#i learned very many insane things the last few books but none of them made me stop reading to process them like this did

[lostandbackagain]

my absolute favorite phase 2 revelation is that valkyrie and skulduggery are actually yelling and talking over each other. sorry I thought you two were talking like grown-ups this whole time, I will not make that mistake again

[midori-laboratories]

Ashes In The Fall - Chapter 27: What We Left Behind IV

Book 2 of the Calendula Chronicles

Resident evil, Wesker X OC

Story Summary: Marigold Ashford escaped the mansion, only to face new incarceration with a familiar jailor. She may yet have to make a deal with the devil, if she can unearth what this Faustian bargain would cost her.

There is always something left to lose.

Chapter summary: Ada Wong gives Marigold a surprising piece of intel. Marigold discovers an unexpected ally, just as time becomes a critical factor.

Ada found Marigold sitting under a tree by a brook near the edge of the property, on a frosty patch of dry moss. She stopped about twenty feet away and looked at her. “The executives up there were too afraid to come roust you out themselves. I’m told you’re supposed to meet them this afternoon?”

Marigold sat out in the late November sun for a moment longer, eyes closed, then turned her head to look at Ada. “Do you normally live on-site?”

“I do when I’m the only pair of eyes available that survived the NEST. The debrief is taking forever.” She watched Marigold fiddle with the maglocked tracker on her wrist. Ada gave the thing a little grimace. “That sort of thing is exactly why I carry an active jammer with me onsite. I hate being recorded. It’ll block yours from transmitting a signal, so we ought to get moving before they realize and send half the security team.”

Marigold blinked. “That implies other people survived whatever the hell Birkin turned himself into.” She stood, and they both started walking back down the trail together.

Ada gave her a speculative look. Finally, she said, “Annette Birkin held out for a while. I’m assuming that’s who you called.” She paused. “Officially, I heard none of that. They know that you temporarily ‘restrained’ him, of course. Somehow. And that I was able to learn it was bad enough to tail some wannabe heroes inside.”

“I was just offering some time to clear a dead zone,” Marigold admitted, quietly. “There were a lot of bodies down there, and they were all infected. G-virus screams.”

Ada stared at her. Marigold caught the look and shrugged with a roll of her eyes. “I know how it sounds, but what part of that situation wasn’t completely insane? Besides, you saw what I could do for yourself.”

It was true. And if Annette hadn’t managed to burn so many of the infected down in the NEST, things would have been even worse. She very well might have missed her deadline, and the last flight out of the city.

“Explain to me again why you owe me a favour? Or her, for that matter.” The building was coming into view in the distance.

“What is it they say about gift horses? Perhaps I simply wanted to punch William Birkin in the face. I expect there would be quite a queue for that.”

“Maybe I just want to be sure the check clears when it’s time to cash it in.” And just how much it’s worth.

Marigold looked at the tracker again, doubtful. Ada smirked. “I seriously doubt there’s a recording device in there. It looks too light, and it seems like the only person who actually comes anywhere near you wouldn’t want to be overheard.”

Marigold wrinkled her nose. “You had to put it that way. I’m fairly certain the entire facility knows that’s not true by now.”

“I did. I really, really did. Don’t dodge the question.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes longer. “They woke me up for a few minutes for questioning after they…after I was found out. Back then. They wanted to know how the hell I tripped over a stable infection in the first place.” Marigold wrapped her arms tightly around her middle at the memory. “They’d already seen how dangerous it was to let me be lucid for any longer - I’d made a fairly strong point of it. Annette translated my responses when Spencer called in. I think he was fishing for a reason to revoke my brother’s holdings. Annette didn’t do anything especially heroic, but she didn’t let the story he wanted to extract stand either, especially after I implicated Marcus for being an incompetent twat.”

Marigold took a breath, and let it out slowly, releasing the venom in her voice. “You mentioned they got married. I figured she’d tell me what the hell I’d gotten into in exchange for a little breathing space.”

Marigold paused, then glanced at Ada. “She didn’t make it out then. Did anyone else get out?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“I…” Marigold paused. “I couldn’t bring myself to ask.”

“Hm.” Ada considered. The other woman was likely running an angle in staying here. That was fine by her. “Annette had a daughter, Sherry. The cop I tailed in and another girl - related to one of the STARS survivors, I think - got out with her through the train tunnels. And Annette’s boyfriend of course.”

Marigold blinked, then smirked. “Good for her,” she said softly.

Ada smirked back. “You actually passed Harman when you first got into my car. The small-world syndrome in that town was incredible. That whole situation alone was a multi-year soap opera.”

Marigold looked off towards the building. The security team was milling about the entrance. Someone had twigged to the jammer. No one was running out yet, but someone was pissed. “In front of the bar,” she said voice oddly soft. “Tall fellow, wore black?”

Ada glanced at her. Ben’s intel had told her that he’d been affiliated with the Ashford family. But from that long ago? “You do have a good memory.”

“That’s true,” Marigold allowed. “It’s not always enough, though.”

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Marigold grimaced and changed the subject. “I need to get my own things. I didn’t even get shoes before that mission. I’m not used to going into meetings like this without an extra three, four inches of height.”

“They would probably assign you a personal shopper if you asked, unless you want him to keep dressing you. Hell, I’d help if it got me out of briefings for a day.”

Marigold smirked at Ada. “Are you offering to dress me, Miss Wong?”

Ada laughed. “Daniel warned me that you were an ‘incorrigible flirt’. I see old age hasn’t done away with that.” They were almost to the benches laid out facing each other in the small courtyard near the door. Security had ebbed away when they had become visible. Two guards remained, with an older man - a salt-and-pepper type, clean-cut, around fifty. He wore a well-tailored navy suit.

Marigold stopped in her tracks when she saw them. Starred. Ada glanced over at her, but her face was unreadable. Finally, she relaxed and looked back at Ada. “Looks like they’re eager to get this over with. See you around - maybe you can fill me in on the soap opera later.” She smiled a little. “There doesn’t seem to be much else to do around here.”

----------

Ada took off, shooting a curious look over her shoulder as she left Marigold alone with the executive and the two nervous guards. There was no room to consider the bombshell Ada had just dropped on her. Two of the three children that had grown up in Ashford care by the Southern Ocean had survived. No, she corrected herself. All three of them. If her suspicion was correct, only a handful of people alive would know that specific detail.

If Grayson Harman had made it out of the wreck of Raccoon City, he’d likely go home. A lot of time had passed. The last she had seen them all, Scott Harmon’s son had been thirteen, and the twins just barely eleven.

She’d been so sure, back then, that moving down to help Alexander manage the children would help pull them all back from the brink of untold disaster. And then, Arklay had happened.

And HCF would be coming for them.

The executive had a quiet word with the security staff, who stepped back inside the glass doors with only minimal hesitation. He walked toward her, waving toward one of the benches and indicating that she should sit opposite him. A safety measure, packaged as something to make her feel more comfortable. The guards would be worse than useless if things went awry. Marigold felt the cooly polite mask slip back across her face, but on the inside she was cold.

She took the bench. The executive took the one opposite her, about ten feet away.

The man looked a little rueful, but seemed pleased, overall. “Miss Ashford. I hope we’ve been able to make your stay comfortable.” His crisp London accent was still strong, after all these years.

Marigold narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head as she studied the man. “It’s been adequate, as far as accommodations go. I can’t say the same for the manner I came to be here, but it’s hardly a fair world.” She pursed her lips. “I’m at a disadvantage here as to what I should be calling you.”

The man’s face softened slightly. “Ah. I’m going by Alan these days. Alan Greenwich. When you…passed…Lord Spencer tried to purge your department. He seemed to change his mind rather quickly on the matter - no one was sure why - but we were all taken aback. It seemed the smart thing to do, especially once your family began to have their difficulties. Imagine my shock when someone from your old household reached out, around the time when the city was beginning to fall.” He stared back at her with frank interest. His words were sincere. “There were rather a lot of rumours about you back in the day. Not a one in your family ever did things halfway, do they?”

Marigold nodded, but on the inside, she felt a surge of elation. Poppy had gotten the message. Her gamble with Birkin had worked. Moreover, the effects on ‘Alan’ had held over so that he had left a trail Poppy could follow - an old number, still connected, still capable of reaching him. “I supposed that’s true.” ‘Alan’ - previously Alastair Grenwald, one of the first people she had gone after on purpose back in those early days. His cousin had attempted to drug her drink at a party in a fit of pique at how she was mysteriously pulling huge deals and glory out of the woodwork. The cousin had been the only person she’d ever actually bit, until last month. Maxwell’s situation had deteriorated, by all accounts, although he had remained wretchedly alive. Alastair here, on the other hand, seemed the picture of good health and prestige; a living, vibrant Rosencrantz to Maxwell’s Guildenstern.

They’d all been so young then. She’d had years to target the company’s people at every level, tagging key people of influence ready to rise up the ranks. Spencer’s heart must have stopped when he learned she had gotten out alive. If he had learned that yet.

Given how Maxwell and Marcus had reacted- the few she had actually infected to punish - it was little wonder that Arklay’s assumptions about her reach were limited. Spencer must have realized he would do far more damage purging every known contact she’d ever made than simply opting for containing her.

Alastair here - Alan, she would have to start thinking of him as Alan - lacked the sense of fear of her that his colleagues did. He knew, somehow, that he’d be safe here. He didn’t quite understand why though. The reports Wesker had filed had provided them with must have been designed to keep the staff clear.

From what Wesker had told her in his little threat about the Tyrants, they - Umbrella - had been learning to control them. The minds of the hulking creatures themselves had been destroyed and later replaced with parasitic intelligence. They’d been afraid to do that with a working mind, especially with so little margin for error. But they would have tried it one day.

Wesker had chosen coercion and dominance as the levers to control her. They’d worked…for a time. In isolation.

She would have to let that illusion stand just a bit longer. But not too long. She fought to urge to fidget, to make sure the item in her coat pocket was still there.

Marigold looked up at the clear, cloudless sky. “I think it might rain later,” she offered. Under the words, she sent a sharp question at the man before her. He’s going after the paramilitary compound, isn’t he. Aren’t you. While Umbrella is still reeling.

Alan blinked at her words, then glanced around at the perfect fall weather. “Yes? I suppose it might?” He seemed faintly bewildered at the question, unaware that he was answering the one beneath it. She wouldn’t have as easy a time pushing Alan as she did to Irons, but Irons had been topped up with an active infection that had woken the sleeping one that had propagated and slept deep in his lungs. Alan’s had been kept lightly active over her decade of working with him before she’d been captured. A light touch worked best. Even better, he was well used to her eccentric little asides.

She gave a little sigh. “They probably know I’m alive by now. How can I help, Mr. Greenwich?” The wolves are circling and Umbrella’s inner circle was terrified of what I would do to them if I ever got out. Do you really think they’ll sit idle while he strikes their installations? She smiled at ‘Alan’ as the thought sank in. At least one government agency knows specifically where I ended up. Such a large company, so many people. How long do you really believe they can keep a secret? Can you afford to let an asset sit idle?

If Poppy had reached out to this one, the others would have been mobilized as well. Umbrella would have a hell of a time locating George Bailey, but so would Wesker, and HCF; especially now that Bailey was amongst… friends.

Alan was looking at her with a touch of wariness now, mixed with the previous interest. Marigold had almost forgotten how lovely it was to watch a suggestion turn into what must have felt like an organic idea. “I…I think we may have been neglecting your potential while things have been settling down. The…Ms. Wong’s report…suggested that you be used more in the field. There may be an opportunity to pursue that in the next few weeks.” He seemed troubled at the thought. “But in the meantime, perhaps we can make your situation a bit more comfortable?”

----------

They talked for an hour. ‘Alan’ had appeared clearheaded throughout, but the seeds were most certainly planted. She’d managed to keep her hands clean through this exchange. Anyone watching would have observed a clear distance kept between the two. Alan had pushed for more from her, until a picture began to emerge. The Board at HCF wanted Wesker’s intel, the benefit of his experience and training. They were realizing what a prime asset she could turn out to be.

But they were also terrified of the both of them. Wesker’s report of her had been targeted to keep her at HCF, comfortable but under his strict, isolated control. Really, if it weren't for Alan - as well as Ada’s feline irreverence - it might have worked. Without information, she’d been kept on the back foot this entire time. Without contacts, without leverage, there had been no real alternative even if she did attempt to break out. Every time Wesker had left her to her own devices, it had felt like a test - one with yet another trap, yet another snare of explicit and implied threats, ready to drag her back into a secure cell.

Wesker was planning to hit Umbrella’s prime paramilitary installation. Perhaps more. She had given them next to nothing on that front. He was likely planning to use her anyhow, to drive out prey, to get returns on his investment. Alfred had been warned that something was coming. Knowing wouldn’t be enough.

It would happen soon. Perhaps before the year was out. They’d need the best weather the Southern Ocean would give them to drop into that rocky little outpost.

She needed to be placed on that mission. If Alfred could make it through the opening volleys of whatever was coming…she needed to be placed on that mission.

Alan wrapped up the meeting, hesitating only briefly before standing to offer her a hand up. “We can iron out the rest of the details later. Part of this meeting was to show the rest of the Board that it could be done.”

She hesitated, then lightly took the offered hand to stand, stepping quickly back in a way that brought a rueful look of recognition to Alan’s face. “I can’t imagine what they’ve heard. Can you believe I’ve actually missed the boardroom days?”

He laughed, and they parted ways - Alan returning to the building, and Marigold back to walk the grounds. She needed air. She needed the space to think.

She wandered for a while longer. Part of her wished she had brought a book, but she’d never get herself to concentrate on it now. Instead, she let the information of the last few days wash over her.

Marigold didn’t have the capacity to counter something of this scale. She’d always alternated between diplomat and muscle, depending on what the family - or the company - needed of her. She was a scout, a spymaster - but not a general. Her mind wasn’t built for this.

Her own mind wasn’t built for this, she realized, thinking back to that feeling she’d had when reaching out toward what might have become home, thousands of miles to the south. That feeling of one sleeping, deep below the ice. But if she could put those little volumes into the hands of someone who did have the right sort of mind, the right capacity…that would be a very different story.

Eventually, she found herself back at the little tree by the brook. The area held a feeling of seclusion, a quiet little grove where she could pretend she was back at home, in the woods behind the house in England. Out by the moor.

Except here, there was no scent of roses. Not the right kind, anyways. There was only the lingering scent of T-virus clinging to her skin, the bite marks on her shoulders, on her neck, and the threat of her family’s annihilation beyond it.

In here, there were only the shadows of the late November afternoon in a little wood, the bed of drying moss, and the little hole she had dug out underneath it. The stones she had gathered from the brook itself earlier that day, tucked behind the tree, were meant to keep the little cache from being disturbed by the local wildlife.

Marigold was good at burying what she knew. It was practically second nature. But, she thought, as she drew the faintly positive pregnancy test from her coat pocket, not everything would stay buried for long. The small supply of morning-after pills she had taken from the pharmacy had bought her a few scant weeks, but they had run out in early November. If she waited too long, she would be removed from play entirely, leaving her family at the tender mercies of their enemies.

“It won’t go the way you think it will,” she said in a soft voice. Albert Wesker planned to use her to strike at the heart of Umbrella’s operations. But he’d forgotten - she’d warned him to leave her family out of it.

Ready or not, the time for staying her hand was swiftly coming to an end.

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

"Tom Riddle effectively destroys the country from the inside out, which I believe was his true goal the entire time" (c) wait a second, so you think that he wasn't going to really take over or anything, just destroy the fuck out of w britain?

I have avoided this ask long enough.

I’ll start by saying that asking me about Tom Riddle is like staring down into a bottomless rabbit hole. We could travel down that path, but it is a dark and perilous journey, and by the end of it I will come out looking like the Mad Hatter.

It also requires a few prerequisites that you’re just going to accept as true (or else got off the crazy train here).

We know very little about Tom Riddle or Voldemort

What we do know of Tom Riddle comes to us from suspect sources

I’m just going to go out there and start with the basis that Tom is not crazy

Elaborating a little on number 1. We never actually see much of Tom Riddle or Voldemort directly. He’s a bit like Thanos in the MCU, or Palpatine in the first two movies of the Original Trilogy, he’s this looming threat that we pass by and glimpse every once in a while but never really get quality time with.

Generally, Voldemort makes an appearance in a moment of crisis.

He and Harry fight over the philosopher’s stone for Tom’s very survival. He and Harry fight over the diary for Tom’s very survival. He resurrects himself with Harry as a witness. We get those very strange dreams from Voldemort’s perspective (half of which we later learn are fabricated).

None of these really lend to our, or Harry’s for that matter, understanding of Tom Riddle. There’s too much going on, it usually happens far too fast, and there’s usually something Tom Riddle desperately wants or needs that eclipses all other concerns or else he has an audience.

This is part of the reason we get those Halfblood Prince pensieve lessons: Harry knows nothing of Tom Riddle and doesn’t understand him at all.

Which leads us, of course, to number 2, most of what we know about Tom Riddle comes from Dumbledore. I’ve talked about this before, so I won’t spend much time on it, but Dumbledore has a very clear agenda in relaying these memories to Harry. Dumbledore already has strong suspicions of what objects are horcruxes and where they’re located, he already has Snape as a very reliable agent to continue work when he’s gone, his job here is to convince Harry there is no path but suicide. And that involves portraying Tom Riddle as the most evil man who ever eviled, was born eviler than the antichrist, and will die eviler than the antichrist. 

Now, does this make Tom necessarily good or bad? No.

However, it does mean when Dumbledore tells us things like, “See, Harry, an impoverished child was upset when I lit all his belongings on fire! What a monster!” (especially given that, in a similar situation, Harry thought it was hilarious when Hagrid gave Dudley a permanent physical deformity and Harry was told he was an angel child) we should take it with a very large grain of salt.

Right, so, with all that backdrop what I’m getting at is that a) we can’t take Dumbledore at his word b) even if we could he could be wrong c) Harry doesn’t have the introspection to be able to figure himself when a or b is happening. I won’t elaborate on this last much, suffice to say that Harry’s world is very black and white, divided into the camps of those who personally like him and those who don’t.

So, why do I think Tom’s goal was not to rule the wizarding world but instead to destroy it?

A few things.

First, there are so many easier ways he could have ended up ruling the wizarding world. More, even when he effectively does rule the wizarding world in book seven, he takes very strange actions so that he’s never directly in power.

Second, I never really bought Tom’s racism. It’s too convenient and too contradictory with his backstory.

The second first, because we’re going out of order today. I’ve gone over this before, but I don’t believe Tom had minions early and I think he was effectively treated as a muggleborn (see here and here) until he took on the Voldemort persona many decades later. I’m hard pressed to believe someone as intelligent, angry, and proud as Tom Riddle would willingly believe and accept he was inferior to the likes of Abraxas Malfoy. More, even if he wished he was a halfblood, I think the evidence of him being muggleborn would be stacked too high against him to deny even to himself (and when he finds out it’s not true, he has maybe a month or so before he realized that he’s the bastard son of a squib). 

And it’s just so convenient. All the people with the power, with the money, who are itching for a cause against a threat that doesn’t really exist believe in blood purity. Ergo, Voldemort shows up suddenly espousing over the top blood purity rhetoric (rhetoric that directly clashes with his “there is only power” philosophy at that). 

In other words, I think Tom Riddle gave himself a line that he knew would get him places very quickly.

And now for the first. For a guy who has had the entire country in the palm of his hands twice, one time taking it over in a bloodless coup, he’s really big on causing collateral damage and really small on actually doing the ruling thing.

The first wizarding war, Tom Riddle as Voldemort has the backing of the heirs of the most prestigious and wealthy noble houses save a select few. These are people with seats in the Wizengamot, which has a frightening control over the government itself (including the minister of magic). I imagine, in 1980 had Tom Riddle wanted to be elected as Minister of Magic, he would have been elected as Minister of Magic. If he wanted a friendly face in office then he probably could have made that happen to.

More than even this though, by this point, Tom had already won. By having control over the majority of the Wizengamot he owns the government. He’s done, it’s over, it’s finished, and many of the characters admit as much which is why Harry Potter was such a miracle. So why all the seemingly random, exceptionally pointless, terrorism? 

One answer is that Voldemort is crazy bananas. And sure, I guess we can go with that, except for someone insane he’s oddly effective and very consistent. 

I believe Tom was systematically destroying the very foundations of the country through its core aristocratic families. Within a few short years Tom decimates the Black family, it goes from having five heirs to none, and while some of this isn’t Tom’s fault he does take care of quite a few of them. He brands Lucius for life, while Lucius rises high in politics he never escapes the stigma of being a known Death Eater and in the end cannot escape the consequences for his actions. The Malfoy family is very nearly destroyed by the end of the series, had Draco died in the Fiendfyre. The LeStrange family, presumably decimated as well.

More, this is mostly me headcanoning, but I imagine Tom fuels an extremism that the Wizarding World had never contemplated. I imagine, previously, anti-muggleborn sentiment was probably fairly rampant among purebloods. Oh, some were very pro-muggleborn I’m sure, but I think most were fairly “eh” on the people and felt they were a drain on society (such as requiring constant funding for the obliviation department).

However, when Diagon Alley starts getting blown up every other week, when muggleborns start being tortured and murdered, when purebloods who aren’t anti-muggleborn enough are being tortured and murdered, this starts wigging people out in a way they’ve never wigged out before.

By the time we get to Harry Potter’s canon, it is now only a minority that are anti-muggleborn, and they’re perceived as raving lunatics. Nobody wants to be grouped with these people. Which, just goes to show, how much Voldemort rattles the wizarding world in a very small amount of time.

Then there’s Deathly Hallows, rather than become minister himself Voldemort installs a puppet minister. He shows no signs of wishing to change this and instead does things like destroy the sorting hat (which again shakes the very foundations of the wizarding world as whta will we do if we don’t know who’s a Gryffindor anymore?!)

So, where is this ramble going?

Given the results we see, that more than any others it seems to be the purebloods and often Tom’s own followers that suffer colossal losses, I think Tom’s actions are, in part, a means of vengeance against the entire damn wizarding world (but especially the purebloods).

He makes fools of these people, brands them as his slaves, and has them participate in the most over the top ridiculous rituals (the cloaks, the masks, the entire theatrics of it feels like Tom got drunk one night and planned this whole thing out). He destroys them entirely, and better, enables them to completely destroy themselves and the country they believe they’re trying to save.

Basically, I think by the time the series begins Tom is fueled by a nihilist rage that knows no bounds. But dammit all, the wizarding world is going to burn.

[themadamespod]

The Great White Gripe

A lot has been said about the “social commentary” within The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. 

“Since when is Marvel a bunch of SJWs? I don’t need this shit.”

“All this race stuff feels SUPER forced.”

“Oh here we go Marvel tryin to be all woke to get the libs on board.”

If you personally know anyone who spews this brand of ignorance, we’re sorry. 

Let’s make one thing perfectly clear: there is no social commentary on TFATWS. Showrunner Malcolm Spellman and director Kari Skogland simply show the reality of life in America. It’s not their fault that so many (white) people (men) don’t like looking in the mirror.

And some people claim they have no problem with film and television addressing politics and social change.

“Just keep it out of my comic book movies. It doesn’t belong there.”

They could not be anymore wrong, even if Chandler Bing himself was lecturing them. 

If you asked 100 people to name the top ten movies of all time, you’d get 100 different lists. But one thing we can all agree on is that film has power. It has the power to move us, to divide us, to unite us. Entertainment can lead to the kind of discourse that prompts action and positive change.

And that’s why The Falcon and the Winter Soldier and the conversations it’s sparking are so important.

One World, One Reality

“Marvel has always been and always will be a reflection of the world right outside our window.” - Stan Lee

There are two takeaways from that statement:

One: Stan Lee didn’t say that in the 1960s, 1970s, or even the 1980s. He said it in 2017.

Two: Our window, not your window, is a subtle but important distinction, particularly as it relates to TFATWS. The Flag Smashers, led by Karli Morgenthau, live by a simple creed: “One world, One people.” The core message of the show is that white Americans and Black Americans experience the world very differently, but there’s still only one world, one reality. 

It’s just a matter of people opening their eyes and seeing it.

TFATWS is an extension of Marvel’s early support of the Civil Rights Movement. In 1963, Stan Lee created the X-Men as an allegory for the ongoing struggles of the African-American community. Though he didn’t explicitly base Professor X and Magneto on Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X, there are ideological similarities.

Five years later, following the assassinations of Dr. King and Robert Kennedy, Stan wrote the following:

“Bigotry and racism are among the deadliest social ills plaguing the world today. It’s totally irrational, patently insane to condemn an entire race—to despise an entire nation—to vilify an entire religion. Sooner or later, we must learn to judge each other on our own merits. Sooner or later, if a man is ever to be worthy of his destiny, we must fill our hearts with tolerance.”

In 2021, Stan’s words still resonate. Racism in the United States is as virulent and damaging as it’s ever been. Black Americans are facing deadly policing, Jim Crow 2.0 voting laws, mass incarceration, and countless other roadblocks to mobility that most white people have never encountered.

Through the journeys of Sam and Sarah Wilson, Lemar Hoskins, and the heartbreaking Isaiah Bradley, TFATWS shows the unvarnished truth of what Ira Glass might call Black American Life. And through John Walker, the writers nail home the message that’s really making certain people squirm:

White men are the greatest threat not just to Black Americans, but all Americans, because TFATWS is as much an indictment of toxic masculinity as it is of bigotry. 

As aggressive racism has spread like wildfire since 2016, so has hostile sexism towards women of all colors. John Walker is the embodiment of the hyper aggression that the Proud Boys applaud. The clearest example of this comes when Walker dares to clap the shoulder of Ayo, one of Wakanda’s Dora Milaje.

Her swift and, ahem, pointed response had women the world over screaming like they’d just won the lottery. 

One could also argue that Walker’s dogged pursuit of Karli and displaced peoples supporting the Flag Smasher cause mirrors the Trump administration’s war on immigrants. 

There are plenty of parallels to draw. The point is, none of them are forced or manufactured or exaggerated. And whether we’re talking about a fictional road in Latvia or a real street in Minnesota, white Americans need to stop avoiding conversations that make them uncomfortable.

The Politics of Comics 

In 1938, Americans were still reeling from the Great Depression. Enter Superman, the everyman hero, who made his comic debut while the nation was facing widespread unemployment, rampant poverty, and blatant corruption at every level of government.

Superman could have faced off against any number of supernatural villains. But Siegel and Shuster went a different route, setting a precedent for comic books that has prevailed to this day:

They got political. 

Throughout Superman’s earliest adventures, he fought against evil politicians, apathetic bureaucrats, aggressive police officers, greedy businessmen, and even a Washington lobbyist. 

Then in 1941, Joe Simon & Jack Kirby introduced Captain America just in time to fight the nazis and free the world from fascism. A couple decades later, Kirby and Stan Lee would tell the tale of the aforementioned Erik Lehnsherr, who survived the horrors of Auschwitz. These comics endured because their passion and nuance transcended entertainment. So what was the secret sauce?

Like Siegel and Shuster, Simon, Kirby, and Stan Lee were Jewish. Representation matters, folks. 

Later on, the X-Men weren’t the only conduit through which Marvel supported Civil Rights. In 1966, on the heels of the “March Against Fear” from Memphis, TN to Jackson, MS, Stan Lee & Jack Kirby unveiled Black Panther. When African-Americans were fighting harder than ever, Black children could suddenly read a comic book about T’Challa, the noble warrior king of a highly advanced African nation. 

Marvel has never been shy about critiquing foreign policy either. Tony Stark and Iron Man debuted in 1968 as the conflict in Vietnam was escalating. And let’s not forget, Tony made his MCU debut in a film that is a clear indictment of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

We could do this all day, but you get the idea. 

Comic books have always reflected the politics of our times, and so has the MCU. Fanboys can’t start crying now just because they’re on the wrong side of history. And when they do, we defer to the great Jon Bernthal when asked about alt-righters appropriating the Punisher symbol:

“Fuck them.”

Life Imitates Art

In 1986, American men felt the need for speed. After Top Gun was released, applications to U.S. aviation forces increased by a staggering 500%. 

Two years later, Errol Morris exposed police corruption in his film The Thin Blue Line. The documentary prompted a new investigation that eventually exonerated death row inmate Randall Adams for the murder of a police officer.

That same year, the Polish government ceased all executions after leaders were swayed to do so by A Short Film about Killing.

Following the release of Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine in 1999, Kmart bowed to public pressure and stopped selling handgun ammunition. 

And 5 years ago, Pakistani Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif changed the law on honor killings in response to the critically-acclaimed film A Girl in the River. 

Like we said earlier, film has the power to spur social change. Even if the effects aren’t always so direct and immediate, television and movies have always contributed to the process in America. 

Seeing the Ricardos sharing a bed allowed some Americans to start relaxing their prudish ways. 

The Mary Tyler Moore Show and Maude empowered women as they fought for reproductive rights.

The Jeffersons and Good Times facilitated calmer discussions about race relations.

And The Ellen Show led to greater representation of queer people on screen and greater acceptance of queer people in society. Though Ellen herself has become a problematic figure in the last year, that legacy still remains.

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier is hardly the first show of its kind. And given the impact film has on society, we believe Hollywood has a moral obligation to produce content that exposes society’s ills and fosters productive debate. 

Stan Lee would be very proud of the team behind TFATWS for bringing the stark reality of American life into people’s living rooms. The next time you see someone bitching about it, remind them what Stan himself said just a few years ago: 

“Those stories have room for everyone, regardless of their race, gender, religion, or color of their skin. The only things we don't have room for are hatred, intolerance, and bigotry.”

[ava-candide]

Poldark’s Aidan Turner on playing Leonardo da Vinci

The newly married heart-throb actor learnt to paint left-handed for his new role, and he’s still daubing now, he tells Ed Potton

Aidan Turner takes on the role of Renaissance polymath Leonardo

I’m trying to work out where Aidan Turner is Zooming from. Is it London, where he moved to in 2017 after his Ross Poldark became the drooled-over king of Sunday-night television? Dublin, where he grew up, trained as an actor and returned to spend the first lockdown with his parents? Or Rome, where he shot his new series, Leonardo, in which he plays a young Leonardo da Vinci?

“None of the above!” Turner says. “I’m in Toronto.” The enigmatic charm, feline eyes and gleaming locks that he deployed so mercilessly in Poldark, The Hobbit films and Being Human are all there. “My missus is working here,” he explains, and so is he. That’s the American actress Caitlin FitzGerald, his partner of three years, whom he met when they starred in the 2018 film The Man Who Killed Hitler and Then the Bigfoot. At first I assume the “missus” is laddish affectation but it turns out that it’s official: Turner and FitzGerald, both 37, got married in secret in Italy in August after filming finished on Leonardo. You can almost hear the sighs of disappointment ripple around the world.

Turner won’t say any more — he is famously guarded about his personal life — but he looks insanely happy in the couple’s rented apartment. FitzGerald — whose grandfather Desmond was a CIA agent and organised several plots to assassinate Fidel Castro — is shooting a series, Station Eleven, in Toronto while her husband works on another project that he’s not allowed to talk about. In their downtime they’ve been watching I’ll Be Gone in the Dark, an HBO documentary series about the Golden State Killer, and, on a lighter note, Ottolenghi and the Cakes of Versailles. They share the apartment with Charlie, an ebullient Norfolk terrier that Turner has to eject from the room halfway through our interview when he starts yapping. “I’m surprised he behaved for so long,” he says

Eight-part series Leonardo has been criticised for warping history

Like many of his fellow thesps, Turner has been doing a great deal of lockdown painting. “We have a roof garden here and the light has been really good,” he says. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this because I don’t know if the landlord knows. It’s not messy work anyway!” Unlike some of his peers — I’m looking at you, Pierce Brosnan — he has yet to unleash his daubings on the world. How would he describe his style? “I struggle to say abstract, but I haven’t quite figured out what it is yet.” Did it help with playing Leonardo? “I don’t know. If you saw my paintings, you’d assume very much not,” Turner says. He has a studied line in self-effacement, honed after years of “sexiest man on TV” questions.

Leonardo premiered in Italy last month and was watched by seven million, many of them doubtless keen to see Turner brooding in a succession of smocks. The eight-part series has been criticised for warping history, having the artist accused of murder and featuring an apparently fictional muse, Caterina da Cremona, played by Matilda De Angelis from The Undoing. Luca Bernabei, the chief executive of Lux Vide who produced the series, defended it stoutly. “Matilda De Angelis’s character did exist. She was a model Leonardo asked to paint,” he said. “We have been really careful in our research. But this is not a documentary, we are not historians and this is not a university history lecture.”

And if the history pedants are spluttering, the art pedants should be happier — the series goes to considerable lengths to make the painting look authentic. Each episode is themed around a different masterpiece, from the portrait of Ginevra de’ Benci to The Last Supper to the Mona Lisa, and the candlelit cinematography is often sumptuous. Turner’s research included a private view of a Leonardo exhibition. “I spent some time alone with the actual paintings, which was brilliant,” he says. “They’re just like high-definition photographs. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that a human had done this.”

Aidan Turner attended an artist’s boot camp before filming started

The series opens in Florence in the 1460s, with Leonardo a pupil of Verrocchio, played by the veteran Italian actor Giancarlo Giannini. Before the shoot Turner and his co-stars went on an artists’ boot camp (brush camp?) supervised by professionals. He says the hardest part was learning to paint, as Leonardo did, with his left hand. He compares it to learning to ride a horse for Poldark, which he pretended he knew how to do before going on a crash course when he got the part.

Brushwork was the same, he says. “I realised I had to get good quite quickly and look like I knew what I was doing with my left hand, which is more difficult than you would think. It’s keeping it steady — you find it just moves around a lot. Leonardo was very slow and precise — I think I got it down. After a few weeks you start picking up the brush with your left hand, it becomes natural.”

Leonardo was a vegetarian, Turner tells me, “and apparently later in life opened some sort of vegetarian restaurant”. He was also gay, something that, despite reports, the series does not shy away from. Was this Turner’s first time kissing a man on screen? He laughs. “Of all the things I was expecting you to ask next, that wasn’t one of them! In a lot of ways it was just another love scene. The fact that the gender was different — that was never a thing. No, it felt right. It didn’t feel any different at all. But yeah, to answer your question, that was the first time, which I’d never really thought of until now.”

What did feel weird, he says, were the Covid protocols. “Suddenly people are wearing masks and shields and hazmat suits. We had a big sanitisation machine as we walked in that would spray us. You take off the mask when you shoot the scene and it’s a bit strange for a second. Then you realise it’s the first time you’ve seen your co-star’s face that day. It’s not conducive to a very creative environment, for sure. But we made it work and nobody got sick.”

Turner spends a chunk of the first episode painting De Angelis, and both actors know what it’s like to be ogled. She has been asked endlessly about her naked locker-room sequence in The Undoing, just as he has been reminded of his shirtless scything scene in Poldark. Before that there was his lusted-after vampire in Being Human and his sexy dwarf in The Hobbit — branded a “dwilf” in some quarters — although that “definitely wasn’t the intention”, he says. “I think I just had less prosthetics on my face. My make-up call was 20 minutes and everyone else was sitting in the chair in the morning for three and a half hours. It wasn’t good to be around the other dwarfs in the mornings, that’s for sure.

“I get why people are interested,” he says of the ogling. “It’s just when it keeps coming up.”

We move on. According to a recent survey Cornwall has overtaken London as the most desirable place to live in Britain. Does he think Poldark played a part in that? He laughs. “Maybe we nudged a few people in the right direction. I think people forgot how beautiful that side of the world is. One of the first reviews of Poldark we read was like: ‘We can’t believe that this is our country, it looks like the south of France.’”

Could Poldark return, and would Turner be in it? If they stuck to the chronology of Winston Graham’s books they would have to leap ahead a few years. Maybe he could play an aged-up Ross Poldark in latex and fake paunch? “I don’t know if I’d be keen on the ageing-up thing,” he says. “It never really works. I don’t know whether they need to be too strict with that gap anyway. There’s the possibility someday, maybe. I enjoyed working with everybody on Poldark, from the writers right down to all the cast and crew. It really is like a family. So I’d be open to chat about it. But not for a while.”

Before that he will appear as the apostle Andrew in The Last Planet, the forthcoming biblical epic from Terrence Malick, revered creator of The Thin Red Line and The Tree of Life. Well, he doesn’t know for sure if he will appear. Actors of the calibre of Rachel Weisz, Mickey Rourke and Jessica Chastain have seen their performances in Malick films vanish during editing.

“You want what’s best for the film. And if you don’t fit into it, you don’t fit into it,” Turner says in the tone of hair-shirt devotion that actors tend to use when talking about Malick. With a cast including Ben Kingsley and Mark Rylance as Satan, the movie is meant to tell the story of Jesus through a series of parables. Turner doesn’t really have a clue, though.

“You don’t necessarily know what you’re signing up to. You’re signing up to Terrence Malick,” he says. The director has “a great way of working. Everything is around ‘where is the sun’ at this particular time. That’s our natural light and it’s all we use. So things happen fast. There’s no trailers, hair, make-up, we’re just all together. You don’t know from day to day what you’ll be doing. It’s quite renegade stuff. That’s the way I always wanted to work.”

It’s closer to the immediacy of the theatre, which is where Turner started out. The son of an electrician, Pearse, and an accountant, Eileen, he represented Ireland at ballroom dancing before falling into acting. After studying at the Gaiety School of Acting in Dublin he acted in plays for five years and in 2018 he returned to the stage to rave reviews in Martin McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore in the West End. Rave being the operative word — his performance was bracingly unhinged. “I can’t wait to get back to the theatre,” he says. “That’s what we’re looking at probably next.”

Turner’s character in The Lieutenant of Inishmore was an Irish freedom fighter, but he is reluctant to talk about the prospect of Irish reunification (“So I don’t get shot when I get home,” he told one interviewer). Culture is safer ground, and his native country is going through a purple patch with Sally Rooney in literature, Fontaines DC in music and the likes of McDonagh, Jessie Buckley and Denise Gough in drama. “It tends to happen in waves,” Turner says. “Coming out of drama school, Colin Farrell was such a big thing. When these actors really make it you can feel some of their light begin to shine on the industry back home.”

Like Farrell, Turner is an international star, although it has mainly been in period roles: Poldark, Leonardo, Andrew and his breakout turn as the 19th-century poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti in the 2009 series Desperate Romantics. It must be something about the hair.

That could be about to change, though. Toronto often stands in for New York, which suggests that his current mystery project has a contemporary setting. Does he yearn to act in jeans? “Yeah, you’re right,” he says with a laugh. “After Leonardo, I think tights and knee-length boots are out for a while.” Many would beg him to reconsider.

[twofootedbones]

What Is A Flower’s True Meaning?

Summary:  Every day for the past month Logan has been getting wilted flowers delivered outside of his door. Every day for the past month Remus has been trying to make flowers that were just as beautiful and alive as his love, but all he could make was destruction. Every day for the past month Logan has been saving the flowers, bringing them back with the power of botany. Every day for the past month Remus has been trying to confess his love through the flowers, but what is a flower's true meaning?

One of my favorite old Sanders fic of mine

In botany, it’s known that any plant has a saving grace period before befitting death. If the roots of the plants were alive or if part of the stem is still alive, there was still hope for the plant.

-

Step one, reviving the stems. Recut the stems of the flower, cut at an angle and cut a half-inch up the middle to provide a large area for the stem to absorb water.

-

Remus was near tears as he surrounded himself with wilted flowers. Roses, tulips, and carnations surrounded him as he tried over and over and over again to create a living flower. At one point he started to give up and try making some kind of normal plant, but within seconds of birth, they would all wither away. He screamed as loud as he could, shaking the room around him.

Most of the flowers turned to dust as he did so, leaving him surrounded by not only dying flowers but crushed petals and crushed hopes. It took him a while to stop the streams of water coming from his eyes, no matter how many times he wiped the moisture away it would always replace itself.

-

Labored breaths filled the room as he tried to calm himself down.

Once collected, he gathered up a bouquet of the best-looking flowers to deliver on his love’s doorstep. He held his head in shame as he held the wilted flowers, they needed to be beautiful for his love.

-

Someone was leaving wilted flowers outside Logan’s door. As the flowers started to show, the logical side took up researching bits of botany that Thomas had learned from previous experience, it usually wasn’t anything more than the flower’s name. Every Week there was a new type of flower, every day there was a different color. The flower’s always arrived in bountiful bouquets wrapped in a metallic emerald green ribbon. Logan got into the habit of pressing the flowers into various scrapbooks. While he craved to know how was leaving these flowers for him, he was afraid of bringing this up to the other sides.

It didn’t take long for the logical side to convince Thomas to look up how to revive a flower, blaming the need on being curious. Within minutes a sink, a new shelf, and dozens of glass vases had been added to his mind space.

-

Roman groaned as his brother had yet again entered his side of the imagination. “No, it’s no,”

“Aw come on! You didn’t even give me a chance!” Remus walked into the room with an ever so fake pout of his face. “You’re going to ask how to make flowers again,” the prince sighed watching the disastrous man fiddle with the ruffles on his sleeves. The poor man was nervous about the courtship that HE was engaging.

“All the ones I make keep dying!”

“And that’s my fault how?”

Remus whined throwing his hands around as if to gesture at a point that’s not there. He attempted to create another daisy only for the white petals to immediately droop and wrinkle.

“Look, I can’t help you make the flowers but,”

Remus looked up, his face lit up with some kind of hope.

“I can help you choose which flowers to use,”

-

Step two, hydration. Hydrate the flower within a vase of warm water. Warmer water will move up the stem faster, but cold water if preferred for flowers such as Tulips.

-

Everyone but Logan knew. Roman would complain about his brother’s annoyances constantly. Not only that, but Patton had caught Remus outside of Logan’s door on more than one occasion. “The poor thing looked so nervous standing outside the door,” he gossiped. “He tries so hard to knock and give the flowers to Logan himself,” Patton chuckled. “Maybe we should give him some tips,”

“Remus? In love? And with Logan of all people!?” Virgil was shocked considering this was the first time was part of the gossip session.

“Keep your voice down! The nerd himself might hear you!” Roman panicked, looking over his shoulder. “I’ve been trying to help him become more direct through his choice of flowers,”

“Is this why Logan keeps making me research flowers?” Thomas asked the group. Patton only laughed, it was obvious that Logan had taken an interest in the plants.

“What exactly is he making you research?”

“How to save wilting flowers,”

-

Step three, food. Add a drop of lemon juice and a pinch of sugar into the water.

-

The flowers started to cover Logan’s room. There were daisies, roses, carnations, lilacs, lilies, and peonies of all different colors. The one plain matte room, burst with colors as the once wilted flowers now thrived. As some flowers died over time, Logan would press them into the books he started when the flowers first appeared. He would write the date the flowers appeared and the date they died, along with what type of flower they were.

Three knocks hit hard on Logan’s door.

“Who is it?” the logical side called out to no answer.

Setting down the papers, he got up to investigate. There was no one outside the door when he got there, but there was a fresh bouquet waiting for him. There was something special about this one, rather than it being all one flower, there was an arrangement.

Acacia, Amaranth, Gardenia, Arbutus, and Heliotrope. The green ribbon that once surrounded the flowers was now a bright white lace. The wilted bouquet was beautiful.

“Got another one huh?”

Logan almost jumped three feet in the air as Roman spoke up. The prince chuckled as he walked down the hallway. “The one who’s sending them wants to see you tonight, meet me in the hallway and I’ll take you to him,” And with that Roman walked off.

“He wants to see me? Tonight?” Logan whispered to himself as he clung to the flowers. The logical side rushed the flowers into the room. He immediately got to work on saving the flowers.

-

Step five, wait. Within a few hours, the flowers should be back to their beautiful state.

-

“YOU WHAT!?” Remus screeched as Roman told him about the date he set up.

“Calm down! Calm down! I did you a favor! You need to tell him sooner or later!” Roman defended himself as his brother continued to throw various small objects at him. “But tonight!?”

“Better sooner than later?!”

“It's too soon!!”

“No, it’s not, just tell him!”

A wet fish slapped Roman across the face.

-

Logan pulled out the flower dictionary he made based on Thomas’s research.

Secret love.

Immortal love.

You are the only one I love.

Secret love, joy, sweet love, good luck.

Devotion.

Logan’s gasp echoed through his dead silent room.

The flowers were all secret confessions.

He looked around the room at the flowers he already had looking for the meanings of each one and each color.

Fascination, distinction, love.

Deep romantic love, passion.

Sweet and lovely, innocence, pure love, faithfulness.

Dreams of fantasy.

Loyal love.

First emotion of love.

High-souled aspirations.

Desire and passion.

Love at first sight.

Every single flower in his room was a love confession. A confession from who? Logan’s eyes panned to the pile of green ribbons the flowers usually came with.

“Oh my god, I’m an idiot,”

-

Step five, repeat if necessary. Sometimes a flower will stay wilted or only perk up a little, the way to fix this is to recut the stem yet again.

-

It was almost time for Logan to go meet his mystery lover, it was almost time for him to go see Remus. Logan felt like a huge idiot for not realizing this sooner. Taking a deep breath, he peeked his head outside his door to come face to face with Roman.

“Ready to go, Juliet?”

Logan only stepped out of the room ignoring the comment.

As the pair walked over to the shared imagination, the logical side had a brilliant idea.

“Hey Roman?”

“Yes?”

“Can you make me an ambrosia?”

-

Remus paced back and forth around the broken down fountain. He was nervous, to say the least. Nothing in Remus’s garden was alive, it grew sure, but none of it lived. The vines and shrubbery nothing but petrified wood, that was dimly lit by the fire of the lamps that littered the area.

He held his hands out, groaning in pain as he tried to create living flowers. The bunch of red tulips only faltered as they came into existence. He set the flowers down on the fountain's ledge, trying again.

Wilted.

Try again.

Wilted.

Try again.

Wilted.

Remus was soon surrounded by wilted red tulips. Just looking at them drove him further into insanity. They needed to be perfect. He couldn’t just give Logan wilted flowers anymore, he deserved living flowers that were as beautiful as him.

“You-who! Bro! I brought your date,” Roman called from the garden path.

Oh great, now Logan was going to see him surrounded by dead flowers. Surprise! I love you! Here’s some death. Remus panicked as his brother and his love came into view. Within a split second, everything changed. Logan stepped forward, the ambrosia in his hands. The flower was held delicately, with a metallic ocean blue ribbon carefully wrapped around the stem.

Return of love.

The ambrosia flower was a symbol of mutual love.

His eyes widened, his heart soared, for a good thirty seconds, he believed he was dead or dreaming. Logan looked around at the red tulips, then to the source of all his flowers.

“I’ll leave you two to it,”

With that Roman was gone, leaving the two ever so awkward love birds alone in the garden.

“Remus,”

Logan spoke first.

“Y-Yes?”

The logical side only held out the flower for the chaotic man to take.

“I believe this says enough,”

Remus hesitantly took the flower, he held it as if it was made of glass. The last thing he wanted to do was somehow make the flower wilt before their very eyes.

“Logan, I-”

He stared down at the flower with adoration as he held it.

“Remus look at me,”

The chaotic man shot his head up to look towards his love, he was quickly cut off as the logical side initiated a kiss. His body froze, his eyes shot open, and he held his arms out as he struggled to understand what he was feeling.

Roman almost laughed as he watched from behind the walls of vines. Patton was going to love this.

Within seconds, Remus wrapped his arms around Logan, squeezing him as tight as possible, slipping his eyes closed and deepening the kiss. Logan pulled back taking a deep breath, looking up at Remus with equally wide eyes.

“I marvel in your presence, the thoughts of you make me weak, despite everything I did to you, I want to give you the world, your beauty can be compared to the passion of the flowers and the shining stars in the sky, but nothing could come close to what the image of you does to me, you’re enchanting, you’re intoxicating, you’re my obsession, you blow me away, it would mean the world and the stars to make you my dame, my duke, my king, my God,-”

Remus continued to babble confessions as Logan only basked in the awkward praise. Slowly a smile as bright as the sun and as powerful as the moon spread across his face.

“Remus,”

“Yes?”

“I fancy you as well,”

-

Roman burst into the living room.

“GUYS HE DID IT!!!!!!”

“HE DID IT AND LOGAN SAID YES!!!!!”

Patton’s excited screams could be heard echoing from the kitchen.

[z-1-wolfe]

Parhelion Headcanons (sir this is all for you) @greenbeany

Putting 'em under the cut because they got very long O.O

I- the gnome is Neon I take no criticism. They are often good-natured souls with a more mischievous side, and if that doesn’t describe Neon I’m not sure what does. Playful, funny, good intentions, that my good Bean is our lovable cat personified. Okay Parhelion dnd au with gnome Neon please /j.

I AM SMACKING THE GUN OUT OF YOUR HANDS [runs into a glass wall] dammit,, guess I gotta talk now

I- oh no,, time to fail the exam I guess (turns all your head canons upside down)

Okay they do sleep yes they do. Actually that’s a lie only Ciel sleeps, the other two are insomniacs. Ciel has all of her day to day life planned out to the minute, so she heads to bed at a certain time and wakes up at a certain time, the other two are more of a “we’ll sleep when we’re tired” kinda duo. Unfortunately due to Ilia’s night terrors and Neon’s ADHD they almost never rest. No they do not sleep in a SANE bed, ha why would they have a bed? They sleep in a hammock all tangled up with each other. It’s hard to tell what order they sleep in when they kinda curl into each other. They do not use a duvet, why have a duvet when Neon is a space heater? There are no pillows on the hammock X). OKAY THEIR ROOM, THIS I GOT, it’s a funky mess that is somehow organized thanks to Ciel. Ilia doesn’t own a lot in general but it was her life’s dream to paint her bedroom rainbow so guess what they have now. The other two are too soft and they supported her efforts and they love her despite her poor design sense XD.

I- why closet ASDFG I mean— No they do not share a closet they all have completely different fashion sense and if that was all in one place people would be genuinely terrified. But since they’re broke they had to make do with one walk in closet that they partitioned off into sections. YES THEY DO HAVE MATCHING OUTFITS THEY ARE SO CUTE LIKE THAT. They tend to be like those cute couple outfits with a few variations to match their own personal style. But their favorite matching outfit are these duck hoodies they own courtesy of once again Ilia living out her childhood dreams. No they don’t own many outfits because like I mentioned earlier they are broke x). Hmm thinking about each other’s styles… Ilia think both of her girlfriends have great taste, she loves the well, neon of Neon, and the prim and properness of Ciel. Neon just doesn’t care XD. And Ciel is just, she’s just standing there wishing she could help their fashion sense, but she holds back because “It does suit them in an odd way.” Ciel gets the most compliments on her style hands down, she looks organized and you can bet she saves money to buy outfits that actually accentuate her cuteness. They don’t wear makeup no time for that (in which you learn Z has little to no knowledge in how to apply makeup and doesn’t know how to answer that question)

OH OKAY I LOVE VIDDY GAMES. Ciel likes real-time strategy games because she’s insane and that’s literally all she knows in life thanks to being raised in an upper class family in Atlas. Neon likes open world games, something something she likes the chance for adventure and determining one’s fate for themself. Ilia has never once played a video game until after she defected from the White Fang but I can see her playing something light like Stardew Valley, low stakes kinda games. Hmm, they might play Animal Crossing together? Since it has aspects they all enjoy. They each have an individual switch (Ilia has a coral switch lite) and one shared PC. Okay game with most hours, maybe Minecraft? They still haven’t beat the enderdragon because Neon keeps getting distracted XD. Neon is the bomb at party games though, you can bet she has a perfect score on all the songs in Just Dance. Ciel is a sharpshooter, god knows who taught her how to shoot like that. The biggest splatoon fan is unfortunately not Neon it is Ilia, she loves all the colors in the game ^^. But she and Neon have wracked up quite a few hours in co-op.

Uhhh books!! Ilia likes fanfics :) it’s unfortunately one of the only ways for her to see positive representation of herself. Neon for some reason reads Epics?? Like her favorite is the Epic of Gilgamesh what is up with that?? Ciel reads webtoons :), she reads enough serious stuff for school work and such, she likes to just kick back and relax after all that. Yes they have schedules reading time courtesy of Ciel :). Uhh, they relax by baking together. None of them had many chances to indulge in sweets while growing up so they make full use of their time now. ?? SPOON?? Cuddle hours happen on a whim, the one thing that Ciel can never schedule because she never knows when it’ll occur. They relax the most in the kitchen x) because that’s where they bake, it’s not unusual to find Neon asleep on the counter while she waits for their sweets to rise. They read in the light, Neon is afraid that by reading in the dark that they’ll all ruin their eyesight. Ciel likes the sunrise because she’s up the earliest and is the only one to see it, the other two prefer sunset because that’s usually when their day is about to begin XD.

Favorite spot for dates! The park ^^, they like to go on picnic dates with all their baked goods. There is no plan, usually one of them will randomly pull the other two out of the house because they haven’t touched grass in a while XD. There are no ideas, they share one braincell and they spend too much time doting on each other to use it. Uhm favorite movie genre,,, they like comedy movies :). Their favorite place to eat is this tiny store on the corner of their street that makes mean gyros, they heccin’ love them. Coping with horror, Ilia is desensitized to horror because of the things she’s seen in life, Neon treats it like a game because she knows it’s not real, Ciel, is okay with it, but she gets shook more easily than the other two and they often have to reassure her. No they do not like theme parks, there are too many people around for Ilia and Ciel and Neon respects their boundaries so they tend to go to more quiet places. Uhm heights, Ciel is used to heights because she’s friends with Penny and woah can that girl toss her in the air like she’s a couple of grapes. Ilia doesn’t mind heights but she would prefer to have her feet on the ground. Neon loves the ground so damn much if it leaves her she will cry because man she can’t roller-skate in the air can she, what will she do if the ground is suddenly gone? They like evening dates because it’s normally the only time all three of them are awake enough for it XD. They end a night by sleeping I am not quite sure if there are other ways to end it lmao. They absolutely despise Neon’s roller skating dates but they love how excited she gets about them so they end up becoming as good as professional roller skaters because the smile on Neon’s face when they join her is dazzling.

I am slowly going insane. Yes each girl has a hobby I sure hope they do. Ilia knits, Ciel paints, and Neon writes. I would like to imagine that Ciel would try to schedule time for their hobbies she ends up giving up because all their sleep schedules are wack. Designated chef is Neon (probably made food for FNKI back in atlas), designated driver is Ilia (I mean I like to imagine she stole cars and stuff in the White Fang XD), designated decorator for stuff is normally Ciel though Neon does try to hijack a few of her plans occasionally, designated shopper is Ciel because the other two have no concept of Saving money, and they all work together to clean :). They don’t work together, they believe in keeping their work life and home life separate to prevent their feelings from getting in the way. They do not have pets, none of them have the energy or responsibility to do that, but Ilia did once bring a moose home one day for some reason.

I am nomming on your arm sir. Ilia and Neon get along with Penny surprisingly well, though I do think Ilia would get along with Weiss better? Ruby and Weiss look at Ciel and see a beacon arc Weiss and more or less adopt her despite Ciel being older than the two of them. They might like.. play board games together? Like some of those more team based board games I can’t think of anything off the top of my head, may the best polycule win. I cannot see them in a cuddle puddle to be honest ajcnjsanjs I am so sorry— hmm Ruby and Neon do not know the meaning of formal, as far as they are concerned these are their girlfriend’s friends and that means that by extension these are their friends. Weiss would like nothing to do with Neon after Neon insults Yang during the Vytal festival but she begrudgingly goes on outings with her and hey, now they’re make up buddies for some reason. The parhelion gals take the fs gals to the gyro place they like :). Parhelion gang Is a lot more vocal on their dates because their love language happens to be words of affirmation while the fs gang’s happen to be physical touch. Both polycules are very very affectionate though I will die on this hill.

DARN IT TUMBLR ONLY LETS ME HAVE 10 IMAGES PER POST THIS IS FINE IT WAS JUST ONE MORE PROMPT DARN IT

(Parhelion angst! How do Neon and Ciel react to the news about the dust mine? How do they find out about Ilia getting expelled? Do they find out about the white fang? Is there any faunus stigma afterwards? How does Ciel react to people bullying her Faunus GFS? Does Neon talk to Ciel much after? Do they ever reunite? Does Neon attempt to help Ciel while she grieves Penny? Where the fuck is Ciel now? Is Neon still alive? Does Ilia ever think about them? Does Blake know about them from Ilia?)

BUDDY I CAME TO THE LAST ASK AND NOW ONLY DID I REALIZE YOU MEANT PARHELION BACK WHEN THEY WHERE IN BEACON THIS WHOLE TIME I’M CRYING. (This ask is answered under the assumption that they are already dating back in Atlas Academy) Ciel is fiercely protective of her girlfriends, though people only know that Neon is a Faunus because Ilia masks her traits during her time at the academy. Neon and Ciel are horrified about the news about the dust mines. They know that Ilia is a Faunus and that her parents were working there so they rush to see her as soon as possible. But they’re too late,,, Ilia’s already been expelled for attacking her fellow students. They don’t hear from Ilia for a few years after that and the two slowly drift apart, each blaming the other for not getting to Ilia soon enough. They don’t find out about the White Fang until they reunite with Ilia unfortunately, but they feel sad that Ilia had felt that they only way for her to get revenge for her parents was by joining a militant group (I’m working under the assumption that Sienna only took control of the White Fang shortly before Ilia joined). When Neon learns that Penny didn’t make it after the Fall of Beacon she hesitantly reaches out to Ciel for the first time in a year, and she does try to help. But for Ciel it’s blow after heccin’ blow and she pushes Neon away in a rage. Ciel leaves the Academy after that and goes rogue, working as a huntsman without a license for the poorer parts of remnant. Ilia is unaware of all this drama during the Beacon arc. The next time she hears of any news is during the Fall of Atlas, and she’s scared, scared because she’s still recovering and she just heard Ruby announce to the world that Remnant is under attack, and oh my gosh her ex girlfriends live in Atlas. Neon makes it out alive, though not entirely in one piece, she now has a prosthetic leg. Ilia is the first person to see her, it’s a tearful reunion and they haven’t fully made up yet, but hey it’s a work in progress, now they just have to find out where Ciel is, but when they do they’ll BOTH be there to greet her. Blake has no idea who the fuck Ciel and Neon are lmao, Ilia never told her anything about her past romances when she was in the White Fang.

Oh gosh I think that's it-- And that is it thank you for listening to me ramble about Parhelion you get a juice box for making it this far. Sir I am sincerely sorry for turning your ship upside down please forgive me.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “I Have Seen.”

Wrote something easy and more similar to my original stories today. I hope you like it. 

I have been thinking about taking a couple days off from writing these stories, since I have been working non stop on this and the book for over a year now, so I am considering taking a break for about a week so I don’t burn out. I haven’t decided yet, so we shall see, but I hope you all have a great day.

I have a job no one knows about.

I don’t think anyone would be surprised if they heard about my job. I don’t even think they would care all that much.

None of this explains why my work station is in the basement of a nondescript government bunker on a death planet…. A!36. I can’t explain why I need three codes to get into my office, or why I go through five locked doors, or why I am not allowed to tell anyone what I do on pain of termination and imprisonment. 

You would assume, perhaps that I am a spy, and involved in some covert cloak and dagger espionage against other species and nations: you would be wrong.

You might assume I am a weapons developer, but you would also be wrong.

Perhaps you think I spend my time wire-tapping on important calls between species and recording important information.

None of this is really the case.

In fact, what I do is quite safe and relatively simple, plenty of other non-humans are doing it of their own accord and plenty more humans do it on a regular basis. What I do is not illegal, it is not espionage, it wouldn’t even phase you.

If that is the case.

Why do so many of my coworkers go missing?

Why are there absent desks every few months?

Why can I not make any lasting friends?

Management always give excuses to those of us who are left.

They left for mental health reasons.

THey moved on to a different job.

They are moving up in the company.

They had to be let go.

All things generic and all things that wouldn’t generally raise suspicion… unless they happen so frequently as us.

You may be wondering at this point, what it is I do for a job.

Perhaps, you think, it is very boring and unfulfilling that I would go insane from sheer boredom.

No, I actually find my job quite interesting.

Perhaps you think my job forces me to watch very disturbing and violent things…. And I suppose that could be close to the truth, though no one forces us to watch the videos if we don’t want, and no one makes us read the material if we cannot handle it. In fact, there are those of us who specialize in that sort of thing.

I do.

I am a specialist in historical xenopsychology.

I study human history.

When I say that I study human history, I do not mean as in a passing fancy. I do not simply read their school children’s textbooks and accept everything I see as truth, no, every day , I come into work and it is my job, to learn about everything that has ever happened in human history, to the best of my ability.

It is my job to know the good, the bad, the ugly, and the monstrous.

I work from day to night, cataloguing and filling my brain with all the information I can before recording it as a lecture on aura drives, which are then stored away for future use in a deep backup system under the surface of this planet.

I have followed human history since the beginning of time.

And I have marveled at it.

Much of my research is flawed, I know. Human history has always been biased, history being shaped and molded by the winners of conflict. Much of what else I know stems primarily from scholarly work humans have done on their own species, looking back the centuries and making assumptions about what they were doing.

While this is a good insite -- humans trying to explain the behavior of other humans-- it isn’t necessarily correct.

For this reason, it is my job to study every piece of information that comes across my desk.

Due to a government agreement between the galactic assembly and the United Nations of Earth, I was given access to the rebuilt library of Alexandria and all of its electronic files which include photos and information on the original documents that they keep in sealed vaults below the library.

I have read every account of human history, and every second hand interpretation of human history that I could possibly find in my time working here.

I have read Darwin and his early theory regarding evolution. I have examined his evidence, which include images and diagrams of the human body spanning centuries. My determinations were made just the same as the rest of them. Humanity was a tree-living species that found its evolutionary niche through walking and the use of opposable thumbs.

This ability to walk, in tandem with the use of hands eventually gave rise to the slow swelling of the brain in comparison to other animals. Human evolved primitive tools, and even more primitive religions, societies and rules.

They developed art early on, painting on the walls of their caves, in the darkness of night surrounded by their fires.

I have read about their befriending of animals in that same darkness. Man’s slow molding of the wolf into the dog - a species designed specifically for the needs of man.

I have attempted to read every account of every atrocity ever inflicted on humanity.

I have read of wars, and battles, Marathon, Thermopylae, Kadesh, D-day, Vietnam, Korea, Russo-Japanese, World wars I, II, III,  and IV and the Panasian War. 

I have witnessed in images and first hand accounts the chilling discoveries of natural disasters gone back thousands of years. Pompeii, Mt. St Helens, Katrina, Tsunamis, earthquakes, the fire of london, 1887 yellow river flood, the 3130 California earthquake, and Haiti earthquakes. 

And I have studied and witnessed every atrocity man has ever committed on its own people. The Mongol hordes, the crusades, Mayan and Aztec sacrifices, The Armenian genocide, the Holocaust, mustard gas, 9/11, slavery in the America, the Trail of Tears, The Bataan Death March, the Berlin wall, Civil war, the French revolution, Nanjing, Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

I tore a hole in humanity and looked inside to see your rot. 

I study the maggots that crawl under your skin.

Don’t confuse me with someone who fears you, or is even disgusted by you. You have committed thousands of horrors, yes this is true. But humanity is not a polished gem, it is an uncut stone marred by dirt and debris, but beautiful in a way that can hardly be explained.

You scrub away the rot only to find more underneath, yet you continue to scrub, in a futile attempt to better yourselves.

It is a beautiful thing if not in vain.

I do not judge you for your crimes because I have also seen your achievements. I watched you survive  the dark ages, I learned your philosophy from the greek world which brought the beauty of democracy and equity in later forms. I watched the enlightenment of the Renaissance, and have seen your beautiful artwork from each period of time. 

I have witnessed your great nations and empires rise and fall, Assyria, Byzantine, Rome, Britain, Egypt, Mongole, Aztek, Soviet Union, The chinese Dynasties and the Communist parties. The United States, and the Asian Co-Prosperity Collective

I have seen your bravery and your loss.

I have learned about the good that walks your earth.

Humans who stood up to tyrants.

I have even examined your stories of creation, of deities who molded humans from clay or dust, watched your world come into form in seven days, or ride on the backs of giant animals. I have seen the gods gift you with fire and learned the teaching of your martyrs over the centuries. Men and women slain and stoned or pulled away by spirits. I have learned of crucifixion, death and rebirth as well as reincarnation and a return to the very fabric of the universe itself.

I see everything.

I see everything. I see it all in my dreams laid out before me like a tapestry following each woven thread through the ages. I thought if I looked back, I could know as much as I possibly could. If I dug deep enough, I would be able to see your secrets.

And I have discovered you.

I see you hiding in there.

I know what you are.

Come out, come out.

And I won’t stop until it is all over and your cities crumbled into dust and bone.

…

…

I am being called into my manager’s office. Perhaps I too am ready to go up in the company.

...

I will be back soon…

Deus 

[captain-ross-poldark]

Poldark’s Aidan Turner on playing Leonardo da Vinci

Ed Potton

Friday 2 April 2021

Aidan Turner takes on the role of Renaissance polymath LeonardoJUSTIN SUTCLIFFE/EYEVIN

I’m trying to work out where Aidan Turner is Zooming from. Is it London, where he moved to in 2017 after his Ross Poldark became the drooled-over king of Sunday-night television? Dublin, where he grew up, trained as an actor and returned to spend the first lockdown with his parents? Or Rome, where he shot his new series, Leonardo, in which he plays a young Leonardo da Vinci?

“None of the above!” Turner says. “I’m in Toronto.” The enigmatic charm, feline eyes and gleaming locks that he deployed so mercilessly in Poldark, The Hobbit films and Being Human are all there. “My missus is working here,” he explains, and so is he. That’s the American actress Caitlin FitzGerald, his partner of three years, whom he met when they starred in the 2018 film The Man Who Killed Hitler and Then the Bigfoot. At first I assume the “missus” is laddish affectation but it turns out that it’s official: Turner and FitzGerald, both 37, got married in secret in Italy in August after filming finished on Leonardo. You can almost hear the sighs of disappointment ripple around the world.

Turner won’t say any more — he is famously guarded about his personal life — but he looks insanely happy in the couple’s rented apartment. FitzGerald — whose grandfather Desmond was a CIA agent and organised several plots to assassinate Fidel Castro — is shooting a series, Station Eleven, in Toronto while her husband works on another project that he’s not allowed to talk about. In their downtime they’ve been watching I’ll Be Gone in the Dark, an HBO documentary series about the Golden State Killer, and, on a lighter note, Ottolenghi and the Cakes of Versailles. They share the apartment with Charlie, an ebullient Norfolk terrier that Turner has to eject from the room halfway through our interview when he starts yapping. “I’m surprised he behaved for so long,” he says.

Eight-part series Leonardo has been criticised for warping historyPA

Like many of his fellow thesps, Turner has been doing a great deal of lockdown painting. “We have a roof garden here and the light has been really good,” he says. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this because I don’t know if the landlord knows. It’s not messy work anyway!” Unlike some of his peers — I’m looking at you, Pierce Brosnan — he has yet to unleash his daubings on the world. How would he describe his style? “I struggle to say abstract, but I haven’t quite figured out what it is yet.” Did it help with playing Leonardo? “I don’t know. If you saw my paintings, you’d assume very much not,” Turner says. He has a studied line in self-effacement, honed after years of “sexiest man on TV” questions.

Leonardo premiered in Italy last month and was watched by seven million, many of them doubtless keen to see Turner brooding in a succession of smocks. The eight-part series has been criticised for warping history, having the artist accused of murder and featuring an apparently fictional muse, Caterina da Cremona, played by Matilda De Angelis from The Undoing. Luca Bernabei, the chief executive of Lux Vide who produced the series, defended it stoutly. “Matilda De Angelis’s character did exist. She was a model Leonardo asked to paint,” he said. “We have been really careful in our research. But this is not a documentary, we are not historians and this is not a university history lecture.”

And if the history pedants are spluttering, the art pedants should be happier — the series goes to considerable lengths to make the painting look authentic. Each episode is themed around a different masterpiece, from the portrait of Ginevra de’ Benci to The Last Supper to the Mona Lisa, and the candlelit cinematography is often sumptuous. Turner’s research included a private view of a Leonardo exhibition. “I spent some time alone with the actual paintings, which was brilliant,” he says. “They’re just like high-definition photographs. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that a human had done this.”

Aidan Turner attended an artist’s boot camp before filming startedVITTORIA FENATI MORACE

The series opens in Florence in the 1460s, with Leonardo a pupil of Verrocchio, played by the veteran Italian actor Giancarlo Giannini. Before the shoot Turner and his co-stars went on an artists’ boot camp (brush camp?) supervised by professionals. He says the hardest part was learning to paint, as Leonardo did, with his left hand. He compares it to learning to ride a horse for Poldark, which he pretended he knew how to do before going on a crash course when he got the part.

Brushwork was the same, he says. “I realised I had to get good quite quickly and look like I knew what I was doing with my left hand, which is more difficult than you would think. It’s keeping it steady — you find it just moves around a lot. Leonardo was very slow and precise — I think I got it down. After a few weeks you start picking up the brush with your left hand, it becomes natural.”

Leonardo was a vegetarian, Turner tells me, “and apparently later in life opened some sort of vegetarian restaurant”. He was also gay, something that, despite reports, the series does not shy away from. Was this Turner’s first time kissing a man on screen? He laughs. “Of all the things I was expecting you to ask next, that wasn’t one of them! In a lot of ways it was just another love scene. The fact that the gender was different — that was never a thing. No, it felt right. It didn’t feel any different at all. But yeah, to answer your question, that was the first time, which I’d never really thought of until now.”

What did feel weird, he says, were the Covid protocols. “Suddenly people are wearing masks and shields and hazmat suits. We had a big sanitisation machine as we walked in that would spray us. You take off the mask when you shoot the scene and it’s a bit strange for a second. Then you realise it’s the first time you’ve seen your co-star’s face that day. It’s not conducive to a very creative environment, for sure. But we made it work and nobody got sick.”

With his wife, the American actress Caitlin FitzGeraldREX FEATURES

Turner spends a chunk of the first episode painting De Angelis, and both actors know what it’s like to be ogled. She has been asked endlessly about her naked locker-room sequence in The Undoing, just as he has been reminded of his shirtless scything scene in Poldark. Before that there was his lusted-after vampire in Being Human and his sexy dwarf in The Hobbit — branded a “dwilf” in some quarters — although that “definitely wasn’t the intention”, he says. “I think I just had less prosthetics on my face. My make-up call was 20 minutes and everyone else was sitting in the chair in the morning for three and a half hours. It wasn’t good to be around the other dwarfs in the mornings, that’s for sure.

“I get why people are interested,” he says of the ogling. “It’s just when it keeps coming up.”

We move on. According to a recent survey Cornwall has overtaken London as the most desirable place to live in Britain. Does he think Poldark played a part in that? He laughs. “Maybe we nudged a few people in the right direction. I think people forgot how beautiful that side of the world is. One of the first reviews of Poldark we read was like: ‘We can’t believe that this is our country, it looks like the south of France.’”

Could Poldark return, and would Turner be in it? If they stuck to the chronology of Winston Graham’s books they would have to leap ahead a few years. Maybe he could play an aged-up Ross Poldark in latex and fake paunch? “I don’t know if I’d be keen on the ageing-up thing,” he says. “It never really works. I don’t know whether they need to be too strict with that gap anyway. There’s the possibility someday, maybe. I enjoyed working with everybody on Poldark, from the writers right down to all the cast and crew. It really is like a family. So I’d be open to chat about it. But not for a while.”

Turner with Eleanor Tomlinson in PoldarkMIKE HOGAN

Before that he will appear as the apostle Andrew in The Last Planet, the forthcoming biblical epic from Terrence Malick, revered creator ofThe Thin Red Line and The Tree of Life. Well, he doesn’t know for sure if he will appear. Actors of the calibre of Rachel Weisz, Mickey Rourke and Jessica Chastain have seen their performances in Malick films vanish during editing.

“You want what’s best for the film. And if you don’t fit into it, you don’t fit into it,” Turner says in the tone of hair-shirt devotion that actors tend to use when talking about Malick. With a cast including Ben Kingsley and Mark Rylance as Satan, the movie is meant to tell the story of Jesus through a series of parables. Turner doesn’t really have a clue, though.

“You don’t necessarily know what you’re signing up to. You’re signing up to Terrence Malick,” he says. The director has “a great way of working. Everything is around ‘where is the sun’ at this particular time. That’s our natural light and it’s all we use. So things happen fast. There’s no trailers, hair, make-up, we’re just all together. You don’t know from day to day what you’ll be doing. It’s quite renegade stuff. That’s the way I always wanted to work.”

It’s closer to the immediacy of the theatre, which is where Turner started out. The son of an electrician, Pearse, and an accountant, Eileen, he represented Ireland at ballroom dancing before falling into acting. After studying at the Gaiety School of Acting in Dublin he acted in plays for five years and in 2018 he returned to the stage to rave reviews in Martin McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore in the West End. Rave being the operative word — his performance was bracingly unhinged. “I can’t wait to get back to the theatre,” he says. “That’s what we’re looking at probably next.”

Turner’s character in The Lieutenant of Inishmore was an Irish freedom fighter, but he is reluctant to talk about the prospect of Irish reunification (“So I don’t get shot when I get home,” he told one interviewer). Culture is safer ground, and his native country is going through a purple patch with Sally Rooney in literature, Fontaines DC in music and the likes of McDonagh, Jessie Buckley and Denise Gough in drama. “It tends to happen in waves,” Turner says. “Coming out of drama school, Colin Farrell was such a big thing. When these actors really make it you can feel some of their light begin to shine on the industry back home.”

Like Farrell, Turner is an international star, although it has mainly been in period roles: Poldark, Leonardo, Andrew and his breakout turn as the 19th-century poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti in the 2009 series Desperate Romantics. It must be something about the hair.

That could be about to change, though. Toronto often stands in for New York, which suggests that his current mystery project has a contemporary setting. Does he yearn to act in jeans? “Yeah, you’re right,” he says with a laugh. “After Leonardo, I think tights and knee-length boots are out for a while.” Many would beg him to reconsider.

All episodes of Leonardo will be on Amazon from April 16

https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/poldarks-aidan-turner-on-playing-leonardo-da-vinci-wnmqhxqxr

[darling-i-read-it]

Insane

Ramsay Bolton x reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: ramsay bolton is a warning, also murder someone being eaten alive by dogs

Author’s Note: ‘The art of giving in to something she never said she would do’ by Maya. 

This does not mean I condone Ramsay being a SHIT person and I cut out his marriage to Sansa so it’s sorta an AU. Also I hated Little Finger so I basically just made this a whole different AU I don’t know. Enjoy? 

Summary: You marry Ramsay instead of your little sister Sansa

Genre: ??

Song: I Walk The Line by Halsey

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director 

(not my gif)

When Little Finger started to talk about having your sister marry Ramsay Bolton you knew you had to get in between them. If for no other reason than to protect Sansa or to keep Petyr Baelish from getting what he wanted. He always seemed to have sensible reasons for things and Sansa was young and traumatized. Everything he did seemed wrong in the end for his own personal reasons and she couldn’t quite understand that. 

Despite wanting to protect your younger sister you wondered if the Boltons were going to treat you anything other than terrible. You had heard many stories about Ramsay over the years and none of which were pleasant. 

You were strong, as strong as any other of your Stark siblings. That didn’t mean you could deal with constant pain though. Roose Bolton agreed after he was able to get both you and Sansa. Sansa wouldn’t marry into the family but you wanted to keep her close. You weren’t sure where most of your family was other than a general region so keeping her near was your highest priority.

Now that you and Ramsay were officially married you were able to settle, as much as you could. To be honest you didn’t hate him as much as you thought you were going to. 

Ramsay stood beside you, overlooking the coldness of the North. You were happy to be home as well. The memory hurt of course but being where you had grown up made it all bearable.

“Where is Sansa?” Ramsay asked. You shrugged, the weight of your cloak weighing on you. It was one of Ramsays while he was still getting you regular clothing of your own.

“Presumably in her room,” you said simply. “Why?” 

“Do you trust Petyr Baelish?” he asked. You scoffed and turned your head to look at him but he didn’t look at you. He was asking you for advice, if not inadvertently. It was the first time he had done that. You held your head high and shook your head.

“I do not.” 

He nodded simply, finally meeting eyes with you. His eyes were an icy blue that you had learned to read like a book.

“Good. I don’t trust his motives for sending you here.”

“Was it not to unite so that you could take over the North?” you questioned. Ramsay let a small smile grace his face. It was dangerous and had something behind it that was sinister but you had learned to expect that sort of thing with Ramsay.

That night you stood in the room you shared with Ramsay, looking in the vanity as you undid your braids. Your hair fell easier then, finally being let loose. The door opened and you looked through the mirror to where Ramsay was, breathing heavily but smiling.

“I do not believe Petyr Baelish will persist in being a problem,” he told you. He walked over to where you were sitting and put his hands on your shoulders, leaning down so that he could look at you in the mirror. You raised an eyebrow, turning to face him.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing a lady needs to hear.”

Ramsay and you may have not grown to love one another but you liked each other plenty. He liked you enough to announce the demise of someone bothering you and you liked him enough to not be disgusted by it.

You walked a very thin line of love, like and disgust with Ramsay Bolton. 

Ramsay however was the kind of man who used you or loved you and you were itching on the wrong side of that track. 

You stood with Sansa just outside the walls of the Winterfell, looking as the snow fell down lightly over the ground. She let out a shaky breath that mixed between the cold and the excitement of fresh snow. She held her hand out and turned to you curiously.

“Why hasn’t Ramsay killed me yet?” she asked lightly as though she were asking what's for dinner. You shrugged and glanced back at the walls. There were guards lurking behind you in case danger came and the walls loomed over them and you as though they were also watching.

“I believe it’s because he thinks he loves me,” you whispered. Sansa laughed.

“Do you really think so?” 

“He is my husband,” you joked. Sansa looked up at you and remembered Joffrey with a harsh memory. He had been so cruel and he was to be her husband. Her home and everywhere around it could be filled with loveless marriages similar to the one she nearly embarked on, to the one she was forced into with Tyrion even if he had been mostly kind to her. 

“Do you love him?” 

That hit you like a bag of bricks. You hadn’t wondered about it, especially because you had been so hesitant about him to start with. You just assumed you would never love him. That he was too insane to be loved. You didn’t know what he did when he was away from you and there was no promising that it was anything less than terrible but the question stuck in your mind. Sansa’s voice echoed for a moment and you laughed in surprise.

“I think I do.”

Sansa looked at you as you gazed into the woods sprinkled with fresh snow.

“I suppose it’s a good thing then that you married him and not me.” You nodded.

“He killed Little Finger,” you told her. She raised her eyebrows.

“Why did he do that?” You finally met her eyes.

“I told him I didn’t trust Little Finger.” That was not Sansas definition of love but it happened to be some form of it, perhaps Ramsay's only form of it. 

Only a moment later you heard Ramsay's voice and footsteps as he approached the two of you.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” he suggested through crazed eyes and as though you hadn’t grown up there. “I need you for something Y/N.” You turned and nodded.

“Is it for dinner? I’m starved.” He shook his head and gestured for the two of you to follow him. You eventually reached back inside Winterfell and Ramsay gave you a look to which you nodded.

“Sansa,” you started and she nodded.

“I’ll be in my room.”

She disappeared and you followed Ramsay the last few feet to where he stopped. He gestured to the door of one of the many rooms. 

“Do you want to see Petyr Baelish?” he whispered. You shrugged, clasping your hands together. 

“I thought he was dead.” Ramsay shoved the door open and started to walk through. You followed him and noticed very quickly this was where he kept his many dogs. They were silent as the two of you walked down the dimly lit corridor, surrounded by cages of dogs.

On the floor at the end seemed to be what remained of Petyr Baelish although you couldn’t quite tell from the disfiguration. 

“So he is quite dead,” you said, your voice echoing. Ramsay nodded, smiling.

“Quite.” 

You turned to Ramsay and asked the question that had been eating at you for a while now.

“Why did you kill him?” you asked even though you knew the answer, the same one you had told Sansa. He shrugged, looking up into your eyes and even though he looked nearly insane you felt safe in the room full of rabid dogs.

“Because I did not know his intentions with you.” He stood up straight and grabbed your arm. “You’re no longer a Stark. You’re a Bolton now. Anyone who poses a threat to a Bolton must be taken out of the equation.” 

You almost laughed. He was telling you the truth. How odd.

“Quite right.” 

“I trust you would do the same for me,” he said simply. You weren’t sure if you would but otherwise you didn’t care.

“I would.” 

Ramsay gave you that smile again and you felt about as insane as he did.

[crispyjenkins]

Me again, hope you don’t mind... anyways could you do Cody and Obi wan First Meeting out of Cody’s POV and he slowly realizes that this isn’t you usual Jedi general but that Obi-Wan Kenobi is not only beautiful but also 1. Incredibly good at words 2. Actually cares about the Vode 3. For that reason dislikes fighting and casualties and actually shows his compassion to the Vode 4. Is an absolute badass and 5. Absolutely insane

(Obi-Wan defying the troopers' expectations is the reason i'm alive, and the vode being intimidated by this scary magic man only to find out he's a reckless dumbass who cares more about them than actually winning the war is just. yes. not actually sure how it happened in canon, my brain is being mean, but canon is nebulous and i do what i want. 

so here's Cody being surprised by Obi-Wan's endless love for absolutely everybody, and obi being surprised that Cody is surprised.)

  Cody is running on six hours of sleep in two days following General Rret So’s reassignment, and he isn’t even close to being finished cleaning up that... disaster. They’ve got a new batch of shinies to paint and name, bodies to bury, a new general to meet, and to be honest, Cody doesn’t have all too high hopes for their next one. It’s already kriffing clear that none of the Jedi have proper military training, and while Cody isn’t one for gossip, he’s also heard rumors that Kenobi hasn’t been in the field since Geonosis. And they want him to lead an attack battalion.

  But when Cody arrives in the hangar of their current outpost to make sure it’s in shape before Kenobi arrives, there’s a Jedi near the center of the room, sitting on the floor. Or sitting... a few inches above the floor, only one hand gently touching the durasteel below him, and Cody halts just inside the door.

  It doesn’t take much to guess his identity, what with the Jedi robe mostly pooled on the floor, whose edges drift in lazy swirls. The man has his eyes closed, several small stones levitating in equally lazy spins around him, but the casual show of power doesn’t put Cody on edge the way their Nautolan general had; the air around Rret felt like static when he meditated, but General Kenobi effuses warmth and calm, his expression as thoughtful as it is peaceful. 

  Cody skeptically takes in the armor under Kenobi’s robe, modified clone armour; General Rret never touched anything not sent directly from the Temple. And Kenobi is... smaller than Cody had expected of the famed Negotiator that had helped lead at the Battle of Geonosis, more lithe, more compact. His hair is longer than regulation (not that that has ever stopped Tup), just enough to pull back, with an endearing curl that’s escaped the elastic floating at his temple.

  Cody was created for problem solving, for analyzing patterns and information where his rank-and-file brothers could not, but all these little details just leave him confused.

  The stones gently and slowly settle back onto the ground, followed by the general as he inhales a deep breath, and that aura of tranquility does not leave when he opens his eyes. 

  And then he smiles at Cody.

  Cody snaps a salute, nerves jumping despite the general’s expression, and tries to raise his mental shields like Jango had taught them to. “General, sir,” he greets, keeping his gaze just below Kenobi’s eyes, which unfortunately has him pinned on his lips.

  “Commander Cody,” he returns warmly in High Coruscanti, rising in a fluid motion and holding out a hand. Cody stares at it for a moment before he realises General Kenobi means to shake his hand, and he almost thinks it’s a trap, but he hesitantly reaches out all the same. That smile grows as Kenobi then moves to grip Cody’s forearm like any proper Mando, tapping his other fist to the center of his chest. “It’s good to finally meet you, Commander: I’ve been assured that we will work quite well together.”

  Reeling, Cody almost forgets to respond. “Sir?”

  “I’ve heard nothing but compliments from your men, and from other battalions; Captain Rex in particular speaks very highly of you.”

  Does he know Cody was almost court martialed for arguing with General Rret? Does he know about the multiple complaints submitted by the Nautolan for insubordination? 

  The way Kenobi’s eyes crinkle at the corners doesn’t assure him that he had. “I like to get my information from multiple sources,” Kenobi explains, finally releasing Cody to tuck his arms behind his back almost at parade rest. “You’re here a bit early, aren’t you? Excellent, that gives us some time to chat before your men arrive.”

  It’s enough that General Kenobi went out of his way to learn his name, and then use it, leaving Cody absolutely helpless as Kenobi launches in questions about the cleanup from Rret’s departure.

-

  Kenobi growls like a stampeding reek as their next assault goes to kriffing shit. No sooner had Kenobi managed to greet Ghost Company, that the call to arms had blared through the outpost, a droid battalion approaching from the South. Which was something Rret had apparently anticipated but not felt the need to tell anyone, including the High Generals.

  And Kenobi had loaded up with the rest of them, speaking quickly with the pilot, and surely his general wasn’t planning on— on actually fighting with them? 

  But he had indeed leapt from the transport into the dense forest right alongside him, and Cody had realised, kriff, he has to try and keep this crazy Jedi alive long enough for him to ask what the kriff he’s thinking.

  And then things just keep going wrong, from misinformation about droid numbers, to being cornered in a ravine, to Cody having to step over a Shiny that hadn’t even been named yet. Kenobi whirls through the droids with his lightsaber, but the B1s seem to just keep coming, and Cody has almost resigned himself to dying here, because Rret would never let them change the plan this far in—

  “Commander!” Kenobi shouts, shoving a B2 droid off his ‘saber. “Full retreat! Evac is inbound, get your men to the top of the ridge!”

  “Sir?”

  Appearing at Cody’s side and handing him a fresh blaster, Kenobi’s serene expression is traded for troubled rage, but it’s by some miracle not aimed at the vode. “We’re not winning here today,” Kenobi says, jerking his chin towards the ridge as he tugs Cody behind a boulder. “We need to regroup, your medic is already overrun.”

  Which doesn’t quite compute. It’s not as if they haven’t lost entire squads in similar conditions, what does Kenobi hope to achieve by—

  “I’ll hold them off,” he says, making Cody choke on his spit. “As long as I can.”

  “General!” By the Force, he can’t honestly think that Cody will let him stay behind, that Cody will leave him here.

  “That’s an order, I’m not losing any more men today,” Kenobi says firmly. He checks around the boulder before spinning back to Cody. “I was told you were by the book, that you were a stellar soldier with his brothers’ best interest at heart. Are you going to make me a fool for believing that?”

  “General, I don’t think—”

  “I’ve given you an order, Commander. Retreat. I will meet you back at the outpost.”

  Swallowing down the urge to throw up, Cody nods and salutes, and prays to whatever deity listening that he’ll wake up tomorrow with absolutely no memory of today.

  Kenobi gives him a small smile, before reigniting his ‘saber and rushing back into the battle.

-

  Cody is just beginning to wonder if they’re going to have to get another new general when Kenobi shows up in the last search party before they call it off for the night, stepping off the transport with several more injured brothers that hadn’t made it back with the first two evacs. A squad of shinies runs up to get the stretches to the medbay that is indeed overrun, but Cody doesn’t worr— can’t worry about that right now, marching up to Kenobi with a comm disk.

  “Sir, welcome back,” he greets, taking quick stock of the minor grazes on Kenobi’s face, how limp his hair has turned, but he otherwise seems fine, which is a miracle in it of itself. “High General Mundi—”

  “Later,” Kenobi cuts him off, not unkindly, but with an air of unspeakable exhaustion. “Master Rret So restationed your secondary medics, yes?”

  “Yes, sir, but what—?”

  Kenobi nods once and starts to follow the shinies, Cody matching pace with him even as he’s sure he’s broadcasting his confusion into the Force. Kenobi offers him a tiny smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your brothers aren’t going to last the night if I don’t go help Wupi, and you’re horrendously undermanned as it is.”

  Another name casually thrown out, as if General Rret hadn’t even bothered to learn their numbers, and if Cody wasn’t already a whirlwind of emotions, he might have some feelings about that. Later. Everything later.

  A thought occurs to him. “Sir, General Rret said they were needed elsewhere. The secondary medics.”

  They arrive at the medbay that is in utter chaos, too small to house so many vode, already filled from their last skirmish and now completely overflowing. Kenobi looks around almost as if he’s going to cry, before he clenches his jaw and turns to Cody.

  “General Rret was mistaken. I hailed the 501st from the transport, they’ll be here tomorrow afternoon, but until then, it’s my duty to keep your men alive. Can you help me do that, Cody?”

  Cody simply nods, wondering if he had been concussed during the battle. “Yes, sir. What do you need.”

  “I need every sheet you can spare, and the emergency medkits from all the transports. I need you to hold off General Mundi until morning, I know he’s expecting a long conversation. And please, tell him in no uncertain terms that I plan to have very harsh words with his former padawan as soon as the 501st arrive.” Kenobi takes a deep breath, seeming to draw energy in from everywhere, and then puts a hand on the side of Cody’s neck for the briefest moment. Almost like static shock, Cody flinches, but suddenly doesn’t feel so exhausted, and he blinks down at Kenobi.

  “That should hold you over until morning, I trust you to handle the rest of the outpost?” He raises a single brow, but kriff if Cody is going to tell him no.

  “Yes, sir.” He salutes, feeling a green warmth brushing against his mind that certainly was not there before, but belongs there all the same. 

  That warmth stays with him long after the 501st arrives with aid, and Cody intends to hold onto it for as long as his cannon-fodder life allows. 

[biteghost]

How do you come up with so many cool characters?? All of your OCs seem so vibrant and fleshed out. Do you have a specific process for developing them, or do they just kinda come to you mostly formed? I find I struggle with building a compelling OCs for D&D games & would love to hear your thoughts on character development.

(This answer got long, sorry.) This is a super nice sentiment, I’m happy you think my characters are all cool and unique!!

As far as process goes, uh, it depends on the character? I’ve spent a long time (years) rewiring my brain when it comes to what I think about when creating OCs. They don’t usually come to me fully formed - I get an idea in my head about a concept, and then over like a week or even months of fiddling I end up with a character for that concept.

A lot of the time my characters are simply people I wanted to see more of in media as a kid! Mostly, female characters I actually relate to or are as nuanced and messy as their male cast members, haha... (It was a trip when I realized in high school that I didn’t hate female characters - it was actually that none of them were written as well as the cool boys in the anime series I liked, haha! Be the change you want to see in the world, basically.)

Inspiration for characters (and stories for them to be part of) come from a lot of places. An easy piece of advice is to make an effort to intake media you like! Read new comics, watch new movies and television shows, read books, play video games, listen to music and obsessively memorize the lyrics - hell, obsessively learn everything there is to know about black holes or public domain characters (that’s what I did, lol...)!

(Note: ’New’ meaning new to YOU - you don’t need to only be partaking of media that’s created in 2021 - you can find a lot to love in media that was created before your time, or for generations before you!)

I must reiterate: intake new media that you ENJOY! You don’t have to like all the same things as everyone else, you don’t have to be invested in the same shows and podcasts as your friends. Varied interests and taste is part of what makes us all unique! Increasing your pool of inspiration will help you come up with interesting ideas, and help you find YOUR voice. Your particular interests and the niche things that speak to you will help you figure out what kind of characters and what kind of stories you like to create! But the process doesn’t end at just intaking media... When you find the stuff that brings you joy, analyze what exactly it is about that thing that speaks to you... Put it into words. Explain it to a friend. Make it tangible, analyze the feelings and why the series made you feel that way... and then take it and shove it into your own stories, lol!

Engage critically and thoughtfully with work you like, with characters you like, and it will help you have the language and thought process to recreate it in your own work!

My creative process is like an exquisite corpse of all the characters and series I’ve liked over my lifetime. I mesh them all together in a grim blender and what comes out is a shake in the vague shape as an OC, lol

BUT... it seems like you’re asking more specifically about making characters for tabletop roleplaying games like D&D? And THAT is a different process for me than making OCs for my comics or original story ideas!

I don’t usually join a tabletop game with a fully fleshed out character, actually?? I don’t spend a long time on their backstory, and I usually figure it out like halfway through the story, or through collaboration with my game master!

My TTRPG characters are usually whatever I think would be most interesting in the given game setting or set-up and... usually they exist in opposition to whatever the core concept of the game is. So, the examples I have from games I’ve played are:

In Cardians: West (World of Darkness: Hunter the Vigil): we played in a modern-day urban fantasy setting, where players were recruited into a supernatural Hunter group that was also a criminal organization that Did Crimes and Broke The Law in the name of keeping peace and protecting humanity from the supernatural creatures that go bump in the night. I played Andrew, a Lawful Good Police Detective, because I thought playing a character who would need to grow past his original ideals of ‘Right and Wrong’ in the name of the greater good would be interesting! (And it was!)

In SINNING ADVENTURE (WoD: Geist: The Sin-Eaters) we payed in a modern-day urban fantasy setting with the premise that the players all Died and were brought back to life by forming a pact with a powerful spirit (and getting cool ghost powers in the process!) I played Cassius, a character who could not cope with his death, and thus refused to use his new powers because they were evidence that he was no longer strictly human. It caused conflict in the group and world, but I thought it would be interesting! (And it was! Cassius was a Bitch.)

In Rex Machina (Dungeons and Dragons 5E), I wanted to play an Aarakocra, but was having a hard time deciding on a class or backstory... until I found out that in the ‘canon’ of D&D Aarakocra only live to be like, mid 20s???? Their lifespans are insanely short compared to other playable races!! And I thought that was stupid, so I decided to make MY Aarakocra, Izzy, a warlock that’s looking for ways to extend his own stupidly short life. His pact essentially granted that to him, giving him extra time to find a way to achieve True Immortality. His conflict challenges what’s ‘true’ living in this world, and his extended life is in direct conflict with a lot of forces in the world we play in, and while it is very stressful I think it’s really interesting to play!

In Lamplighting (Monster of the Week), my character Aicen is an assassin who made a deal with a demon and gained supernatural perks out of it... except I decided that she doesn’t WANT to be in this deal. She is actively trying to undo it because it wasn’t her deal - she inherited it from a CEO that she killed during an unrelated job. (Aicen is probably my character I’ve put the most backstory into, and that’s just because at character creation in MOTW you are given a lot of questions about who your character is and why they’re where they are!)

In Hand of Adam (WoD: HtV), the concept was that all players were going to join a post-apocalyptic supernatural-hating cult. I played Shouter, who was a self-preserving pacifist coward who also turned out to be a fae (which the cult would have killed him over). It was stressful but very fun. I love Shouter. He ran away from fights and didn’t actually kill anyone until the last episode where they fought God (whom he killed, lol).

NOW. THESE ARE ALL JUST EXAMPLES OF HOW *I* LIKE TO PLAY CHARACTERS!! For me personally, I enjoy playing a character who has built-in conflict either with the world, the story, or the other players. I’m only able to play characters like this because my friend group are all really cool and we all know that conflict is not bad - it’s fiction and we’re just roleplaying! If I didn’t trust my GMs and fellow players as much as I do, I probably wouldn’t have felt comfortable enough playing some of these concepts.

I don’t think you need to know every little thing about a tabletop character, and in fact, not knowing some things and leaving it up to the GM and story to flesh out is an easy way to help you get more invested in both your character AND the story your GM is telling! Tabletops are a collaborative storytelling experience, so if you’ve already plotted out your character’s whole story, there won’t be much participation from other players or your GM. Figure out what your character wants, and let your roleplaying and GM slowly put all the other pieces in place over the course of your campaign!

But the TL:DR about how I make tabletop OCs is that I just... try to give them a goal, an ideal, or a personality that is in direct conflict with some aspect of the game we’re playing. I don’t want the character to be undermining the whole game, because that’s really crappy to do to your GM, but I have to have something for my character to grow through or change. I like giving them built-in character arc starters, lol. I haven’t played a game where my character has gotten along with every other player character and NPC over the entire campaign since my very FIRST game, lol!

Also, if you’re having trouble, why not ask your GM what they think? Again, tabletops are collaborative! Don’t be afraid to talk ideas out with your GM for your character.

A final note about playing in specifically oneshot games (i.e. games that are not long campaigns but are meant to be played in one or two sittings). Personally, I always just retrofit an OC I already have to play in oneshots! When I make a new character for a long campaign, it usually takes me two or three sessions to find their voice and figure out how to roleplay them. If the game you’re playing is only one session, I find it easier to jump right in and get the most out of your character and the game when you’re playing a character you already know pretty well! I’ve played characters from my webcomic quite a few times, and it’s always a lot more fun for me than figuring out a new character on the fly!

SO UH, IN CONCLUSION... sorry if this is mad unhelpfu!! My personal processes are unique to me! but that's the point - no one person will have the exact answer that works for you! You have to keep trying until you figure it out for yourself! Good luck! Keep creating! <3

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 29 (NSFW-lite)

Read on AO3 | Read on Wattpad

Read chapter twenty-eight (NSFW)

Title: ASSISTANCE REQUIRED

Words: 5.6k

Summary: I am very uncomfortable with the vibe we have created in the studio Infirmary today...

Warnings: mentions of abuse, suicide

ST Rambles: So... I graduated nursing school. And will be taking my licensure exam next month and start working as well...

In my time away, other than the above mentioned accomplishments, I've been reading a lot of books and even went to see an internet friend just last weekend. Life got insane and I needed to focus on school, and I do appreciate the patience and enthusiasm.

I hope this was worth the wait. I hope the next part will be even more so ;)

[MASTERLIST] || BANNER // @elmidol

Fucking, fuck!

“I know in academy you were told to pierce the skin at a forty-five-degree angle, but it works a lot better if you-,”

“Go in at a fifteen-degree-angle, go parallel to the skin. I know,” you huffed, embarrassment burning your skin. “That’s not the issue. I do that. The issue is-,”

“That is the issue,” Silver corrected, interrupted. Your preceptor-for-all-intents-and-purposes crossed her arms and stared at you with hard, unyielding eyes. “You won’t listen to me,” she spat. “You are the issue.”

Calliope Silvren, or “Silver”, as she’d informed you upon meeting, was everything you were supposed to be. And you hated her for that fact, hated her for that and so much more.

She was intelligent and concise and respected, she knew everything and made sure you were aware that you didn’t. During the past eleven hours, not with so many words, Silver had made it clear that you were never supposed to be here to begin with, that hers was the name in the original provider candidate pool and you were nothing but a fluke, a nobody, nothing.

Compared to Silver, compared to Calliope fucking Silvren, who’d graduated valedictorian, who had star-white hair and golden skin, whose eyes were a harsh sea of frozen cerulean, whose legs were long and lips were full and head was high and posture was perfect – compared to the program’s prototype? What were you other than a fluke? A whim? Compared to her, how were you anything more than the fascination you’d been labeled as from the very start?

As you stared up at her, her height almost that of Kylo’s, and felt the wrath of that frozen sea that resided behind her glare, you couldn’t speak. Every word of defense left you, and your mouth dried and your chest hollowed. Because her words not only rippled through your head but echoed through the unit’s halls so every nurse and physician and maintenance worker had heard them. Heard her and how superior she was, heard how incompetent you were.

Silver knew what she’d done, could feel the eyes of her coworkers gawking at her scolding; you knew by the smallest quirk to her lip, the slightest tick in her platinum brow. She had you trapped and on display, and all you could do was stand here and take it. The Board was watching, and so was Hux – CB-7070 always shadowing ten paces behind – you had no choice but to remain neutral-faced and silent.

She spoke your name and it was beautiful, a voice like sugar even when it slithered and bit like venom, “We’ll pick up tomorrow. If you absolutely need me, I’ll be organizing my report sheets for the oncoming shift.” When no one was looking anymore, her eyes narrowed and she leaned in. “Busy yourself for the next hour.” A sneer slipped past the benevolent mask she wore. “Don’t need me.”

With a steel spine, she whipped past you, stalking off toward her task, the white of her hair streaking from your periphery. And there you were, clutching an IV starter kit – missing the needle, much like you’d missed the vein – trying your hardest to keep from showing any emotion whatsoever. Less people were gawking now that Silver had left, but you still felt eyes on you. Whatever lay in those lingering stares, pity or humor or apathy, it all burned you, reminded you how temporary you were. Not only in this place – the “Infirmary” as the staff referred to it – but in your life, as well.

Smoothing the skirt of your uniform, you cleared your throat and turned to do as you were instructed, catching CB-7070’s visor for a second before peering around the unit. She faced you, and even though you couldn’t see her face, you knew she may be the only one around who was on your side. The white of her helmet glinted as she gave a small nod in your periphery. Yeah, she wasn’t so bad, no matter who she’d report to the second you got back to the Consulate.

The Infirmary was a large unit, and, unlike any place you’d practiced in since graduation, it was efficiently staffed and stocked. Safe nurse-to-patient ratios, sufficient supplies, and an allocated provider available for any emergent orders or treatments. It was a surreal representation of the “hospital utopia” you’d heard of all throughout school.

But, aside from its apparent perfection, some characteristics of the unit confused you, but you didn’t ask about it because no one else seemed to think it was weird, and Silver didn’t exactly foster a great learning environment.

What struck you first was the Infirmary’s construction and layout. It was all glass, floor to ceiling windows that offered full views of each patient in their respective rooms. You’d watched the sun dance across the sky as the day went on, nothing hindering you from the beautiful view of the sea beyond the fanned-out city below. The only thing that offered a semblance of privacy for each patient was the wall-spanning mirror positioned in front of their beds. None of them saw each other, but it was still odd that there seemed to be no concern towards the errant lapse in privacy policy the design created.

At the center was the nurses’ station, large and circular, a skylight fixed right above. The staff used the lack of patient privacy to their advantage, peering above the counter to make sure their assignments were doing alright. Their assignments who were all under the age of twenty. Some much younger, just grasping at adolescence, others kissing young adulthood – those seemed much worse off, something darker rimmed their eyes, ghosted behind the lifeless face all of them wore.

It was a strange environment to be in, even more so due to how vague the progress notes were, history and physicals extremely short and never too in depth, especially when it concerned anything related to the patients’ family history or living situations. Something seemed off, something that tugged at you and made you yearn to break past the flat affect each patient met you with.

So many were here for a few hours and then gone the next, a constant influx of admissions and discharges. But, so strangely, there was never any patient education given, never any parents or guardians for the younger ones to go home to. They were always escorted from the unit by two “official personnel”. And watching their faces as Silver told them they were done with treatment and could leave, it killed you to see the faintest slash of fear quiver their bottom lips.

Beyond that, beyond seeing these younglings so fearful and defenseless, what clawed at your gut the most was that none of them had a name. They had no birthdate information, no address listed, no family contacts entered or even offered. They were all in the system only by the letters “FL” followed by a code of eight numbers. The nurses would refer to them by their room numbers to make it simpler, but none of them shared your concern for the lack of identity these patients were plagued with.

Yes, something seemed off, seemed wrong here. Something waswrong here, but you feared you would be gone before you ever knew what that was.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a tray left on an isolation cart next to a door. Heeding Silver’s command, you approached it, discarding the IV kit and feeling CB-7070’s focus catch your every step. You’d passed this door frequently, never seeing anyone approach it for longer than a few seconds at a time, assuming it was a closet for extra supplies or scanning machines. But the meal card on the tray indicated differently.

This was a patient’s room. The room number matched, there were no other doors labeled with it that you could see. No staff paid you any attention as you peered around. The only one watching was your white-armored shadow standing against a pane of glass.

Shrugging to yourself, feeling you couldn’t possibly get in trouble for delivering a patient’s food, you said over your shoulder to CB-7070, “I’m taking this in. I shouldn’t be long. Don’t follow me in here.” More to yourself, you sighed, “Even if I am the only one here concerned about privacy, I’d prefer not to violate anyone’s rights on my first day.”

CB-7070 nodded. “Affirmative,” her modulator croaked.

A swipe of your new badge gained you access past the door, a whoosh of air whipping through your skirt as it closed behind you. It was pitch dark, the only light coming from a holo-chart programmed into the wall. It appeared you were in an antechamber, those that often came with isolation patients, but there was nothing indicating this patient had any infection or ailment that necessitated a gown or mask.

The air was stale, like nothing and no one had stirred it in a few days, and the only glass visible was that of a window peering into the room beyond – or, it would be peering, were there not closed blinds on the other side of it.

You saw yourself in that darkened pane, clutching the tray to yourself, the first glimpse you caught of your face since the start of shift. Truthfully, you looked awful. Hair frizzed at your temples, a sheen of oil had gathered on your forehead, and exhaustion was evident in the puffy bags beneath your eyes.

But it was an earned appearance, no matter what Silver wanted you and everyone else to believe. Today you did your best and you interpreted and communicated abnormal findings, you assessed every patient without bias and documented everything you did. There were things you were unsure of, not having performed many skills while being assigned to Kylo, but you always asked for help, even though you realized it would be met with disgruntled aggravation after the first few times.

You had done everything right, understanding the consequences if you didn’t. As far as you were concerned, and even as much doubt as she’s caused you in the singular day you’ve known her, Silver was the problem. Not you.

And, not for nothing, the IV you missed earlier… not entirely your fault.

Kylo Ren picked the wrong day to Force-edge you. Or maybe it was you who really initiated the torture, but he’d been the one to follow through with his threat. Every hour had been memorable.

The first three had luckily occurred when you were away from patients but did earn you a few wary glances from the unit staff, your jaw set firm as you gave them a reassuring nod, hoping they couldn’t see how badly you were shaking as your cunt spasmed toward orgasm, but never got there.

There was something vicious in the rate at which he was forcing you toward the edge. Even though you couldn’t see or hear him, you felt like he was tormenting you with spite in mind rather than pleasure, like something you’d said or thought had angered him.

You didn’t have much time to consider that, though, as the hours went on and you’d begged the stars that the slick slipping from your center wouldn’t go past the hem of your dress. A few times you’d cursed the damned uniform, but quickly turned to cursing Kylo Ren for the ever-so-slightly too high hem. It’d surprised you that he never acted on those silent curses aimed at him, that it hadn’t earn you another hour riding the edge of pleasure while choking down the gasps and moans he’d surely intended to draw from you.

During lunch, you’d found a corner and ate alone, speaking to the wall and scorning Kylo under your breath, spitting empty threats, telling him to stop, to slow down. When that hadn’t worked and the Force picked up in pattern and pressure, nudging your clit just right, your hands had clamped around a plastic fork as you held on for dear life. He was nowhere near you and you’d almost cum four times over the course of your twenty-five-minute break. At that point, you’d considered begging him to let you cum, but part of you knew that would only lengthen his schemes.

Other times during shift, when Silver was rolling her eyes when you’d asked for her help, you’d felt the light, teasing lance of the Force trail along your neck. When you were priming tubing for a new admission, you’d felt the strange, unseen presence caress your ear like Kylo’s tongue might. And one hour, right after the previous had left you wondering if you’d be able to stand the next time you needed to – that hour where you’d traded your curses for pleading, traded the harshness you were spitting for the simple, hushed breaths you needed to outlast the never-ending torrent of pleasure he kept surging through you – the Force was kinder, something sentimental in the way it’d weighted your body like Kylo would, draped itself along your shoulders as sweat dried on your brow and the shaking of your legs settled.

A delicate, “Thank you,” had breathed over your lips when the Force – when Kylo’s teasing – seemed it would let up for the remainder of your shift.

But, of course, that peace had been temporary, a strategy to lapse your guard, to make you vulnerable when you’d most needed a clear mind and a steady hand. It had started with the gentle lulls you’d been left with, a stroking tendril swift over the column of your neck, the tourniquet tight to the patient’s arm as you poked their forearm in search of a vein. And when you informed Silver you’d found one, the Force deftly switched its attention to your pussy.

Silver had been scrutinizing you before, but when your shaking hand and short, shallow breaths appeared as fear instead of the pleasure they were born from, her brow had narrowed that much more. When you’d anchored the vein and aligned the needle – at her all-important fifteen-degree angle – your hand had shifted, jumped as your thighs tightened and you fought to trap a moan in your throat. It was an accident that the needle pierced the patient – and, worse, through the vein – at a greater angle, and it wrought you with emotion. Guilt for hurting the patient, shame for screwing up under Silver’s icy appraisal, and unyielding anger for Kylo Ren for causing your fuck up and not being able to explain that.

So here you were, taking the brunt of criticism and punishment for a mistake you wouldn’t have made had it not been for Kylo Ren, and studying your reflection in the scant light offered from the holo-chart of a patient you hadn’t known existed up until three minutes ago.

“Kylo,” you breathed, reaching for the second badge-scanner, “I can’t look bad here. The Board is watching. Hux is watching.” You glimpsed the radar fastened to your wrist, directing your tired eyes at Kylo’s indicator like he could feel your attention on him. “Give me this last hour and let me be good. Let me do well. Let me prove that I can to everyone who believes otherwise.”

A few seconds passed by as you waited for a reaction. Nothing came. The Force remained absent from you, and your shoulders dropped in relief. With a final glance at the chart, noting the patient’s identifier and checking it against the meal ticket, you swiped your badge and the entrance rushed open.

Darkness met you once more, but this darkness was heavier somehow. Not in the way untouched rooms are usually heavy – not with dust or grime – but a heaviness that clutched at your heart. It pressed into you, taunted you even as you remained a step outside the threshold. It was only shadows, unmoving and unremarkable darkness, but it clawed at you. It writhed at your feet and stirred your heart.

This was the darkness that lived behind each of those younglings’ eyes, but here it was concentrated, like this was the very source of it. Like this was its home.

“Hello?” you croaked, still not daring to pass into the shadow-thick room.

No answer, not even a stir. Nothing but that unyielding darkness.

You cleared your throat. “I, um, I have your dinner.” You took a small step forward. “Sorry for the wait… if there was one.”

More of the same. More of nothing.

A light switch entered your periphery with your next step, and you reached for it, but before you could flip it—

“If I wanted it on, do you think I’d be sitting in here like this?”

The voice was weak, small, but not that of a child. Not even that of an ill person, or an elderly one. It was male, though. Boyish, but not a boy’s. Somehow, the voice was young and old at the same time, as if the boy had lived long years already, and those years had worn him down.

The voice was a singular stream against the dark’s thick, silent wrath, and it was hollow, empty like the shadows before you should be. As the question ended, you found that it wasn’t bitterness or pain that lived in its tone, but rather a broken apathy, like whoever this was had cared and fought for so long but had ultimately lost in the end.

“Not that anyone here is really concerned about what I want,” came the voice again, an edge weighting its words.

Finally, you stepped completely into the room. You had to swallow a gasp when the entrance at your back locked shut. The tray jostled in your arms, but you succeeded at remaining upright.

With a sugary tone, you asked, “How will you eat if you can’t see your food?”

A huffed laugh, tired and bitter. “You should work on that nurse voice. Not very convincing.” A long, deep breath filled a few otherwise silent moments. “Send that tray back. Give it to someone who wants it.”

Without your “nurse voice”, you said, “Why did you order it—”

“—I didn’t. I never do. I’m being kept here, why would I want to sustain myself to make my stay that much longer?”

“Kept?” you whispered.

The longer you stood in place, the more your eyes adjusted. The room was still suffocated by the swamp of darkness, but there was some light after all. Scant, but there, a beam of the setting sun speared the room, and from what you had begun to make out of the body in front of you – a small form curled in the center of a bed – you found he was staring out of the broken blinds from which it came, like he was looking at something. Looking forsomething.

“Kept. Held prisoner. Restrained but not restrained because thatwould make this whole operation illegal, right? Whatever way you want to put it, I’ve made it obvious I don’t want to be here.” A long pause and a sad sigh. “Starvation is a better fate than most here, anyway.”

The more he spoke, the clearer it became that his voice wasn’t hollow, but burning with quiet fury. For what, you weren’t sure, but you realized this was the first patient who had spoken all day. And his tone, his words, only solidified the fact that there was something very, very wrong going on.

You walked closer to him, past the foot of his bed until you saw where the small slant of light was focused, what he continued to brokenly fawn over.

“What are you looking at?” you asked, leaning down so you could match your view with his.

He turned his head from the mostly covered window, the creak of light only possible through a bend in the blinds, and he looked at you, a flash of realization spreading through his features before he reined his expression into a void of dull emotion.

He stared at you as you stared at him, appraising you just the same. He was young, but it appeared as though his youth had been leeched from him. Long dark brunette curls framed his face and teased his shoulders, heavy with oil inherent of unkemptness. An immense sadness lived in the downturned state of his mouth, a contrasting anger set in the crease of his brow. And when you finally found his eyes, you restrained a shiver, as the deep hazel burned with that cleave of sun and struck you with the anvil of pain and desperation that lived in them.

He wasn’t alarmed at your proximity but confused. With a shaky voice, and something of a weak sneer biting at his mouth, he said, “You’re a sick, brutal cunt, you know that?”

“What? What do you—”

“What am I looking at? Do not patronize me!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Are you stupid or just cruel?”

“I’m not either, I—”

“You’re both!”

“I’m temporary! I don’t work here! I’ve been here for one shift! I’ve been on this planet for one day!”

Without missing a beat, but less heated and more restrained, the boy said, “Just stupid then.”

He continued to glare at you, but your eyes wandered back to the break in the blinds, and with narrowed eyes you found something that resembled a racing track. It was far out in the distance, but you knew that was what he had been focused on, sure of it by the way his demeanor shifted when you looked back down at him.

“Help me understand, then, if I am so stupid,” you whispered.

“You aren’t any different from the others, no matter if you’re temporary or not. Whatever that means, anyway.” The boy’s jaw set so firm you swore you heard it crack. “You don’t want to understand. If you did, if anyone cared so much, the Infirmary wouldn’t exist.”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Help me?” the boy barked. He considered you for a moment, sun and shadow warring across the hollows of his cheeks as he did. Those pained eyes narrowed a fraction. “Who are you? What does temporary mean?”

You leaned away from him, straightening your posture and setting his tray on a counter off to the side. You offered your name, just the first, and dragged an absent-minded finger over the embroidery of your uniform. “Temporary means…”

Perhaps it was his already non-existent trust in you, but you did not think that informing him of the real reason you were here – telling him that your license and life were on the line and you were here so the Board of Physicians would have ease in their decision to end your life or not – would do much to foster his confidence in you, you took a second to frame it in a way that would appeal to him.

Clearing your throat, you kept his stare and said, “Temporary means that I’m here for less than two weeks, and I have no loyalties to any staff here. Temporary means that I do care so much, and I do want to help because temporary also means that I’ve seen some weird shit today, and I don’t understand it.” The boy’s brows raised for a fragmented second, but you knew you’d gained at least a small portion of his respect, so you continued.

With a lowered voice and an unbreakable stare, you said, “Temporary means that I am on your side, and if you let me, if you help me to understand what is going on, I will help you as best as I can.”

The boy shifted, ringing a hand around his opposite wrist, toying with the identification band secured there. He never stopped looking into your eyes, and you knew he was searching for deceit, but the longer he stared, the more he came up short.

You offered him your hand, observing how he flinched away from it, but keeping it extended as he considered it for another few moments.

“I told you who I am. Will you tell me who you are?”

It seemed like the darkness that surrounded you was watching with bated breath, watching in awe as the boy’s gaze remained on your extended hand.

He swallowed, and ever so slowly, with a hesitation that struck through your heart, he lifted his hand and clasped it around yours. The light from the broken blinds coiled around your matched hands, and for the first time today, you felt hopeful. And no matter how dim and breathless it was, a flicker of that same hopefulness played through his eyes.

“I…” the boy hesitated, so you squeezed his hand and offered a reassuring nod. His shoulders relaxed with his next breath. “I am Quynnland. With a ‘Y’.”

“Quynnland,” you parroted, trying it out and letting his hand go. “Do you have any nicknames? Like Quynn? Quynnie?”

“No one calls me Quynnie!” he roared. “Nobody calls me that except…” Quynnland shifted in bed, away from you, turning his face back toward that racing track. His bottom lip quivered, and he appeared as if you’d just lashed him with molten plasma.

“Quynnland,” you soothed, “nobody calls you that except who?”

He remained quiet, but he shuddered, and you saw the light glint off a stream that found its way down the slate of his cheek.

“I want to understand. I want to help you.” You swallowed against your throat, which had become markedly thicker since you last spoke. “Please, help me help you.”

Quynnland’s chin rose, his eyes fell shut, and he balled his hands into tight fists. He wasn’t angry, but in pain, and you knew from the sight of how broken he was that he’d been in pain for a long time now. Perhaps, it seemed, he had never known a day without it.

Just when you were about to speak, Quynnland coughed against a sob and whispered, “They won’t let me see him. He’s there on his own. He’s never been alone for this long.” A tight breath whipped into his chest. “They’re keeping me here so I age out. They’re keeping me away from him.”

“Who is he? What are you aging out of?” The more he offered, the more questions you thought of.

“I almost got us out this time,” he whispered. “I almost saved us both, but they caught me and dragged me away from him. He’s young, but that never stopped them before.” A wheeze of pain slipped from Quynnland’s lips. “They probably broke him just enough so he could still work.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you kept quiet.

After what seemed like an eternity, Quynnland spoke again. “My brother. That’s who gets to call me ‘Quynnie’. That’s who I tried to save, and that’s who is suffering because I failed.” He pushed an aggravated sound from his lungs. “The only way you can help me, is if you help him.”

“How do I do that?” you asked, watching as his fists relaxed at his sides.

Quynnland opened his eyes and bore the full weight of their pain into yours. He took a long breath and squared his jaw. “You get him away from the wardens, and then you get him out.”

“Where is he?” you asked, needing to know what that racing track he kept glancing toward was.

He went to answer, but a rush of motion sounded beyond his door, and just as quickly, the entrance to his room shot open. Quynnland ducked his head and balled his fists, and you turned to see that it was Silver who stood in his doorway. She wore an unfamiliar face, one of shock and terror, and you went to speak, but her hand whipped out and signaled that you would notbe saying a word until you left this room.

She stared at Quynnland a moment longer, surveying him like she’d never seen him before. “Eat your dinner. I won’t have you starving to death under my license, not now that this will be your last stay here.” Silver more so talked at him rather than directly to him, and her tone was hard and full of disgust.

It gave you another reason to hate her.

You wanted to reach out and take Quynnland’s hand, but Silver snapped at you before you could. “You,” she sneered. “Out. Now.”

The ice behind her eyes had seeped to her tongue, and her words froze the very blood in your veins. She watched you as you stepped around her and into the antechamber, and you glanced the final withering, aghast glare she shot at Quynnland as you did.

When you reached toward the door that opened to the hall, Silver caught your wrist just before your badge met it. She was eerily silent for a moment, and you swore she was practically shaking with rage, but then she settled herself and stared down at you with such concentrated antagonization that it knocked the breath right from your lungs.

“What made you think you could go into this room? I never went near this room with you today. Why would you be allowed to enter it alone?” She was seething, but she hid it behind something of a gnarled smile.

“There was a tray just sitting outside, unattended to. I figured I would find something to do and deliver it to the patient. No harm done.”

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes on you. “Are you aware what this patient is here for?” she asked sweetly, but it came off as clear condescension.

Silver waited for you to answer, but you wouldn’t give her the satisfaction she wanted from humiliating you again. So you remained silent, and she sneered at you. “Exactly what I thought. So why would you interact with a patient you know nothing about? And did the double security not tip you off that you were somewhere you shouldn’t be?”

“Look, Silver,” you huffed, enjoying the disgust that smeared across her features as you said her name, “I saw a tray. I had nothing better to do. My badge had access to the room. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

She cast you an undying glare, and her eye twitched when she gave you a once-over. “This patient willfully tried to kill himself and his brother last week. Did he tell you that?”

Your heart blackened, and your ears rang with silence as she let her words sink in.

Silver was pleased with your shocked silence. She went on. “Oh, and did he tell you just how many times he’s tried to do this exact thing in the past?” You remained wordless, feeling betrayed for reasons you couldn’t understand. “No? Not even a guess? Well, he’s a unit regular, if that gives any indication.”

She waited again and was once more elated to be met with silence. “It’s the same story every time. The wardens say he takes his kid brother to the shore and plans on swimming out to the Falls and either drowning to death or dying from impact.”

You swallowed in vain, mouth drier than sand. A part of your knew you didn’t want the answer, but you still asked, “How old… how old is his brother?”

A sick, deathly smile creaked across her perfect face. “Of course, we don’t know exactly, but previous scans estimate that he’s no older than seven.”

Seven. A child. Quynnland had tried to kill his brother… had tried to kill himself and his kid brother…

“Next time, don’t poke around business you don’t understand,” Silver cut your panic short, her frigid tone icing your skin with gooseflesh. “Your shift is up.”

She shoved your shoulder on her way past, but before she could activate the door the room filled with bright red light, and a shrill alarm screamed through the ruby darkness.

It was your watch.

Endless, screeching notes sounded from your wrist. Your stomach dropped, and you couldn’t think for a moment, completely thrown back to that last hour on Starkiller Base.

Kylo was in trouble. Kylo was hurt. Kylo needed you and you weren’t there.

When you lifted your arm as your heart sank through the floor and you read the continuous scrawling message, your feet pounded the ground and carried you away from the unit to wherever he was, wherever your radar was guiding you.

All you could think of was him lying under you, his blood slipping along your skin, and his still, comatose body. And as you made your way to him, not seeing the world around you, hardly aware of CB-7070’s footfalls booming behind you, you kept rereading the message that raced along your watch’s screen, and as you turned corner after corner and fled down hundreds of steps and staircases, the simple, abbreviated message taunted you with the past.

ASSISTANCE REQUIRED ASSISTANCE REQUIRED ASSISTANCE REQUIRED

As it scrawled endlessly across the small screen, all you could think of was how this felt too familiar to the day Starkiller exploded. And the only thought that remained, the only one out of the thousand that flooded back from that day, was that you would fight for the future you’d realized you wanted then.

Only now did you admit the full truth of that thought: the only future you wanted was one where you could be with Kylo. The only future worth having, you realized, was the one where you would spend it with him.

So you ran toward your future. Just as you had run that day not so long ago, you ran toward Kylo Ren.

[iron--spider]

Okay, so. Cherry. I loved Cherry. 

Behind the cut is a review of sorts, with some spoilers and some loving and some bitching! It’s very, very long.

The reviews and responses have been rolling in for months now, and there have been a few notorious critiques that had me worried. As most people who follow this blog know, I’m not the biggest fan of the Russos, for reasons that are obvious lmfao. I was hoping this would be a different situation, especially since I’ve gotten to watch a LOT of interviews where they’ve discussed why they made certain choices in the film, why it’s so personal to them, etc. But the early reactions really got me nervous and I was worried they’d botched this one. I got an early screening on February 12th through American Cinematheque, and I went in looking forward to Tom and anxious about everything else.

 I loved it. I loved every single choice that was made, on every single level. I’d like to preface this by saying I absolutely hated the book. Sure, it had moments, shining lines here and there, but overall I felt nothing for the main character and the stream of consciousness and the way the events were presented. The absolute lack of an ending. When I read the book I already knew Tom was gonna be in the movie, so I was building what I wanted the film to look like in my head.

 The narration. I knew we would need that to keep the story grounded, to give it a center, and they included that and it worked so beautifully. Breaking the fourth wall. The entire book you feel like this guy is talking to you, and if there was anything to carry over, it was that connection with the audience, but they enhanced it by paring it down and using his eye contact and words to us sparingly. A solid, almost unreliable POV from the main character, which they included in spades with all their different stylistic choices, from the different lenses to the names of the banks and the authority figures to the lack of information about particular things to the quick cuts in certain places and lingering shots in others. The stylistic choices were one of the main things, if not THE main thing, everybody has been complaining about, and I was truly sitting here expecting something outrageous. But it all flowed beautifully, it all felt extremely purposeful, and none of it took me out of the moment. In fact, all of it immersed me even deeper in the movie and the story, and made the lead even more real. We were seeing it all through his eyes, through his feelings, through his changing circumstances. It was an EXPERIENCE to me, a journey that needed these particular choices. I feel like the whole thing would have been more of an uphill battle had they not done the six chapters, so that’s another choice I felt like added to the film in a positive way and made it better. It also highlighted the changes that the main character was going through in such an excellent fashion, and added to the whole ‘odyssey’ feel.

 Before I get into speaking about Tom, I will speak critically for a second. I’ve seen this thing four times now, three viewings before the review embargo was up and one after. I tried to watch it from a different headspace and see what they were talking about. My opinion never really changed drastically, but I can acknowledge some things. I loved the ‘breaking the fourth wall’, but I do think there could have been more of it. It enhanced the movie a lot for me and there were a couple more moments where I could have gone for it (though I think people do miss some of the eye contact moments, such as the one in the car during the whole thing between James and Pills&Coke). I think the entire bit in the beginning is absolutely necessary to get to know our character and understand where he’s beginning, what his circumstances are, but I do think it pales in comparison to the rest of the movie. I didn’t notice the first couple times, but while he’s in the doctor’s office discussing pain levels/PTSD, there’s a cut to the doctor that’s literally a millisecond long that was pretty unnecessary. I can also say that the scene with Tommy (drunk guy in the bar) was one of those moments from the book that didn’t need to be included, though it’s clear that they were trying to test the character’s mettle for the upcoming war he’d have to participate in because of his bad choices, and it was also a look at a version of what he could (would) become after he got home. But it didn’t really need to be in there.

 Those are literally the only things I “didn’t like”, and even then that’s the wrong phrasing, because I liked everything lmfao.

 Ciara was a casting choice I questioned initially, purely because she has such a young-looking face, but I was completely incorrect about doubting her. She killed it. She’s such a natural actress and she was able to meet Tom beat by beat in such a difficult story. Their chemistry was lovely. In fact, I loved all of the supporting characters and what they added to the story. They made the whole experience that much more real.

 Now, Tom. I mean. You guys know I love him and a lot of people like to say that if you have a bias towards someone, your opinion counts less when it comes to judging them. But I feel like there’s a reason why I have this bias to begin with, and it’s because Tom’s talent is just undeniable. He always pulls me in, he always makes me excited for what’s next, he is everything I want to see in an actor. He brought Peter to life in a way that had never been done before, and he uplifts every single movie he touches. This one really gets me particularly emotional because he’s said on so many different occasions that Cherry means a lot to him, because of the work he put in and because of the message it carries and because of the people he met and learned about during the whole process. I just—there are hardly any words big enough or meaningful enough to even describe his performance. It’s one for the ages. It’s agonizing and heartbreaking and mammoth. It is truly special. I know that they changed the book a lot, so this is based on a real person and his real experiences, but in the end it’s more of a composite of what Nico was at the time and not an exact replica—so I feel safe in saying that Tom, through this huge, powerhouse of a performance, created an entire person that felt so, so real. You can feel his past and all the memories in his head and the way he thinks about things. You can imagine what he’d say about something in a scene without him actually saying it. This character changes so drastically from the first scene to the last, and yet you still feel like you know him as he progresses through his journey. Tom expertly weathers every single nuance, every time the character experiences a moment that will push him further into darkness, every hesitation despite falling headfirst into such mistakes. I love Tom because he’s so subtle even in his bigger moments, and by this I mean he’s always got layers upon layers upon layers going on in each individual moment. Like the hospital scene in particular, after Emily’s overdose. There’s so much going on with Tom’s character there, from the deep horror in possibly losing the love of his life, to the heavy shame he feels in having facilitated her journey here. Just the way his voice hitches as he tries to help, while still hiding what they’ve done. The way he avoids the nurses’ gazes as he’s trying to connect with them to get an answer about her well-being. The way he almost deflates when he finally reveals that she took heroin. He is phenomenal. Every moment and every movement tells you more about this character, and that’s just down to Tom’s incredible talent. 

 Tom deep dives into every moment and commits fully. People have asked me what my favorite scene in this film is and it’s so hard because the entire thing is just a showcase of just how good he is. The bus station scene in particular stands out, because it’s one of those moments where he just truly disappears. The entire movie you hardly remember you’re watching Tom, but in that scene it’s like you’re there, like you’re actually witnessing this heart wrenching moment between two broken people. The way he shrinks into himself with that horrific shame after what’s happened to her. The complete and utter pain in his eyes when she tells him there’s no stopping what she plans to do. Tom never ever seems like one of those actors who knows what’s coming, who has rehearsed this moment or that moment over and over and over again. Everything is natural, everything comes as it comes and that’s why what he does feels so real. He isn’t acting. He is becoming.

 The Russos have said more than one time that they chose Tom for this role because he’s so likable and you feel empathy and sympathy for him, and that’s also one of the best changes from the book. The character feels so far from you in the book, you feel so disconnected from him, but Tom just has something that connects you with him, that makes you root for him. Every single time. He’s one of the most immensely watchable actors I’ve ever seen. If this was any other “indie” actor, any of the Hollywood favorite directors, I know this film would have been an awards darling. 

 That leads me to how critics are behaving. This movie was not the movie they made it out to be. They have loved films that are so much more outrageous in terms of story and filmmaking choices, and yet they’re acting like this is the craziest most off the wall thing they’ve ever seen. It’s really really whack and over the top to me. These ~film~ people, professionals and “film Twitter” have gotten it in their heads that as soon as someone is involved with Marvel movies that they’re suddenly damaged goods, can’t act, can’t do their jobs. I feel like Scarlett is the only one who’s escaped from this, with JoJo and Marriage Story, though the latter did get some slack, too. It drives me insane when all of these people writing about Tom are like “oh this is such a departure from Spider-Man!” No, Spider-Man is a departure from all his previous films. The vast majority of his movies are dramas. His first movie was The Impossible! But despite all this, critics love to shit on him and bring him down because he’s Spider-Man. It absolutely doesn’t help that this was helmed by the Russos, in fact it hurts the situation even more. Critics revel in bringing them down, in acting like they’re glorified for no reason. And like I said, they’re not my favorite, but these critics knew what their opinion was gonna be before they even watched Cherry. And they held onto that no matter what they actually felt. Thankfully, MOST of them are acknowledging how wonderful and impressive Tom was. But whatever score this movie has on RT now (a site that should be abolished, frankly) it doesn’t deserve something so low. 

 I understand film is subjective. But these people don’t seem to. I hate the gleeful “Cherry is bad!” bullshit, which goes beyond criticism so many times, is always extremely exaggerated, and acts as if because this particular person believes it’s bad, then everyone else should as well, and if they don’t, they don’t understand film. I’m tired of this shit and I’m tired of them underestimating and trying to stop Tom in his tracks. They want so desperately for this MARVEL BAD narrative to be true that they’ll rip these people apart whenever they get the opportunity. It felt very strange to have already seen the movie when the embargo was lifted, because it was like “did they see the same movie I saw?”

 After all that, I’d just like to say, do not be influenced by people like that. That’s what they want. They want you to listen to them and completely write off the movie, forgoing to see it at all. Please make your own decisions—if you love Tom, this is not something to be missed. He is a revelation. I personally, and wholeheartedly, think it was a beautiful movie. I’m gonna watch it again. It reminded me of so many of my favorites, and it rose above them too. It did not shy away from its subject, it is a cautionary tale, but it is told with love, with care and with kindness. It’s clear this was done by people who are close to the subject, who want people who struggle with PTSD and drug use to come out of the shadows they’re forced into and get the help they deserve. Cherry is so rewatchable to me, and it’s so staggering to see Tom just shine here. He is the best actor of his generation. And he’s only getting better.

[dansantat]

NOW WE ARE TWO: A Eulogy for My Father

Adam U Santat (October 21,1943 - April 27, 2021)

Today is April 27, 2021.

When I was very young and we lived in New Jersey my father took us to the beach and he lifted my tiny frame over his neck and we walked out into the ocean together. My mother watched us from the coast as we wandered 50 yards into the shallow sea. I was terrified of whatever lurked in the water convinced that sharks would come and eat us. My father gripped my legs and whispered, “I’ve got you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

I don’t exactly know why this particular memory rests so clearly in my mind, but it’s a good one. That was my father in a nutshell.

I interviewed my parents for a memoir I’m currently working on. This is what I know of my father. 

He was born in the small village of Khlong Dan, Thailand on October 21, 1943, though the official birth certificate indicates October 27 because of a typo (21 sounds like 27 in Thai)  He was the youngest of nine kids. His parents immigrated from China and started a merchant business. For fear of being racially ostracized by the local Thai people the oldest brother changed their name from “Lim” to “Santativongchai” (he found the word in an old book)

They collected rain water off the storm gutters in order to drink. He didn’t get hie first pair of shoes until he was 10 years old. They were sandals, really. Knowing facts abut Western culture was cool and he had an insatiable desire to learn everything he could about America. Coming to the United States was a dream of his obsessed with Elvis Presley, Paul Anka, and movies like “Shane” He admits to being spoiled by his mother and says he was lazy during most of his childhood, but was gifted in math and science. And he truly was. He attended medical school, paid for by his older sister, Yawanit, and he came to Newark, New Jersey in 1969 to do his internship.

My mother followed a year later

His first car was a Red ‘69 Camaro. No air conditioning. He ran the car into the ground because he was unaware of the fact that you had to change the oil. He never owned a car before then.   

This was the American dream.

I was born in 1975 and they soon made a mass exodus to Southern California along with many of their Thai doctor friends with brief career stops in Wykoff, New Jersey and Hopedale, Illinois until we settled in our newly built four bedroom home in Camarillo, CA. 

He worked for the state of California as a pediatrician, and eventually as a cardiologist, and then a psychiatrist continuing his education over the years to fill the needs of the state. He was an accomplished man in his field.

He loved golf, tennis, and buying things he would see on TV. He loved Ralph Lauren clothing, he owned one of the first Apple computers, and he loved making weekly trips to Los Angeles to buy classical CDs and audio equipment.   

Three weeks ago I stepped inside my parent’s home for the first time in over a year. The COVID-19 Pandemic had kept us apart . “Stay at home. We’ll see each other after this is all over.” my parents told me. 

Under normal circumstances I would happily avoid their company for fear of constant nagging about a plethora of reasons which mostly dealt with my weight, or my political views.   

But this was different. 

My father had been diagnosed with Stage 4 liver cancer and he returned home to hospice care. My mother was helping him get situated on his favorite couch because he refused to use the hospital bed that hospice had offered him and recommend that he use.

They say that doctors make the worst patients. 

Besides his stubbornness my mother was angry at him for not putting up a fight, turning down Chemotherapy and Immunotherapy and opting to just let the cancer take him. She herself having been a breast cancer survivor over 25 years ago (along with living with lupus for 45 years) could not comprehend the thought of just giving up. But my father knew the odds. He had taken one look at the CT scan and he knew the primary source was in the liver and it has metastasized to the lungs, his jaw, and his pelvis. 

His body was dying but his mind was still as sharp as a tack.

I understood the diagnosis, as well. When speaking to the doctor on the phone he did not mince words by emphasizing quality of life. My father’s days were limited, and I was there to make the most of the time that was left between us before he departed. 

“I have one last question for you before I go.” he said to me.

“Anything. What’s your question, Dad?”

“How much....do you earn annually?”

My mother and I quickly glanced at each other and we both immediately let out a huge laugh. “HA HA HA! You have one last question and that’s what you want to ask me?!”

He was always curious about my finances. 

He is my Asian father. 

Normally, this type of question would be a point of heated contention and it would typically result in an argument at a restaurant, and yet, here he is living his last weeks and he STILL wouldn’t let the question go. And this time, without argument, I simply tell him. 

Why deny a dying man his last wish?

“I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!” he shouts as we all share in a good laugh.

“I have one more question...”

“What is it, Dad?”

“Why do you always get upset when I ask you that question?”

This too would have normally resulted in a heated discussion, but I simply gave him an honest and simple answer, “Because you taught me that it was rude to ask people that question.” And I left it at that.

My mother gets up and heads to the kitchen and it’s in this moment that my father pulls me in closer to discuss more pressing matters. 

“I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ve accepted my fate and I’ve lived a good life. I’m worried about your mom. I want you to take care of her after I’m gone.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve saved up a lot of money. Use it to buy a house with a guest house for her. Make sure it has a big yard so she can do her gardening and she’ll be fine.”

 “I promise, Dad. I’ll spoil her.” 

“Good.”

My mother returns to the family room with an assortment of shirts for my father to wear. I grab a blue button up collared shirt from Tommy Bahama. “This shirt actually isn’t too shabby.”

“It was originally $125 and I got it for $90!”

Always in pursuit of looking his best while also landing a great deal.

He is my Asian father.  

“If you like the shirts they’re yours now. All of this is yours.”

None of the items that my father owned interested me. What interested me was giving him one last amazing experience before he was gone. The one thing my father truly treasured among all his possessions was a one of the finest wine collections I had ever seen. It contained over 500 bottles of wines he had collected over the course of twenty years housed in three separate wine refrigerators, which were spread throughout different rooms in the house and sent their electricity bill skyrocketing to the moon, and my mother’s nerves to the very edge of insanity. 

“Hey, what do you think about going into your wine collection and we drink the most expensive wine you have?”

“No,” he says hesitantly.

“But don’t you want to know what you bought? Don’t you want to at least know what the best wine you own tastes like? I don’t think you should leave this world without enjoying your one great vice in life.”

My father looks away from me and mutters, “No...It’s yours now. All of it.”

This is not how I want it to end. I want him to have one last good memory.

My mother interrupts, “I’m hungry. What are we having for lunch?”

I try to keep my father focused on his bucket list. I’m hoping for just one last memory, “Whatever you want, Dad. My treat.”

He looks at me and says, “I want a Pink’s hot dog.”

My mother and I look at each other in shock. This request from a man who was obsessed with his blood pressure. A man who constantly avoided salt like it was Kryptonite to Superman was now requesting for one of the saltiest most nitrate rich foods in America. 

“With mustard and relish.”

25 minutes later I returned home with three sodium bombs per his request. My father, who hadn’t eaten in three days, grabbed a hold of his hot dog, and ate the entire thing. My father, a man who did everything in his power to stave off death by cardiovascular disease to the point of obsession, was indulging in the one thing he avoided like the plague. 

SALT. 

As I sat on the couch and watched him eat his hot dog I could see the look on his face as he solemnly took each bite thinking, “What was the point of being so scared for all these years?” I took solace in the fact that for the first time in my life, I saw him as a person unafraid.  

 Later that day, a few of his closest friends came over to wish him well. I met them at the front door, “Hey, do me a favor. Can you see if you can make him agree to having one last glass of wine?”

It was a good idea.

HIs friends all walked in, paid their respects, and then peppered him with little hints like, “Hey, how about one last sip of wine before you go?”

My dad finally agreed.

“That fridge has the best stuff!” my dad shouted as he pointed to the fridge closest to the door. 

I was not as knowledgable about fine wines as my dad and his friends were. That’s what Google is for.    

I reached into the back of the fridge and found a bottle of Opus One from 1995. 

This was $600 bottle of wine. It wasn’t his best but it it would do nicely.

The room let out an audible “oooooh” when I entered the room with the bottle.

His best wine glasses were brought out, we each poured a glass, and we toasted my father. We share stories about his life, he boasts to his friends about my accomplishments, and we are basking in a moment of complete harmony.

For this moment in time, I was his perfect Asian son.

He thoughtfully studied the peaks generated by the swirling of the wine on the edge of the glass

“It’s been a good life. No regrets.”

I was glad I could give him this.

This week I bought that house for my mom. I told my father this as I fulfilled his last dying wish while I held his hand.

“I’ve got you, Dad. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’ve got you.”

[imma-potatoo]

A few days ago, I made a post about a little old lady, who said something that will always stay with me. And well.. Maybe this is silly, but I have another story from when I was younger, much younger

I don't speak up very much about it, but for most of my younger years I was selectively mute. I didn't really feel comfortable when my voice was being heard, it made people stare, I have a very thick speech impediment which was often mocked anytime that I opened my mouth

Ironically enough, I was often called a snake, because of my heavy S lisp over my already thick speech impediment. And while I can laugh at it now, it truly hurt when I was younger. Even though I didn't grow up Catholic, the majority of my neighborhood did, and being "a snake" was something that got you ridiculed and thrown off the swing set. The majority of my peers would turn the other cheek anytime I would try to speak, and if they did listen to what I said, it was often followed by the "ssssss-s-s-stuttering on your words sssssssnake?" to where I would then be ignored and... Silenced.

And after a few weeks, I learned that it was better not to talk at all.

My responses to classroom answers were nods, or a shrug of the shoulders, or shaking my head.

Don't get me wrong, I was always a quiet kid. I was selectively mute before I even started school, but my peers made it so much worse.

I was different.

And difference wasn't praised.

I went from very few words to none at all

I spent most of my days alone under a large oak tree next to my school, it was there I found my passion for reading, and soon to follow writing. And I managed to convince myself that I didn't need anyone, that I was happy without friends, that they were happier without me, that even if I tried to talk or raise an opinion that I would be mocked for having something different. And I was fine with it

I now know that reading was a form of escapism, and it worked well. But... Then there was this girl

She never joined in on any of the others, their insults or even their games really. She just kinda.... Watched

But eventually she started moving closer... And closer.. And even closer, until eventually, we were under the same oak tree. She would sit next to me, and I would read

That continued for a few weeks, maybe even mouths

Then one day, she asked me about my book

And I handed her the book, and she read the back. And, she smiled.

The next day, it was a new book. I always managed to finish those books in a day, but that was normally just another thing to mock. And she asked about the book again, and I handed her the book, she read the back, and smiled

Rinse and repeat for weeks.

It was insane for me

I couldn't understand, hell I don't really understand it now, I assumed it was pity when I was younger and I don't really know what it is today. My mind is so quick to jump to things being pity, or a mistake, or that I didn't deserve the things that I had because there would always be people in worse situations then me, and my teachers always said to give to the less fortunate, but when do I become the less fortunate in that relationship when all I do is give? One of the books that was drilled into my mind was the giving tree, where you were encouraged to tear yourself apart for others, to give every last thread of your self identity and your happiness to someone else because it was the right thing to do

It was strange and obscure. I don't understand it now, and I certainly didn't as a child

One day, I had a new book, and the girl asked about it again. I went to pass her the book but she pushed it back, even though it was years ago, I can still remember how she looked at me and how she said that she was too tired to read and how she wanted to hear me talk about it

And against every single thing in my mind telling me to close down, to stop talking, to push her away like I did with everyone else

I read the back of the book.

And she smiled.

I was still selective mute after that, but I had a friend. A friend who would listen to everything I had to say and more

We're not friends anymore, we split our separate ways after starting high school, but I still pass her in the halls sometimes, and she still gives me that same smile

It took me years to break my selective mutism, and while I doubt that I will be the loudest in the room, I am happier now

This girl taught me many things, don't take peoples bullshit was one of them.

Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if she didn't insist that I read the back cover. Would I have moved schools to escape the torment of my peers? Or maybe I would have become stronger, and have a thick skin that couldn't break even if you tried. Would I be dead somewhere? Killed by my own hand?

I don't know

But I'm happy I got this outcome

Because if it didn't happen exactly like it did, I most likely wouldn't be here, talking to all of you