#jean has been portrait as a character who doubts of himself too much to be so openly treated as the consolation prize

[bittergirlsworld]

I hate the whole concept of jeankasa solely because it's humiliating to jean. he will spend the rest of his life knowing mikasa not only does not chose him but will never love him fully. he spent five years of his life fighting by her side, saved her life twice and she never gave him the time of the day (she didn't had to. that's not what I'm saying at all). it's so infuriating, I felt genuine rage thinking about it lmao

imagine you're Connie or Reiner and seeing they both getting married, how ridiculous would sound. imagine your wife taking your child to the grave of her first love, buried in the scarf he gave her, years and years of her openly yearning for a man who died. imagine how much of an object of mockery he would be socially.

i adore mikasa and she was only 19, she totally deserved a life of bliss and find love again. I just could never believe that she would love jean this way. aaand the anime credits leave absolutely no room for doubt, that man is a 100% jean. I fucking hate it.

[kass-storycorner]

*cough* so i really love your work!! i love everything your put out so far however i’m now going to request for angst mwehehrh. Feel free to reject this if you aren’t comfortable!!

archon x albedo but they break up with him because they still haven’t moved on from their past lover that was slaughtered and felt it would be unfair if they stayed with albedo if they still loved someone else? Thankyou!!!

don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry

I'm so sorry that it took this long, I have been working a lot the past month and I've not been well mentally soooo yeah, but I'm glad I finally finished it! I was suprised myself at what I wrote, I only had to write an ending for this so ouch haha

thank you so much for your kind words I’m- ahhh I’m so happy that you love what I shared ( ˙꒳​˙ )

I’m so insecure with my writing so it’s reassuring to hear such kind words!

about the request: ooooOOOH I love this!!! And honestly my mind went directly into thousand different directions to make it even MORE angsty ahaha poor Albedo ( ╥ω╥ )

Genre: Angst, Hurt, no comfort, a bit fluff in between but it's more bittersweet

Rating: SFW

Content Warnings: mention of Khaenri`ah, mention of blood

Word count: 1,811 words

Characters: Albedo, gn!dendro Archon reader

Format: Text

Fic is under the cut!

“-and I think it is best to go separate ways from now on.” Ah, how peculiar. What is this strange feeling in Albedo’s chest? It feels like there is no air in his lungs anymore, an unsettling feeling spreading from his stomach through his whole body. Feverously he searched his mind for a reason for your words. Go separate ways? He heard what you said, but at the same time he did not understand the meaning of your words. Albedo stood there in your shared bedroom, stiff as a board his eyes pierced through you, no longer looking at you. It was as if you weren’t there.

“Albedo?”, your head peaked through the door of his office, sending him a smile. He peaked up from the work on his desk, strands of blond hair falling in front of his eyes. “Ah, (Y/N), hello,” curling his lips into a small smile at your sight. You stepped into the office, walking around the table, and leaning on it right beside him. His eyes were fixed on you. “Busy?” you asked as you brushed the strands of hair back behind his ear. A faint blush crept unto his face; you wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for how close you were to him. Clearing his throat he looked back down on the papers in front of him, answering your question. “Umm, well yes. The next expedition to the Dragonspine and my experiments need to be organised, though the formalities of filling out the forms for Jean is nothing that I am interested in.” He heard you chuckle at his words, wondering what was so funny about them. “I wonder”, you began, leaning down to him, so close the tips of your noses nearly were touching, “if is there something here that might interest you more.” “I supposed, there is,” he said and closed the distance between the two of you with a kiss.

“Albedo?”, your concerned voice pulled him out the pleasant memory that crossed his mind. He had been quite for a while now, it worried you. You weren’t sure how he’d take it, you asking to break off your relationship. It had been quite pleasant so far, the last few months with him. There weren’t any quarrels between the two of you nor reasons for the heartbreak Albedo felt right in this moment. You both were always honest to each other, about who and what each of you were. And because of this honesty each of you valued you had to break his heart. “I-“, his voice was hoarse, it had more emotions in it than he liked it to. “I need to ask you this… why?”. He finally looked at you, his cerulean eyes filled with pain. Ah, the dreadful question you knew he would ask, but you hoped he wouldn’t. There was no use in lying to him now, to not share the true reason for why you’re breaking up with him. Though you secretly wished that you could spare him the truth.

You sat under the shadows of a tree, eyes closed and feeling the warm summer breeze on your skin. “Please, don’t move.” At that you opened your eyes, looking at Albedo sitting across of you with his sketchbook and a pencil in his hands, sketching a portrait of you. “You quick with your hands, I doubt my small movements would change anything that you draw,” you said in a teasing tone, earning a raised brow from him, but no comment. There you were, the two of you. Sitting in the shadow, a comfortable silence surrounding the both of you. You watched the way Albedo furrowed his brows, looking up to you and then down to the paper, for him to sigh in frustration and starting a new sketch. “Somethings wrong?”, it has been the fourth piece of paper he rips out of the book and tosses aside. “I seem not to be able to capture your features correctly, something always is a bit off.” “Let me see,” you lean forward trying to grab one of the sketches he tossed away, but Albedo was quicker to snatch them away. “Don’t,” he says, hiding the pieces of paper behind his back. “Oh, come on, Bedo. I wanna see, I can’t look that bad” you joke, moving closer to him hoping to get a peak at his fifth sketch. Before you could even come close to taking a look he closed the sketchbook, denying you access to it. “No matter how often I try to draw you, it never does you justice”, he sighs, pinching the bride of his nose. You were close enough to him now to lean your head on his shoulder. “You know, it is quite the challenge to get the godly features of me right,” taking his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “But I’m sure in all of the centuries I’ve lived through you might be the first one to succeed at it.”

You took a deep breath, dreading the answer you were going to give him. There was no way to sugar coat it and you were sure Albedo wouldn’t want to hear a long winded explanation if it wasn’t needed. Like a bandaid that needs to get ripped off you decided to do it as quickly as possible. “I don’t love you. I’m sorry, Albedo.” At your words Albedos heart was shattering into thousand small pieces. He swallowed hard, trying to suppress the tears that were trying to fall from his eyes… still, he had so many questions for you. His mind was racing, but all he could bring out was again the same question as before. “Why?”

“Albedo, please believe me when I say I wish I could. I wish I would love you, the way you deserve it. The way I want to, the way I still love them. You mean a great deal to me, please believe this. The time we spend together was time I enjoyed and that’s why I feel the need to be honest with you now. I hadn’t said anything before because I believed I could open my heart again, open it up for you. However it seems it’s impossible for me and I am so sorry for it. I shouldn’t have led you on like this…”

Blood curling screams were filling the streets of a small city that did not exist anymore. War was always present in Teyvat, there have been the past thousand years without it, but before that? The land was filled with the blood of mortals and god alike, the first ones killing each other in the names of the second ones. The reasons for most of the wars were laughable. One started them out of hurt pride, the other to broaden their territory and a third just out of sheer boredom. Not caring a bit about the humans that were caught in the crossfire of the gods. So when the Archon War began, similar to the ones before but just the scales were so different. There you were, a small deity. The god of the woods as they called you. You never liked the blood shed, it poisoned the earth so that no plant was able to grow. Before you were able to just avoid the wars, this time around you had no choice. And in the middle of this war you met someone astonishing. Until this day you couldn’t say if it was a curse or a blessing that they made their way into your life and your heart. All you know now is just the deep grief that is always there with you since they are gone. In the middle of bloodshed and darkness that the Archon War brought with it you found someone who made you forget the horrors of it, who made the burden of the crown easier when you rose to the position of the Dendro Archon after it - a position you didn't want at first, it falling into your hands by mere coincidence. After that you spend some marvelous years with that one person by your side, but even those who aren't entirely human are mortal, even gods can be killed. With another War that came, they left your side, wanting to protect you, to protect Sumeru. Brutally slaughtered by the hands of an enemy that envied your position, your power. Now all what remains of them is the dry earth. The massive woods of Sumeru turned into deserts, a consequence of your grief. And when the day came for another war, more blood and destruction at Khaenri`ah you decided to leave. To cut all ties with Celestia and give up the seat you never wanted in the first place.

Albedo knew most of this. He knew who you are, he knew of your nature before you made him fall in love with you. You never just told him about your past lover, too much did their loss still hurt and, what you were ashamed of admitting, too much did Albedo resemble them. In the silence of the shared room you finally told him what orginally drew you to him - how much you really wished you were able to love him for himself and while yes, you liked him very much, it was someone else you saw in him when you kissed. Someone else you wished he was. At first you didn't knew it yourself, in the beginning you really believed it was possible for you to find new love... but you still wished most days they were with you. It was time to be honest with him, to speak the truth, no matter how much you hurt him. "Albedo...", you began slowley, your voice drifting to him, but what sounded like a sweet melody just hours before now makes him feel sick. "Don't." he interrupted you. "I thank you for your honesty and for telling me the truth, but I don't need to hear more." With that he left the room, making his way towards his lab on Dragonspine. Not one person in Mondstadt would think of Albedo as a dumb person, everyone says how they are impressed with how smart he his... so why does he feel so stupid right now? He was a fool to believe that he was loveable, that someone saw him for who and what he was, not what they wanted him to be. For now he just wants to be alone again, surround himself with his work and ignore these feelings in his chest. The heartbreak, the betrayel... but also the feeling of relief. Albedo did wonder how much it would've pained you if he ever loses control, but now this is not a concern anymore. And still, as he made his way up Dragonspine he couldn't help the frozen tears coming spilling from his eyes.

[barely-alive-shrimp]

About PSP Jeanne d’Arc ’s historical references

You know, Jeanne d’Arc for PSP is a funny game: while clearly not being very historically accurate (orcs and magical armlets in the Hundred Years’ War? Huh, they don’t tell you about things like that on History lessons), it still contains some interesting nods to history, some of which are quite obscure. I’ve collected some of them, mostly about historical figures and some events that I consider to be most interesting. This is going to be a long post, and there will be some spoilers, but I’ll put a warning so you could skip that part if you haven’t played the whole game yet. Oh, and sorry for any mistakes – I’m not a native speaker, so I hope there won’t be too many of them. I tried my best :P

[Note: I kept referring to her as Jeanne d’Arc here, although, as far as I understand, it is more common to call her Joan of Arc in English. I’ll leave it as it is, if you don’t mind ^^’]

Okay, I think I’ll start with the characters. There are quite a lot of characters who were based off real people: aside from the most obvious ones (Jeanne d’Arc, Gilles de Rais, Henry VI, Charles VII and some others), we have the following (I tried to find some paintings and pictures where possible):

Jean and Bertrand are based off Jean de Metz and Bertrand de Poulengy, who were Jeanne’s trusted allies during the Hundred Years’ War. They both had great respect for Jeanne and escorted her on her journey to the dauphin.

Colet’s prototype is most likely Colet de Vienne, a royal messenger who also escorted Jeanne d’Arc on her way to Chinon. Little is known about him, other than that he was accompanied by an archer named Richard – probably a prototype for Marcel. I guess they changed his name so he won’t be confused with the other Richard, who is also a playable character. By the way, it seems that the name ‘Marcel’ means “little warrior” in French, so if game developers chose that name intentionally (and I think they did), that’s a very nice little touch!

Étienne de Vignolles, more known as La Hire, was among France’s best commanders and was one of Jeanne d’Arc’s most trusted allies. Described as quite an arrogant man, he was a fearsome warrior and fought alongside Jeanne at Orleans and during the Battle of Patay. You can also find this prayer of his: “God, I pray Thee that today Thou wilt do for La Hire that which Thou wouldst have La Hire do for Thee, if he were God and Thou wert La Hire.” – perhaps, much like his in-game version, he did have a habit of talking about himself in the third person.

Richard was probably based off Brother Richard, a Franciscan monk who knew Jeanne. I couldn’t find any other information about him, though, except for this design for an opera.

The next one is a bit of a stretch, to be honest. It seems Bartolomeo does have a historical prototype, but it’s not clear who it was; he may or may not be based off Bartolomeo d'Alviano, an Italian captain who fought on the side of Spain against France. He didn’t have much to do with the Hundred Years’ War, though; moreover, he was born after Jeanne was burned at the stake.  

Robert de Baudricourt was a captain of the royal garrison at Vaucouleurs. When Jeanne d’Arc came to him, saying she has a mission from God and asking for assistance, he was very skeptical at first, but since Jeanne was very persistent, he eventually provided her an escort to visit the Dauphin. The game didn’t change it much.

John Talbot was an English military commander known as “English Achilles” for his bravery. Despite being one of the most feared warriors, he was respected so much that when he was captured, Charles VII released him without asking for ransom.

Sir William Glasdale was an English captain who commanded the troops in the fort Les Tourelles. Jeanne d’Arc wrote a letter to him, pleading him to lift the siege of the fort, but he refused to do so, and Jeanne’s troops started the assault to take Les Tourelles back. During the assault, Glasdale fell into the Loire River and drowned, as his armor was too heavy. 

Both Georges de La Trémoille and Arthur de Richemont were indeed Charles’s trusted servants. Georges also survived an attempt of assassination – as described, “thanks to his obesity”, and, as you can see in the game, the developers had that part in their heads, as well. :) Here’s a picture of Arthur de Richemont, I couldn’t find any paintings of real life Georges de La Trémoille, but I’ll add a picture of his in-game version a bit later.

There’s an interesting detail about Charles VII himself: have you ever looked at his in-game portrait and thought: “Man, they didn’t have to draw him such a big nose”? Well, that’s probably because real Charles VII was actually described as a man with a big nose! That’s another “well done” to the game developers.

As for Bedford – his actual name was John of Lancaster, ‘The Duke of Bedford’ was only his title. I don’t know, maybe that’s obvious, but I spent a good part of walkthrough thinking Bedford was his name. His real name not being mentioned and all the other characters calling him just “Bedford” certainly didn’t help. :P

                                                             * * *

All right, now I’m going to dive into some historical events and characters’ relationships that might spoil some events of the game for you. Please, go to the “SPOILERS END” mark if you haven’t finished the game yet and want to see everything for yourself.

                                                          SPOILERS

  Okay, first of all, the game heavily implies Charles VII had a difficult relationship with his mother, Isabeau of Bavaria. Real life Isabeau of Bavaria claimed that Charles VII wasn’t the trueborn son of Charles VI, thus couldn’t be the rightful king of France, so I doubt the queen loved her son very much. The game tries to explain it with the demonic possession of Isabeau – still, her last words before she was (presumably) killed by Henry VI/Gilvaroth were confusing and quite out-of-nowhere to me.

Georges de La Trémoille disliked Jeanne d’Arc and, as some historians believe, was involved in a plot against her that ultimately led to her death – both in real life and the game. Of course, we all remember that in the game it wasn’t Jeanne who ended up at the stake…

The Battle of Patay (June, 1489) was one of Jeanne d’Arc’s greatest victories during the Hundred Years’ war. In this battle, the feared “Terror of French” John Talbot was finally captured. I’m not sure if this one was intended or not, but this stage in the game is the last time you see Talbot – well, not until he suddenly reappears late in the game, only to help you and never to be seen again. 

Do you remember the part where Liane went overwhelmed with her great power and responsibility (hehe) and tried to recapture Paris by herself? Real Jeanne d’Arc also tried to break the siege of Paris, but the attempt failed and she and her troops were ordered to withdraw. After that, the nobles’ disappointment with her had reached its highest point, and Jeanne’s fate was pretty much sealed – much like Liane’s. 

And, of course, the darkest nod to the history is Gilles de Rais, known as a serial killer and possibly a pedophile (there are some historians who believe he was framed, but that’s not the point for now). On the other hand, in-game Gilles is a nice and noble guy and never betrays you or does something violent. At the end of the game, he sacrifices himself so Gilvaroth would be trapped inside of his body, and, considering the real history, the demon probably got him in the end. This reference is more well-known and has been discussed at several forums, but I still cannot help but mention it. 

Also, on a less disturbing note – see how Gilles is drawn with a lily? That’s because Charles VII allowed de Rais to add this flower on their family crest, which was considered a great honor, as lily symbolized the power of the Crown (that’s what I heard, at least). 

                                                    SPOILERS END

 These are the most interesting historical references of the game, in my opinion. Thank you for reading and feel free to correct me and/or add the details I’ve missed! My DM is closed for now, but you can correct me via reblogs, if you want. ^^

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 30 Review: The Executive Meddling Begins?

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 }

{ Full Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

{ Screencaps }

Welcome to my Garden of Evil, where today we end one era of the history of Strange Paradise and begin a new one: the period of the “Lost Episode” summaries, when the soap opera’s producers forced headwriter Ian Martin to rewrite much of his original story, discarding many subplots and planned plot twists and negating the original episode synopses that had already been sent to newspapers throughout North America. The known published synopses for this episode are as follows:

"Vangie, the voodoo priestess, uses her conjurer's powers to weaken the evil spell which possesses Jean Paul and to plant the suggestion that she come to his private island."[1]

"A secret potion draws Jean Paul to a voodoo priestess."[2]

According to Curt Ladnier’s blog, this is the first episode known to have been altered after the synopses were sent out, but, before starting this review, I had my doubts. Certainly, comparison between the summaries and the aired episodes show clear evidence of script changes by Episode 32, but there was enough ambiguity in certain events in this episode for me to question if this one was even rewritten in the first place. So, without further ado, let’s run a fine-toothed comb through the aired version of Episode 30 and see if we can find conclusive evidence of rewriting.

The episode begins with Holly being pushed down the staircase in the Great Hall. She screams loudly and Jean Paul and Reverend Matt Dawson come rushing to her aid. While they help her over to the couch, she turns to Matt and accuses him of deliberately pushing her. Jean Paul (who is wearing an unusual but fetching ensemble with a dark blazer and off-white pants) is also suspicious of him, because, according to him, the Reverend was there when she got pushed. Handsome devil Jacques, of course, comments:

An indication that Jacques did it, or just commenting on the situation?

For some reason, Jean Paul doesn’t blame Jacques this time, but instead Matt, who was there (as was Jacques, most likely) and who has the possible motive of revenge for rejecting his romantic advances (not applicable, but Jacques does have the motive of liking murder). Here is the conversation between them and my commentary:

Matt: "Mr. Desmond, I resent your insinuation. Why should I want to harm Holly?" Jean Paul: "Or kill her?" Matt: "You can't be serious." Holly: "Whoever pushed me was." Matt: "But I followed you down here to help you, not to hurt you." Jean Paul: "Or to have her." [Is he implying that he thinks Matt wants to take advantage of her?] Matt: "Are you serious?" Jean Paul: "Your adoration is about as obvious as her pretty face." [And your pretty...everything.]

Matt: *getting pissed at Jean Paul* "I have had about all the insinuations I can take! All right, I do care about her--deeply."

Matt: *to Holly* "Now, can't you believe that I'm the last one who would want to harm you?" Holly: "You're the first, because I don't care for you!"

Jean Paul tells Reverend Stalker to leave Holly alone "or you'll have me to answer to," so the disgruntled padre flounces. But on his way out, he has some accusations of his own:

ROFL at Matt’s delivery of this line.

Matt reveals that he still hasn’t grasped the concept of the detained guest.

So now you believe in demons? What made you change your mind?

The dialogue in this episode so far is heavy with exposition as usual, but it feels different this time. Usually, the exposition takes the form of one character telling another directly about the events and revelations from past episodes, but this time it's structured differently, as a two-way expository dialogue rather than a speech with questions and reactions from the listener. It still doesn't feel entirely natural--it still has the feel of exposition dialogue--but it's a different format.

I should also note that, according to Bryan Gruszka of StrangeParadise.net, the script reveals that neither Matt nor Jacques pushed her. The attacker’s name is a spoiler in spite of the fact that Martin never got to reveal that they were responsible, so I shall link to the Week 6 trivia page here for anyone who is interested.

Jean Paul has a possession headache, but no funny headache faces this time.

Jacques leaves the portrait (which decided to disappear this episode) and mocks Matt for believing in him--which, I should note, is a change from last episode, where the Reverend firmly denied believing in devils and called them superstition. He calls Matt's belief in him "a sad testimony to the belief in which he was schooled"--again, even though Matt actually didn't believe in devils until apparently the beginning of this episode. Already this is a break in continuity, which does not necessarily indicate someone tampering with the established canon, but is suggestive of it nonetheless. Of course, that’s assuming that it isn’t just an error, which it might be. (Remember that Martin can’t decide whether or not Raxl knows Jean Paul is possessed!)

What's with this lighting effect? Did the director decide that Jacques looked too sexy under normal lighting, so they decided to use underlighting to make him look scarier and less hot? Because the effect is not scary. It makes him look like a Muppet, and Muppets are not scary.

Jacques is getting better at impersonating Jean Paul, as evidenced by this deeply ironic part where he comforts Holly. “Have no fear, cherie,” he says, “I will protect you.”

Meanwhile in the Not-So-Hidden Temple, Vangie gives Raxl a bottle of some potion to slip Jean Paul, which she tells her "is not to kill, but to prevent more killing. It is a Conjure brew to free his mind to make it more responsive to mine." This must be what the Lost Episode summaries are referring to! She doesn’t outright state in this scene that she wants Jean Paul to bring her to Maljardin by boat, but she says that’s what she wants in the episode before this one, so anyone who has seen Episode 29 would already know that.

An interesting detail not mentioned on the trivia page: before parting, Vangie asks Raxl, daughter of the Priestess of the Serpent, to pray to her mother.

Vangie teleports/floats back to the main island, which frightens Quito until Raxl assures him that “the Conjure Woman has found her way home.” They leave the temple and begin traveling down the long tunnel back to the crypt. Unbeknownst to them, Reverend Dawson is there, searching the crypt wall for the Not-So-Hidden Door:

Come on, Matt! It’s not at all hard to find!

He finds it and pushes on the door just as Quito starts pulling it open. When Quito grabs him, both of their expressions are priceless:

I can’t decide whose expression is funnier.

“I was not trespassing in your sacred temple, Raxl!” he cries, then insists that he was only down there “to find a means of saving your master.”

“You knew of the temple because I showed you, a man of your-”

“I have not betrayed its sanctity,” he interrupts, even though he was clearly trying to find it so he could search it for the poison. The implication is that, if he visited without Raxl and Quito’s permission, he would betray the temple’s sanctity. He tells her about the missing cyanide, she tells him about the missing conjure doll and silver pin, and then she assures him that neither Jean Paul nor Jacques could have hidden either in the temple because neither know about it.

Up in the Great Hall, THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES is relaxing pompously when Raxl and Quito enter. He orders Quito to prepare to sail to the main island, which leads Raxl to declare, perhaps over-confidently, “The Conjure Woman got to him even without [the potion]!” This negates the second summary which explicitly indicates the potion as the means of “draw[ing] Jean Paul to [Vangie],” but not the first. Also, what makes Raxl think that this is evidence of Vangie’s influence over him? Apparently Jacques choosing to go to the island out of his own free will isn’t a possibility.

Matt asks if he can return to the main island, but Jacques refuses, declaring that “today is a rather special trip for a lady and myself,” referring to his deliciously evil girlfriend Elizabeth Marshall. The Reverend responds by asking if he trusts her not to reveal the secret of Erica’s death, which Jacques uses as yet another opportunity to make Jean Paul look like a murderer by saying, “There is no one dead here--that I don’t pronounce!” And then he threatens him again:

Someone’s on Jacques’ list of people to kill!

We next see Jacques strutting into the French Leave Café wearing a pair of huge round sunglasses over his eyes. Ironically, the demon who is normally so fond of black clothing has changed into Jean Paul’s off-white suit jacket, although he retains the same red shirt and red-and-black striped tie. I’m thinking that Jacques picked out both outfits and changed before heading out because he just felt like playing dress-up that day. Typical 17th-century fop, just with more modern clothes.

Jacques’ new outfit.

Gold-digger Elizabeth clinging to Jacques as though she’s worried that Vangie will try stealing him from her. Makes me wonder what her 17th-century counterpart’s relationship was to Vangie.

What, no joke about how you “still can’t stand the heat?” I’m shocked!

Even on a date in a public place, he tries to make Jean Paul appear interested in committing murder. He asks Elizabeth how much her daughter’s inheritance is, in case she dies, and then gleefully reminds her of her accident earlier that day!

Back on Maljardin, Quito returns from the main island by himself. While Holly is sipping some of Raxl’s tea (in the literal sense only, unfortunately), he walks up to her holding a shiny stone and offers it to her. She takes it only reluctantly, which reminds me of another Lost Episode summary, this one for Episode 33:

Source: Cleveland Plain Dealer (October 24, 1969).

Quito doesn’t show any signs in this episode of being undead, but he does give Holly a sparkling stone, with little reaction from her. Later in this episode (not in the aired version of Episode 33), Holly gives the stone back to Quito despite his insistence that she keep it, which brings him to tears when he is alone with Raxl towards the end. These events suggest a rewrite more strongly than the original summaries at the top of this page do, because the newspaper summary for Episode 33 clearly indicates that these events were originally slated to happen three episodes later, but moved to this one during rewrites.

What about Quito? It certainly appears that Holly’s won Quito’s heart.

Meanwhile at the French Leave Café, Vangie approaches Jacques and Elizabeth and insists on reading their fortunes, although Elizabeth does not want to hear it. She lays the “King of Scepters” (or, rather, the King of Swords--see the screencap at the beginning of this entry) on their table and Jacques freaks out, enough apparently to de-possess Jean Paul:

Hooray! A headache face!

So did Vangie’s Tarot card make Jacques de-possess him? Or was it something else?

At the end of the episode, Jean Paul invites Vangie to Maljardin himself out of a desire to contact Erica. Much like Jacques’ decision to visit the main island earlier this episode, it comes across as something Jean Paul would decide to do of his own accord, without magical influences. Therefore, I think that we can say that Ian Martin’s original idea for Vangie to use her powers to convince him to take her to the island was indeed scrapped--and that was probably a good thing, because this feels more natural.

The episode ends ominously, with Jean Paul willingly putting everyone’s life on the line to contact Erica’s spirit. Not so different from Jacques wanting to kill everyone.

In conclusion, Episode 30 shows distinct signs of having been rewritten since the release of the Lost Episode summaries. Not only did Vangie’s means of allegedly convincing Jacques to visit the main island and Jean Paul’s motivation for bringing Vangie to Maljardin change, but events originally planned for Episode 33 were moved to this one. There are other minor details that, too, suggest a rewrite: the different mode of exposition and Jacques’ lack of devil/Hell jokes where Martin would have likely inserted them just a week ago. The episode feels different from the earlier Week 6 episodes, but not enough to suggest a new writer.

Coming up next: The last Bad Subtitle Special until the end of Week 8, followed by a review of Episode 31. A mysterious force is tampering with the cryonics capsule, while Alison uncovers even more clues to the mysteries surrounding Erica.

{ <- Previous: Episode 29   ||   Next: Episode 31 -> }

Notes

[1] Fitchburg Sentinel, October 24, 1969.

[2] San Mateo Times, October 17, 1969.

[just-another-romantic]

How To Date a Broken God

Chapter One: Unfamiliar Faces and Uncomfortable Situations

Series Summary: A mere mortal teaches an almighty god how to be human

Warnings: nothing besides Loki being slightly depressed and having really bad issues, domestic avengers

Notes: GET READY FOR A SLOW BURN KIDDOS

“what is more unfair than having to choose between being a monster or being a hero? (-when you have to be both.) when you learn that the road to hell is paved with more than just good intentions.” -@dvoyd

Loki was having a really bad day. It barely ten in the morning and within the span of two hours of his waking - he spilt his coffee, managed to piss off Thor and cause a thunderstorm, got caught in the freezing May rain, and was now late to an Avengers meeting. Great, just great, he thought. They barely trust me enough to have me as a member of the team, and I’m already late to the first meeting.

The streets of Manhattan were mostly cleared due to the sudden storm, most people ducking inside whatever building to seek shelter, but the few unlucky pedestrians still on the street steered clear of Loki.  The whole New York incident still didn’t sit well with people, even with it being a good ten years (or five for some) in the past. The god couldn’t blame them, he hated himself for it too.

In the middle of an almost abandoned Manhattan street, Loki held his arms outstretched, trying to remember the way it felt to fly. Hundreds of years ago, when he was just a boy, he’d run across the bank of the lake outside of the palace, “flying.” He yearned for that time all over again - when he was young and innocent, unaware of the ways of the world, when nobody hated him and he didn’t hate himself. He longed for his mother’s touch and soft voice, and the wrestling matches between him and his brother. He missed the adrenaline coursing through his veins in the midst of a battle. He was a god, still is, but oh, did he feel so small. His hands that once helped forge the universe seemed powerless now.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold of the tower,  Loki was bombarded by no other than Agent Maria Hill. “Jesus Christ,” she exclaimed, grabing his wrist in a tight clasp and leading him through the building, “we let you out for one hour. One hour. And you turn up late.”

He swallowed his pride. “I’m sorry. I got caught up.” Loki was earning some interesting looks from the workers, most likely due to his appearance similar to a wet dog.

“Caught up reeking chaos, no doubt,” she seethed, reaching the end of the hall and pressing the elevator button. If the god didn't have a sliver of dignity left, he would have winced.

Instead, he coolly tossed, “You actually think that low of me, Agent?”

They stepped inside of the elevator, immediately beginning to rise to the fifth level where the conference rooms were located. Agent Hill turned to him, with a tight lipped smile. “Yes, actually,” she said. “After you destroyed half of New York, tried to take over our world like a maniac, and killed thousands of innocent people in the process, I believe I’m entitled to hate you, God of Mischief.”

Loki snorted. “There’s a line Miss Hill, and I’m the leader.”

The elevator dinged, cutting through the annoying music that Loki all but failed to realize, and opened its doors. He let Agent Hill lead him to the conference room, tracking water through the hallways behind her. After many twists and turns and passing too many doors to count, the pair arrived at the double French doors. Beyond them, sat the rest of the Avengers.

Once the door had opened, all eyes were on Loki, making him gulp. They were pleasant enough people, but he still hadn’t earned all of their trust. He had been their mission to take down for years, a villain to put in chains and shackles. Even after Ragnorok and the Blip, Loki doubted he’d ever be able to win their trust.

There was a new face at the table of superheroes, however. A woman of exquisite beauty, hair pulled into a simple ponytail, eyes vibrant and shinning, skin fair and clear. She was as gorgeous as any Asgardian woman Loki had ever met, perhaps even more so. Even in a plain blouse and jeans, she surpassed every beauty standard. 

Her (y/e/c) eyes locked with his and Loki felt...odd. He felt his insides turn to warm mush under her stare, electricity sparked in every nerve, and his heart seemed to have doubled in size. Oh no, that can’t be normal.

“You finally found him,” Director Fury said to Hill from his place at the head of the table, somehow managing to look annoyed and pleased all at once - an art. “Took long enough.”

“I apologize, Director,” Loki said, tearing his gaze away from the girl and to his boss. “It wasn’t my intention to get sidetracked and arrive late.”

“I don’t think that’s ever anyone’s intent, yet it still happens.”

Silvertongue remained quiet and Hill directed him to the only available seat, the one next to the woman. His hands felt clammy and for the first time in the past hour, he was almost thankful to be soaked in rain because he’s sure he’d be sweating otherwise. Why was he so nervous?

He lowered himself in the rolling chair next to her, and she looked him up and down through the corner of her eye, face flashing with...disgust? The woman stiffened, crossing her legs and positioning herself furthest away from Loki. His hear ached for the first time in a millennia. No, no, no, no. Stop that - stop that at once.

“You all may be wondering why I called you here today,” announced Hill, taking her place beside the director. “And why there is a new face.”

The woman’s cheeks turned pink under everyone’s gaze and she forced her lips into a tight smile, bashful.

Hill continued. “I would like to introduce to you all Agent (Y/n) (Y/L/n). Our newest addition to the Avengers team.”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence before the sorcerer from across the table asked, “Pardon me Miss (Y/L/n), but Agent Hill, is a new member really necessary?”

Loki sensed (Y/n) practically sinking into the leather of her rolling chair.

With a deep breath, the Agent explained, “First of all, Doctor, she is ‘Agent’ to you. Second, its been a year since Thanos.” 

There was another pause as all of the avengers allowed the painful reminder to sink in. Loki’s eyes flitted over to the west wall, where the memorial was in place. Three huge portraits of the fallen heroes, framed in gold, with a matching broken avengers symbol above them. Underneath the first portrait of a red-headed woman was a plaque, reading, ‘Natalia Alianovna Romanoff, Black Widow, died for it.’ She was laughing in the picture, emerald eyes bright and dancing.

The picture in the middle was a man with a disheveled dress suit on, tie loose and hanging around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he worked on a laboratory table. Despite the grey hair’s sprouting in the thick brown locks, the man looked young and at ease. His smile flashed at the camera, teeth a pearly white. ‘Anthony Edward Stark, Iron Man, who died with it in his grasp,’ read an identical plaque.

The final picture was a handsome blond, looks so divine he could have been sculpted out of marble. His baby blue eyes sparkled with intelligence and a bit of mischief, a smirk to mirror it as well. He sat with a sketch pad in his lap and a charcoal pencil in hand. ‘Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, died peacefully because of it.’

One larger block underneath read in bold print, ‘ALL DIED FOR JUSTICE.’

“We’ve been lucky to not run into any major issue so far, as it seems the universe itself is trying to get back in order. But what we cannot do is be naïve in thinking that it will last any longer. We need to face facts, we are down in numbers, and Agent (Y/L/n) is the only agent that has proven to me she is worthy of being a member of the team over the years I have worked with her.”

There was a loud crunch, coming from non-other than Scott Lang himself, munching loudly on pringles with his feet on the table. “So what,” he said through a mouthful of food, “does she have any powers?”

“What training does she have?” said one.

“In what ways is she qualified?” came another.

Finally, the new agent spoke. “I cannot turn large or small, nor can I fly or have a metal arm, but I have enhanced senses. Acute hearing and more than perfect vision, along with strength and agility. As for my qualifications, I’ve been trained as a skilled marksman and I’ve worked for S.H.E.I.L.D. for many years. I can take down a moving target from 250 yards away and I’ve been stationed on every continent for over six months.”

“Not to mention, in the past five years I gave her a medal,” cut in Fury, “And I wouldn’t give that to any wimp.”

“Most importantly, she has the character,” finalized Hill, leaving no room for discussion. With a sad smile and blank eyes, she gestured to the portraits on the wall. “I miss them too, guys, but we need to fill in the gaps. Thor and the Guardians are off world, Carol is doing who knows what, Clint will put an arrow through me if I drag him out of retirement again, and T’Challa has duties to his country. (Y/n) is not replacing our beloved friends, but we need more numbers for when something does happen.”

“So I’m assuming the Sokovia Accords are just gonna be disregarded now?” asked a witch.

“There really is no need for them anymore after the Snap. Today and over the weekend, Agent (Y/L/n) will be moving in and getting situated, but she begins training with you all Monday. Please for the love of God don’t scare her away.” Hill locked eyes with a certain god. “I’m talking to you Loki.”

He chuckled, crossing his arms, and in a fake promising voice said, “I would never! But a little prank never hurt anyone.”

“What about the time you stabbed your brother?”

“First, I was eight. Second, my brother and I are gods, madam. He’s survived much worse. I would never fatally impale a measly mortal.”

Agent (Y/L/n) huffed a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Two can play at that game, Silvertongue.”

He glanced at her, unnerved by her confidence. “Are you willingly throwing yourself into a prank war with the god of chaos and mischief, petal?”

In the blink of an eye, a dagger that seemingly appeared at of nowhere was poised at his throat. Loki could see her smile behind the hilt. Her voice was sickly sweet, “No. I’m just willing to prove I am no delicate mortal, Lord of Chaos.”

“God.”

“Same thing.”

Loki bit his tongue, raising his hands slowly in mercy. As quickly as it came out, (Y/n) sheathed her weapon in her boot, looking all too pleased with herself.

Hill clapped her hands together to draw back the attention, plastering on a smile. “Proof enough?”

-----------

(Y/n)’s day had been going well. First thing in the morning, she got called into her boss’ office and got a promotion to work alongside the literal Avengers, was introduced to the team shortly thereafter, proving her skills to the ones that doubted her by holding a dagger to a god’s next, and clicked immediately with some lovely people.

Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch. Compassionate, sassy, and didn’t take any bullshit from anyone. Her room was adjacent to hers and she offered to help unpack. Then there was the sweet Peter Parker, the Spiderling (Spider-Man). Innocent, lovable, and too intelligent for his own good. It only made sense to befriend him as he followed Wanda around like a puppy.

So the trio sat splayed out in (Y/n)’s room, out of energy from hours of unpacking, but laughing non-stop, nevertheless.

(Y/n) was wheezing. It was the type of laughter that made your stomach hurt from laughing so hard; she hadn’t felt it in awhile. “Oh God,” she gasped, “then what did he do?”

Wanda sat perched on the newly made bed, wiping a tear off of her check with a polished finger. “Nothing! You wouldn’t believe it, he just stood there with a horrified look on his face. I thought he was about to shit his pants!”

(Y/n) smiled. “Your brother, Pietro...it sounds like he was a good man.”

The redhead twisted one of her rings around her finger, looking suddenly downcast. “He was. Really was.”

“Jesus Christ, does everyone here have terrible family issues?” piped Peter from the windowsill, laughing in hopes to lighten the mood. 

“It might as well be a requirement to be a hero,” Wanda said with a sad smile, before abruptly turning to (Y/n). “What about you, new girl? What’s your tragic hero story?”

The new girl looked down at her bare feet, a bashful smile on her lips, but before she could open her mouth to say anything, F.R.I.D.A.Y. made the announcement that dinner was ready. Saved by the bell.

“To be continued,” declared Peter, hoping up from his seat and taking off towards the dinning room. “Hope you like pepperoni pizza, (Y/n)!”

She did, in fact.

The scene was incredibly domestic, nothing she would've imagined as a normal night for the almighty Avengers. Stacks of pizza boxes and liters of soda lined on the bar counter - plastic utensils, cardboard plates, and Styrofoam cups close by. Those who lived permanently in the tower sat on the variety of sofas and cushioned seats, chowing down on classic American food. Unfortunately for (Y/n), permanent residents also included Loki.

She grabbed two pieces or pepperoni, a cup of cola, and a napkin, and took a seat next to Wanda on a love seat, Peter chilling on the floor at their feet with a stack of five slices in his lap. Superhuman metabolism?

After a few minutes of silence (minus the munching of food) Sam piped up, “So Agent (Y/n), where are you from?”

She smiled, wiping the grease from the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “(Y/n), please. I’ve been all over the world, but I’m originally from Brooklyn.”

“I like her already!” exclaimed Bucky through a mouthful of cheese and sausage.

She giggled, giddy like a child. Is this what home felt like? She hadn’t had a home in years.

“So how’d you get hired at S.H.E.I.L.D.?” asked a very green Banner, his plate of food actually an entire pizza box. “That’s no small feat.”

“My parents were actually Agents as well. I kinda grew up around here.”

Below her, Peter choked on his Sprite. “That’s so sick? Were they spies? Assassins? Snipers? Oh I bet they’re were snipers!”

(Y/n) ruffled the boy’s honey curls. “They were spies. My dad just had good aim, he taught me everything I know about guns and shooting.”

Peter chuckled immaturely, “Hehe...good aim...uh - Ow!”

Wanda had backhanded him upside the head.

There was a snicker from the far side of the room, where Loki stood emerged in the shadows. His pink lips were curled upward in a genuine smile, yet (Y/n)’s heart felt as if it had taken a bullet.

“What do your parents do now? Are they retired or do they still work?” Wanda asked from her side, but the new agent barely heard it.

Her face turned to stone, eyes now icy and cold as she stared at the God of Mischief. Of chaos. Might as well add murder to the list as well.

“They’re dead,” she stated, her voice spitting with venom. The room fell into an awkward silence, and Loki’s eyes met her own.

“In New York...the attack...the building collapsed on them.” Her nose scrunched in disgust. “All thanks to none other than the God of Chaos.”

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How to Date a Broken God - Taglist

@cosmic-souls-and-stardust​ @rinthehufflepuff​ @electroma89​ @madshelily​ @ultracolorfulnerdcollection​ @daddylouislittle @fanartdom​

[snkpolls]

SnK S3E16 Poll Results (Anime Only Viewer Version)

The poll closed with 177 responses. Thank you to everyone who participated!

Please note this is the anime only viewer version of the poll. Manga readers, please click here for the results of the manga reader poll!

RATE THE EPISODE 149 Responses

Overall the episode received positive ratings with a majority in the 4-5 range. This season seems to be one intense episode after another.

A bit slow but Erwin deserves all the time. Hope to see a lot of action next episode.

BEST EPISODE IN THIS SEASON SO FAR! Erwin’s speech and the suicide charge were so epic and had made me shed a few tears, especially with the last few seconds...

WHICH OF THE FOLLOWING WAS YOUR FAVORITE MOMENT? 157 Responses

Erwin gained a lot of focus this episode and fans were moved by many of his scenes. Leading his soldiers in a daring suicide charge barely topped at 27.4% with Erwin motivating those soldiers following at a close 24.2%. Meanwhile, 17.2% of respondents were most moved by Levi kneeling in front of Erwin and vowing to kill the Beast Titan.

The experienced scouts being torn apart by boulders in a rain of blood mist while screaming brought back dread I haven’t felt in a while.

WHO WAS THE EPISODE'S MVP? 157 Responses

No surprise that Erwin’s actions led him to be the MVP this episode at an overwhelming 89.2%. Levi doesn’t go unnoticed either.

Erwin cemented himself as best character again after this EP even though he’s screwed.

The Beast Titan was clearly the MVP of this episode.

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT CONNIE MAKING A PUN ABOUT THE FALLING HOUSES? 157 Responses

There were a few mixed reactions to Connie’s pun about the falling houses, but the majority 28% found it amusing and think he should bring some kind of comedy in the middle of devastation.

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE IF YOU WERE ASKED TO JOIN THE SUICIDE CHARGE? 155 Responses

Despite almost certain death, over half of voters will choose to believe in the commander to lead them and hang on to the sliver of hope of survival. A little over a quarter, however, aren’t quite sure what they would do.

Disobey. Tag team with Levi and kill the other line of titans

Asking the reason to do it and act accordingly

Believing in commander was the choice to get crushed by Zeke as it was obvious that Erwin didn't have any plans but the only way for even 1% success was to bait themselves to give Levi an opportunity to take a charge on Titans as Erwin himself confirmed that Levi is the only person who could turn the tables now.so he trusted Levi's words and chose to take all the soldiers on their own demise as everyone knew that they would not survive but if their destruction means the survival of their families and people than they are happy to die

FUCKING SUSUMEEE

i would have never joined the military . too scary!

DO YOU THINK LEVI MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE TO FOLLOW ERWIN’S PLAN OVER HIS OWN? 155 Responses

42.6% of respondents agreed that taking down the Beast Titan no matter the cost is their best chance at victory. 38.7% believed it was their only choice.

HOW MUCH DID ERWIN’S INSPIRATIONAL SPEECH MOTIVATE YOU? 154 Responses

Erwin’s inspirational speech was enough to motivate even a majority of the polltakers to giving their all for the commander.

Erwins VA is orgasmic

SHINZOU WA SASAGEYO !

This is the only way for us to rebel against this cruel world

Susume!

WHO YELLED THE BEST INSULT TO BERTOLT? 150 Responses

The move to distract Bertolt resulted in some interesting insults from Jean, Connie, and Sasha, although 68% of participants believe Sasha’s “massive pervert lord” comment was the best one.

BEST SHOCKED FACE THIS EPISODE? 154 Responses

There were quite a few characters who were caught off guard in this episode. Levi’s frantic reaction to the flurry of boulders brought a rarely-seen shocked expression that 31.8% of people thought was best, followed by Erwin’s and Sasha’s that tied for second at 22.7%.

WHAT DO YOU THINK WILL BE ERWIN’S FATE? 156 Responses

The episode ended with Erwin getting hit by the Beast Titan’s boulder attack. A majority of respondents believe this is it for the commander but some are holding out hope for his survival.

Don't die Erwin :(

I Hope Erwin finds out the truth.

Erwin Smith probably dead :(

WILL LEVI SUCCEED IN KILLING THE BEAST TITAN? 154 Responses

While Levi is one of the Survey Corps’ best powerhouses, 64.3% of respondents believe Humanity’s Strongest will be unable to kill the Beast Titan. Although, 35.7% of respondents think he will succeed. No doubt Levi vs the War Chief will be an intense match!

HOW DID YOU FEEL ABOUT ARMIN TRYING TO TURN COMMAND OVER TO JEAN? 154 Responses

We saw Armin struggling to come up with a plan this episode, passing on the leadership to Jean to come up with something. Most of the respondents at 85.1% believe Armin and Jean would do better to collaborate and draw from each other’s strengths.

Jean>Armin at leading, Armin>Jean at strategizing

Jean better leader but Armins smarter but a pussio

Well Armin was under a lot of pressure and scared af so i kindda understand why he tried to turn command to jean

Armin needs to stop being a little bitch

WILL ARMIN FINALLY COME UP WITH A PLAN TO TRY TO DEFEAT THE COLOSSAL TITAN? 155 Responses

Despite their current hopeless situation, 47.4% of participants believe Armin will be able to come up with a plan but it won’t get the results he is looking for. 37% of voters think that Armin’s potential strategy will go off without a hitch.

Eren might activate the power of the coordinate, or Bertolt will flee

THE RED-HEADED CADET HAS BEEN GETTING MORE SCREEN TIME - THOUGHTS? 155 Responses

We got some heavy dialogue from one of the new cadets. A majority 35.5% of participants believe he is just another redshirt destined to die. 29% of participants believe his focus is foreshadowing a prominent role in the future, and 25.2% voters aren’t that interested either way.

He will be not that important but he will be a lot more in the story i think

I don't care (yet)

He will live then die in the future by betrayal.

i want him dead

the red head has a shit haircut

NOW THAT THE ARC HAS PROGRESSED MORE, WHICH CHARACTERS DO YOU THINK ARE LIKELY TO BE CONFIRMED DEAD/DIE? 144 Responses

A lot has happened since the first episode. Since Bertolt’s explosive transformation and the Beast Titan’s assault of the Survey Corps, people believe there will be quite a few named character casualties. 86.8% of voters are none too hopeful of Erwin coming out of this alive, while 59% think Moblit is toast, 52.8% think Marlowe will be knocked out of the park, and 48.6% believe Bertolt will meet his demise here. The rest of characters are given a lot of faith to survive this battle.

I feel like Connie and Sasha are doomed. If it’s gonna take all the scouts power to beat colossal, I feel like they are the two who he’ll pick off first.

ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS ON THE EPISODE?

Erwin is such great and the ambiance for this episode was awesome.

It gave me all the Eruri vibes and my fangirl heart can't take it cause Erwin will surely die. It was amazingly animated and all the emotions were well portraited. Best episode of this part of the season so far

The second half I by far the best portion of Attack on Titan so far :)

Erwins voice actor did an amazing job as usual, really hope be finds out what's in the basement but it's not looking likely

MY SOLDIERS, FIGHT! MY SOLDIERS, RAGE! MY SOLDIERS, SCREAM! 

WHERE DO YOU PRIMARILY DISCUSS THE SERIES? 147 Responses

Thanks to everyone who participated. We’ll see you again next week!

[hufflly-puffs]

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Chapter 6: The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

I really wonder why the Order thinks Voldemort is after a weapon. Is it simply one of Dumbledore’s assumptions, that usually turn out to be right? Is it the information Snape gathered? Does Voldemort himself refer to the prophecy as a weapon, because he thinks it will help him find out how to kill Harry? The whole weapon theory is such a false lead and I wonder where it has its origin.

Fred and George tell Harry that the joke shop is a mail order service so far, and that they put an advertisement in the Daily Prophet, which their mother won’t see as she stopped reading the Prophet. But you would think others still read it, even members of the Order, to keep in touch with what they write, and might tell or ask Molly about it. It is not a very fool-proof plan.

So, let’s talk about Kreacher. It’s been said that he has lived alone in the house for ten years now, ever since Mrs Black died. The only remaining member of his family, Sirius, had been in prison, and so he took instead orders of the portrait of Mrs Black. Hermione is probably right in her assumption that Kreacher thinks they can’t hear what insults he mutters. They can’t set him free because he knows too much about the Order. And his loyalty is clearly to Mrs Black and not Sirius, so he probably would have no problems telling their secrets. (Dobby however never told anyone about the Malfoys’s secrets, and I think it is because part of him is still afraid of his old master.) Kreacher’s case is quite interesting because it is so unique. After Mrs Black’s death he legally belonged to Sirius, but obviously Sirius could not use him as long as he was prison and so Kreacher was forced to stay in Grimmauld Place, waiting for either Sirius’s return or his death. And all this time alone made him mad. Only Hermione and Dumbledore seem to pity him, though Hermione’s suggestion to set him free would be too risky for obvious reasons. Dumbledore tells Sirius to be kind to Kreacher, because he is aware of the power a house-elf has and how Kreacher’s hate for Sirius can backfire (which we see at the end of the book). To Sirius though Kreacher represents everything he hated about his former home and his family, and as he is the only one left he places all his hate on Kreacher.

“‘Is it true? Is it Harry Potter? Kreacher can see the scar, it must be true, that’s the boy who stopped the Dark Lord, Kreacher wonders how he did it –’” – Are house-elves political? Obviously they are not allowed to express their opinions but that doesn’t mean they don’t have ones. Dobby disagreed a great deal with his former master and even risked severe punishment in order to warn Harry. We know that Voldemort completely underestimates house-elves (and this will part of his down-fall), that he treats them as objects, and shows no real interest in them. Kreacher is loyal to his old masters, especially Mrs Black, who supported Voldemort and his ideology. But Kreacher, unknown to everyone, has his very own history with Voldemort. And in the end he will lead the house-elves of Hogwarts in the battle against Voldemort. So his question is probably genuine, as Voldemort is also responsible for the death of Regulus.

Harry knows Sirius for a little over a year but only now learns more about his family history because he never bothered before to ask. It is possible that Ron had at least heard about the Black family, as there aren’t many pureblood families left and it is always possible Hermione has read about them. His family and their reputation might also be the reason so many people likely believed Sirius to be a mass murderer (mostly Muggle victims on top of it), and even those who knew the full story about his assumingly betrayal of the Potters might have wondered if perhaps he had never been disloyal to his family in the first place. Harry of course immediately sees the similarities between him and Sirius; both forced to grow up in a family they hate, both found a new family through their best friends who took them in like their own. And Harry of course entertains the idea to live with Sirius again, because in his eyes everything is better than the Dursleys.

I always wonder about the relationship between Sirius and Regulus. Sirius calls him an idiot, but also says he was soft, and after his release of Azkaban Sirius had tried to find out more about his death. I do think that perhaps not everything was lost between them, that a part of Sirius did love Regulus and it hurt him to see what became of him. It always saddens me that Sirius never found out what Regulus did, that he played his part in defeating Voldemort.

“‘No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea, they were all for the purification of the wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and having pure-bloods in charge. They weren’t alone, either, there were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colours, who thought he had the right idea about things … they got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for joining up at first.’” – I don’t know if it was actually said in this book or only the movie adaption that you just can’t divide the world into Death Eaters and Others. Because they are still people who are racist, who believe in purity and have a great dislike for everyone slightly non-human, characters like Fudge or Umbridge, who are not Death Eaters, but dangerous in their own right. The Death Eaters are the most extremist group, ready to kill and torture for their ideology, but that doesn’t mean that a lot of other wizards won’t share their ideas to some degree.

“‘No, he was murdered by Voldemort. Or on Voldemort’s orders, more likely; I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person. From what I found out after he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out. Well, you don’t just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It’s a lifetime of service or death.’” – Do you see the massive parallel between Regulus and Draco? Both joining the Death Eaters on their own, both terrified by what they have to do, though obviously Regulus in the end gave his life to redeem himself. I always wonder about Draco and how different things could have been, how he perhaps at some point could have changed sides, could have interacted with Sirius and/or Tonks, members of his family who choose a different path. I always hope that after the war he got in contact with his cool aunt Andromeda though.

“‘The pure-blood families are all interrelated,’ said Sirius. ‘If you’re only going to let your sons and daughters marry pure-bloods your choice is very limited; there are hardly any of us left.” – It is fair to assume that there is a great deal of incest between the Pureblood families. I think at some point it has been said that wizardkind would have died out if they hadn’t started to marry Muggles. Which is why the American Wizard Society, that has a law that forbids marriage between Muggles and Wizards, doesn’t make a lot of sense.

“[…] a heavy locket that none of them could open;[…]” – Well, I wonder what that could be? I did re-read book 1-6 before the release of book 7 and I really didn’t notice this, so respect if you did.

You know when Mrs Weasley says she had ironed Harry’s best clothes I assumed it to be something formal, but we learn the next chapter it is just a T-Shirt and jeans, probably still Dudley’s old clothes, because Harry can’t seem to bother to buy himself some decent clothes.

[rapscallicns-blog]

Aaaaaand drumroll for....

> ( *✧ andrew garfield, bisexual, cis male ) — have you seen ILYA SURKOV, the 29 year old PHOTOGRAPHER that’s SMART, but also CYNICAL? in another life, he was known as DMITRY SUDAYEV from ANASTASIA.

Hi guys!! I’m Rose, a soft anxious smol and it’s my first time getting on the bandwagon early enough to join a group thing?? I’m a first year uni student so things are going to get c r a z y but I love Dmitry with the fiery passion of a thousand suns and I’m super excited to talk to and write w/ y’all! HMU for in character and out of character interaction any time~~ Buckle in, sit down, grab a cup of tea cause this is. This is very l o n g. 

Ilya was born in the winter.

his parents were Russian immigrants, and his father died very early, when he was very young. he only has vague memories of those days and they are the most precious memories to him because he can’t remember any other time when he just. Felt like a child.

his mother tried to find work while raising him but a poor, immigrant single mother can only do so much in a big city like New York.

she left him with the neighbors in constant rotation as she went out looking for work, and then later as she pulled later and later shifts at diners and seedy bars. he would wait at the window for her, little hands curled into the curtains as he peeked out into darkness, half afraid and half hopeful.

when she finally came home she was exhausted, ready to fall into bed just so she would wake up the next morning and do it all again but sometimes she’ll tuck him in and tell him stories about their homeland.

Ilya doesn’t understand why she wishes she can go back.

Still, he loves his mother and she is all he has. If she must return to Russia, he will go with her.

She died when he’s sixteen. An illness, perhaps, from the smoke and god knows what else, untreated because they never had the money. Never had the time.

He thought he understood then. He was set adrift in a great ocean, with a homeland from a distant memory that will not welcome him with open arms and the country that should have been his home watching coldly as he drowned.

He ran away. Dropped out of school and never went back, packed up his belongings from the apartment they were about to get evicted from anyway, and left. Picked up his father’s old camera, a relic from the older days, and left his life completely. Laughed in the face of all of it, said “screw it, and screw you, just you watch me make something of myself.” Played the system like a damn fiddle. There’s so much more “freedom” to be had when he was free and he laughed louder and harder the more trouble life threw his way.��

From there he picked up odd jobs here and there. Lied about who he was and trusted no one, occasionally dealt underhanded, rigged poker games or pick-pocketed an unsuspecting passerby, just enough to make rent and put food on the table. Never left New York, because it was the city his parents chose for them and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t carve a life out for himself here, even if it’s in a hole of an apartment. 

He picked up photography in his early twenties, after one of his coworkers mentioned studying it in school. 

That old camera was all his father left him.

Started off doing portraits with that old camera, eventually got enough commissions to buy another, and it took off from there.

They said he had a knack for lighting but he wasn’t satisfied. In a dream once, he had seen a girl with the sun in her hair. To this day, he still looked for a way to take that photo.

(Still, sort of funny how he still ended up in a kind of unstable job. Maybe he was meant to wander?)

A good-humored person. Ilya’s equipped to charm the pants off of everyone - except for the people he actually likes being around. Surprisingly vulnerable and sincere (and a certain degree awkward) under all the masks he puts on against the world to survive.

There are two layers of Ilya masks, honestly. For a quick stunt like nabbing a customer, it’s usually a grin and a wink and a devil-may-care kind of brash confidence that sets the room at ease. Once we push past the easy, cheery "poking-fun” exterior though, then we see the cynicism, the anger that manifests itself in sarcastic venom, the doubt that has accumulated from the hard edges in his life that he’ll ever belong here, that he’ll ever belong anywhere, that he can ever find happiness for himself. At the innermost - he just wants a happy, healthy stable life. Food on the table, warmth in the winter. People to count on and share stories and smiles with. 

Grew up too fast and at the same time, not at all. Can be very boyish at times since he’s been living on his own since he was a teenager, petty, pouty and argumentative. He only bickers with people he likes though~

Doesn’t drink enough water. Cranky before coffee in the morning. Honestly his diet is just coffee because he never remembers to feed himself unless he’s literally starving. 

Has a horde of street cats that he feeds. Don’t ask him about it, he will definitely deny everything. 

Constantly. In need of a bath. Engine grease from that one job under his nails he can’t seem to get out. Paint from the once he tried his hand at it on the back of his arm. Marker on his cheek from when he tried to tuck it behind his ear. Coffee stains on his jeans. Just. a Not Too Clean boi.

I think that’s it oh my god i’m so sorry i’ll shut up now

[lokisgame]

Between The Lines & Behind The Lines

It was a brisk March morning in Alexandria. A man in his thirties was running through still sleeping streets. The sun was rising and the sky was clear, a good Sunday ahead of him.

He took the stairs to his fourth floor apartment, the last stretch of his morning workout routine. He let himself in, flipped the switch on the waiting coffee machine, and headed for the bathroom to take a shower, undressing as he went.

Under the hot spray, he took care of the last part of the start of his day, the images in his head of tall, slender, dark haired women, willing and there.

He was alone at the moment, but that was about to change. His morning reading for today consisted of a undergraduate thesis by a young agent, who was soon to become his partner.

He was notified some time ago that he could expect his freedom to be curbed and his activities to be placed under surveillance and he wouldn't be himself if his curiosity didn't take the best of him and lead to a personal file waiting on his desk with a copy of said paper.

He got out of the shower and dressed in jeans and plain white t-shirt, towel drying his hair and skipping the shave. He has read the file before and started to form some idea about the woman inside his head. His profiler skills were useful in many ways.

Straight A student, two faculties in completely different areas of expertise, spoke of her thoroughness and diligence but also of courage in taking up new challenges. To switch from physics to medicine, was remarkable even by his standards, especially giving that her grades in both disciplines were far above average.

Why someone so obviously brilliant would agree to be sent into the basement to poke around cold cases? Why were they wasting her talents on him? The easiest reason, the lazy assumption, would be that she's a teachers pet and might want to use him as a stepping stone for her career, a chance to win favor with her superiors by destroying the FBI's most unwanted. On the other hand, she might be an obedient doe who's afraid to say no to anyone, and got herself manipulated into accepting a dead end job, following orders without a fight, as would be expected from a navy captain's daughter. Possible, but unlikely. There was also the matter of her varied interests, to be great at everything she touched looked kind of suspicious to him. Her Midas touch seemed a little too heavy-handed to be real.

He stirred the scrambled eggs in the pan pondering the possibilities. Cold blooded career woman, or maybe gray mouse slash book worm better suited for lab, or autopsy bay in her case, than field work. He poured himself some coffee (black, no sugar) and dug into his breakfast, looking through the personal file.

His thoughts drifted around the bio as he studied the picture of a pretty young woman, slender and fair skinned, with shoulder length red hair, possibly of Irish descendant, a hair over 5 feet tall. Not a winning combination for a field agent, even if the results of her physical evaluation where as spotless as everything else about her. Well, maybe except her face with the cute little mole above her lip, he loved that. The picture, being a simple portrait used probably for her badge, didn't say much about her. Her face was a mask of detached professionalism, devoid of any clues about her character. Unless she was truly a cold hearted bitch which was highly doubtful, or so he hoped at least. He had enough of those for the time being. Dana, sounded awfully like Diana to him, like a cruel joke from the people above pulling the strings. He pushed away those thoughts from his mind to keep himself from projecting any feelings he might still have. That chapter was over but he made a mental note to keep a safe distance anyway, for the time being, just in case.

He finished his food, too lost in his thoughts to really taste anything, left the dishes in the sink and took the coffee with him into the living room to start on her thesis. His plan being to try to decipher some things about her character from it. The title was surely intriguing, especially giving the young age of the person who wrote it. Yes, he had some more recent articles written by her for various medical journals, but it was a too bright a morning and he was in mood for a lighter reading.

He sat on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, Elvis was playing quietly on the radio in the kitchen, and immersed himself in Dana Kathrine Scully's interpretation of Einstein's Twin Paradox theory.

An hour later, his coffee has gone cold and his smile grew warm. He warmed up to her with each page he read. The person who wrote that, deserved the benefit of the doubt at least. His eyes drifted back to the picture of her. Her eyes seemed warmer and her lips had a slight upward curve that he couldn't believe he did not notice before. No cold hearted bitch here.

"Well Scully, we'll see if we can put your talents to good use" he said to himself and went back to the first page, smiling as he started to read again.

"Although common sense may rule out the possibility of time travel, the laws of quantum physics certainly do not."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was a warm June morning in Alexandria. A man in his late thirties was running through the empty streets of a still sleeping town. He took the stairs to his fourth floor apartment and quietly let himself in. He passed through the kitchen and started on coffee, then headed for the bathroom to take a shower, undressing as he went.

A woman was sleeping peacefully in his bed, just as he left her. She laid on her side, hugging a pillow, the sheet slipped low down her back revealing planes of cream colored skin dotted with freckles, perfect in her imperfections. Real.

He shut the door quietly, careful not to wake her, and took a quick shower, then shaved. Dressed in a clean pair of sweats and a towel around his neck, keeping as quiet as possible, he made them coffee. Black no sugar for himself, skim milk no sugar for her.

He set the mugs on the bedside table, leaned over her and kiss her cheek softly.

"Good morning Agent" he whispered sitting behind her, watching a slow smile spread across her face. Her skin looked radiant in the morning sun, free of makeup and professional masks. This was her true self, her most vulnerable and intimate face. This was how he saw her. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and watched her blink her eyes open.

"Good morning" her voice soft and heavy with sleep "what time is it?"

"It's Sunday" he replied vaguely, because to him the time was now, this moment was all that mattered. He waited for this moment for years. Her eyes focused on him, taking in his fresh appearance.

"You started without me" she smiled and sat up, stretching her arms above her head, gloriously naked.

An hour later, she was back in bed, dressed in his t-shirt, with her head resting against his lap. He sat with a pillow behind his back, reading a book about black holes of all things. The radio on his night stand was set to some late 60's rock station. She played with the fingers of his right hand, abandoned medical journal laying beside her. She was reading the titles of the books on the shelf above the headboard instead, searching for something lighter to read. One slim unmarked volume caught her eye. It's size made it stand out, the spine looked well worn, clear evidence of being read many times over. She reached for it, trying to slip it from under thick volumes filled with alien abduction accounts and theories. He reached out to help her without looking up, keeping the books from falling on her head.

She read the title on the cover and stared at him upside down.

"Mulder"

"Hmmm?" He glanced at what she found and a faint blush colored his face.

"Why do you still have this?" She asked, noticing the dog eared pages and underlined paragraphs.

"Because you wrote it?" His tone was hesitant, as if unsure what was it exactly she was asking.

"How many times have you read it?" She went back to the first page and ran her fingers over the first, underlined sentence.

"A couple times" he replied noncommittally, but she saw right through him. He most likely knew it by heart at this point.

"At least, from the look of it, I would say." She caught his eye and smiled at him warmly. That must have been one of the sweetest things about him. Those little gestures that spoke volumes about his caring nature, sweeter still since he usually was a major pain in everyone's ass.

"That was years ago" he shrugged returning to his reading, the sun reflecting of his reading glasses as he did. "It's a good read."

"Oh really" she sat up and moved to straddle his hips "I thought that in your line of work the laws of physics rarely applied" she teased wrapping her arms around his neck. He put down the book on the night stand, face down to mark where he finished.

"Who said I read it for the science?" She smiled and took off his glasses, placing them on top of her head, after all the years together they could share even that.

"What else would you read it for?" His hands found their way under the t-shirt, circling her hips, caressing her waist.

"To learn" he pulled her closer, "I've learned a great deal from it" his palms fitted her body as if they were made for her.

"About what?" She leaned in and kissed his cheek, following a path up to his temple, his arms closed around her, holding her as he surrendered.

"About you" he had a hard time focusing on his point as she ran her fingers through his hair, leaving kisses wherever she went "about myself."

"Yourself?" Her tone disbelieving, her breath tickling the side of his neck

"Yeah, you made me realize what a lousy profiler I am" he pulled her down and laced his fingers through hers "you disproved almost every theory I had about you inside the first two days."

"And how did you feel about that?" She rolled her hips against his, kissing his shoulder and trying to stay on top of him, feeling him grow hard and thoroughly enjoying it.

"Happy" he grunted as she forced him to keep still with the weight of her body, flexing against him "a little surprised" she bit on his shoulder then soothed it with a kiss "and turned on as hell" his voice was rough and strained from fighting the urge to take charge, from forcing himself to surrender to her.

Her lips found his and the fight left him. She let go of his hands only to pull down his sweats and guide him inside her. After that is was only them, grinding and kissing and meeting half way. She gasped, he groaned and the world shrunk for a moment into a pinpoint of light. Time passed by without touching them.

She rested on his chest for a long moment, releasing his hands, letting him wrap his arms around her. She listened to his heart as his hands roamed lazyly over her back. He usually liked to follow up on their conversations in moments like that.

"Do you still believe it's possible?" 

"What is?"

"Time travel" he chuckled "what would you tell your younger self, once she came back?"

"I don't know" she moved to slip off him, but stayed in his embrace "maybe I'd tell her to not get on that plane? To live in the moment"

"Wise words my friend" he kissed her forehead then the palm of her hand.

"Whichever of us has you, I want to be her."

"I don't think I would let you get on that plane anyway."

"I wouldn't think about going without you. What good is an eternity, future or past, if it's filled with loneliness."

"You say the sweetest things Scully."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"It's my heart that I'm worried about."

"No need to worry about that either" she snuggled closer and her breath tickled his chest. "Let me sleep for a bit"

"Whatever you say."

The radio played quietly in the background and he returned to his reading as she slept.

[shin-hoseokk]

color theory

Title: color theory

Word count: 2788

Ship:  wonkyun (wonho/i.m)

Description: 

“Very good, Changkyun, you don’t usually paint with red do you?”

“No Sir, red never appealed to me, until now”

Tags: alternate universe - college/university, art school, minor character death, infidelity, mild smut, angst, changkyun is an emo art student, wonho is his stupid boyfriend

cross-posted to ao3

The air in the field was warm and pleasant. Hoseok and Changkyun lay side by side, surrounded by lush, green grass and fragrant, yellow daisies. They were only a couple miles from their college dorms, but it felt like a completely different world.

Changkyun turned his head to look at the boy next to him, he had dragged him out of his dorm with the excuse of “looking for inspiration”. In reality, he had just wanted to spend time with him. He reached for his hand. His rough, paint stained hands colliding with Hoseok’s smooth, un-calloused skin.

“Is this a date?” Hoseok turned to face him.

Changkyun bit his tongue and thought for a moment. The smell of grass and sunshine was intoxicating, pushing him to be bolder than usual.

“Yes, I suppose it is. Is that okay?”

“Yes”, Hoseok smiled.

That night, Changkyun painted daisies, cheerful, bright and warm. He never usually painted with yellow, but the memories he made in field brought new meaning to the color.

-

The sun shined through the grimey windows of Changkyun’s bedroom. He woke with a yawn and rolled out of bed. The beams of light illuminated the dust that danced through the air like fairies. He clumsily reached for his phone and found it on the stack of old textbooks he used as a bedside table.

He padded out the the bathroom he shared with his roommate. He was momentarily blinded as he flicked on the florescent lights in the cramped bathroom.

“Mmph….. Too early”, he mumbled and reached for his toothbrush.

He brushed his teeth and quickly rinsed out his mouth with water. He stepped out of the bathroom and made his way into the kitchen. He was pouring milk into his bowl of rice puffs, when he noticed the note stuck to the cracked marble counter.

Had to dash to class, I didn’t want to wake you up

Last night was fun….. Wanna get lunch?

-Hoseok

Changkyun held the note in his hands and grinned down at it.

“Woah.. dude are you okay?”, his roommate, Jooheon, who was crashed on the couch, called out to him.

Changkyun looked down at himself, apart from wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and one sock, he seemed fine.

“Your neck dude, you might wanna get that checked out”, Jooheon smirked and resumed watching the TV.

Changkyun looked at his reflection in the microwave door. His face and neck was covered in dark purple hickeys and bite marks. Suddenly last night’s events came rushing back to him.

Leaving the bar with Hoseok, struggling to get home because they were both too drunk to coordinate their steps with the line of the pavement. Stumbling into his bedroom and being pushed onto the bed by Hoseok’s warm hands. Hoseok’s fingers in his hair, in his mouth, inside him. The pleasurable burn of being stretched open and the addictive rhythm of Hoseok’s hips slamming against his ass.

“Changkyun? You alright dude?”, Jooheon’s question pulled him back to the present.

He grinned sheepishly as he rushed to the bathroom to check the rest of his body for any more memories from last night and left his bowl of cereal forgotten on the kitchen counter.

He held onto those memories and took them all the way to his art class that afternoon. His brush was dipped in a rich, seductive red. He tried to recreate the passion and urgency with his careful strokes. His art teacher walked behind him and made a noise of approval.

“Very good, Changkyun, you don’t usually paint with red do you?”

“No Sir, red never appealed to me, until now”

-

The shrill sound of Changkyun’s ringtone blared throughout the lecture theatre.

“Uh, sorry guys”, he took the phone and switched it onto silent mode before checking who was calling.

It was his mother. His mother never called him during the day, unless it was an emergency. Changkyun gathered his books and quietly slipped out of the theatre. He dialed his mothers phone number and held the phone to his ear. The glass screen of his phone was cold against his flushed cheeks.

“Changkyun”, his mother answered, sounding panicked.

“Mom, what’s up?”

“Its your father, he was in an accident” she said

“What do you mean?”, Changkyun’s breath became short and quick.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but you should really come to the hospital tonight”

He paused and sucked in a deep breath of air. The phone in his hand was no longer cold, but instead warm and slightly sweaty from the heat of his palm.

“Okay mom, I’ll see you soon”

One over-priced uber later, Changkyun was sitting in the florescent lights of the hospital waiting room. His mother was wearing down her shoes, pacing up and down the linoleum floors. He held his head in his hands, shaking with nervous energy. The constant electrical hum of the building kept him awake.

He reached for his backpack and pulled out a sketch pad. Most of the drawings in it were rubbish, but drawing soothed his nerves. He took the pencil out of the spiral and flipped to a new page. He began sketching a portrait of his dad, soft grey lines creating the familiar shape of his eyes and the cheerful curve of his smile.

He looked up around the room, the color grey was everywhere, the cushion chairs, the hands on the clock, the nurse’s desks. He usually avoided the color when created art, the neutrality and uncertainty of it scared him. He glanced back down at his drawing. The grey outlines of the pencil were more daunting than ever. Was his dad gonna be okay? Would he die in this lonely hospital? Changkyun didn’t know, he didn’t have the answers. The color was mocking him, bringing new doubts and uncertainties to the front of his mind. He ripped out the page and closed his sketch book.

-

The priest’s voice echoed through the church. Changkyun sat in the first row of pews next to his sobbing mother. His black suit tie was too tight, he felt like he was suffocating.

It was a small funeral; his father didn’t like many people. He was a quiet man and he always preferred the company of a beer and the evening news as opposed to friends or workmates.

Sitting above his father’s coffin was a bouquet of white roses and green leaves. The vibrant hue of the leaves stuck out against the black canvas of the roses. The more he looked at the leaves, the more calming they became. The leaves were a mix of a dark moss color and lighter, pea green. They fell across the coffin like a table cloth. He focused on the composition of the leaves and suddenly he didn’t feel like he was choking anymore

That night, Changkyun sat himself in front of a canvas and painted. He painted until his fingers hurt and his formal dress shirt was stained with green-tinted spots. The color calmed his over-active mind and momentarily soothed his anxieties. His mother would scold him for painting in his suit, but art was his escape, it was the breath of fresh air he so desperately needed, and that made it all worth it.

-

Changkyun unlocked the door to Hoseok’s apartment, the warm air and familiar smell of his boyfriend welcomed him like a hug. He slipped off his coat and his shoes and made his way to the kitchen. He was greeted by the beautiful sight of Hoseok leaning over the stove, broad shoulders complemented by a tight black turtleneck, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon.

Hoseok looked over his shoulder and grinned at him.

“Changkyunnie, welcome home”, he abounded his cooking and padded across the wooden floor to wrap his arms around Changkyun’s waist. Changkyun’s arms found purchase around Hoseok’s neck, and his face pressed into the soft juncture between his neck and shoulder.

“Did you miss me hyung?”, He shifted to press a kiss right below Hoseok’s ear. He felt his boyfriend shiver and moved his hands to slide into the back pockets of Changkyun’s jeans.

“Of course, it felt weird coming home and not being covered in secondhand paint stains”

Changkyun let out a small laugh and leaned up to kiss Hoseok properly.

He melted against the taller man immediately. Their lips slotted together like puzzle pieces, a perfect fit. Hoseok’s lips were warm and soft, a touch Changkyun had craved for a month as he was staying with his mother, caring for her after his father’s untimely death. Sure, they had texted and called almost everyday, but nothing compared to feeling of security and love Changkyun felt when he was wrapped up in Hoseok’s strong arms.

Hoseok tilted his head and deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping into Changkyun’s mouth. Changkyun tighted his arms around Hoseok’s neck, pressing their chests together.

He pulled away momentarily to look at his beautiful boyfriend. Hoseok’s thick lips were slick with spit, his soft brown eyes were hooded with lust, or admiration, Changkyun can’t tell. He pushed Hoseok’s hair back, the blue tipped strands felt like silk between his fingers.

“Your blue has faded”, Changkyun stroked the hair at the back of Hoseok’s neck.

“I like it better this color”, Hoseok stated, “Its calmer, it doesn’t make me look like a jellyfish”

Changkyun kissed him quickly on the lips before tightening his fingers in his boyfriend’s hair.

“Show me how much you missed me hyung”

Hoseok grinned down at him and obliged, sliding his hands to grip Changkyun’s ass and lift him on to the kitchen table. He stood in-between Changkyun’s parted knees and moved his hands up his thighs.

Changkyun arched his back to press against Hoseok’s chest and moaned softly when he felt Hoseok’s lips attach themselves to his neck. He tilted his head to give Hoseok more access and slipped his fingers under the hem of his turtleneck.

“It feels like years since I’ve touched you, have you been working out more?”

Hoseok let out a hum as he lifted his arms, letting Changkyun strip off his sweater.

Changkyun was always stunned by Hoseok’s body, he swears his boyfriend was sculpted by the gods. Changkyun has tried to paint Hoseok countless times but a combination of Changkyun’s heated stares and Hoseok’s wandering hands meant they had always gotten carried away.

Changkyun admired the body in front of him, Hoseok’s sculpted abs, firm pecks and strong arms never failed to turn him on. He smoothed his hands up his toned abdominals and pressed his thumbs into Hoseok’s nipples.

He smirked when he heard the quick gasp Hoseok emitted. His smirk disappeared when he noticed the faded purple bruise just above his collarbone. He pushed Hoseok away from him slightly so he could see it clearly. Suddenly it made sense why Hoseok was wearing a turtleneck when it was so warm in the apartment.

Changkyun slipped off the table and placed his feet firmly on the ground

“Are you kidding me?”, he asked plainly, although the anger was evident in his eyes.

“What are you talking about Kyunnie? I thought we were having fun”, Hoseok looked genuinely confused and Changkyun felt bad for a second, but one look at the hickey on his boyfriend’s neck quickly dismissed those feelings.

“Don’t play dumb with me Hoseok, I know I didn’t leave that there”, he pointed accusingly at the mark.

The color drained out of Hoseok’s face and his eyes became big and watery

“Changkyun please, let me expla-“

“Who was it, Do I know them?”, He cut him off completely, not wanting to hear any bullshit excuses fall from Hoseok’s quivering lips.

“Changkyunnie calm down, let me talk to you”, the desperation was clear in his voice.

“Don’t call me that, tell me who the fuck it was”, Changkyun felt a ting of guilt as tears rolled down his boyfriend’s cheeks.

He knew Hoseok was a sensitive soul, he cried at the end of children’s movies on a regular basis. Under all the hard muscle he was a big softie and that is what Changkyun loved about him, but now, the shivering man in front of him only pissed him off.

“Hyungwon”, he sobbed out.

Changkyun was shocked. Hyungwon was a good friend of his, they were roommates in Changkyun’s freshman year. He was the first person Changkyun felt he could really trust. Well, the joke was on him because he was completely wrong.

“You’re fucking kidding me, Hyungwon?”, he pushed Hoseok away from him before he had a chance to answer. He stormed out of the kitchen and back to the entrance, where he gathered his coat and began to put his shoes on.

Hoseok followed him out, “It wasn’t even good sex, Changkyun, I was just lonely and I missed you”

Changkyun snapped, “Oh, so it didn’t count because it was bad sex? My father was literally dying while you were fucking my friends. Letting them mark you up and thinking that I wouldn’t notice? Fuck you, hyung.”, He reached for the door and took one last look at Hosoek. Hoseok and his soft eyes, thick lips and his unique blue hair. The face that he had touched and kissed and loved for six months.

He twisted the handle and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The walk home was cold and windy, Changkyun tried so hard not to burst into tears when Jooheon had opened the door and asked him what was wrong.

“Its nothing hyung, don’t worry about it”, he pushed past him and locked himself in his room.

He rummaged through all his art supplies and found every tube of blue paint he had. He flicked the light switch in the bathroom.

Changkyun looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit, hair mussed by the wind, cheeks and nose tinged red from the cold and eyes threating to spill over at any second.

He unscrewed the first tube of blue paint and squeezed the entire thing into the sink. He watched with sorry eyes as the paint bled into the drain, the color lightening as it mixed with the water. He recalled the contrast between Hoseok’s red eyes and light blue locks as he unscrewed the next tube and squeezed it into the basin.

He continued until every paint tube was empty and his face was streaked with tears. He collapsed onto the floor and let himself drift into a fitful sleep, completely emotionally exhausted.

Changkyun dreamt of waves, swirling currents of blue and green, threating to sweep him up and carry him far, far away. Engulfing him into a cerulean hell, but the water filling his lungs felt like a warm hug.

He woke with a start and checked his phone

1:34 am

He stretched out his limbs and removed himself from the bathroom floor. Eyeing the mess he had made in the sink, he turned on both taps and watched the blue paint swirl down the drain.

- Changkyun slipped the key into the new lock and twisted. He pushed the door open and let a grin fall over his features as he stepped into his new apartment. Jooheon followed behind him, carrying a cardboard box with him.

Jooheon set the box down, “I’m not gonna lie dude, I’m pretty upset we wont be living together anymore”

Changkyun let out a heart laugh, “Don’t worry man, I’ll still be around”

He had worked countless double shifts at the campus coffee shop to earn enough to rent a nicer, newer apartment off campus. He figured he deserved it, he had had a rough year. He had his first serious relationship, his first serious heartbreak, his dad had died and he was starting his final year of college.

Jooheon smiled and gave him a slap on the back, “These walls are looking a little bare, I’m sure you’ll fill them up with some of your art work though, right?”

Changkyun looked up at the walls. They were eggshell white and they stretched out like the huge, expansive canvases he used for his art class. It was like a clean sheet of sketch book paper. The white was a bit bleary, but for Changkyun, it symbolized a new begining. A new chapter in his life.

He glanced at the wall one more time, and then back to Jooheon

“Nah hyung, I think they look great”, Changkyun smiled.

This year, he had learnt the colors happiness, bright, cheerful and warm. The hot shades of passion and the varying hues of depression. He understood what grieving looks like, and then what healing looks like. And now he was learning the colors of a new beginning.

[mldrgrl]

However Improbable

by: mldrgrl Rated: NC-17 Summary: the 7th installment of the Stella/Hank universe.  Hank has a very important question to ask...

1. The Adventure of The Lady Detective and The Writer 2. Welcome to LA 3. Reconnect 4. Portrait of a Lady Detective 5. The Last Temptation of The Lady Detective 6. Even the Nights are Better

Hank had something he wanted to ask Stella, but finding the right time was a challenge.  Living together afforded him the opportunity to study her a bit more, learning the subtleties of her personality and moods.  It was hard not to dissect her like he was performing a character analysis, but she kept things wrapped up so tightly to herself that at times, he was forced to interpret things for himself.

For example, he knew when a case she was working on was bad when she actually spoke to him about it.  Not overtly, but vaguely, as they were lying in bed, in the dark, she might just softly and casually mention that her current investigation was at a standstill and it was weighing on her mind.  The next day he would come across the gruesome details of a crime that had the police baffled.  Sometimes there would be accompanying photos of her, stone-faced and grim.  There was almost always unflattering comments about public outcry and the incompetence of the investigation team.  The worse the crime or the longer it took for an arrest, the worse the outcry  and the more demeaning the comments were about incompetence.

As lead investigator on any high-profile crime under the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police Department, Stella bore the brunt of the criticism.  The press found her bluntness and stoicism to be especially aggravating and they seemed to delight in targeting her when progress was slow.  Neither did she receive any of the praise for a job well done when justice was served.  The congratulations were always extended to the team of detectives who worked tirelessly to serve justice.

Hank knew when a case had been closed before the papers did.  He knew from the slump of her shoulders and the slow, heavy way she trudged up the stairs to the bedroom that she was on the verge of giving in to exhaustion.  She would not allow herself to be exhausted while on a case, always focused and alert, always ready to pick up the clue that someone else had missed.

Some cases took days, some took weeks.  At first, he wasn’t sure if it was his continuous presence or the nature of a case that made her seem more tense than when he freely came in and out of her life.  Perhaps it was the combination of the two, but she slowly grew to appreciate the benefits of having someone to talk to at the end of the day, even if she was still less than forthcoming.

The right time to ask something of Stella was never going to be during a case.  He could barely ask what she wanted for dinner during a case.  The best time to ask for her undivided attention wasn’t even at the close of a case when she was required to meet with a prosecution team and a board of review to work on offensive strategy, to present evidence, to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the investigation she ran was thorough, ethical, and impenetrable.  No, the best time to ask something of Stella was the in-between time.  The brief window of respite she received when judgment of her performance had been rendered and she was free for a few days before her next assignment.  It was when her mind was clear and she was at her most affectionate.

Hank waited until she’d reached such a point to take her to dinner and pop the question that had been on his mind for weeks, even longer if he really thought about it.  He was nervous about it, but fairly confident she’d say yes.  Moving in together had been, after all, a very big step for both of them.  He’d had to uproot his life in New York, small as it was, and she had to adjust to the invasion of her space.  He probably should’ve asked her before they even took that step, but he didn’t want to throw too much too soon at her.  He’d learned how to develop patience from her.

He took her to a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant they could walk to from home.  Though she preferred take-out to eating out, he knew she liked this place because of the dark interior.  The tables were set up almost haphazardly and they could just as easily sit beside each other on a long bench of pillows as across from each other.  He felt a swell of pride when she chose to sit beside him, sipping wine with her head nearly on his shoulder as he fed her bits of naan with chicken curry.  Her hand rested lightly on his thigh.

She was dressed in her version of casual, which Hank couldn’t understand, but he’d grown accustomed to: dark trousers and dark boots and a short-sleeved, sand-colored silk blouse.  She hadn’t curled her hair that day, but it still retained a slight wave just above her shoulder.  He was in his standard uniform: jeans, black t-shirt, leather jacket.

“I saw a lot of pages by your typewriter this morning,” she said.

“Ahead of schedule,” he replied, mouth full of curry.  “For once.”

She stroked his thigh and tilted her head so that she was leaning against his arm and shoulder.  He dipped his chin a little just to brush his cheek against her hair and washed down the curry with a pull from his beer.

“I want to ask you something,” he said.

“So, ask me something.”

“It’s something I’ve been wanting for awhile and I’ve just been waiting for the right time.”

Stella picked her head up and straightened her back.  She took a sip of her wine without looking at him and then put the glass on the table.  He picked up her hand from his thigh and turned it over so he was rubbing his thumb across her palm.  He tried not to tell her he loved her too often as it made her skittish, but at least she no longer ran from it.  She still had yet to say it back, but he felt, deep down, that she did.

“I love you,” he said.  “And I know that it’s been difficult for you to share your life with me, but I’m glad you did.”

She looked uneasy and her fingers closed against his unconsciously to form a fist and pull her hand into her lap, but he eased them back open and slipped his fingers between hers.  He raised their joined hands to his mouth and kissed the back of hers, low by her wrist.  She turned her head away and he reached over to touch her chin and bring it back so she would look at him.  Her face was set in an unreadable mask, the same face he saw in press conference photos in the paper.

“And, since you are a significant part of my life, it’s probably a little backwards that I’m going to ask this of you now instead of before we moved in together, but...”

“Hank…” she said, shaking her hand out of his.

“I would really like you to meet Becca.  And Karen.”

Her breath hitched and then exhaled slowly and relaxed.  “You’d like me to meet your daughter and your ex?”

“You know, I never did long distance before so I’ve never had to formally…”  He paused and shook his head at himself.   “We’ve had a year of this going back and forth and then me being here, so…yes.  I want the most important people in my life to meet each other.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“Do you see it differently?”

“I’m not entirely sure how I see it.”

Hank paused and reached for his beer.  He took a drink, put the bottle back on the table, and scratched at the label with his thumbnail.  “Is that why you’ve never asked to meet them?” he asked, throwing a glance at her.

“I suppose it never occurred to me to ask.  I’ve...never had to participate in a meeting the family ritual.”

“It doesn’t have to be some big thing.  I thought maybe we could go to New York for a few days or a week.  Karen offered to have us out to Connecticut.”

Stella leaned a little away from him and cocked her head.  “You already spoke to Karen?”

“Yes.  No.  I mean, she’s been offering for awhile.  She’s wanted to meet you since...well, I guess since I told her about us.”

“Why is this only coming up now, then?”

“I didn’t think you’d be very comfortable with it before.  Not back when you came out only on occasion.  Karen likes to have these dinner parties, so...”

“I see.”  Stella picked up her wine glass and swirled it slightly with the shake of her wrist.  Her lips tightened before she took a sip and she stared ahead at the empty table across from them.

“Hey,” Hank said, angling himself towards her and reaching across her waist to rub her hip.  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m wondering what kind of picture you’ve painted of me.”

“Something in the Picasso range, probably.  I mean, I’m no Rembrandt.”  He squeezed her hip and grinned at her, but she did not smile back.  Sometimes she reminded him so much of Becca when she was upset with him.  Neither of them had much tolerance for humor under those circumstances.  He’d had to learn how to speak frankly and honestly for his daughter and he could do the same for Stella.

“Karen likes you,” he said.  “You don’t need to worry about that.  And she knows first hand what a fuck-up I am, so I’m fairly certain she’d recommend you to be canonized for putting up with me.”

“What about your daughter?”

“She also knows what a fuck-up I am.”

“Please, be serious.”

“I am.  Becca...she’s a lot like you, actually.  Secretive, distrustful, moody, very particular about who she spends time with.”

Stella furrowed her brow and set her jaw.  Hank leaned close and rubbed the tip of his nose along her cheek while caressing the other side of her clenched jaw with his thumb.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” he said.  “And you know it’s true.  I’m trying to explain to you that she looks at the situation in the same way you do.  I introduced Becca to a lot of women that I never should have.  She resented me for it.  Maybe even hated me a little bit for it.  She never should’ve seen me that way and she never wanted to.  She doesn’t appreciate a revolving door and flat out told me at a certain point that she would prefer not to be introduced to anyone in my life that would be gone by the time the sun rose.”

Her expression softened and he could see that he’d stirred her a little.  He took the wine glass out of her hand and put it back on the table.  He curved his hand around the side of her neck and she tipped her head to the side against the back of the high bench.  Her eyes held his captive.

“Stella,” he said, keeping her in place with a thumb against her chin.  “I would really like you to participate in the meeting the family ritual.”

“Okay.”

It wasn’t lost on him that she didn’t say yes.  She said okay.  Okay, she understood, but not yes, she would go to New York.  She continued to stare at him and he kissed her on the slope of her upper lip before he let her go.  She finished her wine and he finished his beer, but the curry went cold.  When she excused herself to use the washroom, Hank signaled for the check and waited for her by the door.  It had turned foggy while they were at dinner.  He helped her into her overcoat and they walked silently through the damp neighborhood back home.  He put his arm around her waist when she shivered, which she accepted, but she kept her own arms crossed and her head down.

He followed her inside the dark townhouse.  She snapped the dim overhead light on in the entryway and they both hung their jackets and removed their shoes.

“Stella,” he said, catching her by the hips when she tried to move up the stairs to the bedroom.

She turned on the second stair, taller than him by a mere inch.  “Yes?”

He took her arms and they were cold, so he rubbed them briskly, up and down, until her pale skin turned pink.  “I know I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want me here,” he said.  “I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want us.  We’re more than a night in a hotel or a weekend in LA now.  Be part of my life.  Let me share it with you and let me share you with those that matter.  Participate.”

“I want to…”

“For now, just think about it.”

“Hank…”

“Just think about it.”  He lifted his chin and put a hand on the newel post to stretch his neck and kiss her lips.

Stella cupped his face in her hands when he tried to pull away and called him back to her.  He hooked his arm around her hips and she dropped down a step to press against him.  When he finally did break their kiss and pulled his head up to look down at her, she took her time opening her eyes and moved her hands down to his shoulders.  He came to regard that soft, sleepy gaze of hers as the ‘shut up and make love to me’ look he’d only recently discovered.  It was vastly different than the ‘shut up and fuck me’ gaze.  That gaze could melt the polar icecaps with its heat.  This one warmed the soul like a cup of soup on a cold day.

Hank pulled her hips into his and kissed her again.  She held on to his neck with one hand and moved the fingers of her other through his hair.  Her breasts pressed tantalizingly against his chest.  His grip on the newel post tightened to keep them up and he slid the hand around her waist up against her back and under her blouse.  Her skin was cool to the touch and she shivered as his warm hand traveled up her spine.

Stella pulled out of Hank’s kiss and her blouse came over her head and flew over the railing of the stairs in one swift motion.  Her bra was the same color of sand as her blouse was.  He couldn’t resist a quick nuzzle to her cleavage and a quick taste of her left breast before he unhooked the boring, practical, desert-colored bra, one-handed.  It caught on the bannister when she tossed it to the side and swung pendulously between the rungs near the post.

Once her chest was naked, she was always anxious for Hank’s bare skin against her own.  She clawed at his shirt and he took it off for her so she could rub her torso against his.  The sparse hair on his chest tickled and teased her nipples to attention and she moaned softly when slipped his hand between them to pinch one.  She wasn’t always receptive when he gave attention to her breasts, but the moan gave him encouragement.

Bending slightly, he swirled his tongue around the nipple he’d just tweaked and then took her breast fully into his mouth.  He heard her sigh, softly, and her fingers raked through his hair.  He nipped at the tip and she whimpered and jerked as he soothed the light love bite with the flat of his tongue.  Heat radiated from her chest.

He moved on to her other breast, lest it feel left out.  When he felt like she was getting impatient, he placed one hand low on her back to trace the waistline of her pants with his pinkie finger.  Stealthily, he slipped the little digit down into the crack of her ass.  She groaned and then pushed him away at the chest, breathing hard with glassy eyes.

“How do you want it?” he asked, rubbing her fingers where they dug into his pectorals.

She licked her lip and tossed her hair over one shoulder with the shake of her head.  “I want your mouth.”

“With pleasure.”

He roughly unzipped her trousers and she kicked them off the stairs after they fell to her ankles.  He bent and curved his body, mouthing the soft, velvety skin above her panties.  Her hips swayed towards him and he swiped his tongue under the lace edge of her underwear.  The tip of his tongue grazed the thin strip of hair over her mons and she gripped the top of her head as her body pitched forward.  He inhaled deeply before he stood, breathing in her arousal to heighten his own.

Though he was straining in his jeans, he was more interested in her pleasure than his own, at the moment.  They were not going to make it up the stairs, of that he was certain, so he moved up behind her and sat on the third step and took her hand.  She stepped over him as he laid back on the stairs and guided her down to his mouth.  His neck rested not uncomfortably on the lip of one of the risers and he shifted to find the best angle as she pulled her panties to the side for him.

He felt for her legs as they folded beneath her and cupped her knees to protect them from the hardwood.  It would be difficult, not being able to use his hands, but he would improvise.  He’d barely touched her, but already she was dripping warmly down his chin.  It certainly made his job a lot easier.  He took her weight against his forearms as she leaned forward and flattened her palms on the step above his head.  He was going to have to rely on her to control the pressure.

Hank licked and sucked and probed like his life depended on it.  He groaned softly as she grinded her hips down against his mouth and the edge of the stair bit into the back of his neck.  He was going to be sore tomorrow, but it would be worth it.  She whimpered softly and her thighs clenched lightly at his cheeks.

Though he had her panting and groaning quite quickly, he knew he was never going to get her off this way, but he was going to get her close.  The stimulus he could offer in this position wasn't going to be enough for her.  He squeezed the top of her legs with light pressure and dipped his head as he retracted his tongue.  She groaned, but caught on to his intent and backed up down his body, leaving a trail of her arousal down his chest as she slid to the base of the stairs.

Hank quickly sat up and unzipped his pants while she stepped out of her panties.  He reached for her after sliding his jeans and boxers down his thighs and she straddled his lap.  He sighed in relief as she took him inside.  The ache in his groin had been verging on painful.

Stella used her toes to lift her hips and sink back down.  He cupped her ass to make it easier.  She had one arm over his shoulder and gripped the railing of the stairs with the other.  Her breasts jumped with every thrust and taunted him, just out of reach of his mouth.  One of her feet slipped off the stairs and he caught her knee before her shin came down onto the wooden edge.

“Fuck,” she said, slowing a little and rocking forward instead.

“That’s good,” he said, as she rolled her hips and bore down with her pelvis.  “God, Stella.”

“Don’t come yet.”

“Shit.  What do you need?”

She dropped her arm from his shoulder and reached down to where they were joined and circled with two fingers.  He squeezed her ass, lifted and released in slow intervals.  His balls were hot and tight and he gritted his teeth.

“Stella,” he groaned.

“Do it.  So close.  God.”

“Fuck.”  He let the pressure that’d been building release itself and he strained up inside her, wanting to slow time just for a few more seconds so she could tip over that precipice with him.

Those blessedly tight muscles inside her contracted around him, milking him, pulling him as deep as he could go, and then she trembled and jerked above him.  Her mouth opened and her breath caught on a gasp.  She arched her back and he could feel her hummingbird heartbeat where he placed his hand between her shoulderblades to keep her from falling backwards.

He deflated before she sagged in his lap.  Her head dropped forward and she let go of the railing to dangle both arms from his shoulders.  He stroked her from shoulder to hip, kissing her collarbone and neck where he could.  She closed her arms around him and held his head to her throat.

“I do love you,” she whispered.

He felt a surge of something in his chest.  Pride, maybe.  Or just happiness.  He hugged her close and turned his head to catch her lips in a slow, wet kiss.  She pulled out of it after only a few moments and then let go of him and he let go of her.  She stepped down the two stairs behind her on quivering legs and went about collecting the scattered clothes from the floor and banister.

“Stella,” he said, standing and tucking himself back into his pants, but leaving them unzipped.

“What?”

“Have you ever said that to anyone before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

He came up behind her and wrapped his arm around her waist, swaying her softly with her back to his chest.  She shifted the clothes in her hands and tucked them under one arm to run her fingers down his forearm from elbow to wrist.

“I need a shower,” she said.  “Will you be joining me.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.  Want me to bring you a glass of water?”

“That would be lovely.”

He let her go and watched the sway of her naked hips as she ascended the stairs into darkness before he crept into the kitchen to grab some cold water.  He wondered what those asshole journalists would think, if they saw the Stella that he did.  In some ways, he rather enjoyed being the only one she allowed into her heart, even if it was in small doses.  But, now, it was time to move out of the insulated bubble they had placed themselves in.  He needed her to come to New York with him and he needed to share her with his family.  As he stood in the kitchen with his water, he had to remind himself that she still hadn’t said yes.

The End

[bruceeves]

“Work # 961: Six Works Seven Anecdotes”

When accepting the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1958, Harold Pinter said that “there are no real distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily true or false; it can be both true and false.” What I propose here is to engage with six works I created over the past three years, a series of works that are mash-ups of gay history, art history, and my history refracted through the mashed-up lens of image abutting image and text atop image. The resulting elements of ambiguity engage memory – not exclusively, but not insubstantially either – and neatly echo the lack of reliability between real/unreal true/false posited by Pinter. “Memory” as Mary Warnock would postulate “operates under perpetual tension: the only way to cope with life is to learn what to forget; the only way to feel one has an identity is to remember.”

  In 2007, after a months-long bout of self-doubt and self-recrimination, I decided to take a booth in the artist sector of the Folsom Fair North to decide once and for all whether or not to throw in the towel. I was interested in feedback more than anything. Aside from earning about 20 cents profit, the one thing I learned from my afternoon spent in Allan Gardens in downtown Toronto is that Leathermen, while supportive, are cheap, cheap, cheap . . .    With success and validation like that, I realized it would be stupid to give up so I resolved to stick around (much to the annoyance of some . . . they know who they are).

  Accepting “Salò: 120 Nights of Sodom” as its personal saviour, “Work # 864: The Nature of God” (2013) looked to Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1975 enumeration of abuse of power, corruption, sadism, sexual perversity, and fascism as the first work in a series that explored the outer limits of masculine behaviour – a behaviour that is traditionally still expected of the boy before he can be considered fully a man. With titles like “Trailer Trash Terrorism”, “Behave Work Obey”, “Yes I Will Yes”, “Cell Block Bitch”, and “Shhh . . . (How to Conduct a Successful Interrogation – Lessons 1-20)” this is not a series of works intended for the faint of heart. What was done with this series was the antithesis of aestheticizing gleaming muscleboys or exploring the romanticism inherent in male bonding. “Work # 864: The Nature of God” allows that the rigour of discipline often morphs into the disciplinarian running amok. Notwithstanding the fact that this work has been described as ‘the water-boarding piece’ (which is an interpretation that I don’t dismiss), it is a multi-image cum-soaked force-feeding enacting either the predetermined choreography of some arcane sexual ritual or the resolution of cold-blooded revenge – that’s up for you to decide.  

  “Work # 900: (Endeavouring . . . )“ (2014) is masculine behaviour of a different sort – a mash-up of “Hercules Beating the Centaur Nessus” by Giambologna and a slightly abridged line lifted from “The Pickwick Papers“ by Charles Dickens. While it appears to be a meeting of an apple and an orange, the two parts making the whole have a lot in common. Giambologna (1529-1608) was a Flemish sculptor (born Jean Boulogne) based in Italy and celebrated for a Mannerist style of intellectual sophistication and conscious artificiality favouring compositional tension and instability over balance and clarity. It seemed logical to partner a Mannerist sculpture from 1599 with a comic novel from 1836. As in many other Dickens novels the main literary value is the often exaggerated personality traits of his characters. The abridged quote is from a scene when the perennial spinster Rachael Wardle is driven into a state of near-feverish excitement over her botched elopement. The two fragments – sculpture and text – taken together assume a different form of feverish instability by implying a post-modern conflicted relationship willfully engineered by Nancy-boy Nessus to force hunky he-man Herc into delivering the most satisfactorily masochistic pounding. “Work # 900: (Endeavouring . . . )“ could never be construed as a self-portrait. The only thing masochistic about me is my continual insistence on maintaining an art practice; and as far as what goes on, as they say, behind closed doors, I’m far too snotty and opinionated to be anyone’s slave.

  It was after much arguing that this work was finally exhibited as part of a self-described “queer” arts festival hosted by Artscape – a real estate monopoly that is the purveyor of postage-stamped sized “live/workspaces” and studios priced at levels geared to the 1% throughout Toronto – found this union of 16th century image with 19th century words simply beyond the pale for breached the organization’s (previously unknown) family-friendly guidelines . . .

  The fact that it even needs to be stated plainly that “according to the rules of my tribe, being 62 puts me 12 years past my best before date” strategically planted atop a photo of a hot torso in “Work # 904: Twelve Years a Ghost” (2014) should be indictment enough in exposing ageism as the last acceptable prejudice. I guess I must have touched a nerve when the piece was exhibited (by a curator old enough to known better) far enough away and high on a wall in the furthest back corner of the gallery . . . Fine, I’m a sixty-three year old, half lame, three-quarters deaf, widowed gay man with a cardiac condition, full dentures, horrible eyesight and rapidly developing cataracts; I acknowledge those facts. But that doesn’t make me, as is said in Yiddish, ein alter kocker – and old shitter!

  The scenario presented in “Work # 918: Ash [and] Tray” (2014), from the same series as “Work # 864: The Nature of God” and    

                dredged up from deep within my unconscious, was enacted several times over the course of one sultry evening at the Crash ‘n Burn in the summer of 1977. Toward the end of the line for the C’nB, the now fondly mythologized punk rock club brooding in the basement of its overlord the Centre for Experimental Art and Communication (CEAC), the crowd had become distressingly uptown (meaning north of Queen Street). Technically acting as the eyes and ears for the head office upstairs, the perpetrator of the heinous acts was me (drunk) and the instigator (drunker) was one Paul Bartlett (now deceased), a poor little rich boy with impossible-to-resolve daddy issues and (stupidly) the perpetrator’s soon to be boyfriend. That that sultry evening proved to be one of Mr. P.B.s more rational moments was soon to become apparent. That memory is both a weapon and a crutch led Jean Genet to claim that every man guards in himself his own particular wound. I don’t remember when the affair completely fell apart but I don’t think it lasted past that Christmas. To quote Francis Bacon, they say time heals, but I really wonder about that.”

  There’s nothing metaphorical in the least about the title of “Work # 943: Spider Web Sex Machine” (2015), it’s exactly what it says – two panels, one over the other; the top, a photograph of a spider’s web glinting in the sunlight and the bottom a no-nonsense advertising styled photograph of a sex machine. Discovering its existence of such a thing left me with the same sense of unease in not being entirely sure how this baroque contraption accommodates a human body as when I inspected close-up one of the pieces of fucking furniture custom-built for the future Edward VII. One assumes that Mr. Spider has gone out for beer and poppers because the web is as empty and inviting as the sex machine is peculiar and menacing.

  On March 28, 2016 I received the following email with the subject heading “Question about Work # 943“ from a fellow with residences in both Montreal and Berlin: “Hey There, You show a sex maschine [sic] in the Artworkt Nr 943 [sic] called Spider web sex machine' out of 2015. Do you know where to buy that machine from? [sic] maybe you can give me a website or a hint in what direction to go for more information about the machine.  Cant [sic] find any hint nowhere [sic] on the internet so far. Thanx a lot for your help. Greetz [sic] J___ B______ “. Two things came immediately to mind when I read this: 1) this is the first time I’ve ever been sent correspondence from a genuine pervert (cool!); and 2) both the deutchen grammaticus and the fractured syntax made my pants feel too tight. Of course I emailed him at once (!) with a couple of suggestions and that perhaps, if all else failed, he would be interested in purchasing the one-of-a-kind “Work # 943: Spider Web Sex Machine” (2015), which is a work of art . . .

  He never wrote back. Oh well. I tried.

  On an annual school trip to the Royal Ontario Museum before I had pubic hair, I recall lingering behind my other classmates when we got to the Greek and Roman galleries because of one sculpture in particular, a life-sized fragment of a man’s nether region with orange-sized testicles and globular glutes – feeling sweat and convinced I was the focus of knowing glances. I don’t think anyone noticed, but in my mind’s eye “Work # 956: David Was Horny” (2016) is how I imagined I looked staring up at David’s gigantic balls for the first time. It made me wonder whether or not male desire has really changed all that much from 1500 to the present, and while I have long delved into the question of the "gay sensibility", it’s never been either a trip down memory lane or a retreat into the stereotyped suck-and-fuck paradigm. I've positioned myself as an ironic spectator of this world of men ripped from the daily headlines where the 19th century notion of a romantic friendship has been kicked into the gutter. Herein lies the challenge: it is old news that the male body continues to be a provocation; but ironically, a critique of masculinity has gone largely unexplored, and embraces the proposition examined in much of my work that it should be possible to be simultaneously hot and sweaty and critical and detached. It is desirable – even exhilarating – to question the givens of our cultural baggage while at the same time allowing ourselves to be wrapped in its brawny arms.                                                                   Bruce Eves, April 2016

Bruce Eves is an artist living in Toronto. In past lives he was the assistant programming director of the Centre for Experimental Art and Communication (CEAC), art director of the New York Native and Christopher Street magazine, and the co-founder and chief archivist of the International Gay History Archive (now part of the Rare Books and Manuscript division of the New York Public Library).