#if i find the clip ill post it but i think it burned with my old PC. frown.

[wtfforged]

just realized that i have this on twitter but never actually reposted it to tumblr. its two years old but i still love it :o)

[moestavern]

The HOMOE Masterpost

Shoutout to @butchbarneygumble for oking me to steal this idea from their Moeney Masterpost! Go peep that btw.

I see almost no one acknowledge all the gay shit these two have going on so i have to ship them all by myself and honestly that's unacceptable given how much this show implies between them. And with a ship name like Homoe? You have got to be kidding me they were handed to me on a golden fucking plater.

Blah blah i know these are jokes or w/e but its a show, no one here is real, you are not affected by me wanting these middle aged men to kiss each other (more than they already do) so lets get on with it!

This is currently only clips from the show, i will go through the comics/books/etc. if anything's hidden in there and ill add it to this post in the future.

This is gonna be a long post so everything is gonna be under the cut.

Episode: (S2E11) One Fish, Two Fish, Blow Fish, Blue Fish

Homer Kisses Moe. Moe responds with "not in public". So in private then?

H: Oh words wont do it- I love you Moe M: Not in public

---

Episode: (S8E3) The Homer they Fall

Just this whole episode.

H: Are you an angel? M: Yes Homer, Im an angel. All us angles wear Farah slacks. H: But you stopped the fight. Wont everyone be mad at you? M: Eh, lettem be mad. The only thing that matters to me is your'e safe. - D: Homer, your manager obviously loves you very much.

---

Episode: (S9E16) Dumbbell Indemnity

Dancing together + hints throughout. "if you squint" kinda stuff but ill take my breadcrumbs.

---

Episode: (S11E6) Hello Gutter Hello Fadder

Homer and Moe consider one another life partners.

Ma: Well, the one sure cure for the blues is to talk it over with your life partner. H: You're right! - H: I cant believe it Moe. The greatest feet of my life is already forgotten. M: Geez, Homer. I never seen ya this depressed. As your life partner, Im very worried.

---

Episode: (S11E10) Little Big Mom

When Lisa calls the tavern, Moe asks if Homer is going to another bar like its a cheating situation. Look at me however you want that's how im taking this. Moe's clingy.

M: Hey uh- is Homer there? L: No, he isn't. I dont know where he is. M: Im a little worried. He usually stops in for an eye opener on the way to work. L: He told us he'd been going to the gym. M: Uhahaha- Wow. Anyway, you dont think he could be at another bar do ya? Because i couldnt take that- i- i just couldnt. *crying*

---

Episode: (S11E16) Pygmoelian

Homer tells Moe his acting is a turn on.

M: The one hole ive never been able to fix is the one in my soul. H: That was amazing Moe. Im actually a little turned on. M: Yeah, hey i gotta gift.

---

Episode: (S16E7) Mommie Beerest

The thing i dont say is that i primarily ship all three of them together especially during late seasons. Reading "Moe takes the place of marge" jokes as shippy is- a bit of a stretch? whatever, it includes Moe telling Homer "i love you" and Homer calling Moe "Honey".

H: What would Marge say? M: Do whatever you have to do to save Moe's. I love my Homie. H: Ok honey, ill do it! Ma: What's going on here? M: Nothin- Nothing.

Also Homer and Moe sharing a bed 1/2.

---

Episode: (S17E5) Marge's Son Poisoning

If i had a nickel for every time Moe and Homer were called life partners id have 2 nickels. Which isn't a lot but its weird that it happened twice. (This has to be a lie, im certain there is a third time this has happened, i have yet to find it again) "They're lying, they're trying to hustle" um stfu- idc that's his life partner. he said so.

RT: God dern it son- what tha hell kinna sissy are you? M: Hey are you calling my life partner a sissy? Cause a hundred bucks says he could whoop you in arm wrestling.

---

Episode: (S18E6: Moe n' a Lisa)

Moe tells Homer he loves him.

H: Seriously Moe, I think you have a gift. M: Thanks Homer, I love you man. H: OoooOH you love a man.

---

Episode: (S20E8) The Burns and The Bees

Moe explains bees having sex to Homer and Homer thinks Moe is talking about the two of them.

H: But how are we supposed to combine the DNA of two strains of the same species? M: Actually Homer *whispering* H: *gasp* You and me? M: No. The bees. H: Oh! Yeah yeah. That's what i meant too. I... have no... inclination...

---

Episode: (S21E30 The Great Wife Hope)

Moe takes Homer dressed as Marge to his class reunion. He says he took Barney the year before.

M: Lets go Marge. My class reunion starts in an hour. H: Uh, Moe, i have a confession to make. Im just Homer dressed as Marge. M: Yeah, but last year i took Barney dressed as Marge. Think how much better they'll think you look. Hmm? H: Well you better not leave me and talk to your old friends all night. M: Keep talkin like that and ill leave ya here right now.

---

Episode: (S21E21) Moe Letter Blues

Homer kisses Moe.

H: Moe, i dont know rather to punch you or kiss you. So im gonna do both.

---

Episode: (S24E2) Treehouse of Horror XXIV

Look, i know its a demon that looks like Moe and NOT Moe. But cmon what was this???

H: Listen, pal, you seem like an honest guy. Is there any other deal you can accept? D: Three way. H: Hm- You, me, Marge? D: Demon, demon, you. H: Sigh- I guess its one of those things a dad has to do. - H: Now before we start, what's the safe word? D: Cinnamon H: Oh! I like that. Now, id like to try something new, if you dont mind. D: Cinnamon. Cinnamon! Cinnamon! Cinnamon!

---

Episode: (S25E12) Diggs

Ok- so the way Bart describes his feeling for Diggs is really queer and Homer immediately compares that to his feelings towards Moe.

B: I met this kid. Little older. Kinda strange. I dont think other people get him but i just wanna hang out with him all the time. H: *gasps* Its even better than i thought. You found your Moe Szyslak!

---

Episode: (S27E10) The Girl Code

Homer kisses Moe.

M: Hey what tha hell? Get your kisser off my head puss! H: What? Its how greek men say 'hello'. Non sexual guy kissing is the best.

---

Episode: (S28E4) Treehouse of Horror XXVII

Moe kisses a picture of Homer twice.

Thanks @leibi97 for remembering this one for me!

--- Episode: (S28E13) Fatzcarraldo

Homer calls Moe his "sweet wonderful bartender"

H: i had a great day and i really wanna celebrate with the boys so dont wait up for me my sweet wonderful bartender, Moe. M: Alright but whos the boys? H: Marge's boobs. See ya!

---

Episode: (S29E16) King Leer

Homer carrying Moe into the store. But also i like this episode over all from a Homoearge standpoint.

M: When i cross this threshold i begin a new life! *Picked up by Homer* This is the first time that ive ever been carried into a store. Look at me now lady foot locker! Look at me now.

---

Episode: (S32E15) Do Pizza Robots Dream of Electric Guitars

Ok guys THIS is what im talking about when i say in later seasons i kinda ship all three of them.

Ma: Did you see how he ate his breakfast? He doesn't shuffle his pancakes like a deck of cards. He doesn't air drum while driving, or race the dog in butt scooting across the carpet. And he always won. He's not my Homie anymore. B: We didnt notice any of that. Ma: A wife knows. M: And a bartender. Hes just- hes just not the same. He dont spin Barney around on the stool no more. He dont drink beer from a crazy straw just a sensible straw. What are we gonna do about our little man Midge? Ma: Were just gonna have to love him that much more. M: I didnt think that was possible. - B: Im used to seeing mom upset about dad, but Moe. That really shook me.

---

Episode: (S35E7) Its A Blunderful Life

They love each other :)

M: How dare you show your face in here. H: Moe, its me, and beneith all the drinking and the jokes we have a real relationship. And that means something. M: What are you gettin at? H: C'mon man. Deep down, we kinda love each other. H: *thrown through window* M: Love you too

---

Episode: (S35E15) Cremains of the Day

Moe and Homer share a bed 2/2.

M: Oh cmon Lenny, ghosts aint real. eh

Holding each other.

---

Episode: (S35E17) The Tipping Point

Dont- Even- Get- Me- Started

M: Exact change huh? Thats it? H: Aw, i really wanna tip ya Moe, but i promised my wife id quit. M: Heres a thought Homer. What if you took the moolah outta your pocket but you just stopped before anything happened? Ya know, everything but the tip. H: That dosent seem like it could lead to anything. M: Sure it couldnt. H: *slowly hands Moe ten dollars* H: We shouldnta done that. M: Does that mean- that you wanna stop? H: No *hands Moe more money* *moaning* It feels so good *hands Moe more money* M: Dont stop you generous man *handed more money* *moaning* Aw yeah give it to me big boy H: *handing Moe more money* You like that? M: Oh thats the spot H: I can do this all night M: Right there H: Tell me you want it M: Oh god- Oh god- Oh god- Oh god! H: Yes- Yes- Yes- Yes! *Wallet sprays money on Moe* C: I need a new bar. - M: *following Homer out of the bar* Where ya goin? H: I cant stop tippin Moe. Im hooked on tha rush! I gotta monkey on my back and hes got his hand out. M: But, what about us? H: No one service worker can satisfy my needs. God help me im a tip-phomaniac.

---

Jesus ok i dont know how to conclude this post. I will make updates to this. I know im missing stuff.

This is about a 3rd of my "moe is bi" list so maybe ill make that its own masterpost.

Someone asked me today what ship dynamic they are and i told them "the dumb one/the evil one/the woman". My spouse and i have been watching Futurama and they pointed out to me it was the same dynamic when i said i saw something between Fry/Bender/Leela as a trio.

[attyrocious]

heyyy I'm new to digital art, would you mind sharing some tips regarding programs and tutorials and etc? also on how to turn a real life piece into a beautiful and clean digital piece... really love your art

oh good luck with your art journey! my experience with digital art is pretty dated (as in a decade + levels dated) and i might be too out of touch to give beginner tips but regardless, allow me to attempt

Programs: it would help to know which hardware you have for digital but ill put down some i have experience in 1. Clip Studio Paint Pro - PC/Android/ipad/everywhere i think? unfortunately they betrayed humankind and its now a subscription everywhere but on PC. i bought a one-time license years years years ago on sale and its probably the best available on my end. I also got it on subscription on android so i can sync works between my PC and tablet. its very flexible in a way that you can draw with it in the most basic way single layer sketches or whatever but they have so many features and keep adding more.

2. procreate - ipad only never been an apple user but my friend is, and he's been a procreate user forever. he recently tried CSP on ipad though and he still claims he likes procreate better for ease of use and compatibility with tablet ergonomics and apple pen

3. medibang paint - pc/android/ipad

free forever. and out of all the free programs i recommended my other digital art newbie friend this is what he liked best.

4. adobe photoshop - dont even look at this the only reason i have one is im leeching off company license. its still unfortunately the industry standard tho but CSP is much cheaper and has the same controls and most of the basic functions 5. Paint Tool SAI - my first art program but i haven't tried it again. honestly still think this has the best brush flexibility and pen pressure control ----- As for tutorials, i find digital art has such a steep and high skill ceiling and its a challenge im still tackling and probably will forever tackle haha. I'm trying to osmosis painting techniques from splash art painters from League of Legends who most of them post complete timelapses (my favorite being Bo Chen) where you can study not just their techniques but like, art directions that make their pieces striking. Anyway, I also promised a friend I would make a simple coloring tutorial so maybe after inktober hustle, I would look for a piece there I'd use for the guide.

---- Traditional to digital is never a satisfactory process to me but if you can, invest on a scanner. I use an epson v39, had it for years.

scanned vs edited. the goal is to at least get the white of the paper as white as possible and the blacks the blackest, without whitewashing/burning the rest of the colors. Level correction function is your best friend here and most art programs have that.

Then i just clean dust and errors and slide the contrasts around until it looks as close to the original piece

If you have a decent phone camera, you can get away just posting instagram aesthetic pics with materials framing it or smth and just edit as usual. natural light tends to be a lot more forgiving than the harsh light of scanners anyway.

Anyway I hope this helps and have fun learning!

[hejsandra1]

From Cop to Mother

It's time to imagine what can be, unburdened by what I may or may not have said in 2020.

2024-07-05

I'm not american, but both in 2016 (when I was 14,) and in 2020 I was following the American election pretty intensely. The reasons I think are not that hard to understand. And, like clock work, I'm being drawn in again. I said it's obvious why a european would be invested in the state of the most influential democracy and overall country in the world, but it's not just practical -- it's also just the american entertainment and grandeur that keeps you plugged in to everything. There are no bland american politicians, at least not on national level. Everything is at once super high stakes and silly to the point of insanity. It's also one of the few times when Twitter is incredibly fun. Ususally it's frustrating, over-dramatic, collectivistic, shallow and disorganized, full of the most minute and pointless discource, but during the election year all of these weaknesses becomes strenghts, because american electoral politics are fast-paced, aesthetical, gameified, made up of small moments that may or may not be decisive (most likely not), and small comments or clips that make or break someone's likability. And the minute is allowed to feel important, when two politicians are polling side to side. This tweet I think really summarizes the intensity of american politics the last elections, compared to european elections that are in comparision uneventful and predictable. Not even major events in other elections, like rush elections called by politicians who know they will loose them, come close the rush of finding out via Twitter that caucuses for the democratic candidates are being decides based on coin tosses.

So after the first debate I'm drawn back to twitter like an addict drawn back to a good time, and I'm not disappointed. There's a seemingly unified rallying around vice president Kamala Harris and I find myself immediately on board. Yes yes yes.

She's fun, is the main drawing point, and I don't think that's pointless. Americans want fun. They also want someone who's not on their death bed. Is she goofy? Yes. But maybe that's a good thing. All the vids Republicans are posting trying to defame her (probably sensing she's the new target) just makes me smile. She's fun. She tries hard in a way that's so obvious it loops back to being genuine.

So, okay, most of this is maybe some sort of manic cope, but it feels strangely realistic -- not just a future of escaping catastrophe one election more but genuinely moving on -- to an era of lofty liberalism, xane'd out but progressive politicians and laughter and fun. If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will start sounding like Kamala Harris saying you need to look at what can be, unburdened by what has been 5 minutes in a row. After a while it start sounding so genuienly profound. You now, Trumps strenght has always been that he can say whatever and the opposition gets frustrated because his base doesn't care, they just want him to push his politics. I do think the progressive side is accelerating towards that point. I do not care. Please save NATO and the environment and lgbtq-rights and democracy. Please do a little dance while you do it. Americans can choose between old testament fire and brimstone Father or the zoony non-dualism of a chaos Mother, maybe they'll choose mother. Maybe being unburdened by what has been is what I need in my life rn. Maybe it's what we all need. Waking up to hear the catastrophe of that debate genuinenly made me ill at ease from all the way over here. So just having hope for someone even if it's a sort of at-the-end-of-the-world type of hope, it's nice. That almost makes it more intense. Maybe this is the sort of post-all-hope manic Hail Mary that convinced the apostles Jesus rose from the dead, that this was the plan all along. At the end there's a sort of burning hope. And not hoping for anything will kill you for sure.∎

[beepboop358]

Donnie Darko & Stranger Things: Clocks, Memories, Time Travel, Fire & ST4 Clues

(ST movie DNA series: 3)

This movie is seriously like a goldmine of ST references and clues I was geeking out the whole time xD

Summary: A teenage boy named Donnie Darko sleepwalks out of his house one night and sees a giant, demonic-looking rabbit named Frank, who tells him the world will end in 28 days. When Donnie returns home, he finds that a jet engine has crashed into his bedroom. The movie makes us question what is actually real; is Donnie living in a parallel universe, is he suffering from mental illness like everyone says he is, or is he seeing things everyone else cannot and the world is actually going to end?

What's Real?:

Donnie Darko depicts a "mentally insane" character. Donnie is seeing a giant bunny rabbit named "Frank" who he says tells him what to do, mostly bad and dangerous things, and that the world is going to end in 28 days Donnie takes medication and goes to intense therapy and everyone in his life is convinced he is insane and unwell. This idea of mental instability is a running them in Joyce's family, and I discuss that and the idea of Victor Creel this disturbed character in this post here.

We also see this same theme of "what's actually real?" in ST:

Mike to Will in s2 regarding the mindflayer: "Is this all real? Or is it like the doctors say, all in your head?" (this basically summarizes Donnie Darko LOL)

Joyce to Will in s2 regarding the mindflayer: "These episodes that you're having, I think Dr. Owens is wrong. I think they're real."

Donnie does have telekinetic powers, just like El does. Donnie can also talk to Frank, an "otherworldly monster". Reminds me slightly of how Will can sense the upside down monsters.

Clocks, Memories, Time:

In the opening of the movie, we see a clock. The clock in this movie indicates an impending catastrophic event and "time is running out" to stop it, specifically in this movie, it's the world ending*.

The clock is striking midnight, in the Donnie Darko shots and the ST4 sneak peek clips. *It's a reference to the significance of midnight on the doomsday clock, most prevalent during the Cold War when U.S. and Russia were both building up so many nuclear weapons that mass destruction was possible at literally any moment. Schools did bomb drills frequently in both countries, and people were on edge all the time worrying about if they were going to be bombed or if one was going to malfunction and accidentally go off.

There are a lot of war movies on the st4 video store Fridays list, and we know the military is being brought into Hawkins this season, so there's our idea of war this season, and ofc the show takes place during the Cold War so double jeopardy LOL.

When we see the clock, the words are referring to a memory, a past event.

I think the grandfather clock shown in the st4 sneak peek (rumored to be in Vecna's lair and also Creel's house but unconfirmed) is going to be a portal to past memories like a way to access memories and past events through the powers of the upside down.

(time travel "flashbacks" theory and clocks = memories/past times low-key confirmed LOL 😆)

Portals Through Time/Worlds & Water:

The film also deals with direct time travel and portals between worlds/times: Donnie opens a time portal, from water..... and ends up causing this jet plane to crash into his room.

My jaw literally dropped when this happened guys, my mind was exploding xD

Water in the show is surrounded with the upside down monsters/dimension along with those cryptic water tweets from the stranger writers and the clip of Steve underwater in the st4 sneak peek, so there's the origin of water surrounding the portals to other dimensions (the upside down) in stranger things.

And then ofc we know time will be a big theme in s4, and we have seen tons of clock imagery in the st4 promos, and there are some references to time travel in s3 with Back to the Future, as well as plenty of other shots of clocks in the entire show

Fire:

Frank tells Donnie to burn down this motivational speakers house, so he does. Donnie sets this huge fire, and we know Will is commonly associated with fire in the show. But because Donnie burns down the house, it sets off this other chain of events that result in several other characters deaths, indirectly cause by Donnie following Frank's instructions.

I'm 99% sure the person in front of the car is Will, because the shirt he's wearing looks like the shirt of a teenager, his hair looks similar to that one leaked peak of his photo double, and that image is the 7th of the st4 clips shown. Maybe this is another hint to Will's storyline in s4.

The idea of Will going "mad" or "insane" in s4 is actually likely. The Opera in the HNL control room video that came out one day before the 002/004 "Eleven are you listening?" teaser, where it appears that Noah (Will) is one of the lab subjects in the room, hints to this idea of Will going "mad" and developing "dissasociative amnesia" due to psychological stress and trauma. I recommend you read my post about the opera linked above^ because it explains this concept with way more detail than I did here, and I think it's going to be really relevant for s4.

Causation & Control:

Throughout the film we see the idea of causation; Donnie does something (because Frank tells him to) that causes something else. It's like a chain of events or dominoes falling, one thing causes the other to happen, so now we're playing with the idea of how much control individuals really have, do we really have control over things or does someone else.

(My mind goes to Tess of the D'urbervilles, which is famous for exploring themes of free will, determinism, and the domino effect)

Which makes me think about how this idea may be in ST:

1. Will is controlling things through the DID theory

2. A character we haven't met yet, (my guess would be Victor Creel) is controlling things in the upside down because of a deep connection to it (maybe he created some version of the upside down)

^That idea also fits into the theory that Creel is an evil father/grandfather with special abilities who is pulling the strings from afar which would complete a Star Wars parallel (discussed here.)

Hmmm much to think about!

[whumpster-dumpster]

Tag game by @bad-behavior

List your top three whump tropes and tag people.

Whoever gets tagged gets to say how they feel about your top three tropes.

After finishing that, they then list their top three tropes, and the tagging cycle goes on!

I’ve been tagged by multiple people so I’ll address them in one post! Beware, it’s a long one!

@bad-behavior:

1. Bad caretakers

2. Cynical and mean Whumpees that don’t know just how much they need a hug.

3. Sleep deprivation, and exhaustion induced illnesses

1. I do like it sometimes, but I have to be in the right mood. I like caretakers who are bad by accident and then feel guilty about it once they realize.

2. I usually prefer a sweet and vulnerable whumpee but I’ll beat up some of the dry, cynical ones too, if I have a villain who can break them easier than they ever anticipated. 

3. EVERYTHING I EVER LOOOOOVED

@novawhumps:

1. Unconscious, fainting, getting knocked out all that stuff

2. Whumpee having an oxygenmask and they are desperatly trying to get it off

3. Environment whump. A building that collapses earthquakes, getting trapped in a fire. Being trapped in the water.

1. YES, YES, YES, YES, YES, YES, it’s everything I love!

2. I love oxygen masks, but usually prefer the moment when the whumper (or caretaker) is holding it onto the whumpee’s face and they surrender to it

3. That’s some good stuff! The building collapse is probably my favorite out of the ones you mentioned. The claustrophobia of being trapped under debris in the dust and the dark...Oof.

@whumpwillow:

1. Painful wound cleaning. I just love the tenderness, the intimacy (platonic or otherwise) of being up close and comforting the person while taking care of their injuries, the flinching at the antiseptic, the gentle hands dabbing cuts on the face. good stuff. 

2. Messy recovery. non-linear progression of the whumpee working towards getting over their trauma. self-sabotaging themselves. getting angry at caretaker and then feeling guilty about it and hating themselves even more. it’s good angst. 

3. Enemy to Caretaker. perhaps in a hero x villain context, or just some good ol’ fashioned rivals, one of them needs help and goes to the other. Perhaps the enemy is the only one around, and perhaps the whumpee just has that much of a shitty support system that their enemy is the only one they can think of to go to, but just...yes.

1. I love the intimacy too! Especially when the caretaker’s soothing them in a soft voice while they work, Whumpee gritting their teeth but resisting the urge to push their hands away because despite the pain, they know they can trust them. Good stuff!

2. Yes, always. Recovery is messy. Recovery can take a long, long time. Recovery affects everyday life. It’s good to see it explored.

3. Ehh, I’m not as big on this one. I’d rather it be a frenemy than a real enemy. I feel like legit enemies should stay on their own side XD

@the-metalhead-chick:

1. whippings

2. brandings

3. being collared

1. I don’t have any big feelings about whipping most of the time; I think I’d rather see the scars from it afterward than see it in the moment, I don’t know why

2. I like it a little more than whipping! It’s not a huge favorite but still enjoyable! The screams while they’re being burned are legendary!

3. Yessss! Especially if the whumpee frantically claws at the collar, trying to pull it off! Fun times.

@whumplance:

1. pet whump

2. non-human whumpie, but I especially love it when whumpie has feathery wings

3. Whumper pretending to be an incompetent caretaker. the levels of deceit and betrayal in that is just.. mhmhnmm👌🏻

1. That’s a lot of fun! It’s interesting to see just how far it can go. When the whumpee eats and drinks out of dog bowls, that’s just the lowest of the low and I love it.

2. I usually prefer robots as my non-human whumpees, but winged whumpees are great too! Those poor babes getting their feathers ripped out or their wings clipped, that’s so angsty!

3. I haven’t seen much content for that trope so I’m not sure how to feel about it, but a whumper undercover always has potential.

@thinkingofausername:

1. Whump aftermath. No matter how good the actual whump/hurt is, I’m waiting for the comfort. Painful caretaking, soft caretaking, long recoveries, wounds that never heal, whatever - gimme

2. Breakdown. Whether it be the whumpee finally received some gentleness, or they’re delirious, or they’ve had a nightmare - let them break and let someone hold them!

3. Strong caretaker. Have they been hurt before? Are they the medic? Are they the leader? In any case, they’re the rock, they’re there for others, but who’s there for them?

1. I love myself some comfort but I will confess sometimes I like to beat ’em up and go XD It can be funny to see the readers react in outrage at a cliffhanger.

2. YES, please and thank you. No matter how stoic or strong or angry my whumpee is, they are guaranteed to break down and cry and be held at some point if I have anything to say about it!

3. My favorite kind of caretaker! Ever! The one who would do anything to protect the whumpee, who’ll pour everything they have into making them feel safe and taking the pain away -- even at the cost of causing themself pain.

@twistedcaretaker:

1. The Box BoyVerse. Just *vaguely gestures* everything! This is the most charming, and attractive part of whump for me. I love the whump community as a whole, and I especially love the partakers of the Boxyverse and just a special breed of sickos💖💖

2. Inhuman Whump. Particularly winged whumpees. Particularly vampires, demons, and angels in that order.

3. Heroes x Villain to Lovers😂 yeah. Just leave me in my Wattpad days of shame alone!

1. I haven’t really come into contact with much of this universe, which is probably shocking to everyone XD It sounds fun in theory!

2. I don’t often delve into demon/angel whump so I’m kind of ambivalent to it, but hey, that means more for you!

3. Naaah. Not really my thing. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, so here are a few of mine!

1. Fevers! The haziness, the delirium, the glazed eyes, the sweat beading down the whumpee’s face, sticky damp hair, the chills, lukewarm baths and cool compresses -- it’s all just a great Aesthetic.

2. Feeling each other’s pain through a soul bond. Not something I see as often, but the caretaker stumbling as fear and pain fills them, the urgent sense that something is wrong, the whumpee’s in danger, they need to find them now -- and imagine if Whumper found out they can cause both of them pain at once! Two birds with one stone!

3. Manhandling, especially when the whumpee is grabbed by the hair, the face, or the throat. It can be intense, it can be creepy, it can leave some great bruises...Plus it’s a good way of measuring how defiant or submissive the whumpee will be. 

My brain is a little dead now, I can’t think of anyone to tag. If you want to do this, feel free!

[scribeofmorpheus]

As Fate Would Have It (part 21)

Paring: WinterSoldier!Bucky x Spy!Reader

Catch Up here | Masterlist | AO3

Taglist is open. Send an ask.

Warnings: Themes of mental illness, violence... eh, some other stuff.

Note: tripple post! | Vocabulary: Snezhinka is russian for ‘Snowflake’ and  Vot der'mo  roughly translates to ‘Shit’. Also, Voroshilov is a tank named after a military general.

--

Your white tactical gear was washed out by the snowy terrain. Alexei held two unconscious guards under his shoulders by the necks. He dropped them with a loud thud.

You checked your guns clips and silencer twice before kneeling next to the facility’s baulky doors. Your knife working to remove a panel to reveal intricate wiring. You wanted to square away any doubts before charging headfirst into trouble. Unlike the last time you did something risky, you didn’t want there to be any doubt.

“Alexei,” you said, stripping wires. “I need to know something.”

Alexei sighed, his big chest deflating more than you thought possible. He knew what was coming. It was obvious. “You need to know what, Snezhinka?”

“When I was a spider—” your saliva went dry. “When I was a Blackwidow…I did things.”

Alexei huffed, warm breath mixing with the crisp air. He sniffled, “We’ve all done things.”

The wires sparked and your fingers gained a burn mark, “I know. But I did something and I think I’m responsible for…your eye. And I think you’ve known this since before we met.”

The door opened and you stood to face Alexei. Guards on the other end of the corridor raised their weapons. You fired two precise shots. The silencer as quiet as a mouse. The guards dropped to the floor not as quietly.

“I gave them the research. For their super soldier project. Kathy said—”

“She wasn’t delusional,” Alexei said in confirmation. “It is as you think. The boy she spoke of was me.”

You narrowed your eyes to focus on his facial twitches, “And you don’t blame me? I gave them what they needed to experiment on you. I’m resp—”

“You’re not responsible,” he moved into the warmth of the facility, dragging the guards that were at his feet with him. “We are products of our makers. But that does not mean that is all we can ever be. You made choices. Those choices affected my choices. And now they will affect someone else’s. We are all dominoes falling blindly.”

“Why did you lie?” You worked on the inner-door, trying to keep a poker face.

“Because I know you,” Alexi began setting the C4 charges. “If I told you the truth, you’d blame yourself.” He took a long and deep inhale. “Truth is, I requested to be your recruiter. I wanted to meet the woman who…” His jaw worked over and he exhaled. “You were not what I expected. I realised, in that bar in Moldova, that we are all lost children looking for direction.”

The door began cranking open, slower than the first one.

“How do you not hate me?” You were confounded.

Alexei shrugged, “This Voroshilov you are risking your life to save, he has done terrible things…unspeakable things, no?”

You hesitated to answer and Alexei took that to mean you didn’t have the heart to.

“But you still want to save him?” Alexei cocked his head to the side. You nodded. He smiled, “It’s the same for me. You are my partner. I go where you go, Snezhinka. ”

Except you can’t go where I go , you thought. You turned to look at your ageless face reflected in a reflective surface.

The door ground to a halt once it opened fully. Your fingers reached for anything to fumble with. In that moment you felt an ache for the photograph Bucky—the Winter Soldier—had taken from you in Paris. You wanted to look at Sal’s young face. At Steve’s big, goofy grin and terrible posture. At Annie’s flirtatious wink and Hal’s perpetual scowl. At you and Bucky immortalised in a simpler time.

You let out a breath and were surprised to hear the shudder in your voice. “Promise me something, big guy.” You held your chin high to look over Alexei’s face one more time. To memorise every edge and curve, dip and line, spot and wrinkle. “If I don’t make it to the extraction point—”

“Don’t speak nonsense!” Alexei frowned.

You patted his chest affectionately, like a big sister reassuring her younger brother there were no spiders under his bed anymore.

“If I don’t make it…Don’t come back for me.” You waited to see if he’d argue against your order.

Alexei’s eyes fogged over as he let his chin fall, “The plan is to get the two of you somewhere secure until you can knock his bell straight.”

You chuckled at his improper use of the phrase, “Swear to me, Alexei. Swear you will find another partner. Swear to me that you will give them an annoyingly on-the-nose nickname and buy them two bottles of vodka on the first day.” You moved your hand from his chest to his cheek, patting it twice. “Swear to me you will shave more often.”

He laughed weakly, “I won’t have to. You’ll be there to set my ass straight. Now, let’s go save your boyfriend, da?”

You stepped away from the giant Russian, “No, Alexei. I’m going in alone this time. You’ve set the charges. I can handle the rest. Just hand me the detonator. Wait by the snowmobiles. If I don’t make it out, you’ll know.”

He started swearing in the mother tongue.

You yanked his jacket and shouted, “It’s best it stays this way!”

Alexei grumbled, but he could see the conviction in your eyes. He couldn’t fight against you this time. He conceded and handed you the detonator. Then he unloaded his clip and handed it to you.

“Just in case.” He pulled the hammer and the bullet in the chamber popped out. He caught it and took your much smaller hand in his. Placing the bullet on your palm as if it were a treasure. “I don’t own anything except this jacket and it’s too big for you, will only slow you down.” He feigned a laugh. “There is a saying where I come from, ‘there is no first and the is no last bullet.’” He scratched his eyebrow with his free hand. “No, that’s—Nevermind that. I’m trying to say this isn’t goodbye.”

You balled your fist around the bullet. “I’ll keep this safe.”

“Keep it until you don’t need to anymore, da?”

You nodded and walked into the elevator. As you pushed the button for basement, Alexei shouted: “Carter!”

“What?” Your heart started racing as the doors of the heavy elevator started retracting.

“In the bar, you asked me who we were. I never met them all. But I know who signed our checks—” Alexei had to squat and tilt his head so you could see his face is the small crack between the doors. “Her name is Carter.”

“Carter,” you whispered. You’d seen that name at the museum. It had been attached to an image of a beautiful woman’s newspaper cut-out on Steve’s compass flashed in your mind. “Oh…That Carter.”

The doors closed. The elevator started heading down. You had the strangest sense of Déjà vu. And then you remembered the heist to steal the serum from the military compound.

“Right,” you checked and rechecked your gun again. The doors opened to show several tactically clad men pointing submachine guns at the elevators entrance. “Showtime.”

The two gunshot wounds in your back stung, but not nearly as hot as the flamethrower burn on your arm. You had barricaded the door into the cryo-lab. The banging of soldiers going unheard due to the rapid pulse of your heart.

Bucky was in one of these pods, you could feel it. Home wasn’t a hopeless dream anymore. It was becoming real—tangible.

You felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. Granted the situation wasn’t ideal, but you didn’t fucking care anymore. Hope was hope.

Your feet dragged slower than your body wanted to move, the blood loss made your stomach swirl. It was like being seasick on land.

A flutter of air left your mouth. Your heart skipped what felt like a hundred beats. Everything went quiet and for a moment you wondered if you were actually alive or if all this was some elaborate lie. Then your heart knocked against your chest harder than it had in a long time and you knew it was real.

There he was, cold and unmoving and trapped behind glass, but alive. You laughed, hobbling to get to the cryo-pods.

You disengaged the cryo sequence and waited. When the cold air turned to moisture on the chamber’s glass, Bucky screamed awake. Startled, you took two steps back.

“Gaaahhh,” Bucky fell out of the chamber. You tried to break his fall but you were too weak. You fell together. He shuddered over you, scrambling for purchase.

“Bucky,” You reached out to him and he recoiled. His mind as in a state of confusion and panic. This wasn’t the soft Bucky you’ resurrected in the safe house in Paris and it wasn’t the trained killer you’d fought bloody. This was the man in-between. Half broken and half patchwork. “Hey, Bucky listen to me! We don’t have much time, I have to get us out of here.”

“N—no!” He swung his arms like he was fighting ghosts. “Whe—where…Hhnnnggg!” He braced his head.

You held out your hand, “Come with me and I’ll explain everything.”

His head craned up and then down, fingers holding onto his ears till they turned red. “Arrrghhh! Don’t. Make. Me…Kill them…arggghh!”

You rushed to his side and forced him to look at you, “Soldier! I need you to snap out of this. There’s men coming for us on the other side of that door.” You yanked him hard, ignoring the fact that his breathing was wild and erratic. “I don’t care which version of you I’m dealing with, I just need you to get your shit in order long enough for us to get out of here!”

He removed his fingers from his ears and reached out to trace the outline of your jaw, “S—safe…harbour.”

You gasped, choking on air. You looked into his thunderous eyes, too frantic to tell which version of him had said those words.

Hope was blooming brighter and you whispered like a prayer, “Bucky?”

He dropped to his knees and groaned. “Make it stop!”

“I will. I promise baby, I promise I will. But first,” You slinked your smaller frame under his shoulder and heaved. You held back a whimper as you felt blood rush out of your back. “Get up, baby.”

Bucky steeled his legs, his weight not as heavy on your frame. He eyed you in strangely, with a glint of disconnect. The looked was wiped away by another grunt of pain. His eyes squeezed shut as you directed him towards the door that led to the secondary elevator.

You pressed the call button but nothing happened. “No, no, no.” You slammed the button three times and kicked it once for good measure.

“Lockdown,” Bucky answered. His voice cold one moment then shivering when he stammered: “H—how do I know that? What is happening to me?”

“I don’t know,” you answered truthfully. “But we can’t go back the way I came.” You hitched him higher onto your shoulder to take a second to stretch. “You must know another way.”

“I—I don’t…”

“Think!” You snapped at him.

“I don’t know!” He shouted back. Louder than you’d ever heard him shout before. Your instinct told you to move away from him, your heart was tired of this game of ‘is he or isn’t he the man you love?’

His eyes went large, as if he wanted to apologise and then he said: “Below. There’s an abandoned storage facility.”

You were about to question how he knew that when the door you’d barricaded indented, “How do we access it?”

“Maintenance access,” he nudged towards a grate with a turn wheel.

You set him down and pried it open.

The lower level smelled of damp and what could only be wet rat. Bucky had quieted down now. You moved slower due to the poor lighting from the flare.

Bucky suddenly flinched and you set him down.

“Hold on, I’’ll try and find the exit hatch,” you tucked a loose strand of long, sweaty hair behind his ear. “All the years I dreamed of you, you never had long hair. Now I’ll probably only ever dream about you with long hair.”

Bucky’s eye twitched, a slight discomfort from how intimate you were being. You were hurt by his reaction. You swallowed and apologised then turned to look for the door hatch he’d told you about.

“Do you know what this place is?” You asked as you scanned the room.

He replied clearly, “Old cryo storage.”

“Any others like you down here?” You jigged something you thought was a lever. It budged and let out a putrid gas. You quickly sealed it back up as you gaged.

“We don’t keep them here.”

“We?” You froze. The flare slipped from your fingers. You knew. Somehow, the entire time, you knew it had been too easy.

You pressed your lips tightly, sniffling back disappointment; heartbreak. “You’re not him, are you?”

There was no reply. You back was tingling from exposure. Self-preservation dictated you look your enemy in the eye. Defeat killed any last morsel of fight in you.

You pulled the detonator out from your pocket, “This was a trap.” It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway.

“Da.”

You turned around slowly to face him. One last question left to ask. “Do you know me?” Tears splattered on the metal floor.

The Winter Soldier’s eyes went small and then impartial, a thought working its way in his brain. He reached for something that you couldn’t see. It looked like the edge of a paper. When his hand dropped back to his side, his head was lifted higher. “No.”

“Then…” you licked your lips. “If I can’t save you, we’ll just have to burn together.”

You pressed the detonator. The sound of explosions going off above you. Dust shaking from old pipes. Water burst out of the stone wall, a blown pipe undoubtedly. Then parts of the ceiling began to cave in. A metal beam came crashing down above your head. A flicker of emotion ghosted Bucky’s face and he lunged to pull you back.

The two of you collided on the floor. You head hitting it hard. Fake stars blotted out your vision. And then you saw them again. Pink petals raining down in the dark. The smell of peach blossoms in the air.

Your muscles were numb. Like you’d left them under a running tap in the middle of winter. Your jaw felt frozen shut, pent up energy screaming for release against unresponsive muscles.

“Jesus Christ,” a man said in disbelief. “She hasn’t aged a day.”

“Neither have we,” a darker voice said, gruff and afraid.

“How long has she been on ice?” The sound of machines filled the room. When there was no answer to the man’s question, he asked again, “How long, Buck?”

The other man’s voice went softer, “Almost forty years.”

Bucky? You wondered. Who’s Bucky?

[anotherkindofmindpod]

I’d love for you guys to have Mark Lewisohn on your show just to grill him. As someone who’s experienced workplace bullying and sexual assault, that he would go so far as to paint Klein as “heroic” when he said things like “reluctant virgin” is just so devastating to me. It makes me feel ill. I do NOT want this man to have a say in Beatles history. I love the Beatles. I don’t want that tainted by people who will paint over abuse just to feed their own self importance.

We vehemently agree, Listener!  Thank you for writing in.

Our list of grievances with Mark Lewisohn is long, but in a nutshell we believe his intent is to publicly “redeem” John Lennon and we have seen copious evidence that he will go to whatever lengths he has to in order to do this. 

That includes, but is not limited to: 

Claiming that readers of his Tune In Series may consider Klein the “hero” of the Beatles break-up

Deliberately spreading the demonstrably false lie that John (and Yoko) did not have a significant heroin problem in the late 60s and early 70s (Lewisohn suggests Cold Turkey is just John playing make believe)

Displaying unapologetic favoritism by using glowing terms to portray John and Yoko as the world’s most perfect romance, as opposed to Paul and Linda, whose 29-year marriage he dismisses as “conventional” and motivated by appearances (namely Linda’s pregnancy, even though it was planned) and Green Card needs

Stating that he could tell from watching the infamous “it’s a drag” clip that Paul was kind of sad, but primarily annoyed at how much positive attention John was getting on the day of his murder

Apparently suggesting to an audience of his Power Point Show that Paul maybe stole a leg off Yoko’s bed (the bed she had delivered and built in the Beatles’ recording studio, mind you), a personal “theory” which is based on the fact that Paul later wrote a song called “Three Legs” (you know that song: “My dog, he got three legs, like the bed you inappropriately brought into Abbey Road 2 years ago which I secretly vandalized behind your back because I have nothing better to do, am certainly not busy writing the Beatles Swan Song and don’t have a fucking 7 year old at home or anything”)

This isn’t even to mention Tune In, which could be a whole separate post and episode. Suffice it to say, this book often reads less like a Beatles biography and more like John Lennon Fanfiction to us.

Lewisohn managed to distinguish himself by doing (some) research and unearthing some original documents. That he had some skill in research is not surprising given that he started his career in Beatledom as a researcher for Norman, on his book Shout — which Lewisohn still contends is a good book. Norman, on the other hand has evolved his opinion of his own work and thinks Shout was flawed, so has written a whole biography on Paul to make up for what he sees as the failure of Shout, which is his underestimation of Paul. Unfortunately, Lewisohn does not seem to have made this same journey. He pays lip service to John and Paul being equal, and then spends all of his time and energy trying to prove otherwise. Norman says that he has created a monster in Lewisohn. We take his point.

One of our biggest issues with Lewisohn is that he vigorously promotes himself as an unbiased truth teller, and his calm manner seems to telegraph this. But it is not true. The research that Lewisohn does and the spin that he applies to his findings are all heavily biased. As we mentioned in one of our episodes, he travelled to Gibraltar simply to experience where John and Yoko got married. Yet when Paul calls the May 9th meeting over management the metaphorical cracking of the Liberty Bell, Lewisohn doesn’t even bother to Google it so he can understand the metaphor.

What he chooses to research is also a form of bias. For example, we at AKOM are very interested in Paul’s relationship with Robert Fraser during the Beatle years — since Paul has commented that Fraser was one of the most important, influential people in his life. Paul McCartney was the concept artist behind Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the Magical Mystery Tour film, the iconic Apple logo, and he co-designed the covers of the White Album and Abbey Road.  All of these are pretty defining moments in the Beatles’ career.  As Beatles fans, we’d like to know more about Paul’s art education and influences. But we would be shocked if Lewisohn dug into Fraser at all beyond his relationship as John and Yoko’s gallerist/curator (and heroin dealer, but since that isn’t a thing in Lewisohn’s world then maybe he will be ignored).

We think Lewisohn benefits massively from the fact that Beatles authorship was like the Wild West since its inception, when everyone with a connection to the Beatles (plus or minus a personal axe to grind) wrote a book about their experience. It was absolute chaos, with no rules, no checks and balances, uncredited sources, etc. Just an absolute shit show.  What Lewisohn did was bring some order to the chaos with some proper documentation. But again, what he chooses to dig into often reflects bias. And this certainly does not mean that he is intellectually or emotionally equipped to interpret his findings. Doing this takes social intelligence and insight, which is a very different skill. As a creator of myths, he is no better (and no more insightful or original) than many of the others who came before him; he worships John Lennon and freely admits it. He is not even close to being unbiased.  But in this dumpster fire of a fandom he has at least checked some boxes and done some digging.  The fact is, the bar has been so low for so long that Beatles fans don’t even know how to expect or want better.  But WE certainly expect better.  We expect some breakthrough, fresh thinking.  Not just Shout with Receipts.

We think it’s significant that Lewisohn was deeply disliked by George Harrison, who lobbied to get him kicked him off the Anthology project. He was fired from Paul’s fan club magazine, and yet no one seems to think he might hold a grudge about that, too?  Lewisohn so distorted John and Paul’s relationship in Tune In that he believes he is the target of the lyrics in Paul’s song “Early Days.“  And he either thinks that’s flattering or funny, because Lewisohn seems to truly believe he knows John Lennon better than Paul McCartney does.  We find it almost tragic that Paul is so bothered by the way his experience and relationship is being portrayed by authors (perhaps Lewisohn) that he wrote a song about it. In it, he conveys his frustration and heartache about how everything is misconstrued and we find it absolutely outrageous that Lewisohn would not take this to heart.  Perhaps Lewisohn thinks Paul should listen to him for a change? And if he doesn’t like it, then tough, because Lewisohn knows better? We think Lewisohn should do some serious soul-searching about “Early Days” because if one of his main subjects is saying, “you are getting it wrong and it is breaking my heart”….maybe, just maybe, he should listen and rethink things.  Maybe apply a little creativity, out-of-the-box thinking and empathy. This is what his heroes did.

Meanwhile, Jean Jackets are SO BUSY complaining that Paul McCartney doesn’t like Lewisohn because he “tells the truth!” that they fail to notice that Lewisohn has become a mouthpiece for Yoko Ono.  He has already started white-washing John Lennon’s history, promoting John and Yoko as the true and only geniuses versus Paul as the craven, small-minded Lennon disciple who (through no virtue of his own) was born with the ability to write some nice tunes.  Lewisohn’s version of John, on the other hand, is ALWAYS a sexy, visionary genius on the right side of every issue.  He even went out of his way to recently trash Paul’s early 70’s albums, which -in addition to being obnoxious and we believe wrong (since we love them)- is totally outside his purview.

Lastly, to address your original point, Lewisohn’s claim that Klein may be viewed as the “hero” of his Beatles History reveals that he hasn’t shown sufficient empathy or interest in Paul’s experience.  This claim at best ignores and at worst condones the fact that Klein was an abusive monster to one of the two founding members of the Beatles.  As we discussed in Episode 4, Klein was a criminal who bullied Paul in his creative workspace, disrespected Paul in his own office in front of his own employees and actively pitted Lennon against McCartney for years.  It’s hard to imagine ANYONE who inflicted more damage on the Beatles and Lennon/McCartney than Allen Klein.  In addition to the wildly inappropriate “reluctant virgin” nickname, he verbally threatened to “own Paul’s ass” (to which Paul responded “he never got anywhere near my ass”). Klein was so disrespectful to Paul and Linda’s marriage he pitched the idea of procuring “a blonde with big tits” to parade in front of Paul to lure him away from Linda and destroy their relationship.  Let’s also never forget that Klein contributed lyrics to the song “How Do You Sleep.”  Allen Klein literally gave Paul nightmares.  Anyone who so much as pretends to care about Paul’s break-up era depression (including his alcohol abuse, his inability to get out of bed and his terrifying sleep paralysis) would not champion Allen Klein.

Yes, Klein is a human being and therefore has his own POV, same as anyone else.  But a Beatles biographer is beholden to four points of view only: John, Paul, George and Ringo.  And when an outsider is openly hostile to one of the Beatles and damaging long-term to all of the Beatles, it is beyond inappropriate to portray him as a hero.  This type of comment, made publicly to an audience of Beatles fans, invalidates and seeks to erase the real trauma inflicted on Paul McCartney by Allen Klein, and we think Lewisohn should apologize for his comments.

Instead, Lewisohn’s current buddy is Peter Brown, whose book, The Love You Make so offended and angered Paul and Linda that they literally burned their copy (and photographed it burning for good measure).  This information doesn’t appear to bother Lewisohn in the least. Why not?

George referred to Norman’s Shout as “Shit.” But Lewisohn thinks it’s a great book.  Why?

How any Beatles or Paul or even George fans tolerate Lewisohn is baffling to us; we don’t recognize a real human being in his version of Paul, and his version of John is a superhero rather than a man.  We suspect that fans have come to accept the traditional story and at least appreciate some properly-documented facts. 

But as we are constantly trying to demonstrate on our show, just because the story has always been told one way, doesn’t mean it’s right.  Because in the end, Mark Lewisohn has no special insight. He wasn’t there. He is a guy who bought into a narrative during the Shout era, and is cherry picking his findings to support it.You can find a discussion of Lewisohn here

[thgfanficinspo]

Fear of the Water - Ch 18

Finnick deals with the fallout from Annie’s breakdown (some sexy Capitol Finnick) (Henry Cavill was my fancast for Finnick before the movie came out)

My AO3 - Chapter 1 - Jonsa - Coryo - Discovery of Witches

(ANNIE)

When I wake up, I’m in a white tube. It’s small so small and I’m strapped down – arms, legs, body, even head. There’s a whirring, buzzing sound coming from within the walls. Then there are voices.

“Aw, shit, she’s awake.”

“Should we put her back down?”

I struggle against my bonds. Are they going to kill me? Why am I here? What are they doing to me?

“Yeah, she’s gonna fuss.”

There are footsteps now – coming toward me. I try to tear my arms out of their bonds but nothing happens. I scream. The voices yell to one another and I scream and I scream and I scream. I don’t want this. Finnick and Mags said it was over now and I was safe and I don’t think they’d lie to me but maybe they did or maybe they never said it at all I don’t want to die.

There’s a sharp pain in my right thigh. Then it goes dark.

(FINNICK)

We’re supposed to go back to that damn waiting room with the grey walls and floor-length windows and fake orchid.

I skulk around in the hallway after the others have gone inside, hoping to catch a moment alone with the female doctor who flirted with me. She comes out through a doorway which she locks behind her. She’s too distracted by the papers in her hand to notice me. I clear my throat and she looks up.

“Mr. Odair. Shouldn’t you be in the waiting room?”

“It’s a bit stuffy in their for my taste,” I say. “Especially after all that drama.” I straighten up and close the space between us.

“Yes, that was really something,” she agrees. Her eyes rake my body up and down. She has to turn away.

“Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

“I haven’t personally.”

“No?” I’m not nearly as smooth as I usually am. I’m too anxious to be charming. “Annie’s something special then.” I step up behind her and move her hair away from the side of her neck. “Like you.” I press my lips to the side of her neck and she nearly collapses. I keep my arms tight around her waist and pull her against me.

She gasps my name.

“Will you tell me something?”

“What?” she asks breathlessly.

I flick the tip of my tongue over the pulse-point of her throat. “What are you planning to do with Annie Cresta?”

“Anthea!” We both look up. Her male colleague is standing at the other end of the hallway. He’s a good ten years younger than she is, but he has an air of superiority about him. And he looks pissed.

The woman – Anthea, I guess – goes ramrod straight and tosses off my arms. “It’s not –”

“We need to talk,” he says simply, his glaring eyes locked on mine. Anthea hustles down the hall and through the door the male doctor came through. He and I maintain eye contact as long as possible, until the door shuts behind him.

I growl under my breath. “Fuck.”

I’ve definitely made things worse. If that other damn doctor hadn’t come in . . .

Mags is pacing around the room with one of her hands over her mouth when I come in. Proteus stands a few feet away from me, apparently deep in thought. Eefa has made a surprise visit, which she clearly regrets. No sign of Broadsea, but that’s no surprise. He’s probably passed out in his own puke by now. I normally wouldn’t care but I feel that since Eefa made it here, he should’ve at least tried.

Proteus raises an eyebrow at me, silently asking what I found out. I shake my head.

The same two doctors as before come out to speak to us after about twenty minutes of waiting. They’re much more serious. “She did suffer trauma to the head while in the Arena,” the man says.

“But you don’t think that’s what’s causing her issues,” Proteus says.

Anthea nods. Gone is the quivering woman in the hall, replaced with someone cold and angry. She’s going out of her way to not look at me. “The tasks we had her do when she first woke up didn’t indicate any neurological or physiological issues. We did scans, too, after her tantrum at the recap, and they didn’t show anything out of the ordinary.”

“Tantrum?” I repeat.

“Then what’s wrong?” Proteus asks over me.

“We believe it’s mental illness,” the male doctor says.

None of us know what that means. We don’t have mental illness in the districts, at least not the words to describe it, but the Capitol has words for everything. They have enough leisure time to think about things like that, to come up with ailments to explain their every mood.

Our faces must betray our inability to understand because they take a different route.

The female doctor is the one to speak. “We are going to have Annie Cresta declared mentally insane.”

“What?” I spit.

Proteus speaks over me again. “Isn’t that a bit premature? She hasn’t been out of the arena for long.”

“We believe a swift announcement is in her best interest at this time,” the male doctor says.

“Her closing interview with Caesar Flickerman has been canceled,” the female says, totally ignoring our reactions. She may have succumb to my charms and looks before, but now she seems immune. “President Snow will make the announcement during that time slot instead.”

I don’t know what to say.

“What would you like us to do in the meantime?” Proteus asks after a moment, voice totally neutral. The crease between his eyebrows is the only sign that he’s troubled by all of this. The only sign.

I could kill him.

“She’s currently under anesthesia, but I recommend you board the train back to your district soon,” the woman continues. “Before anyone gets wind of this.”

“Why?” Eefa asks, brows creased.

“What do you mean, Why?” I ask.

“Why are you declaring her insane? What exactly is wrong with her?”

“Why do you think?” I snap. The first thing I hear her say in a week and she asks something stupid like that?

“I’d like to hear the diagnosis,” Eefa says.

The woman doctor sighs and looks down at her clip board. She knows we won’t understand any of it. “She shows symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, attention def –”

Proteus holds up his hand. “That’s enough.” He has no idea what any of it means, either. “Eefa?” he asks, turning to her. She nods, satisfied with what she’s heard. Maybe she was making sure they covered their bases; we generally accept that mad people are mad, but you need real proof to declare a victor mentally insane before the whole country.

“There is one piece of permanent physical damage I ought to mention,” the female doctor says. “Due to the stab wound in her abdomen, she won’t be able to conceive or carry children. There’s too much tissue damage.” No one really cares about that right now. What we care about – what I care about – is getting Annie out of here without adding to the damage that’s already been done. “I thought one of you ought to tell her once you’re back in your district and she’s had a chance to calm down.”

“I think you should get ready to leave,” the male doctor says. “She’ll be up in –” he checks his wristwatch and bobbles his head as he does the math in his head “– ninety minutes, give or take.”

“Yes,” Mags says distractedly. “Yes, of course.” She blinks several times.  “I’ll start preparing. And have Brae send for the train. Proteus, please get Annie’s stylist so we can get her ready to go.” The others go – Eefa practically sprints out – and I want to move, too, but my muscles won’t let me. Mags’s hand finds my shoulder. “She’s alive, Finnick. That’s what matters.”

I nod again because I can’t think of anything to say.

“Go. Clean up. Clear your head. I’ll be along in a few minutes. I just want to check in on her.”

When I get upstairs to our rooms, Greer rushes towards me and starts making a lot of gestures. I’m not sure what she’s asking until she runs her hand down her hair in a smooth, wavy motion. Like the way Annie’s hair falls.

“Annie?” I guess.

She nods.

I’m too tired to explain it all. “She’ll be all right.”

I start undressing before I make it all the way into my room, discarding my clothes as I go. Somes picks them up as he follows behind me.

I blast the water in the shower to its highest setting and make the temperature as cold as I can bear. I only take hot showers in the Capitol when I’ve just seen a patron. Different temperatures for different problems. It helps me compartmentalize. Keep my head straight.

I’m good at that. Compartmentalizing, keeping my mind focused on the task at hand. I always have been. A lot of victors simply can’t do that – it’s why they turn to drink or drugs. But I haven’t. And I won’t.

I don’t notice the slip of paper folded on my pillow until I start dressing. The paper is off-white and thick – the sort of expensive, heavy stuff they only use in the Capitol. I open it up, and the custom watermark at the top of the page informs me that this is from C.X.S.

President Snow has left me a handwritten note of congratulations.

The others have all gotten them, too.

Mags says he always does for the victors of the winning district. Etiquette, she says, is the most important thing to Coriolanus. Not for the first time, I wonder how well Mags knew him when they were young.

Broadsea whips a lighter out of his pocket and sets the note on fire before dropping it in an empty metal bin. He hasn’t even opened it. Eefa drops her own note into the bin; Mags gives Broadsea her letter to burn, too. I don’t know if she’s read it. Proteus tucks his away in his jacket pocket and tells me to do the same if I want to be smart. I don’t have a reason to save it; I’ve already memorized every word. But I decide to keep it anyway. In case I ever need a reminder.

Mr. Odair,

Congratulations on your very first victor. This is an exciting time for your fellow victors and all of District 4. It is an especially important time for you, as this is your first time mentoring a victor.

Of course he adds a little statement of regret at the end of my note containing a veiled threat:

I hope that you will not be bogged down by the weight of responsibility. It would be unfair for anyone to expect a young man such as  you to take on the burden of Miss Cresta’s care.

It seems innocuous enough, but it’s another little reminder to stand back and just let things unfold. Men like Finnick Odair don’t get involved with that sort of thing, and girls like Annie Cresta never really go home.

My best regards to you and your new victor,

President Coriolanus X. Snow

[midnight1990]

Good Raven Chapter 1. Cofio — Remembering

July, 1995

As I unpack my trunk in the dusty, dingy room above the shop where my uncle, two brothers and two sisters live, I feel the slight dread of not knowing where my future will lead.  I’m of age now and done with school, so finding work and avoiding trouble should be my first worries, but it ain’t just me I have to worry about. I can’t let the babanod grow up here for much longer — it’s eaten them and me for three years already.

We live in Knockturn Alley, the street off of lovely Diagon Alley where all of the things your decent witches and wizards won’t meddle in are sold; bought; traded or just plain found. In my uncle’s shop is sold potion ingredients, and because this is Knockturn Alley, they’re not normal ingredients — poisons; live creatures; contraband that he (Uncle) said if I ever told someone about he’d hex me for 7 years straight. He also threatened to feed me on only cold gruel if I sold anything cheap, ‘cause once I was all moved in those three years ago he was leaving me at the counter to haggle and sell while he went off to the Cauldron for drinks, or Borgin’s to try and buy even more nasty supplies to bring back to his own business.

I should be honest when I talk about the things we sell — they’re rather compelling. It’s a bit exciting to know that the fungi you’re holding (with a handkerchief that’s been charmed to keep the nerves in your hand from suddenly burning and losing all function) are one: that bloody dangerous and two: can put you on the ministry’s list of “Most Dark and Dangerous in Illicit Magical Trade”. Some of the things that the Ministry comes up with!

As interesting as my uncle’s business can be, me and the kids need our own place to live. It’s just too, well, dark in this alley. Ninety nine percent of the people who come through this place are just trying to get their business done; do their shopping — however ill-intentioned it may be — and go home, but that one percent that’s not so good is too noticeable for any decent body to want to raise four little ones here. I’ve been followed by a hag who wanted my fingernails (taken from a living witch or wizard, they’re more useful); groped by warlocks both drunken and sober; sang at by more drunken warlocks (some ditty with lyrics like “I once had a lass with a nice round ass” and it got even nastier) and I’ve even seen duels that ended up in the Prophet! One time, a curse missed its intended target and hit an old wizard who was just trying to get home with the flesh-eating slug repellent he’d bought! The poor old grandpa! I hope he lived.

I go into the smaller room across the hall where the boys sleep and of course Llon’s trunk is sitting wide open on the bed he and Afon, who’s only three, share. I see his rumpled up belongings and I know he scrambled to find his wand as soon as he got up here; I hid it in his trunk as soon we boarded the train to come back for his first summer holiday (and the rest of my life) so he wouldn’t try any last minute jinxes. Sometimes I’m amazed at how easily he obeys me, then again his most vivid experience with a female relative other than me is of Mam throwing him outside at night — all night — so she could drink and have a shag with that big warlock she came home with. He was nine, I was 15 and we were all lucky that it was spring holiday so’s I was home.  I don’t know how they found out, but when the ministry officials who deal with family problems came a’visiting two days later, I was able to convince them to let the kids remain at Mam’s house so long as I was allowed to be there, courtesy of the school and a satisfied ministry witch. I had to write and beg Snape, McGonagall and Dumbledore himself to let me skip a few weeks. I remember feeling quite touched when the first two came to visit, a ministry witch in tow. I don’t think Dumbledore even considers his students well-being outside of Hogwarts.

Professor Snape was my head of house — good ol’ Slytherins looking out for each other — and I distinctly recall the feeling I had when I greeted him and McGonagall at the door that he’d been waiting for something like this to occur. You get that feeling when he looks at you sometimes - that he knows things about you.

I had expected McGonagall to be much less kinder than she actually was — more grave and pitying. She was certainly that way with Mam, “Eira, what have you gotten yourself and your family into?!”

Snape mostly sat all stiff in the chair I’d offered, his spidery black eyes glancing everywhere they could, taking in my raggedy siblings, Mam’s wan expression and the Welsh words doodled haphazardly on our cottage’s stone walls. Words like cariad — love — which had a bright pink heart drawn beside it and calon which had an arrow pointing from it to the rosy heart.

Witch, Welsh and Slytherin. That’s me. Even my name is Welsh, though my dad is English (obviously, my surname is Burke after all): Branda — brân dda — raven good; Good Raven. I have a middle name that isn’t Welsh at all, though; Patreva. Something Latin like what so many of our kind in Britain have — names like Draco, Severus or my Tad’s name, “Nicander” which may actually be Greek. It’s fancy and magical sounding. I’m the only one of my parent’s brood with any name like that — something about a Naming Seer who suggested it for me, but they never went back for their other four kids’s names. The younger ones have a Welsh name and that’s it. I like Welsh names quite a lot, though. Some of the names wizarding parents give their children are too — well — ostentatious is a good word.

Anyway, McGonagall, Snape and the quiet little ministry witch with the clipboard came to a decision: I could stay at home with Mam and the kids while the school year continued as long as one: Mam wasn’t bringing her “gentlemen friends” home anymore and two: I would take remedial lessons in all core classes the following school year.

“Of course, you will receive some lessons by post this spring and over the summer, miss Burke.” McGonagall can be so caring, sometimes.

“Your head of house has stated that you are among the more reliable students at Hogwarts, miss Burke.”

The little ministry witch hadn’t spoken at all to me, only to Mam and to my professors, but now she was gazing at me with what I believe was meant to be a placating — if somewhat sharp — look.

“He says you are quite skilled in his potions class as well as in mentoring the younger students.”

The look on Professor Snape’s face suggested this was meant to be unspoken. I’ve never had problems with Snape; he’s certainly a terror to many (okay, most) students, but he’s only ever had clipped praises or short orders for me to teach the first years how to behave without their parents around to guide them and comfort them and all that. A lot of the prefects were shite at that kind of thing.

Life at Mam’s with the kids was alright for awhile — could’ve probably gone quite tolerably if she hadn’t gone off to the Leakey Cauldron and met some bloke who took her to his flat in wherever-the-hell-it-was. Whatever they did in those six days she was gone, it was bad enough that he went to Azkaban, but not interesting enough for the Daily Prophet to report on. Mam got off, but us kids had to go live with the only relative who was willing to take us — Tad’s second-or-something cousin whom he’d done business with before Mam kicked him out: Mr. Donius Burke, purveyor of dark and illicit potion ingredients since 1974.

Fuck.

***

“Oi, girl! Come down here now! I need you for something!”

Calm down old man, I haven’t finished folding my jumpers yet. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already got a task for me, even though I’ve only been off the train for two hours. Sunset’s nearly come, and I don’t want to be outside in Knockturn Alley after dark, which ought to spur me faster down the stairs to see what he wants. Making him wait can feel too good though - not that he’s not willing to stomp his way up here which, as I put my last woolen top away, I can hear him doing. Thump, creak; thump creak; the ancient wooden steps groaning loudly as always. Has he still not fallen through them?!

“Are you going deaf?!”

I turn my head to look at him there, his reedy frame silhouetted from the dim light of the hallway. He hasn’t changed in the ten months since I’ve last seen him, and he hasn’t since we arrived here three years ago; grey hair slicked back, his aging face freakishly smooth without a hint of stubble (does he shave, or did he magic the hairs off?).

Before I can say anything he’s stepped into the room to stand over me.

“Get down there, now!”

He points his finger so forcefully that it’s curving up towards the ceiling, and I have to keep myself from glancing up to see if it’ll confuse him. He follows me out of the bedroom and down to the back of the shop, where Llon and the other two kids are on the floor playing with Mouser, the cranky black cat we keep to eat any mice or cockroaches in the the building.

Gwenyn is nine and has long blonde hair like Mam, round hazel eyes and a pink mischievous face. Next to her is five year-old Ffionwyn, who’s brown hair will turn nearly black like Tad’s and mine someday. For now, her head’s as shiny as a chestnut, with a pale face and a shifty quietness about her - probably because she���s been growing up in this dark hole of a place.

“Here”. A small roll of parchment is pressed into my hand.

“Take this to Aunt Onyxia, she’s been expecting it all day.”

He nods his head towards the children - “You can bring back the other one, as well.”

Of course, he’s talking about Afon, the youngest of the family. Three, dark haired and quiet like Ffionwyn, he had to come here when he was just four months old! Unwilling to keep a baby where his customers could hear him crying, Uncle struck a deal with the ministry officials who’d arranged for his guardianship — he would have to remain the legal guardian of Afon, but would be allowed to shunt him off to another adult so long as they were nearby and had no criminal record — a relative preferred. Enter Aunt Onyxia, Uncle Donius’s first cousin.

Onyxia Burke runs a “gift” shop right at the end of Knockturn Alley where she sells candles, cheap jewelry and clothing items, all of which are enchanted for various purposes; making someone fall in love with you; manipulating another’s dreams; even changing their moods or emotions. I hope she’s been keeping Afon away from her shit.

As I step through the door of my uncle’s shop into the balmy night air, I glance up at the old wooden sign hanging above the door: “Apothecary” it reads, surrounded by engraved bats, spiders and toads. I force a heavy breath through my nose as memories come creeping up again, for we used to sell those things — well, Mam ‘n Tad did - before everything went to Hell.

Mam ‘n Tad were gatherers and procurers of potion ingredients. Magical plants and animals, of course, some of which you must have a special permit to collect, but also things that are not so magical — bats, rats and adders; green things that grow in your back garden like nettles and dandelions; even farm animals like chickens and goats, the latter of which produce bezoars —hard stones that form in their gut and which counteract poisons.

Things that could not be grown or raised near our home (a dragon in the barn might’ve been a bit troublesome) we would search for. This was the best part of my family’s livelihood. Tad would research where things could be found, and we would gather our equipment and head off to some chosen spot ready to work.

He taught me to do many things without magic, which I never knew was unusual for our kind —until I went to Hogwarts. Nobody else knew how to butcher a chicken or start a fire without a wand (except maybe a few muggleborns, but even most of them didn’t know how, either)! My classmates didn’t seem to know what to make of me until the incident with Hagrid’s giant chicken.

One of Hagrid’s roosters had grown to a rather impressive size, comparable to that of a Shetland pony (he had to have charmed it somehow). Well, one day it managed to escape the coop and terrorize the courtyard where all of us first years were learning broom maintenance. Madam Hooch was knocked over before she even saw it, and a boy called Derrick attempted to scare it by kicking it away, his robed arms flapping all around him whilst yelling at it to go away. Unfortunately, Drumsticks now thought Derrick was trying to start a real cock-fight — chest to chest, wings flapping and spurs kicking!

Before it finished its little war-dance with his head bobbing low, neck-feathers puffed out trembling, I’d managed to grab one of the brooms off the work table; as soon as Drumsticks began to step towards Derrick I ran towards that overgrown alarm-clock and jabbed it as hard as I could with that broomstick!

I won’t say it was a smart idea, but the frustration I’d felt over those first weeks at school — people giggling behind their hands when I spoke in my Welsh accent; discovering that students in other houses whom I’d wanted to befriend would scoff at the idea of hanging around with a Slytherin — seemed to take hold of me. It felt good when the broom’s handle hit Drumsticks’ chest, shocking him backwards and confusing him so. It’s likely a good thing that Hooch had finally recovered herself enough to properly stun that scaly-footed bastard before I’d lost my mind completely — that broomstick was starting to feel like a skewer.

Dinner that evening consisted of a hearty chicken soup, platters of little chicken pies, mashed potatoes, boiled peas and fresh, steamy bread rolls on the side.

Oh, and most everyone in my year stopped calling me “Spleens”.

Tad had been bi— Tad had been given the boot by Mam by the the time I’d started school, and in the summers I’d been the one to continue most of the hunting work while Mam settled herself with tending the garden and foraging for plants. Mam knew the work alright, but she’d mainly been the one to keep records of what was brought home; researching the markets and packaging items properly. Didn’t take long for Tad’s absence to start its work on her though, did it? A little kid can only hunt so many kinds of creatures, and of course I couldn’t have a permit to collect things like doxy venom or dragon eggshells, nor could I travel more than a few miles from home.

Soon the goats were sold to another ingredi-wizard, then any magical plants in our garden that required consistent tending died. I didn’t understand how that could’ve happened, not at the time anyway. Mam was good at hiding her drinking back then. Since we were no longer able to provide the great amount of products as before, businesses started abandoning us for more reliable resources.

Sometimes — just every once in awhile — Tad would show up for a visit.

“Only a few days” I imagine Mam whispering harshly, fearfully, her eyes darting ‘round as though expecting whatever forces demanded they keep apart to come bursting out of her cottage’s walls.

He always went out to try and gather more for us to sell, did Tad. He didn’t take me anywhere with him that was outside of the county, though. The last time I went with him was at the beginning of summer after my third year at Hogwarts. He looked so much older than I’d remembered, or perhaps I hadn’t paid enough attention during his previous visits? Grey streaks were beginning to shoot through his thick black hair, which hadn’t been cut in years. He walked slower than I was used to, moving like his body had turned all sore and stiff; his head constantly swiveled around as we worked, as though the very land that surrounded us could not be trusted.

“Don’t let your sisters and your brother stay inside all day. Teach them how to look after themselves, better than your mam or I have done for ourselves”.

Until he said that, it hadn’t really occurred to me just how reckless my parents were compared to those of my classmates. Before Tad had been forced to leave, he and Mam had thought little of hauling me, toddling Llon and squalling Gwenyn to all kinds of strange and exciting places — places I now know where most parents wouldn’t allow their children to set foot. When they needed to collect dragon eggshells from high up in the mountains, us kids sometimes went along.

I learned where to find snakes before I was seven; how to untangle wire snares without slicing my wrist open when I was eight. I nearly drowned in a lake searching for plimpys — round little creatures with long legs you can tie together — Tad said that’s how Merpeople deal with them because they consider them pests.

My parents also enjoyed firewhiskey. Many times after we’d spent a long day trekking through bracken for mokes and doxy eggs, or slogging around in muddy ditches for flobberworms, Mam ‘n Tad would build up a fire. We would toast sausages, slices of bread and even apples for supper, while two of them added the throat-burning drink to their meal. I can’t recall the bottle ever not being empty the next morning.

The drinking didn’t interfere with much until after Tad was gone.

It’s a wonder all of us kids have lived to see three.

I worry Afon won’t recognize me, after I’ve stayed all year at Hogwarts instead of returning to the Alley during holidays. I know I have a responsibility to my siblings, but the Triwizard tournament and its accompanying delights were hard to resist. Uncle was furious when I refused to return to work at Christmas, while Onyxia wrote that I should try and catch a wealthy boy from Beauxbatons, though a Durmstranger would do.

By the time I make it to Onyxia’s front door the few glass street lamps holding charmed candles have sprung to life, casting faint and eerie shadows. I’ve only just touched the brass kneazle-head knocker when the door is wrenched open from behind.

“It’s about time - oh, Patreva! I hadn’t realized you’d returned already!”

I curl my lips into the sparest of smiles — it’s often a struggle to remain polite with this woman. Patreva is my middle name, not my real name. I don’t even know what it means, and Mam ‘n Tad always avoided using it.

“Noswaith dda, Modryb. Sut ydych chi?”

The pleasure I feel when I speak Welsh at Onyxia is the same as ever: sweet but all too bloody short.

“Patreva Burke! You know far better than to speak that way, to me!”

As if she understood a word I’ve just said?! She’s convinced that any language other than French or Latin is used to disparage her.

“Llon and I came back a few hours ago, Auntie. Uncle Donius sent me to give you this” - I hand her the roll of parchment - “and to take Afon back with me”.

Onyxia stares at the parchment in her hand, eyes narrowing in obvious displeasure.

“Did he send me no money, girl?”

Uh-oh

“I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

Her eyes have gotten even narrower, if that’s possible.

“No, no girl. I suppose...I should’ve expected as much...this time.”

She isn’t looking at me as she says this, rather she’s gazing nowhere in particular at the space behind me, as if suddenly lost in thought...

“Well, wait here a moment, then. Here’s the boy’s belongings.” Before shuffling down her entryway she reaches down and hands me a midsized bag filled with clothes, children’s medicines and very few toys. No tea to be had in her house, apparently. Rude sow.

“Here you are, girl.” Onyxia appears at the door with my youngest brother in tow, his eyes widening at the sight of me and his fist going to his mouth in an image of absolute preciousness.

“Oooh fy mach i! Fy mrawd cy-“

“Speak English to him!” Shrieks the old hag I am forced to respect. “I had to teach him prop—“

But I’m not staying for her xenophobic rant tonight, and neither is fy mrawd bach — my little brother. He’s had enough, and I’ve had enough.

“Goodnight Auntie! Thank you for taking care of him, we need to go back!”

And with that, Afon and I are trotting up the alleyway and into the warm summer night.

Well, I’m trotting; Afon’s on my back.

[studioimart]

Good morning, folks! Once a month, I’m going to be sending out a list of links to everything I’ve written (and sites I’m writing on). Your support this year has been amazing, and I appreciate you so much!

Here we go!

Wicked & Wonderful

What happens when a centuries-old vampire and a human mage meet in our modern age? Something definitely “Wicked & Wonderful”!

This serialized novella is posted weekly!

Chapter 01: Burning Man

Chapter 02: Life After Death

Chapter 03: Opportunity Knocks

Chapter 04: Day Job

Chapter 05: No Gnomes are Good Gnomes, Right?

Chapter 06: Spark

Excerpt from my Award-Winning Novels

Whispers of the Dead The hunt for a murderer unfolds, dropping Zoe right in the middle of a power struggle between a nightmare of a coven, and a serial killer leaving bodies in ceremonial circles in the rural parts of Baltimore's city limits. A race against celestial bodies and the trail of earthbound body parts keeps our intrepid clairvoyant running right until the very end.

Ch 01 | Ch 02 | Ch 03

Check out this 5 minute audio clip of my first book

https://youtu.be/JgcMFean2As

Whispers of the Serpent Who is murdering babies in the Baltimore/D.C. area? For Zoë Delante, police clairvoyant, things gets personal when her one-year-old niece ends up missing. Someone is using magick to control and kidnap people, and they keep finding strange scales at all the crime scenes. Armed with stronger magick and new allies, everyone's favorite Wiccan races to unravel this mystery. But will it be enough?

Ch 01 | Ch 02 | Ch 03

Whispers of the Sidhe What Wiccan games we play. Some wounds never die. ~ A phone call sends Zoë Delante across the country to unravel a deep, personal mystery. Between her father's dead body, and a powerful ghost girl calling for help, she should clap, because faeries are real—and dangerous. Can everyone's favorite Wiccan figure out what's going on before the supernatural forces gathering around her take her down?

Ch 01 | Ch 02 | Ch 03

The Misadventures of Mayhem, Mischief & Magick: Paint Catastrophe

Who knew the madness that would be unleashed by the fervent mental renderings of three children! Mayhem, certainly, he would've known, but chaos that he was, he spoke no word of it, except for tiny whispers into Mischief's ear. Oh, and that boded ill for anyone outside their sacred circle of three for she was ever protective of her brothers. Yes, brothers. Though Mayhem was the eldest and leader for all intents and purposes, Magick was the youngest by just over a decade, still forming words on lips wet with drool that longed for teeth. And so it was that Mischief remained firmly ensconced between them both.

They lived in a house with Mother and the Mister, as Mischief so adoringly referred to her stepfather, while Father wandered around securing world peace with his wand. It was a nice enough abode, each child to a room, the parental units in their own space. Even Mop, their mystical Shih Tzu, had his own corner. It was here that most of their adventures began.

Read more here.

Short Stories

Salvation A dystopian short story about what men think would happen, if women regulated their bodies like men regulate ours.

Enough Old west meets succubus. What happens when enough is not enough?

All my work on vocal+.

All my work on Medium. There are a lot of articles about mental health and ghost stories.

Thank you!

Thank you for your support this month. 2020 was hard as hell, but 2021 feels like the Universe said, “Hold my beer.” You guys have been a huge help keeping me focused and not drowning in feels. You’re amazing. Thank you!

[luntica]

What we do in the shadows type of John Constantine imagine.

Summary: John comes back to his house to find a vampire were being have set up home in it. The show is them living together as he tries and gets then to leave until eventually he bonds with the weird couple.

"Did you know werewolves don't age so long as they keep up in monthly heart eating? " the black hair figure said clutching onto the shorter blonde figure.

"The werebeings are capable of shifting at will, that part about only during full moons was false. But the moon does come with the ability to extend life with the consumptions of hearts. The details seem pretty fuzzy but the good thing is, we're have managed to be together for such a wonderfully long time as a result. " the black hair figure continued into the Camara

"He drinks the blood, leaving abit just to sweeten things for me, and I take care of the body! It's a lovely deal, it's a mystery why our relationship has been so taboo for so long. It would be so mutually beneficial" the blond added in.

"And what are your names?" The interviewer asked.

"I've gone by an awful lot, and can never be sure what was my original. But my favorite has always been the raven, usually used in a way to sound mysterious and spooky" the black hair figure described before laughing.

"I usually go by manned lion, or a random name from a name generator. Since meeting my love ive been experimenting with identity. " the interviewer looks tired, the on screen name tags have "the raven" and "writing desk" for the two, with "what was given when asked what to put post interview"

The camera shifts and in a different room a tired blond man smokes a cigarette while holding his head in his free hand.

The on screen label is "John Constantine, house owner"

"This house was vacant as far as we could tell, and needed some touch ups, so we moved in. Come to find out we hit a room mate. " 'writing desk' says and the raven adds "he's a mage " with an exaggerated whisper.

It goes back to Constantine in the same roo. but now in an interview set up.

"I travel a lot for my work. It gets chaotic. But having someplace to come to can be nice, this is that for me. I would be lying to say this isn't the first time pests have shown up while ive been gone. But these wankers are an extra headache. " the camera shows a clip of a large creature dragging a body across the main entrance as John stands in a doorway in a robe looking very tired.

"I tried getting rid of them every way I could think of, but the bloody bastard are resistant or protected or some shit. " another clip of throwing spells at the vampire only to have it blocked or fire back and a shield manifesting around the blonde one.

"I revoke your welcome" John yells in one clip at the vampire, to which it laughs.

"An empty unclaimed building has no need to be welcomed and thus when I enter I claim it, you can't revoke that. " the raven explained to the interviewer.

"I'm not exactly sure how long before it's decided vacant to magic terms, never tested that much. But I do enjoy a good loophole"

The Camara than shows John threatening with a crucifix. The raven raises a brow.

"Universal protection symbols for example only work if the vampire means ill will. Most have trouble being good to any extent, but I've found ways to not be effected by things like that. Though a holy ground will still leave a burning itch cause I have murdered a ton. " the interview than shifts to Constantine trying to put silver out only to have it go missing.

[cartoonfangirl1218]

Give them what they want

Since Ff.net is kinda sucky, I’m just posting my fics here like a backup. There is mention and scene of rape so be warned. No characters are made by me.

Jordan lounged around in her bed, having finished editing and uploading her latest video on Auratube. She ladies on her side, feeling thoughtfully as she looked at her arm. Her perfectly smooth, tan arm.

She got up and went to her mirror. With a barely audible snap, she changed to her true form. Her genie form.

Her streaks disappeared making her hair pure raven black, her skin turned pink, and she let her lower half turn to smoke. She watched herself as she let down her hair from her high pony tail, and drift around her in waves.

She continued to look at herself, examining how..how different she looked from her human form.

She rarely took this form in public. Only when she slept or when she was much too distracted to keep the image.

She hugged herself, a panicky feeling rising. She knew she was alone but being like this she felt vulnerable. Nude. This form was just another sign of her otherness from mortals. A message of what she was.

A genie for them to ask wishes for. That is what she was meant to do after all like those centuries before her.

Her middle name even implied as much. "Desiree as close to desire as you can get. You give humans what they desire most, what they want." Her dad had explained.

Just three wishes.." whined the voice of her ex boyfriends. "What's wrong with you? Aren't genies suppose to want to give wishes" complained the voices of her rich, entitled classmates. She was a genie, that was all she was good for. That was all people ever wanted.

She wasn't wanted for her popularity as auratuber, or being especially pretty but wishes. Wishes, wishes, wishes. Never for her. A breath hitched in her throat and she changed herself back.

"No, no don't think about him" she told herself as thoughts her ex boyfriend broke through.

She had been so careful when she started to date. She swore it was going to be different, he wasn't going to date her for wishes, he would be with her for her.  She had disguised herself. Blonde hair with pink streaks, Caucasian. Claimed to be a French shapeshifter. 

She was careful not to change anything else though. She acted with her usual snarky confidence, and opinionated voice. Plus for once her boyfriend actually admire her for it. 

He had said "I love you" with genuine warmth and the knowledge that he truly meant it made Jordan want to float to the sky. 

She had waited a few days afterwards before revealing the truth. Pierce had been shocked, slightly angered at her deception but once she had assured him that she had no way acted dishonestly in her feelings toward him, and told him why she felt she had to lie about it, he calmed. 

In fact the following weeks afterward he had been more considerate to her and doing things to please her and follow her wants. It had been a perfect four months. 

Somewhere between her reveal and their break up all the things he loved her and dated her for had been forgotten. He had a genie girlfriend, he could have wishes. Jordan bitterly wondered if those three words, "I'm a genie" magically made a person greedy and selfish. 

They had been in her room in her lamp, lying on her ottamon watching some dumb action movie when he wrapped his arms around her, nipping at her neck. 

"Want me to massage you?" he murmured, with an eyebrow raised  "With oil?" Jordan purred.

"What else?" Pierce grinned "Can I top por favor?"  Jordan grinned at him, sliding her fingers through his brown hair, "Sure, I'm feeling generous today."  "Then afterward we can go eat, and ride around in a motorcycle.."  "You got a motorcycle?"  "No" Pierce shrugged "But I was thinking you can get me one. You know first of three wishes and..." 

"What." Jordan clipped, her sultry mood stopped cold.  "Umm wishes. You know three wishes, genie" Pierce stuttered, looking at her confused. 

"No!" Jordan shoved him away as she got up from the ottoman. "Just no. What made you think I would..how dare you ask me for wishes!"  "Dare? But I thought? Jordan please don't overreact." Pierce held up his hands in a "don't shoot sign." How could you? I told you, I told you why I didn't tell you. Exactly for this reason. I can't believe you're just like all the others"

"I'm not like all the others" Pierce cut her off "I'm not dating you because of that."  "Then you shouldn't ask for it" Jordan interrupted. 

"But but I'm not like them. I mean I did all that date stuff for you. Your movies, your restaurant, I bottom. I gave you what you wanted. Now I can get some wishes. It's even-even." 

Her heart sunk, and her stomach became hollow. "That wasn't just because." All her life she had seen cute Auradonian couples doing overly sentimental acts of love. Simple ones like letting the other get their way. Just for the sake of it. But it never happened to her. This hardly counted. 

"Well some of it was but come on, Jord. You're my girlfriend I love you." Pierce whined, he reached toward her but she slapped his hands away. 

"Get out, we're through." She glared  "What!"  "I'm. Dumping. You. Now. Leave." Jordan annunciated. Pierce stopped stuttering and fighting and gave her defiant look. "I still want those wishes. I deserve them."  "Yeha, you deserve them" Jordan mocked, rolling her eyes.

"I do!" Pierce insisted "I mean I worked so hard trying to make you happy. I did what you wanted.."  "That's because you insisted. I thought we were in a relationship, you didn't have to do it. No one has to have more than the other. I just wanted to be with you." Jordan retorted coldly. 

"Wait, I'm not done there's more." Pierce said with a humorless laugh "I had to put up with your crankiness, and trying to find times to meet you and spend money for dinner."  "It was a relationship. I had to deal and compromise you too" Jordan put in, trying to hide the saddened tone that crept into her voice but Pierce ignored as he continued to rant. 

"I swear the only thing that kept me going some days was that.."  "I would give you wishes." Jordan finished. "Not just that" Pierce backpeddled as if he realized how incredible shallow and selfish that sounded.  "You would have broken up with me sooner." Jordan whispered to herself more than to him. She hated how hereyes felt watery. Was she so awful to date that her powers was the only reason people pretended to care to stick around.

"Jordan, Jordan don't get like that." Pierce begged.

"Get out! I told you to leave!" Jordan yelled at him, wiping her tears away, "You are just a selfish ass as the rest of them, don't hide that you aren't!" 

"I explained!" Pierce shouted back but Jordan didn't want to listen. She continued yelling, and crying, anything to block out his continued stream of words and insults.  "Will you just shut up and listen to me!" Pierce demanded, and started rubbing frantically at the inside of the wall. It doesn't work that way you idiot!"

"I wish you would be quiet for just a minute!" Pierce commanded. Jordan was about to retort when her throats constricted.  Pierce looked at her in amazement, "You liar." 

"I didn't know that was possible" she wanted to say but she sat herself at the edge of her bed and waited for whatever asinine wish that would come next. 

Pierce's green eyes sparkled as a slow smile spread of his face, "Forget the motorcycle wish. I want to be in charge for once."  He pounced ontop of her, "Top as you so generously allowed."  Jordan kicked at his torso but Pierce pinned her arms down and clamped his legs firmly ontop of hers. 

"I wish to have sex and you won't fight back." 

Jordan's muscles stiffen and relaxed as so Pierce could move her easily as he pleased.

She had wanted to scream. She had waned to be able to cry out as he fondled her chest but the minute of silence apparently wasn't up.  He finally slid in, and bucked once when she mkaned as the burning and pain filled her physical body. 

She pushed him off and forced her pants back up as quickly as she could. 

"Wait, I said sex," Pierce protested.

"You did it. Our bodies touched, you penetrated. It's sex." She saw his disgusted face "Magical loophole."  "Don't you want to hear my last one?" Pierce called.

Every part of her wanted to throw him out and bang him against the wall, but she knew it would be better to get this over with so he couldn't use it against her on a later date.  She faced him, tapping her foot impatiently not showing the discomfort her body was still reeling from. 

"I wish that you not anyone else won't get revenge on me in bodily harm or libel. No revenge." Pierce announced proudly. 

Jordan's heart took one last plunge. Her mind raced to think of ways to get around his wording, but she couldn't think of any. In frustration at his proud smirk, she threw a vase at him. The vase stopped inches from his face and slammed back at her.  She removed a glass shard from her hair and poofed Pierce away without a word. 

Jordan wrapped her arms around her knees as she brought them to her chest. She became aware of her rather loud sobbing and the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

She hadn't told anyone what had happened. After all what was there to do. His wish prevented any consequences that ratting him out would bring (libel).

A fresh air burst through the room when Aladdin's eldest son appeared, Aziz. He was one of the few who had unlimited access to her lamp.

Aziz looked at her in surprise, "Jordan what happened?"

Jordan bit her lip, and took a breath to calm down. "My..my ex." "Pierce" Aziz said understandingly. She had gushed to him many times about how happy she had been while they had been a relationship.

"He... you know we're over. He got wishes. He r***" Jordan covered her mouth to prevent from a wail that threatened to come out. "But it's nothing."

"Nothing!" Aziz sat next to her "That was three days ago, he," "No Aziz" Jordan put a hand to stop him "It's okay I'm getting over it. I shouldn't care. I need to deal."

"No. No that's not right" Aziz insisted.

"It doesn't matter. I have to get used to it. I mean it's my second time being raped, besides...it's only going to happen again." There she said it. She hated the idea but it was true. It was going to happen again.

It will always happen.

She got to live forever. She got to live forever being seen as nothing more than a wish ATM. People will never care about her personality, her opinions, even her looks. After all she was a genie, her one job was to grant wishes. That was all on the master, her opinions meant nothing.

In hindsight it wouldn't make a difference if she had no personality. Any lamp seekers wouldn't notice. If they did. They certainly wouldn't care. She was a genie, she was never meant to have lovers or true relationships. No matter what she did, she was an object to be desired.

She gave people what they want. Forever and ever ever.

[i-am-scarlet-corsair]

Mun Life Update

Because the storms continue to rage, I am soaked to the skin and sinking fast.

This isn’t your regularly scheduled programming so I apologize for breaking the shadowy glimmer of my muse to vent some very real problems I’m coping with - and really all I’m asking for is some friendly encouragement, some positive vibes sent out into the universe for me, or a simple hello. Aside from feeling disconnected from everything after the decision to leave the Discord server the seas of life has remained consistently rocky and I am just....tired. I have doggedly tried to keep my queue buffed with nautical, pirate, corsair and sea based things yet I worry my energy will bottom out and I might fall off for a while.

I have no intent to desert my post but for any (if there are any) of you concerned from radio silence on my part I thought I would throw out a quick update.

In March of 2020 I became ill with Covid-19. Which very nearly required a hospitalization. Fortune had not entirely deserted me in that aspect so for that I am lucky. Being an immune-compromised individual, several doctors felt it more appropriate for me to attempt to weather this illness outside of a hospital with all my best efforts; which was a task itself. I was sent home with more medication than I wanted to manage myself as well as the very real possibility of my own demise outside of the hospital should I not realize I was actively dying (because, you see, I wasn’t dying *enough* to be admitted to the hospital but I already felt like I was.). Anyway, the fight against the infection was long, and somehow I managed to fend it off by week 8 - but we aren’t counting the damage left in my lungs.

In April 2020 I was the only employee terminated from my company due to the downturn in business brought on by the pandemic. For a long while I thought we were *all* out of work until I later learned they were still working - it was just that the boss couldn’t cover my salary. Picking up the box of my things from the office, my entire near decade career relegated to one small box of things, was a very surreal experience. One that was far more emotional than I care to admit.

Fear not, the government approved a one time stimulus payment and unemployment benefits were increased! Note the sarcasm here because those are all well over and gone now....

I managed to find another job which amidst a pandemic was a struggle and it is barely over 50% of what I was making at my last job. The office culture is less than ideal and it’s been a really big struggle trying to find my footing while surviving on half my income.

Just when I think I might have gotten myself aligned to begin to manage the storm...a rogue wave clips my stern and enter a cataclysmic capsize experience....

Something popped in my back. Often time I tell myself pain is a thing I process I live with. Extreme pain is a thing I process and live with (chronic illness + immune-compromised; you know, if you’re familiar at all...I often live my life on a pain scale of 6 or 7). So I tell myself “Okay, Captain, sleep it off; you’ll be fine.” There was no sleeping, there is no ‘fine’ just pain. Constant and burning pain that made me incapable of any mobility from the spot I happened to end up on the couch. I spent two full days in the hospital and it was a very unpleasant experience (and believe me, I’m compiling malpractice complaints). There are several disks out of place in my lumbar spine - that are bad, but not ‘bad enough’ to require surgery. So here I am again, stuck in bed. With another very long road to recovery...or rather...adequacy again.

Some of you know that around this time of year, I am working as a stunt and stage combat performer for local renaissance festivals. Many of which have been shut down due to Covid-19. The insult to that injury is the very real and very constraining back injury. My frustration is as limitless as the depths of the sea and attempting to process the PR nightmare surrounding my home festival has been no treat either. It’s bizarre to have so many parts of yourself removed or taken from you....I’m not real sure who I am anymore. A strange feeling to process, even worse to swallow.

That and my lease for my current dwelling is expiring soon and my other options are being rejected.

So, folks. I don’t know....the last few months have been a trip. I just wanted to get all of that out I guess. There’s a lot more but at risk of making this post too depressing I’ll probably just end it here.

Maybe the sea will swallow me. Maybe the storms will ease. Who can tell....

[starbuck]

Terror Notes: “Go For Broke”

well… I guess I’m really doing this! Some proper, bullet-pointed notes for each episode of The Terror, starting with ep 1: Go For Broke!

I wrote these out last night (and edited them this morning to make them readable - you’re welcome!) so I hope that y’all enjoy my thoughts and assorted nonsense! I tried to save my comments for points I actually wanted to make because I feel like they bring something to the table but I still ended up writing A Lot lol

I love that Crozier couldn’t even be bothered to be present in welcoming Sir John and Fitzjames onto Terror, making Little and Hodgson do it by themselves. One could argue that he had important captain-y things to be doing at that time or something but I’m not 100% sure that wasn’t the case. 

idk if it’s just the angle, but I paused the episode just as the shot of the officer’s mess is coming in from above and Hodgson’s hands make me so uncomfortable. They look so bone-y and weird. (Just what you came here for, I know. Hand commentary.)

Cannot tell you how uncomfortable it is, after many rewatches, to listen to Fitzjames recounting in a casual, lighthearted manner 1) shooting people 2) people catching fire (and burning to death), and 3) their burning flesh smelling “like roast duck” (so, like something edible) and it’s even more uncomfortable to have the closeup be on Hodgson’s face as he laughs at the ‘roast duck’ comparison.

On a lighter note: I love that Fitzjames felt the need to remind everyone what size cherries are by illustrating it with his fingers. In case they forgot, I guess? As someone who occasionally speaks unnecessarily with my hands, big mood tbh.

I LOVE it when Fitzjames gives Little that affirmative tap on the arm after he compares Fitzjames’s injury to Lord Nelson’s. My friend Eli and I refer to it as The Fitzjames Arm Tap. I would like a Fitzjames Arm Tap, pretty please.

God, Sir John loudly setting his hands on the table to try to dispel the tension from the ‘birdshit island’ debacle as he attempts to change the subject is so funny. I’m gonna stop just pointing out things I find funny soon, I swear, but I just cannot handle this scene.

Between Hodgson looking horrifically embarrassed by Crozier’s outburst at Fitzjames and Little looking nervous when Crozier shoots him a look as Sir John says that there’s no reason to be concerned about the ice, it really does seem that they were having to ‘manage’ him even back in ep 1 when his alcoholism wasn’t completely out of hand.

Personal sidenote about this: My Pop-pop is often rude to workers in stores and restaurants (he doesn’t drink thank goodness but he has Alzheimer’s coming on which has worsened his temper) so I very much understand the feeling of being on-edge that an outburst is going to occur and trying to deal with the fallout when it does. Just going by my own experience, I can imagine Little apologizing to Fitzjames for Crozier’s rudeness as soon as they were out of Crozier’s earshot (not that anything Little could say would heal the deep psychological wound that Crozier created but hey, it’s something).

The way that Sir John brushes aside Dr. MacDonald’s and Crozier’s concerns about moving Young when he’s in such bad shape never fails to upset me but also ~foreshadowing for hauling the ill on boats oooohhh~

I said I was done pointing out random things that amuse me but the speed and agility with which Des Voeux pops out of the hatch and onto the deck after Orren falls into the water is just so funny. I could watch that two second clip on repeat all day. Might gif it so I actually can.

Is this a good time to point out that there’s also a scene in Moby-Dick where someone falls from high up on a mast and drowns? It’s in a chapter all about bad omens experienced by the crew of the Pequod and The Terror definitely has some similar vibes going on with the sun dogs displayed in the establishing shot of Erebus in that scene and David Young, a “warning of things to come,” on his way over.

The second(?) time I watched the part where Young tells Stanley that he didn’t think anything of getting headaches since he’s always gotten them, I had this thought pass through my head that was like “oh god, I had chronic migraines for years so I’d never have known if I had lead poisoning either!” but then I realized that this probably was not a relevant concern I should have.

Not sure I have any deep commentary on this but as Gore informs Sir John and Fitzjames about the blocked propeller, he’s standing in the same spot, in the same room as Goodsir will stand next episode to tell them about his death.

Also regarding this scene, I love how Gore waits for Fitzjames to give him the go-ahead to leave before actually going. I know that Fitzjames is his superior officer too but, since Sir John already dismissed him, it seems like waiting for Fitzjames’s approval isn’t really necessary, yet a nice thing to do. Perhaps this is a legitimate formality, but something similar happens later in this episode in the command meeting when Crozier asks Gore how many sun dogs he’s seen; he looks to Fitzjames and waits for his nod before answering Crozier. He doesn’t look to Sir John, he looks to Fitzjames. I know that we know essentially nothing about Gore but like.. underrated ship???? Just saying…

Ten nights ago, I was unable to get to sleep for at least an hour because I started thinking about David Young’s saying “I want to go to my grave as I am” and, of course, that ultimately doesn’t happen for him but also, this, like all things about him, is a “warning of things to come.” I’m pretty sure that no one else was properly buried until, arguably, Fitzjames and ironically, that was explicitly not what he wanted done with his body (and, since his grave was later looted by Hickey, similar to the way that Young’s autopsy ultimately achieved nothing, it didn’t really matter anyway).

I know that this happened exactly ten days ago because I forced myself to wake up and write it down in my notes app, lest I forget, which only prolonged my sleeplessness. I suffer for my analysis. 

Ah yesssss Tozer’s lesbian haircut. We love it! Why does my hair not look like that when I take a hat off? I’d like to file a complaint.

Was just thinking the other day about how Hartnell being the one to notice that there was something up with the ice in ep 1 is followed up on with Blanky complimenting Hartnell’s ability to read the ice to Crozier in ep 7. I wonder if Blanky ever gave him like. ice-reading lessons after becoming aware of his interest and natural talent at it in ep 1? That makes me happy to think about.

The two people who we’re shown awoken by Young’s screaming are Sgt. Bryant and Morfin and like. Do I even have to explain why that’s an Oof?

The way that Goodsir hesitates before knocking on Stanley’s door and Stanley irritatedly closing his book before answering the knock in an exasperated voice would be comedic in any other context. If I’m being honest, it still makes me laugh. As does Stanley’s “As if that weren’t plain.”

I’ve pointed this out before but mmmmm... that shot of Stanley in profile with the open candle flame in the background… the foreshadowing in this ep is thicker than the smoke at… Oh alright, I’ll stop. 

God, the autopsy/dive scene…. Collins being lowered down and entering the water paralleled with Goodsir’s initial cutting into Young’s corpse, the breaking up of the ice paralleled with the cutting of the bone-saw. But most significant to me is the parallel of what is seen/not seen and the long-term effect that this has. Collins sees Orren’s corpse (and then presumably never tells anyone about it), reinforcing his guilt over Orren’s death, the beginning of his mental health decline. Goodsir doesn’t see the cause of Young’s death in his autopsy and this not knowing about the lead poisoning until it’s too late to do anything about it is the cause of many of Goodsir’s later problems as well. And, to finish it all off, both the autopsy and Collins’ dive were ultimately for nothing (considering a spinning propeller is useless when your ships are frozen in). 

Crozier and Blanky’s simultaneous face journeys as Sir John rambles on about how there’s nothing to worry about and they’ll find the passage any day now are truly legendary.

I wrote some pretty extensive tags on this already but man… Crozier’s comment about how not all of Sir John’s men returned from one of his previous arctic expeditions is just so nasty and awful. Like, yes, Sir John is wrong to undersell the danger they’re in and Crozier is advocating for the correct position here, but that was completely uncalled for and horrible to say, particularly in a command meeting, in front of so many people. And Sir John looks legitimately upset by it too. He gets over it quickly, at least on the outside, but I still feel really bad for him (and I NEVER feel bad for Sir John so this is weird for me).

“But of course we will not be abandoning Erebus, or Terror…” Let’s check back in six episodes and see how that’s going! 

Crozier slamming his fist on the table to prove he’s not being melodramatic reminds me of this one post (that I sadly can’t find rn) about Jesus Christ Superstar that’s like “‘CUT OUT THE DRAMATICS’ Judas hollered dramatically.” It’s such an Overall Mood.

I don’t have a developed commentary on this at the moment but it’s an interesting reverse-parallel that Sir John had no concern for Young’s well-being when he was alive, ignoring Crozier’s concerns about moving him from ship-to-ship when he was in such poor health, yet now that he’s dead, Sir John is the one to recommend that Young be buried which Crozier is surprised by, and seems to feel is unnecessary.

There’s been so much amazing commentary already made about Young’s burial scene so I’ll skip it except to say that Hickey’s irritated sigh when he hears footsteps coming towards the grave is SO funny. That’s exactly how I feel when I know that someone is about to tell me something that will annoy me.

Goodsir was really getting into the emotion of Sir John’s “eulogy”/motivational speech before he remembered the promise he made about Young’s ring. Also, what triggered his memory was Sir John saying “We shall earn our loved one’s cheers and embraces,” so no doubt a reminder of the traumatic “Your loved ones will be there in Heaven to welcome you! :)” “I never knew my mother or father” exchange (or maybe just a reminder of the fact that he was supposed to get Young’s ring to his sister but just let me scrape a little humor out of this. God knows I need it).

The shot of Bryant praying in his hammock the night before they get completely frozen-in is honestly deeply upsetting to me. Especially considering he’s a marine so he Did Not Ask To Be Here, yet there he’ll die.

According to Melville, ship’s compasses occasionally spun round-and-round when a ship was caught in a severe storm and this was an incredibly upsetting thing to behold because of how disorienting it was. So, considering that, Fitzjames keeps his composure pretty well but he clearly has some reservations about how things are going and Sir John has no comforting-sounding remark about ‘Magnetic North’ to offer him now.

The bit where Sir John “sees” Crozier, on Terror, turn away from him with a half-smirk on his face is interesting because there’s no way he could have possibly seen Crozier’s expression at that distance and I’m doubtful that he’d even have been able to make out the identity of anyone he might have been able to see on Terror’s deck. So really, it speaks mostly to Sir John’s mental state; his seeing their getting frozen in as a loss against Crozier and imagining that Crozier would see it as a victory for himself.

Ugh the final shot is making me think about @catilinas’s post comparing a shot of the two ships stuck in to the shot of the ink drops from ep 3 and I am LOSING IT but I was losing it anyway because it’s 2AM now and my entire body feels like gelatin. 

THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT! 

SEE YOU NEXT TIME!

[alcego-writes]

Word Count: 2.4k

I got it into my head today to write a little story about a hero and a villain during a situation that’s TOTALLY not based around current events or anything, that’s ludicrous (and also totally what happened). Not much by way of plot. Just a hero and a villain coming to terms with life during a pandemic. You know. The usual.

Tag List: @maxgraybooks​ @ladywithalamp​ (I feel like a few others wanted to be tagged whenever I post writing, but I’ve misplaced my list and I cannot remember anyone else for the life of me. If that’s you and I’ve forgotten please let me know!)

          It was a warm day, humid and uncomfortable, and the hero of the town had nowhere to go. Couldn’t leave their home, on account of the plague that would kill them more surely than most of the people they protected. The irony of having steel bones and a shitty immune system.

          They sat behind a desk, a wide transparent computer sitting before them. There was only so much to do during this social distancing bullshit, only so much they were willing to process while under quarantine, so they did the one thing they knew how to do. “Show me a villain.”

          The screen came to life, and the AI chirped and began throwing images up on the screen. Little villains, like those buying thirty packages of soap and toilet paper; smaller villains, the ordinary man complying with corporate’s demand to keep the workforce operational; and the white-collar villains who had decided to hold the nation hostage to pursue their political goals.

          The hero scowled. If they had wanted this, they would have turned on the news.

          Still, it was something to watch. Something to think about as they wasted away in their fortress, their prison of fucking solitude, watching as the people they loved—the people they regularly put their life on the line for—struggled and wept and wished they did not have to live through such interesting times.

          They saw it all, in short clips from surveillance cameras, laptop cameras, phones; they saw it in fragments of emails, in public service announcements proclaiming nothing at all, in screenshots of hospital bills that charged too much for nothing at all. It was enough to dull their heart, to pain them in a way that they had not hurt in ages. They had put all of this behind them; they had grown used to the pain of the common man. Only there was one, small difference. A small change that mattered more than anything in the world: the hero could not help them. Could not leave a note firmly citing the law, let alone a note politely suggesting that to act with a little bit of common decency would be in their best interests. They were here, and they could do nothing.

          “Show me a villain who cares,” they said, staring blankly at the transparent screen.

           The AI hummed its acknowledgement, and images flashed across the screen, splattered against the walls in another strange display of holographic achievement.

           The hero blinked.

           Stared at the images of all one man.

           A man they knew well, for they knew his mask, his suit, the crook of his fingers. Half the time they weren’t sure if they wanted to break those stupidly broad hands or kiss them—mostly the choice was already made for them, by way of robbery or theft or any other number of crimes the man engaged in.

           But this?

           This was a crime, surely, the way the man slipped into a two-story house, made a beeline for the garage. It was a crime as he carted out boxes of Purell, of toilet paper, of fruit. It was theft, a crime just like any other—

           But there was a difference here. The hero couldn’t quite place it, couldn’t quite figure it out. Not until they tore their gaze from the screen and turned to the wall, to the grainy images of the man leaving boxes of food and toiletries on an old man’s porch, of the man placing a mask on a sick woman’s desk so she could care for her children without fear, of the man stopping to return a cat whose owner was too frightened to leave their house.

           They watched as the man, whose crimes had always been so nebulous and uncertain—even as he manufactured a laser under the pretense of taking over the world—they watched this man act with more care and grace than everyone who should have helped and chose not to.

           Like them.

           “That’s enough,” the hero said. “Thank you.”

           The AI chirped again, almost seeming concerned. It was odd, how attached they had gotten to the fascinating piece of machinery over the past few days. There were moments where they regretted living such an isolated life, out in the middle of nowhere, but it always worked out in their benefit. It was always worth it. They’d never had cause to regret it—until now, that was.

           Stalking out of the room, the hero tried not to feel guilt for being here and not there, tried to remind themself that they were of no use to anyone if they were sick—and they succeeded, in a way. They didn’t feel guilt, and they understood why they were here on a rational level. They just couldn’t shake the shame that came with this decision.

           They could leave, go out and do some good before the man—the villain, their rival—had cause to spread doubt about their abilities, about their devotion to doing good. The PR nightmare would be enough to undo them, to render all of their effort in gaining the public’s trust moot. They could do it. They could go out. They just might never come back, was all.

           The AI boomed.

           There was someone at their door.

           The hero froze, wide-eyed, wondering how anyone had found this place, and why they had decided to visit. None of their ideas were pleasant, and many were far worse than they were willing to deal with right then. A mob, maybe. Someone coming to demand their help. A crying mother demanding they do something for her ailing child.

           And what would they be able to say? What could they do? Nothing.

           Just as they did nothing then, frozen to the floor of their living room.

           The AI buzzed. It was a question, somehow, although there were no words.

           “Who is it?” the hero asked softly.

           An image flashed onto the wall before them. More holograms; the AI seemed to enjoy this new branch of technology. But what it was showing them had to be wrong, because there was no way the man, their rival, was waiting outside their door, hands shoved deep within his jacket pockets. He wore no mask, only a hoodie and jeans and leather gloves on his hands.

           “How long’s he been here?”

           Text flashed on the image: Just got here.

           “Okay,” the hero said. “Thank you. I’ll deal with him.”

           The AI chirped. The hero opened the door.

           The man stared at them, jaw slack, expression unguarded. They stared back, unaccustomed to seeing him so vulnerable, so easy. It had to be a trick, they knew that well enough, but they didn’t know how. The villain cleared his throat, shuffled his feet.

           “What do you want?” the hero asked, energy draining from their limbs faster with each second this interaction dragged on.

           The villain shrugged. “I just wanted to check up on you.”

           “Right,” they said. “Making sure the competition’s not up to something.”

           The villain scoffed. “If that makes you feel better.”

           Beat. Awkward silence. Then: “I saw what you did.”

           The villain stiffened, slouched as if that were enough to render his good deeds meaningless. “It’s nothing.”

           “It’s something,” the hero said. “It’s more than most people are doing.”

           And there—that flicker in his eyes. The hero knew that look, knew they had taken a wrong turn, stepped onto a trap. Inadvertently they had opened the door to this conversation, and they regretted it immediately.

           “Why aren’t you out there?” the villain asked.

           It was a reasonable question. They had no doubt that many people were asking it, wondering why they hadn’t swept into town and saved everyone from the virus. After all, they’d made a name for themself by swooping in to save the day; why stop now?

           So, the hero just shrugged, unwilling to offer an explanation to the villain who had—on more than one occasion—tried to kill them. It was important not to forget that, even if the attempts on their life had felt more and more half-hearted as the years went on, as they established a routine, a give and take to their balance of heroics and villainy.

           “Oh, come on,” the villain snapped. “Don’t give me that—you’ve always got something to say! This can’t possibly be the moment when you run out of words.”

           “I can’t be out there right now, okay?” the hero snapped. They hated the rasp to their voice, hated the way their throat burned. It was just a cold, really. They hadn’t been around anyone infected with the virus for long enough to have caught it. They told themself this every time they coughed, every time they doubted. There was a reason they did not go out to save the day.

           “Are you sick?” the villain asked, brow furrowing. “For how long?”

           He stepped inside, hand finding its way to their face. “You’re warm,” he murmured.

           “It just means I’m alive.”

           The villain fixed them with a look. “That’s not how that works at all.”

           “Fine, I’m sick. Does that make you happy?”

           “It certainly explains a few things.” The villain looked at them for a moment longer, then asked again, softly, “How long?”

           The hero glanced away. “A few days.”

           He nodded. “You’ve been gone ever since this thing started popping up, so it seems unlikely you’ve caught the virus. Any trips to the outside world I ought to know about?”

           “No,” the hero spluttered. “Because you don’t need to know anything about me.”

           “If it means making sure you’re not seriously ill and hiding away like an injured fucking cat, I sure do.”

           The hero blinked. “Why’d you say you were here again?”

           “Does it matter?” the villain snapped. “I’m here, you’re here, and the world’s not ending.”

           The hero shrugged. “Not yet, anyway. We normally find a way to make that almost happen…”

           The villain sighed. He looked as if he wanted to say something, share a secret, but he didn’t. Just rubbed the back of his neck and looked around the living room. It was sparsely decorated, with an armchair by the window and a small table that they ate at whenever they had to stay here. They usually didn’t; they were usually busy with bigger, more important things. That was why this room looked so artificial, so unlived in.

           The hero shuffled awkwardly, painfully aware of the situation and having exactly no idea of how to deal with it. The villain appeared to be in a similar state, except that he was making a beeline for their kitchen and oh, the hero didn’t want to see what villainy he could get up to in there.

           But there was no villainy. He just opened the fridge and stared at its contents (a mostly empty bottle of mustard, that godawful plastic yellow cheese, and a bag of bread that had been unceremoniously shoved inside) before turning to the hero.

           “You live like this?”

           The hero shrugged. “I’m not usually here.”

           “It wouldn’t kill you to get groceries every now and then.

           The hero couldn’t help it—they laughed.

           “What?” the villain asked. “How is that in any way funny?”

           “Nothing,” the hero said, still snickering. “Just an inside joke.”

           “Well it’s a shit joke if you’re the only one laughing.”

           “Look,” the hero grabbed the cheese and the bottle of mustard from the fridge, “let’s just say I got a rough go at the genetic lottery.”

           “It’s not like you’ve got a glass heart and paper skin,” the villain said, watching in awestruck horror as the hero squirted mustard on the cheese, wrapped it up, and proceeded to eat it.

           “Nah, I’m good on that front,” the hero said, mouth full. “It’s the other thing.”

           “What other thing? I’ve seen you get tossed ass over teakettle into a concrete wall and get up without a fuss, don’t tell me there’s something that can fuck you up that I haven’t found—because believe me, I’ve tried! You’re no Superman; so far as I can tell, you haven’t got a kryptonite.”

           “You just haven’t looked in the right places, then,” the hero said. “You’re plenty smart. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

           The villain stared at them. “You’re sick?” he guessed.

           The hero shrugged.

           Eyes narrowing, the villain stepped closer, until he was barely an arm’s length away. The hero couldn’t help but want to step back; there was a virus on the loose, and this was not conducive to proper hygiene. But the villain stood, and stared, and said, “You’re one of those folks with a crappy immune system.”

           “Ding ding ding,” the hero said. “And believe me, it pains me every day that I can’t be out there doing anything to help. It does. There’s so many things I want to do, so many people I want to help…” they trailed off, took another bite of their unconventional sandwich. “I just can’t.”

           “Sure,” the villain said. “Yeah. I get it.”

           He was the last person the hero had expected to ‘get it.’ They narrowed their eyes. “You never did say why you were here.”

           “Because I was worried about you,” the villain said, snatching the cheese sandwich from the hero’s hand and tossing it in the trash. “Which I clearly needed to be. Seriously, that’s the only stuff you keep in your fridge?”

           “It keeps well.”

           The villain gagged. “Sure, fine, whatever. It’s not my problem.” And then he sighed, and amended, “Except that it is, because you’re gonna die of malnutrition before the virus even gets a chance.”

           “I’m sorry, are you suggesting you’re going to get my groceries?”

           “I’m doing a lot more than suggesting it, you disgusting little cheese gremlin. Hold up shop; I’ll be back in an hour.”

           The hero watched as the villain stalked out of the house, hands once again finding their ways into his pocket. They watched, befuddled, before their mind caught up to them. “Just don’t steal it!”

           The last thing the hero saw before the villain closed the door was his right hand held up high in a crude, time-saving gesture. Shaking their head, the hero asked the AI to keep tabs on the villain, and to let them know if he got up to any… less than savory behavior.

           He didn’t, and the hero realized that they weren’t surprised to hear it. He might be a villain, sure, but he was a villain who cared.

           The hero might just have to re-evaluate their opinion of him, after all.