#it deserves so much better than this. its been five fucking years

[cozylittleartblog]

when valve has enough money to buy god, but they let bots ruin their game for 5 years and dox people 🤖🔫 #FIXTF2

everyone who signs this 100k+ petition will have their name printed and sent to valve HQ. this shit is unacceptable.

[onlyangel4]

the life i deserve. final part. LN4. OP81

in which reader unexpectedly falls pregnant but her current boyfriend can't say no to his party lifestyle so he leaves her. who better to fill his place than his teammate.

faceclaim: hailey bieber

author's note: and we have reached the end of this series, thank you all for making this my most successful series yet. have your say on the next one here

part one // part two // part three // part four // part five // part six

y/ninsta posted a story tagging oscarpiastri

written: see you soon aus

logansargeant posted a story tagging rileywhittall

written: heading to aus with this one

y/ninsta posted a story tagging oscarpiastri and logansargeant

written: i wonder if the other driver's are spending their winter break explaining sports to a baby

rileywhittall posted a story

written: spending all month with lil man ready for his first christmas

f1gossip

liked by user36, user37, user38 and 329,283 others

f1gossip: guys this is not a drill oscar and y/n have been spotted cuddling up with one another while out at dinner with riley and logan. does this confirm everyone's suspicions

view all 18,729 comments

user36: poor lando

user37: are you fucking stupid, lando is the one that left y/n pregnant and alone, he will never be the victim here

user38: mum and dad

user39: i am so happy for them

user40: y/n deserves all the happiness imaginable

oscarpiastri posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: never been happier

y/ninsta posted a story tagging oscarpiastri

written: my boys

y/ninsta posted a story

written: merry christmas my loves

logansargeant posted a story

written: got to start them off young

oscarpiastri

liked by y/ninsta, rileywhittall, charlesleclerc and 1,358,839 others

tagged: y/ninsta

oscarpiastri: i didn't need a christmas present this year, i've got all i need

view all 57,928 comments

y/ninsta: we both love you so much

oscarpiastri: i love you both more

georgerussell3: so happy for you mate

oscarpiastri: thank you man

logansargeant: riley is already planning double dates

oscarpiastri: y/n is excited. i'm scared

rileywhittall: see good things happen when you communicate with the person you love

oscarpiastri: words of wisdom

charlesleclerc: does this mean baby luka in the paddock next year

oscarpiastri: of course

charlesleclerc: alex just squealed in my ear, i'm deaf now

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@nichmeddar

[kinardsevan]

as we all know, i haven't really been doing @bucktommypositivityweek because I've been busy working on other stuff. but I still wanted to contribute, and I was feeling inspired reading people's additions for 'outsider perspective'. this was also a character study for one of my OCs.

so have this: -

colors

Wilder Gray was born to be an artist. Color was quite literally in his name. He was also gay fresh out of the womb, and god bless the fact that his parents had accepted that from day one, because otherwise he never would’ve stood a chance. 

Life had been easy for him, mostly. He came from enough money that his parents sent him to semi-private school for he better part of his upbringing. When they’d discovered his ability to draw and paint towards the end of elementary school, he’d been promptly enrolled in the Los Angeles Academy of Arts and Enterprise for intermediate school. Growing up in that kind of environment had fed his need to create as well as be surrounded by other creatives. It also fostered a very accepting community where he never felt out of place or like he couldn’t be exactly who he was. By the time he was in his twenties, enrolled in UCLA, he’d had several serious relationships. 

He met one Thomas Kinard at the age of twenty-five, fresh out of his graduate program with an MFA in interdisciplinary arts. Tommy was just about to turn thirty-three and had looked extremely uncomfortable in his skin as he sat down at a gay bar in WeHo. It would be weeks before Tommy would admit to him that he was freshly out of the closet, and that up until a few months before, the most he’d ever engaged with the community was through one night stands and the boy he had shared a secret relationship with during his five and a half years in the military. 

To be clear, Tommy had rocked Wilder’s universe on its axis. When they first met, Wilder wanted nothing to do with a relationship with him. he knew Tommy was still figuring out his footing with his sexuality now that he was out, and as much as Wilder was willing to be a friend through that process, he didn’t want to play the part of the boyfriend who helped Tommy experiment and get educated. 

Which isn’t to say it panned out the greatest for him. He watched Tommy engage in multiple relationships over the next three years, and he was jealous as fuck every single time. He hated Mike, the forty-five-year-old man that Tommy met a few weeks after Wilder had met him. That relationship lasted four months. Mike was a domineering dick who did a damn good job at pretending to be sunshine. Wilder wondered if Tommy realized he didn’t have to date twice-divorced men in order to figure out what he liked, but it also wasn’t his place to speak. At least, until he and Tommy met up on a random Tuesday, three and a half months into the relationship, and Tommy tried to lie to him about bruises on his wrists. Wilder was a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them. He’d told Tommy that night that he was capable of doing so much better, that he deserved better. When Tommy had questioned him—over half a dozen beers—Wilder had kissed him about it. 

Granted, that didn’t lead anywhere, other than far enough for Tommy to be confident enough to end the relationship with Mike. They were both single for a few months after that, but whatever Tommy was waiting on, Wilder wasn’t sure. He was still firm on his position about not wanting to be the person to help Tommy gain experience. 

After Mike came Leo. Leo came with a million and a half red flags. Leo came with love bombs and grand gestures, with one thing on his mind. As soon as he got Tommy into bed, he was gone. Tommy never really talked about how everything with Leo panned out, but Wilder suspected that it wouldn’t have gone much further anyway. Another night over too many beers, all Tommy would say about Leo was that he was ‘rough. Way too rough.’ 

Either way, he bounced back. Ezra came along only a few weeks after Leo, and Ezra was so, so sweet. And so naïve. He was younger than Wilder, and clearly still trying to figure things out about himself. However, Ezra also seemed to have stars in his eyes about how things were going to work out, while Tommy had lost most of his rosy view on his sexuality. It wasn’t to say that they didn’t have fun together. But Wilder could tell that Ezra thought Tommy would settle down with him, while Tommy just wanted to work out the kinks he’d gone through in recent months and figure himself out more. 

Ezra lasted two months. 

Charlie showed up in the middle of October, almost as though he’d been swept through along with the Santa Ana winds. He put a smile on Tommy’s face that Wilder was positive he’d never seen on his friend. Charlie was the boy from Iraq. He was also Tommy’s first real love. Wilder liked Charlie. 

Wilder didn’t love Charlie. 

It wasn’t that Charlie was a bad guy. Charlie clearly cared about Tommy a fair amount, although it was questionable whether he actually liked Tommy as much as Tommy loved him. The deeper problem was that Tommy looked at Charlie the way Ezra had looked at Tommy. Except, Charlie had done the  ‘make my parents happy’ way. He had been married, was now divorced, and still half-living in the closet. Wilder had warned Tommy against doing that with him, warned him that it would only lead to him getting hurt, but Tommy swore to him that Charlie had promised. Promised one day soon they would be out together. Promised they’d get to tell people the truth. Promised the kids would know him as more than just Charlie’s army buddy. 

Those promises went on for a year before Tommy smashed what was left of his rose-colored glasses. Wilder was there with the alcohol and the metaphorical stitches to piece Tommy back together. 

The thing was, by that time, he’d promised himself that he and Tommy were better as friends. That they’d built something strong enough to withstand the passing glances and the hugs that lasted a minute too long, the pauses when they pullled away where he could feel Tommy’s breath on his lips and it stirred something inside him that he hadn’t felt since he was sixteen and dating Danny Coston, sneaking kisses behind the fieldhouse while they were skipping out on PE. 

He’d loved Tommy too much by then. As his friend. 

As more than his friend. 

And then one night, over beers and a pizza, Tommy was telling him this story about a rescue that Wilder still thinks was absolutely fucking stupid, rocking a helicopter between cliffsides to rescue a group of teenagers who thought rock climbing without gear in Griffith Park sounded like a fun idea. By some miracle, everyone had been saved, Tommy hadn’t crashed the helicopter, and it had made the news. What’s more, Wilder had been the first person Tommy had wanted to tell him about his suicidal save. 

Wilder had to kiss him about it, of course. That shattered whatever falsehoods Wilder was letting himself live in at that point in relation to their relationship. Tommy wasn’t experimenting anymore, and he didn’t need an education. He was out, he wasn’t interested in keeping secrets, and he wanted something real.

. . . 

The first year was amazing. Granted, WIlder never fell in love with the danger of Tommy’s job, but that was fine. He was in love with everything else about Tommy. He loved his personality, his face, his body, his hopes, his dreams, his willingness to be Wilder’s model on any occasion…he just loved Tommy. 

Year two wasn’t as easy. They were settled, talking about living together but not quite pulling the trigger. Wilder’s career was doing really well. He’d taken part in four exhibitions in less than a calendar year and there was a lot of attention coming his way. There were offers coming out of Chicago and New York for residencies and some teaching opportunities. 

There was a bad fire at a compound. Tommy got second-degree burns and had pretty bad smoke inhalation. Wilder hoped that after that, maybe he’d rethink his career. 

Things got worse. 

Still, somehow they found their way through. As they came upon their second anniversary, it felt like they were reaching the other side. There were still offers on the table for Wilder, and he had floated a few of them to Tommy. In return, Tommy had fully supported the suggestion for a three-month residency in Chicago. He would remain in L.A. during Wilder’s time away, but it was good for Wilder, and as Tommy had said to him at the time, ‘what’s good for you is good for us’. 

Except, the offers didn’t stop at Chicago. He was weeks away from finishing his residency when he was offered the opportunity to take part in an exhibition in Texas. What was supposed to be a two week trip there turned into four months, and their anniversary came and went with little more than phone calls and the occasional flight out for a twenty-four or forty-eight hours together. 

After Texas was Savannah, Georgia. Then Charlotte, North Carolina. Then a month-long trip to Florida with a few guest lectures at FSU. Eight months into what should’ve been the third year of their relationship, Wilder hadn’t seen Tommy more than fifteen days total. And the thing was, the love was still there.

But they weren’t in love anymore, and he knew they both felt it. Tommy loved his job just as much as Wilder loved his. Neither of them were going to give up their careers, and they weren’t going to ask the other to, either. 

It ended on a facetime call, just a few weeks before their anniversary. There were tears shed, although it was more a sadness at the loss of what they’d hoped they could be than it was at the actual relationship. There were ‘I love you’s. And then there was silence. 

. . .

The first time Wilder meets Evan Buckley, he’s barely been back in Los Angeles for a week. He’s set to start a residency for the summer and then take on a teaching position at UCLA in the fall. He’s supposed to be meeting some friends for dinner when the blonde man bumps into him at the bar, stammering out an apology with full hands as they turn to face each other. 

Evan looks at him with a weird expression that Wilder doesn’t fully understand at the time. He dismisses the bump as equally his own fault and then turns his attention back toward the bar. 

“Hi, baby. Sorry, I’m late.” 

That voice feels like someone just poured a shot of Jack Tennessee Honey down Wilder’s throat. All the heat with none of the burn. As he turns back around, he spots a familiar head of brown curls just as the blonde tilts up toward him, and then Tommy is kissing the other man. Wilder inhales a sharp breath. 

The thing is, it’s been more than a year. It’s been even longer since he and Tommy were something real. But something about seeing him kiss another man still stirs something in Wilder’s chest. 

Still, he decides it’s not his place. Not here, and not tonight. He steps away from the bar and moves down some ten feet, around the corner of it and in between a few people. 

. . . 

“So were you going to call me?” 

It’s been three days. WIlder is standing in the middle of an aisle at Blick, trying to decide between Golden and WIndsor Newton acrylics when he looks up. Tommy has a basket in his hand, half-full with small canvases and a fair amount of Liquitex. 

“Hey, T,” he greets cordially. Tommy smiles at him and then steps forward, offering him a side hug. Wilder accepts it, tucking his chin over Tommy’s shoulder. “Good to see you.” 

“I had to call your mom,” Tommy states when they part. 

“I was gonna call at some point,” WIlder states a bit sheepishly. 

“You always go with Windsor,” Tommy comments, as though he can hear the argument in Wilder’s head. “Forget Golden.” 

Wilder chuckles. “Sure.” He’s quiet for a moment, reaches out for a tube of Windsor Newton. As he stares at the unbleached titanium shade in his hand, he contemplates. He tilts his head after a moment, glances over at Tommy. “So. The new guy.” 

There’s a glint of something in Tommy’s eye that Wilder hasn’t seen in at least five years. Something he saw once, after their first drunken kiss. 

“His name is Evan,” Tommy replies. He lets out a soft sgh. “He thought I was introducing you two. Had a hell of a time explaining to him that I didn’t even know you were back.” 

Wilder nods. That familiar twinge of jealousy throbs in his chest, under his heart. 

“You sticking around,” Tommy asks him after another minute of silence. Wilder glances back up at him. 

“Got a residency downtown,” he replies. “And then UCLA in the fall. So I’ll be here, yeah.” 

Tommy nods. “We should get dinner. Evan wants to meet you properly.” 

“Sure,” Wilder says again. What else is he supposed to say? They’re not together anymore. 

“Give me call when you’re more settled. We’ll plan something,” Tommy says with a pat to Wilder’s shoulder. He’s walking backwards then, heading back down the aisle. He shakes a finger in Wilder’s direction. “Good to see you, Wy.” 

. . . 

The second time Wilder meets Evan Buckley, they’re in another bar. He’s been in the studio almost exclusively for the better part of a week and had been dragged out by a friend with the promise of carbs—his fridge might’ve been mostly empty, other than juice boxes and pepperoni slices—but carbs is apparently at a bar that doubles as a pizzeria. 

He’s not following them, he swears. But he’s been waiting for ten minutes on his pizza while his friend is on the phone with his girlfriend when Tommy strolls up to the bar with his boyfriend—Evan? Tommy has his arm wrapped around the younger man’s hip, head tilted in and listening as Evan prattles on with very animated expressions. Wilder isn’t even sure what he’s on about, but regardless, Tommy is nodding along, clearly invested. 

When they make it up to the bar, some five feet away, Tommy’s arm wraps around Evan, boxing him in. There’s a grin on his face and Wilder notices as Evan leans back into Tommy’s body, turns his head and says something into his ear. Tommy laughs, loud enough that the tinkling sound of it carries in Wilder’s direction. 

“Four for Buckley,” one of the barbacks calls out. Evan raises his hand and the man steps over with boxes of pizza. At the same time, someone from the kitchen yells out, “Veggie with mushrooms, light alfredo up.” 

Tommy lifts his head at that, leans back from Evan just enough to look around the bar before his eyes eventually fall on Wilder. He smiles at him. A few seconds later, he’s up next to Evan’s ear, and then Evan glances over in Wilder’s direction. There’s a half-second pause where Evan seems to be taking him in before he smiles affiliatively at Wilder. Evan picks up the pizzas and Tommy switches the arm he has around Evan’s waist as they stride over. As they reach him, another person is settling Wilder’s pizza in front of him. 

“So do you just hang out at all the best bars in LA,” Evan asks when they reach him. 

“Honestly, I’m usually locked up in the studio,” Wilder replies. He glances in Tommy’s direction, but Tommy is still looking at Evan. Still that look in his eyes. Evan moves a hand from under the pizzas and extends it. 

“Evan Buckley. Most people call me Buck though,” he states. Wilder extends a hand to him, shaking it. 

“Wilder Gray.” 

Evan nods. “I know.” There’s an expression on his face that’s caught somewhere between a multitude of emotions. A look that falls somewhere between curiosity, understanding, and skepticism. Wilder looks him over, spots the emblem on his t-shirt. 

“You’re a firefighter,” he muses. 

“And you’re a multidisciplinary artist,” Evan replies. 

Wilder nods. It’s interesting. It’s like they’re meeting for the most cordial duel of all time, but neither of them have brought guns; just clipboards and pens. 

A phone rings, and Tommy glances away from them. A moment later, he looks back up. 

“Hey baby that’s Eddie and Chris wondering why we haven’t brought dinner back,” he states, giving Evan’s hip a light squeeze. Evan nods, although his gaze lingers on Wilder for a few seconds longer. He turns then, leans into Tommy. Wilder watches as whatever tension is left in Tommy’s body seeps away. 

God damn. He really wanted to not be able to like Evan Buckley. 

“See you around,” Evan states after a moment, glancing in Wilder’s direction again. Wilder nods at him. As Evan and Tommy walk away, Tommy’s hand still on Evan’s hip, his friend strides back across the room 

“Hey, what’d I miss?” 

. . .

A few weeks go by without any run-ins. Maybe it’s because Evan and Tommy find other places to hang out. Maybe it’s because Wilder basically lives in his studio (it’s definitely not that). Maybe it’s because of wildfire season (it might be that). Either way,  Wilder doesn’t see much social interaction beyond his friends occasionally dropping by the studio and his parents stopping in to drag him into the sunlight. Once or twice he opens grindr, but nothing promising pans out. 

It’s mid August when Wilder spots them out together again. Another bar, another set of drinks. He’s been flirting with a guy who introduced himself three minutes after Wilder walked through the door when he spots Evan on the other side of the room. He almost thinks about going over to say something, but there’s a look in his expression. 

Something that looks curiously like defeat. Tommy is standing next to him—Wilder could place that mop of hair anywhere—talking into his ear much like he was that first night all those weeks back. He tries to look away enough to not make Evan look in his direction, realize he’s being stared at. But he sees the way Tommy’s talking calms Evan, the way he leans into him. The way their communication wipes out the defeat in Evan’s expression and replaces it with a small smile. And then a laugh. And then before long, Tommy has Evan half tipped on the barstool, their noses and foreheads pressed together as Evan straight-up giggles. Tommy is laughing with him, and fuck. 

Wilder really wanted to not like Evan Buckley. 

But Evan Buckley isn’t Mike, holding Tommy hard enough to hurt him (although the way he fists Tommy’s t-shirt before he kisses him makes a different kind of jealousy stir in Wilder, like these two probably throw each other around a bedroom with ease, and he wants to see that). Evan Buckley clearly isn’t Leo, just looking to fuck Tommy hard into a mattress and leave him behind. 

Evan Buckley might be a little like Ezra, and Wilder isn’t sure how he clocks that. Except, there’s an ease about him that Ezra never had. Evan Buckley clearly wasn’t looking for an education. The love in his eyes was obvious to the entire damn bar, whether they wanted to know or not. 

Evan Buckley definitely was not Charlie. He was openly making out with Tommy in public, hands all over the man’s body in a way that Wilder could tell was at least partially to tell the world ‘this is mine, and only mine’. 

. . .

It’s an early morning in September when they run into each other. Wilder is definitely not prepared for an eight AM class, and he’s questioning why he agreed to take this particular one on, but there’s no option to back out now. 

He stands inside the café wearily, waiting on his order, when the door chimes with ringing bells and he glances up. Evan Buckley. 

The blonde is in a hoodie Wilder recognizes as Tommy’s. The Harbor Station seal is on the back of it with his last name printed across the bottom. Evan yawns as he walks up to the counter and grabs two coffees. Knowing the kind of schedules they work, it seems Evan is heading home while Wilder is just starting his day. 

Except, Evan stops in his tracks when their eyes meet. 

“Evan,” he comments softly, acknowledging the other man. “Or, Buck. If you prefer.” 

Evan shrugs. “Evan is fine.” A pause. “Wilder. Its…convenient? To see you.” 

Wilder lets out a small chuckle. He nods. 

Evan walks forward a few steps, as though he’s not going to say anything further, and he makes it about a half-step past Wilder before he stops, leans back slightly, contemplating. He looks up at him. 

“He still talks about you,” he states. There’s no jealousy in his tone, no anger. Almost like he’s just putting the information out into the universe. Wilder nods again. He stares at Evan for a moment and then tilts his head slightly, almost like he’s letting him in on a secret. 

“And he’s in love with you.” 

Evan stares at him for a moment, and Wilder isn’t sure if Evan has realized that or not. His expression doesn’t let on one way or the other. 

Wilder takes a deep breath and the corner of his mouth pulls up a little into a small smirk. 

“Tommy never once looked at me the way he does you,” he states. “Not even during the best of it all. And me? I couldn’t ever fully accept the job.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating whether he needs to say more. Even if he doesn’t, he continues anyway. “I found him when he needed a friend. You founded him when he needed a partner.” 

A smile pulls at Evan’s face. If he has anything else to say, he doesn’t get the chance. His phone starts to buzz in the pocket of the hoodie, and he stacks the coffees together before pulling it out, answering the call, shooting only half a glance in Wilder’s direction before he speaks. 

“Hi, babe. No, I already got it. I’ll be there in like five.” 

. . . 

It’s the first week of December. Wilder is exhausted, maybe even a little burnt out, but riding high. His residency has panned out into an exhibition, and it’s the opening night. He’s been bouncing all over the gallery, trying to greet everyone and talk to them, see what they do and don’t like about the work presented. 

A hand comes down on his shoulder as he finally finds a few seconds to get a bottle of water, and he spins. Tommy. 

“Hey, T,” he greets cheerfully, if not a little weary. “Thanks for coming.” 

Tommy nods, and they share a quick hug. 

“How’d you hear,” he asks. Tommy gestures off towards one of the walls and Wilder glances over. 

“Evan saw the listing,” he states. “Told all of our friends we needed to come support. He’s really obsessed with that picture of your nephews.” 

WIlder glances over at the picture. It’s a large portrait, of two children facing away from the camera. One, old enough and tall enough that he isn’t even in the image aside from his torso and legs, with his hand resting on the younger one’s head. The younger child is a toddler, leaning into his sibling’s leg with his arm wrapped around it. 

“I’ve been tasked with getting your price list,” Tommy adds. 

Wilder lets out a soft huff as a smile tugs across his lips. 

He wanted to hate Evan Buckley. He wanted Evan Buckley to be like Mike. Or Leo. Or Ezra. Or Charlie. 

He wanted Evan Buckley to not be like him, not love and respect Tommy the way he did. But then…

Evan Buckley isn’t like Wilder. Evan Buckley supports the people his boyfriend cares about. Evan Buckley doesn’t care that Tommy is a firefighter or a pilot. Evan Buckley clearly likes art. Wilder barely knows him, and yet he already knows Evan Buckley is caring and selfless. 

He takes a breath and sighs, glancing back at Tommy, watching the way he watches Evan. 

“You’re gonna marry him.” It’s not a question. 

Tommy shifts his gaze back to Wilder. It’s the slightest movement, entirely imperceptible to someone who wouldn’t know otherwise. The twitch of the corner of his mouth, of his eyebrow. 

“Forever doesn’t seem nearly long enough,” Tommy says softly. 

Wilder can only shake his head at him as he smiles at his ex-boyfriend. 

“Well, when you start interviewing wedding photographers, I’d like to at least be consulted,” he states, extending a hand to Tommy. Tommy laughs at him but shakes his hand anyway. 

“Sure, Wy. But you should know, Evan’s seen your paintings and he wants one commissioned.” 

“I’ll take that payday,” Wilder says with a laugh. When Tommy lets go of his hand, he pats Wilder’s shoulder, and then he’s off again, heading back over to Evan and the friends they brought with them. Wilder stands in his spot a moment longer, both hands on the waterbottle he still hasn’t had a drink from. He watches as Tommy’s arm loops around Evan’s waist, and as Evan leans into him. The way Evan points at a portrait and talks to Tommy earnestly about whatever it is he sees. The way Tommy is completely enraptured by Evan’s words, nodding and smiling at him with interest. 

The way Evan puts his hand on the back of Tommy’s head as he leans into him, whispers into his ear. How, when Tommy turns into him to answer, Evan looks at him like he’s the only person in the room. 

The way jealousy still lives inside Wilder, but not the way it was that first night. No, this jealousy is from the way they look at each other, the way Wilder only hopes someone will hopefully look at him one day. He finally looks away when the two men kiss, cracking open his water bottle. He manages to get a sip off of it before someone else is walking up to him.

“You’re the artist, right?” 

[monsterfactoryfanfic]

fuck Reedpop, fuck Ziff Davis, and fuck Consolidation

I wrote this back in November of 2023 for Richard Williams' "What's Hot in Indie TTRPGs" roundup. And though things have moderately improved with the launch of Rascal News, I'm still so heartbroken about the state of games journalism.

Anyone paying attention to games journalism over the last five years could tell you the earth is salted. But it’s been especially hard to see two mainstream outlets for TTRPG news suffer from corporate greed here at the end of 2023. First is the layoff of Lin Codega from Gizmodo, part of a 23-person restructuring that also shuttered the iconic feminist site Jezebel. Codega had received an Ennie Award only a few months prior for their work covering the fiasco Wizards of the Coast invited upon itself when it tried to revise its Dungeons and Dragons “Open Gaming License” in an attempt to squeeze competitors out of the economy. My favorite of their recurring features was “The Gaming Shelf,” which regularly highlighted indie RPGs. It is so rare to see someone with relatively mainstream media access discuss what’s happening on itchio, and to lose this chance to get more eyes on small projects is an absolute travesty. Codega themself puts it best: "I deserved better than this and G/O Media will be poorer for letting me go." The second, which is at this time a travesty-in-progress, is the auctioning of ReedPop’s “Gamer Network” portfolio of websites, which includes Dicebreaker. This news arrived the morning I sat down to write about media consolidation, the week of Dicebreaker’s second Tabletop Awards. Few other sites command the audience and prestige of Dicebreaker, whose journalists regularly feature games by indie creators who otherwise are forced to market their games through increasingly-fractured social media sites. I truly hope the “Gamer Network” portfolio is purchased, and all staff affected keep their jobs, but I’m not optimistic.   My mom was a journalist. She retired over a decade ago, when GateHouse Media swallowed a dozen local newspapers right before filing for bankruptcy. I’m genuinely sorry to see that ten years on, media companies are callous as ever, happy to ruin the lives of hundreds of brilliant people for the sake of a few points on a spreadsheet. Indie games deserve mainstream coverage. And the people who cover them deserve so much better than what they’re getting. 

[wheneverfeasible]

wc: 2.3k || rating: T || cw: none || summary: Jim Hopper and Will Byers have a bonding moment post-S4. pre-Byler || now on ao3

Jim wouldn’t say that it wasn’t an adjustment. Of course it was.

It had been easier with Eleven because, though it had been years, he’d once been a dad to a little girl before too. Not that El was anything like Sarah had been, and Jim had made absolute fucking certain El knew that she was not in any way a replacement for Sarah, but she was still a little girl. Or had been, at least.

Still was in a lot of ways, but she was growing up. Still needed her dad though, that much had become certain from the moment they reunited. He was just happy that Joyce had been there for her, had all but already been her mom even before he and Joyce finally became a thing.

And they did become a Thing. It took some doing with having to come back from the dead, with the Byers moving back to Hawkins, and with figuring themselves all out as they settled into this new normal. El had become a part of the Byers family, and sure Jim had his and El’s cabin, but it wasn’t really fit for so many people. So, with a little assistance from the US Government who owed them for an entire lifetime of pain and terror, they bought a new house.

Jim remembered when he used to live in a trailer by the lake, and here he was now living in a sprawling goddamn near-mansion in Loch Nora, not too far down from the Harrington residence actually. It was a gorgeous two-story, five bedroom, three and a half bathroom house with its own pool, and plenty of space for all the kids when they inevitably came to visit. It was…a lot, sometimes. More than Jim was used to, but he never regretted what it meant to be with Joyce.

Even if it was an adjustment.

Jim had, quite quickly, gone from being a single parent with one daughter to a stepfather of sorts to two boys, one of them already grown. He could tell that it was an adjustment to the boys as well, whose last experience with a male figure was Bob Newby who hadn’t been more than just their mom’s boyfriend.

And sure, it wasn’t like he and Joyce were married or anything. They were still getting used to the idea of simply being together themselves, but there was years of history between them, even before all this shit with the Upside Down. What’s more, Jim couldn’t take El away from the family she made with the Byers, so it only made sense to move in together. Make up for lost time.

He could tell it was awkward for the boys as much as it was for him, though Jonathan and him had reached some kind of understanding and bonding due to the boy’s age and the fact that they’d sneak off away from Joyce to smoke pot together occasionally. It was different with Will, however.

Jim could tell he was…maybe wary wasn’t quite the right word, but it was close enough. Jim knew he wasn’t the kind of softness that Bob had been, knew that Russia had changed him further, sharpening bits of himself and hardening others. He was learning to move past that though, surprisingly enough with Steve Harrington of all people and that Robin Buckley girl. They’d talked about it, finally having someone else who understood, and it…it helped.

Living so close to the Harringtons, Steve started coming around a lot more often, helping Joyce out with the kids, or shooting the shit with Hopper. Sometimes Robin joined him, sometimes not. He made certain the girl knew she was always welcome, however, with or without Steve, after she had confessed that she felt like she didn’t deserve to be part of the discussion because the Russians never hit her. He made damn certain she knew that there was more than just one type of torture.

So yeah, Jim was doing better, settling back into his normal (or as normal as it got) life, taking up work as a private investigator, though Cal had offered him his job as chief back. Jim didn’t want it anymore, however, and with the tidy sum of money the government gave to the Hopper-Byers family, he wasn’t in desperate need of money as he worked out his new occupation. He had agreed to help out, unofficially, when needed, however.

It left him time to get used to his new family dynamic, however. To be there for El, Joyce, and the boys, though Jonathan seemed to finally start relaxing again now that the Vecna creep was well and truly gone.

But still Will was hesitant with him, not quite timid but watchful. Especially when Mike was over. Jim always had to suppress a sigh at that. He had thought that he was in the clear once El and the twerp broke up, but no such luck apparently.

And Jim knew. He recalled Joyce’s words, knew what that asshole Lonnie had called the boy, and before it might have been explained away from the kid just being a gentle soul when he was younger, but there was no denying the way that Will looked at Mike. Worse, the way Mike looked at Will. He wanted to grumble, put off by the disrespect shown towards El even though she had been the one to break things off, but El had assured him that she was fine.

Jim knew how he looked. He was large, and while he was no longer portly, he was solid. He kept up with his exercise, even took to jogging in the morning with Steve and Lucas, and made good use of his new pool when it was warm enough to do so. Sometimes even when it wasn’t. He knew he was intimidating. He knew that to a young gay kid whose own father had spouted hate, it had to be scary.

He also didn’t want to out the poor kid, however. Right now it was technically only conjecture. Just an idea. He wasn’t trying to be the kid’s dad. He knew he couldn’t force himself into that position. The kid was grown enough to not need him to, after all.

But…he wanted Jonathan and Will both to know that he was there for them, whenever and whatever they needed. Jim had no problem with alternative lifestyles. As long as his kids were safe and happy, that was all that mattered.

So Jim tried to soften himself some, joked and teased Will like he did with El, made it obvious that he was in it until the end, that whether or not he and Joyce ever got married, they were his in whatever capacity they let him have them. And slowly, ever so slowly, Will began opening up to him.

It started with his artwork. He’d painted a portrait of the family, all five of them, as a Mother’s Day present for Joyce. He showed Jim first, asking his opinion and obviously nervous about it, but Jim could only praise the work with genuine compliments. He even joking said he might just have to pay Will to do a portrait for his office like those fancy muckity mucks.

Will then surprised him, on Father’s Day, with a portrait of his own. Jim was not ashamed to say that it brought tears to his eyes, and he promptly hung it up in a place of honor.

From then on, things got a little more comfortable, and Will even joined him and the others on their morning jogs sometimes, or some of the other exercises Jim partook in. Slowly Will even started filling out, and he could tell it helped the boy’s confidence some, though he also noticed it made Mike stare more too.

Jim wasn’t stupid. Though there had been a period of time where he didn’t give a shit, where he drank his life away through heartbreak and barely existed, he had still been a cop. And a damn good one once he got a scent. He could piece together clues and figure things out and see what others didn’t want you to see.

It was why, one summer afternoon while Will was sprawled on chair beside him by the pool, watching fucking Mike bellyflop after a failed jump that may or may not have been caused by El, with the puppiest of lovesick eyes that Jim had finally had enough. He sighed heavily, causing Will to glance at him, and he shook his head at the lost cause.

“Really, kid? Wheeler?” he lightly complained. He didn’t look at Will, but he could see him freeze in his peripheral vision, could feel the fear wafting off of him. Jim didn’t react to it, just took a sip of his beer before letting out another sigh. “I guess I am destined to have Wheeler as a fu—freaking in-law. But truly, kid,” he said, and finally looked at Will and ignored his wide eyes to lightly clap a hand on his knee. “You could do so much better.”

Will flinched, ever so slightly, at Jim’s hand moving towards him, and he seemed to be holding his breath, but Jim didn’t let it hurt him. Too much. It was understandable why he’d think someone like Jim, a former cop, might have some hidden prejudices. So he just squeezed Will’s knee before releasing it and settling back into his chair.

But Will just continued staring at him, blinking slowly, before his face slowly went from deathly pale to flushed pink. “I—” he started to squeak out, before clearing his throat and beginning to fidget with his own can of pop. He looked down, hunching his shoulders, before glancing back over at Jim. “I’m…he doesn’t…it’s not…”

“Will,” Jim said, fixing the boy with a look that caused him to snap his jaw shut. “What part of our family is normal?” His raised his brows and spread out a hand to indicate the pool and yard full of their massive found family, something even Jim hadn’t thought possible. “Your sister can literally kill people with her mind,” he dryly pointed out.

That caused Will to snort, a hesitant smile curling his lips. “That’s…fair,” he allowed carefully.

“Your paramour’s sister is probably a better shot than I am,” Jim continued without any ill will towards that. It was mostly the truth. “I’m somewhat friends with a Russian former prison guard. And there’s…” His eyes closed as though it was painful to admit. “Murray.”

Will let out a real laugh at that, before he looked away with an embarrassed look. “He’s not my…paramour,” he said, rolling his eyes at the last word.

“But you want him to be.” It wasn’t a question. Will looked up at Jim again, and though there was still that sense of wariness, Jim could see a small spark of hope in his eyes.

“That doesn’t…gross you out?”

“Oh it definitely grosses me out,” Jim said easily, but continued on before Will could become upset. “But just because it’s Mike. It grossed me out when El liked him too.” Will covered his mouth when a startled laugh left him, causing Jim to grin.

He glanced over at Joyce when he felt her eyes on him, and he gave her a small wink and nod. Her eyes moved towards Will, seeing his shocked and cautiously happy expression, and understanding dawned on her own face. She smiled at him, and even from here he could see her eyes shine with unshed tears before she turned back to her conversation with Robin and Steve.

Turning back to Will, Jim tried to offer an easy, open smile. By the way Will’s shoulders untensed, he thought he had to have succeeded at least a little bit. “You know more than just about anyone how short and precarious life can be. Why waste it judging someone for who they love, the way they were born? Just as pointless as judging them for the color of their skin.”

Jim indicated across the way with his beer can where Erica was sassing Lucas and Dustin about something. “You don’t judge the Sinclairs, do you?”

“Of course not,” Will rushed to say with a small frown. “They’re some of my best friends.”

“And you’re my…” Jim hesitated. He didn’t want to overstep, but…there was no denying he loved Joyce. For him, she was it, and that meant her kids were too. Just as his was hers. Whether or not he and Joyce ever got married, these were his kids now.

Jim looked at Will, who was looking back at him with that wary hopefulness again. He forced himself to expose some vulnerability, letting out a soft sigh as he moved to ruffle the boy’s hair who was probably a little too old to have his hair ruffled.

“And you’re my kid,” he finished, his voice a little gruff, though he’d deny it was from emotion. Or that said emotion bubbled up inside him again at the wide smile Will gave him. He cleared his throat, turning his gaze towards Mike and swallowing down another grimace. Christ.

“You like who you like. Anyone who causes you grief about that can come talk to me.” He let his gaze sweep over the party, taking in Joyce, Jonathan, Steve, El, even Mike, and all the others too. “And trust me. There’s gonna be a whole line behind me.”

Will flushed a little, chewing his bottom lip as he followed Jim’s line of sight. He hesitated, seemed to be bracing himself, and drew in a deep breath. “I’m gay,” he softly said, and the words sounded heavy on his tongue for how light he suddenly seemed after staring those two words that were anything but small or simple in a town like Hawkins.

“I know, son,” Jim murmured, and he leaned back in his chair as Will did the same, a relieved smile lighting the young man’s face as he relaxed fully and completely next to Jim for the first time. “I know.”

-

tagged: @derythcorvinus

[americasass81]

Back To Nature

Warnings 18+ for the following:- Pretty much nothing but actual fluff as far as I cat tell.  Any sexual encounters are merely hinted at.  Seriously do not read if any of this upsets you, the warnings are there for a reason. Feedback is welcomed and any mistakes are my own.

By proceeding you are acknowledging that you are over 18 and are consenting to the content below the cut.

Author’s Note 1:- This was written especially for @navybrat817 who celebrates her birthday today.  Hope this brings a smile to your face Navy.  I can’t think of anyone more deserving of this type of gift than you.  Have a wonderful day love.

Author’s Note 2:- [Text Message]

Author’s Note 3:- As always, all images have been found through google search.

Synopsis:- Who knew being gifted a weekend away would turn out to be the birthday treat that would change your life for the better?

Pairings:- soft!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count:- 3,053

Rolling over in bed as the morning light broke through another blissful night, you knew one thing deep in your bones ... you didn't want to get up.  Now it wasn't that you were depressed or anything serious like that, you had simply had enough damn it.  Work days spent shouldering the majority of the tasks as colleagues commended you on the fabulous job you were doing while never quite doing their own share in return, had finally taken its toll.

And that was before you started dwelling on your personal life.

Guaranteed four weeks vacation time a year from work, there always seemed to be some crisis or emergency that only you could fix and so dates dwindled down to nothing and nights out with your girlfriends seemed to have you leaving the venue early just to get a few decent hours kip before the week began again.

So when then was it going to be your turn?  When would you be able to let your hair down, kick your feet up and just say to hell with responsibility?  When would your birthday be something you genuinely looked forward to instead of yet another day that passed by in a total blur?

Giving yourself five more minutes now before finally giving up on what might be while dragging your body into a sitting position, your hand reaching out to switch off the bedside alarm clock brought a startling realization to your still addled brain however.  The alarm clock wasn't there.  Bringing back your hand now and searching through your memory for a fragment of the dreaded sound that never failed to wake you up, the lack of it and the monstrosity that created it, now found you wide awake in a way you never were before.  For something was definitely amiss.

Feeling around the bedside unit once more and finding a lamp now instead of the aforementioned alarm clock, its light cutting through the remaining darkness showed you things were far more sinister than they first appeared however.  For this was not your room, your bed or even your house if the man sleeping beside you was any indication.

So what the fuck then was going on?

Reaching quietly for your phone now while switching off the lamp to plunge the bedroom into darkness once more, the glow from your phone now illuminated a discarded robe by the side of the bed and so leaving the comfortable structure without waking the beast you were not yet ready to deal with, a successful trip out to the waiting kitchen and living area brought you some kind of answers at least.

You had woken up in a hotel it seemed.  But how did you get here?

Sitting down in the nearest chair now while ignoring the clothes discarded haphazardly around the room, the torch on your phone, the card on the counter and the brochure on the coffee table began to paint a clearer picture of what was going on at least.  Your girlfriends had had enough.

Complaining non-stop about the three weeks of intensive work that had kept you away from them and enjoying your life, they had foregone physical gifts this year and treated you instead to a luxury birthday weekend at the very exclusive Emerald Forest Spa & Resort.  Their only request being that you chill out, forget about work and bring each of them back a home spa kit.  That and maybe find a man while you were at it.

Well, if the scene in the bedroom was anything to go by, you had that part of the weekend covered it seemed.  But what else had you been up to?

Relaxing deeper into the couch now that you at least knew where you were, the gaps in your memory still needed filling and so you decided to start at the beginning.

Leaving work two hours earlier than usual when your boss discovered you were going away for a birthday weekend, your case was already waiting in the trunk of your car and so now all you had to do was set off on the road.  Turning the key in the ignition and programming your destination into the GPS, three hours later and the time for relaxing had finally begun.

Driving up to the exquisite lodge and stopping your car outside the entrance, it finally felt like your weekend had started and you suddenly felt lighter.  Handing your keys to the valet then while the porter took your case and told you to meet him at reception, you now made your way into the lodge, received your room key and followed the kindly porter up stairs and along corridors until at last the door opened on the most spectacular suite you had ever seen.  God, you were going to kill them.

Tipping the porter now and thanking him for his service, you opened the doors leading out to the balcony, took in the view and shook your head as you sat on a lounge chair and hit the group chat message logo on your phone before typing.

[A suite ladies?  What were you all thinking?  You know I would have been happy with a broom closet.  You really are too kind to me.  Thank you all so much.  Love you loads to the end and back, we'll chat again when I get home.]

Sending the message then and bringing the phone to your chin as you smiled at how blessed you truly were, the ambient noises drifting up from the outdoor pool made you long to leave the world behind and begin enjoying yourself, so that's exactly what you did.

Heading back into the suite now and moving your case into the bedroom, you quickly peeled yourself out of your office attire, grabbed an equally quick shower and dressing next in the beautiful turquoise swimsuit Lisa had gifted you on your last birthday you then claimed a complimentary robe, pulled it on and headed back down to the lobby with your tote bag to where this whole adventure had first begun.  Making your way to the outdoor pool then, the mob of people socializing around here and creating the noise that had traveled quite well up to your balcony was a bit much to start off with however and so, returning indoors, you inquired directions to to the indoor facilities, found your way there easily and exhaled a genuine sigh of relief.

This was definitely more your pace.

Two women chatting amongst themselves.  A man and a woman on opposite sides of the pool, one reading a book, the other engrossed in an actual newspaper.  While a couple in and around your own age cuddled in the hot tub in a manner you had to admit was something you could definitely go for at this point.  Nothing outrageous or sexually inappropriate given where they were, they simply seemed to be enjoying each other's company, but it still didn't stop them from passing along a pleasant hello as you walked past.

Returning the hello and walking on to the nearest available lounger, you placed down your towel and bag by the side before directing your attention to those people present and asking if they minded you using the pool.  Telling you to go ahead and enjoy yourself, you did exactly that as those around you returned to their activities as if you weren't even there or had been a part of the group since the very beginning.  And as it turned out, that's exactly how they made you feel when your muscles cried out for a break and the lounge chair you claimed earlier called out to you once more.

Laying on it now as the young couple, Debbie and Marcus, took up the other two available spaces, a pleasant conversation between the three of you revealed that this was their first vacation since their daughter had been born.  Which was why relaxation and rejuvenation was so important to them it seemed.  At least according to Marcus anyway.  Opening up to them a little bit about yourself then and the circumstances that landed you here, it was Debbie who spoke up now and warned you not to leave here without making use of the spa facilities.

Oh sure, the pools were great and the outdoors were fabulous given where the lodge was located, but you had to promise her that the spa and its treatments would be a priority.  Apparently, at least if the gentleman across the room was to be believed when he also joined the conversation, their treatments could add years to your life, get rid of knots you never even knew you had and thoroughly rejuvenate your mind, body and soul.  Well with a recommendation like that, who were you to argue?

Smiling and agreeing to their requests now as Debbie and Marcus said their goodbyes and headed off on their next activity, you now reached into your bag, took out the book you had started reading two months back and beginning all over again, was now more relaxed than you had been in ages by the time you reached the halfway point.  Checking the time on your phone now and agreeing with your stomach when it started complaining, you put away your bits and pieces, said your goodbyes to the few new people who now occupied this space and headed off back to your room to plan how best to satisfy your appetite.

Which apparently was quietly you decided once you made it through the majestic building and all the way back to your suite.

Closing the door upon stepping back into the solitude of your room, a quiet evening was now your plan for finishing the day and so calling down for room service, you left instructions for it to be placed on the dining table and then headed off into the bathroom to shower and slip into something best suited to an autumn evening relaxing at home.  Completing all this, you then found yourself twenty-five minutes later curled up on the sofa enjoying a glass of wine and a delicious meal that you had to admit may actually have been better than sex.

Then again, maybe it had just been so long since you'd had sex that you had actually forgotten how good it could be.

Leaving this thought aside however as you could find it beginning to dampen your mood, you instead finished your meal, took the remainder of your glass of wine into the bedroom and switching on some music tossed your body back on the bed until morning found you fully clothed and far more relaxed than you could ever remember feeling.  It seemed switching off really could happen.

Rising out of bed the next morning now as a newfound energy coursed through your well rested body, you changed out of your comfy clothes, grabbed a quick shower to freshen up and fifteen minutes later found yourself downstairs in the restaurant tucking into a deliciously healthy breakfast you then intended to walk off.  Heading out the main door of the lodge then, you popped in your earbuds, switched on some music and made it a few steps into the surrounding woodland when the reality of where you were and what you were doing finally hit you.

This was not the city.  You didn't need music here to drown out the noise of traffic in order to find a calm and quiet space.  This was a calm and quiet space.  Smelling like the outdoors were supposed to smell, the sound of the breeze whistling through the trees, the birds chirping all around you and the crunch of twigs under your feet all blended beautifully to send you on your hike with a newfound appreciation for the sense of solitude you knew the city could never provide.  This was relaxation the way it was meant to be.

Returning to the lodge now two hours later feeling totally reinvigorated, yet sore in places you haven't exercised so much in years, a salad and sandwiches back in the restaurant you had set out from earlier checked off another box on your to do list and now it was time to shut your body up, keep your promise and partake in some of the spa treatments this place was apparently famous for.  So that's exactly what you did.  Heading back to your room for a quick shower, one phone call and a thorough search through the catalog later and soon you were ready to see just what this place was capable of.

As it turned out, you weren't disappointed.

Letting go of a lifetime of tension with a full body massage.  Relaxing through a facial.  Actually dozing off during your meditation session.  While wincing slightly through your waxing appointment, it was definitely the wrap session that topped off the whole experience and you reminded yourself to thank Debbie for the push she gave you if your paths ever crossed again.  Choosing a mixture of seaweed and algae, the twenty minute session followed by the warm shower afterwards definitely left you feeling like a new woman and now a hot meal with a few drinks at the bar seemed the perfect way to finish off the night.

Which is how it seemed you had ended up how you had woken up.

Booking a table in the restaurant for an hour after your spa experience finished, you arrived at the bar feeling totally refreshed and signaled the bartender for a Cape Cod before finding a vacant stool to enjoy your drink in peace while you passed away the intervening time.  But apparently that plan was not to be.  Walking through the entrance now and asking the same bartender for a beer, a guy that knew his way around a gym asked if the stool beside you was taken and what were you supposed to say?

'Of course not, but I'd prefer it if you didn't sit there.’  ‘You could sit there but you look like you're on the prowl and I'm so not interested.'  God, even in your head both those statements sounded incredibly rude and that was not the type of person you were.  So what other choice did you have?

Honing in on your nice girl qualities and plastering on your best fake smile, you told him to go ahead and that's exactly what he did because it seemed he did indeed have an ulterior motive after all.

Starting off your second drink now as the bar began to fill up with couples and single men and women, it was clear to see that some indeed were on the prowl as you had suspected earlier of your silent companion and one more drink and a short conversation revealed that protecting your peace had been his only intention.  Realizing now that his presence had kept the trolls from actually bothering you, you suddenly thought ill of your first impression of him and hearing your name called for your table you quickly decided to show him some consideration instead by asking him to join you.

To which of course he readily accepted.

Chatting together in the restaurant now as meals were delivered, plates were cleared and glasses were emptied, the time seemed to fly by and as the customers slowly scattered you knew you were having too good a time for it to end so soon ... so why should it?

Requesting a bottle of the same wine both of you had consumed throughout dinner, you then asked Bucky, for that was his name apparently, if he wished to end the night in your company.  And of course he was only too happy to accept if it was something you truly wanted.

Reassuring him now that you wouldn't have made the offer if it was not something you were comfortable with, a trip up the stairs, a glass of wine each and soon the suite was witness to an orgasmic coupling your body had not experienced in quite some time.  And if you were honest, it was every bit as restorative as the treatments in the spa.  But you couldn't see them putting that in the brochure.

Laughing to yourself at this thought now as the sound of the bedroom door opening brought you back to the present, Bucky joining you on the couch now made you a little nostalgic for the night you'd just had and the feelings it had reawakened.  But you knew this couldn't last.  After all, this was just a weekend trip for you and while what happened last night had been truly spectacular, life would have to return to normal when the sun rose again in twenty-four hours.  And that wasn't even touching on the fact that you didn't really know all that much about Bucky.

Oh sure, you had both divulged what you were doing here and what both of you did for a living.  But other than finding out he was here mending a broken heart, you had never actually asked him where he lived.  Like you, was he a city person born and raised around traffic and smog and alarm clocks that dictated each and every second of your lives.  Or perhaps he was more like the location both of you now currently inhabited.  Free spirited, sweats wearing nature boy who thrived in an environment as unpredictable as he had been between the sheets the previous night.

Making sure to hide your embarrassment now as this thought conjured up some of the activities both of you had engaged in last night, Bucky somehow seemed to zone in on what you were thinking however and whatever plans you might have had for the morning quickly had to be thrown out the window when your robe was ripped open and Bucky helped himself to his own form of breakfast.

Laying on the couch then in a helpless pool some time later, Bucky reappearing and carrying you off into the waiting bathtub gave you plenty of time to discover his secrets however as he now showed you firsthand the benefits that could be experienced when a bath that easily accommodated two was mixed with sex and powerful jets.  This was definitely shaping up to be one birthday you weren't going to forget any time soon.

[agentmarvel]

sunset, sunrise

for @the-californicationist's nameless challenge; congratulations on your milestone!🖤

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

inspired by: sleeptalk by dayseeker (listen here)

There are many things in his life that he regrets, but he rues none so much as the day he ended things with you.

It started long before, perhaps once or twice a week, but after nearly dying in the field, he came to you more often. Like clockwork, at 2300 hours each night, he’d stand outside your door, two fastidious knocks on the wood to signify his arrival. Without fail, you’d let him in. 

Sometimes, he’d fuck you viciously, bruises and bitemarks littering your skin in the low glow of early morning light. Sometimes, he’d be gentler, almost as if apologizing for the inevitable end. And sometimes, when things felt especially difficult, he’d just curl up in your bed and hold you until the sun first blinked over the horizon, giving himself something tangible when it felt like his mind was spiraling into a black hole. But he never stayed past sunrise. Staying felt far more intimate than he was comfortable with. No, he’d always make sure to collect his things and leave before you had a chance to awake.

For weeks, the guilt has nagged at him. Like a banshee, it wails and screeches and begs him to just listen for once. Instead, he digs and digs, trying to bury it so deep in the hollow of his bones that it doesn’t see the light of day until decades after his life has reached its end.

The liquor helps some nights. He won't think about you if he can't think straight at all. At least, that's what he prefers to tell himself. It's not convincing in the least, but he tries. 

You've been good for him, at least to some extent. He’s never slept better than he did beside you, never felt more alive than by your side. The weight of the world lessened when you shouldered it with him.

But it wasn’t all good. You make him absolutely crazy, possessive and obsessed to the near point of his own detriment. Taking up residence in his mind, a masterful portrait painted in a gallery behind his eyes. He struggles to focus in the field. Always looking for you amidst the hail of bullets, awaiting your approaching silhouette through the haze of smoke and dust, straining to hear your voice through the crackling comms like a fiend.

He spent years trying to keep everyone else out, but the hammer of your wit and a tongue like a chisel chipped away at his stone wall. Tirelessly, he has guarded it, and he never noticed how close you were to breaking through until it was too late. You found your way inside. His defenses were no longer sufficient. He’s weak and exposed, feeling like prey beneath your half-lidded gazes and the press of your lips to his overheated skin.

The intruder had to be dealt with swiftly, removed like a cancerous growth and discarded like it never existed, and that’s exactly what he did.

He spent one more night with you, treated you exactly as you deserved, confessed everything he thought and felt as you slept soundly in his arms, and left you with a peck on the forehead and a mere five words: “This is the last time.”

And now, on his knees, staring down the muzzle of a .44 Magnum aimed point-blank between his eyes, he wishes you had been awake to hear it all.

[blue--ingenue]

"Evasive Maneuvers" - Part 6

Read the next part

Summary: You've been in love with Sebastian since the moment you knocked him on his arse on your first day. Entering your sixth year, you finally begin working up the courage to confess your feelings when he suddenly becomes the best Beater Hogwarts has seen in decades - and subsequently becomes the school's most eligible bachelor.

Author's Notes: *shakes this chapter like a jar of dog biscuits* besties, i'm so sorry for the little hiatus, but as usually summer college classes were kicking my ass 🫠 my last finals are tomorrow, and then i need to speedrun packing for my dorm etc.... i also really wanted to do this chapter justice, so it was written and rewritten at least five times before i decided on the final draft. anyway, back to our (ir)regularly scheduled Slytherin himbo

The second he loses sight of her in the swarm of students he really starts to panic. He starts pushing his way through the crowd toward the last spot he saw her, but it’s by far easier said than done. Imelda calls out for him to come back for the usual post-game debrief, but he shouts an excuse over his shoulder about going to the hospital wing. She could be anywhere, and he’s wasting precious time. Sebastian doesn’t think he was nearly this panicked when he plummeted toward the ground mere minutes ago. He stops, exasperated, and surveys the crowd. 

Fuck it. 

He hastily mounts his broom and yanks the handle upward. Hard. It’s possibly the fastest he’s ever taken off and the crowd beneath him cheers as he shoots upward and forward. As soon as he clears the quidditch pitch he’s scanning the grounds for a trace of her homemade quidditch jersey. The thought of her putting so much time and effort into the garment, all in support of him, forces a fresh stab of guilt between his ribs. His broom seems to sense his urgency and accelerates on its own. God, he’s such an ass. She’s never been anything short of kind to him, far kinder than he probably deserves, and he’s spent the last few days thinking nothing but the worst of her. No, he realizes with a jolt, not even the worst. 

He’s been seething over the thought of her enjoying Weasley’s company. Merely being happy in his presence. Nothing malicious or untoward or even anything to do with him. Every new realization pricks him with equal measures of mortification and hope. How was he going to explain his recent actions without revealing his true feelings to her? He had no idea. At this point his one-track mind was focussed purely on finding her. He’d figure out the rest once he was sure no more tears adorned her face. Is this the type of bloke he was? So jealous that he’d rather cause pain than face it? He considers asking Anne for advice on the whole situation, but he already knows what his better half would say: “Just tell her how you feel.”

He shakes the thought from his head. Impossible. He couldn’t face the possibility of losing her if she felt the same way. And if she did? What if he wasn’t good enough for her? After all the pain he’d caused her in fifth year, and now this, what if she was better off with someone like Weasley? She deserves someone who will treat her heart with care. Someone who won’t coerce her into risking her life for dark magic. Although Sebastian had been true to his word about relinquishing dark magic, the guilt of his actions remained. Sometimes, on particularly dark nights, he’d wake to the sound of her wails and pleas as her body convulsed next to the remains of Noctua Gaunt, his hand would shake as he channeled the pain directly into her veins. Other nights he’d grip the sheets in a cold sweat, his body safe in bed, but his mind bound to the darkest parts of him he’d worked to repress. He could still feel the phantom rush of power as he held the relic. His blood sang with power as the resurrected dead moved to his every whim. And there, at the center of it all, her. 

Terrified, resolute, courageous. Even as inferi clawed at her arms and Solomon appeared at the mouth of the cave, red with rage, she was still trying to save him. In his darkest of moments he wonders if he’d ever deserved saving at all. If she hadn’t knocked him unconscious, and if Anne’s curse hadn’t lifted as soon as Rookwood was destroyed, Sebastian knew he could’ve done a lot more damage. He knew he didn’t deserve her, but that didn’t stop him from wanting her. And oh, did he want her. She was radiant, inside and out. Even if she wasn’t the most beautiful witch he’d ever beheld, her heart and mind would enchant him all the same. She was always so quick to help others, so fearless in her every endeavor, it was a wonder she had any love left to give. She never failed to surprise him. She made him want to be a better man. She saw every flaw in his character, ran a gentle hand along every faultline in his heart and mended it with a selflessness rarer than the ancient magic gracing her person. 

Sometimes he wanted to grab hold of her, tender yet so very sincere, and remind her that she needed to save herself, too. He wouldn’t insult her intelligence by suggesting that she was ignorant of her own needs. But one time, just one time, he wished she would put her well being above others’. 

There was one question still nagging at the bag of his mind, a thread he had neither the time nor heart to unravel at the time. Why had she been so upset by his kissing Amelia? Was she perhaps still angry at him for ignoring her this morning? Why else would she - 

Oh, hell. 

It was impossible, no more than a pipe dream, but did she share his feelings? Why else would she have run away? He wanted more than anything to believe it, but what if he was wrong? He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If he confessed his feelings and she didn’t feel the same, he could lose her. But if she did, she could lose herself. He knew from experience that she’d go to hell and back just to fetch him, but she shouldn’t have to. Despite his best efforts he’d found numerous ways to hurt her in the past year. She didn’t deserve him. She deserved better. And if she wouldn’t make that choice herself, well, he’d just have to make it for her. 

Sebastian was so lost in his thoughts he nearly missed the flash of green beneath him. Cursing himself, he circled back to her and flew lower. It was unmistakably her. His last name billowed as she walked quickly toward the castle. He descended rapidly, calling out her name and begging her to wait. She turned and their gazes connected. Even if she was angry with him he felt a glimmer of hope that at least he had a chance to fix things. He was so focussed on her, he didn’t realize he was about to fly right into a tree until she shouted a warning, but it was too late to stop. Branches whipped at his face, stinging as he plowed through the tree before his broom lodged between two trunks and he was thrown forward. He managed to latch onto the branch, narrowly avoiding a swift trip to the ground twenty feet below. For the second time that day the air was forced from his bruised lungs and he fought the urge to vomit. Despite the pain and mortification, Sebastian couldn’t help but feel that this was at least partially deserved. He heard creaking as the branches to his left shifted and he watched his broom plummet to the ground. Well, the handle landed first, and the brush followed a moment later. Great, he thought. Imelda was sure to give him an earful about this. 

A brighter spot of green obscured the remains of his broom, and she looked up at him. He could almost hear a crack shooting through his heart as he took in her appearance. Her tears had smeared the green and silver paint almost completely off her cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed and every sniffle sent her shoulders trembling. At this moment he would have let go and fallen to the ground immediately if it meant he could wipe the tears from her face. Did he even deserve to? What right did he have to cause her grief and then swoop in like some undeserving savior?

She wordlessly raised her hands and reached out as though to pluck him from the branches. Blue light arced from her hands as she channeled her ancient magic. Sebastian felt himself being gently extricated from the twigs and leaves before those same gentle blue tendrils lowered him to the grass before her. 

The pair stood still. The intensity of her gaze rivaled his, but neither took a step forward. The air felt heavy with implications, things still left unsaid. Say something! A voice screamed in his head. You made this whole bloody mess, so say something!

He took two steps toward her, and said, “I’m sorry.”

She made no move toward him, and if not for the near-imperceptible softening of her brow he might’ve thought she hadn’t heard him. “For what?”

The determined search of her gaze told him everything. They both knew what she was really asking. She was waiting for him to voice his feelings. To lay claim to every bit of stolen affection threaded through the moments they shared. He had to tell her. He needed to tell her, she deserved that much. He opened his mouth to speak and - 

“I like you!” he shouted. She startled at his panicked outburst and he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. She looked at him, calculating and wary, before taking a step back. “Sebastian, you don’t have to say that simply because you feel guilty about-” he gave a frustrated groan and closed the distance between them in two determined strides. He frantically took her hands in his, held them gently, and whispered the truth he’d been so desperate to hide from. 

“That isn’t why. Please, you must know that isn’t why,” he pleaded. A stray tear remained on the apple of her cheek and he brushed it away with a tender swipe of his hand. He let his touch linger for a moment before drifting back to clasp her hands. “You occupy my every waking moment. Even in sleep I cannot escape the thought of you. Nor would I ever want to,” he declared. Her eyes searched for any hint of insincerity, but she didn’t pull away from him. Sebastian took that as a sign of encouragement and continued.  

“You are unlike any witch or wizard I have ever met. Kinder and braver than any soul I’ll ever meet, and my heart is irrevocably yours. You needn’t say anything, but know that it belongs to you. I’ve been a prick to you. I was selfish and scared and jealous, and I’m sorry for kissing Amelia. I won’t insult you by asking for forgiveness I know I don’t deserve, but you must know that I am yours, even if you want nothing to do with me.“

He finishes, breathless, and watches her. His brain is on fire and he’s pretty sure he’s run through the entire spectrum of human emotion in the last thirty seconds, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give her time to process everything he’s just thrown at her. He waits, and waits, and his palms begin to sweat. Shit. Was this the wrong time? Had he just royally fucked up whatever remained of their friendship? His gaze flicked up to her face, which had remained stoic beneath her runny makeup and the volley of emotion he had just flung at her. An agonizingly slow moment later she looked at him, really looked, as though for the first time, and she was livid.

There was fire in her eyes and blue magic arced from her fingertips. He took an instinctive step back as she leveled him with a stare rivaling the intensity of his own jackrabbiting heart. She swallowed thickly, and spoke.

“And how long,” she started, cocking her head. “How long have you felt this way?” He gulped. Was she going to hex him? Sebastian was sure he deserved it six ways to Sunday, but he would’ve at least liked more of a reaction to his confession before she blasted him to hell. 

“Since fifth year?” he squeaked. He actually squeaked. Good gods, this was mortifying. He thanked whoever was listening that at the very least Ominis wasn’t here to witness the whole ordeal. He answered like it was a question, when really this one of the only truths he knew in the core of his being to be true.

She took a step toward him, her mouth agape and eyes narrowed in confusion. Hysterically, he thought it was the same look she adopted when Professor Binns roused her from her nap to answer a question during lecture. He gulped. 

“Why on earth haven’t you said anything?!” she shrieked. He furrowed his brows and took a step closer to her. If she was going to immolate him, fine. For her he’d burn a thousand times. 

“Because I know you don’t feel the same!” He shouted frantically. “You don’t! You can’t, and you shouldn’t! I’ve been awful to you, and you deserve better!”

She held her face in her hands, exasperated and inhaling deeply, before throwing her hands up and shouting to the heavens, “Of course I feel the same!” She cried. “Merlin’s bloody balls, how thick can you get?!”

He stilled. He’s pretty sure his heart had stopped beating around the same time the air in his lungs froze over. “What?”

At his single syllable all the anger seemed to seep from her figure. She crossed her arms, the blue lightning dissipating as her chest heaved. When she spoke she was gentle, careful.

“Sebastian, did you truly not know?” Her eyes were pleading, searching his for answers he wasn’t sure he could provide.

He spluttered. She couldn’t feel the same. She didn’t…”You’ve never given any inclination. And I didn’t want to do anything untoward or unwanted…” he trailed off.

She laughed. Not a cruel, mocking sound like he probably deserved, but chiding. It wasn’t unlike the chuckles he heard from her when one of her puffskeins tried licking her when she wasn’t looking. 

“Sebastian bloody Sallow, I’ve been in love with you from the start. I don’t know how you could possibly think I don’t care for you, but please, banish the thought.” She declared softly. He suddenly realized how close they’d drifted. The red thread connecting his heart to hers always had a way of drawing them together. He looked down and she was nearly flush against his chest. Instinctively he drew his arms around her. Something sharp poked his chest and he brushed it aside. It was the necklace he’d given her. Within the gilded confines the stone glowed a deep, confident blue. A memory sparked somewhere in the back of his mind as he recalled the parchment the vendor had given him. Blue - truth.

He dropped the pendant as though it had burned him. She was telling the truth. She loved him, truly and completely, and he loved her the same. Everything he wanted was within his grasp, if only…If only he were someone more deserving. If only he were someone who could keep her safe and care for her in the ways she deserved. He looked down and her eyes were drifting closed. Just before they fluttered shut her gaze flickered to his lips. That’s funny, when had he started dipping his head toward her? His composure faltered - and good gods, no man could be strong enough for such temptation-

But he needed to be. Sebastian Sallow might not be the man she deserves, but he would be a man strong enough to keep her from making the mistake of choosing him. His eyes shot open and he pressed a gently finger to her lips. “Wait,” he whispered. She stilled and stopped. Gods, her lips were soft beneath his touch. And the way she was looking at him, with such open vulnerability, twisted the dagger he held to his own heart. She was confused, waiting for him to say something.

He released her and took a step back. And then another, and another. “We can’t. You can’t feel this way for me. I’ll only hurt you again, and you deserve better.” He broke her gaze hung his head. “So much better…”

When he looked up at her again, he almost wished he hadn’t. The tears were back, and this time her lip was trembling. He strode toward her, holding out his arms in comfort, but she held up a hand. It was trembling, and blue lightning crackled across her palm, but her voice was steady as she spoke. 

“Nobody makes my decisions for me. Nobody. You can tell me that you love me, or hate me, or anything in between. But you don’t get to stand there and tell me how I am meant to feel. If you don’t want me, then just say so. I deserve that much.”

Sebastian was truly and utterly speechless. He did want her, more than anything, but he couldn’t trust himself to keep her from harm on his behalf. He couldn’t draw her back into his arms knowing that he didn’t deserve her, but telling her that he didn’t want her? That would surely kill him. So he stood, silent, and said nothing at all.

As the seconds drew on, she seemed to take his lack of response as an answer all the same. She nodded her head once before stalking past him back to the castle, and he got one good look at the pendant as her shoulders shook with sobs. Black - anguish.

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Bonus Author's Note: besties, no matter how much you love someone, never let anyone make your decisions for you or tell you how you feel. you are irreplacable and nobody has the right to save you for later <3

Taglist: @snickette, @findingtruenorth23, @plooloo, @paganicher, @smilesworldsposts, @snoozebun, @crazyllamasurfer, @pixie-dustss, @margottheviking, @lollife1617, @milk-barrs-blog, @somethingiswrongwithme, @bleh-stupid, @stay-gray, @mrsbrookesallow, @lostgirl-28, @kateisnotheree, @doigettokeepyou, @dreamqueenkala, @uwuitzerimpact, @neoqueen306

[imwall-e]

Until we meet again : Chapter 1

Pairing : TB!Arthur Morgan x Reader

Warning : MAJOR SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T PLAY THE GAME, major character dea•th, tuberculosis, angst, (tell me if I forgot some), reader but external POV

A/N : I wrote this a few months ago and finally decided to post it. I'm really proud of this chapter, my best work so far (imo). I first wrote it in French and mostly used Deepl to translate the text, and even if I re-read it, they may be some mistake so don't hesitate to tell me! This is not beta read. This is my first work for the Red Dead fandom and I hope it's good. Consider liking, rebloging or commenting if you like my work (and feel comfortable with that of course).

The atmosphere of Beaver Hollow was already being felt long before we arrived at the new camp. The area was dark, damp, stinking. It was as if it were haunted. Cursed. As for the cave, it was a concentration of all that, only worse. Once home to a local gang nicknamed The Rejects of Murfree, it bore indelible traces of the horrors it had harbored. The smell outside was unbearable, but inside was a vision of dread. Blood was visible from floor to ceiling, pieces of decomposing corpses smeared all the way down to its entrails. Impossible to settle inside.

Where just a few weeks earlier the gang had been celebrating their exit from the snowy mountains, and everyone was ready to give their all to make a new place a comfortable place to live, now there was no laughter to be heard. Not a smile was to be seen on any of the faces. Only whispers, distrust, fear and death reigned.

And Arthur… his coughing fits were becoming more violent, and more frequent. His skin was pale, contrasting with the blue of his eyes, which betrayed his illness and fatigue.

Outlawed, hunted by the Pinkertons or opposing gangs like the O'Driscolls, he'd been shot at many times. And yet, he was dying of tuberculosis. A fucking disease. After all, he'd probably earned it with the life he was leading… had led. His punishment for beating up Mr Downes. A good man, always ready to help others even though he didn't have much.

Arthur, who'd never done anything right. Or so he thought, but she was always there to remind him otherwise. After Mary, after Eliza, he never thought he'd fall in love again. Then she'd come along, and offered him more than he thought he deserved.

Arthur had met her while hunting. She was wearing a long white dress. At first, he thought he saw an angel. Then their eyes met. He saw the fear in her eyes and decided to put down his bow. He introduced himself and she gradually seemed to calm down. After a few minutes' silence, she finally told him her name. Her voice trembled, but she'd asked for his help: she was supposed to be getting married that very day to a man she'd never met. But what she was looking for was freedom.

She wanted to travel. To discover. To live. And Arthur had offered her all that. For five years, they'd been happy together. Arthur had even proposed to her while they were still in Blackwater. But they'd kept it a secret until things got better.

Unfortunately, the moment never arrived.

Micah was a traitor. And Dutch had blindly followed him, going so far as to question the words of John and Arthur. He'd rather believe a dangerous madman than those he considered his own sons.

Arthur should have left after the Blackwater massacre. Hosea had tried to warn him when they'd all fled to Colter. Or he should have let Micah hang at Strawberry. If only he'd been willing to open his eyes to what Dutch had become. To his true nature. If only.

But it was too late now, and there was no point in dwelling on the past. Now he had t o protect those who remained. Tilly had already taken Jack to safety. Abigail was safe thanks to him and Sadie, and the two women had left to join Tilly. Mary-Beth and Karen had probably escaped too. She was the only one left. And he knew exactly where she'd be safe.

He helped his young fiancée onto her mare, then settled down behind her. He wanted to smell her hair while he still could. He wanted to hold her close. However, time was running out and lingering was a luxury they couldn't afford. The person he was looking for was passing through the Annesburg area, but they'd better get moving fast. He nudged the horse's flank to move it forward, and whistled for the stallion carrying the young woman's belongings to follow.

The journey wasn't long, but it went by faster than he would have liked. A dilapidated house appeared in the distance. Arthur had exchanged a few letters with the man who had taken an interest in his bleak landscape, a man he had helped not long ago. He was standing outside, setting up his camera. His gaze wandered to them, and he soon recognized Arthur.

"Mr. Morgan! I'm so happy to see you again! As you may have noticed, I've given up taking pictures of wildlife. I'm now content with the magnificent landscapes" exclaimed Albert, warmly greeting the man who had helped and saved him on numerous occasions. But his familiar enthusiasm soon disappeared when he saw the young woman's tears and Arthur's sickly pallor. "What's the matter?" he asked worriedly, abandoning his camera.

"Mr. Mason, I need you to…" but Arthur was interrupted by a coughing fit causing him to cough up blood as he stepped to the ground. "I'm dying and I'd like you to take care of my fiancée."

The young woman tried to smile at Albert, but knowing that the man she loved would soon be leaving her was too much to bear. It dashed all memories, all hopes of a better life with her cowboy.

"I'm sorry I haven't written to inform you, but recent events haven't given me the opportunity," Arthur resumed after helping his beloved off his horse.

The tears continued to roll silently down the cheeks of the woman who was to become Mrs Morgan. She was silent now, staring into space.

"Mr Morgan…", Albert didn't know what to say. This kind man, who had come to his aid so many times, was going to die. He could see the sadness in the lovers' eyes. And Albert saw only one way he could do something for them: "Don't worry, I'll take care of mademoiselle."

Arthur was relieved: she would be safe. She would live. He turned to her: she seemed no more than a ghost. But she had to fight. For him. For her. For them.

"I love you, Princess," he began, taking her in his arms. "More than you can imagine. I wish I'd said it more often. I regret so many things. But I promise we'll meet again. Not in this life, unfortunately, but in another. I'll find you again."

"We… we… we didn't even have time to get married," she managed to articulate between sobs, the crying resuming in earnest following Arthur's words.

"It wasn't our time. Now you must stay with Albert. Live, princess. Do it for me. I'll always watch over you, but promise me you won't let yourself die."

"I… I promise, Arthur."

That was all he needed to hear. He had to go now. He had unfinished business with Micah, but also with Dutch.

The sun was setting as he rested his forehead against hers. His way of kissing her for the last time, wanting to avoid her contracting tuberculosis too. He squeezed her hands and heard her whisper "I love you, Arthur".

He gently let go of her hands and she kept her eyes closed, not wishing to watch him go. To tell the truth, she was so focused on remembering his scent, his laugh, his voice, that she didn't even hear him mount his mare and gallop away.

When she opened her eyes again, the sky had darkened. A storm was approaching. Arthur was gone. Only Albert remained, looking after the stallion carrying the young woman's belongings. He knew she wouldn't move immediately, but it was time to go. He'd better get back to the cabin he'd rented before nightfall.

"Mademoiselle, I'm sorry but we must leave now. Tomorrow we'll go to Rhodes, my house is close to the city."

"Of course," was all she could reply, her gaze fixed on the mountains.

The journey to the cabin Albert had reserved was silent. The storm was roaring in the distance. She held back from joining Arthur. But she had to keep her promise.

Without Arthur, life would be difficult. Her heart would be broken forever, but she had to try. And one day, they would be reunited. She had to believe that.

The rain finally came, falling on her cheeks and mingling with her tears. She couldn't stop thinking about all those mornings she'd wake up alone. She couldn't accept that he wasn't coming back. Ever.

"Mademoiselle?" Albert's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "We've arrived. You should try to eat something and get some sleep." He didn't know what to do or say.

She followed him silently. Inside, she sat by the window, where she could see the mountains near Beaver Hollow. Soon, she closed her eyes, tears still flowing.

Her mind took her to a river in the middle of the woods. The light wind gently moved the leaves on the trees. She was wearing a long white dress. A branch cracked, startling her. But it was only Arthur, wearing the hat he always wore and the blue shirt she loved so much.

"You're beautiful," he said, and she threw her arms around his neck. "Dance with me?" Was there an answer other than "yes"?

And, each immersed in the other's gaze, they danced. Without stopping, they talked about their future: having a ranch, raising horses, starting a family. A quiet life away from traitors and the Pinkertons. Just them.

"I love you, Arthur."

"I love you too, princesses," he replied, kissing her tenderly. A deer passed by them. Then nothing.

When she opened her eyes again, she knew Arthur was gone.

It was nearly nine o'clock when Albert and the young woman began their journey to Rhodes.

"I think you'll like Rhodes very much, mademoiselle. It's much quieter and warmer since the Gray and Braithwaite families, two rival families, entered… well, since they left."

The young woman smiled at the mention. It brought back memories that were certainly recent, but seemed so long ago. But her smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared as she recalled Sean's death.

Then came Kieran's turn. Hosea. Lenny. Eagle Flies. John. And Arthur.

Sensing that she wouldn't talk any more than she had the day before, Albert decided to talk to her about anything and everything, in the hope of distracting her from the sadness that overwhelmed her, even if only for a few minutes.

"The landscape is also much brighter. Annesburg offers beautiful scenery, but it's a very dark, eerie area. Rhodes is nicer, warmer."

Albert was right: the further they got from Annesburg, the fresher the air seemed, the more colorful and welcoming the surroundings.

She glanced back one last time, to where Arthur had remained. Her heart sank. She felt she was abandoning him. But she had to stay strong.

Finally, Rhodes appeared before them as the sun tinted the sky orange, ready to give way to the moon.

"Miss, look!"

A majestic deer had stopped in the middle of the road, staring at them with its big dark eyes.

"It's the first time I've seen one approach like that. They're usually very frightened," Albert continued.

The deer approached the young woman and rested its muzzle against her leg. She gently touched its large antlers, then the animal moved away, disappearing among the trees.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

I hope you liked this first chapter!

[1800naveen]

ACOSF 1-5

Chapter 1:

“Feyre wants you at the house.” “Which one?” Nesta said, frowning at the foot he’d wedged in the door. “She has five.”

WHY DO Y'ALL NEED FIVE MANSIONS??

Cassian said at last, “Feyre is High Lady. She’s busy running the Night Court.”

High Lady of Velaris but ok.

He took the invitation to survey her: long bare legs, an elegant sweep of hips, tapered waist—too damn thin—and full, inviting breasts that were at odds with the new, sharp angles of her body. On any other female, those magnificent breasts might have been enough cause for him to begin courting her the moment he met her. But from the instant he’d met Nesta, the cold fire in her eyes had been a temptation of a different sort.

I hate men.

There had been some days in the past year when she hadn’t even bothered to take the time. Some days when she’d climbed into the icy water, not feeling its bite but that of the Cauldron’s dark depths as it devoured her whole. As it ripped away her humanity, her mortality, and made her into this.

"Nesta and Elain are so lucky!" Are they? Are they really?

It had taken her months of battling it—the body-tensing panic that made her very bones tremble to be submerged. But she’d forced herself to face it down. Had learned to sit in the icy water, nauseated and shaking, teeth gritted; had refused to move until her body recognized that she was in a tub and not the Cauldron, that she was in her apartment and not the stone castle across the sea, that she was alive, immortal. Even though her father was not.

Her and Elain deserve better. Ianthe and king of Hybern, burn.

Even their gods-damned father had a portrait on the wall along one side of the grand staircase: him and Elain, smiling and happy, as they’d been before the world went to shit.

Not the deadbeat getting a painting.

“Though I bet it’s hard to look good,” Amren went on, “when you’re out until the darkest hours of the night, drinking yourself stupid and fucking anything that comes your way.”

Why is this short bitch speaking? HYPOCRITE, Y'ALL BEEN DOING THIS FOR YEARS!

Rhys said, “You are going to stay. You are going to listen.” She let out a low laugh. “You’re not my High Lord. You don’t give me orders.” But she knew how powerful he was. Had seen it, felt it. Still trembled to be near him.

MOTHER NESTA🙏🏾

“Keep your self-righteous do-gooder nonsense out of my life.”

What did Catelyn Stark say?

Chapter 2:

The eldest of the Archeron sisters had a talent for getting under everyone’s skin.

Me and Nesta twinning🤞🏾

Cassian had been eating an early breakfast with them this morning when Rhys had gotten the bill for Nesta’s night out. When Rhys had read each item aloud. Bottles of rare wine, exotic foods, gambling debts … Feyre had stared at her plate until silent tears dripped into her scrambled eggs.

GOOFY, Y'ALL ARE RICH

It had required all of Cassian’s training, every horror he’d endured on and off the battlefield, to keep that same crushing sorrow from his own face.

It's just money, calm down. You're also rich?

Amren had suggested a few days in a dungeon in the Hewn City, but Feyre had simply said that the human world would be more than enough of a prison for someone like Nesta.

The place that y'know, tortures its women and sells them at the highest bidder?

“You spent five hundred gold marks last night!” Feyre exploded, shooting to her feet to pace in front of the hearth. “Do you know how much money that is? Do you know how embarrassed I was when we got the bill this morning and my friends—my family—had to hear all about it?”

YOU ARE RICH! YOUR MATE IS RICH! YOUR NEW FAMILY IS RICH!

“It is about how it reflects upon me, upon Rhys, and upon my court when my damned sister spends our money on wine and gambling and does nothing to contribute to this city! If my sister cannot be controlled, then why should we have the right to rule over anyone else?”

Bitch, you rule over Velaris. You don't rule over Illyria, you don't rule over Hewn City. Only Velaris. You certainly don't care about the women in either region and you wear the wings of the women who get theirs clipped.

Chapter 3:

He braced himself. He’d been anticipating this talk since he’d spent four months with the Illyrians, soothing the jagged edges amongst the war-bands, making sure the families who’d lost fathers and sons and brothers and husbands were taken care of, that they knew he was there to help and to listen, and generally making it very fucking clear that if they rose up against Rhys, there would be hell to pay.

And they still wonder why Illyrians hates them. They're your people, why do you feel superior over them?

Rhys threw him a wicked smile. “It’s not the fighting I don’t want them hearing.”

Kill him.

He and his brothers had put a good deal of distance between the stupid youths they’d been—fucking any female who showed interest, often in the same room as each other—and the males they were now. He wanted to keep it that way.

Why do men? Nesta bangs random men and it's wrong but they can do shit like this?

Chapter 4:

Mor sipped her tea, the portrait of elegant innocence. “We’d be better off throwing Nesta into the Court of Nightmares. She’d thrive there.” Cassian clenched his jaw, both at the insult and the truth. “That’s exactly the sort of existence we’re trying to steer her away from.”

Elegant innocence, my ass. Whoever says Mor is a girl's girl has no frontal lobe. Cassian, Mor, and Amren, go to hell challenge!

He again let himself admire her perfect face. Beyond the disastrous consequences for Mor after their night together, the fallout with Rhys afterward had been awful, and Azriel had been so furious in his own quiet way that Cassian had quelled any further desire for Mor. Had let lust turn into affection, and all romantic feelings turn into familial bonds. But he could still admire her sheer beauty—as he’d admire any work of art. Even though he knew well that what lay inside Mor was far more lovely and perfect than her exterior.

The inside is worse but go off I guess. Also a "brother" wouldn't talk about his "sister" like that. Cersei and Jaime come again.

Mor took another bite from her pastry. “Lucien can’t be entirely trusted anymore.” Cassian started. “What?” “Even with Elain here, he’s become close with Jurian and Vassa. He’s voluntarily living with them these days, and not just as an emissary. As their friend.”

Damn, can't a man have friends?

Chapter 5:

His hazel eyes guttered. “Not eating won’t bring your father back.”

Acting like a dick won't bring your mother back. Oh my! Who said that?

Settling himself required the entire three minutes she was downstairs. The Mother knew he had enough to deal with today, both with Nesta’s lesson and beyond it, without descending into thoughts of peeling those pants off her and worshipping every inch of that spectacular backside.

I'LL TREAT YOU RIGHT, NESTA! SHE SHOULD'VE BEEN A GIRL KISSER!

But fuck—when had he last had a satisfying roll in the sheets? Certainly not since the war. Maybe since before Feyre had freed them all from Amarantha’s grip. Cauldron boil him, it had been the month before Amarantha had fallen, hadn’t it? With that female he’d met at Rita’s. In an alley outside the pleasure hall. Against a brick wall. Quick and dirty and over within minutes, neither he nor the female wanting anything more than swift release. That had been more than two years ago. It had been his hand ever since. He should have scratched that particular itch before deciding that living in the House with Nesta was a good idea. She was hurting and adrift and the last thing she needed was him panting after her.

I have no words but what the fuck?

A stupid fucking hope, and one he should have known better than to harbor. So that Winter Solstice night on the icy streets, when he knew she’d only shown up at the town house to get the money Feyre had dangled in exchange for making an appearance, when she’d asserted that she wanted nothing to do with him … he’d thrown the present he’d spent months hunting down into the frozen Sidra and then busied himself with quelling the growing dissent amongst the Illyrians.

Cassian when someone wants to be left alone: 🤬🤬. Temper tantrums at his grown age?

Nesta emerged, her braided hair now coiled across the crown of her head like a woven tiara. He made a point not to look beneath her neck. At the body left on display. She needed to gain back the weight she’d lost, and pack on some muscle, but … those fucking leathers.

When I'm in the sexualizing Nesta challenge but Cassian is already eyeing her.

Will post chapter 6 to 10 reactions some other time. Until then✌🏾

[raccoonfallsharder]

There’s been a few rumours that the Russos (and one of the writers from Infinity War/Endgame) may be coming back for Avengers 5/6! I’m curious about what those movies will be like, because they’re going to be even MORE crowded with a gazillion characters. 😅

And particularly, I wonder what the role of the Guardians is even gonna be in them… or at least Star-Lord, if no one actually has any plans to bring them back — which seems to be the most likely outcome. Personally, I wouldn’t actually mind too much if the new Guardians were brought back to join the final battle or something like that. It might be nice as a last hurrah for Rocket, maybe!

But what do you think? I know your opinions on those movies, so… I know what you have to say will be very interesting. 😁

oooooh boy. this just unlocked a whole bunch of competing thoughts in my head. i hope i can make sense of them enough to type them up.

here's the thing. i don't trust the russos or the IW/E writers but i am a person who (1) believes that people can grow and become better at damn near anything they want to, and (2) i am happy to be wrong. maybe the russos and whichever writer who is coming on board will have taken good lessons from the last five years since endgame (five years holy shit) and they'll come out stronger, better, more respectful storytellers. maybe they'll listen to other, better, more respectful storytellers on the team. hell, maybe disney will even let them be better (disney properties seem to be at their best when the mouse is least invested in controlling its indentured creatives). and of course, quality and effective storytelling won't only be on the shoulders of the russos et al. it will also be on the people who are working on the adjacent, intervening movies, and whether they are capable of and permitted to create compelling narratives and fully-developed characters along the way.

now, another thing i think will be tricky is if they choose to do another massive ensemble-battle (like the final endgame fight). i'm just not sure almost anything they can do will be actually satisfying to anyone who identifies with the characters who aren't the main focus. the reason that so-called "girl-power" moment in endgame was so fucken dissatisfying for so many of us was because it was unearned. condescending. you can't choose to feature so few of these women in the course of the whole movie, kill the only one of them with more than like three lines, and then throw every woman left alive into thirty seconds of battle choreography and think that your target-audience will see that as anything but patronizing. if the russos go for that level of sprawling battle-pageantry, that's what will happen, on some level. we just can't pay attention to every character the way they truly deserve when the cast is that massive.

and... i imagine this is exactly how the guardians would feature, if they aren't picked up by anyone in the meantime: one second of screentime in the background of a big fight, maybe with rocket's signature word as his new team advances to ultimately be lost in the ranks. or a singular star-lord, fighting on the side of the new avengers.

now, i'll let you in on a little and possibly controversial secret: i don't need more of rocket in the mcu. i think the mcu might fuck up a beautiful story. if they were to bring him back - unless it were a complete alternate timeline like a new cartoon - i almost think it would need to be a wholly different genre. here are the best ways i think disney could bring "mcu" rocket back:

fuck copaganda but brooklyn-99 had a distinctly guardians vibe in terms of a bunch of well-meaning dysfunctional idiots coming together under extremely exhausted but HIGHLY effective leadership. we could take this ride through space in a star-trek-esque adventure-of-the-week approach or base it in knowhere so we can really see what it looks like to be a guardian in that community, and meet some of the characters like xlomo smeth, ssssaralami, hoobtoe, the broker, HOWARD, etc.

mst3k but it's like, movie night on knowhere. they project some disney movie on the side of one of the bone-buildings and rocket and groot are always making commentary. but they're not the only ones. nebula's there, and for kid-appropriate movies drax and the kids are too. sometimes howard comes along and he and rocket get drunk and compete to be the harshest critic. adam tries to crack jokes sometimes but he's bad at it.

nebula and rocket during the snap. IN SPACE. mostly. i'll accept occasional visits to terra check in on thor. i suspect we see a lot of kraglin on the third quadrant and maybe spend some time helping with reconstruction in knowhere.

a super-ironic self-aware parody of some old sitcom like full house. i'm open to rocket being the father-figure and the new guardians being the chaotic fam, but i'd also be open to it focusing on the star children, calling it "drax the dad," and having rocket be the uncle-jesse-character. which brings me to my last option, which is

actually center the show around a singular someone else, like adam or phylla, and have rocket occasionally make an appearance as an important background character: a father-figure, a mentor, a captain, a guide, a beloved pain-in-the-ass. occasional conversations over the comms where he's like "are you eating enough? are you cleaning your cannons like i taught you? you still closing your eyes when you squeeze the trigger 'cause i told you to stop fuckin doing that. when are you coming home? nebula misses you and your brother is driving me fuckin crazy"

i do think there are other things that good writers could make work but these are the ones my heart rests on because i just don't trust disney/marvel very easily these days

WHICH IS ALL TO SAY

of course i'm gonna watch whatever disney/marvel puts out into theatres and/or on disney+, especially if the guardians are in it. and especially if my guy is in it.

but i'm also fully expecting to have my heart broken. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

as i said, i'm a person who is happy to be wrong.

[wearevillaneve]

Sandra Oh (Kinda Sorta) Finally Wins an Emmy!

It only took Sandra 19 years and 14 nominations before she got her first Emmy, but it was announced she won as a producer for the Hulu comedy, Quiz Lady. So...yay?

It's kind of bittersweet though, isn't it? Jodie Comer won for Killing Eve during the primetime show and for her individual performance. Sandra's "win" for Quiz Lady is for the movie itself, not for her acting in it. She wasn't even present when the announcement was made.

What this is like is when a film wins a Best Picture Oscar, but none at all for the directing and acting. It's nice, but a little hollow.

Technically, Sandra finally received an Emmy, but it is very much a shared award as part of a team, not as an individual like Jodie's. I would bet Sandra is pleased but hardly satisfied. Nor should she be.

She was nominated for playing Eve Polastri in 2018, 2019, 2020 and 2022. She lost to Claire Foy, Jodie, and twice to Zendaya. She was also nominated five times for Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Drama Series for Grey's Anatomy, and she lost twice in 2018 both to Comer and for Outstanding Guest Actress in a Comedy to Jane Lynch. It always surprises KE fans to learn it was Oh, not Comer, who was nominated for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama for all four seasons of Killing Eve. Oh has also broadened her resume to receive Emmy nominations as a comedic actress, as a host of an awards show, and as a producer on Killing Eve. In 2019, Oh was up for no less than four Emmy nominations in different categories and lost ALL four.

Long story made a little shorter, Sandra has waited a long time for an Emmy, and not to diminish the Quiz Lady win, because any Emmy has to be better than no Emmy at all. Right? Except for the fact, that Sandra did the work on Grey's Anatomy. She played Cristina Yang for only nine seasons of a show about to begin its 21st, yet remains its most popular character. Except for the fact, that Sandra was nominated not only for acting but producing Killing Eve. Except for the fact Sanda was the first Asian woman to host an Emmy and for her comedic work on Saturday Night Live, Quiz Lady, and even the lone season The Chair received. The thing I want Jodie stans or Ellen Pompeo stans or anybody who isn't a Sandra Oh stan is she is so good at what she does, she doesn't have to be the star or even the emerging star of a show to shine. She's short. She's small. She's not blonde. She's not built. She's not fitting the conventional Caucasian image of what is beautiful or what is sexy. That's because Sandra Oh's acting accomplishments, commitment to her craft, and untapped talent are given neither talent nor the credit she deserves or the accolades she has earned.

Sandra isn't always the best thing about any project she does, but she's never the worst. I believe Sandra is an actor other actors respect. Certainly more than all these dipshit award shoes who kept giving White actresses the glory until the Emmy decided Zendaya was the Person of Color most deserving of a victory. No shade to Zendaya, but Sandra has been grinding at this for DECADES. I'm happy she finally has one even if it's not for her acting abilities, but when the fuck IS her Emmy acting award coming?

Not for Grey's Anatomy. Not for Killing Eve. Not for Quiz Lady. Not for The Sympathizer. So what will it be for? When will Oh be recognized for the work she's put in and what she's done?

[verishere]

For the 10 facts thing, how about Freya :3 I don't know enough about her

First, something I made recently for her: she's a weaver! She had always been known for her tapestries, and weaving is her Skill (a concept in world that i need to make a post about at some point).

Leading from that, before she and Liam confessed but both were already in love, she tried to make gifts for him: knowing he is a Nulilil, renowned for forgework and forgework was his craft, she tried to forge the gifts herself. Which went exactly as you'd expect, given that she has never before then lifted a hammer in a forge in her life (it took Liam, after they confessed, to make her a gift by weaving which also went exactly as you'd expect to tell her that no, he would appreciate a gift she is actually good at making, rather than something he'd make for himself).

She designed pretty much every avian creature. Very few were designed by her siblings, most she created both the aesthetics and the functional design for.

Given her skill now at understanding flight, aerodynamics, etc, the fact that every (true) aeternal has fully functioning wings that allow them to fly about twice as fast as you could sprint, as well as hover perfectly still at will, all while moving relatively slowly (imagine angelic wings) pisses her off to no end, despite that she helped to create that as well. Those things don't follow aerodynamics, dammit! Too late Freya, you and your siblings made this bed, now lie in it.

I don't think I've ever described her physical appearance? This fact will just be as well as I can describing how she typically looks. First, my pfp is her as well as can be made in the picrew in my bio. She typically wears some kind of fruit, berry, etc. as earrings (not plastic, literally the plant). Her hair is straight and smooth, typically cut to her shoulder blades. She wears dresses usually, that either go down to her ankles or knees, and are either sleeveless or sleeves that stop at the elbows. Her hair is almost never adorned with anything more than braids, if that. Usually she let's it flow free. She is 5'9", or 175 cm. She never wears high heels, usually wearing open toed slip on black shoes. She wears anklets and bracelets almost all the time, though no rings. She does wear a necklace at all times, one Liam forged, made from golden chain with a crystal at the end of it, inside which contains the last of the True Sun's light, trapped within in stasis (yes its littereraly just a silmaril but less bright and no one swore a death oath over it please don't sue me).

She once did try to wear high heels, but she did so for the first time in Blonicku (where high-heeled shoes were invented) before going out in public, and fell because she didn't know how to wear them. She has since always fucking hated them, irrationally making up excuses to never try to wear them again despite that the first time she seemed eager to try them and complimented Nrolin on hers. Apparently, they are now pointless and ugly performances.

She is a light reader, shunning the stereotype that all Aeternals are book worms with massive personal libraries (like her husband). An average year sees her reading at most five books, but usually three on average. She hardly writes at all.

I have a meter for all my characters over how much of a prankster they are. From 1 to 10, or Lopunil to Aegir for better words, all of my characters fall somewhere on this. Freyas a three. She hardly ever plans out tricks on anyone, mostly just teasing people in the moment. Her greatest trick (with planning) was making a song where every word began with a specific letter, all of which spelled out (translated) "What rank should he deserve, the land slug that he is? Why do I sing his compliments? He is a rude fool." The song was complimentary of this one lord of the Mark who hadn't done anything illegal so he got to keep the mark but that all her family hated for how uptight he is, yet they couldn't publically say that without looking bad.

As hinted before, singing and songwriting is one of her talents, which she was almost going to choose as her Skill instead of weaving. When Nerquam chose singing as her Skill she chose weaving.

In the first blessed years, her relationship with all the Elders was more like a mentor and teacher, not parent, despite how the Elders were created. Eventually she was friends with many of them. It was till the battle of the sun was over and she was traveling with Liam to Blonicku that she learned of the concept of a monarch, which had apparently been based on her and her siblings. She will always consider the typically idea of a monarch a useless performance and actively refuses to behave like a queen, despite that she is one of the two highest queens in the world. Granted, her refusal to behave like that is something all her siblings have in common, save Nirum but he doesn't count.

[dykeseesgod]

what well its just that you havent spoken to me in years except to call me a faggot or to dislocate my shoulder and you know what else is missing besides an attentive listener a segue i suppose forgive my bluntness please dont hit me but i could giv two shits about you or your vacant mind or your morbid curiosities or your dead fucking dog so why dont you just leave i never dislocated your shoulder according to my doctor you did in shop class last spring you twisted my arm behind my back and said you wouldnt let go until i said and i quote i like to get it up the ass i was just playing around with you oh that makes me feel so much better you know through my screams and the searing pain i can definely recall hearing laughter any way i can contribute to the fun of the group we were just messing around with you fuck you cb id rather you say we beat the shit out of you because we cant stand you rather than youre just messing with me that implies light teasing or slightly oproprious behavior i havent eaten in the cafeteria in 2 years for fear of going home with some part of it smeared across my shirt i havent been to the bathroom on campus since my head got slammed into a wall i believe you were there i didnt do that well you didnt stop it either and the faculty doesnt care you know what im tired of hearing they only pick on you because of your own insecurities aw jeez mrs blank now that you said that my head doesnt hurt so much and people wonder why kids bring guns to school to shoot you fuckers down maybe youre not the bully but you stand idly by and watch and to me thats even worse so please just go youre being hostile and im just trying to have a conversation with you like a civilized i dont want to talk to you i just want to be left alone i dont need social pointers i just want an apology for the five minutes youve stolen from my day see this is why you dont have friends i think we both know why i dont have any friends oh dont be so melodramatic youre in here crying about a dead dog and im being melodramatic shut the fuck up about my dog ok or what youll hit me go ahead ill show you how people get hurt and dont run away to cry like a big fucking baby whats so funny asshole im sorry nothing i dont see anything to laugh at its nothing its just that i was scared of you for like a second im sorry no its ok i deserved it promise me you wont bring a gun to school i dont even know where id get one you were one of my best friends you all were i just dont get it can i be honest if its any consolation none of us knew what to say to you after your dad got arrested it was pretty awkward it was more awkward for me im sorry we werent there for you that means a lot see now youre being sarcastic again no i wasnt its hard to tell with you truce i wasnt fighting a war but sure truce are you i dont know ive never had sex so kinda hard to tell at this point what about my dad im not sure thats considered sex you remember how my dog used to howl when you played the piano yeah i always found it pretty annoying he was singing along what do you think happens to animals when they die they go to heaven you believe in heaven sure there has to be some reward for living through all this and you think there are animals there in heaven the wolf will live with the lamb the lion will lie down with the goat and the calf the lion and the yearling together and a child will lead them the cow will feed with the bear their young will lie down together and the lion will eat straw like the ox the infant will play near the hole of the cobra and the child will put his hand into the vipers nest but my dog killed a living thing wouldnt god be mad he was sick cb he couldnt help it you know they say a dog sees god in his master and a cat looks in the mirror i hate cats me too

[chansaw]

ok. here it is. the longpost i've been too lazy to actually make until just now.

so, here's what happened. the google algorithm sometimes pushes links to articles it thinks you'll like on the mobile homepage. unfortunately, google knew enough about me to put this hellish article onto my screen:

read that headline. then read it again. really, really stare at it. stare into the abyss. eventually, it will stare back. it'll whisper in your ear: "the heathers reboot was good, actually."

i read the article, incredulous. but, to my surprise... the author had somewhat of a point? it's been five years since paramount unceremoniously aired the show in october of 2018 after its premiere was delayed at least twice due to mass shootings. then after another mass shooting occurred before the final two episodes of the ten-episode long season were supposed to air, paramount hastily aired a heavily edited ninth episode and scrapped the tenth entirely. as far as i can tell, the show is not available to be streamed freely on any streaming site (not even paramount's own paramount+), though you can rent or buy it from amazon prime. maybe the author was right. maybe it was time for a rewatch and reconsideration. i wouldn't even have to spend any money; i archived all ten episodes of the show onto one of my external hard drives back in 2018, so i plugged 'er in, drank a bit of fireball, and clicked play.

after episode five, i gave up. i couldn't stand it any longer. i slammed my laptop shut and went to bed.

needless to say, i have thoughts.

right off the bat, here's the biggest thing. i wish to god that someone other than the miserable pile of sweaty skin that calls himself jason micallef had been in charge of this show. it might not have saved it from its fate, but maybe it would have been at least watchable? a modicum more entertaining? when the show was originally announced, leslye headland (who would later go on to create russian doll) was attached as showrunner. later, it was announced that micallef would be showrunner instead, although headland directed the pilot and executive produced the series.

in my honest opinion, if leslye headland had remained in creative control, this would have been a much different - and, in my opinion, better - show.

i can't help but wonder how heathers (2018) would have turned out if she had stayed at the helm. would it have marred her career so badly that netflix would have never agreed to produce russian doll? would she still be notable enough to be given charge of the newest disney plus star wars show? perhaps her decision was for the best. perhaps she knew there was no saving this project, try as she might.

and people tried!!!! during my rewatch, i was enamored by the production design and slick lighting and cinematography. some of the costume design hasn't aged well, but when it hits, it hits. i have to give credit where it's due: it is a beautifully shot and designed piece of television.

if only its actors had given half as much of a shit.

grace victoria cox (veronica) and james scully (j.d.) both attempt to replicate their predecessors' cool sense of disillusion and disenchantment in their roles, but both just come off as totally and completely bored in every scene. j.d. is supposed to be darkly charismatic, but scully has the charm of a plank of rotting wood. they lack the spark of chemistry to get the audience to feel invested in their relationship. without convincing leads to anchor it, the show has to depend upon its titular heathers.

i am, of course, in no way biased at all, in any shape or form. just saying. but one thing the article gets right is that melanie field’s performance as one miss heather chandler shines. field is fucking brilliant and her screen presence is formidable. she makes the most of every line she's given, and is at turns, ruthless, hilarious, and even (gasp) sympathetic. i am so glad she’s been booked left and right in tv shows (such as amazon's a league of their own, a spin-off with much more respect for its source material) that showcase her immense talent since whatever the fuck happened here. but i'm not biased!!!

juan barquin, the author of this article argues that viewers and critics alike both misunderstood heathers (2018). micallef's brilliant satirical messaging flew right over our heads. it had a message, goddamnit, and the misinformed masses closed their eyes and ears because they didn't want to hear it. it almost reminds me of the starships troopers discourse that is currently enveloping the app formerly known as twitter. starship troopers was nearly universally panned upon its release but is now recognized as a prescient satirical romp that targets jingoism, nationalism, and the culture of forever wars. we didn't get it back in 1997, but we do now. unfortunately, this is not the case with paramount's heathers.

the main cause of all the brouhaha around heathers (2018)'s release, barquin says, is because of its "shameless criticism of American culture, the prioritization of guns as a faulty means of defense, and the educational system’s blatant ignorance around the actual needs of students." which, sort of? it is true that a rash of killings (such as parkland and the pittsburgh synagogue shootings) spurred paramount's decision to nuke the show from existence. the show does, in fact, directly address and involve such matters. unlike the movie, the show concludes with westerburg high blown to pieces and its students all dancing in a prom in heaven. which.... yeah. you can see why that wouldn't have played out well.

(it's worth noting that daniel waters, the screenwriter behind the REAL heathers, originally planned for the movie to end this way as well. but the suits at new world studios said that audiences wouldn't like it. reluctantly, he complied.)

and i do have to admit, there are moments of brilliance. westerburg's school shooting drills involve the drama teacher storming through the halls shooting students with silly string. if you "die", you get to go to "heaven" (a brightly lit room stocked with snacks). the survivors are ushered into the dark, cramped gymnasium and complain about how all the cool kids are in heaven now. teachers' desks are stocked with firearms, because as we all know, of course, the only thing that can stop a bad guy with a gun is a teacher with a gun. it's so absurd that it works.

but for the most part, the writing is sorely lacking. it seems like the folks in the writers' room spent hours sitting around the table trying to one-up each other with quippable quips, meme-able dialogue, and banter that matched the panache and dry wit of waters' screenplay. but what we got instead was "HAHHAHAHAH, QUEEF!" it's bad. it's so, so bad. the author's claim that “[t]he show rather impressively matches the film’s comic sensibilities with consistently funny episodes that are as pleasantly cruel as they are scathingly satirical” falls flat because, for the most part, the shows satire isn’t at all scathing or sharp.

there were so many moments of the show where i felt my whole body just light up with rage. it made me just so ANGRY because i could see shells and fragments of a better version of this show peeking through. instead, what we got is a show that made alt-right chuds say this:

i think the most offensive part of the whole article, though, is barquin's attempt to liken the show to bottoms. if anything, i'd argue that bottoms works better as a spiritual successor to heathers than the rebooted heathers itself! bottoms succeeds in every way that heathers (2018) fails: punchy and quotable dialogue, characters who manage to be both archetypal and multidimensional, all set in an exaggerated and heightened sense of reality that still feels lived in and real. most importantly, all of bottoms’ actors are firing on all cylinders; in heathers (2018), most of the leads are just there to get paid. i could go on, but that's a whole other post.

frankly, it's kind of incredible that paramount launched this show as the flagship of their new tv network alongside yellowstone (which is in its final season now with spinoffs on the way). they were really, really banking on this thing to have legs. but we live in a blessed timeline where this show is condemned to an eternity of oblivion. it's a bit of a pity, though, because... the writers envisioned some sort of american horror story-esque anthology setup and teased a “french revolution” second season at the end of the last episode. i kind of want to know where they were planning to go with that.

it could've been so very.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Chortle headlines.

Some of these are interesting. I don't know if it bodes well if Paddy Young is the absolute best rookie comedians in all of Britain, but he definitely had a good show last year (that got streamed on NextUp from Edinburgh). I have trouble believing anyone wrote a show that's better than both Paul Foot's Dissolve and Ahir Shah's Ends, but to be fair, I haven't seen John Kearns' show and he is very fucking good at these things, makes me hope even more that he'll be doing something in Edinburgh while I'm there. Alex Horne got an award for Taskmaster being an outstanding achievement, not quite sure what that means but I think it's accurate. I think if you look up the definition of "breakthrough act" you'll just find a note that says "see Sam Campbell's career throughout 2023", so that couldn't really have gone any other way. I've heard Kiri Pritchard-McLean compere a bunch on NextUp things, she is in fact very good at clubs. I haven't seen any of the other nominees but I'm still sure that James Acaster deserved to win that best tour one. I couldn't stomach the amount of Celebrity Glamour in Joe Lycett's new show but he is a great comedian and he is definitely made to be a TV comedian, which in some ways could be an insult but I really mean it as a compliment, he's great at that, good for him. Munya Chawawa posts highly amusing song parodies on YouTube. Fern Brady's is one of the best comedian books I've read. Three Bean Salad I was unable to get into, but maybe I'll give it another shot sometimes, after I finish with the winners of that radio award, John and Elis - well done to them for getting over ten years and not completely falling apart. I usually find it hard to get into sketch comedy (or anything that isn't straight stand-up) but Lorna Rose Treen made me laugh with character things last summer, so she probably deserves that one.

Those are my unsolicited opinions on that. The existence of Taskmaster is definitely an outstanding achievement for all involved.

This a special feature that happens every once in a while, called "Chortle publishes the contents of Daniel Kitson's mailing list". I find it gets funnier the less it sounds like Steve Bennett knows about the news items beyond the contents of the mailing list email, and in this case, that is clearly fuck all. But anyway, it's a great show and exciting announcement, anyone who has the opportunity should go see this tour. He said in the email that he might try to get something going in NYC later this year, which would be incredibly logistically difficult for me to get to (8.5-hour drive each way if I can borrow a car from someone, which would be tough, 14 hours on the bus otherwise, I've been told I can't take any more vacation days in 2024 because I used them on the London/Edinburgh trip), but still, I have found myself wondering how I might be able to make that work if he actually announces it.

Fucking hell. I can't believe this. My local comedian Facebook group is going pretty wild in response to this news. That's fucking huge, a massive amount of stuff is centred around this. To be honest I'm still not clear on the scope of this news so I won't go into it too much, I'll just say, fucking hell. Truly shocking. That's like a sport just canceling its national championships halfway through the season.

Excellent. Everyone should read this. His 2023 show (which I think he's still touring) is one of my favourite comedy shows ever. And the one before that, which inspired this book, is also very fucking funny, though not as good as his latest one.

Also, I am up for a trend of one comedian per year writing a book about their relatively recent autism diagnosis. Who do we think it'll be in 2025? I have approximately four to five suggestions.