#i decided not to post this once because its a big portrait of myself and i feel like thats pretty vain

[paper-mario-wiki]

posted this picture as a followup tweet to a followup tweet (about how two videos i made were ripped off by two separate people independently, and those videos got brought up on the stream of someone who has been a big influence on me by sheer coincidence) as a way to verify what i look like post-transition, and i think that it's a good enough picture that it deserves its own separate post. so here it is.

[cyandreamsinwords]

Cut and Run — Pt 1 (BoaWT AU)

Is it weird to have AU's of your own fanfic AU...possibly, but after seeing another create post their own for their fic, I decided it might be fun to do so myself.

None of this is cannon to Burning of a Withered Tree, obviously, but because I plan to put them through the ringer with the main fic and drag it out, I'm going to indulge in a happier story line for a bit. it's like a treat, just for me! (1.4K)

Link to the main fic here

Pt 2

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

Sirius didn’t allow himself a moment to celebrate. Not when he felt the wind on his face for the first time in years, or experienced the vastness of the open forest he'd ran to around him. He could commiserate in all of that later. There wasn't time now.

It had been said in passing, the singular sentence that spurred him to action: “Perhaps your mother will do better with your daughter then she did you.”

Scoffed by one of the guards, the rare ones they allowed to walk the halls between the dementors, just to check to make sure everything was in order and in its place. And to taunt, apparently. He'd known Sirius from their mother's having been friends, though they themselves never got on. He couldn't even recall his name, but he was positive it'd been something ridiculous. Stupid-name-forgettable-loser, having found his current predicament humorous, thought he'd rub a bit of salt in the wound.

"Perhaps your mother will do better with your daughter then she did you. Or maybe she'll screw her up too, who knows."

All he managed to do was force Sirius' hand. The visceral and instantaneous feeling of panic at the thought that Lyra was there, in that house, with his mother — there was no choice, he had to get to her. Before any damage could be done, and she was forced to go through the years of pain he'd gone through.

He didn't remember much of how he got back to 12 Grimmauld Place, but somehow, he'd managed to get there without being stopped or spotted. It was just past one in the morning when he arrived. The street was empty, and all the lights in the place were off. At some point he acquired a wand and used it to get inside.

He was silent, knowing that while he could fight his mother and Kreature off, if need be, he wanted to make this as smooth as possible. In and out with Lyra before anyone was the wiser.

He checked his old room first. That's where his mother would no doubt put her. And sure enough, the signs of a small child were evident here. His once teenage bedroom had been transformed with softer, frillier decor, but only enough to cover the immovable evidence of him (the large portraits of respectable ladies hung over his girls on motorcycle posters had been a clever touch).

But there was no little girl in the bed.

Sirius was confused. It was night, and she obviously did live here. So where was she?

Just as carefully as when he entered, he scanned the house up and down. And no sign of his daughter. He nearly woke Kreature at one point, sleeping in his little nook, but was quick to sedate him.

She wasn't here. He looked everywhere, becoming more and more desperate with every second, but there was no sign of her. Had the guard just said that to get a ruse out of him? Had his eyes been playing tricks on him upstairs? 

It was nearly two now, and by this point, he knew his daughter wasn't in the house. Where she'd gone, his mind could only imagine horrible things.

He let himself out the back this time, resisting the urge to slam the door shut in frustration. He cursed wildly in frustration for having come so far and still found nothing. He was losing precious time, time he needed to take his daughter and find somewhere safe to hide where the dementors couldn't find him.

Coming down off the back step, he tripped on something, landing in the grass with a thud.

And when he looked up, it was into big grey eyes just like his own.

For a good long minute, the two of them just sat there, staring at one another. Him in disbelief and her in shock and fear.

"...Lyra?"

The little girl, with long dark curls and wide eyes gave him no indication, but he hardly needed one. He knew his little girl. So different than when he'd left that night, now three years old, and so so the same.

He began to stand and started to walk toward her. "Lyra!"

She scrambled back, frightened. His heart dropped, and try as he might, he couldn't stop the disappointment at her reaction. He understood it — a strange man still dressed in his jail rags showing up in the middle of the night, calling her by name — but it was just a reminder of the years he'd missed.

"Hey, it's okay," he soothed her, holding himself back from scooping her up into his arms and running for the hills. He lowered himself back down to his knees, to look smaller, less threatening. "I know you don't know me, but—"

"I know you."

A voice. When he last saw her, she hadn't been speaking yet, just babbling, learning from him how to form words. She'd been just getting da-da down. Now she could speak real words, knew how to string sentences together.

"You do?" His heart was racing.

"You're my father." Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself. The way her little voice formed the word father was awkward and stilted, and he recalled having referred to his own the same, as the man was opposed to any other informal title.

"I am," he confirmed, feeling a tremble in his lip. "What are you doing out here Lyra? You should be inside in bed."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Grandmother said I had to learn a lesson, and I'm not allowed back in until I do." Lyra stumbled over that title as well, the name grandmother even longer and more complex than father.

Sirius had spent most of his life hating his mother, but in that moment, he could go back in and strangle her in her as she slept. She'd been bad when he was growing up, but to lock a three-year-old outside, overnight no less — it was unforgivable.

"Is that why you're here?" her voice shook. "Because I've been bad? Are you here to take me to where you went?"

"No," he whispered softly, shaking his head, not wanting to imagine Lyra there in that place. "No, you've been perfect, Lyra. I'm sure of it."

"Why are you here? Grandmother says you were bad, that's why they took you and locked you away. Because you didn't listen."

Sirius snorted. "Well, have you met your grandmother? She's pretty bad herself. Wouldn't you agree?"

Lyra said nothing, just shyly wrapped her arms tighter around herself.

He held his arms out, ignoring the nervous shake in them. "Come here. You must be freezing."

There was some hesitation, a long terrifying moment that she simply eyed him up, like she thought he'd suddenly turn on her, before she began to inch closer, coming just far enough within reach to allow him to wrap his arms around her.

For the first time in over two years, he got to hold his daughter in his arms. This was the moment he waited for, when he finally allowed himself to acknowledge the fact that he was out, he'd escaped. He didn't want to spook her with his sudden sobs, just buried his face into her long, tangled hair. When she relaxed into his arms, resting her head against his shoulder, the way she used to when she was small and fresh to the world, a choked sob escaped him, and he began to cry in earnest.

"Why are you crying?" she asked him, pulling back.

"I just missed you so much, Mini Moon," he sniffled, trying to put on a brave smile. "So, so much."

One of her little hands wiped at the track of tears along his cheek. "And that's why you're crying?"

He wiped the other side away. "Yeah. But it's okay, because we're together again." He brushed the curls from her face. "I'm going to take you with me, okay? We're going to go live together somewhere safe, far from here. Does that sound good to you?"

"Kreature is going to let me inside in the morning though."

"I'll send him an owl letting him know what's going on," he lied to put her mind at ease. "He'll understand. You're supposed to be with me, not her. I'm your dad."

She frowned worriedly. "But are they going to take you away again? The people who did the first time?"

He shook his head, a sense of determination coming down on him. "No, never again. There's nothing that's ever going to take me away from you again. It'll be just me and you, Mini Moon."

Looking back toward the house, she thought for just a moment. "...okay. We can go."

He stood, his little girl wrapped in his weak and malnourished arms. "Let's go then. We're going to go somewhere safe, and then I've got to go and pick up your godbrother, okay?"

[ask-the-bone-boys]

I have enjoyed this series SO much. It really shows how much work and love you've put into it and how much it means to you; I'll absolutely keep following it along through its completion. I look forward to its return in any form!

With that said, here's a proposal for you (and this is not me trying to sway what you decide; it's simply an idea I had after reading your post): since you DO enjoy the asking interactions, you could always continue doing that (obviously much less often so you're not burning yourself out) in the form of an OOC accompaniment to the fics! And by that, I mean, people could ask you or the characters about their thoughts on specific (non spoiler) things happening in the plot that wouldn't be actually happening in the fic itself. That would both let you continue to do some of the answering asks, AND it would mean you would need to do a lot less of it since you can progress the plot and provide answers to spoiler related asks at your leisure with writing, which wouldn't depend on the ask feature itself since it's already a planned part of the story.

P.S: I hope your winter break and next semester go great!

I'm glad you've liked it so much!! It's funny, this blog was originally meant to be a much smaller project that'd just give me something to do when I was bored, but now it's really grown into something I love working on just for the sake of creating! its such a weird mix of personal-to-me and just fucking around and its so so fun even if I have to change it up a lot!

that's a pretty cool idea, and I have seen others do it before, but sadly i don't really think it's very feasible at the moment :( ask culture itself has honestly been suffering a Ton on tumblr lately already, which was a big reason I stopped enjoying the ask blog format in the first place. But even besides that, there are. a LOT of things that happen in this story!!! And I know myself well enough to know that I would Not be satisfied by using character portraits that don't match the setting of whatever update they're commenting on. Meaning, I would likely end up putting in the work to draw a bunch of stuff anyway.

I'm trying to get this final event set up in time for me to get a large portion of it finished before I go back to school, because I know that once I get into the meat of the semester and living with roommates again I won't have nearly as much time or energy to put into answering asks in-character. It is very difficult to be constantly drawing the same character in 532 different outfits when your roommate is constantly sitting directly behind you !!!!! (and also i'll have homework and classes taking up my time too i guess)

So as sad as I am about it, once this event is wrapped up I really do think it'll be time I'll have to let the ask blog format go. I've been thinking on it for a really long time, honestly I think right after I posted that very last comic update, even before I went on hiatus, a part of me knew that I just couldn't keep doing this.

But I still love remembering it for what it was! That's the entire reason I'm setting up a send-off event in the first place, so we can have one last taste of that fun that comes with working on a story with other people! I'll admit I'm a little scared, but hopefully it'll be a blast!!!!

[allthingsfern]

In order, my responses to comments in Reply of my COVID19 era post that was my answer to my question “My answer to my questions: Has the era of COVID19 changed your photography? How? And perhaps also, why?“ I am so confused now...

adventuresofalgy

Algy thinks you are lucky and - certainly if compared with Europeans - perhaps quite unusual in not having experienced a more profound effect on your creative outlets and expression. Many of Algy's creative friends have experienced wide-ranging and often severe impacts on their creativity and associated motivation - and therefore on their mental health as well.

themazette

As @adventuresofalgy Jenny said.... you are lucky...

I am indeed very lucky, or as I think of it, blessed. However, it is no way a US thing, nor even a California thing. I add California, because I know many in the US and around the world think of the Golden State as a haven, a progressive, hippie filled state that is all about peace and love and marijuana. However, that is far from the truth. California is like Germany in the 1920s and 30s. There was Berlin, where there was a wildness in the city that was not shared, and was often looked-down on, by those in the majority of the country, who lived in more conservative areas and who, often, economically could not afford the grand life of partying Berliners. In California it is the same. Except for a few urban areas, the state is full of very conservative folks, and for them, like for those in the cities (and in the rest of the world) this COVID19 era has been devastating. Well, and the fires for Californians have been too.

Even in this cool college town where I live, which is lovely and quiet and inspiring, the painfully empty streets, movie theaters, restaurants, shops (think of all those unemployed people) is (still) staggering. In mid-March last year, right after lockdown, I took several phone videos of the deserted street in our town and the campus, but I could not bring myself to share them, since I knew that so many others here on Tumblr were experiencing the same desolation in many different ways. (I figured: “Why add to the sorrow we are living, almost globally?”) I was overwhelmed by the emptiness of the major (well, major for a small town of around 65,000 people) street where I live and the empty bicycle trails and street on campus. And by empty, I mean that even now, I see maybe 3 cyclists per hour, and very little car traffic. Remember, this is a bicycle town; I do not own a car, doing most all my errands on my bike with its 2 fordable baskets in the rear.

And now, over a year later, that same heavy, oppressive emptiness persists. And no, I am not used to it. And yes, I traveled over the last year, but I found the same suffocating blanket of emptiness in each city I visited, even in Las Vegas. It was unnerving. As a matter of fact, last year when I drove to San Francisco 2 months after lockdown for my birthday, I wound up getting depressed and disoriented, in a city where I lived for almost 7 years. Driving back home across the Golden Gate Bridge with tears of sadness in my eyes on my birthday was not what I expected. However, I did get some solid photos of the malaise that hung thick in the air, a malaise that physically took up the space that once was taken up by crowds of people.

Now, I am also very aware that my situation is unique. (Not a fan of the word exceptional, since it can mean both unique and special, and I do not see my situation as special.) My life situation is very unique in that I have a job I love and I work with a great team of characters. We get work done and we have fun, share about our lives. My job is often, especially since COVID19 first got noticed in early 2020, stressful and demands my colleagues and I learn (and sometimes then teach) lots of new technology and that we adapt to the vagaries of the technology gods, which are sometimes unfriendly and unresponsive. And a big part of my job is trying to figure out how to get the technology gods to like us again and grace us with their gifts. (I never realized, until now, with this discussion, that the troubleshooting that is a big part of my job is creative and probably fuels my photographic creativity. Who knew?) Yet, as a group, my colleagues and I support each other. And I am fortunate to count my closest colleague, Steve, as a friend. We have been a great emotional support to each other over the years and now through this COVID19 era. And I recently was reminded (as if I needed reminding) just how unique my work situation is because I participated in a committee that was going over responses to a UC Davis-wide survey exploring levels of employee satisfaction. My 2 colleagues who were also on that committee and I did not have the complaints that others from other departments shared. We work well together, have supportive management that share what is going on and include us (as mush as possible) in the decision making process. And as a department, we get stuff done.

Possibly the best example of how blessedly unique my situation is is what happened this morning when I was talking (yes, on ZOOM) with my immediate supervisor. We discussed the work related stuff, including how at around 10:30 pm the night before I figured something out about an online tool integration I had never done before that I knew was easy but I did not see as easy until I reread the overly complicated instructions a couple of times and just figured out how and where to cut and paste the lines of code (it was that easy, just fucking cut and paste some lines of JSON code) that got the fucking thing to work. Then we talked about his dealing with his young children returning to school and how “normal” now is not “normal” from before and how disruptive the whole thing has been, yet since we work in a supportive atmosphere (and are both salaried), he was able to deal and keep living.

Then, and you are gonna love this, I shared about my original COVID19 question post and the responses and pretty much said to him what I am sharing here.

We talked for a little over an hour. That kind of rapport is rare, for any job, anywhere.

And then there is another way my situation is unique. In some ways, previous “bad things” were actually a preparation for this era of physical distance and uncertainty. In mid-2019, from July to August, first because of my work related bowling concussion and then an antibiotic resistant infection, I was bedridden for about 5 weeks and then had several absences because of concussion issues, like sudden and extreme anger flare ups, nausea, headaches. But however bad I thought that concussion and infection were, the concussion induced forgetfulness and my desire to sharpen my mind and nurture and nourish it have lead me to become, in my old age, organized. I now often take notes of important stuff, add work and personal dates and notes to my Outlook calendar, and even know what day it is, which bugs my colleagues who often find they have no idea what day and/or date it is. Yep, unique, but the bad concussion shit got me to be organized in ways that I was never able to be before, no matter what I tried. This time, I just fucking get organized, without thinking about it too much. And if I fuck up with my being organized, like I did the other day for work, I admit it, fix it, and move on.

Preparation for isolation (and unexpected natural threats) came by way of the 2018 Northern California (the region where I live) fires that year, which caused the campus to shut down for about a week. (As my friend Steve called it, the smoking break.) And for work, my colleagues and I faced a couple of long term, emergency technical outages that impacted all of the UC Davis faculty, one of them for over a month. Pretty much on a professional and personal level, I was, if not ready, at least getting used to the WTF of whatever life decides to surprise me with. (And lets not forget the really bad fire last September, seen in this video I posted of ash “snow” falling. We did not have to shut down the campus because there was no one there anyway.)

Another aspect of this last year, and one that has been present in my life for a few years now, is the BLM movement and the brutal police violence against Black people in this country. As someone who was a teaching assistant and taught in African American Studies and worked closely with students of color on campus in a student run organization, I was and am still devastated, in part because I know, from hearing so many personal accounts, the pain many of my friends, former colleagues, and former students, are still facing and how overwhelmed they felt and still feel. I understand, if as an outsider, their emotional exhaustion. This has been going on for a while, plus add the years of anti-immigrant hate against the Latinx in the US and the rising tide of violent hate against Asians, and yes, it has been sorrowful. Heartbreaking. And I have, in several ways, including my photography, tried to capture the sorrow and resilience of US people of color. It hurts, almost physically, that many people of color are just tired of talking and dealing with the hate.

So, yes, my situation is unique, but with its own emotionally draining weight. And yes, I am extremely grateful. This leads to the other 2 comments in Reply:

kkomppa

Thank you for sharing, Fern. Very interesting. Like you, I would say my output hasn’t changed much. However, I have sought locations deeper in the wilderness. This has been fulfilling.

schwarzkaeppchen

Really interesting thoughts. We live in strange times, but creativity and motivation comes and goes for so many different reasons. My photography has changed a lot. I used to work as a photographer at events and took portraits for fun... Now I'm officially a portrait photographer.

Both of these comments point to another unique aspect of my life situation: For some of us, our photography and how we do it, has not changed much, and if it has, that has been a part of our overall experience with this art form we love so much.

For me, because of my depressive tendencies, the Zen of photography, at least the way I do it, is therapeutic. And I do not use the  term “Zen” lightly here, because my spiritual life has helped me come to terms with the WTF surprises that are pretty much life, if at times the WTF of it is more impactful, as it is during this COVID19 era. And that is part of what I was trying to share with my original post: Before this period of isolation and disorientation, I was already coming to grips with the gospel truth that “creativity and motivation comes and goes for so many different reasons.” as @schwarzkaeppchen​ said. In no way do I diminish the anguish flared up by these bleak times that impact so many around the world. And really, when you think about it, bleak times have been a norm, at least here in the US, since late 2016, though, of course, lockdowns and physical distance make it all worse. But, at least for me, I try to learn from the bleak times, even if I abhor going through them. And when dealing with the highs and lows of creative energy, at least for me, I have a calm certainty that photography is part of my life and I do not have to worry, since I only love it more each day. And the other side to my certainty is that if someday my love of photography fades, some other treasure of creativity will replace it.

Let’s be real, because of photography. I think about stuff like this and get to have discussions with so many great Tumblr original photographers.

And I am grateful for it, and no, this is not unique to my life situation. I know many of us love being here and sharing the good, the bad, the confounding.

Please think about joining @tvoom and me for InConverversation this month. It has been a long time since we talked, and this COVID19 era will be our topic.

I am grateful for all y’all.

[miss-choco-chips]

From Baby to Babe~

I once wrote this  https://miss-choco-chips.tumblr.com/post/190983954737/theres-a-point-in-all-the-rouges-gallerys-lives and @theturdis wanted a fic about it, so... Just remember, you asked for this hon. This ain’t my fault.

Tagging @animemangasoul who just told me to tag them the next time I wrote something. 

Fair warning everyone, I somehow did this in one sitting, and, I can’t stress this enough, there’s no edit whatsoever. Like, none. Enjoy, if you can ignore the eyesore of my multiple mistakes.

----.----

Bruce despairs in the knowledge of his sons growing up hot.

---.---

When Dick came back to Gotham as the new Nightwing for the first time ever… well. 

Bruce didn't like to think about the first suit, back then. All those feathers and glitter, the plunging V neck, the mullet… His son had insisted on it being the trend at the time. Bruce just couldn't grasp how was he supposed to blend into the night and take anyone by surprise. There was too much... everything, and not nearly enough stealth.

He was an innocent man, back then. He looked at a horse gift in the mouth and was completely blindsided when it raised on it’s hind legs and kicked him where it hurted.

When Selina approached him a few weeks after N had come to him with the blueprints of his new suit, he had been quiet relaxed. Or as relaxed as one can be when crouched like a gargoyle and looking over the city. He was just getting back on track after… Jason (it still hurted, and probably always would, to think about him), his new partner helping in ways he couldn’t foresee, violence tampered by Tim’s brilliant smile every time he came to Bruce with the answer to a particularly difficult riddle he had been having trouble with. He had to get his act together, because Tim was so bright, mind so beyond what Bruce could ever aspire to, and he was at such an impressionable age… If Batman allowed himself to fall deeper into despair, he would set a dangerously bad example to the kid, which could be really damaging… to the world at large. He was the kind of kid that B wanted on the side of Justice, because the opposite would be quite catastrophic.

So yes, he had been very distracted lately, merely glancing over Dick’s blueprints, noticing the lack of brilliantine and gold, and giving his wholehearted approval. 

Stupid, innocent man he was. He had needed Catwoman of all people to open his eyes.

(To this day, he still wondered about Alfred’s reason for not warning him sooner. Perhaps, and this was the theory he had running, the old butler had been just so delighted at seeing the Disco suit gone, he would approve almost everything in its place, and Dick’s virtue had never been his responsibility to preserve, so to hell with it.

Betrayal always hurted the worse when it came from those closest to you)

-Hey handsome.

-Cat.

She rolled her eyes, already beyond his brood, and just walked out of the light, joining him into the shadows with a sigh at his dramatics. 

-No theft today?

The woman grimaced a bit, letting herself fall at his side with as much grace as she did everything else. Diamond claws scratched at her scalp, carefully not tearing the frail skin, and Batman finally conceded and turned his head to look at her directly. She was never so hesitant.

-Look. I really, really don’t want to be the one telling you this. I would literally rather leave this to anyone else, but… it’s getting out of hand.

-What is it?

-Nightwing. Hadn’t you noticed anything about him?

That got whatever rest of his attention she hadn’t already caught. Speaking of his sons always had that effect on him.

-What happened to him?

-Nothing, just… He’s been out a lot, hasn’t he? I thought he didn’t operate in the city as much…

She was stalling, which was worryingly out of character for Selina. But since this was about Nightwing, he had to be patient and let her talk her way into whatever information she was going to lay on him.

-I’ve been… -training a new Robin, not that he could tell her that- busy, lately. He’s picking up the slack while I’m focusing on it -a.k.a helping him both patrol the streets and teach Tim. 

-I noticed the changes, yes, whatever therapy you’re doing is great for you -she encouraged, more honest than he thought her capable of. He could already see her deadpan when she figured out the reason for his change, his ‘therapy’ as she put it, was an eleven year old thrusting himself at this dangerous life of his.

-Hm.

-Well… Anything noteworthy about him lately? Crime Fighting related?

Since she was stressing the words so much, he gave them deep thought.

-He has been on a streak lately. A lot more arrests… What’s your point?

He could almost see the second she internally said ‘fuck it’ and just blurted everything out.

-That’s because his new suit is, and this is coming from me, B, indecent, and every criminal out there is focusing more on his ass than his punches and flips so he’s kicking ass easier.

Bruce kicked his way to the forefront of his mind, the father in him hip checking the vigilante out of the way so he could properly freak out.

What? He knew the suit was a lot more tight than the former one, but he’d been so relieved at it being mostly black he hadn’t given more than a cursory look… and he barely saw the man in it, often training together in workout clothes and coming and going to patrol at different times. He… wasn’t prepared for this.

-Excuse me?

-I’m sorry, someone had to tell you. Normally, I’d be completely on board with a suit change from boring to daring, and you know of my good relationship with leather, but I’ve literally seen that kid grow up. If I have to listen to Harley talking about Nightwing’s ass one more time, Ivy won’t need to worry any more about the Joker killing her, because I will do it myself.

He wanted to thank her for standing up for his son, but he was still busy internally screaming.

-You want to hear Riddle’s last work? While looking directly at N, he asked ‘is buttcheeks one word? Or should I spread them?’. And then he winked. Winked, B. At your eighteen year old kid. You need to get your ass on gear and make sure Nighting changes his. I mean, I’m getting used to it, but you’ve been doing great lately, violent wise, and I’d hate for you to relapse because you heard Zsaasz asking N to tie his ropes tighter and harder.

B… needed to go back to the cave and call N back early. They had to talk.

----.----

When Jason came back, the first thing to break past the ‘holy shit my son is alive’ wall surrounding his brain was just how tall he had grown. How strong, how broad, how big. The little boy he had picked up from the street, underfeed and hurting everywhere, had turned out almost bigger than B himself and twice as brave. The wave of pride he felt was massive, but the feeling was short lived. 

Jason was killing criminals, had even attempted to murder Tim. Even if the father in him could, in his desperation, try and overlook the first bit, the same side couldn’t get past the second. Tim was as much his as Jason, and he couldn't turn a blind eye to it.

The relief of him being back that overflowed from Bruce clashed horribly with Batman’s unbending morals, and the two sides warred for days for control. The attack on his youngest son had been the deciding factor in who finally won; Bruce couldn’t fight the darkness in him when he needed it to help protect Robin from his predecessor, as much as it pained him.

Theirs was a long road, a difficult path to come back together as a family after so many mistakes on both parts (more his than Jason’s, he knew, but admitting so was so hard…), but they had finally, finally came back together. All his children, sitting around the dinning table at the manor, throwing food at each other behind Alfred’s back, Dick failing to give Jason a noogie, Tim succeeding in elbowing his way past both of them to claim first picks over the brownies, Damian rolling his eyes while sneakily drawing in his notebook what B suspected was a portrait of the three of them, Cass and Steph laughing at their antics… His heart felt like it could give out.

Again, his mind was anywhere but in… that. Already used to the dirty looks aimed at Nighting, he focused his anger into strength behind every punch, taking care to kick specially hard when aiming at the criminal’s genitals as light punishment for the lust they aimed at his oldest, but not longer trying to essentially castrate them.

He had the hang of it, and it was just one child. He could do damage control with one, it wasn’t that hard. Stephanie wasn’t really his, just under his protection as a mentor, and even then, she was mostly Barbara’s; Cass could and would take care of anyone who dared look at her in a way she didn’t like, so she was also good. Seventeen year old Tim and thirteen year old Damian were babies, so they wouldn't be an issue for a long, long time.

And then. And then, Steph had opened her mouth.

-Why can’t Tim do this? -she had whined, raising the heels to eye level and studying them with profound distaste- I hate fighting on these. He’s much better than me at that anyway, and he makes a hotter chick than I when he goes full out on his undercover gig.

Red Robin, who was walking past her on his way to the training mats, high fived her.

Barbara’s voice came from the Batcomputer, Oracle’s voice filter not needed while they still were on the Cave.

-Because he and Jason can’t act like a couple for more than two hours before one of them breaks into hives or laughter, and this is an all night long gig. 

-Then why can’t Tim and Dick go? You just need a girl as pretty arm candy distaction, the guy is the one who’s gonna do the work, and Nightwing can take care of a few drug dealers himself.

-While Dick is certainly pretty enough to gain permission to enter this very private party -the man, stretching with Tim, stopped mid motion to give the computer finger guns. Barbara coughed to cover a laugh and kept going-, the goal is for him to be invited into the boss’s personal office, and we can only do that if he’s interested in what he sees. From what Tim gathered for me on his last recon, he favours… Jason’s body types more than Dick’s.

Bruce, who was just getting out of the locker room, suit fully in place except from the cowl, raised an eyebrow at that, stopping to analyze his second oldest. Tilting his head, and still as confused, he asked what would undoubtedly bring him an unhealthy amount of regret in the very near future.

-What does that mean? Jason’s...body type? You mean tall? Dick is also pretty tall.

There was total silence in the cave for a few moments. Dick and Tim got up from their positions, shared a look, and made a run for the showers, claiming they were ready for patrol (they weren’t, not warmed up enough, but he had other things to focus on now). Damian, already fully suited, tutted and dragged the hood of his cape over his face, almost completely covering it. Cass looked on impassively, and Stephanie seemed to be getting a worryingly amount of glee from whatever this was.

Jason himself was… blushing? What?

-Who’s gonna tell him? -finally asked Barbara, amusement breaking her professional facade.

-Oh, me, me! Let me do this!

Apparently still a naive man, he nodded at the blonde, ready for someone to clear this up for him.

He was regaled with a half an hour long rant about biceps, pecs, and thighs that could compete against tree trunks and win. It was supported by apparent citations from different criminals that ranged from appreciative to full on scandalous.

In the end, everyone left the cave, Batgirl with a notorious spring on her step, and Bruce had to stay home instead of going out, needing the night to fully process about his second son, almost twenty one but twelve in his mind’s eye, apparently featuring in multiple Arkham calendars. 

He came out of that realization a scarred man, to say the least.

-----.-----

It was barely a few months after his traumatic chat with Stephanie when it happened again. He’d like to say he was ready for this.

He wasn’t.

When Conner Kent found him, he was completely focused on his WE’s work. For once on the office, with the TV providing some white noise in the background, he was fully prepared for a day catching up. He couldn’t keep letting Tim take over most of the work, the kid deserved to have a normal (or as normal as any of them could achieve) teenage life.

He was of course notified the moment the meta breached the city’s limits, but figured he was here on Titan’s business or hanging out with Tim. The light knock on his office window was a big surprise.

-This is unexpected, Conner. What can I do for you? -he greeted after letting him in- Tim isn’t here today, he’s giving a press conference.

-Yeah, I know. I’m actually here for you. We, the team, heard from Tim you’re making the blueprints for his next suit.

This conversation was already going in a very confusing way. Why did they care about Tim’s gear?

-Yes?

-Well, you need to double check with us before you show anything to him -something akin to indignant surprise must have shown in his face, because the meta quickly raised both hands-. We don’t mean that as you needing our approval, of course you’d know better how to keep a non-meta well protected. We know jackshit about kevlar and armor. But it’s the… style, that has us worried.

He let the anger bleed out of him, replaced with puzzlement.

-What do you mean?

Conner looked down, as if gathering strength, then up and straight into Bruce’s eyes, a feat very few younger heroes could achieve. This was serious.

-Tim isn’t big like Jason, or as… stretchy as Dick, but he has… very, very attractive features. I won’t go into detail with you about how thin his waist is, how shapely his legs or cute his ass. That’s not something I need to say or you to hear.

Yes, it definitely wasn’t. Bruce was having an inkling as to where this was headed, and he didn’t like it. Tim was a baby! Barely eighteen and so damn small!

-But I do need to tell you, his ugly ass suits have been good at keeping that all on the downlow. We made fun of him for them, sure, but never encouraged him to change, because we know what will happen if he does. It would be awful. You think Nightwing and Red Hood have it rough? Tim has Ra’s Al Ghul’s undivided attention and appreciation. If we add attraction to it? Mayhem. Absolute mayhem. We can barely keep him from being kidnapped by older, nasty villains as it is. We don’t need the extra work, sir. I’m begging you on behalf of the team, don’t let him get anything that would look good on him. Like that Untranet suit he told me about, for example. That one would be so bad. Or the Red Robin one with tighter pants and a domino under the cowl so he can take it out and flash the world his luscious hair. 

Bruce fell back into his desk chair. Elbows resting on the table, he buried his face into his hands.

A long silence filled the room.

-You already approved and made one of those, right?

A small, shaky nod.

-...The Ultranet one?

A firm shake. 

-Fuck me. The Red Robin with tighter pants and domino?

Another nod. Conner sat abruptly on the empty chair in the other side of the desk, like a puppet with its strings cut.

-Well, fuck. 

Fuck indeed. 

Bruce despaired.

----.----

This time, he would be ready. He swore it on his honor, on his oath, on his parents.

So when Damian turned sixteen, growth spurt kicking in (he towed over Tim, and it wouldn’t be long until he left Dick in the dust as well), he made a thought but necessary call.

He phoned Talia.

-We need to talk. About Damian, and… sex appeal.

Her shock was evident even through the phone.

-Excuse me? My son is a child. He has no such thing.

He closed his eyes. Once, a long time ago, he’d been just as naive. Now he knew better. 

It was a hard lesson to learn, but she needed to. And quickly. Damian was growing faster than his other children. Time was of essence.

-Let me tell you what I wish I knew years ago, when Dick decided to change his Nightwing suit.

She was probably going to hate him for opening her eyes like this, but Bruce just couldn't do this alone. 

He could deal with Talia’s hate, but criminals lusting after his baby son? Hell no. He might actually go rouge.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I noticed you did post to acknowledge the death of Uderzo, the co-creator of the Asterix comics. I have to ask Tintin or Asterix? Which one do you prefer?

It’s like asking Stones or Beatles? I love both but for different reasons. I would hate to choose between the two.

Both Tintin and Asterix were the two halves of a comic dyad of my childhood. Whether it was India, China, Hong Kong, Japan, or the Middle East the one thing that threads my childhood experience of living in these countries was finding a quiet place in the home to get lost reading Asterix and Tintin.

Even when I was eventually carted off to boarding school back in England I took as many of my Tintin and Asterix comics books with me as I could. They became like underground black market currency to exchange with other girls for other things like food or chocolates sent by parents and other illicit things like alcohol. Having them and reading them was like having familiar friends close by to make you feel less lonely in new surroundings and survive the bear pit of other girls living together.

If you asked my parents - especially my father - he would say Tintin hands down. He has - and continues to have in his library at home - a huge collection of Tintin comic books in as many different language translations as possible. He’s still collecting translations of each of the Tintin books in the most obscure languages he can find. I have both all the Tintin comic books - but only in English and French translations, and the odd Norwegian one - as well as all the Asterix comic books (only in English and French).

Speaking for myself I would be torn to decide between the two. Each have their virtues and I appreciate them for different reasons.

Tintin was truly about adventure that spoke deeply to me. Tintin was always a good detective story that soon turned to a travel adventure. It has it all: technology, politics, science and history. Of course the art is more simpler, but it is also cleaner and translates the wondrous far-off locations beautifully and with a sense of awe that you don’t see in the Asterix books. Indeed Hergé was into film-noir and thriller movies, and the panels are almost like storyboards for The Maltese Falcon or African Queen.

The plot lines of Tintin are intriguing rather than overly clever but the gallery of characters are much deeper, more flawed and morally ambiguous. Take Captain Haddock I loved his pullover, his strangely large feet, his endless swearing and his inability to pass a bottle without emptying it. He combined bravery and helplessness in a manner I found irresistible.

I’ve read that there is a deeply Freudian reading to the Tintin books. I think there is a good case for it. The Secret of the Unicorn and Red Rackham's Treasure are both about Captain Haddock's family. Haddock's ancestor, Sir Francis Haddock, is the illegitimate son of the French Sun King – and this mirrors what happened in Hergé's family, who liked to believe that his father was the illegitimate son of the Belgian king. This theme played out in so many of the books. In The Castafiore Emerald, the opera singer sings the jewel song from Faust, which is about a lowly woman banged up by a nobleman – and she sings it right in front of Sir Francis Haddock, with the captain blocking his ears. It's like the Finnegans Wake of the cartoon. Nothing happens - but everything happens.

Another great part is that the storylines continue on for several albums, allowing them to be more complex, instead of the more simplistic Asterix plot lines which are always wrapped up nicely at the end of each book.

Overall I felt a great affinity with Tintin - his youthful innocence, wanting to solve problems, always resourceful, optimistic, and brave. Above all Tintin gave me wanderlust. Was there a place he and Milou (Snowy) didn’t go to? When they had covered the four corners of the world Tintin and Milou went to the moon for heaven’s sake!

What I loved about Asterix was the style, specifically Uderzo’s visual style. I liked Hergé’s clean style, the ligne claire of his pen, but Asterix was drawn as caricature: the big noses, the huge bellies, often being prodded by sausage-like fingers. This was more appealing to little children because they were more fun to marvel at.

In particular I liked was the way Uderzo’s style progressed with each comic book. The panels of Asterix the Gaul felt rudimentary compared to the later works and by the time Asterix and Cleopatra, the sixth book to be published, came out, you finally felt that this was what they ought to look like. It was an important lesson for a child to learn: that you could get better at what you did over time. Each book seemed to have its own palette and perhaps Uderzo’s best work is in Asterix in Spain.

I also feel Asterix doesn’t get enough credit for being more complex. Once you peel back the initial layers, Asterix has some great literal depth going on - puns and word play, the English translation names are all extremely clever, there are many hidden details in the superb art to explore that you will quite often miss when you initially read it and in a lot of the truly classic albums they are satirising a real life country/group/person/political system, usually in an incredibly clever and humorous way.

What I found especially appealing was that it was also a brilliant microcosm of many classical studies subjects - ancient Egypt, the Romans and Greek art - and is a good first step for young children wanting to explore that stuff before studying it at school.

What I discovered recently was that Uderzo was colour blind which explains why he much preferred the clear line to any hint of shade, and it was that that enabled his drawings to redefine antiquity so distinctively in his own terms. For decades after the death of René Goscinny in 1977, Uderzo provided a living link to the golden age of the greatest series of comic books ever written: Paul McCartney to Goscinny’s John Lennon. Uderzo, as the Asterix illustrator, was better able to continue the series after Goscinny’s death than Goscinny would have been had Uderzo had died first, and yet the later books were, so almost every fan agrees, not a patch on the originals: very much Wings to the Beatles. What elevated the cartoons, brilliant though they were, to the level of genius was the quality of the scripts that inspired them. Again and again, in illustration after illustration, the visual humour depends for its full force on the accompaniment provided by Goscinny’s jokes.

Here below is a great example:

There’s a lot of genius in this. Uderzo copied Theodore Géricault’s iconic ‘Raft of the Medusa’ 1818 painting in ‘Asterix The Legionary’. The painting is generally regarded as an icon of Romanticism. It depicts an event whose human and political aspects greatly interested Géricault: the wreck of a French frigate, Medusa, off the coast of Senegal in 1816, with over 150 soldiers on board. But Anthea Bell’s translation of Goscinny’s text (including the pictorial and verbal pun ‘we’ve been framed, by Jericho’) is really extraordinary and captures the spirit of the Asterix cartoons perfectly.

This captures perfectly my sense of humour as it acknowledges the seriousness of life but finds humour in them through a sly cleverness and always with a open hearted joy. There is no question that if humour was the measuring yard stick then Asterix and not Tintin would win hands down.

It’s also a mistake to think that the world of Asterix was insular in comparison to the amazing countries Tintin had adventures. Asterix’s world is very much Europe.

Every nationality that Asterix encounters is gently satirised. No other post-war artistic duo offered Europeans a more universally popular portrait of themselves, perhaps, than did Goscinny and Uderzo. The stereotypes with which he made such affectionate play in his cartoons – the haughty Spaniard, the chocolate-loving Belgian, the stiff-upper-lipped Briton – seemed to be just what a continent left prostrate by war and nationalism were secretly craving. Many shrewd commentators believe that during the golden age when Goscinny was still alive to pen the scripts, that it was a fantasy on French resistance during occupation by Nazi Germany. Uderzo lived through the occupation and so there is truth in that. Perhaps this is why the Germans are the exceptions as they are treated unsympathetically in Asterix and the Goths, and why quite a few of the books turn on questions of loyalty and treachery.

Even the British are satirised with an affection that borders on love: the worst of the digs are about our appalling cuisine (everything is boiled, and served with mint sauce, and the beer is warm), but everything points to the Gauls’ and the Britons’ closeness. They have the same social structure, even down to having one village still holding out against the Romans; the crucial and extremely generous difference being that the Britons do not have a magic potion to help them fight. Instead they have tea, introduced to them by Getafix, via Asterix, which gives them so much of a psychological boost that it may as well have been the magic potion.

I re-read ‘Asterix in Britain’ (Astérix chez les Bretons) in the light of the 2016 Brexit referendum result and felt despaired that such a playful and respectful portrayal of this country was not reciprocated. Don’t get me wrong I voted for Brexit but I remain a staunch Europhile. It made me violently irritated to see many historically illiterate pro-Brexit oiks who mistakenly believed the EU and Europe were the same thing. They are not. One was originally a sincere band aid to heal and bring together two of the greatest warring powers in continental Europe that grotesquely grew into an unaccountable bureaucratic manager’s utopian wet dream, and the other is a cradle of Western achievement in culture, sciences and the arts that we are all heirs to.

What I loved about Asterix was that it cut across generations. As a young girl I often retreated into my imaginary world of Asterix where our family home had an imaginary timber fence and a dry moat to keep the world (or the Romans) out. I think this was partly because my parents were so busy as many friends and outsiders made demands on their time and they couldn’t say no or they were throwing lavish parties for their guests. Family time was sacred to us all but I felt especially miffed if our time got eaten away. Then, as I grew up, different levels of reading opened up to me apart from the humour in the names, the plays on words, and the illustrations. There is something about the notion of one tiny little village, where everybody knows each other, trying to hold off the dark forces of the rest of the world. Being the underdog, up against everyone, but with a sense of humour and having fun, really resonated with my child's eye view of the world.

The thing about both Asterix and Tintin books is that they are at heart adventure comics with many layers of detail and themes built into them. For children, Asterix books are the clear winner, as they have much better art and are more fantastical. Most of the bad characters in the books are not truly evil either and no-one ever dies, which appeals hugely to children. For older readers, Tintin has danger, deeper characters with deep political themes, bad guys with truly evil motives, and even deaths. It’s more rooted in the real world, so a young reader can visualise themselves as Tintin, travelling to these real life places and being a hero.

As I get older and re-read Asterix and Tintin from time to time I discover new things. 

From Asterix, there is something about the notion of one tiny little village, where everybody knows each other, trying to hold off the dark forces of the rest of the world. Being the underdog, up against everyone, but with a sense of humour and having fun, really resonated with my child's eye view of the world. In my adult world it now makes me appreciate the value of family, friends, and community and even national identity. Even as globalisation and the rise of homogenous consumerism threatens to envelope the unique diversity of our cultures, like Asterix, we can defend to the death the cultural values that define us but not through isolation or by diminishing the respect due to other cultures and their cultural achievements.

From Tintin I got wanderlust. This fierce even urgent need to travel and explore the world was in part due to reading the adventures of Tintin. It was by living in such diverse cultures overseas and trying to get under the skin of those cultures by learning their languages and respecting their customs that I realised how much I valued my own heritage and traditions without diminishing anyone else.

So I’m sorry but I can’t choose one over the other, I need both Asterix and Tintin as a dyad to remind me that the importance of home and heritage is best done through travel and adventure elsewhere.

Thanks for your question.

[abbacchiosbelt]

This is unlike anything else I’ve ever written, just as a warning going in. A good friend commissioned me to write a creepypasta about Mario Party 2, specifically the game ‘Quicksand Cache’ after everyone on their stream was laughing about how weird it was. So, it’s semi-serious and a little edgy, but you you like video game creepypastas, enjoy.

Quicksand Cache | 2370 words, T for spooky themes.

Everyone who has played Mario Party growing up has a favorite minigame – even if you’ve only played the game once or twice, you can usually fondly remember a few of the minigames. There are so many choices that it’s hard to pick a favorite minigame, let alone a favorite Mario Party game! Despite that, my friends and I have always enjoyed playing Mario Party 2 the most.

Mario Party 2 was the pinnacle of Mario Party games to us. Sure, you could argue subsequent games got better and better, but nothing beat MP2 for us. The minigames, the costumes, the boards, and the music all brought us back over and over. It was our favorite.

At least, it was our favorite.

You might be asking yourself why we stopped loving Mario Party 2. It’s been a long time since we played or have even seen each other. The last time we played together was the culmination of something… strange. I might as well tell you what happened since you’re reading this post on my little corner of the internet.

Let me start from the beginning… Mario Party 2 came out in 1999. The game came out when I was just a kid. It was easy enough to play. It didn’t require much reading, and anything we didn’t understand was easy to figure out with the help of a parent. Either way, I loved it! I played it all the time, happily choosing Donkey Kong as my character every time. I remember loving how silly he looked compared to the rest of the cast. As time passed, I began to make friends in school and would often invite them over to play on my N64. Of course, we’d always end up playing a game of Mario Party 2! Luckily for me, no one else wanted to pick DK, so I always got to play as my favorite character.

My favorite minigame, in particular, was one called Quicksand Cache. It was a 3-vs-1 minigame where we could work together, or the odd player out could work against the other three. My friends dreaded it when it came up because I had become a master at it! Nothing was funnier than me than seeing Donkey Kong’s big head on top of a Bowser suit as I made him spin the quicksand in circles to collect the coins falling from the sky while my friends tried to resist being sucked under. I always won, much to the chagrin of my friends.

All was well, at first – we grew up and didn’t have as much time to play games. People moved, new consoles came out, and Mario Party 2 was put into a box filled with other old games and consoles. It wouldn’t be the end for the game, though. Nostalgia called once my friends and I graduated from high school and found ourselves wanting to reconnect. What better to do than hang out and play old videogames that we used to love?

We found free time a couple of times a month (sometimes more if we were lucky) to get together and hang out. This particular evening, our choice was Mario Party 2. After digging it out of storage, I blew on the cartridge – old habits die hard – and put the game in the N64 as my friends and I sat back, watching the silly opening. Nothing was amiss as we pressed start, quickly picking our old favorite characters. As always, I chose Donkey Kong. This time, my friends chose Yoshi, Wario, and Luigi.

Our first game was a little off. We noticed we were getting a lot of 3-vs-1 minigames. While the game works by using RNG, 4-player minigames were the most typical choice. Nearly every turn, I was landing on red spaces and my friends were landing on blue spaces. It was frustrating losing 3 coins every turn, but it was quickly made back up to me by the game choosing Quicksand Cache for every minigame.

Over and over we watched the screen fade and open up to an arena filled with quicksand, Donkey Kong’s head on top of a Bowser suit in the very middle as Yoshi, Luigi, and Wario stood on the outside. The game went as normal, at least, the characters eventually getting sucked into the vortex of sand as DK raised his arms and spun in the middle of the screen.

While the game was frustrating, the sight of DK in the middle was still just as funny to my friends and me as it had been when we were kids. At first, anyways… As the game came up over and over, something about the game felt almost unsettling. Nothing had changed, but the whole room could tell there was something off. We chalked it off to frustration over the game giving us bad RNG and moved on to the next game.

Again, the same issue was bothering us – the game was determined to pick 3-vs-1 minigames, forcing us to play Quicksand Cache repeatedly. We pushed through, but after the second board, my friends were done with Mario Party 2 for the night. I couldn’t blame them, as I was getting annoyed too despite how many coins I was winning from the game. The night went on and eventually, my friends departed for their own homes, leaving me by myself.

Out of curiosity, I decided to boot up Mario Party 2 and see if I got the same results I had earlier. I chose Donkey Kong, of course, and picked the same characters my friends had. The only difference is that they were set to COM. Strangely enough, the game was back to normal. I texted my friends about it, and they agreed it was just a strange fluke.

Months went by where my friends would pick Mario Party 2 for game night and we’d have the same issue. We decided that enough was enough and put the Mario Party 2 cartridge to rest for good. Perhaps its long life had corrupted the game. I couldn’t help but give the game one last try, though. I had loved it for so long that I wanted to play one last game, even if the cartridge was starting to glitch out.

I loaded up the game and went to the character menu, but something was off. The characters, normally cheerful, had blank expressions on their faces. I figured the game must really be messing up, but I was determined to play one more time. I picked Donkey Kong and his model stayed static. Undeterred, I picked the other characters to play as COMs and went into a board.

The game had gone silent except for the rolling of the dice – the mechanical, whirring noise was a stark contrast to the upbeat and cheerful music the boards usually played. I checked the sound settings, but nothing was turned off, so I continued. I thought that maybe blowing on the cartridge so many times had finally caught up to me – I’d had it happen with other games, so this one must simply be on its last legs. I pressed A to hit the dice, and the game officially started.

I landed on a red space.

The COMs landed on blue spaces, and to no surprise, we were brought back to Quicksand Cache. This time, though, the COMs were still. They did nothing as I made DK spin, which meant they were sucked under almost immediately. The game quickly ended, confusing me. I knew the COMs did weird things sometimes, but they hadn’t moved at all. Still, I wasn’t convinced it was anything other than the game glitching out.

As I looked at the screen, though, I noticed the character portraits were frowning. It was the same portrait the characters got when they were in last place on the results screen. Their sad faces were unnerving, and even Donkey Kong was frowning. There was no way I was going to stop, though, especially not when the game was acting so weird.

I hit the dice again, and by the time the turn had ended, we were back in Quicksand Cache. This time, instead of standing still, the characters went into their losing animation. They even exclaimed out in defeat like they were supposed to when they lost – but they hadn’t lost. The game had just started. I put the controller down and watched as DK sat still in the middle, the other characters still quickly succumbing to the quicksand before the minigame ended.

By this point, I was creeped out. Other things could be passed off as glitches, but this was more than that. My heart was pounding. As much as I wanted to shut off the N64, I couldn’t make myself move other than to pick my controller back up. The rumble pack vibrated at full force as soon as my hands wrapped around it, forcing me to drop it in surprise.

I watched in shock as the game began to play itself. I hadn’t set the game to all COMs. Even if I wanted to, I hadn’t checked the menu since I started. When I looked at DK, he suddenly had COM under his name. The whirring of the dice filled my ears again as the characters moved around the board by themselves, but even the game itself could do nothing against the pull of Quicksand Cache.

The game opened up for the third time. This time, Donkey Kong was frowning as he sat in the middle of the screen. The other characters still had their sad expression plastered on their face. When the game started this time, the COMs ran desperately to the edge of the map while DK seemed to move uncontrollably. He spun faster and faster, faster than should be allowed, until once again Yoshi, Luigi, and Wario were sucked underneath the sand. There was no happiness when the game ended. Donkey Kong’s expression remained sad, almost pained looking.

The game continued as I sat frozen, watching as the character’s expressions became sadder as each turn was played. Quicksand Cache was played over and over as the COMs tried desperately to escape their fate, occasionally giving up again and remaining still while DK was forced to spin.

The final turn loaded up and I gasped as the only character that remained was Donkey Kong. The other profiles were completely gone, and the board was empty – neither Toad nor Boo nor any of the other NPCs were present. Even the dice was silent, the only sound remaining the step of DK’s feet as he moved for his final turn.

There was no final minigame, the game abruptly cutting to the final ‘battle’ with Bowser on each board. There was no Bowser, though – the only thing there was DK’s Quicksand Cache sprite, his head resting atop what was allegedly a Bowser suit. He stared straight ahead, and it’s then that I noticed the rust-colored edges around the neck of the suit.

There was no way – this was a kid’s game. I scramble to shut the console off but DK’s screech from the screen stops me, his cry pitched up so high that it almost wasn’t identifiable anymore. I look back up and DK’s face is fully taking up the screen, his frown turned back into his emotionless smile. The victory music starts to play, but this time, it’s slow and somber. I can’t handle it anymore - this time when I go for the power button, nothing stops me and the game blinks out as I press it.

I pull out the cartridge as fast as I can and run downstairs to throw it into the trash, not even taking a moment to give it a second thought as I throw away what I thought was one of my favorite games. I even take the trash out despite the bag not being full, desperate to get as far away from the game as possible.

When I walk back in the house, I feel sudden exhaustion that forces me to sit on the couch. I pull out of my phone and consider talking to my friends about it, but where would I even start? Even though the game was acting weird when we played together, they’d never believe this. I sigh and put my phone back in my pocket. I decide that I don’t want to sleep in my room tonight because of the N64’s presence. Even though it hadn’t been the console itself, there was no denying the negative aura that had been present in my room ever since we started playing the game again.

For now, I decide to rest. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to play again after that. Maybe one day, just to reassure myself that what I experienced wasn’t the game… I know I’m not dreaming, but surely something was off with my copy.

I can only hope no one else had to go through what I did.

-

Donkey Kong squeezes his eyes shut as the screams of his dying friends fill his ears again – he can’t keep count of how many times they’ve been forced to do this… He was forced to be the catalyst of death as he pulled his friends into the pit of sand, their final words lost to the sand filling their mouths as they suffocated to death. The other games were not like this, but this one was different.

It was real. The body he wore was Bowser’s skin, the Koopa King having died long ago once Donkey Kong was forced into the suit. His friends were no longer themselves, but copies, just like everyone else in the game.

Except for him. Only he remained as the original, the one who had been programmed to have fun with his friends. This, though, was not what he wanted. He was forced to smile as his friends die over and over again, his unending spinning in the sandpit the cause.

Maybe one day it would stop if he could convince the copies to break from their part. While he wouldn’t be free, at least it could end.

Donkey Kong would wait.

One day, he would get his wish.

[boldly-ho]

Another Life - Chapter 16

Fandom: What We Do in the Shadows 

Pairing: Vladislav x Reader

Series Rating: E

Word Count: 1982

Chapter Summary: You ask some innocent questions about hypnosis, and Viago and Deacon grow suspicious.

A/N: Same shit as always: it’s on AO3.

“Good evening, Y/N,” Viago greeted you cheerily as he entered the lounge. He was definitely a morning person. Evening person? Whatever.

“Hey,” you shot back in a monotone. You sounded about as good as you felt. Not very.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you answered, though you were sure your tone was doing nothing to convince him. “I’m just exhausted.”

“You didn’t sleep well last night?” He asked, concerned.

“Not really. I was in and out of sleep. I think I was having nightmares.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What about?”

“No idea,” you answered honestly. Your sleep was fitful, and you felt uneasy and disturbed upon waking, but you couldn’t recall your dreams.

“Then how do you know they were nightmares?”

You shrugged. “I could just tell.”

Viago nodded in understanding. Making his way over to the ancient green couch where you sat lengthwise, taking up every cushion with your outstretched legs, he asked, “May I sit?”

“It’s your couch.” You lifted you legs just long enough for him to sit down, then laid them to rest on his lap. He set his hands on your shins, giving you a gentle squeeze as he settled.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You offered him a gentle smile. “That’s okay. There isn’t really anything to talk about, since I don’t remember the dream. Thank you, though, I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“Do vampires get nightmares?” you asked. “Do you still dream?”

“Oh yes. Vampires dream. Our dreams are a lot more vivid than human dreams, though.”

“That must make the nightmares a bitch, huh?” you joked.

He nodded, without any humor. “It does.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He shrugged it off. “I don’t have nightmares too often anymore.”

“What do you dream about?” Viago paused, and you blushed, realizing that was a very personal question. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine. My dreams are much the same as they were when I was alive, just more vivid. They’re usually quite nonsensical, just flashes of scenes, mainly. Though, I’ve dreamed about the sun much more often since I’ve become a vampire.”

You supposed that made sense, him not having seen the sun in hundreds of years. Though, with the sun’s effect on vampires, that sounded more like a nightmare than a dream. Maybe it was. You asked him, “Dreams or nightmares?”

“They’ve been both. But they’re usually good dreams. I can go out and feel the warmth on my skin and not burn. It’s nice. Though, I’m not sure it’s right anymore. I’m not sure I remember what sunlight actually feels like after all this time.”

Your heart ached for him, and for the rest of your flatmates. Petyr hadn’t seen the sun in over 8000 years. You couldn’t even begin to imagine. They had all gained so much. Transformation, teleportation, immortality. You hadn’t thought about some of the little things they’d lost. Not being able to eat human food and having to kill to survive had crossed your mind, obviously. And you were aware, of course, that they were nocturnal, but you had never really thought about their having to give up sunlight.

“Is there any way, indirectly, that you could at least look at the sun?”

“We watched a video of a sunrise when Stu was teaching us about the internet.”

“That’s nice,” you offered.

“I suppose so. It was a bit hard to enjoy. Seeing the sun pass the horizon filled me with fear, even though I knew it couldn’t really harm me.”

If your heart had already ached for him, now it had broken.

“That’s awful, Viago, I’m so sorry.”

He smiled gently. “It’s not really a big deal. Most of the time I don’t miss it, anymore. We’re supposed to be talking about dreams, remember?”

You laughed. “Oh, right. How could I have gotten so off topic?” you teased.

“What about you? What do you usually dream about?”

Deacon loudly clamored down the stairs. “Are we taking about dreams?”

“Ja. Y/N had a nightmare.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “I can’t remember.”

“Vampire nightmares are especially realistic.”

“I know. Viago mentioned that.”

“Move your legs so I can sit.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, but I’m putting them back after you sit.”

You swung your legs out of the way while Deacon sat down, waiting for him to get situated before you put your legs back across both of their laps.

“I had a really freaky dream the other day,” Deacon said.

You and Viago looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I was being chased by a giant rat. It eventually caught me and I could feel myself being chewed up alive in its enormous teeth.”

Viago gave him a sympathetic look.

You shot him a look somewhere between dumbfound, disgust, and disbelief.

“Uh…” You had no idea what to say to that.

“Your nightmare couldn’t have been that bad, Y/N.”

No, probably not. So at least there was that.

“Is Vlad awake?” Deacon asked. “He made me promise to move a body with him this evening.”

The woman from last night. The one he’d hypnotized. He’d slept in the same room as a corpse? How horrifyingly macabre. You thought back to the dirty cereal bowl on your bedside table and wondered if that was comparable.

“No, he hasn’t been down here yet,” Viago answered.

“I met her last night. The body.” You winced a bit. “The woman,” you corrected. “She ran down here and Vladislav hypnotized her in front of me. Can humans get hypnotized by proxy?”

“By proxy?”

“Yeah. If someone gets hypnotized in front of me, could I also get hypnotized? Even if I’m not the one being hypnotized…? Or spoken to? Or whatever?”

They were both looking at you, seemingly puzzled.

“Did you get hypnotized last night?” Viago asked.

“No!” Your face heated, both from answering too quickly and strongly, and from the memory of last night. You tried again, more calmly, hoping they hadn’t noticed. “No. Just hypothetically. If a vampire is hypnotizing someone, could a nearby human also get hypnotized?”

Deacon, either not hearing or choosing to ignore your explanation of this being hypothetical, asked, “What did he hypnotize her about? Did you end up doing the same thing?”

“Nothing! He didn’t- It’s just an example. I was just curious.”

Deacon gave you a suspicious glance.

“Well, vampires can hypnotize multiple people at once, but it’s extremely difficult,” Viago explained. “Vladislav is known for his hypnotizing abilities, and can hypnotize entire crowds on his better days. But it takes effort; you can’t accidentally hypnotize anyone.”

You nodded. That was good. Not that it mattered. You weren’t hypnotized. You couldn’t have been, because you didn’t- Well, because you just weren’t hypnotized.

“Besides, if you are hypnotized, you usually don’t remember it happening.” Viago told you this in a tone that was probably meant to be comforting, leading you to assume that he also didn’t believe you were dealing in hypotheticals.

You knew you weren’t hypnotized; you should have just kept your mouth shut.

Thankfully changing the subject, Viago asked, “What are your plans tonight, Y/N?”

“I have no plans. I’m just going to order food because I’m lazy and tired, and then go to bed early. Why?”

“I’m trying to plan an evening. Nick says he knows a good drinking game, and we have some alcoholic blood in the refrigerator.”

Deacon perked up, officially moving on from your previous line of inquiry. “Yes!”

It was a bit jarring to see Viago, looking and dressing the same now as he did in the hundreds of years old portrait behind him, discuss throwing a small party of drinking games and getting pissed. It was astounding how they managed to incorporate aspects of so many different time periods into their personalities at once. You decided, though, that that was not the most interesting thing to take from Viago’s statement.

Instead you asked, “Alcoholic blood?”

“Ja,” Viago affirmed. “When humans drink, the alcohol enters their blood. If they’re very drunk, their blood can can get vampires drunk.”

“Huh.” Interesting. Logically, that made sense, you’d just never thought of it before. A lot of things about vampires made sense, if you’d only think of them before they were brought up.

“It works with things besides alcohol, too,” Deacon said. “Anything that can get into the blood. Like drugs. A few years ago, when psychedelics were big…” He trailed off, making a blissful facial expression.

“Were psychedelics big a few years ago?”

Deacon nodded. “Oh yes.” His face grew more pensive before he added, “I think it was a few years ago. It could have been more.”

“Are you talking about the ‘60s?”

His face lit up. “Yes!”

“So, more than a few years ago, then.”

He shrugged.

“Well, either way, I’m not up for getting drunk tonight, but I’m very up for seeing you all get drunk at some point, so keep me posted.”

“I’ll find a night when everyone is free,” Viago said.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard the expression ‘three’s a crowd.’”

Three heads turned up towards the top of the staircase, to where Vladislav now stood.

“You know there are other places to sit in the lounge, right?”

You gave him a sour look. “We’ll, I’m comfortable.”

He smirked down at you. “You might be the only one.”

“Just how heavy do you think I am?” you asked, feigning offense.

“Actually, I am feeling a bit cramped,” Deacon admitted.

You sighed, swinging your legs off the couch and sitting upright, letting Deacon migrate from the couch to an armchair.

“Hey, Vlad,” Deacon called as he settled in his new seat, “Did I hear you with a human down here last night?”

You froze. What did he think he was doing?

“Yeah,” Vladislav answered. “Her hypnosis lapsed. She realized what was happening and tried to get out. I met her down here and brought her back up before she left.”

“I hate when they do that,” Viago muttered.

Ignoring him, Deacon pressed on, “What did you do? Hypnotize her again?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell her?”

If looks could kill, Deacon would be dead twice over. If he saw your heated glare, he ignored it.

Vladislav shrugged. You had hoped he would find Deacon’s question too invasive or too strange. It didn’t seem as though he did, however, as he answered, “I told her she wanted me and wanted to come back up to my room. Just normal stuff.”

“Oh, right,” Deacon replied.

To his credit, he didn’t turn to you, or give you a strange look. Unfortunately, you caught a side eyed glance from Viago.

You thought about getting Deacon alone and throwing your necklace at him, or singing a hymn, or-

“Am I the last one up?” Vladislav asked, effectively moving the conversation past Deacon’s prying.

“No,” Viago answered. “Petyr hasn’t come up here yet.”

“Someone had better wake him up,” Deacon said. “If he sleeps too late, he’ll be up all day, just standing in his tomb. And I’m not doing it,” he added quickly, before anyone could ask him to.

“I’m not doing it either. I do it all the time, and he’s nasty when he wakes up.”

“Well, I’m not doing it,” Vladislav said, leaning forward onto the banister. “Besides, Deacon and I have something to take care of.” Disposing of the body.

Three heads turned to look at you.

“What, me?” you asked, surprised.

“Why not you?”

Because he’s apparently ‘nasty’ when he wakes up? You didn’t voice that concern. Instead, you rose from the couch, and headed downstairs to wake up your fourth flatmate. It was better than helping someone transport a corpse, you supposed, and certainly better than remaining up here in uncomfortable silence with Viago.

You sighed. At least you could go to sleep in a few hours.

[toothlessturtle21]

Cold Blooded

So as some of y’all know, I’m a fanfic author, so I figured why not publish some of my oneshots on Tumblr? So, here’s the first one in a (maybe) series of oneshots being posted. Enjoy!

---

Jay's talking gets him into a lot of trouble, sure, but when he's faced with a mob boss who wants to work with him to resurrect his dead father, his chatter might be his only weapon. (Mafia AU) (tw: kidnapping, guns, mentioned death)

All of his life, Jay had been told that his excessive blabbering was annoying. His friends and his family were not safe from the chatter, everywhere and all the time. And god forbid  that he was nervous, because butterflies in his stomach seemed to equate to words spewing from his mouth like a fountain. So when he found himself tied up and blindfolded after a nasty run-in with some gang members, what else was he supposed to do?

"So, uh, what kind of wood is the chair I'm in made of? It feels pretty strong, but I also can't see the color to make any guesses," Jay quirked his mouth, and one of the men nearby grumbled, having put up with his incessant rambling for the better part of the hour. "Is it grainy? I can't really tell through my pants, but if it is you guys should really sand it. Splinters are no joke, even if you're wearing gloves. They always wait until you're least expecting it and then ouch, there's wood in your hand."

His company was silent, perhaps hoping that he would shut up if left unanswered. After a few beats of silence, Jay tapped his feet on the floor, an uneven rhythm that was in no way musical. He tried to think of some beat to mimic that would take his mind off of his situation. He hummed some jingles, some pop songs, and even snuck a little bit of some showtunes in there before a harsh slap to the cheek stopped him, causing Jay to cry out indignantly.

"Hey, I'm just messing around! What's the big deal anyway? You guys are the ones who nabbed me off the street, why should I listen to- mmph!"

A hand was slapped over his mouth very quickly, accompanied by a sharp shh. For once, Jay decided to listen, and heard another man in the room on the phone.

"Please sir, he's driving us insane, can't we just..."

Silence for a few minutes. Jay's heart raced at the thought of there being a man higher up waiting to get his hands on him, despite his current situation already being pretty undesirable.

"Wait, really?"

Muffled words from the other side of the line were audible now, and the man with him laughed a little, obviously relieved.

"Thank you, boss! We'll get him to you right away."

And just like that, Jay was in the air, the chair he was tied to lifted by some thug, and he squawked in surprise as he was gripped roughly by strong hands, the grunts talking amongst themselves as they brought him along. Finally, they stopped, and set him down onto a tile floor, judging by the sound of the legs hitting the ground. One ripped off his blindfold, and they immediately scurried away, leaving Jay to blink his eyes like a newborn kitten to adjust to the light.

"Ah, so you're the famed Ninja of Lightning. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Walker."

Jay finally found his sight, and discovered he was in an office, of sorts. The walls were a circle, bookshelves lining the room, except for the one area where a cabinet full of guns stood. The furniture was elegant, smooth curves and a sleek black sheen to everything made for a very intimidating look.

What was even more intimidating, however, was the figure perched on top of the desk at the far back. He looked to be young, black leather clothes contrasting with his stark white hair, combed back into a feathery undercut. Clear blue eyes stared the ninja down, and Jay felt his skin crawl under the scrutiny.

"Oh, don't tell me they harmed your vocal chords on the journey over, I've heard so much about your jabber," The man slid off the desk, striding over with quiet steps. Now that Jay was closer, he was quite tall, most definitely taller than himself.

"No, they didn't," He managed to squeak out, clearing his throat afterwards. "And how do you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things," The man shrugged. "For example, I know that you were born and raised in a trash heap, your favorite food is blackberry pie, and your name is James."

"If you know so much about me," Jay's cheeks burned from hearing his birth name and from the insult towards his parents' livelihood. "Then who are you?"

The man thought for a moment before answering, almost as if questioning himself. He seemed to finally decide on an answer after a few tense moments.

"Call me Snake."

"No offense, but you don't really don't look like a Snake," Jay blurted, and the man raised an eyebrow in amusement. "I mean, you have a pretty blue, black, white color scheme going on, and snakes are usually green. You seem more like an Spider or Shark to me than a Snake. You don't give me slimy vibes."

"Thank you for the feedback," Snake nodded, stepping back a little. "I suppose I will keep that in mind for the next time I have to choose a persona to give to strangers."

"Was that a joke I heard?" Jay asked, and Snake's expression never wavered. The blonde looked at his gun cabinet for a split second before returning his gaze to his hostage.

"So, Mr. Walker, it has come to my attention that you are especially skilled in robotics, correct?"

"I mean, yeah, but-"

"What do you normally create?"

"Small robots, mostly. Y'know, can sweep things, stack bricks, charge phones, and..." Jay trailed off, mentally slapping himself. "Actually, it's none of your business what I do. You're the one who organized my kidnapping, I'm not telling you anything!"

"Hm, just as we were doing so swimmingly. Very well then," Snake walked away, returning to his desk. He once again avoided the chair, choosing to stalk Jay from his desk like a bird of prey.

"Also, consider changing your name to Falcon. Still fits better than Snake."

"I thought we had moved on from my name, James," Snake smiled amusedly. "Although Falcon does have a nice ring to it, thank you. Perhaps I will keep that one in mind."

He pulled his legs up, crossing them on his desk. It was then that Jay noticed the portrait sitting next to his knee.

"Hey, who's in the picture?"

Snake's expression darkened, and Jay's heart picked up once more at the thought of his last words being so lame.

"Perhaps you don't understand your situation. You are in no position to be asking questions, especially ones about my personal life. As far as guests go, you have been treated rather graciously, Mr. Walker. Although I do consider myself rather forgiving in the face of insubordination, I too have a limit."

Jay went quiet, at least for a few moments, but a sudden bird cry followed by a black shape swooping past his face made him shriek, and Snake laughed at his expense. He held out his arm as a black bird rested on him, and Snake gently took the note from its mouth.

"You really are quite entertaining. I might keep you just for that."

"Usually my jokes are a little more thought out than- wait, what do you mean by keep-"

"Hush, I am trying to read, James. Do be polite."

You could hear a pin drop as the man read, cool blues scanning the page. He bristled as he hit the bulk of the letter, presumably receiving bad news.

Snake scoffed, and snatched a lighter from beside him on the desk. He lit the flame, and held it up to the paper.

"Burning letters is so much safer than texting, wouldn't you agree? Plus, fire can be oh so fun to play with if done properly."

"I'm not really a big fan of fire. I guess I just don't like heat."

"I would be inclined to agree. Ice is often much more effective, anyway. It is a silent killer, with much less destruction than fire."

"Um, killer?"

"I run an organized crime ring, do you think I reached where I am by playing nice and holding hands?"

"How did you weaponize ice?" Jay asked, and then quickly backpedaled. "Uh, sorry, no questions, I'll stop."

"There are many ways, but I will indulge you with my personal favorite," Snake released his bird, the avian flying out the small window it had come in from, and stalked towards Jay. He touched a gentle hand to his bound arm, and Jay felt his breath quicken at the contact.

"I am the master of ice. Blood is half water. If I were to concentrate right now, I could freeze your veins and arteries, leaving you stiff like a doll. My ice does not melt easily, and so it creates a wonderful display if presented properly. Of course, the victim would need to be positioned correctly, but that is beside the point."

"You're sick," Jay strained against his bonds, suddenly comprehending the danger he was in. "Is killing people a game to you?"

"Not necessarily. If I kill by necessity, then deaths are quick and painless. If they have wronged me greatly, however, I enjoy watching them writhe to the best of their ability as they feel their blood freeze under my grasp."

"Then why am I here? I haven't wronged you, as far as I know, and I'm not already dead. What do you want from me?"

"I want your expertise. I am interested in your abilities. You are skilled at creating artificial life, James. While I have trained myself in many areas, capturing the essence of a living being is something I've yet to grasp."

All of a sudden, the puzzle pieces clicked in Jay's head. The color scheme, the white hair, the obsession with birds and robotics, and the ice all suddenly brought back memories that Jay forgot that he had.

"...Zane?"

The blonde smiled sadly, and then let out a small, hollow laugh.

"Ah, so you do remember. It's been a while, I know."

"Yeah, since we were toddlers."

"Are your parents well?"

"As far as I know, yeah, they're pretty good. How about your dad?"

Zane scowled, resting his chin on his hand.

"Dead. Killed in one of your little endeavors fighting Garmadon. Tasteless, really. My father deserved a death more fitting of the great mind he was than rubble crushing his body."

"I'm so sorry," Jay bit his lip, dread filling his bones. "So, uh, you're a gang leader now?"

"In a way, yes. I was already rising to power when he died, and his passing only drove me further. And now we are here," Zane gestured to the Lightning Ninja, still tied up. Jay's fingers twitched from their bound position.

"So why didn't you tell me your name off the bat?"

"What would be the point in that? None of the men under me know my name, so why I would I tell a stranger?"

"Fair, I guess. So why am I here?"

"Considering that you killed my father, I feel it is only right that you bring him back too."

"I'm the master of lightning, not a necromancer!" Jay writhed in his bonds. "And I haven't killed anyone. You're insane!"

"I'm not insane, I'm insulted you would think that way," Zane frowned. "You recall how I told you that my ice was especially cold, correct?"

"Yeah? What's that got to do with anything?"

"I have his body frozen downstairs. My ice takes an incredibly long time to melt."

"You what?" Jay shrieked. "I'm going nowhere near a frozen corpse!"

"You won't need to," Zane reassured, although his tone was anything but lenient. "I have brought you here for your mechanical skill. Together, we can bring my father back to life."

"And if I say no?"

"I have a cabinet full of guns to my side as well as the power to freeze your blood, and you're tied up at my mercy. We may have met in our earlier years, but familiarity has never stopped me from killing before."

"Uh, okay, noted," Jay said hurriedly, annoyed at himself for forgetting his situation. "So you want me to help you bring your father back to life by building him a body? But what about his memory?"

"You leave the software to me. You're here for the hardware."

"Ok, ok," Jay nodded slowly, although his mind was going a mile a minute trying to figure out how to escape. "Can you untie me though? I can't exactly build if I'm stuck here."

"You just called me insane and have been nothing but resistant this whole time. Why would I let you roam?" Zane sneered, crossing his arms. "However, I can release you to some extent, since you will be working for me."

And with that Zane untied and retied him so that his hands were still bound, but had enough wiggle room to work. Zane kept a length of rope knotted around the middle, to prevent the Lightning Ninja from breaking away.

Jay's cheeks burned at the thought of being led around like some pet, although he supposed his captivity could have been more humiliating. At least Zane was holding him by the wrists and not by some borderline kinky rope collar.

"What, don't like it?" The blonde laughed genuinely, albeit a little cruelly. He glanced over Jay, almost as if reading his mind. "I could change the positioning, if you'd rather. I was trying to spare you some dignity."

"No, it's fine," Jay looked down and away, refusing to make eye contact with the man currently holding him on a leash.

"James, if we're going to be working together, you need to be able to look at me."

"Don't call me James."

"Why not? If you call me Zane, I feel as though me calling you James is just as personal. Although I do request that you call me Snake in front of the others. I have worked for a long time to reach my status, and I would hate to have my persona crumbled by one pesky ninja."

"Fine, I'll call you Snake, just don't call me James."

"You are in no position to bargain, but I suppose I could allow you this one reward."

"Don't call it a reward, I'm not your pet," Jay hissed, and Zane raised an eyebrow threateningly. Jay gulped. "Sorry."

"Now then, shall we get started?" The blonde purred, and Jay bit his lip to stifle a snarky comeback. His stomach decided to respond for him in the form of a growl.

"Uh, actually, do you have any food?"

"Pardon?"

"I haven't eaten in a while, and nerves makes me extra hungry once I stop feeling anxious. Do you have anything to eat?"

"I'll have someone grab some food for you."

"Thanks," Jay said quietly, and silence fell over the pair, Zane staring off into the distance as if calculating something. "I really am sorry about your dad. I remember him being pretty nice."

"The last memory I have with him is the day before he died. He was telling me about his newest plans for building a robot capable of passing the Turing Test. It was shaping up to be a wonderful project, I would have loved to have seen it."

"Yeah, that would've been really cool. I wish I was better at programming, y'know? People like hardware and stuff, but it's really the code that makes a machine cool. Like, I wish I had a fraction of the capability that your dad had. Wait, if you're planning on bringing him back, that must mean that you're pretty good at coding too, right?"

"I suppose so. But what does this have to do with resurrecting my father?"

"If you miss him more for his inventions than his company, maybe you shouldn't be bringing him back."

Zane didn't say anything, but his eyes bore holes into Jay's head, blue iris filled with cold fury. If looks could kill, Jay's blood would already be solid. Just as Jay was about to backtrack and retract the statement, sensing that it did way more harm than good, Zane yanked Jay towards the side of the room, holding fast to the rope while rifling through the cabinet holding his guns.

"Z- Zane, wait, what are you-"

"Shut up."

The room was silent except for Jay's panicked breathing and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Zane pulled out a handgun, the sleek black barrel glinting in the low light of the room.

"Are you religious, Jay?"

"N- No."

"Then pick a god and pray."

Zane loaded it quickly, and pulled Jay closer before he could react, pressing the weapon against his forehead. Jay felt tears form in his eyes, the realization that he was about to die making his muscles spasm and he kicked out, landing a hit on Zane's knee but also handicapping himself, his shaky limbs betraying him as he fell to the floor.

"No-! Don't, please, I'm sorry, just please don't shoot!"

"Too late. We cannot work together, and now that you know who I am I cannot leave you alive."

"I won't tell anyone, I promise! I don't want to die!"

"Neither did my father, and yet you still killed him anyway."

"I- I think I understand why you want him back."

Zane kept the gun pointed at his head, but allowed him to continue.

"You feel like you have no one left for you. Sure, you have your cronies and whatever, but you're just lonely. And you don't have to be," Jay offered, and squeezed his eyes shut just in case the next feeling he knew was a bullet going through his brain. Seconds passed, and nothing happened. The rope around his wrists was still pulled taught in Zane's grasp, but nothing changed.

After a few more moments, Jay slowly opened his eyes to see the gun still pointed at him, but the expression on Zane's face had changed into one of uncertainty.

"What do you mean I don't have to be? I have nothing left."

"You're the master of ice, right? I'm sure Sensei wouldn't mind another student, if you're willing."

"You- you want me to join you?"

"Okay, if I'm being honest, maybe not. You did just almost shoot me. But maybe you could make some friends. It wouldn't do any harm to lower your guard a little."

Zane looked away, and the hand holding the gun shook.

"Damn it," Zane muttered to himself, voice broken, and roughly untied the ropes holding Jay's wrists together. "Just go."

"You're letting me leave?"

"Just get out before I change my mind," Zane mumbled, throwing his gun down on his desk and sitting with his head in his hands. "You're right."

"Hey, woah," Jay couldn't believe his own actions even as he performed them, but he walked towards his captor and rested an easy hand on his shoulder. "I mean, thanks for letting me go, but take care of yourself, alright? We may on opposite sides here, but I'm sure you can be a nice guy if you set your mind to it."

Zane looked up, gaze weary.

"I'm not sure about the truth of your statement, but I appreciate the sentiment. Goodbye, Jay. Perhaps this will not be our last meeting."

"Maybe not," Jay pat him once on the shoulder before walking away, finding his way out pretty easily. Sure, he could run back to his friends and storm Zane's hiding spot if he wanted to, but something told him that would just end up with Zane putting a bullet through his own head instead of Jay's. As he was greeted by the cool night air, he decided on two things.

One, he needed to go back and talk to Zane again sometime, as he was still sure that there was a good guy down there somewhere. And two, never before in his life had been so thankful for his chatter.

[xxmisty]

My Big Humiliating Torchwood Confession - Part 1 :P

Warning: this will be a LONG post, and i’m sorry about that! 

Lucy is sat opposite me asking me repeatedly if I’ve started typing yet because she knows how desperately i’m putting off making this post!!1

This is awful, this is.... probably the most embarrassingly intimate confession i’ll have made since the day I opened up about my fetish way back at the start of 2013. And on the surface of it it probably doesn’t seem like that big of a deal but IT IS TO ME! And a big chunk of the trauma i’m about to express is tongue in cheek but it’s genuinely been - and continues to be - a huge bundle of DISTRESS AND HUMILIATION AND UTTER RESENTMENT!!! Because this year has been.... one hell of a personal journey and i don’t even mean anything to do with the pandemic.

It all started on New Year’s Day. I was feeling horrendously ill; the miraculous medication that had started to give me my life back had run out and thanks to the festive postal delays my new lot hadn’t arrived yet. I was in agony, I had a horrible headache, I felt sick and I could hardly move. We spent the day watching a bunch of muppet stuff, and that night we watched the first ep of season 12 of Doctor Who and, y’know, it was a pretty damn good episode (plus thirteen in the suit.... fuuckkk) 

So afterwards we started having a discussion about Chris Chibnall - we’ve long held criticisms about some of his writing (not all of it, but it’s a mixed bag) and Lucy told me I still hadn’t seen his worst writing because that was for Torchwood...

Which I had never seen. Which I had been desperately trying not to see, although I didn’t know why. I just always had this vibe like a big “NO ENTRY!” sign at the idea of ever watching it. It’s not as though I had a logical reason for it, it’s not like I’d read up about it and thought, ‘naahhhhhh, I don’t fancy watching that’. I just had a big WARNING sign in my head, telling me not to go there. 

Several years ago Lucy made me watch the first episode (after i’d been avoiding her threats of showing it to me for like 2 years) and like... it wasn’t horrible? It wasn’t... great either... but it didn’t kill me. Then a couple of years ago she showed me Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang because we were having a big Runaways phase so she wanted to show me an episode with James Marsters in. Again, it didn’t kill me. It wasn’t horrible. But I still had those big NO ENTRY!!! signs up in my head. I was still trying desperately to avoid actually being shown Torchwood as a show.

And the the new year happened and I was too WEAK AND DEFENCELESS to know what was happening when Lucy and I cuddled up in bed that night. I was too sick to really comprehend what she was doing or to fight back when she announced she was going to show me the very worst of Chris Chibnall’s writing... and put on Day One followed by Cyberwoman.

Oh. My. God.

All day I had been in a state of physical agony. Suddenly my mental and emotional state was far, FAR worse!!! The sex gas alien was bad enough, then by the time she put on Cyberwoman my brain was trying to shut down. I used to suffer blackouts and, god, I kept blacking out all the way through it, and instead of being her usual loving, wonderful self she KEPT FORCING ME TO COME ROUND TO WATCH IT!!!

By this point it was gone midnight and I was in a state of utter distress!! This was the worst double helping of tv I had ever sat through in my life and I sat up and let forth a tirade of absolute distress! This, I decided, had to be the reason I’d been avoiding Torchwood. Because it was more like.... Torurewood :P 

Yep, that had to be it. Couldn’t possibly be anything worse, could it? 

At least now lucy had shown me those two terrible Chibnall eps I would NEVER EVER HAVE TO WATCH THEM AGAIN. Or ANY Torchwood episodes. Yes, my ordeal was over. Had to be.

Nope. We went back to bed and she put on Out if Time. And i’ll admit, the story was much stronger but goddddd I had issues with the endings! And my level of despair started to rise even higher. I HATED Torchwood! This was the most distressing night’s viewing ever and I just wanted to go to sleep and be done with it all! Lucy put one more episode on afterwards: They Keep Killing Suzie. And that was much better but halfway through we finally fell asleep - so surely my trauma was over with.

Nope.

I had horrible nightmares of a very thirsty Gwen coming onto me all night, over and over again and it was HORRIBLE!!! Like, you have no idea how distressed I was! And when I woke up I blamed lucy whole-heartedly and she very sympathetically laughed at my plight!

But yeah. My trauma was over. No more Torchwood. I’d suffered the night from hell. Now it was time to pick up the pieces of my shattered life and move on! My medication arrived that day, I started work on some new pet portraits and life went back to normal.

Until that night, when I saw the telltale sign of Lucy putting a video on and turning her iPad around and then there they were - the opening titles of Torchwood - and I wanted to jump out the boat and into the canal and swim as far away as possible!!!

But the episode she put on was Fragments. She said she wanted to show me Chris Chibnall’s finest episode. And y’know what? It was really pretty fucking good. And god, I was fURIOUS about that!!! When we went to bed she pulled a real double whammy though by putting on Adam - which became instantly one of my favourite episodes of ANYTHING, EVER. And I looked at my wife, shook my head, sighed and told her, ‘nice save, Lucy... nice save...’

Over the next couple of weeks we also had a major Doctor Who rewatch and revisited most of the New Who era, and - to my mixed feelings - she dotted various other episodes of Torchwood in around them. I was conflicted - after the Adam and Fragments double bill I was no longer in brain-screamy hatred territory. I did however keep having flashbacks to that godawful night. Plus i’d had several further nightmares about a thirsty Gwen and I did NOT like it! But by a couple of weeks into January I’d seen a fair bit of Torchwood. Some of them twice. 

Around this same time I’d started back in testosterone after not being able to afford it for the last 3 years. And then I started to notice I was getting some..... urghhhhhh..... unusual... and very uncomfortable feelings... about certain.... things... and characters.

And I started falling headlong into a great big gay panic :P

And here’s where the whole story becomes a HELL of a lot more embarrassing so i’m going to put it under a read more :P

Did ya click on that read more? Wh-why? there’s nothing to see here... especially not a long tale of shame and distress :P ugggghhhhhhh ok, FINE;

Basically there were two things happening at the same time. One was that I started to feel something I hadn’t felt in two decades. When I was a kid/teen we didn’t have the phrase ‘hyperfixation’ so I just called them obsessions. I always had obsessions, at any given point there was always this ONE THING that was my entire life. i lived it, breathed it, became it. It was my whole world, my whole personality, my focus, my lifeline. 9 times out of 10 it would be a tv show. Between the ages of 12 and 15 I would generally change my obsession about once a month. There were several ‘usual suspects’ that would cycle around over and over - Red Dwarf, The Brittas Empire, Sonic the Hedgehog, Halfway Across the Galaxy, Parallel 9, Out of this World... 

late in 1995 I became obsessed with The X Files and - bizarrely - that obsession just ran and ran. I was so used to my obsession changing around once every month that it was bizarre to still be absolutely hyperfixated on it almost 9 months later. And then, in June 1996, my longest ever obsession took its place, a little known uk fantasy show called Bugs. 

That... was my longest running obsession. And oh my god, was I ever obsessed with it. I have no idea how that one obsession kept going for 3 years. i’m sorry this is particularly wordy but this is kind of personal and I want to explain this right.

If you’ve been following me for a while you’ll probably known that one of the most defining moments of my life happened in the summer of ‘98. My cousin’s husband sexually assaulted me and my life spiralled into total despair. While that night was bad enough, the slow breakdown I went through over the course of the year that followed was harder to recover from. And eventually I came out the other side to some degree but i’d lost my love of three things that made me the person I was: writing, drawing and being obsessed. All three were so closely entangled with that night and surviving afterwards that it changed something that had always been a fundamental part of me.

I was no longer able to feel obsession. To hyperfixate the way I previously had. It was like something was broken inside me. And that was like a loss unto itself. It was SUCH a big part of me. It had been the only way i’d survived years of depression when I was young. My obsessions were what kept me afloat. 

In the last decade there are a few things that I called ‘obsessions’ and I thought were as close as I would ever get to the way I used to feel. I thought maybe it was because i’d ‘grown up’ (pah). That’s not to say that i wasn't thoroughly into Ashes to Ashes, FNAF and Homestuck, for example, because of course I was! I even called them obsessions, but there was something that just... wasn’t the same, no matter what I did.

And over time, I got back the other things I’d lost. I started writing my A2A fics in 2010 and Lucy helped me to start drawing again in 2018 and god, both times it was like finally having a piece of myself returned after so long! As for my ‘obsessions’, I just thought I wasn't able to feel the way I used to because I wasn’t a kid any more.

But then, I thought that about Christmas Eve too, and then lucy came into my life <3

Still, the last thing I was expecting was... for *those* feelings to start sneaking back in my life. Feelings I hadn’t been able to experience since the summer of 1998-9. And to my further distress I discovered that they were relating to a certain show that I’d had a traumatising introduction to on new year’s day...

Suddenly it was all I could think about; TORCHWOOD! TORCHWOOD! Aargghhhhh and yet I still hated it! It was still awful! And yet... at the same time... it was so goooooooood.... arghhhhh, every time we watched an episode there was a  knife twisting in my guts, reminding me that I hadn’t even felt these feelings over things we’d been HUGELY into... the fandoms we’d met through, the fandoms we discovered together. Nope. It was Torchwood that brought back my ability to hyperfixate! And I have SO MANY ANGRY FEELINGS ABOUT THIS!!!! Grrrrrrrrr!!

And believe me, I kept thinking it was going to stop and go away BUT IT HASN’T! It’s only gotten worse! And as of yesterday Torchwood officially became my second  longest obsession ever!!!

I. AM. FURIOUS!!!

It’s... urrghhhh I hate this fact but it’s almost like I have a crush on the *show*??!!! I... can’t explain it better than that??? It’s like, if I could throw Torchwood on the bed and make sweet, sweet love to it I would :P and yeah, i’m saying all of this tongue in cheek but i’ve had a fucking sky high libido ever since I went back on T (ohhhhh and believe me I am LOVING it!!! 💙💙💙) But it’s like... there are elements of Torchwood itself that are so fucking hot that I get.... reactions that I am SO FUCKING EMBARRASSED ABOUT for so many reasons deidjdhdggjhaaahhhhhhhhh

Lucy literally only has to say ‘Torchwood’ at me and I end up in a gibbering heap half the time - I am not even kidding!!!

This, however, is NOT the worst thing that happened as a result of Lucy making me watch this god damned show.

But honestly this post has gone on WAY too long already so i’m going to save that for part 2.

Oh god... my shame.... my total and utter shame....

To be continued :P

[therachelperspective]

TV | Penny Dreadful (2014-2016)

This review has sat in my drafts for over a year. (It’s been a weird year, don’t judge me). Although I had a few notes sufficient enough to write a review from and could have probably have finished and posted something by now, I will honestly say that I have pondered Penny Dreadful this entire period of time. Even as I watch other series and take part in other media, every so often my mind wanders back to Penny Dreadful. Whether the show intrigued me or irked me has not entirely been decided, to the point where I am almost feel hastened to watch the show again with more attentiveness. But, just as I feel about Marvel’s Iron Fist series, I’m not sure I want to endure some of the more vexing qualities of Penny Dreadful a second time around (though I sadly will for Iron Fist as I once again attempt to complete the entire Defenders collection).

Let’s see what I can make of my long-stored memories.

Penny Dreadful derives its name from what is essentially Victorian England’s version of a comic book, typically with narratives of crime or violence. As per Britannica, these eight-page installments – also called “dime novels” or “bloods” – were carelessly written second-rate works full of gory themes. While I wouldn’t say the series to be careless or second-rate, it definitely hits the crime, violence, and horror right on the nose to give its namesake proper honor.

Set in the late 1800s, Penny Dreadful bears resemblance to The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen in that it includes characters from various works of classic literature, though Penny Dreadful sticks to the obvious era of Victorian Gothic. Although its main characters Sir Malcolm Murray (Timothy Dalton), Vanessa Ives (Eva Green), and Ethan Chandler (Josh Hartnett) were created for the show, its supporting cast are directly named after major literary characters – Dorian Gray (Reeve Carney), Dr. Victor Frankenstein (Harry Treadaway) and his Creature (Rory Kinnear), as well as brief appearances throughout by Mina Harker, Abraham Van Helsing, Dr. Henry Jekyll (sadly, while the science is included, Jekyll’s own counterpart Hyde was not), Dracula, and Justine (from The Misfortunes of Virtue). It has been discussed online that the character of Malcolm is based on famed adventurer Allan Quartermain from King Solomon’s Mines and, by name, obviously a derivative of Mina Murray’s father from Dracula; however, he was not mentioned in the novel. Similarly, Vanessa Ives is said to be based on Mina’s best friend Lucy Westenra. Furthermore, the story arc of Brona, who then becomes “Lily Frankenstein,” shares obvious similarities to that of the Bride of Frankenstein.

The rich inspiration from classic literature is what initially drew me to watch Penny Dreadful, along with the hype I read when it was initially released in 2014. Despite the fact that I am typically not one for horror-based film or television, I undertook the task regardless. Per my usual reasoning (I swear I write this in everything and I apologize lol), I wanted to discover for myself if it was truly as great as the critics say. And dare I say, it was actually true for the first season. I remember posting something on Instagram stating how I understood the public interest in the show and that I was excited to continue on. While it has no doubt been some time since I’ve viewed the material, I distinctly remember my personal fascination dwindle shortly thereafter. Had I any sort of ability to abandon the media I try to consume, it might have caused me to not finish the show. But alas, I’m one of those hopefuls that thinks maybe it will get better. Plus, can you really say you watched something if you didn’t watch the entire thing? My answer: no. Must watch it all to have a proper opinion!

Wherein the first season focuses primarily on finding a kidnapped Mina Murray, with tolerable amounts of arc for Frankenstein, his creature, the mysterious Ethan Chandler, and Dorian Gray...  the latter seasons revolving around witches and “nightcomers” (season two), and Dracula (season three) – as well as the constant battles between Frankenstein’s scientist vs. his creations, the dragged out uncovering of Ethan’s background, and Dorian’s inability to keep it in his pants – just didn’t seem to have the same charm to me as the initial season. Maybe it was the story? Were these the best “big bads” writers could come up with? I suppose, yes, considering the source material of that particular period, there’s only so much to work with. But to have the first season’s enemy be simply a vampire and the third season’s Dracula, it seems to me like missed opportunity (like using Dracula in his actual storyline) or they were really just recycling material. You used vampires once already; was doing it again with one buffer season in between really your only option?

Other nagging details that truthfully somewhat prevent me from watching the series again include things like: how much of Vanessa’s “dialogue” actually includes Eva Green’s ability to make guttural sounds; how certain arcs overwhelmed the series (like Frankenstein’s Creature and Lily, though kudos to Penny Dreadful for exploring their thoughts/feelings that other films or shows have not), compared to others tales that were not fleshed out enough; characters from literature left me wanting more, even if I did already know their mythos (Dorian, for example, was merely only a brief glimpse at his portrait, no explanation of its mysticism); and lastly, Lily’s entire story felt too much for me. While I admire the show’s portrayal of feminism, body autonomy, and a sense of sisterhood amongst Lily and her “army,” her approach to these topics also felt preachy and eventually fell more into a “savior” complex. I can understand the rediscovery of life as a newly reanimated human, re-comprehending life and death, not allowing any man to “own” her purely based on his say-so... but the way the show writers approached it was not my favorite. Billie Piper was great in her role, but towards the end of her arc, I was bored with Lily’s endeavors.

My biggest pet peeve surrounding this show, however, was actual a very random detail – Ethan and Brona (Lily, in her previous life) had a very intense relationship during the first season before she succumbs to illness. How is it, despite both of their prominence in the show and their respective arcs, as well as mutual acquaintances with other characters, that Ethan never ever crossed paths with Lily at all once she was reborn? Was it because he would obviously recognize her as Brona and writers didn’t know how to incorporate that detail into the show? Was it because they wanted Lily to remain purely a character in Frankenstein’s and Dorian’s arcs? Someone please answer this for me, because it drives me nuts.

All in all, Penny Dreadful started strong and I did enjoy it at first, but its subsequent seasons and finale felt less than spectacular. What was once an enjoyable suspenseful thriller turned into a psychological drama looking to interpret everyone’s personal issues and traumas rather than working together for a common, supernatural cause. Where the first season saw everyone as a collective group, I feel the show slowly but surely lost its charm by increasing their solo arcs without much interaction amongst everyone as a whole. It’s not to say that they never spoke to one another (Ethan and Lily being the exception), but their interactivity became increasingly minimal. I will give writers some credit in that, for some characters, this solitude reflected their emotions and was necessary for their arc. But maybe I just believe the show was better when the ensemble was a more cohesive whole.

[iandeleonwrites]

Ian’s Case: A Personal Statement for Grad School Admission

Personal Statement, Ian Deleón

“He felt something strike his chest, and that his body was being thrown swiftly through the air, on and on, immeasurably far and fast, while his limbs were gently relaxed.”

It was more than a decade ago when I first read those words. Written by the American author Willa Cather, Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament has always felt to me like an intimate account of my own life penned by a woman one hundred years in the past. 

That is a feeling which makes me proud; that my personal whims, fears, and desires, could find their echo long ago in a story about a young man and his pursuit of a meaningful life. Because of it, I felt a pleasing sense of historicity at a time when I was struggling so much with my own. 

I grew up in Miami Beach. Literally not more than a block away from water for most of my life. My father had emigrated from Cuba with his family in 1980. My mother had come on a work visa from Brazil a few years later. They met on the beach, had an affair, and I came into the world in May of 1987. 

My life was marked with in betweenness from the very beginning. My parents’ relationship did not last long, so I grew up traveling between houses. I had two families. I was American, but I was also Cuban and Brazilian. I even have a Brazilian passport. I spoke three languages fluently, but I couldn’t dance salsa or samba. I felt at home with the working class immigrants and people of color in my neighborhoods, but I often had to work hard to prove I wasn’t just some gringo with a knack for foreign tongues.  

[A quick note on Paul’s Case––If it happens that the reader is not familiar with the short story, let me briefly summarize it here:  A disenchanted youth in turn of the century Pittsburgh feels increasingly alienated from his schoolmates, his teachers and his family. His only comfort is his position as an usher at Carnegie Hall, where he loses himself in the glamour of the art life. Having no drive or desire to become an artist, however, the dandy Paul makes a spur of the moment criminal decision and elopes to New York City. There, he is able to live out his fantasies in a financial masquerade for about a week’s time, until the authorities back home finger him for monetary theft. Learning that his father is en route to the city to collect him, Paul travels to the countryside and flings himself in front of a speeding train, musing about the elegant brevity of winter flowers.]

When I first encountered Cather’s short story I was blown away by the parallels I saw between my own life and Paul’s. In 2005, fresh out of high school, I was living mostly with my father as my mother had relocated to faraway West Palm Beach. I was an usher at the local concert hall, a job I cherished enough to volunteer my time for free. I became entranced by the world of classical music, opera, theater, and spectacle––often showing up for work early and roaming the performance spaces, probing high and low like some kind of millenial phantom. 

In school, however, I had no direction, no plan. I had good enough grades, but no real motivation, and worst of all, I thought, no discernible talent. I probably resented my father for not being cultured enough to teach me about music, theater, and the arts. No one in my family had ever even been to a museum, or sat before a chamber orchestra. And it didn’t seem to matter to them either, they could somehow live blissfully without it. 

Well I couldn’t. I began to mimic the fervor with which Paul immersed himself in that world, while also exhibiting the same panic at the thought of not being able to sustain my treasured experiences without a marketable contribution to them. But here is where Paul and I take divergent paths. 

I was attending the Miami Dade Honors College, breezing my way towards an associate’s degree. I took classes in Oceanography, Sociology, Creative Writing, Acting and African Drumming. I was experimenting and falling in love with everything. 

But it was my Creative Writing professor, Michael Hettich, who really encouraged the development of my nascent writing talent. Up until that point my ideas only found their expression through class assignments, particularly book reports and essays on historical events. My sister had always felt I had a way with words, but I just attributed this to growing up in a multicultural environment amongst a diversity of native languages.  

As a result of that encouragement I began to write poetry, little songs and treatments for film ideas based on the short stories we were talking about in class. Somehow, thanks to those lines of poetry and a few amateur photographic self portraits, I was admitted to the Massachusetts College of Art & Design for my BFA program. 

There, I attended classes in Printmaking, Paper Making, Performance Art, Video Editing, and Glass Blowing. I was immersed in culture, attending lectures and workshops, adding new words to my vocabulary: “New Media” and “gestalt”. I saw my first snowfall. I had the dubious honor of appearing at once not Hispanic and yet different enough. I was overwhelmed. I felt increasingly disenchanted and out of place in New England, yet my work flourished and grew stronger. 

It was during this time that I developed a passion for live performance and engagement with an audience. I also worked with multi-channel video and sculptural installations. Always, I commented on my family history, grappling with it, the emigrations and immigrations. I even returned to those early short stories from Miami Dade, one time doing an interpretive movement piece based on The Yellow Wallpaper. Most often I talked about my father. He was even in a few of my projects. He was a good sport, though we still had the occasional heated political disagreement. We never held any grudges, and made up again rather quickly. It would always be that way, intense periods of warming and cooling. A tropical temperament, I suppose. 

I continued to take film-related classes in Boston, but my interests gradually became highly abstracted, subtle, and decidedly avant-garde. I had no desire to work in a coherently narrative medium. This would eventually change, but for now, I let my ambitions and aspirations take me where they would. 

I returned home to Miami for a spell after graduation. I traveled the world for five months after that. I moved back to Boston for another couple of years, because it was comfortable I suppose, though I was fed up with the weather. 

Finally, I wound up in NYC. Classic story: I followed a charming young woman, another performance artist as luck would have it, a writer too, and a bit of an outsider. We were quickly engaged and on the first anniversary of our meet cute we were married on a gorgeous piece of land in upstate new york, owned by an older performance-loving couple from the city. Piece of land doesn’t quite do it justice, we’re talking massive tracts, hidden acres of forest, sudden lakes, fertile fields, and precocious wildlife. As they say in the movies, it really is all about location, location, location. 

Nearly all of our significant personal and professional achievements in the subsequent years have centered around this bucolic homestead. After meeting, courting, researching and eventually getting married there, we soon decided we would stage our most ambitious project to date in this magical space––we would shoot...a movie.

We hit upon the curious story of an eighteenth century woman in England called Mary Toft. Dear Mary became famous for a months-long ruse that involved her supposed birthing of rabbits, and sometimes cats. The small town hoax ballooned into a national controversy when it was eventually exposed by some of the king’s physicians. My wife and I were completely enthralled by this story and its contemporary implications. Was Mary wholly complicit in the mischievous acts, or was she herself a sort of duped victim...of systematic abuse at the hands of her family, her husband, her country? 

We soon found a way to adapt and give this tale a modern twist that recast Mary as a woman of color alone in the woods navigating a host of creepy men, a miscarriage, and a supernatural rabbit. 

Over the course of nine months, our idea gestated and began taking the form of a short film screenplay. This was something neither of us had done or been adequately trained to do before. But we knew we wanted it to be special, it was our passion project. We knew we didn’t want it to look amateurish––we were too old for that. So we took out a loan, hired an amazing camera crew, and in three consecutive days in the summer of 2017 we filmed our story, Velvet Cry. It was the most difficult thing either of us had undertaken...including planning our nuptial ceremony around our difficult families. 

It was an incredible experience––intoxicating––also quite maddening and stressful. But it was all worth it. Because of our work schedules, it took us another year to finish post production on the film, but throughout that process, I knew I had found my calling. I would be a writer, and I would be a Director. 

Perhaps I had been too afraid to dream the big dream before. Perhaps I had lacked the confidence, or simply, the life experience to tackle the complexity of human emotions, narratives, and interactions––but no longer. This is what I wanted to do and I had to find a way to get better at doing it. 

In the intervening months, I have set myself on a course to develop my writing abilities as quickly as I could in anticipation of this application process. I know I have some latent talent, but it has been a long time since I’ve been in an academic setting, and in any case, I have never really attempted to craft drama on this scale before. 

I’ve read many books, listened to countless interviews, attended online classes, and most importantly, written my heart out since relocating down the coast to the small college town of Gainesville in Central Florida with my wife in June of 2018. It was through a trip to her alma mater of Hollins University that we learned about the co-ed graduate program in screenwriting a few months ago. After all the debt I accrued in New England, I didn’t think I would ever go back to college, though I greatly enjoyed the experience. But what we learned about the program filled me with confidence and a desire to share in the wonderful legacy of this school that my wife is always gushing about. 

Our Skype conversation with Tim Albaugh proved to be the deciding factor. I knew instantly that I wanted to be a part of anything that he was involved with, and I had the feeling that my ideas would truly be nurtured and harnessed into a craft––something tangible I could be proud of and use to propel my career. 

I continue to mine my childhood and adolescence in Miami for critical stories and characters, situations that shed light on my own personal experience of life. I’ve found myself coming back to Paul’s Case. No longer caught up in the character’s stagnant, brooding longings for a grander life, I’m now able to revisit the story, appreciating the young man’s anxieties while evaluating how it all went so fatally wrong for Paul. There was no reason to despair, no cause for lost hope. I would take the necessary steps to become the artist I already know myself to be. The screenplay I am submitting as my writing sample is a new adaptation of this story, making Paul my own, and giving him a little bit of that South Florida flavor. 

I will close by reiterating how I have visited Hollins, and heard many a positive review from the powerful women I know who have attended college there. As a graduate student, I know Hollins can help me to become a screenwriter, to become a filmmaker. This is the only graduate program to which I am applying––I have a very good feeling about all this.

I want to be a Hollins girl. 

[sweet-marie]

excerpt of memoir from last year which i kinda hate now<3 but it has its moments

I decided I was going to drown myself. There was no plug to the bath, but that was easily solved by stuffing the washcloth down the drain. I climbed in and waited as the water rose pleasantly warm over the cold gooseflesh of my legs, short hair starting to prickle over them. This felt good. I didn’t remember exactly what Sylvia Plath had said, about baths, but I tried to remember it as the water closed around my ears.

   In water I always felt calm as a whale. My swimsuit was like a fine blubber. My limbs would float, my cells swam around me. The microscopic composition of my body, narrowed down to those precise and perfect details, was invisible to me, an unknowable pile of nerves and jelly membranes. I can’t see my own eyes, of course, that’s a secret to me forever; the same way I can’t go looking around in the dark for my sight… I can see me in your eyes! I told a stranger, delightedly. I was four and the man was bobbing in the community pool across from me. I can see me in your eyes, he replied from behind his sunglasses.

   I had a dream about a pool, said Leona, so large-eyed and beautiful, vulnerable, almost alien. So blue. It was—pristine. She loved to say the word.

   She loved to make collages about the Holocaust.

   Blood chased my feet in the shower at home—they were a pair of moon-white fish, speared by something, circling, dying…

   Blood oranges water, not pinks it!

   Thom told me this under the grim sky of the schoolyard, gray clouds pressing down on us. We had both refused to change our clothes to the PE uniform, and the others flocked around us in gray shirts. Blood oranges water—I thought to myself this was a good description and I had to remember it. She was right.

   The warm bathwater was crowding in on me. Sylvia Plath had said something, I knew, in The Bell Jar—something about remembering the ceilings above the bath, maybe.

   Water made such mysterious sounds inside my ears. I always liked it. I tried to breathe in, to gulp down the warm water and fill my lungs but I couldn’t manage it. I had already decided not to drown myself, after all. I didn’t want some nurse to find me naked anyway. I took a breath.

   At home I had once tried to choke myself in the shower, my hands grasping my neck as I sobbed and spat into the water. You look fucking stupid, I thought, watching my face contort with tears in the foggy mirror. It was extremely satisfying to watch my eyes turn soft blobby pink, quavering with light. Yes, I was so sad. Yes! All these plans I knew wouldn’t work.

   Well, it didn’t. And now I didn’t have a clean washcloth. Stupid.

   I enjoyed it and decided to take a lot more baths from then on.

///

Leona, Happy, and Jennifer spent a lot of time on their collages. We were shepherded from C Unit to the art room through the soft winterlike light of the hospital halls. We passed the adult ward quietly. We never saw the adult patients, but they left some of their projects hanging in the art room, charcoal drawings mostly. They looked like self-portraits of ghosts. There were lots of National Geographics for Leona, Happy, and Jen: plenty of atrocities to choose from. The snowy black grain of dead bodies piled into a twisted unfathomable geometry of limbs; the sick, the starving and murdered. A headline about the heroin epidemic also. Jen was only allowed to post the word heroin on her wall if she added an e, which we all thought was hilarious.

   What is so bad about methamphetamine? Happy asked. The conversation frequently became about drugs. All of us laughed a lot about the question. I didn’t know anything about drugs. Jen and Happy were busy one night making lists of the good drugs and the bad ones and they’d tried most of the things I’d heard of and some I hadn’t.

   What is so bad about methamphetamine? It was a joke that was then repeated often.

   One of the nurses said something like, Please change the subject, or, That is inappropriate.

   Leona, Happy, and Jen were seventeen, the oldest of our friends; older than many of the children on the unit, young enough that they sometimes forgot to care what the little kids heard.

   Johny, our youngest friend, was fourteen. He seemed the saddest. He had very long, skinny fingers like an old man. He told me that I had pretty eyes, sometimes blue sometimes green—when had anybody ever liked me this much, outside of this awful place. He said, My eyes are shit brown. I just laughed along. It didn’t occur to me to say anything nice, even though I would have meant it. My voice was tired; I’d fallen out of the habit of saying what I thought.

   When Thom visited she talked enough that I didn’t have to say a lot. That was how it often was with us. She brought me a huge bag of my favorite sour candy, and flaming hot Cheetos for Esmeralda, my ten-year-old roommate. It wasn’t allowed, but we invited her to stay with us while Thom put makeup on me.

   A muscle in Esmeralda’s cheek jumped, not working towards speech, just a violent, repetitive twitch I’d never seen before. I didn’t understand, somehow.

   What? I said.

   She covered her cheek with one hand. It’s a tic.

   It didn’t go away even after we got her to laugh—a hesitant few syllables—at something, some joke. Thom’s hair was blonde and blue now. Sometimes, when she laughed the hardest, she used to press her face into my shoulder. I never knew what to do when people touched me. The first time she put her head on my shoulder we were watching Bolt on TV at her house and drinking bottles of orange Fanta, a blanket spread over our laps. She didn’t say anything, just leaned on me. I sat extremely still, so still it hurt. What do people do? I still haven’t learned.

   Do you think I’ll go to hell if I kill myself? I demanded of my father.

   You could, he said. You don’t know.

   He held me and sobbed. You can’t. I couldn’t. Live without you.

   I was so angry I didn’t know what to do. Anger rose in my mouth, made my spit sour. I needed him to let go of me. He was too warm, and his coat was too big. For the first time my mother had started looking so old. In some quieter country of myself, maybe, I have been saving up facts, how to recognize this look, how to gently handle remains.

///

The only outdoor part of the hospital was a courtyard sealed in glass, like an aquarium. It wasn’t much, but we were always begging to be taken there anyway, into the real gold light of the sun instead of our usual, indoor wintry fluorescence. And it got tiring to breathe the same dull air and pace the same few rooms, especially that day we were locked in for hours, while some men came in to do something about the mysterious dark stain spreading on the ceiling of the day room.

   Everyone loved to go out. Even Celsa went sometimes, and she was so doped up on lithium she barely did anything, even breakfast. Bribes and threats did not work on her. I witnessed it firsthand in my brief duration as her roommate. She was always drowning in bedsheets, drowning in sleep like wet sand. Her eyes were dark with it. My friends gently urged her to come outside with us one night. Celsa gave a tired smile, peered out from under her hair, and agreed. She laughed a little when she played tag with the kids in the dark. She never really said a word. It is good to be with other people, it is not always easy to do. But—it was beautifully possible to have friends in this small, suspended space. I had not often felt when I was very young that I had friends. I felt too tall and serious to be a real child. Here, with our usual secrecy stolen from us, we met each other with our faces plainly lit and open, four floors above the real world.

   It was possible to have friends. I’d been so sad. I never knew how to smile with my face leaned toward burning-down candles, opening my brightly-colored birthday presents. There were days, it was decided, you were supposed to be happier on certain days, and I just wasn’t.

   A man with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen asked me, in the emergency room, what was wrong. I didn’t want my parents to overhear. I explained quietly about the stupid incident in the bathroom stall at school, the knit gloves over my wrists, and the thing with the Tylenol, and I did—other things… I started to cry. Sometimes I forced sobs out to get rid of the rising bad feeling, an intentional purge; and then there was this other kind of crying, which was different, and took me by surprise. I never knew it would happen until I had already started.

   The psychologist with blue eyes looked very sad for me. All I wanted was sympathy; I was intensely hungry for sympathy almost all the time, from anyone, but this somehow made it worse, and I didn’t even know whether he meant it.

   I was wheeled up in my hospital gown. I tried to walk, but they explained it didn’t work that way.

   Up an elevator, through security gates, through locked doors; a woman’s hands flitted under my clothes, checking for blades, mapping injuries on a piece of paper. There was still cold glue on my chest from the EKG. They’d wanted to examine my heart. There was nothing wrong with my heart. I just couldn’t stop its sickening, wild beat.

   It was night, but I was allowed in the day room, wide and silent and dark. I opened the refrigerator—mostly juice. A few months ago, my mother and I had fought, and as I bent my head over some homework that night she silently moved my glass of cranberry juice away from my textbook, so it wouldn’t spill on it. And horrible hope and guilt rushed through me, because I knew she loved me.

   I didn’t even like juice. I closed the door and went to a table.

   I started drawing pictures because I didn’t know what else to do. I liked to keep my hands occupied, all the time. At first, no one was there, but then there appeared a small gathering of curious children, and Johny.

   All the children began to ask, Will you draw me? Will you draw me?, and Johny smiled and cast his dark eyes down.

   I asked Esmeralda if she wanted me to draw her, but she started shaking her head before I could finish the question.

   Draw me, demanded Rain, a little girl in pajamas and gym shoes.

   I did, I did draw most everyone, lots of times. It has been my impulse to give myself away freely, without thinking. I tell people nearly all of my secrets. Here: I won’t need this. I will be going away.

[ficclique]

Fic Clique hosts choices for our top fics of the decade - as featured in our Minisode from Jan 3rd. 

Brenna’s choices: 

Honorable Mentions: 

Worldwide Lonesome by loindexter (BTS) 

2018, 39k, Yoongi/Jin 

The biggest gut-punch I’ve ever felt from a character confession. The Jin of this fic has stuck with me every day since reading it. This fic examines sexuality in a way that made me feel seen & I love that.

Timeshare by Astolat (HP) 

2016, 14k, Draco/Harry 

This is sort of a stand-in for all of astolat’s drarry fic, which as a bundle are one of my top fics for the decade. They are fics that feel like instant-classics and the variety of characterizations, stories and tropes helped establish astolat as perhaps my all time favorite fic author. Timeshare won out above the others because it’s one of the fics that helped us decide to do this podcast! Thank you Timeshare! 

Top 5 picks: 

The Student Prince, by Fayjay (Merlin)

2010, 145k, Merlin/Arthur

A fic that has defined fanfiction for me. Perhaps the fic that first convinced me to love fanfiction. Something I keep coming back to and have reread numerous times. Funny, heartfelt, just different enough from the canon versions of characters. Perhaps the only University AU I will ever fully love. 

The Love Song of the North American Douchebag, by Gyzym (Star Trek RPF)

2013, 25k, Chris/Zach

If you want to hear me (and my lovely co-hosts) discuss this fic in depth, then I recommend listening to Episode 6! However, one of our listeners also submitted this as a top fic of the decade, so I’m going to add what the lovely Scout said: 

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, I HOPE I CAN SWEAR. I'm not even in this fandom. The world building is just THAT good. It's one of my highlights *because* of its power to draw me in as a standalone. So much fucking talent in the transformative work community. The banter, characterization, sardonic-ness of this – international impact baby!”

Not Easily Conquered (series), by dropdeaddream & whatarefears (MCU)

2015, 117k, Steve/Bucky 

An incredibly, precise, gut-wrenching trilogy. Each part is astounding both together and apart. A devastating exploration of love and dedication. One of those fics that created a Fandom Moment. I sobbed through the entirety of part 2 when I first read it. Womb to tomb, sweetheart. 

Azoth by zeitgeistic (HP)

2013, 88k, Draco/Harry 

A stunning exploration of magic beyond JKR’s universe. A timeless coming together of two characters. A frankly genius use of a plot device (and something as simple as a school project) to foster an incredibly touching and meaningful relationship, one in which they are not able to find what they need to complete their task until they find what they need in each other.  ALCHEMY BABY! 

Honeysuckle Arch by junkshopdisco (1d) 

2015, 46k, Niall/Harry 

Perhaps the most I’ve ever related to a character in fic. The Niall of this fic lives in my heart, and I feel like reading him helps me understand myself, and everytime I come back to it I understand him better too. It’s a touching portrayal of a character coming to terms with their sexuality in a way that feels completely grounded and who is surrounded by characters who love them, even if they don’t always know how to show it. 

Nicole’s choices: 

Honorable Mentions: 

Protostellar by ninamondays 

bts, 64k, pub 2019, Namjoon/Jungkook & Taehyung/Jimin

Space, cryogenics, fate, reincarnation, class struggles, revolution, climate change, character death. Having hope is punk rock. Processing grief is a slow and ugly process. [deep breath] Have I ever felt so profoundly touched by a fic while I was reading it?

the other thing by cornfields 

hockey rpf, 16k, pub 2015, Jamie/Tyler

An absolutely unflinching look at personal accountability and internalized homophobia. What happens when your self-hatred has collateral damage? It’s about healing but it’ll fucking hurt first. Bleached out vibes. Makes texas feel very big, and the world feel very, very small. A story I’d only trust a fic author to tell.

Top 5 picks: 

Murmuration by fringecity (indiachick) 

bts, 167k, pub 2018, Yoongi/Jimin/Taehyung

Film noir/murder mystery meets gritty sci fi and superpowers. Everyone is morally gray. You Will sob about Kim Taehyung. A masterclass in plot. Felt like a trilogy all wrapped tightly into one fic. A kaleidoscope. An unfurling. This fic mesmerizes.

The River and the Deep Green Bend by liquidmeasure 

1d, 70k, pub 2016, Harry/Niall

Dark tower au, but only technically. Makes me want to believe in the multiverse. An arid western, a sideways coming of age story, an elegy. The first time I’ve ever cried because an ending was perfect.

the undiscovered country by indigostohelit

hamlet, 56k, pub 2014, Hamlet/Horatio

What else can I say about this fic. What else can I Fucking say.

(note: we discuss this fic at length during episode 5) 

All Things Shining by Askance and standbyme

spn, 142k, pub 2013, Dean/Castiel & Sam/ofc

A story about miracles. Literary as hell, with long luxuriant scenes that never drag. Masterful characterization. The thing I wanted from spn fic—connection, plot, and a fic that not only can handle the lore of the show, but is willing to expand upon it.

Who Painted the Moon Black by throughthedark

1d, 95k, pub 2013, Louis/Harry

Hunger games crossover. Doesn’t just use the other fandom for setting, but entirely inhabits it. I had to stop partway through my reread because I knew I’d have nightmares, but this fic never stops hoping. Trauma is not an ending. This fic is certain of that the whole way through.

Reid’s Choices: 

Honorable Mentions: 

songs from the ash, by explosivesky, 2017

Critical Role, Percy/Vex, Keyleth/Vax, 54k, WIP (sort of)

rockstar/movie star AU 

A fantastic example of how fic can just standalone as really good original fiction. A lovingly rendered, devastating and beautifully crafted portrait of four broken people doing their best to navigate through their lives and around one another. 

delta, by sharpa, 2019

BTS, rapline ot3, 60k

What happens when you’re a public figure who gets unwillingly outed, and two people you used to love reach out to offer you sanctuary? You make Reid cry, that’s what. 

Top 5 picks: 

Salt on the Western Wind by Saras_Girl, 2013

Harry Potter, drarry, 60k

Immediately post war, bond

It represents a lot of what I was looking for when I started really getting into Drarry fic, which was an exploration of what canon wouldn’t give me. My favorite Drarry fics have always been the ones that let them dig into their shared trauma, and while this fic isn’t the heaviest one I’ve read, I think the fact that it’s set literally hours after the Battle of Hogwarts ends lends itself well to that concept. I couldn’t have a list of the decade without a Drarry fic, tbh.

The Great Sealand Takeover, by whalehuntingboyfriends, 2015

Roosterteeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, ot6 (gavin, michael, ray, geoff, ryan, jack), 365k

FAHC

When I think about fics that set the standard for a fandom, this is one of the first ones that comes to mind. This fic means a lot to me because it was my introduction to RPF, and in addition to its intricate plot and fandom-constructed lore, also was a take on poly relationships and found families in a way I had never experienced before, with themes of belonging and a love that transcends typical convention.

The Twice-Told Tale by arysteia, 2012

Marvel, steve/tony, 15k

This fic hits a sweet spot for me where it does have some of that 2012 tower-fic nostalgia, but I also think it holds up well in terms of what I (and fandom) find so fascinating about Tony, which is all this grief and trauma that he struggles so hard to process, and the way puts himself at the center of attention to obfuscate the fact that he keeps everyone at a long arm’s length.

There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, by Shoshanah-ben-hohim, 2015

Hockey, Sid/Geno, Canon Divergent, 77k

& the whole series, including There is a Field, I’ll Meet You There, Alex Galchenyuk/Olli Maata, 131k

When I think about this fic I want to scream from every rooftop I’ve ever been on “please read this fic”. The way it weaves together details to provide a level of grounding and realism in what sounds like the most absurd concept for a fic just floors me. The empathy and compassion and fear in this fic just gets at the most tender parts of my heart, and the fact that it’s ostensibly a ship fic, and yet Sid and Geno spend nearly the entire fic with no communication, but instead are just holding on to the innate truth that they know about one another to get them through this crazy endeavour they’re on elevates the entire fic for me.

what comes after, by poppyseedheart, 2018

Roosterteeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, mavinseg (gavin, meg, michael, lindsay), 36k

Dystopia/Spy AU

When I first read this fic, I finished it and I put it down and then I spent a few days feeling like I was just sort of wandering around in a haze because every single thought was consumed by this fic. In addition to its impeccable worldbuilding and the tone work that it does with its setting, I don’t know that I had ever resonated so deeply with fic characters before. Reading this felt like someone had pried my ribcage open one by one and revealed the softest, most tender parts of me and then went “I’m going to write something that targets this.” This fic is an ode to loss and love, to mourning something that you once had and then hesitantly and clumsily opening yourself up to building something new, and recognizing that, impossibly, that new thing you built can somehow be better than what you had before. 

And I felt all of these things, I felt like my world had just been shattered by this new author I discovered… and then, somehow, I became her friend. Then through Nic I met Brenna, and now when I think about this fic I not only love it for being a work of art, but also for being representative of the thing that brought me to two of the most important people in my life, and that to me will always make it my favorite fic I’ve ever read.

[phantom-soldat]

Meeting Sebastian Stan. 

This is not an opportunity I ever expected to have, at least not anytime soon. When he was first announced to be a guest at MCM Comic Con (London, May 2019) I had a bunch of people tagging me in the announcement post. Sebastian is an actor that means a lot to me - He’s caring and has struggled with a lot of the same things that I struggle with; from anxiety to depression, and generally being a bit lost in the world. We’ve all seen the posts of him commenting on fan’s posts, giving them advice while simultaneously putting more positivity and support into the world. For this reason, and more, he is incredibly inspiring and important to me. I aspire to be as supportive, caring, loving, goofy and giving as this man. 

So, when he was announced, I knew I had to meet him. For me, it wasn’t an option: I had to. It was simply too important for me not to. 

One thing I had wanted to do before I met him was get a tattoo of the Winter Soldier, however, due to money issues and time, etc, I had never had the opportunity to get one before comic con. Until comic-con. Another opportunity came up when MCM announced that they were having tattoo artists at the convention, and so I booked in with a lovely lady by the name of Laura, from Empire INK in Edinburgh. Thankfully, I managed to save up enough money for the tattoo - Through both selling possessions and saving up money from my day-job. 

She was absolutely lovely and great with communicating the design I had in mind. I wanted something to match the other tattoos on the opposite arm; a portrait, with his signature at the bottom (on my opposite arm I have a Hela portrait). The Bucky tattoo would be on my left inner forearm, covering self-harm scars with something - someone/a character - that means so much to me. Bucky, much like myself, has been through a lot of mental issues. He’s lost, finding his way, but despite all of the issues he’s had? He’s made it through it all, he’s continued fighting despite all of the challenges he’s faced... and that’s something I can remind myself: I can fight and get through the challenges I face. I will survive, and have survived. The significance of this tattoo, and getting Sebastian to sign it, was and is extremely important to me. 

Which leads to the first picture. 

First picture.  So, on the first day of comic-con (the Friday) Sebastian wasn't there. This was the day I booked in for a full-day session for my tattoo. Laura, my artist, was absolutely ecstatic as she’s also a fan of the guy, and was super pumped to find out that Sebastian would be seeing her work. The session lasted for, roughly, seven hours with only one five-minute break for both my artist and I to have something to eat. During the course of the tattoo, the MCM staff came up to view the process of the tattoo; the security were very excited about it, and got the media team to come down to the section of the hall where all of the tattoo artists were. It was all very exciting, talking to them was lovely - They were all so supportive, kind and frequently returned throughout the course of the day to see the process. Alas, the media team turned up and took a few photos: One of which winded up on the MCM social media sites: Instagram, Facebook, Twitter. Both Laura and I freaked out, it was getting a lot of attention. 

Second/third picture.  Saturday came around fairly quickly. This was the day where I would try to get my autograph - The day I HAD to get it, as to not disturb the healing process of my tattoo. I was dressed as Wakanda Bucky that day, deciding to cosplay something more comfortable due to both the pain from my arm, the hot weather, and the fact that I couldn’t restrict my arm in tight costumes. 

Before the convention, I had put together a little gift-box for Sebastian to give back to him the love, care and gratitude he gives to his fans. Inside, there was a Winter Soldier book (Civil War) that I had made him; personalised on the inside to, firstly, look like it held Winter Soldier documents which lead on to messages I had collected from fans. All stories about how he had changed their lives for the better, how he had made a positive impact on the world. I included other gifts, too, like a t-shirt (that says ‘Straight Outta Cryo’, much like his ‘Straight Outta Romania’ shirt), some drawings of mine, a Bucky, Nat and Sam tsum-tsum and a little lego figurine of Bucky. 

So, with the box in my arms, I waited for about an hour and a half in the autograph queue. Although I missed his panel, it was worth it, because I knew that if I had attended that I would only spend more time waiting, and less time with my friends later on. 

While waiting in the queue, I was alone and full of anxiety. This was a big moment for me. I’d actually see him. Meet him. Something I’d been waiting for years and years to have the opportunity for. People were trying to snag sneaky pictures of him: going on their friends shoulders just to get a peak of the infamous Seb Stan. 

Eventually, it was my turn to walk up to the table where he was signing. Due to the sheer amount of people that were there, it was very rushed, for they wanted to get through as many people as possible: I knew this going in, and so I’d been going over and over what I’d say to him in my head. With a smile, he greeted me; it was clear that he was tired, having flown in the previous morning and hadn’t stopped working since. Rumour has it he worked through his breaks to continue meeting fans - between the photo-ops, the panels and the signings he must have been really exhausted, with jet-lag on top of that, and so I felt really bad for the guy. 

In brief words I explained my gift to him, and he smiled and let out a laugh upon hearing what the t-shirt said. At the time he didn’t open the box, because it was simply too busy to do so and the convention staff were pushing him to continue  going through as many people as he could. In the panel I had missed, or the panel the next day (I can’t remember which one) I believe he referenced this and said how he wished he could spend more time with us all, and talk to us all properly. I still treasure every second I got to spend with him, though, because as previously stated, it was a moment that is extremely close to heart, and I know a lot of people wouldn’t have had this opportunity (this was also why I gathered fan messages, so that I could give him something from them in-case they never do have this opportunity). 

The convention staff got me to show him what I wanted signed: Most people brought posters, or pop-vinyls, but I showed him my arm and said I’d like my wrist tattooed. He delicately held my hand and arm as he signed it, and then I was on my way once I had thanked him. 

Afterwards, I immediately called up my bestfriend and burst into tears. I had met him. I had thanked him. I had given him a gift and, now, I would have his autograph on me forever, knowing that I have a very personal reminder to myself: I can do this. Whatever ‘this’ is, I can do it. 

Due to the overwhelming emotions I was having, the busy crowds, the heat, and the pain and toll the tattoo session the previous day had caused me, I did have quite a big panic-attack. During this time, I had to go outside and get some fresh air, but my best-friend stayed on the phone with me and calmed me down - I am eternally grateful for his friendship and support, and for moments like these when he helps ground me back to reality. 

This leads on to the next photo; where, once I’d had some fresh air, a drink and some food, I went back inside to get the signature tattooed. Once again, Laura and I freaked out over it, and I told her all about it excitedly as she finished up tattooing the autograph and shading around it. She even went back over the little red star at the top of my wrist, which Seb had signed over. Laura did an amazing job with the tattoo, and worked the signature into it flawlessly. I can’t thank her enough. 

Sunday.  This was the day that my photo-op was booked (that was an entire process of its own. Tickets sold out within 2-3 minutes - I am so, SO thankful that I managed to snag one). Much like the autograph process, the MCM staff were trying to get through as many people as possible, and so the entire thing was very ‘click and go’. Generally, this is the case with photo-ops at conventions - It’s less personal, more of a ‘capture the moment’ type of thing. 

On this day, I was dressed as Black Widow from The Winter Soldier. It wasn’t the best costume I have ever worn, admittedly, but I was excited for my photo-op none the less. My costume broke on the way to the con, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me, and once again I was waiting in a long line for one last moment with Sebastian. 

I knew that he likes Bucky and Natasha’s relationship in the comics, and that he would’ve liked them to be together in the movies. This is a ship that I also sail, along with Stucky, but I thought that being Nat would be a lot better as it’s also something that he enjoys. I actually managed to capture a sneaky video on my phone of me approaching him during the photo-op. They were very strict about no-photos apart from the one you paid for, which I understand, but at the same time, this was too important for me not to try and grab sneaky videos, etc. So I did. Sue me. (Please don’t, I’m going to be a poor student soon). 

As I approached him during the photo-op, he looked a lot less tired, which I was thankful to see. He greeted me with a smile once more, and I showed him my finished tattoo - I kind of stood my ground and spoke to him very briefly before the photo-op was taken. Most people were conveyor belted through their sessions with him, but I was determined to show him the finished product. With a smile and an expression somewhat akin to awe, he said that it was amazing. We soon moved onto talking about what I wanted for the photo-op, and it took a split second for us both to get into position. 

I wanted to look as if we were dancing romantically, as Natasha has a history of ballet. The final photo in the post was my photo-op, and I couldn’t be happier with it. It was a very full-on weekend, but I enjoyed every second of it. 

Thank you MCM for giving me, and others, the opportunity to meet such an amazing man. Thank you Sebastian for flying all the way to London to take the time to meet your fans in England. Thank you Laura, for being an amazing tattoo-artist and for the nerdy talks we had during my tattoo session, and for giving me a piece of work on my art that is very, very treasured to me; and, finally, thank you to all of my friends for supporting and loving me, for continuously encouraging me to step out of my comfort zone and to keep on fighting. 

And continue fighting on I will, just like Bucky. 

[riseandshinelittleblossom]

Unfinished Business (1/6?)

A/N: So a while back I posted a six sentence Sunday for this. Sorry its taken so long to pull it together, but I hope you enjoy it all the same. As always if you’d like to be added or removed from the tags let me know.

Summary: Today is the day that Renee will become the Queen of Cordonia, but oh how her mind still wanders...

Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, we’re just having a good time. Also this series will contain smatters of Canon dialogue that I also do not own

Masterlist

Tags: @ritachacha @fullbeaumonty @leelee10898 @tornbetween2loves @zaffrenotes @hopefulmoonobject @ownworldresident @alj4890 @writerxdreamer @stiles-o-dylan24 @lettersofwrittencollective

    Renee was already staring blankly out of the window when her alarm sounded. She knew that Maxwell would want to wake her up as usual, but this morning-the morning of her wedding to King Liam- she felt that she needed a few moments alone to gather up her thoughts.

   She rolled to her back, the royal linen plush beneath her bare shoulders. They were some of the most comfortable sheets she'd ever slept in, nothing at all like the cheap polyester ones on her own bed back in New York.

   'I wonder what the thread count is,' she thought rubbing a pinch of the material between her fingers.

   She groaned aloud, hating her brain for trying to distract itself from the fact that she was getting married today, and not to the love of her life.

    It wasn't that Renee didn't love Liam, because she definitely did. He was kind and gentle and quite possibly the best man she had ever met. He adored her and wanted nothing but for her to be happy.

   And Cordonia needed this wedding. It was bigger than her feelings for Liam; bigger than her feelings for him. All three of them knew it, just as all three of them were well aware that that had been the only reason Renee had accepted the King's proposal. Hers was to be a political marriage, one that would heal a nation. Renee just hoped that one day she could love Liam- really love him - the way he deserved to be.

     She checked her phone again noting that she didn't have much time left before Maxwell would come to wake her.  She turned,peering out the window once more, her mind traveling back to when it all began.

************

    Renee stared at the ceiling of her bedroom inside the Beaumont Estate, her mind still reeling from the events of the night.

   Someone had wanted Liam to choose Countess Madeleine tonight and they had been willing to devastate her reputation over it.

   Duchess Olivia had left in haste, withdrawing from the social season. Had she received an ominous letter tonight as well?

    She sat up, twisting her body to fluff her goose down pillow for the millionth time. Deciding the effort was fruitless she flung back the heavy quilt and stepped into the slippers that laid next to the bed. They were at least two sizes too big-a pair of Maxwell's that he had graciously lent her shortly after her arrival in Cordonia. She wiggled her toes within them for a moment before throwing her long, tan cardigan over her and striding out of the room.

    The halls of Beaumont Manor were wide and darkened, although in the light of day they boasted many fine works of art. Most of them were commissioned portraits of Beaumonts long since passed, but there were many landscapes as well. Renee's favorite however, hung at the back of this very hallway- a ballerina in a royal blue tutu. It was in a gilded frame, one that by itself would have fetched the brothers Beaumont a pretty penny, but Maxwell had told her that painting had been his mother's favorite as well and neither he nor Bertrand would ever dream of touching it.

   She cast her gaze longingly toward the piece only for a moment before turning in the other direction and padding down the hallway.

    She entered a great room on her way to the kitchen, the ornate French doors which headed out onto the open air patio hung ajar and a warm breeze entered the room through them. Renee tugged her cardigan closer, partially because the wind chilled her slightly but mostly she was afraid.

     She paused a moment, assessing her surroundings, taking note of the heavy candle stick which sat not far from her ready to be used as a weapon if the occasion suddenly called for it.

   Renee stilled herself, her ears perking up. She could hear the sound of someone dropping ice cubes into a glass on the patio, and breathed a sigh of relief. There was no intruder, one of her favorite brothers was helping himself to the dry bar.

   She made her way towards the doors. Peeking around the edge she saw Bertrand on one of the outdoor couches, tumbler of amber liquid in hand. He didn't notice her so she didn't announce herself, opting instead to simply observe the older Beaumont for awhile.

    Bertrand Beaumont was certainly handsome, Renee would give him that, though his arrogance and patronizing demeanor were somewhat off-putting.

    She watched as he stared out into the modest vineyards behind the estate his hand absentmindedly swirling his tumbler, gold, wire framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. Renee took note of the letter she had received earlier, now sealed inside a large Ziploc bag, on the table before him.

     He sipped his liquor slowly, seeming to savor the burn as he swallowed. The moon was high in the sky- not yet full, but in two days time it would be- and it cast it's eerie glow over the man with an almost ethereal brilliance.

    Renee sighed as she leaned into the doorway, very much enjoying this side of her sponsor. She smiled noticing that he wasn't wearing his usual sweater vest and blazer, but instead a plaid pair of flannel pajamas and a deep blue, silk robe.

    “So he does take the vest off some of the time. Drake owes me 20 euros.”  She smirked to herself.

     Bertrand leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, both hands grasping his glass between them. He looked tired and she wondered why he hadn't gone to bed yet.

    “Care to join me, Lady Renee?”

     She stumbled back at the sound of his voice, surprised he knew she was there. Silently she stepped onto the patio, tugging her cardigan ever closer.

    Renee settled into a spot on the adjoining love seat as Bertrand rose from his perch and shuffled to the bar.

     “Pick your poison, milady. We are still pretty well stocked from hosting the court.”

   “Whatever you're having is fine.” She said, her voice barely above a whisper.

    “Gran Patron it is, then.” he declared. “On the rocks?”

    “No thank you, Your Grace.”

     Bertrand paused, his blue eyes meeting hers briefly, an uncharacteristic grin tugging at his lips. He poured her glass and sauntered back to his seat before passing it to her.

    They sipped their tequila in contented silence for quite awhile, Bertrand rising to refill his before Renee finally spoke up,

   “Can I ask you something? And I expect an honest answer.”

    Bertrand flourished a hand between them.

  “Feel free to ask anything you'd like, Lady Renee. You will likely never find me in a more candid mood.” He chuckled.

  “Why did you come get me? From the airport, I mean.”

   He sipped his glass and pulled it from his mouth, sucking his teeth as if it had quenched his thirst and a soft “aahh” sound escaped him. He didn't look at her, training his eyes instead on his bare toes wiggling them freely as he considered his answer.

   Renee, however couldn't have pulled her gaze from the Duke if she had tried. Suddenly feeling exposed in the silence, she kicked off her oversized slippers and brought her legs up tucking them under her in an attempt to shrink. Bertrand seemed to have that effect on her. With his no-nonsense attitude and authoritative tone, he commanded the attention and respect of those around him. Where Renee was normally strong-willed and brazen, she always felt more subdued in his presence.

   “Renee, I meant it when I said that I consider you to be a member of this house, and as long as I am it's head no one will ever get away with scandalizing one of its members. That being said, I have found myself taking a liking to you, aside from our arrangement and what can be gained should the King choose you for his bride. It has been...nice to feel a woman's presence at Ramsford again. To have a feminine perspective on House Beaumont.”

    Renee smirked. “You mean we're friends,B.”

   Bertrand sighed, but smiled in response raising his glass to her. “And I count myself lucky because of it. You are…. remarkable, milady. But if you ever tell a soul, I will deny those words til the end.”

    She let out a loud guffaw, dramatically knocking back the end of her drink and when she corrected her head she found her sponsor directly in front of her. His fingers grazed hers as he collected her glass, turning to refill it.

    “Well that was... prompt.”

    “Let it never be said that I am not a gracious host.”

    “And so modest! I don't know how you manage, Your Grace.”

    Bertrand returned handing her a filled glass, but this time he sat down beside her on the love seat, his knees falling open and, had her legs been outstretched, they would've knocked into her.

    They fell into a companionable silence, the Duke taking in the moonlit grounds, the lady taking in the Duke. He was in a rare form this evening and she was sure she didn't want to miss a second of it.

     After a while an audible breath escaped the man's nose-not quite a snort, but close.

   “Tell me, Renee, what was your life like before all of this?” He gestured widely before continuing, “ I know you were a waitress, but often one's occupation is merely a sliver of who they are.”

    “Well I wasn't just a waitress. I also sang the blues.”

     Bertrand frowned, his neck craning to look at her. “Surely your life wasn't that dismal.”

    “No, B!” She chuckled, “I literally sang the blues. I was a lounge singer in a jazz bar. I was also an aspiring songwriter, though I guess that part is still true.”

    The Duke nodded knowingly. “A woman of the arts, then? My mother was as well.”

     “Maxwell said as much.”

     “I would very much enjoy it if I could hear you sing one day.

      Renee blinked at him, her lips parting to speak but nothing came out, so she closed them instead offering a nod in response.

    “One more question for you, milady, then I will head to bed. Did you mean what you said at the airport tonight? Have you fallen in love with someone that isn't our King?”

   Again she opened and closed her mouth unsure of what to say. She dropped her head and peered into her glass.

    “Yes.”

    Her voice was so soft that Bertrand wasn't sure she'd spoken at all.

   “Hmmm, I see. Then why, may I ask, did you decide to stay?”

   “For you, Bertrand. And Maxwell, of course.”

*********

   A light rap at the door returned Renee to the present. She wiped her eyes, not even realizing that tears had begun to form at their edges.

   She twisted the knob, inhaling deeply and exhaling loudly before she opened it. She expected to see Maxwell, but what she found instead was her entire wedding party.

   "Rise and shine, little blossom!" Maxwell called.

   "Ah! What are you all doing here?" Renee questioned, eyes going wide.

   "Celebrating the big day, of course. We're not going to let a little drama stop us from memorializing Wedding Day 2k18!" Maxwell grinned throwing his arm around her shoulders.

   Her friends explained how they wanted to spirit her away for the morning for some pre wedding pampering and seeing the excitement on everyone's faces there was no way she could say no even if all she wanted to do was put on her dress and get on with it.

  Renee's eyes met Liam's as everyone shuffled towards the door to let her get dressed. She could see his wheels turning, the concern that seemed ever present when he looked at her swirling in his dark eyes.

   "If fine, Liam," she tried to reassure, quickly kissing his cheek. "I'll meet you all at breakfast."