#if it were me. id give him his own private exhibition. he could take whatever pictures he wanted of me

[mostlyghostlyy]

Rewatching longlegs now and noticed he had 3 pictures of women above his bed could u IMAGINE if he had pictures of us on his walls and he got freaky to em every so often😔 what a guy

RIP Dale, you would've loved cardboard cutouts and body pillows 💔

He also has pin-up and straight nudes covering a bunch of his walls. He totally has names for them all, too, I bet. Each girl for a different sexual vibe. Ruth has probably walked in on him, rubbing one out to the pictures before. Must be traumatic, poor lady.

I'd imagine he'd bug you for pics. Like a little kid begging for photos to put in their album. If you refuse, he'll just take them without your consent. Not the best quality, but they'll work nonetheless. If you do eventually cave in and give him some, he'll be so smug that he wore you down.

For a show of good faith, he'd even remove his girls. Making so much room for you. Each picture put up so carefully that you'd think that it was a priceless work of art. And to him, it is. He'd probably bring you down to show you, pointing out each one and why he placed it where he did. His favorite ones are placed above his bed.

Getting lost so often, gazing at the soft curves of your body. The perk of your breasts, lewd purse of your lips. Perfect jerk of material if you ask him. You think "every so often," but I think this man probably masterbates every night to your nudes. Especially if you refuse sex. It'd become a nightly routine for him after a while. Cum drying on his hands, boxers and shitty pornstar bedsheets.

[themusicplayedherlife]

To Love is the Greatest Gift

1. The Return

pairing: obi wan kenobi x f!reader (past!din djarn x f!reader) characters: f!reader, anakin amidala-skywalker, padmé amidala-skywalker, mentiones of din djarin, obi wan kenobi, others word count: 2.6k+ warnings: angst, fluff, mentions of rent: the musical (death, second chances) uh... I think that’s it? summary: au!it’s never been the right timing for you and obi wan kenobi; maybe this time will be different. a/n: i started working on this story so long ago it’s ridiculous, but I suddenly had a surge of motivation to continue this story after some tragic family news. this was also very much inspired by @martlands and their amazing obi wan stories, made me want to write my own and here it is

all || next

“You broke up?”

One would think that the immediate reaction to someone asking if you broke up with your significant other would be to cry or begin to ask them what could have possibly gone wrong. But that’s not the reaction you give. 

The reaction you give is just a shrug and a strong pop, as you spoon more gelato onto the little spoon his twins love collecting. “Yep.”

“After only three weeks of dating?” Anakin doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but he is. This is probably the shortest living relationship you’ve ever had. “Why?”

“Why not?” you answer easily, nonchalantly and you know it frustrates him. “It wasn’t working out, so we decided to call it quits.”

Not even a month ago, you had been genuinely excited about finally getting out there and meeting someone new, and even more excited when you were telling him all about this person you met while out with some old friends. You had said, word for word, “he might be the perfect contender!”

Where did all that excitement go?

You sigh, finally looking up at him and away from your white chocolate gelato that's just to die for. “Ani, it’s fine. It just didn’t work out. It happens.”

He grimaces. “What happened between you and Din—“

You bristle at the mention of your ex, narrowing your eyes and his widen in defense. You know what Anakin and Padmé think of him and it’s not entirely pleasant (particularly from Anakin’s part). It’s completely unfair. Din is lovely, sure a little socially awkward, but lovely nonetheless. “Has nothing to do with why Gar and I ended things.”

“But—“

“Nothing,” you reiterate with a bit more force and he sighs, lifting his hands in defeat while holding his own cup of gelato.

“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry.” And then, like a light switching, he turns playful. “Was it his name that turned you off—Gar?”

You resist the urge to groan and roll your eyes. “Oh maker, you are annoying!”

You huff as you make the trek back to the trolley that’ll take you both up to the observatory. The rest of your conversation is forgotten as he navigates it towards continuing to tease you and the latest exhibit you had helped set up.

The Coruscant Observatory is one of the most popular attractions in the city aside from the Exotic Animal Sanctuary (where most zoologist work to help rehabilitate wild animals before reintroducing them back into the wild, only housing the ones that have been assessed to not be able to function in the wild on their own—which are unfortunately many).

Your place of work is known for its large, ground telescope; its monthly constellation exhibits; the multiple planetarium theater rooms that house lectures, activities, star projections, etc.; and its Astronomer Q&A program where visitors can ask astronomers questions and even get a tour of the space station.

However, most of your days are spent in your office, planning for the next exhibit or actually executing them with your team; meanwhile, Anakin spends them in tech, sometimes maintaining the telescope, other times helping with IT issues, but mostly making sure the theater rooms worked perfectly for their 4D immersion.

(You like to joke that out of the two of you, he has it easiest; sometimes he’ll run by your office to get to another part of the building while you’re doing something and you’ll yell out, “slacker” and he’ll respond with, “you just work too much”.)

“Are Padmé and the twins stopping by today?”

“Not today, maybe tomorrow,” he says as you both step out of the trolley along with a few tourists. “I think today they decided to stay for some school thing.”

“Shouldn’t you know what that school thing is?” you chide him out of jest.

He scowls, there’s hardly any heat in it and it makes you grin. “It’s a music performance that the CN Theater is putting on.”

“Ah, and we all know how much musicals bores you.”

“I just don’t understand them,” he murmurs defensively as you climb the few steps leading to the entrance. The two of you smiling and greeting Rex at his security post and bypassing the ticket gate with your IDs.

“You mean you don’t have any taste,” you tease.

“It’s weird! I mean, most of them are all about tragedies and betrayals. What happened to the good ol’ romance and happy endings?”

“Not all of them are tragedies, Casanova.”

The main rotunda lobby is full of people milling about, looking at maps or the foucault pendulum in the middle of the room. Low chatter fills the room, shoes clicking and clacking against the marble flooring.

“Name one.”

Spotting the trash can and recycle bin, Anakin holds his hand out for your disposable cup and spoon and throws them away in their proper bin.

“Rent.” There are probably better examples, but you had been listening to the original cast album the night before and have all the songs still stuck in your head.

“Don’t two characters die?”

“Angel and Mimi.” You nod. “But Mimi is brought back to life by Angel, and is given a second chance at life.”

“She may have been brought back to life, but that doesn’t take away from the fact she died.”

“I’m not arguing with you on that, I’m just saying the ending was hopeful—not necessarily a happy ending, but it left you thinking—maybe things can get better.”

“And that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m looking for—“

“What you and Padmé have?” you ask him as you both reach the door of your office.

He pauses, mouth opening and closing before finally rubbing the back of his head sheepishly and saying, “Yeah.”

You smile, genuine and happy for your childhood friend. Who would’ve thought that years ago when you introduced them, they’d be here years later—married and with twins. You and Anakin sure as hell didn’t. For most of your childhood, you both believed you’d live out your life on Tatooine, hang with the same friends you’ve known since your pre-kinder days and eventually get married to each other—much to the dismay of your parents—because of benefits or whatever, until your parents decided they wanted to send you off to a private school in one of the major cities, derailing your and Anakin’s plan (for the better, if you’re being honest).

“You’re still coming over for dinner, right?”

“Yeah,” you answer, unlocking your office door with your key. “I have a meeting that might go over the expected time, but I should be able to make it on time.”

“Just let us know,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the door frame. “But you better be there! We have some planning to do!”

You roll your eyes and wave him away, promising he and his family will definitely see you at five. With a hearty chuckle he salutes you and leaves the door slightly ajar, just like you usually do. It’s your “you can come in to ask me questions, but knock first, please” visual telling.

With a soft exhale, you drop yourself into your creaking office chair, eyes landing on the first picture on your right—a younger you, only 18, fresh out of your uniform smiling wildly with a large bouquet of flowers that you can still distinctly remember the smell of.

“I am in love!” Padmé exclaimed, squealing in absolute delight at the flowers put in your hand.

Blue eyes crinkled with amusement, staring down at you. “Are you?” His voice was low, teasing and almost smug. He had obviously heard the gasp that escaped your lips when he presented you the colorful bouquet created with your favorite flowers that his father grew in their little garden.

“Irrevocably,” you answered, not able to hide your smile as you gently held it against your chest and smiled up at him. “They’re beautiful, Obi. Thank you.”

Obi Wan’s arm is wrapped around your shoulder, caught in the action of a booming laughter. He was always laughing in pictures. There isn’t a single picture you have of him that he isn't smiling.

Your finger gently trails over his smiling face. Maker, you miss him.

Is he still traveling? Or has he finally settled down again? Will he show up and spring some unexpected news on you again? Stars, you hope not. Shit didn’t go as planned last time and it probably wouldn’t again.

Your hand falls limply and you swivel in your seat, looking out the large glass window overlooking the majority of the city and sigh softly—an exhale of wary hope and sadness.

A bird soars by your window, it’s wings flapping effortlessly, diving before flying higher and away.

He’s not coming back. You know this. Coruscant just isn’t the same anymore. Not when he feels this city has taken everything from him.

One more year visiting Gui Gon without him.

The meeting runs longer than it usually would, just like you had expected. Checking the time, you let out a curse and quickly throw your belongings into your car.

Without wasting time, as soon as you switch on your engine, you place your phone on the dock and say, “Hey C-3PO, call Padmé.”

“Calling Padmé,” your phone’s AI answers through the speakers of your car.

“Are you outside?” Is how she greets you. There are loud noises in the background, children squabbling about something or another, and Anakin’s weary voice trying to rally them. 

You snort, pulling out of the undergroundparking lot. “Not yet, barely got out of my meeting and am on my way.”

“Please hurry, the twins really want to see you and are dying from hunger,” she says, amusement in her voice and not at all trying to hurry you. “They might start eating Anakin soon.”

“Hey, don’t bite that!” He yells from a distance.

“Hurry, please!” you hear over the phone—Luke. “I miss you,” he says, closer now. Which you immediately reply saying you miss him too, almost cutting off the next voice.

“And I’m hungry!” Leia’s voice follows his, practically yelling into the phone.

You laugh fondly, just imagining the childish glee on their faces at your scandalized gasps and your exaggerated “me too” answers.

“Leia, no yelling,” Padmé scolds her, gentle and kind. “Softer, please.”

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m hungry,” she repeats, softer, almost a whisper.

“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there,” you promise. “If not, you have my permission to start eating your dad.”

Leia and Luke break into a fit of laughter, yelling something away from the phone to Anakin, who once again lets out a loud, “Hey!”

Padmé chuckles, moving away from the voices of the children tackling their father and their play fighting. “Take your time, we’re not in any hurry to start eating. The kids had a hearty lunch and a snack after school.”

“What about you and Anakin?”

“We’re fine, don’t worry. Just get here safely and we’ll see you soon.”

You end the call with one last reassurance from her and let out a loud sigh when your car comes to a stop behind a long line of glaring red lights—traffic. You hate traffic.

You might be surrounded by blinding lights and different models of vehicles, but it leaves you alone with your thoughts, the low hum of your engine and music from your stereo drowned out by the chattering in your head. 

It’s never just one thing that you think about. It can go from one thing to another, to all of them trying to climb over eachother and be the most present: your friends; your family; the dog next door; Din and Baby; cinnamon apple cookies; the beach house in Naboo; sneaking out of the prep dormitories at 2am with Padmé keeping an eye out and Obi Wan holding his arms out for you; rose gardens and peach tea; freckles on blushing skin; drunken singing in a small living room; 21st birthdays crying in a bathroom stall; that stupid movie quote about choosing life; death; but sometimes (most occurring) it’s Obi Wan that weaves into every thought.

He’s a constant plague in your mind, has been since the first time he left Coruscant in search of himself. 

Sometimes they’re pleasant thoughts, memories kept in a nostalgic trunk that you occasionally like to sift through. Other times, they’re not so pleasant; those are the ones you constantly struggle with, try to push into the recesses of your mind and keep them under lock and key. But for some stupid, strange reason, your mind only ever remembers the bad, even when there are better things to dwell on.

“I just—I just don’t understand why you have to leave—Obi. Obi!” you practically yelled, watching him move around his room, grabbing and throwing things he pulled out into his duffel bag. “Listen to me!” 

He didn’t stop, not until you reached for his duffel bag and plucked it out from his hands. He stared at you, his duffel bag carelessly thrown to the floor with his clothes spilling out. 

Your breathing was labored, a sick feeling swimming in your stomach, words stuck in your throat now that he wasn’t hiding his beautiful blue eyes from you—his devastatingly heartbroken eyes. “I have to,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “I need to leave. This house—this city, it's suffocating me. I can’t—I can’t stay here anymore.”

“Obi… Obi, please.” You can’t leave me. You can’t! Please! Please, Obi.

“I need to do this for me, darling. I’m sorry.”

You should’ve fought harder that night, should’ve convinced him to stay, but instead you helped him pack again with tears obstructing your view and sobs escaping your lips. Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t have lost him.

No, your breath stutters as you lean back into your car seat, there was nothing you could’ve done. Either times. He had made up his mind long before that night.

A car honks their horn to your left and you jump, eyes focusing once more on the red lights of the car in front of you. You wipe at your face harshly and straighten your spine. 

That was years ago, little one. Shake it off. 

Sighing softly, you look up at the street name and make a turn onto the Skywalker residence street, your shoulders relaxing when their two story home comes into view.  

Shake it off.

Parking isn't easy to find in their neighborhood, not when it’s so close to the observatory and some of the most visited parks in the area, but you manage to find one just two cars away from their house. 

Gathering your things, you lock the door behind you and quickly make your way down the sidewalk, phone in your hand and typing out a message that you’re here.

It’s while you’re hitting send that you don’t notice the body in front of you, staring up at the house with an almost wary expression on his face, or how his eyes widen when they see you. It’s not until you collide into his body, soft with a fleece cardigan, that you notice him. Embarrassment begins to boil in your blood as you quickly apologize to him, berating yourself for not being more aware of your surroundings.

“Kriff, I’m so sorry—“ you start, but the apology catches in your throat when you look up.

“Hello, there.” Blue eyes, so soft and kind, like the ones you once used to dream of stare back at you—so unlike the pair of eyes you saw years ago. “It’s been a long time, darling.”

You can’t shake him off.

next

[springfieldblues]

my long ass review for S32E03 Now Museum, Now You Don’t

warning: LONG because i rambled about history more than i thought i would

id been looking forward to this one because i like art history, especially after seeing how they tried their best to stick to historical accuracy in the previous episode I, Carumbus. this time however….they didnt try that hard. i dont know why i thought theyd go through that sort of trouble again LMAO

but its okay, i dont really expect the simpsons to be the paragon of historical accuracy or anything. especially in anthology episodes told through a particular character's lens (in this case, lisa, whos already feverish so whatever)

first i just wanna say that this is, i guess, less of a review and more of an accidental list of history fun facts. so im just gonna get my general thoughts out of the way first.

the episode was fun! to me at least haha. i mean it got me to think and do a lot of research on my own so that must count for something. besides a couple of really weird ones, the jokes were good. anthology episodes tend to be….not that good but i thought this one was one of the better ones so far. idk.

anyway on to lisanardo da vinky its the renaissance! jesus christ the italian accents in the beginning of this segment were annoying as hell but i also feel like that was the joke lmao. ill be real i kind of tuned out for a second there when grampa started rambling so idk what he said.

i told myself i wouldnt get nitpicky with historical accuracy if the jokes were funny (final edit: so that was a lie) but this meh bit with the pizza guys and mascots was really not worth ignoring the fact that its impossible for italy to have any tomato-based food in the 15th century (tomatoes were brought to europe from the americas in the 16th century, and pizza as we know it today—flatbread, cheese, tomato—originated in the late 18th century)

oh this next part was kind of legit tho. lisanardo, like the real leonardo, became andrea del verrochio's apprentice at his workshop. i loved this next bit:

"Whoever paints the sweetest cherub will have the honor of having MY name signed on their work. That's what great artists do!"

SO YEAH as it turns out, lisanardo painted the sweetest cherubs. the painting here is called The Baptism of Christ, and the real leonardo assisted verrochio in finishing it. specifically, he painted the cherubs in the corner.

this causes verrochio to quit and go someplace with less talented people: a music school (yes, verrochio did quit painting after getting owned by young leo and his mad angel painting skills. he never did anything with music tho, he was more of a sculptor)

alongside lisanardo, in mr largo-verrochio's workshop we have barticelli (botticelli bart), dolphatello (donatello dolph), ralphael (raphael...ralph) and mediocrito (no one that i know of. sorry milhouse) (and kearney i guess but they dont refer to him by name). botticelli and donatello are said to have also been apprentices at verrochio's workshop, but raphael came a couple of decades later so he couldnt have been there. and donatello was too old so that claim is a bit questionable. but anyway

it IS true that leonardo's peers envied him, to the point where he was anonymously and purposefully accused of being gay (a major crime punishable by death in 15th century florence) while he was still working at verrochio's workshop

we are then treated by what im pretty sure is the fourth time the show has used 'at seventeen' by janis ian, this time sung by a dejected lisanardo (man they really do keep making yeardley sing these days huh) who only wishes to be appreciated and not envied.

"I'll show them all! I'll show them all in a secret diary that no one will decipher for 400 years!"

some of lisanardo's future inventions. who wouldve known

so after barticelli, for some reason (revenge??? or something?? what was his plan here idgi) steals lisanardo's diaries full of blueprints of her inventions and takes them to mr burns who i have to assume is pope alexander VI here, they decide to use her inventions for war.

"With these, we can kill the most evil people in the world!! ....Slightly different Christians."

leo actually did this of his own accord. im surprised this is what they decided to do with lisanardo instead of talking about leo's love of nature and vegetarianism (not a single mention of that in this episode? come on...) then again, trying to do good only to end up indirectly making things worse is a very standard lisa storyline. i guess they didnt want to miss the chance to have evil pope burns (very fitting, especially for that era since they were all about money and controlling the people)

so lisanardo decides to leave for france, unlike the real leonardo who was more or less persuaded by his ultimate fanboy king francis I to move to france.

"Lisanardo, I have many questions. Why are you hitting yourself? A nerd says 'what'? And how is it possible that I am rubber and you are glue? Et cetera, et cetera."

that line may seem a little random, like hes just nelson saying nelson things (and i mean, obviously he is) but the real francis also "had an unquenchable thirst for learning, and Leonardo was the world’s best source of experimental knowledge. He could teach the king about almost any subject there was to know, from how the eye works to why the moon shines." so yeah, he did have many questions and lisanardo, finally being appreciated for her intellect, was happy to answer them all. its very interesting how lisa assigned this role to nelson in her retelling of da vinci’s life :^)

and so she lived the rest of her days in france, nat king cole's 'mona lisa' plays because duh, and they make a da vinci code reference because duh. and the segment ends. and not a single time did they show the actual mona lisa painting. the fuck?

(ngl i was fully expecting bart to say 'leonardo da vinky' for a second here)

so this next segment is about french impressionist painters, most likely the batignolles group, a name adopted by the early representatives of impressionism. its much more vague than the lisanardo segment since no one here is referred to by name (except moe, more on him in a sec) but i dont feel like it really matters in this case. bart is prrrrooobably claude monet but its hard to say, this segment is kind of a mish-mash of a lot of things. also i gotta say i really liked how lisa introduced the story to bart with an 'if you hate the formal study of art' and not 'if you hate art' because thats exactly my headcanon. i LOVE the concept of artist bart and whenever its referenced it just makes perfect sense to me.

anyway the segment opens in 1863 at the école des beaux-arts (back then it was actually known as the académie des beaux-arts), preserver of traditional french art styles. skinner reviews his students’ paintings one by one. praises the plain, unimaginative paintings depicting your typical european countryside landscapes. very run-of-the-mill (haha get it...cuz theres….a windmill) (although the real académie didnt approve of such basic stuff, they wanted artists to draw epic historical and mythological scenes) then he gets to barts painting and he gives him an F- because the painting made him think.

(the paintings in this scene arent real famous paintings as far as i know but they are inspired by real paintings enough to get the point across)

in comes barney dressed as bacchus as a model for the students to sketch, which i just loved:

barney: “You prefer robe open or robe off?” skinner: “Just cover your privates with this walnut shell.” barney: “Whoa!!! So roomy!”

skinner gasps in horror at bart’s sketch, which “looks nothing like him” and bart explains that “it shouldn’t; we’re making the art that we feel because we can’t compete with a camera.” damn, you go bart. take that, realism. draw what you feel!!

(also no, you didnt need to hold still for 17 hours for a daguerreotype. 30 min tops.)

nelson haw-haw of the week: FOIE-gras!

so here they are at the moulin rouge (“enjoy it before baz luhrmann ruins it” hey shut up. i love that movie), which wouldnt be built for another 26 years, but it is the most widely known gathering place for bohemians in the public consciousness so i can understand why they went with the moulin. nelson delivers this anachronistic line:

“This époque keeps getting beller and beller!”

which alludes to la belle époque, the golden age of france usually dated from 1880 to 1914. made me snort so ill let that slide

and heres moe! as henri de toulouse-lautrec, who was actually born a year after the year this segment is set in. yo moe szyslak he was just 1

toulouse-moetrec introduces himself as the chronicler of the demimonde (not an actual job). an iconic figure associated with the moulin rouge (largely due to his affinity for alcohol and prostitutes), toulouse-lautrec was also a painter, having illustrated a series of posters for the moulin himself. he simply had to be in this segment, anachronisms be damned, just because they decided to include the moulin. cant have one without the other.

and yes he did have a walking cane where he kept his liquor.

i love how everyone drinks absinthe in this place. theyre bohemians what else would they drink

toulouse-moetrec points out that barts paintings are the greatest thing hes ever seen (and hes seen like five things!) and that hes a genius. milhouse realizes that they should stop doing what the teacher says and use their own minds to instead...start doing what bart says lmao. to the easels!

next we have skinner hyping up chalmers about the art his students made for the salon de paris, an art exhibition that the emperor of france will attend. he assures him that none of these paintings will encourage debate, provoke thought or be out of place at a dentist’s office. when they unveil the art, theyre both SHOCKED at how scandalous the paintings actually are.

this reaction was kind of accurate. impressionism was severely rejected at the salon de paris, due to paintings not looking finished enough to them, they thought they were ugly and vulgar for depicting nudity in a contemporary setting (historical and mythological nudity was fine). these impressionist paintings were sent to the salon de refusés, which is. yeah. the place where they sent the rejects. the salon de refusés does not make an appearance but this scene makes a reference to it when the artists get expelled from the royal salon. also:

“What about our student loans?” “Oh they’ll be refunded. We are not barbarians, I mean, come on.”

(god if only)

so the painters are down because they want the emperor to actually see their paintings. toulouse-moetrec pipes in once again with an idea.

“There is one thing the emperor loves more than anything.” “France?” “No, he hates France.”

apparently the emperor really loves cheese, which makes sense since its napoleon III (who loved cheese) and homer (who loves cheese.) so the painters roll into the salon inside a giant wheel of cheese (obviously.) as lenny said, “Eh, you know French cheese. Very runny.” napoleon III chases after the wheel into a room, where the wheel falls apart after getting chomped on by the emperor. now that they got his attention, the painters proudly show the emperor their impressionist art, which he couldnt be more indifferent about because he just wants to eat his cheese dammit, and he awards them with the royal medallion just to kind of get them out of his way. skinner immediately starts kissing ass (as he does) until marge’s like ‘hey wait a minute. you expelled these students from the royal salon’ and an executioner immediately starts ominously measuring skinners neck.

“Uh, sir...is your tongue sticking out because you’re dead or because you’re mad at me?”

and thats the end of that lmao (gore in this episode, gore in the last episode, and next week we’re getting gore too cuz its THOH, what the hell is goin on)

we get a short intermission with maggie, who wants a story for her too! lisa tells her that renaissance artists loved to put babies in their paintings, especially baby angels.

here she is showing her The Triumph Of Galatea by raphael:

King David Playing The Harp by peter paul reubens:

and a very simplified version of pretty much any depiction of hell by hyeronimus bosch lmao:

not much else to say about this one, really. but i really liked that sky!

the last segment is about frida kahlo and diego rivera. or as bart puts it ‘the one about a fat guy whos wife is too good for him.’ i was REALLY looking forward to this one because i love frida and i thought itd be a cool opportunity for animators to go bonkers and do really cool shit with her art as inspiration…..but the segment is not about frida, its about diego and his selling out to capitalism. and its also yet another story with homer and marge drama. no funky cool animation here. sigh i guess i’ll take it

the story begins in 1929 at la casa azul, frida’s home (now museum dedicated to her life and work.) frida and diego are getting married. this courtyard definitely did not look this way yet back in 1929. also theres something very cringy yet funny about lovejoy saying spanish words the way he does, i honestly cant decide how i feel about that one

the writers know theyre being cringy with their gringoness so they go along with it.

moe: “Spanish for ‘best wishes’!” mel: “Spanish for ‘congratulations’!” bumblebee man: “Spanish for ‘muy bueno’!”

OH YEAH BUMBLEBEE MAN this is his new voice actor, eric lopez! hes not mexican but its still great to finally have a latino actor voicing a latino character and hes very excited to be part of the show so i hope to hear more of him!! im rooting for him

el barto/zorro makes an appearance which i am very confused about. he has jack shit to do with frida and diego and mexico in the 20s-30s. el zorro was set in the spanish california of the early 19th century. their use of the original theme song makes me think they just wanted to flex their disney privileges tbh

lets not talk about that that whole scene was bad

anyway diego announces he and frida are going to new york, without even asking her first. frida is obviously pissed.

“Don’t worry, as a woman, you’ll be treated with much more respect in America.”

so in new york, diego is having a bit of a business meeting with mr burns as one of the members of the rockefellers, who is commissioning him to draw a mural for the rockefeller center. its kinda funny how he refers to him and frida as socialists even though they were very much communists lmao its okay you can say it. ok so far, but then frida says ‘yes, we hate the capitalists! right now, a young socialist is being born who will take them down! mr. bernie sanders. i hope hes quick about it’ and that was a simple enough joke and couldve been left at that but then its immediately followed by this weird as fuck family guy-esque cutaway gag to bernie as a baby:

“Getting a cootie shot should not cost your lunch money. And if you don’t listen to me, listen to the Bernie Babies! What? Everybody’s got goons.” *larger babies start beating up this other baby* “I disavow that, and welcome it.”

this confused me so much that i had to ask one of my american friends to help me understand, but even she was like ‘uhhh yeah thats a weird joke,’ especially now that hes been out of the race for months (then again these episodes take almost a year to produce. i guess they couldnt be bothered to replace it with something more relevant.) whatever that was weird and confusing and unfunny moving on

frida is pretty irked that diego is going through with this deal. after all, it goes against everything they believe in. im not sure how the real frida felt about diego doing the mural, but she did feel a bit of rage during her visit to the united states, especially the obvious disparity between rich and poor. she hated having to interact with capitalists and found americans very boring. in this segment, frida seems to be acting more like the american communist party, which diego got kicked out of for accepting commissions from wealthy patrons. in any case, frida is pretty upset about this whole thing.

and finally we get the first and only kind of surreal frida moment. kinda. maybe. its more cartoonish than anything but im desperate ok

interesting how they felt like they had to add a “don’t smoke” in big letters after showing patty and selma flying away on their giant cigarettes. i wonder if this is something theyre making them do now? i remember hearing something about them toning down patty and selma’s smoking

diego comes home to frida, drunk as hell, followed by the marx brothers. i cant believe they didnt make a marxism joke come on it was RIGHT THERE. THE MARX BROTHERS. KARL MARX. COME ON

frida paints her feelings.

this makes diego realize that frida is a genius and he is not half the artist she is. he proclaims he will now show his awe of her by sleeping with other women, starting “an hour ago.” to which frida replies, “and i will start sleeping with other women, starting two hours ago.” yes this was pretty much their relationship. though im just wondering how the hell did diego not know frida was this kind of artist until now? i know homers an idiot but jeez. art was how frida and diego met, diego knew from the get-go that frida was an incredible artist. i guess the fame got to his head or something. again, homer just being stupid.

“well enough already, while the art is still deco, okay?”

its time for the mural diego painted, Man At The Crossroads, to be unveiled:

rockefeller examines it. good and great so far, and then...uh oh

“Who’s that fellow…? With the beard, and the bolshevik smile…” “That’s the founder of Soviet Russia, Lenin!”

“B-b-but he’s a communist!” “Oh he just attended a couple of meetings.”

rockefeller will not have this communist in the temple to capitalism that is the rockefeller center, so he orders diego to paint over it. diego stands his ground and refuses. despite rockefeller’s threats, diego says that theres only one person he wants to be proud of him no matter what and in true homer & marge fashion, frida is touched by this. they happily leave the rockefeller center.

now, the real story of Man At The Crossroads and the rockefeller center was actually not that different. as soon as the rockefellers found out diego had snuck in a portrait of lenin into the mural, they ordered him to paint over it, to which he refused. diego even offered to include abraham lincoln and even american abolitionists in the mural as a compromise, but the rockefellers simply did not want any references to communism whatsoever. they did not complain about the hammer and sickle, though. yes, they did know diego was a communist and hired him anyway. what did they expect? lmao. diego said:

"Rather than mutilate the conception [of the mural], I shall prefer the physical destruction of the conception in its entirety, but preserving, at least, its integrity."

so they decided to destroy the mural before it was even finished and they never talked to each other again.

diego then repainted the mural at the palacio de bellas artes back in mexico, this time known as Man, Controller of the Universe. this new version included even more communist leaders and a depiction of john d. rockefeller jr. drinking at a nightclub, right underneath a depiction of syphilis bacteria. cue nelson haw-haw:

this was the version they used in the episode also, since the original was, well, never finished and also destroyed. only a black and white photograph of it exists, taken by diego before it was destroyed so he could remake it.

right so, homer!diego then pulls a Barthood and finishes the episode with a large mural summarizing the entire episode. he says some rick and morty thing i didnt get because i dont watch the show idk idc

the end

ALRIGHT NOW ITS TIME FOR THE STORY OF VINCENT VAN MOE

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 2: The Gallery

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Nadya’s first formal event goes about as well as to be expected. At least there are pretty girls to look at.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“You know, these are the kinds of events that incite supervillains and large gangs of jewelry thieves.”

“Are you a supervillain?”

“I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

“Do I not pay enough?”

“Being a supervillain has crappy benefits. Raines Corp. dental, though? Top notch.”

Nadya doesn’t want to imagine what she’d be doing if Adrian weren’t here. Or — even worse — if he wasn’t able to match her joke-for-joke. He could very well have been the type of boss who was enjoyable in private but had to shove the proverbial stick up his butt when it came to public events like these.

But nope. Adrian Raines, one of the top bachelors in New York City, is skirting the wall near the chocolate fountain right along with her.

Sure, he did his rounds when they first entered the ballroom of the Gallery. “If you want I can introduce you,” he had whispered before the first wave of Estee Lauder and old money came their way, “but these types… they don’t really expect the assistants to talk.” He’d been ashamed — maybe not for himself but for society.

But that was fine by her. “I don’t like being introduced anyway.”

So for each newly greased palm or sharp-cut suit that came their way she took a step back, zoned out for the brief-but-polite conversation, and made sure to give the alarmingly attentive college kid who always seemed to have one extra refill glass of champagne just for her a tip that would make the oldest crone here wither and fall into an early grave.

Every once in a while Adrian would point out a prominent figure here or an only-famous-in-Europe artist there. It was hard not to feel overwhelmed at the number of famous faces in the same room as her.

“That’s Adam Vega. You’ve heard of him, right?” Adrian points to a set of too-white pearly whites attached to the Senator across the floor.

“Presidential hopeful next election, yeah,” she shrugs, “he’s not given a clear stand on his support of the queer community yet, though, so Lily and I are leaning towards Representative Hartley from California.”

His eyebrows raise; visibly impressed. “I agree. Politicians hate giving direct answers. Vega especially.”

There’s a hint of a personal vendetta there that Nadya notices but doesn’t bring attention to. It wouldn’t surprise her if Vega’s campaign had asked for donations from the company — or if, after tonight, she would see that very email at work Monday evening.

Off to the left corner — where she remembers seeing some marble sculpture, something to do with Venus maybe — it looks as though every photographer allowed into the event flocks around an obscured figure.

“Mademoiselle! Over here!”

“Wonderful, absolutely stunning!”

“Look this way next, Miss Lacroix! Over here!”

Standing on her tip-toes does nothing to help reveal the hidden subject, but that doesn’t stop her from trying.

“Don’t bother,” mumbles Adrian under his breath. “feeding her vanity is the last thing anyone should be doing.”

“Feeding whose vanity?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Have you tried one of these pineapple slices in chocolate?”

Before Nadya has a chance to respond a voice comes purring behind her.

“You could at least try and be unpredictable, Adrian. This is the third event you’ve spent sulking by the sweets.”

Though Adrian brightens considerably at the woman who lurks behind Nadya, her reaction couldn’t be more opposite. Chills down her spine and the air in her lungs catching in her throat — desperate not to be let out in the same space as that familiar tone. She’d heard the woman named Kamilah only twice since the meeting-that-shall-not-be-named and both were phone calls. No name, no caller ID, just Nadya’s usual greeting of “Raines Corp., desk of Mr. Raines speaking, may I help you?” and the curt reply: “he’s expecting my call.” It was as though Adrian had been waiting with his ear to the door — the line transferred before she even had a chance to ask the woman to hold.

And now in person the voice was as unmistakable as it was beautiful; a soft yet commanding tone with a slight accent that curled on the tip of her tongue. If she hadn’t first been introduced to Kamilah by snooping on a meeting that may implicate her boss in murder, she’d be smitten. But falling for killers was morally wrong.

Though that was a moral stance that goes right out the window the moment she turns to meet Kamilah face-to-face. If Amazons existed, they were modeled after her. The statue of Venus across the ballroom would probably start weeping if it laid eyes on her. Nadya’s entire female celebrity hotness scale, which went from sweet Lady Hana Lee to sexy AME star Bianca Sandoval, was thrown horrendously off-kilter.

Is she gaping? Oh crap, she’s gaping. But there had to be laws against dresses that form-fitting on such attractive people. And if there weren’t then she needed to have a talk with Senator Vega at some point that evening.

Then Adrian’s arm is around her shoulder and he’s squeezing her gently against his side. Her name might have been thrown somewhere in there.

“And this, Nadya, is Kamilah Sayeed, CEO of Ahmanet Financial and a very close personal friend of mine.”

Kamilah’s nose scrunches up ever-so-slightly and she rolls her eyes.

“Adrian you make it sound so… tawdry,” she scolds, “when honestly the very thought of you very close and personal with me threatens to ruin my evening meal.”

There’s a private laugh between the pair — something Nadya is witness but not privy to — but it’s enough to wake her from the stupor of sudden racing thoughts concerning her sexuality.

“Uh—n-nice to meet you. I’m Nadya, Nadya Al Jamil.” She offers Kamilah her hand. Kamilah ignores it.

“Yes, though I suppose we’ve met before.” The comment sends her blood running cold; leaves Nadya gaping like a fish for excuses, apologies, anything that would keep them from silencing her for what she knows.

Adrian looks between them — chuckles through his confusion. “What? When?”

When all her floundering is for naught, Kamilah takes the reins.

“On the phone. If you’d call that a proper meeting, that is.”

Her exhale is a little too long, a little too relieved. Adrian’s used to the quirks that she’s made of; stacked like a game of Tetris abandoned near the end. But Kamilah — she notices. Combining the lights overhead and her makeup; Nadya could swear her pupils narrowed into slits.

“Something the matter?” She doesn’t even pretend flippancy and that Adrian notices. The way he looks between them makes her erupt in goosebumps.

Nadya shakes her head hastily. “Just not used to these sorts of things, right? Am I right?” But before she can drink for something to do Adrian’s hand snakes the champagne flute from her grasp. It lands delicately on a passing serving tray and is whisked off into used-stemware oblivion.

“Maybe that’s enough for you, tonight.” He’s teasing but the concern is genuine. Nadya watches a look pass between the mutual moneymakers — hopes to dear god whatever isn’t being said isn’t about her.

When a greying gentleman takes the podium up front the entire floor goes into a hushed silence. His first words, “I’m sure I don’t need to introduce myself,” are followed by snooty, nose-up polite laughter and that’s all anyone feels obligated to say while he drones on about donations to the Gallery, funding, and various sponsored artists featured tonight. The silence in the room is so thin a dropped pin might send the roof crumbling down on them — so there go Nadya’s hopes of asking Adrian what the man was talking about. One chocolate strawberry turns into two, and by the time the room breaks into restrained applause and the man takes his leave, her fingers meet an empty tray.

Doors open off to the side to the Gallery’s displayed collection. Large canvases filled with blurry vibrancy that, even from her distance, Nadya can tell is skill unparalleled.

She’s already several paces towards the beckoning beauty when she notices she’s alone. Turns with a frown — until she spots Adrian speaking to Kamilah in hushed tones.

“Adrian, you coming?” calls Nadya — when she catches the slightly desperate crack in her voice she wishes she hadn’t.

His infallible smile reaches her even at their distance. “You go on ahead. I’ve just got a bit of business to discuss first.”

That’s when she notices the portly man in a too-tight tuxedo behind the glamorous pair. He’s average, curly hair and beard shaved just a little too short on the right side. But he moves in a strange, graceful way — like Adrian and Kamilah. They congregate and then like statues remain still, close; secretive. Despite the movement towards the exhibition around them.

It brings a chill down her spine. “Are you sure?”

Something in Kamilah’s brow furrows; her annoyance clear. Adrian remains nonplussed.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he nods, gestures for her to follow the crowd, “I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

At risk of her own neck Nadya leaves them, despite every bone in her body screaming at her not to turn her back.

At first Nadya was surprised at all of the faces shown at the event. It gave her a little hope that art was still appreciated in the world. Hope that she found dashed when she realized the truth: that the majority of people looking at the blown-up photographs in all their high-definition only cared about the people looking at them.

The majority of attendants skirt around the edges of the works; file strangely in the middle of the gallery’s hall like some opposite-day weirdness. Every once in a while someone will step forward, alcohol in hand, and air a compliment or observation that their party agrees with in nods and murmurs and subtle toasts. Gallery workers, all identified by their matching ties and lapel pins of the Gallery’s logo, stand here and there with clipboards at the ready and wearing rolls of stickers like fashion statements.

One woman stands passive beside a beautiful canvas of a sprawling rocky valley. The grey of the sky is dark but the grass underneath it shines bright like the sun was just out of view. Nadya approaches — notes her high-and-tight blonde bun and is briefly reminded of how grateful she is Adrian didn’t invite Nicole along — and offers her a friendly nod.

“Hello.”

The woman arches a brow but says nothing.

Twenty-eight agonizing seconds of awkward silence pass. She tries again.

“This is a really pretty piece.”

The woman’s jaw sets at pretty, features then easily schooled into a complacent smile. She’s seen people look at garbage with kinder eyes. “Indeed, miss.”

“Where was this taken?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, miss.” The worker’s responses grow terse; clipped. A flush of shame floods over her cheeks.

“Oh. Of course. I—”

There’s a familiar click-clack of stilettos that stop just behind her. Nadya sucks in a breath but before she can continue a crisp voice interrupts.

“Wow, you’re serious right now?”

Nadya whirls around but the woman and her shock of vibrant violet hair are trained on the Gallery worker.

Who seems to have found the only person in the room she likes less than Nadya herself. “Pardon me, miss. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Violet-Hair raises her glass of wine — near empty — and points a nail at the piece.

“Pretty sure I was speaking English, was I speaking English sweetheart?” She looks to Nadya; who nods dumbly. “Right. Yup. English.”

The worker’s patience is wearing thin. “Indeed you were, miss. What I did not understand was your… exclamation.”

Violet-Hair laughs; loudly, unabashedly, not caring that she’s drawing the attention of at least a dozen people standing nearby. In fact she seems to relish in the attention. “Oh! Right! Silly me. I guess I was just, I dunno, like, super surprised to hear that you work here and you don’t know where this shot was taken.”

She’s spoken just loud enough that anyone else having a conversation either has to wait until she’s done or abandons it altogether for something more interesting. Two women loudly arguing with a Gallery employee must never happen at one of these things, Nadya guesses, that or they figured it would happen later on in the evening. But it’s safe to say they’re the current stars of the proverbial show.

“I mean isn’t that what you’re trained to know? Jeez, at least stand next to a big old hunk of art you’re familiar with.” With the crowd at her advantage the woman jerks her thumb at the employee, now flush with offense, as if to say ‘get a load of this.’

The half-moon around them murmurs around one another and it’s the final straw. “Of course I know — these are some of the most detailed photographs of the Scottish Highlands ever taken. I’m offended at your insinuation, miss.”

If she had a dictionary on hand Nadya was suddenly sure that the face of the violet-haired troublemaker would be the picture definition of ‘cat that got the cream.’ Her eyes narrow, painted lips turned down into a sultry frown, and there’s a poisonous edge to the sweetness in her voice.

“Wow. You don’t say?”

“Despite this being one of the most acclaimed shots taken by the photographer, to think I would not know the piece I’m auctioning off is — well — it’s affronting to say the least.”

She sips the last of her wine; forces a pregnant pause on those looking on. Then her hand falls on Nadya’s shoulder with nothing short of intimacy.

“Then why’d you tell my friend here you didn’t know?”

If she had the courage or the voice, Nadya would try to smooth the situation over as best she could. Instead she just stands there, a statue, and wishes she hadn’t eaten two dozen chocolate strawberries.

“P-Pardon?” asks the worker; eyes flicking between the pair.

“If you knew, why didn’t you just tell my friend where it was?”

“Well, I—”

“Why’d you have to be such a stubborn bitch that I had to get involved?”

“Your language is—”

“I may curse like a sailor but at least I’m not a cunt.”

“Miss!” she gasps at the curse, thrown for a loop. Unsure of what to say next. She looks ready to call for security, but the violet-haired vixen made sure to tear down her confidence first. She’s left hanging and Nadya is absolutely awestruck.

“But you know, I think I’m gonna be generous today. I should be generous today, right,” she glances briefly at Nadya who nods like it’s somehow her decision, like she’s culpable in the absolute slaughter of the worker’s self-esteem, “yeah, I’ll be generous I think. I won’t tell your boss you were being horrible to a potential buyer just because she looks like she bought her dress on a clearance rack.”

Nadya could object. She doesn’t. It’s not entirely false but still hurts to hear it.

Then she steps forward and coaxes down the gallery worker with one perfect finger. Wordlessly bats away the woman’s hesitance and whispers something in her ear that lasts long enough for the attending crowd to mill back into their own circles of conversation and for Nadya to watch the blonde woman go absolutely pale — almost sickly green with what she can only assume is fear.

She passes something like a business card between them and Nadya watches while the worker scribbles something down on her clipboard and places a bright orange dot underneath the plaque bearing the photograph’s title. Orange, she recalls, means a purchase. No bid worth it, apparently.

A tender hand on her arm brings Nadya out of her thoughts, looking up into the eyes of her apparent rescuer and her tender-yet-sultry smile.

“Come on, let’s get out of the snake pit.”

She didn’t know she needed the fresh air until it hits her in a chilly wind. She follows the woman onto some outside terrace overlooking the Gallery’s gardens; a strange and fragrant floral oasis in the middle of a bustling metropolis.

“Katherine, by the way, since you forgot to ask.”

Katherine’s hand is offered in a polite way — soft skin hiding a surprisingly firm grip when Nadya takes it.

“Nadya.”

Her new friend wanders to the balcony’s edge and leans over. There’s no invitation but somehow she feels expected and plants herself beside.

“I just hate people like that, you know? People who think they’re better than everyone else because maybe they had more opportunities, or got lucky and were born with money, or whatever. Man, let a girl look at a fucking picture and think it’s cool!”

Nadya silently agrees to Katherine’s whole rant. “I’ve always wanted to go to Scotland. Nearly went on a year abroad in England during college but, uh, something came up, exams, maybe… and I had to cancel the trip.” And she hadn’t thought about it since. Not until she caught sight of those craggy sloping hills that looked so much like the photos in the brochure she kept on her pin board for all four years of her degree.

Katherine leans back on her elbows; her smile almost pitying. “There’s nothing special over there, hon. Trust me.”

“You’ve been?”

“Too many times.”

“I’m still jealous.”

There’s no one around to refill their drinks — either they aren’t supposed to be out here or the free booze is limited to the indoors. Katherine’s definitely sad about her empty wine glass but the scent of the garden down below is enough of a high for her.

“So…” she fumbles to try and fill the silence, “you come here often?”

Katherine’s laugh is demure and restrained. She can’t help but think the woman is containing herself from something. Brick by brick an invisible wall is being formed to keep them at a distance. It makes no sense but Nadya isn’t one to judge. Well — out loud, anyway.

“No, not really. Didn’t know if you could tell but I hate these rich people types.”

“So why are you here?”

“Meeting clients.”

“Oh? Are you an artist?”

She pauses like it’s the most important question in the world. Finally shakes her head and releases Nadya’s bated breath.

“No. No, I’m not.”

“Why do you —”

The door opens behind them and a sudden breath of relief catches their attentions.

“There you are, Nadya, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Adrian emerges into the night and though his face is the picture of casual calm she could have sworn there was the briefest flash of panic in his eyes — now hidden far and pushed down deep.

“Here I am.” She teases, offers him a casual shrug. Hoping, praying to any listening god that there isn’t a weird flush in her cheeks at the way he talks. “Just needed some air.”

“Of course.”

He brushes a stray bit of hair from her shoulder — a passive, familiar touch that means her shiver has nothing to do with the outside breeze — and in his smile everything seems alright again. He’s just one of those people blessed with a disarming charm.

“A-hem.”

Katherine’s fake cough doesn’t fool anyone. Draws Adrian’s attention away from her and to their guest. It’s an irritation Nadya’s only seen on his face a few times in the months they’ve known each other but it doesn’t settle well regardless.

“Can I help you?”

Katherine looks at Adrian the way all women look at Adrian: like he’s a prize. Her eyes comb through the polished shield of him and linger on his face with predatory accuracy.

“Well you’re kind of interrupting girl time, so —”

“Katherine,” scolds Nadya in a single word, “this is my boss.”

“Hm. I see. Well hello, boss.”

The tension doesn’t dissipate. Fight-or-flight mode kicks in and leaves Nadya looking between them frantically. “Erm… Adrian, this is Katherine. We met on the floor. Katherine, this is my boss: Adrian Raines.”

If she had seen him only as a hot man in a suit before, now she knew his name — and it shows. Something changes in Katherine’s stance — all ease gone. But rather than focusing her energies on Adrian, her eyes flick to Nadya — suddenly hot under the collar.

“W-What? Something on my face?”

“No, sweets, you’re perfect. Just… small world, it turns out.”

Nadya frowns. “What do you mean?”

When Katherine and Adrian shake hands they meet eye-to-eye. She catches sight of their white knuckles and wonders why they’re trying to have a competition over a handshake.

“Well I’m obviously not here because I like the crowds, kitten,” Katherine speaks to Nadya but her eyes remain trained on Adrian, “since the real reason I’m even here is to meet with, well, you Mr. Raines.”

She doesn’t give Adrian the chance to ask, “I’m Ms. Sayeed’s private contractor.”

That invisible brick wall slots into place with a thundering silence. Locks Nadya on one side and Katherine on the other — Adrian caught with her. She can’t remember a time she felt so invisible, so utterly removed from a moment in time. It makes her sick to her stomach.

Adrian’s voice is low when he finally replies. “We’ve been waiting for you for over an hour.”

“I showed up, didn’t I?” quips Katherine.

“Not a very good way to impress your potential employers.”

“If it’s my punctuality you want, and not my skills, then you hired the wrong girl.”

“Perhaps we have.”

The silence is considerable before, within seconds of one another, Katherine and Adrian remember they aren’t alone. Adrian looks to her, flustered, but Katherine’s cool is never-ending.

“I’ll catch you some other time, Nadya. Mama’s got business to take care of.” Her passing wink, easy to miss, is Katherine’s only farewell.

Now the terrace seems stifling — the breeze blocked by all the things Adrian isn’t saying.

“I—well, you see…”

He stops when Nadya holds up a hand. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Adrian,” her sincerity is true; and thick enough to hide her hurt, “I’m just your secretary after all.”

If he says anything she doesn’t stick around long enough to hear. The heat of the bodies milling around the photographs makes her skin crawl but Nadya forces her way back into the event like nothing strange happened. Like strange isn’t her life’s new normal.

It would have been nice for her to turn and see Adrian following her through the displays — a silent apology was better than none at all. But a brief glance over her shoulder tells a different tale. Across the room she catches the sight of Katherine’s shock of violet hair and the pretty mauve of Kamilah’s dress.

Probably something you don’t want involved with anyway, she tells herself.

Nadya continues on.

The event starts winding down around one in the morning — she suspects half the guests have secondary parties already plugged into the navigators of their limos. She walks around the emptying gallery for half an hour; partially enjoying the fact that she no longer needs to look at the pieces from a distance but also on the hunt for Adrian, Kamilah, Katherine, anyone.

Two laborers are in the middle of dismounting the purchased photograph of the Highlands when she gets Adrian’s text.

[TEXT]: Had to move a business discussion to Ahmanet Financial. Car waiting outside to take you home whenever. Sorry for leaving you high and dry. I’ll make it up to you Monday. Promise.

Sincerely, Adrian.

At first his official-sounding texts — which he always signed ‘Sincerely, Adrian’ like he forgets assigned contacts are a thing — were funny, charming even. Now she just looks at his name in LED pixels on her work-issued phone and wants to throttle him. Not for abandoning her — okay, maybe for abandoning her — but also because it seems like a cathartic release of her pent up frustration.

But making her way to Ahmanet Financial, which was hella far across town, would cost her energy she simply didn’t have. Wouldn’t life be nice if she could buy energy packs like in Lily’s games…

Just like Adrian said there’s a car waiting right in front of the Gallery when she makes it to street-level. Like, right in front — she doesn’t even want to think about how long he had to wait or the fights he had to get into for such primo vehicular real-estate. She recognizes the driver — Benjamin, William, Robert, something old-fashioned like that — from late nights escorting Adrian to the car for his meetings outside the office. The familiar face relieves her in a way she wasn’t expecting.

Maybe-Benjamin smiles and opens the back door for her. “Have a good time this evening, Miss Al Jamil?”

She glances back at the looming figure of the Gallery; now ensconced in shadow and the faint lights of buildings on either block. It looks like a dead thing stuck in the middle of a party. Like taxidermy.

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

He closes the door behind her. The darkness is warm, inviting. Nadya throws propriety to the wind and lays down on the buttery black leather seats. She’s out before they pull away from the curb.

[bat-losers-inc]

Kintsugi: Chapter 1

Warnings: drug use, panic attacks

Summary: Final Crisis/Red Robin AU. Dick admits Tim to a psychiatric facility after Bruce is lost in time. Jason finds him suffering at the hands of a Scarecrow-copycat and breaks him out. While safe in Jason’s apartment, Tim still struggles with panic attacks and drug withdrawal. At a loss for what to do, Jason calls Roy Harper.

Pairings:  Jason Todd & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Roy Harper, Roy Harper & Jason Todd.

It had been a little more than a week since Jason had been locked out of Tim’s criminal database when he decided to stop waiting around for Tim to grant him access again. Screw being patient and playing nice. A week’s worth of increasingly less polite voicemails on Tim’s phone was evidence to how well that tactic had worked for Jason.

So, Jason decided to fall back on the more tried and true tactic of breaking and entering. If he couldn’t get Tim to return his calls, Jason would just have to corner him into a conversation. This was how Jason found himself prying open the window to Tim’s apartment in the early evening hours and slipping inside.

He straightened up as his boots made contact with the wood floor of Tim’s living room and glared around in confusion when neither fists nor any audible alarms greeted his arrival. Strange.

“Hey, Tim. You here?” But a quick check of all of the rooms in Tim’s apartment told Jason he wasn’t.

Jason contemplated leaving and searching the streets, though he hadn’t heard Red Robin over the comms for a few days. He stared longingly at Tim’s desk where his laptop rested open, the screen turned matte by a thin layer of dust. He really couldn’t afford to wait around on Tim with his street cred going down the toilet.

“Ah, screw it.” He sat in Tim’s desk chair and got to work on cracking the password. Four tries later saw Jason rummaging around in Tim’s desk drawers hoping he’d left some password clue so that Jason wouldn’t getting locked out for another incorrect attempt. It was a waste of time since Jason knew Tim was too smart to ever write down a password.

A reminder scribbled on a sticky note to do laundry before he ran out of clean underwear?

Sure.

But a password to help his dear older brother?

Of course not.

“Jeez, all of this because the kid doesn’t have a sense of humor. You set your brother up as the fall guy for one of your murders. Just once. Just as a joke! And then he kicks you out of his network and you’re left with your excel spreadsheet of crime syndicates that hasn’t been updated in months. And then you go shake some answers out of Penguin’s number two guy, only to find out that that guy got locked up by GCPD two months ago. And then you have to settle for getting answers from Penguin’s shit-for-brains cousin, Larry.” Jason slammed the final drawer closed, “Fucking Larry.”

Jason spun around in Tim’s desk chair, going over his options once again. He’d sooner break into the Batcave and risk running into Dick and Damian than subject himself to updating his own old-school records. Jason’s eyes landed on the Star Trek poster mounted on the wall across from him. He halted his spinning as realization struck him. “Oh, you beautiful, beautiful, nerd.”

He pulled the framed poster off the wall and flipped it around, searching for the clips that locked it in place. A small piece of paper the size of a business card dropped onto Jason’s boot as he freed the backing from its frame. He snatched it up and logged into Tim’s laptop.

Jason was in the process of closing out of Tim’s records, having already sent a copy to himself, when a notification in the corner caught his eye. He clicked into it and was surprised to see it was a message Tim had sent to himself. Or was it?

Jason read over the message again.

Find my iphone.

User: T.drake007@gmail.com

Pass: Batcow

He had a tracking device built into his suit if he needed someone to find his location. But if he was in his civvies…

Jason pulled his own phone free of his jacket pocket and signed into Tim’s account. As the map narrowed in on Tim’s last location, Jason was already out the window and climbing up the fire escape.“Whatever this wild goose chase is, kid, I really hope I don’t find your dead body at the end of it.”

Jason checked the pinned location on his phone once more and then stared across at the glowing letters on the Breckenridge Psychiatric Hospital sign again. Of all of the places Jason expected Tim to be hiding out in while in his civvies, a mental hospital in Bludhaven didn’t even make the list. It filled Jason with an uneasy feeling.

He decided to play it safe to start off with and removed his domino mask, slipping it into the pocket of his leather jacket which he zipped up tight to cover his body armor hidden underneath. He made his way to the front doors, wrestling with his anxiety the entire way there. After all... things had been more than a little crazy with Bruce dying, Damian replacing Tim as Robin, and Tim moving on to his new identity as Red Robin. It wasn’t impossible that Tim had checked himself in for a bit, though there was a nasty notion floating around the back of Jason’s head that this whole situation reeked of Dick’s smothering sort of concern.  

Jason asked for Alvin Draper at the receptionist desk, Tim’s go-to undercover identity.

The nurse behind the reception station replied in a tone that suggested she was reading off doctor’s notes from her computer. “Mr. Draper was recently moved to the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit after exhibiting violent behavior against the hospital staff. His visitation privileges have been temporarily suspended until his psychologist believes he is no longer a harm to himself or others.”

Jason blinked hard at that one. “Violent behavior against the staff? I think there’s got to be a mistake here. What medical reason did T—uh, Alvin give when he checked himself into the facility.”

“Mr. Draper didn’t check himself in. A family member petitioned for it to prevent further destructive behaviors to his person and the public.”

The public, Jason mentally rolled his eyes. He’s 130 lbs dripping wet. What’s the worst he could do?

Still, if Tim was here against his will, this didn’t bode well for the situation within the family and Tim’s emotional state at the moment. Jason slumped against the receptionist’s station, not believing what he was hearing and wanting nothing more than to bang his forehead against the table top. “Wait… so you’re telling me he’s here on involuntary psych hold?”

“Okay. Okay,” Jason couldn’t figure out when Tim’s well-being had become such a serious issue for Jason, but suddenly here he was acting like the kid’s lawyer. “Well, when did he get committed? Psych holds are usually only for a few days and then the issue has to be brought up against a judge, right?”

“Shouldn’t you know all this already, hon? I thought you said you were a friend of the family. Do you want me to call the person of contact and see if they can come down and explain the situation?”

Jason could sense the motherly concern in her voice. He was trying to fly under the radar on this and having the nurse take an interest in him was not the way to do that. He’d draw too much attention to himself and to ‘Alvin Draper’ and that was the last thing Jason needed, but it wasn’t entirely useless.

“No, no. That’s okay,” Jason waved off the question. “Look… If I can’t talk to him, could you at least pass on a gift to him from me?”

The nurse opened her mouth, an objection clearly in the making. Jason beat her to the punch as he pulled a paperback book free of his backpack. “It’s just a book. No lewd images or anything like that. I promise.”

He watched the woman sigh and fiddle with the pen she held. As he figured, that motherly concern was still lingering in the air. She’d feel too heartless to deny him entirely. “Fine. Take a seat and I’ll let you know if it passes the security check.”

Jason flashed her his best smile and perched on the edge of a waiting room chair. Thank God I was expecting a stakeout and brought something to read.

“What’s your name, hon?” She wiggled the book held in her hand. “For your friend.”

“Tell him it’s from John D. He’ll know who I am.” He replied as the woman made ready to stand up.

As the nurse left for the security desk, Jason skimmed his eyes across the signs for the PICU wing and walked out the main doors. It looked like John Doe would have to return Alvin Draper’s favor and stage a prison break of his own.

Jason walked around the entire hospital two times, once in a tight perimeter to check for  possible points of entry on the grounds and parking garage level, and once more in a wider circle to evaluate the upper floors. He stopped back at his apartment to refill his backpack with supplies, shed his hoodie and don his helmet. Then he was out the door.

Jason scaled a drainpipe up to the floor where the Psych ICU was located and slide in through a cracked window in the staff break room. It wasn’t exactly easy to walk around a hospital in body armor and a red helmet unnoticed, even on the night shift when most of the nurses were getting a head start on  their paperwork. So Jason had timed his break-in at the same time as a new admittee, whose arrival came with a police and paramedic escort. All he had to do was wait as a huddle of nurses rushed passed his hiding spot for the elevator before he could walk freely into the PICU, using the ID card he’d swiped off a sleeping attendant while waiting.

The unit was sparsely populated in comparison to the general psych unit, with all of the patients closed off from each other behind locked doors in their own private rooms. Jason glanced through the window of each door until he found a patient who actually returned his stare. The kid, probably a boy all of fifteen, startled back at the sight of him, but seemed to recover when he realized the Red Hood wasn’t after him.

“Hey, you know which room Alvin Draper is in?”

The kid slid off his bed and walked up to the door. He scratched at the patchy beginnings of facial hair that covered his chin and neck. “Draper?”

“Yeah,” Jason held a hand up to his chin. “Around this high, seventeen, brown hair. Speaks with a know-it-all kind of voice that makes you want to punch him in the face.”

The boy’s face lit up with recognition. “Oh yeah, the misdiagnosed guy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, when he first arrived he told me his name was Alvin. Seemed pretty normal for a paranoid guy. Then a few days after he starts seeing his psychiatrist, he has a panic attack in the common room and makes me promise to call him Tim. Says he’s not really Alvin Draper. Don’t know how the doctors missed such an obvious case of dissociative identity disorder.”

Oh shit. Jason just hoped that was the only thing Tim told this kid. If he had let his real identity slip under all the meds in here, the least of their problems would be dealing with reporters asking what made Tim Drake crack.

“So, where can I find him?”

“Basement level, down in the old wing of the hospital. Nobody’s used it for years— fire code violations or some shit— but Dr. Keselman uses it for the clinical sleep trial he’s working on.”

“Thanks.”

Jason turned to walk away.

“Hey! Wait, wait!” The kid tapped urgently on the door’s surface to get his attention.

Jason turned back, raising an eyebrow under his mask even though he knew the younger boy couldn’t see it. “Yeah?”

“Do you think you could get a letter to someone for me?”

“No ‘cause I’m not a fucking mailman.”

“No, just hear me out for a sec—”

Jason sighed. “Sure. I’ve only broken into a psych ward. Not like I’m on a time crunch.”

“It’s to my kid sister, man. They don’t let us keep our phones in here and my mom won’t answer any of my letters or bring her to visit me.”

Jason groaned. “Alright, hurry up. Slide it under the door.”

The kid flashed a smile and did as told. “I always thought you were cool. Scary… but cool.”

He was in the process of picking the letter off the ground when he noticed another girl waving a piece of paper at him in the window.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Jason glanced back through the windows that looked into the general ward, checking that the halls were still clear for the moment. He took the risk and raised his voice to be heard down to the end of the line of rooms.

“Alright, everyone with a letter slide it under the door.”

He hurried back and forth across the hall and gathered the letters into one gloved hand. Then jabbed a finger at a few of the kids closest to him. “I’m making no promises about these, but I’ll try. Also, stay out of trouble and only do the drugs you’re prescribed.”

He slipped the stack of letters into his jacket pocket and hurried down the stairs towards the basement. “Yeah, I’m a real terror on the streets of Gotham. If I get any more like B I think I might just barf.”

He really couldn’t find Tim soon enough.