants to establish that Elsa’s powers were a “gift” from the spirits because it counters Elsa’s desperate line in the first film about them being a “curse.” The film wants to validate Elsa emotionally and I value that.

But at the same time, by going beyond that and stressing the whole “fifth spirit destiny angle” (and again, I love than Jen Lee has gone on record to say that Elsa and Anna are both the fifth spirit, but considering the amount of people I’ve seen who didn’t pick up on that, I’m kinda holding it against the film that it wasn’t made clearer), it takes the focus away from Elsa’s own agency.

Again, I’m not saying that Elsa doesn’t have agency in the film, but that the film’s choices obscure and distract from that agency.

Making Elsa a gift of the spirits as a reward for her mother’s action and as a peace offering for her grandfather’s action takes the focus away from Elsa as a person, as an individual, as a human being. It puts her on a path in life before she is even born, before she even has the capacity to choose.

Now, you might say, “But it all works out in the end! Elsa chooses to take up her destiny.” But that’s the thing. It just happens to work out in the end because the narrative was written that way. What if Elsa wanted to reject her destiny? She had no choice in the matter while she was still in the womb.

But I’m supposed to think it’s all okay because Elsa makes the choice to follow her destiny and the film doesn’t even take the time to explore the ramifications of the destiny angle it establishes.

And that’s frustrating because, as a concept, that might be a really cool and unique take on destiny. We’ve seen heroes and protagonists who have felt burdened by their destiny before, but exploring Elsa’s feelings of validation that come from learning about her destiny after Elsa spending years feeling inferior could be an amazingly fresh take!

But instead, the destiny angle is just sort of... there... Brought up in a couple lines and a couple song lyrics, seeming to have some positive implications and some really negative implications I don’t think the filmmakers were really aware they were imparting... and we don’t get that exploration - even when further exploration of that angle would only enhance the depth of Elsa’s personal journey.

Now, on a conceptual level, there are two distinct and really rewarding questions that emerge from the adventure Elsa goes on in F2. Those questions are, “What can you do for others?” and, “What can you do for yourself?” The film wants to interrogate Arendelle’s colonialist history AND give Elsa a fulfilling arc of self-affirmation - and that’s great! Both of those concepts are great! But, in execution, I feel like the finished film falters by trying to intertwine those two concepts in Elsa’s arc.

I bring this up because what if someone says to me, “But Liza, if Elsa were to hypothetically reject her destiny then the Northuldra and Arendellians would be still be trapped in the Enchanted Forest and then Runeard’s wrong would not be righted, are you arguing for extreme individualism and selfishness?” Which... No. I’m not. Elsa absolutely needs to right the wrongs perpetrated by her grandfather. Elsa absolutely needs to reflect on the ways her grandfather’s actions reverberate into the present day. That’s an amazing message for young audiences. 

But Elsa’s taking responsibility for her grandfather’s actions and finding personal fulfillment are two completely different aspects of her character arc.  

And I feel both concepts are done a disservice by the interpolation of the “destiny” elements and the “focus on magical abilities at the expense of character” elements into the greater plot.

If the film wants to be about coming to terms with the colonialist past and about Elsa finding a greater sense of fulfillment in a new place, why not give the Northuldra more screentime? Why not show more scenes of Elsa bonding more with her mother’s people? Again, there are a few such scenes - but after Elsa and Anna and Olaf head out, the Northuldra barely appear until the end of the film. Why not have them actively take part in their own deliverance? Maybe have Honeymaren and Ryder join the quest, which would allow them to develop further as characters and give Elsa characters to play off of as she makes important decisions about her life. That would make everything more personal - and on top of that, it is ALWAYS a good thing to allow characters of color more screentime and depth. 

Instead, the film focuses more on Elsa’s connection to the spirits - her friendship with Bruni (which is the most developed bond), her fascination with the giants (with whom she also barely interacts) and her respect for the nokk (which is illustrated really well by her graceful bow.) All that is decent, but it ties more into the “mythic” aspects of Elsa’s character than her humanity... and, to be honest, Elsa’s relationship with the spirits comes off as pretty underdeveloped too.

I’ve harped on this before, but what does Elsa have in common with the giants beyond the fact they are both magical? Why does Elsa say, “I feel like I am home,” when arriving at Ahtohallan? Yes, Ahtohallan has a connection to her mother and the Northuldra, but again, I’m frustrated that the film doesn’t explore Elsa’s connection to the Northuldra more through her interactions with the Northuldra.

The filmmakers had the outline of a  deeply personal, internal story for Elsa - but I feel like they didn’t capitalize on the most personal and compelling aspects of their story.

And it just doesn’t work for me. 

But at the same time, I respect and value the ambition of Frozen 2. I respect its thought-provoking concepts. And I can understand why so many people do connect to Elsa’s arc in F2 - because again, Elsa still has agency, it’s just agency that’s obfuscated by the unnecessary convolutedness of the plot and a destiny angle that isn’t really needed for the story the writers are trying to tell and (I would argue) actively hampers it. I don’t want to take anything away from those friends of mine that love Elsa’s arc in F2. Your perspective is beautiful and valid and wonderful. 

But at the same time, I also feel that people who argue something is “off” about Elsa’s arc in F2 come from a valid place as well (at least, the arguments of people who are arguing in good faith - not the people arguing in bad faith).

Everyone’s perspectives on a piece of media are valid. Everyone’s perspectives emerge from their own experiences in life. I’m simply trying to give voice to mine - based on my particular emotional connection to Elsa as a character, my interpretation of Elsa, and my personal distrust of destiny narratives. 

[dulcidyne]

Experiments in Diplomacy: Compiling [8/?]

There’s nothing in the Interspecies Diplomacy subsection of the Initiative handbook that covers sharing a tech lab with an angara who can kill her in her sleep. She knows, she’s read every page. Twice. (A collection of in-between vignettes from the Tempest tech lab) 

//Jaal x Ryder // Humor. Romance. SFW // Previous chapters: [1][2][3][4][5][6][7] or read on Ao3

Somewhere along the way to age seven, in Citadel docking bay 223, Se-ah Ryder decides crying, hugs, tantrums, and other public displays of emotion are things she has outgrown. Perfunctory, precise, she shuts them away as if embarrassing emotional habits can be sealed into donation boxes for young needy children in the Lower Wards like her half-melted asari dolls.

Donated or lost, the box she puts them in stays shut. She doesn’t cry when they pay their respects to her grandmother’s urn at the columbarium. Or, much later, in another docking bay, when Scott waves goodbye as he ships off for Arcturus. She doesn’t cry the first time Iraenya plays down their relationship to her colleagues, embarrassed and ashamed.  And when her mother dies, she takes a page out of her father’s book and finds a hospital supply closet and stifles her tears into her shirt collar.

It stays shut, that is, until now. Until twenty-eight uninterrupted minutes of sobbing into Jaal’s chest, followed by forty-one additional minutes of sporadic weeping interspersed with flailing grasps at composure. So, obviously, there is only one logical conclusion to make.

“Just run them again,” Se-ah hisses.

“Once again, Ryder, my scans do not detect any pathologic neurological patterns outside of baseline variation.”

She woke up to the dim ambient glow of the powered-down machine displays running through their background system scans, half-reclining in Jaal’s arms, in his cot, having cried herself to sleep in his embrace  like an infant--that alone is an abnormality. She doesn’t understand why SAM is having difficulty with the concept.

“Outside of baseline,” she pauses, the gnarled tangle that is her hair fluttering as Jaal’s snores gust over her head. It tickles her temples but she doesn’t want to dislodge the warm arm banding around her shoulders to brush it back. “Wait, SAM, does that mean you normally detect pathologic patterns?” “It exceeds my functional parameters to parse this data into a clinical diagnosis. It would be unethical to make an attempt. Dr. T’Perro would undoubtedly provide better insight.”

Maggie’s lights pulse unhurried staccato patterns from the corner. Se-ah stiffens in Jaal’s loose embrace, indignant. “ Unethical. You’re an AI integrated into my entire body. Little late to be worried about ethics isn’t it?”

“A relevant point. I additionally lack subjective expertise. My data collection is limited to two genetically similar individuals. It is therefore relatively impossible for me to extrapolate what is normal and abnormal outside of overt structural dysfunction.”

“Further,” SAM says, “I am not an inert observer. It cannot definitively quantify what impact my integration and ongoing observation and interaction has had on your baseline neurological state.”

Disquieting. Se-ah stills and attempts to parse this new revelation while Jaal’s chest rumbles against her ear like the purr of a massive but very contented kitten. It’s nice. She wishes she were still half asleep and allowed to enjoy it and not awake and mortified over her predicament. Mortified and now, thanks to SAM, horrified.

“So not only can you not tell me if my brain is broken, you’re also saying that just by being in my head, you’re changing how it works and doing so in a way that you lack the ability to detect? Like some kind of quantum observer effect?”

SAM doles out a calculated pause for her benefit. All his pauses are for her benefit as he processes information in nanoseconds, but this one feels especially so. A pity pause. Bad news pause.

“Correct.”

“Great,” she mutters, “I’m Schroedinger’s basketcase.”

“My scans do detect significant decreases to harmful neurological metabolites and reduced cortisol levels...likely the product of sufficient rest.”

So that’s what it is. No creaking limbs, phantom aches or raw fatigue scraping the inside of her eyelids raw. A loose, shivery sensation clings like mist in her chest. It feels like a lungful of the air on Mr. Orleal, saturated in starlight and the ozone tingle of the eezo deposits under the lake.

Melatonin has nothing on Jaal. Lexi would be thrilled. Happiness flutters against her ribs. She hides her smile against the vast sloping ridge of Jaal’s alien chest even though there’s no one else there to see how foolish it looks. A familiar scent tickles her nose and she sniffles back a sneeze. He smells warm and herbal, like grapefruit orchards and Earth sunsets--carnelian, blush,and gold-- if Earth sunsets prickled in her sinuses like wasabi.

As far as smiles go, this one caught on the precipice of a sneeze, feels the stupidest.

“Pathfinder, if you have a moment, I would like to discuss some of the data I obtained earlier…”

The tentative flutter of joy in her chest curls inwards on itself, recoiling. She screws up her face, tipping her head back over Jaal’s arm, his r ofjinn bunching up against the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck.

“SAM, I don’t want to waste all this beautiful mental clarity on parsing out my emotional breakdown.”

It’s not fair and she regrets saying it. He provides more than his share of explanations for her and this is supposed to be a reciprocal relationship after all.

“That classification is interesting, Pathfinder. Noradrenaline phasic signalling was decreased, indicating the absence of a stress response. You rate the subjective experience, however, as a negative one?”

Half the words don’t even sound familiar. Despite being the daughter of a neuroscientist, she picked up precious little on the subject. Latching on to what she understands, she attempts an answer.

“No. Not negative. The opposite, I guess?”

“I see.”

She absurdly pictures SAM fitting the L of his imaginary thumb and pointer finger to his imaginary chin in a gesture of academic interest. Her father used to do that, unwittingly providing Scott with ample ammo for his ‘Alec Ryder, mad scientist’ impressions.

“This supports my observations of the intense activity within the mesolimbic circuit--”

Se-ah winces. “You know, it’s pretty weird to hear all the gory details.”

“I do not comprehend the discomfort.” SAM states, an echo of her father’s scientific fascination faint in the synthetic voice modulation. Her own imagination, she’s sure. “Your emotions are best described as the limited interpretation of this signalling process.”

For some indefinable reason, she bristles.

“Maybe technically, but...it was this amazing, overwhelming experience and it didn’t feel limited . It felt...immense. Bigger than anything. Like I couldn’t possibly keep it in without bursting and then I did burst and apparently that looks like a lot of crying.”

Ugly crying. There was a not-small-amount of snot involved.

“It’s more than mesolimbic circuits,” she persists, words coming faster and her voice tightening,  “Sometimes things are more than their physical, observable state. When I’m on a summit, what I experience isn’t just snow and stars and rocks...it's…well I wouldn’t bother with it if that was all I got out of it. Look, I don’t think I could ever explain it in a way you’d be able to understand.”

The channel goes silent, longer than the normal exaggerated pauses SAM inserts into his responses. The silence is deafening on the heels of her tirade. As if he’s...affronted.

“Thank you Ryder.” SAM says at last. Clipped and professional. Is it her imagination or is it too professional? If there were such a thing? “I will attempt an analysis with this feedback in mind.”

Se-ah nods, unnecessarily given that it is SAM, her heart sinking. Who knows what havoc a peeved AI could wreck in her brain, apparently without either of them any the wiser? And if she can’t explain it to SAM she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to explain what happened to Jaal. Not that she didn’t try before, during all the sobbing, but it was impossible to get anything out that wasn’t ‘I’m fine, I just...’ before dissolving into tears again. He didn’t press her for more.

But maybe now that she isn’t an emotional wreck, he might. Whether she has answers is less certain.

‘Sorry, SAM says you overloaded my mesolimbic circuit and that it’s all very scientific and reasonable and I’m not crazy. Or I might be. Have you heard the human folk tale about the cat?”

Awful. The shivering sensation in her chest unfurls again and spreads out into her fingers. She furrows them into the crease of Jaal’s side and the cot, letting his warmth soothe the trembling overtaking her frame. His arm wraps tighter reflexively. This is the sort of moment she wants to soak in, slow, like sunlight filtering through leaves stippling ancient Morse-code patterns over her face. Eyes closed, she inhales and vague memories sift warm impressions on the backs of her eyelids.

Hands, scarred and calloused and massive sweeping soft, reassuring circles against her back. His chin on the top of her head, her face tucked into the graceful sweep of his neck where a crook would be on hers. A low thrum: his voice, unintelligable, but soothing. A musical hum buzzes through the air.

Se-ah sighs and blinks her eyes open to glance up. He’s still deep asleep, snoring away. A hazy, contented smile gathers at the corners of his mouth and makes him look, for all the universe, like someone having a pleasant dream.

Despite spending the vast majority of her waking moments on the ship in his makeshift bedroom, she’s never seen him this way. The quiet of the ship is unsettling, he claims. Unlike his naps on the NOMAD, the only sleep she sees him take on the ship is fitful, almost violent--covers twisting, his hands clutching, face grimacing, the names of the lost wrenching out of him as he jolts awake. But even the sleep he snatches on the NOMAD doesn’t look this peaceful. It takes him quick and fast, like something joyless and inevitable. She grimaces. Like death.  

Studying his lidded eyes, she shifts on the cot to lean her weight more on his chest and tip her head back, peering up at the sweeping planes of his cheekbones, the point of his chin, and the fine ridge of his brow. He’s beautiful. All angara are, to her eye-- all grace and noble carved profiles like ancient Athame sculptures given color, life, and a Romanesque bone structure. But Jaal’s beauty is sharper, more defined than anything out of asari or human antiquity. War and grief etch his face in a landscape of visible and invisible scars, throwing the softness that remains, obstinate and miraculous, in high relief. The softness is all she sees now.  It is the face of a man who dreams, hopes, composes poems and perfumes, and is always seeking, searching, finding bits of wonder. If it weren’t for the kett, this might always be his face and Andromeda would be a place where it would fit. The dreamer. The tinkerer. The explorer.

But the kett stole that place away from him. War is spare. Merciless. There is little room for anything else but soldiers. Se-ah bites the inside of her lip, hard. Jaal is the first to insist he isn’t much of a soldier.

She doesn’t realize the snoring stops until he, without bothering to open his eyes, asks, “Yes, Ryder?”

Chagrined and surprised over how close she’s gotten, she immediately jolts away. “You’ve been awake? How long?��� The slant of his smile changes but his eyes stay closed, “Long enough. Were you under the impression that you were being discreet?”

Fair point.

“So why didn’t you say something?” “I was trying to sleep. Speaking seemed counterproductive.”

“Uh huh. To your eavesdropping, maybe.”

Jaal doesn’t look at her, on account of the fact that he’d yet to bother opening his eyes, but the resigned set of his shoulders conveys a beleaguered expression that comes with an air of ‘No, I don’t think I’ll even bother ’. It’s one he wears around Liam with regularity. “Please do not attempt to explain that one. If I cannot sleep I’d much rather occupy my mind elsewhere.”

He makes a point of settling further into the cot, the large divot his body forms in the fabric deepening. Maybe he’s trying to free up the arm underneath her she realizes, belatedly. Renewed mortification crowds up her neck and she coughs to clear her throat. “Oh, then I should...leave you to that then,” she says, cheeks burning as she draws back against the gravitational pull of his weight on the cot, narrowly avoiding toppling on top of him.

“Stay.” At last Jaal blinks open his eyelids, a slow reveal of vivid blue. He looks at her, uncharacteristically uncertain, before saying, simply, “If...you’d like. You could join me.”

She hesitates. “Join you--elsewhere?”

“No, just here.”

Somehow he feels...closer. Not physically. It’s as if the gap in the universe between them has vanished overnight. She’s no longer on the precipice, her thoughts and feelings a faint, distorted comm. She’s there , a few bare centimeters in front of him and he’s looking at her as if he can see every detail of her with absolute clarity. It’s dreamer’s look with a tinkerer’s focus and his eyes are luminous, twin helium nebulae lit from within with something like wonder. She mistook it for morbid fascination once. This time she knows better. He smiles as if he might laugh. Fond. Unbearably so. Her chest hurts to look at it.

“No idioms, nothing else. Just this. Right now.” The words linger, rippling against her skin in gentle, rumbling waves. Jaal crooks his pinned arm and brushes back the fluttering snarl of her hair.

A quiet bubble settles around the tiny cot, enclosing them within the warm, sunset smell of him. It feels safe. Like home. She doesn’t know the last time she felt those things. Not since-- It should be strange to find them here, an entire galaxy away, with an alien who openly spoke about killing her after they’d just met.

Jaal’s huff of a laugh skips across the quiet like a smooth stone on a lake surface. Something about it tells her he’s picked up on the precise turn of her thoughts--too perceptive by half. “You know, you are remarkably expressive. Almost angaran.”

She tucks her face into the slope of his neck and pulls a scowl, even though it isn’t an insult. The memory of her tragic poker loss to Gil is still all too fresh and she feels a little too raw, a little too exposed with nowhere to hide her vulnerabilities. Instead of answering, she buries a noncommittal sound into his bare skin.

He laughs again, rueful and soft. “It was a clumsy effort, but it was intended as a compliment. We are a vocal people. More than words and expressions. In addition to combative and deliberate communication uses, our bioelectrics have subtle subconscious patterns and pulses. I believe your hanar are similar, in the visible electromagnetic spectrum. It is difficult to suppress. Few have scrupulous reasons to try.”

His fused fingers twine into her hair. It seems a point of endless fascination for him. Even in the Milky Way, hair is something of a novelty.

“The emotions of those around us pervade all our senses. It saturates our lives. My first days on this ship were so...disorienting. I felt the absence keenly, like a limb lost in battle.”

Her scowl vanishes and she looks up to meet his eyes again. Of course, she’d suspected his trouble adjusting, but never knew the full extent. He kept so much hidden then. “It must have made it that much more difficult, deciding if you could trust us.”

Jaal laughs. It sounds pained. “Very. I learned to look harder, with time. There is a beauty in subtlety. Underappreciated among my people, but I’ve grown quite fond of it. Humans were easier. And then, there was you.”

“About as subtle as a flaming ship crashing on your planet?”

Genuine mirth threads into his laughter, his eyes tracing over her upturned face. “Yes. An apt comparison. Vivid, exciting… deeply alarming to some.”

She brightens and his smile deepens. The hand at her temple curls against her skin to brush a soft line over her cheek with the backs of his knuckles.

“It made trusting you more easy than wise, considering the risk.”

“I’m sure Evfra disapproved,” she says.

“Of course. Evfra is a cautious strategist. He despaired of me.”

Jaal leans his cheek against her head, looking off towards the dim ambient glow of the machines running through their downtime routines.

“My caution was always a feeble force and your face...says such beautiful things. I didn’t understand why you struggled  so desperately to hide them away.” He adds, blunt as ever, “Not... well, of course . But with an extraordinary amount of effort. I imagine it was exhausting. Inexpressibly painful. My heart ached just to see it.”

The corners of her eyes begin to prickle. Machine lights catch on the dust motes, adrift on the flickering electrostatic currents weaving around and between them, setting each pinpoint aglow like rippling eddies of distant stars.

“I thought the same about you, you know. Before we rescued the Moshae.”

Caution shackling his expressions and the strategic withdrawals into clipped one-word answers calculated to give as little away as possible. She’s more glad than she can say to have earned his trust and the chance to see his genuine self without the fetters of fear and uncertainty. He said getting to know her would be a gift and that is how knowing him better feels--like the best gift she didn’t even know to ask for.

He nods. “Yes. I wept for joy that she was safe and for the wrenching horror of what we learned that day but also I wept for my freedom from my own fears. Escaping them was...liberating despite my grief. Cathartic. I think perhaps you felt something of that same freedom. Earlier, when you cried.”

Catharsis. Freedom-- but from what? She wasn’t on a diplomatic mission with alien intruders. She was just-- her . A touch-starved awkward hugger with a trigger-happy mesolimbic circuit. But, that feels insufficient as far as explanations go. Instead, she remembers Scott crying, wailing, hands fisting over his eyes. It’s gone. I have to find it. People are looking. Mom ignores them and kneels despite the crowd, attempting to soothe him. Alec Ryder’s stonefaced expression fractures into a grimace. Pained. He turns away. His hand presses down on her own small shoulder and squeezes. It feels like pride. She forces her chin to stop quivering. She won’t cry. Nothing will ever be okay and everything is wrong but she is Alec Ryder’s daughter and she is old enough to do that much.

A tear slips into her hairline and Jaal’s thumb rubs it away. Breath held, she reaches up between them to capture his hand in her own. His eyes are full of reflected stars, twin galaxies pulling her into their inexorable spin. At the point of her outstretched fingernail is a pinprick of light, fanning off, faintly luminous, refracting off her tears.Se-ah pauses, taken aback, blinking away the moisture collecting on her lashes. It’s not a trick of the light. Her fingertips are actually glowing. And, she realizes, the air is...humming.

“SAM, are we about to fry anything with this corona discharge?” she asks. All at once the air changes, the charged dust motes around them still and the lights on her fingertips flicker out. It smells and feels like a storm just swept out of the tech lab.

“Appropriate precautions have already been taken to accommodate non-combat angaran electromagnetic field manipulation, Pathfinder. Ozone levels are also within acceptable limits.”

Jaal coughs and looks away, suddenly awkward.  “Ahh...as I was saying, it requires some concentration to suppress.”

“Can you stop? Concentrating that is? It’s not as if--well, SAM said it wouldn’t hurt anything.”

Now that she’s paying better attention, she can feel the tingling pressure building and shifting around them. The hairs stand up on her arms. The air smells bright and clean. Light collects on her fingertips again. Faint, but visible. Se-ah laughs, delighted, and slowly bends her fingers, watching the blue flicker and reappear. Ionized plasma balancing on the edge of an electromagnetic field pierced by the short point of her nail. Hardly seemed subtle in her book. Little about him was.

“We call this St. Elmo’s Fire,” she tells him. “It was considered a good omen by ancient human voyagers.”

“Ah. I’m your good omen then?”

“Well, we haven’t crashed once since you got here.”

He brings his free palm to hers, one fused, two separate for her five. She adds, sincerely, “It’s beautiful. Does this happen to you a lot? I’ve never noticed before.”

“No. This is...it’s more. It is special. Explaining would be difficult. Clumsy. I cannot do it justice.”

Hands pressed together, his palm dwarfing hers, a swell of emotion courses through her and a stubborn tear traces down her cheek. She laughs and a sniffle turns it into a tremulous, hiccuping burst of happiness.

“Is there a word for it in Shelesh?”

“No,” he says simply. “There is just this.”

Churning waves of electrons are crashing against her fingertips, caught in the lunar pull of him. Everything dissolves in the watery film of tears and she’s floating, falling, swept by tidal forces into an endless depth of variegated blue. There can be no words, in Shelesh or any other language. But she knows anyway. Floating in an electron sea of his design, palms pressed, wrapped in his embrace--she knows exactly what he is saying.

[mesaylormoon]

Film and Fluff Blogging: A Review of Call Me By Your Name

With the plight of the LGBTQ community being as significant as it is today, Call Me By Your Name is certainly an appreciable film. Although many films with gay characters and stories have been released in recent years, few of them have offered the subtlety, tone, and artistic merit of Call Me By Your Name. In addition to this, the romance in this picture suggests something sweet, heartfelt, intimate. While all of this holds true to an extent, I unfortunately found the film to be unmemorable and lacking in the elements needed to make it more impactful and moving.

Call Me By Your Name recounts the love shared between Elio, a musical prodigy living with his father in Italy, and Oliver, an American doctorate student interning for Elio’s father. Although they originally annoy each other, the two share their interests in the academics and the arts, eventually forming a bond precious and deep. Both only have a limited amount of time to grow closer, however, as Oliver is only able to stay with Elio in Italy for one summer.

Despite the film’s affectionate portrayal of Elio and Oliver’s relationship, the two lack the chemistry and personal interactions necessary to make their bond truly amarous. The couple do share a great deal of conversations, commonalities, and moments of closeness; however, they are not fully realized due to the performances of Armie Hammer and Timothee Chamalet.

Hammer and Chamalet possess the same acting deficits: both our leads appear cold and disinterested on camera, deliver their lines in detached and monotonous manners, and display little to no emotional range in their facial expressions until later in the film. Although Oliver can be clearly defined by his love of humor, athletics, intelligence, and attentiveness as a lover, all of these traits are not properly communicated because, again, of Hammer’s minimum immersion in the role. Elio’s character suffers in a similar way. He is curious, timid, a playboy, and fascinated by Oliver, but Chamalet’s performance does not carry enough substance to make Elio more sympathetic. But these issues are, fortunately, remedied in the film when Elio and Oliver share their closer moments.

As Call Me By Your Name progresses into the second and third acts, Elio and Oliver are not only allowed to grow closer, they are allowed to share more tender, intimate scenes. Not only do these provide more insight into Elio and Oliver’s characters and their feelings toward one another, Hammer and Chamalet are able to truly humanize the people they personify. In any scene Elio and Oliver draw nearer to each other, the expressions and exchanges they share are alive, charged with passion and love. Every gaze is deep and full of longing. Every touch and caress is filled with gentleness, care, and serves as an encouragement for the other to come closer. Every kiss is full of emotion and excitement, and these emotions can be felt by anyone watching. All of this culminates in the redemption of the actors and main characters, and results in a deeper relationship to be seen by audience members. However, because most of the romance seems more believably derived from physicality and not more personal interactions (e.g., the sharing of emotions, identification with another’s problems, conversations of likes and dislikes, etc.), the main characters’ relationship suffers greatly and feels less real. This holds true of any romantic relationship in film, be it between heterosexual or homosexual characters. If physical interactions are the only quality that appear to make the romance genuine, it won’t feel as deep nor heartfelt. The relationship is ironically weakened by its greatest strength, and this does damage the weight of the more sorrowful moments the two have near the end of the film.

The pacing of the film is incredibly slow—more so than any film I have seen in quite some time. This, of course, benefits the story by setting a tone that allows the romance between Elio and Oliver to blossom in the time and feel necessary, but the length at which Call Me By Your Name runs is unnecessarily long. Most relationships in film, independent or not, can easily develop a connection between characters in an hour or two. This film is given a full half-hour longer than most, and the extra time does not help to add much of value to the piece. Because the bond of Elio and Oliver is firmly established and is built upon in a reasonable amount of time, it leaves for far too much screen time to be left to conversations between supporting characters, scenic shots, and interactions between the main characters. While none of these elements detract much from the quality of the film, they don’t quite feel as necessary, and this results in what could be considered a boring experience for viewers. But that is just one person’s opinion. Perhaps this slow pace and peacefulness can only help to build character relationships more, as they might in similar films.

The cinematography is of particular notablitity in Call Me By Your Name. Not only is the environment of the film scenic and beautiful, the naturalistic and urban shots create a peaceful and nostalgic feeling among viewers that would be pleasant and welcomed by all. The scenes in which Elio and Oliver ride their bikes together, or simply talk with one another, are especially aesthetic, with the camera either panning across a tree-lined, sun-filled countryside, or holding still on an environment of aging buildings, bustling city life, and cobblestone streets. Visually, the film is a marvel, and certainly contains some of the best examples of camerawork in 2017 cinema.

The soundtrack of Call Me By Your Name is also quite beautiful. The classical and quieter sound of the score sets a tone befitting of the subject matter and romance of the film, and develops a backdrop full of grace and serenity for Elio and Oliver’s interactions and intimate scenes. Whether they’re speaking with each other in private or enjoying time with locals/friends, it is certainly pleasant to listen to, and suits the artistic merit of the film.

The last noteworthy element of Call Me By Your Name can be found in the ending. It allows the audience to witness Elio’s relationship with his father becoming more developed, and it imparts a sense of heartbreaking reality for anyone needing to say goodbye to a friend or lover. Upon Oliver’s return home, Elio’s father comforts his son with the reminder of how beautiful his relationship with Oliver was. He contends that, although it is disappointing to have to let go of a person or bond with someone, that does not mean that what was created is meant to be forgotten—only to be cherished. Elio’s father then ends with an encouragement to his son to live as he wishes, before he finds himself regretting not having seen a pleasant life. This message holds value for people universally. Saying goodbye to anything or anyone precious and dear is one of the most difficult realities for anyone to face. However, that doesn’t detract from the beauty of the relationship a person had with another, nor does it disallow people from forming new connections with others. There is sorrow in saying goodbye, but there is joy that can be found in looking to the future. I certainly find this lamentation to be one of the moving and inclusive moments in the film, and it can be appreciated by everyone who hears and sees it.

Despite the better elements of Call Me By Your Name, I still found it to be quite disappointing and boring. Although the visuals are stunning, the score is beautiful, and the romance has its genuine and tender moments, the stylistic components of the film ultimately outweigh and define the quality of this cinematic piece. I certainly understand why people enjoy this film, but the underdevelopment of the relationships, characters, and interactions, do limit it from being everything its meant to be. But that may not be your experience. I’d encourage anyone who hasn’t seen Call Me By Your Name to see what it has in store; the amount of care this film is made with is apparent, and can certainly be appreciated by many, many filmgoers. You may even find yourself connecting with Call Me By Your Name in a way you weren’t expecting.

[anoutlandishfanfic]

AnOutlandishChristmas - #4

This wee Christmas bauble is from my Metamorphosis fic, which has become far more of a hit than I ever thought it’d be!

The premise of the fic is simple... What would have happened if Claire had conceived on her wedding night? The fic follows canon pretty faithfully, so I’m trusting you can hop from the Cranesmuir witch trial (which was my latest chapter) to Jamie’s rescue from Wentworth Prison on Christmas night without much trouble. Dinna fash! There will be a few chapters in between the two plot points, once again.

Although, I’m hoping this will put a kibosh on the “will she/won’t she miscarry” speculations and you’ll actually take me at my word that ALL WILL BE WELL with BOTH of the Fraser bairns.

A thousand thanks go to @gotham-ruaidh for her insight and assistance!

You can read previous chapters of Metamorphosis here.

Christmas Night, 1743; the Abbey of Ste. Anne de Beaupre

I sank into the chair Father Anselm had placed beside the bed, my bones aching with fatigue after the hours of meticulous care for Jamie’s hand and other physical wounds. I couldn’t stitch together or set his broken mental state, at least not while he was still unconscious, but I knew that damage had been done. With his body as battered as it was, I could only imagine the trauma that lay beneath the surface. I could see the trauma in his face as he lay there, I heard it in his voice in the wagon in our flight from Wentworth, I could feel the depth of it in my very soul.

I could do nothing… but pray.

The thought was accompanied by the sound of the monk’s midnight prayers drifting down the corridor. I knew every one of them would be praying for my husband’s healing this night, this Christmas night. My fingers found the jet rosary around my neck as the words flowed of their own accord, my soul reaching out to the Savior born this day a thousand years ago.

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

Murtagh quietly slipped into the room, needing to be with Jamie, as I did. He didn’t speak, but sat with me in silence.

Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name...

One of the babies kicked, their foot pressing urgently against the wall of my uterus. I lowered my hand to the place and gently returned the gesture. They both responded, shifting eagerly within me and I groaned as another foot connected with my ribs.

“Are ye in pain, lass?”

I shook my head, a slight smile tugging at one corner of my mouth, “They’re just active.”

“Braw laddies,” he puffed and I caught a hint of pride in his voice.

“And if they’re braw lassies?” I asked in jest.

“Oh, aye,” he teased me right back, his pleasure at the idea obvious despite his words and serious expression, “then Heaven help ye, for a Fraser lassie is a force nothing on this earth can match… and ye’ll have two.”

Restless, I wandered to the window and pressed my forehead against the cool, paned glass.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

“Ye should sleep.”

I gripped the edge of the window, the very thought of leaving Jamie’s side sent tremors of panic through me.

Breathe, Beauchamp. He is safe and he is stable.

“You’ll stay with him?” I asked unnecessarily.

The Highlander gruffly snorted, letting me know exactly what he thought of the idea of straying so much as an inch from his godson’s side.

“Aye, mo nighean,” he assured, taking my hand on my way to the the door as he looked up at me, tears making his eyes shine in the dim candlelight,  “Rest now, ye’ve done well.”

Swallowing hard, I squeezed his hand and left the room.

Blessed art thou amongst women...

I didn’t look back; I couldn’t. I knew that if I did, I’d be back at his bedside in a moment and wouldn’t get any sleep at all. The nurse residing in the logical side of my brain reminded me that I’d be of no use to Jamie sleep deprived and exhausted.

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

The bed in the room next to Jamie’s was small, but comfortable. I lay down and slid my eyes closed.

Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

My muscles relaxed as a quiet calm settled over me and I fell asleep, my fingers still moving and my heart still praying, my soul assured of His new mercies that would come with the dawn.

Amen.

[musingsinamericanslang]

TL;DR Be Here Now

Envision with me a scenario: 

Joe Blow American 20 something’s alarm goes off on his phone on a Tuesday morning. Rolls over and shuts it off. Notices a couple of garbage emails from job boards came through his Gmail, an “in case you missed it” Twitter notification, a couple of “so and so posted to their stories” Instagram notifications, and an “events around you” Facebook notification. Not to mention the several stories on Snapchat that have been posted from the night prior. Mr. Blow goes through and checks these notifications, scrolls through each application to make sure no relevant/funny/seemingly important pieces of information are missed before getting out of bed. 

35 minutes has elapsed. “Fuck.” 

Hits the shower, throws on a pair of slacks and a nice button down, and heads to work. Along the way, he listens to that new/hilarious/intriguing podcast everyone is talking about. He didn’t download the most recent episode and can’t on the drive because the service sucks on his commute in addition to the battery on his seemingly obsolete iPhone 7 Plus hardly makes it to noon anymore. So he’s stuck listening to an episode of a less popular podcast which won’t be talked about during and after work. Also, he makes sure to tune in to the sports radio station to see if anything pertinent has happened with one of the Big 4 pro sports teams or 5 local collegiate teams in the past 12 hours. 

At work, Mr. Blow spends the morning getting coffee, checking emails that he was CC’d on which are of zero practical relevance to him, sending funny Snapchats to the group he’s in with his undergrad buddies, and now listening to that podcast he couldn’t earlier. 

Lunch is spent with a burrito in one hand while the other hand scrolls through sports Twitter to see what’s been going on in the two hours since he last checked. 

The afternoon drags a bit since he has a burrito baby, but he manages to send off a couple of relevant emails to his three bosses to ensure that they know he did some work today. Makes plans with a couple of friends from work who play in the same Fantasy Football/Baseball/Basketball League to hit the bar after work to check out the game. 

Hits the bar for a few drinks and some laughs with the fellas. Splits a nacho appetizer with the people he’s with. Checks on the fantasy app to make sure his team his playing well. They aren’t so he yells “shit,” and proceeds to hold the screen up to his friends to show them how poorly the fictional team he owns is doing. Looks down at his shoes. They’re scuffed up. “How am I ever going to meet a woman if she knew I wore such shitty ass shoes?” The game ends and it’s about 10, so he heads home. Pops on Netflix to continue watching the newest/popular Netflix series everyone is talking about this week. Plugs in his phone, sets his alarm, passes out. 

And scene. 

While this description is along the lines of things I have seen and personally experienced, I am confident elements of what was shown here ring true in some of your lives, too. If pieces of this seemed to mirror aspects of your life, how did it make you feel to see them in words like this? 

Now, there’s nothing wrong with our hero Mr. Blow, and there’s nothing wrong with a life like this. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s not living immorally (whatever that really means) or purposely harming others. He’s just living in a world that was crafted for him, one that he likely had no part in consciously creating. We are trained to do and like the things that we’re “supposed” to do and like instead of the things we want to do or want to like. I have talked to many of my friends who are married who feel like having a kid is the next thing they are “supposed to do.” As if the game of Life became real like Jumanji and they are nearing the part where they either get a pink or blue peg person to ride along in the back seat. 

BUT. Here’s the thing:  

In our American society, we have become obsessed with appearing happy, healthy, and successful. Obsessed with status and appearance. Obsessed with likes and retweets. Obsessed with comments. And the great irony of it all is that for as “individualistic” of a culture we think we live in, we are all so worried about being perceived as unpopular or uncool or as a social media social pariah. We want to know that we are both materially successful and well-liked in both the literal and social media sense. And instead of being satisfied and content with the cool things that happen to us along the way, we suffer because we are worried if it aligns with what we’re supposed to be doing or with what we think people think that we ought to be doing. 

AND THEN: 

We scroll through our social media feeds, looking at how happy and successful and cool all of our friends seem. We see our friends getting wives, and dogs, and kids, and promotions, and doing crafty things, and posting these inspirational quotes. And we think, “that person has it together...why can’t I be cool and happy and successful like them? I don’t get nearly as many likes and comments as them...” In our quest to appear happy and at peace, we have become more depressed than ever. What a great tragedy that in a time when our quality of life has never been better thanks to advances in technology and medicine, that our health and happiness in so many ways has never been worse. And all along the way, we are completely missing out on the world and life happening around us because we are addicted to and obsessed with what’s happening on Instagram. 

And I’m not writing this as some person who has transcended this way of thinking and behaving. Because I haven’t and I am still working. I’m simply shedding light on insights I’ve had which have helped alleviate suffering in my own life. 

So what is the point of all of this? It’s to make us think about two things:

First, zoom back. Way way way back. We are floating through some infinitely large space on a infinitesimally small speck in some backwoods corner of a galaxy that we don’t completely understand, and we think if we don’t get married by the time we’ve hit 30 that we’re worthless failures. Or if people notice our cracked iPhone screens that we think they’ll think we’re clumsy and should have bought the insurance. So in this vastness, we suffer over the entirely inconsequential for no other reason than we think we should. Succinctly, so many things we give such high importance to absolutely could not matter less.

Second, and related to point one, on this time on this small speck in the backwoods of the Universe, we spend our days not here. We are in our past, mourning the Might Have Beens. Or, we are in our future, carefully analyzing and reanalyzing all of the Might Be’s. But life isn’t in the past nor is it in the future. It can only be lived now. We can’t change what happened. Nor can we deterministically model even the next 12 hours of our lives. So why spend our time in places where life is not? Life is only now. It’s not in our screens. It’s not in our expectations about people’s possible expectations of us. It’s not in what our parents want us to do. It’s not in what we think society wants us to be as a man or woman. It’s here. Now. That’s it. At the end of our days, we will not be sad we didn’t spend more time anxious about what people thought of us. We will wish we had more time to be present for the people and experiences we loved most. 

I’ve been repeating this over and over lately and for those of you who follow me know that I have been saying it a lot, but all of these words distill down to this:

BE HERE NOW. Be present for your life right now. This is the way to liberation, and true, lasting, sustained peace, love, and happiness. It comes from presence. It’s the only way. 

This isn’t a call for you to live any particular way, except that which brings you the most joy and spreads the most love. This is authenticity. And this is being present. For me, I have spent a lot of time being inauthentic because I thought that person would be more liked, more accepted. And it caused me to not be present, and consequently, I suffered great mental anguish completely unnecessarily. Again, I’m not some realized being, but I have found great peace in practicing and really emphasizing being here. Now.

It is a practice. And that’s the beauty and grace of such things. That we can practice without judgment. If we feel ourselves becoming anxious due to lack of presence, we can be cognizant of it, and even honor it for trying to help us. But return to presence. This inner work is the way. Not a ton of followers, not following your parents’ wishes for your career or spouse or whatever. It’s presence. That’s all that truly exists. Right. Now. 

Namaste.     

[moviesihaveseenbeforeiamdea-blog]

#285 Rear Window

Source

Released: September 1, 1954

Director: Alfred Hitchcock

Written by: John Michael Hayes, based on Cornell Woolrich’s short story, “It Had to Be Murder”

Starring: James Stewart, Grace Kelly, Thelma Ritter, Raymond Burr

Had I Seen it Before? Yes, in theaters

Hitchcock cameo: Early on in the film, when Jeff is looking at his neighbors, Alfred can be seen with the pianist in one of the apartments. 

The first time that I ever saw Rear Window was summer of last year, probably in July. The local theater did a summer of Hitchcock revival, and Rear Window was one of the movies they played, and the only one I went to. I wish I had gone to more in that series, but I did what everyone does and assumed a good thing would last a little while longer. That theater, an Alamo Drafthouse, was forced out of its lease, and the vacant property will become an AMC sometime this fall. I have nothing against AMC Theaters, I’ve only ever had acceptable experiences in them, but I doubt that they’re going to match the charm and eccentricity of the Alamo. 

Seeing Rear Window on the big screen was magical. It was a really hot day out that day, and I was walking around my neighborhood with a friend when we saw someone we knew riding her bike and asked where she was going. She told us about the showing and we decided to go ourselves. We hiked all the way downtown and got to the theater sweaty. A few people we knew were already there, and we bought two of the last tickets. I have never seen a theater that full in my life, and the only seats available for us were way towards the front. James Stewart and Grace Kelly seemed like giants as I craned my neck up for nearly the entire two hours. I didn’t mind. I loved every minute of it. It was the first Hitchcock movie I’d ever seen and also the first time I saw Grace Kelly act. Most the rest of that summer was no good but I’ll always have that memory of Rear Window in an air-conditioned theater, happy to be there. 

James Stewart and Grace Kelly as Jeff and Lisa (Source)

This movie held up the second time. Whereas it took me two viewings to really appreciate Vertigo, I loved Rear Window from the start, and a second viewing only confirmed what I felt during the first: that this is an excellent thriller built around a man in a chair who can’t do anything but watch people. 

It really is a testament to Hitchcock’s direction that he can make Jeff’s apartment livable and exciting for the duration of the movie. As far as I can tell, the camera never leaves the perspective of the people inside his apartment, save for the final scene when Jeff falls out of his apartment, defenestrated, onto the sidewalk below. Even then this is seen through Jeff’s perspective, so we don’t go far as an audience. 

And Stewart’s acting is commendable in this movie, but it’s Thelma Ritter as Stella, Jeff’s nurse that steals every single scene that she’s in. Her heckling of Jefferies is always more lighthearted and compassionate than Wendell Corey’s Tom, and serves a more instructive purpose. She is Jeff’s caretaker, chiding him for the way he chooses to spend his time and the toll all of those sleepless nights in his wheelchair are taking on his already-injured body. 

Hitchcock constructs a similar feel with this movie found in his earlier effort Rope, which also features a murder mystery confined to one very specific location (and James Stewart!), but whereas Rope was constrained by its insistence on long takes and disguised editing (which, although fun, did get in the way of the story), Hitchcock wisely eschews any over-stylized camerawork, relying on contextually-appropriate techniques. His scanning over the apartments in the bloc are as focused and insightful as Jefferies investigations, and the locale never feels flat or compressed. Even though the people we watch from the apartment are all one or two-note characters in cramped living conditions, Hitchcock films them all with a flair, giving each a brief moment to shine and be humanized, creating a very effective shorthand for a living, breathing community. 

I think it comes down to his ability to block a scene that makes Hitchcock such a canonical director. Check out this Nerdwriter video for more on the specifics on what I mean (a video I think I linked to when I watched Vertigo). Hitchcock is excellent directing the motion of is actors, pushing them all around the set to keep them dynamic and physically engaged in their performances without ever once muddying up the viewer’s ability to understandable the bigger picture of what’s happening. He uses body language to great effect, and is able to wring even James Stewart’s invalid self into a variety of colorful movements. What might have been a very dry movie of people talking at each other in a small apartment never devolves into such, and that leaves Hitchcock to ramp up or ease the sense of claustrophobia at will. 

Georgine Darcy as Miss Torso (Source)

What I felt about this movie on a repeat viewing that I didn’t piece together during the initial one was the relation between Jeff’s aimlessness and commitment issues with his voyeurism. The division between him and Grace Kelly’s Lisa boil down to Jeff’s view that Lisa is a quasi-aristocratic socialite who will always be as such, and though the life she lives is admittedly perfect, it leaves Jeff in a position of what he feels to be a static existence, tied to one lifestyle that is always sanitized and accounted for. As a photographer for a magazine, he is used to getting down into the grime, and doubts Lisa could cope with that lifestyle.

Grace Kelly does a perfect job of filling Lisa with all of the charm of a perfectly put-together woman madly in love with a man who resents her perfection, flashing quickly between adoration and a woundedness that surfaces when Jeff demurs about their future together. She never falters in her devotion to him, although she pushes back at his attempts to belittle her position or discount her abilities. Jeff has a hard time seeing past the role he has pegged Lisa in, and it scares him to think that he might be forced into it himself. 

But the lifestyle Jeff resents, forced on him artificially by the broken leg which keeps him housebound, pushes him into a form of escapism he is able to achieve by obsessing over and cataloging the lives of his neighbors, who are mostly unaware of his gaze. Jeff doesn’t have the most compassionate outlook on his neighborhood, but he understands the value in the idiosyncrasies of his subjects, and comes to appreciate them for the roles he gives them, roles which are nonthreatening to him because he is in no danger of being made to replicate them. 

Jimmy Stewart is an actor often teased for his wholesome, “aw shucks,” All-American demeanor, and a lot of the times (especially in his earlier work), that critique is right on the money. Even in a few of his early roles, such as Jefferson Smith in Frank Capra’s Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, he is capable of displaying the conflicts that this persona would inflict on a real-life human would have, and this is something that becomes most pronounced in his collaborations with Hitchcock. The conflict Jeff feels in his personal life represents a choice he feels between living out his most individual self---a very American value---and succumbing to the societal role expected of him---also a very American value. Jeff knows that he ought to marry someday, but can’t quite bring himself to consider the possibility in the most possible scenario presented to him. 

But as the murder plot accelerates and threatens the life of Lisa and then his own, Jeff witnesses the possibilities of a voyeuristic life, one full of alienation and estrangement and perhaps even a constant exposure to wickedness. He watches the domesticity of Thurwald (Burr) devolve into savagery, but doesn’t seem to explicitly identify that grisly reality with his own hypothetical fears of marriage in his own life, though I would think that Hitchcock intended the murder to be a subconscious projection of Jeff’s insecurities. 

As Lisa proves herself willing and able to involve herself in the obsessions of Jeff’s life, he realizes that the thrill-seeking he feels in himself is ultimately a kind of self-defeating one, something that unnecessarily equates individuality with cold distance. Maybe it’s the shock of seeing a bedridden woman murdered by her husband that gets him to reflect on the kindness of Lisa, who serves as the yin to Thurwald’s yang. Jeff begins to understand that Lisa’s kindness shouldn’t be taken for granted, and that the perfection he resents might not be so much about its limitations in Lisa’s abilities as it is a limitation in Jeff’s imagination. 

Raymond Burr as Lars Thurwald (Source)

This is the third Hitchcock film I’ve watched for this project so far, and he’s taken an easy lead as the director I look forward to most. I ought to be more judicious in my selection and leave a few of his for myself towards the middle and end, but I probably won’t because I am no better than a child who eats a gallon of ice cream before dinner and spends the whole night desperately wishing he could poop. 

Final thoughts:

Rear Window is definitely one of those movies that would require more suspension of disbelief were it made today. Rear Window in 2017 would be Jeff staring Facebook all day and jerking off. 

Actually, I have no doubt Jeff was jerking off-screen in this movie. 

In case it wasn’t obvious, I am very pleased I had the opportunity to use the word “defenestrated” correctly in a sentence in this entry. There are very few opportunities to use such a specific word. 

I actually saw the loose remake of this movie, Disturbia, first. That movie is not very good, and loses all of the charm of Hitchcock’s directing and Stewart’s acting and replaces it with Shia LaBeouf having mood swings (so really, Shia LaBeouf being Shia LaBeouf).

Also, I spelled Shia LaBeouf’s name right on the first try just now. I’m on a roll. 

I think I may have written a really bad poem about my experience of seeing Rear Window in theaters. I am not a poet, and so with any luck it will die with me. 

Hitchcock modeled Thorwald’s look off the appearance of a producer he was feuding with. These are my favorite kinds of movie anecdotes, one in which someone high up in the creative process gets mad at someone else high up in the creative process and handles it by taking passive aggressive swipes at them in a myriad of ways. (See also: Steve McQueen’s sarcastic clap during the Oscars when the screenwriter for 12 Years a Slave won the award.)

Even though I praised the feeling of life that Hitchcock gives to the Greenwich Village apartment bloc in the movie, it should be noted that this was an entirely constructed set in California, costing what was at the time an astronomical sum of somewhere around $75,000. This is the second-most gratuitous recreation of New York for a movie, coming up short to Stanley Kubrick’s recreation of New York City in England for Eyes Wide Shut (because of course it would be Kubrick). 

I was very sad to learn that Grace Kelly died in her early ‘50s. She was a great actor and a stunning woman. 

[zordonmlw7]

Seven Kingdoms: The Parallel Prince

~ Part 1 ~

(A/N This is my first 7kpp fanfic and I’m just gonna post this here because I’m too impatient to get on AO3′s waiting list for an account I may not even use much. So... to tumblr. :D  Honestly, this could be a lot better, but I didn’t feel like editing it because I’m publishing this literally on a whim at 4:30 in the morning.  My main concern is that it’s maybe mirroring the game’s style a bit too closely and not in the direct emulation way I utilize in later chapters (I have Ch 2 and 3 written already.) I don’t even know if anyone if gonna read this fanfic let alone this super long author’s note so I guess I’ll stop already. XD)

We must begin with a story. A legend.  Even a fairytale of sorts.  Only this story, this legend, is a true one.  An important one.

 Then again.  You’ve probably heard it before.  Dozens of times.  Who in this day and age hasn’t heard of how, 100 years ago, Princess Katyia created what would become the Seven Summit and ushered in an age of peace and prosperity?

 I’ll spare the details. This is a story of a new delegation. One that may prove to be as momentous as the original held by Katyia herself!

 On Vail Isle, a silver haired butler stares at the delegate he will be serving the next seven weeks.

“Greetings, my liege. My name is Jasper and I’ve been assigned as your personal butler during your stay here at Vail Ilse.”

 The delegate eyes Jasper, a man whose good looks do not take away from the grave tone in his voice. He informs the delegate of his responsibilities as his butler, the most important of which being to be completely invested in the delegate’s interests.  However, before he can be invested in said interests, he must know them, and with them, the delegate’s past.

 The delegate was the son of a Marquis of Arland.  From a young age, he showed unusual intelligence, something that would be greatly advantageous to his upbringing.  Growing up, he was quickly instilled with the traditional Arlish devotion to duty.  As a result, he was always very obedient, never disobeying his parents (at least not to their faces).  When the day came for him to begin his tutoring, he discovered he had his work cut out for him.  Due to bordering Jiyel, academic capital of the world whose court was interspersed with countless scholars, the ruling family of their march always received tutoring far more intensive than the curriculum of other Arlish noblemen. While many would find this to be unnecessarily stressful, the marquis’ son thrived.  It was often said by the servants that the young boy never smiled more brightly than after reading a particularly insightful piece of literature, or after having solved a math problem his tutor had anticipated would stump him.  Despite his love for academia, however, no tutor loved him more than his speech tutor. His ability with words, coupled with his keen knowledge, often garnered remarks of being a miniature tutor himself. When not in the classroom, he often accompanied his parents to whatever business they had.  Although he was present, he was to remain silent at all times, and, as he was not expected to pay attention to the actual discussions, spent ample time watching people, trying to figure out how they worked. While he received basic self-defense training like the other noble boys, he preferred talking his way out of a dispute.

Once, as a child, he traveled with his parents to a meeting in Jiyel.  The day of the meeting, his parents sent him to a town several miles away that would be holding a festival, giving him a rare chance to enjoy the Jiyelian culture.  The day of festivities, however, took a dark turn.  The carriage, while going down a solitary road, was attacked by bandits!  Not wanting to risk losing his guards in a fight and possibly endangering himself further, he bribed them with the allowance he had been given to spend at the festival, keeping the emergency treasure hidden under his seat out of their hands.  

Another time, his parents tasked him with trying to please an especially naughty noble woman.  Despite being lower in rank than you, she acted as though she and her parents’ county were the mightiest and most regal in Arland.  However, as his parents wanted hers to support their treaty, he was left with no option but to fulfill his duty.  After speaking to several other nobles, he learned that the girl’s cousin was her most bitter rival.  Although the cousin was 2 years her junior, she was already ahead of her in her studies, and the girl did not take it well.  So he decided to bombard the girl with countless compliments directed at her cousin… with said cousin several feet away.  In her resulting fury, she challenged said cousin to a competition, which she easily lost.  While he felt bad for using such an underhanded tactic, after seeing how humble the experience left her, any trace of regret he had faded.  The treaty promptly passed.

Another tale of his past involved his visit to the province of Caiserban, an area deteriorating because of drought.  He was entrusted to help prepare for his parents’ visit and was sent ahead.  When he arrived to the castle where he would be staying, however, he saw an angry mob that had formed outside of it.  Noticing the luxury carriage with finely dressed nobleman inside, the mob quickly directed their attention to him.  Despite having to face a horde of townspeople who might get a kick at seeing him hanged and his castle raided, he recalled his parents instructions and remained calm. He asked the people to individually voice their concerns.  He quickly realized the people were not revolting because of the drought; it was a force of nature and no authority figure could do anything to change it. No, these people were worried that, given the trecherous reputation of their governor, that the nobility did not care for them and would allow them to suffer.  With a calm smile and a promise to discuss their concerns with the governor during the noble family’s visit, the mob disbanded.

At the age of 15, he was informed that he wouldn’t have time to take on as many classes as he had been, and was asked to limit his time to but one tutor. He was tempted heavily to keep his academic tutor, but he felt to choose personal preference over responsibility was against everything Arland stood for.  Reluctantly, he dismissed academic tutor, along with all the rest but his political tutor.  As fun as he found most any other subject, he knew politics was his future and he needed to give the subject the attention it deserved.

 Having finished story time, Jasper proceeded to prod for some more information.  Firstly, his weaknesses.  His biggest weakness came to mind immediately.

 “I’m not very charming. My grannie is the most easily charmed person in the world and even she won’t fall for my puppy eyes.” He laughs off the last statement.  

 Seeing that the butler expects him to divulge more, he ponders the topic a bit more. “Well…  My hardest subject growing up was always my self-defense training. And given how long it’s been since I’ve had any lessons, I imagine what skills I had have likely all but rusted away at this point.”

 Having divulged such sensitive information, to a complete stranger no less, leaves him feeling… cleansed. It’s a feeling he finds comparable to confession.  Of course, here on this mysterious isle, there is no guarantee that this information will remain strictly between him and the gods.  However, as he sees it, there is no way of getting around placing his trust in the hands of the handsome, stoic-faced man before him.  In fact, the more he considers it, he isn’t really placing his trust in the butler at all, but rather, the delegation itself. His family, his faith, his country, the very institutions that govern his life.  He had placed his trust in all these things for as long as he could remember and had never been disappointed in the results.  It seemed only fitting now to place that same level of trust into the isle and all it represented.  

 After yet another long discussion, this one about his personality, Jasper nods his head and prepares to introduce him to his maids.  Two lovely women, dressed in simple garments enter the room and curtsy before him gracefully.  Jasper tells him their names are Ria and Sayra.  Although he would have preferred to introduce himself personally, he follows etiquette rules and allows Jasper to introduce him to them.  

 “This is Lord Ettore of Arland.”

~ End of Part 1 ~

Skills

Charm – 10

Eloquence – 50

Beauty – 25

Leadership – 25

Self Defense – 15

Charisma – 25

Manipulation – 25

Courage – 25

Intelligence – 60

Etiquette – 55

Grace – 0

Poise – 50

Cunning – 50

Insight – 0

Knowledge

Academic – 40

People – 25

Politics – 40

History – 15

[tachyonpub]

Patricia A. McKillip’s THE FORGOTTEN BEASTS OF ELD is unquestionably a classic of the genre

The Internet continues to explode about the publication of the new edition of Patricia A. McKillip’s World Fantasy Award-winner THE FORGOTTEN BEASTS OF ELD, now available in paperback and for the first time as an ebook.

On B&N SCI-FI & FANTASY BLOG, Joel Cunningham includes the book among This Week’s New Sci-Fi & Fantasy Books: A Cyborg Romance, the Future of Global Politics, and the Return of Forgotten Beasts.

More than 40 years after it was first published, McKillip’s World Fantasy Award-winner is unquestionably a classic of the genre, and it reads as timelessly as ever in this new print and ebook edition. It’s the story of a woman named Sybel, who lives alone in a remote castle where she cares for a stable of magical creatures and hunts for a mythical bird, and how her world is shattered by the sudden appearance of Coren, a nobleman who delivers her a child and pulls her into a petty conflict between men. It’s a slender, beguiling story that does more with less, packing a complex, bewitching world and achingly real, frustratingly human characters into a page count that disguises the expansiveness of the ideas within.

Nisi Shawl for THE SEATTLE REVIEW OF BOOKS praises the classic.

As noted above, recent covers for Patricia McKillip’s fantasies are almost always painted by Kinuko Y Craft. Except when they’re not; a new reprint of her groundbreaking World Fantasy Award-winner THE FORGOTTEN BEASTS OF ELD (Tachyon) is graced instead by Thomas Canty’s art. And why not? McKillip’s soaring prose, lyrics to songs our hearts have forgotten they knew how to sing, deserves Canty’s accompaniment. The feminist underpinnings of the book’s plot — a self-sufficient woman who refuses to be stripped of her autonomy starts a war she swore never to fight — deserve our attention now as much as they did in 1974, when Beasts was first published. If you’ve never read it, you deserve to. Or if, like me, you read it long ago and have made do since with a tiny but affordable mass market paperback, you deserve Tachyon’s elegant trade paperback edition, at least half as beautiful as McKillip’s story. Which sounds stingy as compliments go, but is actually extremely high praise.

BOOKWRAITHS enjoys the fantasy.

THE FORGOTTEN BEASTS OF ELD is a wonderfully written, richly textured, high fantasy from Patricia A. McKillip.  Even though it is quite limited in length, it is still filled with insightful moments and fascinating insights; all of it set in beautifully rendered fairy tale world.

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What always catches me unprepared whenever I read (or reread) a Patricia A. McKillip novel is her unbelievable prose.  It isn’t elaborate or flowery, merely lyrical and purposeful.  Every word has its place and its use in her narratives, yet she never feels a need to expound unnecessarily.  Important events taking place in pages rather than chapters.  Concise, meaningful, and lovely.  That is how this author writes, and I only wish more fantasy offerings these days mimicked her style.

As for the story itself, it was poignant, quick, and emotional.  Sybel’s life, her choices, and the ones she love caught up in the quagmire she has unknowingly been drawn into.  Her words and response to both the child and that which comes later filled with a layer of meaning and depth which will truly touches a reader’s heart strings.

As for any criticisms or complaints, I have none.  McKillip has always been a writer I was in awe of, especially her amazing ability to craft an exciting fantasy tale that still finds a place for both dignity and seriousness in its pages, and THE FORGOTTEN BEASTS OF ELD was no exception, making me wonder only why it took me so long to actually read it.

Lyrical, complex, concise, and emotional, this novel is one I will be readily espousing to lovers of high fantasy, fairy tales, and beautifully writing.  Patricia A. McKillip isn’t an author spoken of very often these days, but she should be, because her works are treasures of the genre.

For more info about THE FORGOTTEN BEASTS OF ELD, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover by Thomas Canty

[gospelmusic]

Catholic Daily Mass Readings: Today, Thursday April 30 2020

Thursday April 30, 2020 May Devotion begins Tomorrow Weekday of Easter (3) Vestment:  White Today’s Rosary: Luminous Mystery KADUNA: Tomorrow is the 17th Anniversary of the episcopal ordination of Most Revd Matthew Ndagoso, 1st may, 2003

ONITSHA: Tomorrow is 5th anniversary of the episcopal ordination of Most Revd Denis C. Osizoh, 1st may 2016.

OUR LADY, MOTHER OF AFRICA (FEAST) On this day, together with the missionary Sisters of our Lady of Africa, we celebrate the memorial of Mary of Africa. This celebration encourages us to turn to Mary in order to experience her maternal intercession and assistance in our daily life.

Entrance Antiphon People will never cease to praise you, as they recall the power of the Lord for ever.

Collect Lord, as we honour the glorious memory of the Virgin Mary, Mother of Africa, we ask that by the help of her prayers we too may come to share the fullness of your grace and live in harmony and peace as one family. Through our Lord…

  FIRST READING     They devoted themselves to prayer with Mary the Mother of Jesus. A reading from the Acts of the Apostle (Acts1:12-14)

(After Jesus was taken up into heaven,) the apostles returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a Sabbath day’s journey away; and when they had entered, they went up to the upper room, where they were staying, Peter and John and James and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James the son of Alphaeus and Simon the Zealot and Judas the son of James. All these with one accord devoted themselves to prayer, together with the women and Mary the mother of Jesus, and his brethren.

The word of the Lord.

  RESPONSORIAL PSALM    Luke1:46-47.48-49.50-51.52-53.54-55 (R. 49) R/. He who is mighty has done great things for me,

And holy is his name. My soul magnifies the Lord, And my spirit rejoices in God my savior. R/.

For he has regarded the low estate of his handmaiden. For behold, henceforth all generation will call me blessed; For he who is mighty has done great things for me, And holy is his name. R/.

And his mercy is on those who fear him From generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm, He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. R/.

He has put down the mighty from their thrones, And exalt those of low degree; He has filled the hungry with good things, And the rich he has sent empty away. R/.

He has helped his servant Israel, In remembrance of his mercy, As he spoke to our fathers, To Abraham and to his posterity forever. R/.

  ALLELUIA     ALLELUIA. Blessed are you, holy Virgin Mary, deserving of all praise. You are the Mother of Christ, you are the Mother of the Church. ALLELUIA

  Gospel     And the mother of Jesus was there. A reading from the holy Gospel according to John (John 2:1-11)

At that time: There was a marriage at Cana in Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there; Jesus also was invited to the marriage, with his disciples. When the wine failed, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “O woman, what is that to you or to me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now six stone jars were standing there, for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, “fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the steward of the feast.” So they took it. When the steward of the feast tasted the water now become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who has drawn the water knew), the steward of the feast called the bridegroom and said to him, “Every man serves the good wine first; and when men have drunk freely, then the poor wine; but you have kept the good wine until now.” This, the first of his signs, Jesus did at Cana in Galilee, and manifested his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

The Gospel of the Lord.  

Today's Reflection The Blessed Virgin Mary is celebrated under various titles. Today we celebrate her as the Mother of Africa. In Africa, just like any other culture, motherhood is a treasure, and children revere and honour their mothers. Mary is a mother, who always cares for her children. The first reading reminds us that she is always present in the church at prayer, praying with and interceding for her children. She is the surest way to her Son. The couple at Cana experienced her maternal love. Mary, convinced that whatever she asked the Son would be obtained told the servants “Do whatever he (Jesus) tells you.” This injunction is repeated to us today to always do the will of the son as a way of appreciating his mother.

  Personal Devotional

- I thank you Almighty God for your word that is active and alive.

- Grant me your grace to consciously realise that you are the beginning and the end of all things and that you know my end from my beginning, hence, you know my troubles and worries.

- Help me to fully rely on you and not in my own competence anymore. Grant that I may put all my trust in you.

- Assist me to be more committed to doing your will every day of my life.

Let Us Pray O my God, I am sorry and beg pardon for all my sins, and detest them above all things, because they have crucified my loving Saviour Jesus Christ, and, most of all, because they offend your infinite goodness; and I firmly resolve, by the help of your grace, never to offend you again, and carefully tavoid the occasion of sin.

  CROSS-OVER PRAYER From 11pm – 12am On my Knees for you before the Blessed Sacrament

There are battles raised against your fruithfulness in your lifetime, those who have done this insult God and despise his word. Your Father in heaven is taken up this battle and renewing his covenant of fruitfulness with you.

- Bless God for his concern for your life

- Tell him you want to ever remain in Him

- Appreciate the Grace that surrounds your life

- Tell Jesus to live in you forever

- Invite the Lord to take up every battle raised against your fruitfulness

-Thank Jesus for taking up your battles.

Pray with Isaiah 52:1-10 – that Power from on high will shake off every spell against your fruitfulness and clothe you with amazing life and Psalm 17 "Make me the Apple of your eye, Lord  and disappoint the wicked in their evil desires.

Intercession LORD, break all that tied down my destiny

I pray against whatever that makes me restless

Destroy what makes me get angry unnecessarily

Untie, Holy Spirit, whatever that has been raised to tie my life and that of my family so we don’t succeed in life

Rise Lord against messengers assigned to confuse me and make me make mistakes – at work, studies, important meetings etc

Resurrection power come upon businesses that has been destroyed or not profitable anymore

Give me the anointing to escape every trap set for me or my family members

Lord, grant to me and my dear ones financial revival

Anoint yourself and  your household, sprinkle Holy Water and make this Declaration: GOD ALONE WILL REIGN OVER ME AND MY FAMILY (5X)

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