#making fun of his name is now a microaggression both ways

[kindlespark]

messy oisin doodles bc i can’t stop thinking about howl’s human design for him. (tattoos were inspired by chinese porcelain and irish celtic designs like the triquetra!)

[hatethysinner]

ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: New York, 1970. You’ve come too far from Mississippi to be told no. Your agent, Remmick, calls you his masterpiece, and he’ll do anything to make the world see you the same. You don’t ask what it costs him, but every time the spotlight hits your skin, his eyes shine like it’s worth it.

ᴡᴄ: 22.5k (including cont'd)

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. if there's any fanfic writer reading this, mix your settings up! it's so fun to go out of your comfort zone and just go batshit crazy with your ideas and that's exactly what i did. the fact that i had to split this into two posts makes me so mad like i promise i'm not interaction farming tumblr just can't handle the heat of 20k+ words. i've done grateful remmick, pathetic remmick, and now we've got obsessive remmick. collecting his archetypes like infinity stones 💋! as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: (including cont'd) SLOWburn, obsession, murder, vampirism, blood, bloodplay i think, praise kink, breeding kink, body worship, eye contact, biting, cunnilingus, very light dubcon, exhibitionism, p in v, monsterfucking, overstimulation, dacryphillia, cockwarming, the wildest possible time to have sex (you won't guess it), i'm sorry yall this shit is just freaky as fuck, overt affection from the start, fluff, a little domesticity never hurts, remmick being an unhinged control freak but in the least toxic way possible, reader did not prepare herself for ts, maybe a little angsty but that depends on your definition, codependency, power imbalance but it's never abused(?), religious undertones if you squint, depictions of racism, texturism, and microaggressions in the fashion industry, amateur knowledge of 1970s fashion and modeling (i was living on the devil wears prada and a prayer), excessive use of dividers, minor vampire rule changes for writing convenience

New York City, 1970.

The city shimmered in the distance like a mirage, flickering orange and gold against the horizon, then hardening into glass and steel as you drew closer. Manhattan rose from the ground like something alive, wild and bristling, all sirens and streetlamps and noise thick enough to taste. The car hummed low beneath you, headlights slicing through the last stretch of night. You leaned against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching the skyline appear piece by piece like it was being conjured just for you.

It had been a long drive. A strange one. Not quick, not smooth. Over twenty-four hours, maybe more. Time bled at the edges when you were with Remmick.

He wouldn’t drive during the day. Not once. Every time the sky began to lighten, he’d pull off the road. Into a gas station, a motel lot, once even behind an abandoned diner where the air smelled like rust and pine needles, and he’d wait. In silence. Crouched low in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on even in the dark. You’d offered to take the wheel more than once, half-joking, half-worried, but he’d only chuckled and said, "Ain’t no use rushin’. Best things bloom slow, darlin’. Let the night do her part."

The highways felt endless. Flat fields, flickering street signs, the quiet rhythm of tires against asphalt. You dozed in and out, lulled by his steady driving and the scratch of his thumb against his lighter. He didn’t play the radio. He didn’t sing. Sometimes he talked to himself, voice low and rhythmic like a sermon, words you couldn’t quite catch. Other times, he said your name like it was the only thing worth saying.

And then: the city.

He pulled the car to the curb, the engine softening into silence. You blinked up at the brownstone. Tall and narrow, made of worn red brick with black trim and a wrought-iron gate that looked older than both of you. The street around it was quiet, lit by just a few streetlamps buzzing with moths. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was nice. Too nice, as if it'd been detailed just minutes before you arrived. Clean front stoop. Big bay window. Flower boxes under the sills.

You frowned. “This yours?”

Remmick stepped out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened your door with a little bow. “Ours,” he said simply, like that explained everything.

You stood slowly, stretching your spine after hours curled in the seat. The New York air was colder than Mississippi. Sharper. The kind that cut clean and left you blinking. You looked up at the brownstone again. It had to be expensive. The kind of place a real agent might have. The kind of place someone powerful stayed, not someone who drifted into a backwoods general store and offered to make you a star.

But he just smiled. Like he already knew what you were thinking.

“Ain’t much yet,” he said, his voice low, accent thick and lazy and true. “But it’s the start. From here on out, we climb.”

You stared at him. Your so-called agent, your midnight stranger, the man who found you counting change behind the counter of your uncle’s store in Mississippi, under flickering fluorescents and a ceiling fan that squealed with every turn.

You hadn’t been looking to be found.

You hadn’t even meant to speak to him.

He’d come in just before closing, tall and tired-looking, dressed like he didn’t belong. Black turtleneck, coat that didn’t suit the heat, and those eyes. Blue, yes, but something off about them. Ancient. Red flashed in his pupils if the light hit just right, like a warning. You caught yourself staring too long.

Then he said it. “You ever thought about modeling, sweetheart?”

You laughed in his face.

He didn’t leave.

He came back the next night. And the one after that.

He didn’t try to touch you. Didn’t leer or flirt. Just leaned on the counter and looked at you like you were already on the cover of Vogue or Life. Like he was just waiting for the world to catch up.

“You’re a fuckin’ star,” he said again and again. “You don’t see it, but I do.”

Now here you were.

He carried your suitcase without asking, easy like it weighed nothing, and led you up the narrow staircase. Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of lavender and old books. The walls were clean, freshly painted, but the baseboards and window frames still bore signs of age. The floors creaked under your feet, polished wood catching the light. The front room had a velvet couch in a deep wine color, a small but elegant fireplace, and shelves that already held a few books. Some old, some new, all carefully arranged.

There was a vase on the windowsill. Empty, waiting.

It wasn’t just an apartment. It felt like someone had made space for you here.

You dropped your bag near the door and looked around slowly, jaw slack with disbelief.

“You… really live like this?”

Remmick leaned against the doorframe, his shirt collar open just enough to reveal the top of his pale chest. That red glint shimmered faintly behind his tired blue eyes, not threatening, just… different. Other. He didn’t hide it. You didn’t want him to.

He grinned, showing the faint edge of his canines. Too sharp to be human, too familiar to scare you. “I told you, didn’t I?” he said softly. “You’re gonna be a fuckin’ star.”

You stepped toward him, unsure if you meant to laugh or cry. “And this is part of that?”

He nodded once, serious now. “You deserve a place to start from. A place that ain’t tryin’ to drag you back down. I meant it when I said I’d take care of you.”

And in his voice, you heard it again. That vow he’d made in a gas station parking lot under moth-covered lights. That strange devotion that didn’t ask for anything in return.

You looked around one last time, then back at him.

“So what now?”

He stepped into the room, slow and certain, like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

“Now,” he said, brushing a stray curl from your face, “we get to work.”

You very quickly learned the situation you’d gotten yourself into.

It wasn’t subtle. There were no illusions of partnership or shared footing. You weren’t splitting rent, trading favors, or learning the city together like other girls who moved north with dreams and no real plan. No, you were being kept. Thoroughly, obsessively, deliberately kept.

It started small. You mentioned your shoes were falling apart. The next morning, a pair of Ferragamos appeared beside the bed. You half-joked about not owning a proper winter coat, and he was gone for twenty minutes, then returned with three. Leather. Wool. Something French you couldn’t pronounce, still with the tag attached.

The closet filled before you realized what was happening. It started with a rack of dresses, mostly black, some red, some blue, a few greens and golds, all tailored like they knew your body before you’d ever tried them on. Then came the heels. Then the jewelry. Not flashy, but real. Real enough to catch light. Real enough to turn heads.

You didn’t ask for it. Sometimes, you weren’t even sure you wanted it.

But he noticed everything.

You lingered a second too long looking at a photo in a magazine, the jacket the model wore, the earrings that matched her lipstick, and the next day, something damn near identical was folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

“Remmick, I don’t need-”

“Didn’t ask what you need, darlin’,” he’d say, brushing past you with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I asked what you want.”

He never lit that cigarette inside. Not even once. Wouldn’t so much as hold a lighter within ten feet of you. He’d smoke out on the stoop or disappear to the far end of the street, muttering something about “not stinkin’ up the air you breathe.” The first time you joked about wanting one yourself, just to see what the fuss was about, he looked at you like you’d cursed, warning “not with a smile like yours, not a chance.”

It wasn’t just the clothes.

You ran out of conditioner once. Just once. The bottle was still in the trash when you stepped out of the shower and found five new ones lined up on the bathroom sink. Different brands, all familiar, all from back home. Stuff you didn’t even think they sold up north. He’d stocked them like he’d raided a beauty supply store in Jackson and brought the entire aisle to you.

When you tried to thank him, he shook his head and looked at you like you’d insulted him.

“Don’t need thanks,” he murmured, turning the sink knobs absently, like making sure the water still ran. “Don’t want it neither. Just want you ready. Prepared. You look the part, they treat you like the part.”

That was the other thing. He never wavered.

You could be barefaced and groggy, hair wrapped, in slippers and one of his oversized shirts, and he’d still say it: “You’re the most beautiful thing in this city.”

Always with that voice, like gravel and honey, and always with that look. Like he was memorizing you for when you weren’t there.

He refused to let you carry groceries. Refused to let you pay at restaurants, even diners. The one time you tried, fumbling for your wallet while he was in the bathroom, he damn near lost it. Quietly, of course. Never loud. Never unkind. But the look on his face when he stepped out and saw you holding your purse?

He took your wrist gently and leaned in close. “You ain’t got to do that, darlin’. You never will.”

And you believed him.

Because Remmick didn’t make promises lightly.

He’d booked your first photoshoot before your second night in the city. He knew a guy who knew a guy. Shady as hell, probably, but the studio was real, the lighting was good, and the photographer never once looked at you sideways. You didn’t have a portfolio yet, didn’t know how to pose, but Remmick stood just out of frame, nodding, giving you small, soft corrections. Not criticism. Just reminders.

“Chin up. Eyes sharper. That’s it, darlin’. Just like that.”

He was everywhere. In the corner of the room, watching. Waiting. Always watching.

You got used to it. Maybe too fast. Maybe too easy.

But something about his presence didn’t unnerve you. It calmed you. Like if anything went wrong, if anyone tried anything, he’d handle it before you even knew to be afraid.

The girls you passed on the sidewalk in Harlem, downtown, SoHo, they looked at you with curiosity. Some with admiration, others with judgment. You didn’t blame them. You were the new face, the quiet one with an older man who opened every door and paid every bill and looked at you like you were something exquisite and holy.

And you noticed him too.

The way he never ate. The way his canines always looked a little too sharp when he smiled too wide. The way his eyes gleamed red sometimes when the light dipped low.

You weren’t stupid.

You weren’t scared either.

Because when he looked at you, it wasn’t hunger. It was worship.

Like he’d waited lifetimes for you. Like now that he had you, there wasn’t a single thing on this earth. living or dead. he wouldn’t rip apart to keep you standing.

And the strangest part?

You were starting to believe it.

You still didn’t know what exactly he was. He hadn’t told you, not directly. But there were nights when the city seemed to go still around him, when your reflection in the apartment window looked younger than it had the day before, when he came back from “errands” with dirt on his sleeves and a strange, metallic smell clinging to his coat.

You didn’t ask.

You just watched him move through your life like a secret you didn’t want solved.

And when he knelt in front of your vanity, helping you fasten the strap of your heels, he looked up at you like you were the moon.

“Whatever you want, darlin’,” he said. “All you ever gotta do is ask.”

And you believed him. Again.

The proofs arrived in a thick envelope, crisp and neatly stacked, smelling like ink and developer fluid. Remmick slit it open with his finger, careful not to smudge the edges, then spread the photos out across the kitchen table like cards in a high-stakes hand.

You hovered nearby, still in your robe, coffee cooling untouched between your hands. He’d barely said a word all morning, just paced between windows and rearranged the chairs until the light hit the table just right. Now he sat, back straight, fingers laced under his chin like he was studying scripture.

“Alright,” he muttered, nodding to himself. “Let’s see what we’re workin’ with.”

He picked up the first photo, held it close to his face, then glanced at you with a small, stunned kind of smile.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Look at you. Look at those eyes. Like they know somethin’ nobody else does.”

Your lips twitched. “That good or bad?”

He flicked his eyes up. “That’s perfect.”

The next photo didn’t get the same reaction. He turned it sideways, then back, then let out a thoughtful little hum before setting it aside.

“Not that one?”

“Too wide on the lens. Warps the shoulder line.” He looked up again, serious now. “Ain’t you. That’s on the camera, not the subject.”

You sat across from him, watching the small pile of rejects begin to form at his elbow. But with each one he discarded, he gave an explanation. Real, technical, thorough.

“This one’s too soft. Focus is just off the eye, makes you look unsure.”

“Lighting’s dirty on this one. Sinks the skin tone. Not your fault, not on you.”

“Angle’s wrong here. Nose ain’t shaped like that, lens just thinks it knows better.”

He never let it seem like you’d done something wrong.

Even the ones he didn’t like, he lingered on first. Admired them. Complimented the tilt of your head, the curve of your mouth, the way you held your hands. He only tossed them aside if the frame failed you, if the shot wasn’t worthy.

“You’re not a problem to fix, darlin’,” he said at one point, tapping one of the keeper shots. “You’re a truth they gotta learn how to capture right.”

You were starting to understand how his mind worked. Not just as your agent, but as someone who genuinely couldn’t stand seeing the world misunderstand you. It mattered to him, deeply. Almost violently.

He ended up with four he liked. Four out of thirty.

“This one for the face,” he said, sliding the first forward. “No smile, just eyes. Says take me serious.”

The second: “This one shows the angles. That jaw? That neck? You’ll have girls tryin’ to grow bones like yours.”

The third: “Little softness. You look like someone’s dream here.”

And the last, his favorite, he didn’t explain. Just stared at it for a long while, thumb grazing the edge, eyes unreadable.

When you reached for it, he didn’t let go right away. Then he finally handed it over.

It was a shot of you mid-turn, hair caught in motion, dress pulling just slightly at the hip, your mouth parted like you’d been about to laugh.

You didn’t even remember posing like that.

“I love this one,” you said quietly.

“I know,” Remmick replied, watching you with something almost reverent in his face. “That’s why it works.”

You leaned your cheek into your hand, tracing the edge of the photo with your finger. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen myself like this before.”

“’Cause you haven’t had someone show you right. Not till now.”

He stood, collecting the rejected prints and sliding them back into the envelope. You watched him move. Graceful in that slow, deliberate way of his, like every motion was premeditated.

At the counter, he paused to straighten the stack of fashion magazines he’d brought home the night before, flipping through one until he found a dog-eared page. A model with your same cheekbones, but none of your soul.

“See that?” he asked, tilting it toward you. “They’ll chase this look ‘til they die tryin’, but you-” He tapped the table beside your photo. “You got it. Easy.”

He lingered a moment longer, then returned to the table, his thumb brushing a speck of dust from the corner of your favorite shot. You noticed his hands. Always busy, always precise. Even when they trembled a little, like they did now, like he was holding something too precious to mess up.

“Gonna send these four out by noon,” he said, tapping the chosen shots. “Couple magazines, two scouts. I’ll follow up by phone tomorrow.”

Your brow lifted. “That fast?”

He gave a small shrug, lips tugging into a lopsided grin. “You think I came all this way just to sit on my ass?” He leaned across the table, close enough for you to see the faint red gleam flicker at the edge of his irises. Subtle, quick. “Told you I’d make you a fuckin’ star. Didn’t say when. Just said I would.”

He leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly, then looked at you with that soft, satisfied expression he wore whenever he thought you weren’t watching. “Put somethin’ nice on, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm. “I’m takin’ you out tonight. Gotta celebrate your first real shoot.”

The look in his eyes told you it wasn’t just about the pictures. It was about you. Everything was.

He didn’t call it a date. Wouldn’t even come close.

When you stepped out of the bedroom in one of the dresses he’d picked out days ago, red, silky, and cut to fit like it had been stitched directly onto you, he only gave a low whistle and said, “Now that’s how a star walks into a room.” Not you look beautiful. Not I can’t stop starin’ at you. But it was there in his face, plain as anything. The way he let his eyes trace you, slow and reverent, like he was seeing something sacred.

He held the door for you like always, one hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the black town car idling at the curb. The engine was quiet, the driver already waiting. No one had told you where you were going, and Remmick didn’t say. He just tucked you into the backseat like you were made of porcelain and leaned close with a grin, his fingers grazing your bare shoulder.

“Big night,” he murmured, low and warm. “You should eat like it.”

You didn’t expect what came next. The restaurant didn’t have a name on the front. Just a narrow archway tucked between a boutique hotel and a shuttered tailor shop, with a single golden plaque bolted to the brick. You wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t guided you up the steps like he belonged there.

The maître d’ recognized him instantly. “Right this way, sir,” he said without even asking for a name, and suddenly you were being led into the kind of place people waited months to get into. The dining room was dim and hushed, wrapped in warm light and the clink of expensive silverware. Velvet chairs, fresh flowers at every table, real wax candles instead of electric flickers. The sort of atmosphere where everyone whispered even when they didn’t have to, because they could.

You were seated in the center of it all, surrounded by couples in tailored suits and silk shawls, sparkling jewelry and moneyed quiet. The moment you sat down, you felt them. Eyes, subtle and sideways, glancing over menus and martinis to look at you. You were the only Black woman in the room. Probably the only one who’d been here in a while, if ever. Their stares weren’t loud, but they were there. Lingering. Curious. Unwelcome.

Remmick didn’t miss it.

His hand was already on the table, fingers brushing yours. “Hey,” he said, soft enough only you could hear. “They look ‘cause they don’t get it. ‘Cause you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream, and they’re not used to seein’ somethin’ that real.”

You looked up at him, and he was already watching you, something dangerous and steady behind the softness in his voice. “Let ‘em stare. You belong right here, sweetheart. You belong everywhere.”

That was all he had to say. The weight of the room shifted. Not for them, for you. Like suddenly you were immune. Like the whispering walls of that restaurant had never held a woman like you before, but they were damn lucky to now.

He ordered for both of you, waving off the menu like he already knew what was good. “She’ll have the oysters and the saffron risotto,” he said with a smile that was somehow both charming and firm. “Bring us the champagne. The good kind.”

You laughed and asked how he even got a reservation. He just shrugged. “Told ‘em I had someone I needed to impress. They didn’t ask more’n that.”

The food came in careful courses, small and perfect, each bite richer than anything you’d ever tasted. He didn’t eat much, just pushed things around on his plate while watching you. Every time you made a face or hummed in surprise at the flavor, he looked like he was cataloging it, like he’d remember what you liked forever.

“Tell me which dish you want me to learn to cook,” he said at one point. “I’ll have the whole damn kitchen figured out by next week if you ask.”

You told him that wasn’t necessary, and he smiled. “That ain’t the point.”

Between courses, he kept the compliments coming. Not like a man trying to win favor, more like someone stunned into reverence. He said it like a fact, like gravity: you were stunning, and you should already be on magazine covers. “The cameras don’t even get it yet,” he said. “They ain’t caught what I see.”

Still, he never called it a date.

Even when his gaze lingered on your mouth for too long. Even when he wiped a smear of sauce from the corner of your lip with his thumb and let it stay there for a beat too long. Even when his voice went low again and he said, “We’ll remember this night. First of many, I promise you that.”

You smiled down at your plate, cheeks warm, heart louder than it had been all day. He watched you like you were the only one left in the world. Like he could feel the pull of it just as much as you could, but wouldn’t name it. Not yet.

Dessert was something ridiculous with gold leaf and dark chocolate, something you didn’t ask for but he somehow knew you’d love. When you took the first bite, he grinned wide and leaned back in his chair.

“A star and her agent,” he said. “That’s all this is.”

But his voice was thick, and his eyes didn’t leave yours, and when he reached out to adjust the strap of your dress where it slipped on your shoulder, his hand lingered, slow and possessive.

“And stars oughta be spoiled, don’t you think?”

You nodded, quiet, caught between the warmth of the food and the fizz of champagne and the impossible softness in his voice. He said nothing more, just sat there across from you like he’d already decided you were the best thing he’d ever done.

And maybe he had.

Watching Remmick work was your favorite pastime.

You curled your legs up beneath you on the couch, still wearing the oversized tee he’d laid out for you. Not one of yours, of course. Something soft and perfectly worn, smelling faintly of cedar and whatever cologne he only ever seemed to wear around the apartment. The plate on your lap was empty now, just crumbs and the last smear of blackberry preserves from the toast he’d made fresh that morning. No burnt edges. No crusts. The way you liked it.

He’d sat with you through the whole thing, elbows on the table, watching every bite like it fed him instead. When you asked if he was gonna eat too, he only smiled.

“I’ll grab somethin’ later. You go on.”

He never ate around you, not really. Said mornings weren’t his time. Said he didn’t like the taste of breakfast. Said he’d already had his coffee. A lie, probably, because you never once saw him make a cup. But he’d sat there all the same, chin in his hand, smiling at you like you were the sunrise itself.

Now he stood across the apartment, back to you, the long cord of the house phone stretched taut from the wall to where he leaned against the kitchen counter. His voice was calm but firm, syrupy in a way that meant he was negotiating. You could only hear his side, but it was enough to understand.

“...I know what I’m askin’, but you ain’t looked at her yet, Mary. Once you see her in front of you, you’ll understand-”

A long pause. The hand not gripping the phone gestured in frustration, but his voice didn’t budge.

“Yeah. I get that. But what I’m sayin’ is, she ain’t just a checkmark on a theme issue, alright? She’s talent. She’s the face. Whether that issue’s in January or June or never, she deserves ink. You know it.”

Your stomach tightened a little. He hadn’t said what magazine it was, not directly, but you’d caught the hint yesterday when he started listing off dream shots. Glamour, he’d said. Cosmopolitan. Vogue, if they bite, but Glamour’s got that open slot sooner. At the time, you’d thought he was dreaming big. Shooting for the stars to see what stuck.

Now, listening to him wrangle a gatekeeper with the kind of slick charm only he could wield, you realized he hadn’t just dreamed. He’d promised.

And he was fighting tooth and nail to deliver.

“Mmhm. Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I read it.” His voice thinned slightly, though he still sounded smooth. “Saw the whole spread. Good issue.”

A beat. You caught the flicker of his jaw tightening.

“Nah, I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t have done it. Just sayin’ maybe you oughta take another look at your timing. Feels a little... seasonal. Like maybe you think color only matters once a year.”

Your eyebrows rose.

There was a longer pause now. You heard a faint tinny buzz from the other end of the line, though the words were too muffled to catch. Remmick didn’t speak. He just waited, staring out the tiny kitchen window at nothing. His fingers tapped the countertop, slow and even. You could feel it. The moment. That low boil of something restrained. Whatever she’d said next, it had hit a nerve.

Then finally, he spoke again.

“Listen, Mary. I’m not askin’ you to do her a favor. I’m offerin’ you a face your readers are gonna be grateful for. She’s got the look and the movement. She’s camera-trained and runway-ready, and she just got off a shoot with a photographer I know you’ve pulled from before. You want numbers? You’ll get numbers. All I need is fifteen minutes in front of your casting director.”

Another pause.

His eyes flicked to you.

You offered the smallest smile, and he smiled back. Just slightly, just enough to soften the line of his mouth. Then turned back to the phone.

“Perfect. Yeah. Tuesday’s good. Tell ‘em she’ll be there.”

He hung up with the kind of gentleness that didn’t match the fight you’d just heard in his voice. As if slamming the phone down would’ve undone the win. He stayed there a second longer, hand resting on the receiver, then turned toward you and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well,” he said, voice back to its usual slow drawl. “Hope you didn’t make other plans for Tuesday.”

He'd already made sure you didn't.

You blinked, throwing the first name that came to your mind out. “That was Glamour?”

He gave a short nod and crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of the couch. “That was me doin’ what I said I would. You’re in, sweetheart. Casting preview, ten a.m. I’ll walk you in myself.”

Your heart was thudding, too fast to hide. “Remmick... they said no at first, didn’t they?”

He didn’t lie. Didn’t pretend. Just shrugged. “Didn’t matter what they said at first. You got me. I make sure first ain’t never final.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his blue eyes caught the light and shimmered red in the middle, something not quite right about them, something old and endless that had never scared you. Something that felt like fire behind glass. You’d never asked what he was, not out loud. But you knew.

And you knew whatever he was, it loved you. Or worshipped you. Or both.

“Remmick,” you said, quieter now. “What if it doesn’t go well?”

He reached up, thumb brushing just beneath your cheek. “Then I raise hell.”

You laughed, half from nerves and half from wonder. You’d come to this city with nothing but a suitcase, a dream, and a man who’d found you behind a dusty counter and said star like he already believed it. And now here you were. Toast crumbs on your lap, your agent on fire, and Tuesday morning shining in the near distance like something impossible.

You weren’t sure if you were ready.

But with Remmick at your side, it almost didn't matter.

Tuesday morning came earlier than you'd hoped, though you weren’t the one who set the alarm. Remmick had been up before the sun, half-dressed and humming under his breath in the next room while laying your outfit out across the back of the couch.

He’d picked it the night before, but apparently that hadn’t stopped him from fussing over it again in the morning. You heard the crisp flick of a lint roller, the brush of fingers smoothing seams, the rustle of tissue paper as he checked the shoes a third time.

When you finally dragged yourself out of bed, you found the kettle already whistling and the lights dimmed low, the way you liked them. Remmick was standing by the window, fingers pressed lightly to the frame, eyes flicking up toward the gray, dim sky like he expected it to turn on him.

You watched him for a moment, leaning against the doorframe in your feather-trimmed robe, half-curious, half-sleepy.

“You waitin’ on somethin’?” you asked.

He turned slightly, not startled, just aware. That quiet, humming attention he always gave you.

“Mm? No,” he said, too quickly. “Just checkin’ the weather. They were callin’ for sun earlier. Thought maybe it’d clear.”

You blinked. “And that’s bad?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you don’t want your hair frizzin’ before the cameras roll.”

You didn’t buy that, not fully, but you didn’t press. Especially not when you caught the way his shoulders dropped just a little with relief as he turned back toward the window and muttered, “Overcast’s good. Real good.”

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, all his focus was back on you.

“Went with the green. It’ll set off your skin like it’s already been retouched,” he said, running a hand over the fabric. “Open collar, mid-thigh hem. You’re showin’ just enough to make ‘em lean forward, not enough to make ‘em blink wrong. You’ll kill in it.”

He’d chosen your heels too. Pearlescent and soft. He bent to help buckle them before you could even sit down fully, kneeling in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked up after the second one clicked into place.

He pulled you in front of the small mirror in the hallway, fingers brushing through your curls. Careful but firm, like he was memorizing every strand, every coil.

“You look damn beautiful like this,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for you. “This hair? It’s got fire. It’s you. Ain’t no straightening iron gonna fix what’s already perfect.”

You watched his face, how his lips twitched into a rare smile, how his sharp canines flashed for a moment when he spoke. It was like he was showing you a piece of a world you hadn’t dared to claim yet.

“If they try to tell you to change it, you tell ’em exactly what I’m tellin’ you.” He leaned in, voice dropping lower, the kind of serious that makes you hold your breath. “If they don’t like this, they can choke on it.”

You couldn't help but laugh.

The walk to the Glamour offices wasn’t long, but he stretched it out like a runway. Kept looking you up and down with a quiet smile that made your stomach dip.

“You remember what to say if they ask about work history?”

“Freelance,” you said. “New Orleans, mostly. Catalogue stuff. A few showroom calls.”

“Good girl.” His hand found the small of your back. “And if they ask who’s representin’ you?”

“You.”

“Damn right.”

Every few steps, he’d stop to adjust your sleeve, or reposition your collar just slightly, or brush a speck of lint off your back like it was a threat. All the while, compliments rolled off him like breath.

“Walkin’ like you got six hundred cameras on you already.”

“No one else out here looks like you. That’s why they’re gonna remember.”

“God, darlin’, if they don’t pick you up after this, I’ll make a whole new magazine just to show ‘em what they missed.”

He meant it too. That was the thing.

When you reached the building, the receptionist barely had time to look up before Remmick had already introduced you both. “Ten o’clock, casting preview for senior editorial. We’re expected.”

He kept his hand low at your back as you were ushered toward the elevators, nodding politely but not waiting to be led. He knew the layout better than he should have. Knew exactly which floor. Which door. Which office.

You didn’t ask how.

Just like you didn’t ask how he managed the reservation for that dinner, or the money for the apartment, or the pull it must’ve taken to get a Tuesday meeting with Glamour on less than a week’s notice.

He stood with you right up to the waiting room. Talked you through every possible scenario. Repeated it all again. Not like he didn’t think you remembered, but like he needed to be sure. His hand curled around yours for a moment, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“You’re gonna go in there, and you’re gonna own it,” he said low. “Chin up. Shoulders back. They ain’t doin’ you a favor, darlin’. You’re the one bringin’ value.”

You smiled, even if your heart was loud in your ears. “You’re staying, right?”

“As long as they let me.”

The door cracked open then. A woman in a gray blazer stepped out and gave you a polite, clipped smile. “They’re ready for you.”

Remmick looked at her, then back at you.

“You got this,” he whispered, eyes catching the light like glass. “Go turn ‘em to mush.”

You stepped through the door with a deep breath, feeling him at your back even after it shut behind you.

The room wasn’t anything like you’d imagined. No flashbulbs. No velvet couches. Just white walls, a long table, and a row of people behind it. Only three today, though it felt like more.

The man in the middle leaned forward, adjusting his glasses as he looked you over. His suit was tan. His tie was brown. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a retirement brochure.

He didn’t smile.

His eyes landed on your hair, soft and natural, shaped carefully the way you and Remmick had discussed, and he frowned.

“You didn’t straighten your hair?”

The air thinned.

He said it casually. Like it was a reasonable question. Like you were the one who’d missed a memo. There was no malice in his voice. No edge. Just that neutral, evaluative tone. The kind that made your skin prickle.

You opened your mouth, unsure whether to answer. Whether to defend. But you didn’t get the chance.

Remmick’s words came back to you.

If they don’t like it, they can choke on it.

You straightened your spine. Lifted your chin.

“No,” you said, clearly. “I didn’t.”

His brow lifted, but he didn’t comment further. Just made a note on the paper in front of him and gestured toward the far end of the room. “We’ll have you stand there, please.”

You moved without trembling. Stood where he told you. But just as he looked up again, his tone shifted. Cool, clinical, condescending, like he was correcting a child.

“Next time, I’d encourage you to tame it a little,” he said, making a vague swirling motion near his own head. “It tends to interfere with the shape of the editorial spread. Distracts from the clothes.”

You held your breath for a second.

Then exhaled, choosing to respond with your silence.

You couldn’t see Remmick from here, but you knew, if he could, he’d be watching through the walls. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. Fingers curled around the armrest of some uncomfortable waiting room chair, burning with the need to intervene but holding back for your sake. Because he trusted you. Because he’d prepared you for this.

They smiled at you.

All three of them. The old white man in the center, still reeking of cedar cologne and importance. The younger one on his left with the narrow glasses and tight mouth. And the woman, quiet, polished, seated from the start, offered the warmest smile of all, like it might soften what was coming.

“You’ve got something,” the man in the center said, folding his hands like he was giving you the world instead of brushing you off. “Undeniably. And that face? It tells a story.”

You waited. Chin high. Shoulders set. The reader in you knew a setup when you heard one.

“But,” he continued, “we just couldn’t find the right fit for you on the cover. The concept’s already tight, and we’re working with established talent.”

The woman nodded sympathetically. “We’ll absolutely include you in the spread, though. There’s a great piece near the back. Beauty-focused, intimate lighting. You’ll photograph beautifully there.”

“Somewhere in the centerfold,” the younger man added. “Where you’ll pop.”

Pop.

You kept smiling. Even thanked them. Told them it was an honor.

The hallway outside felt colder than it had earlier. Like whatever heat had filled the building this morning had been drained just for you. You glanced around, expecting to see Remmick waiting in that same corner you assumed he'd been pacing in for the last hour, but he wasn’t there.

“Your agent?” the receptionist offered, catching your look. “He was asked to wait in the lobby. Waiting room’s only for models.”

You nodded, once. Of course it was.

You stepped into the elevator, then down through the marble lobby, each heel-click a reminder. Not of rejection exactly, because they hadn’t said no. But of all the ways a person can still be told not quite.

Remmick was already rising from the bench opposite of the window when you turned the corner. The second he saw you, he stood fast. Palms brushing down the front of his shirt, like his whole body was waiting for your cue. For your expression to tell him what to feel.

His mouth opened, but you beat him to it.

“They said I’ll be in the magazine,” you said.

His face didn’t move. Not right away.

Then slowly, his brow lifted.

“And?”

“Not on the cover.”

You watched it hit him. Watched how his expression stayed still for half a second too long. Just long enough for it to twist into something else. Something dangerous.

His jaw set hard. A muscle ticked. The color beneath his skin seemed to shift, just faintly, as if whatever fire lived inside him didn’t know where to go yet.

You almost thought he’d go back upstairs. March into that office and ask those men if they had any idea who they’d just handed a consolation prize to. If they knew how much talent they’d looked straight in the eye and passed over like it was nothing. He looked like he wanted blood.

But instead, he turned back to you.

His voice was quiet when it came. Measured.

“Well,” he said, lips tight around the word, “it’s a start.”

You gave a small nod. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

“And every star,” he added, smoothing his thumb along the back of your hand, “has to get her start somewhere.”

You looked down.

There was something about the way he said it. Not forced, not fake. But like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. Like he was clinging to the shape of the words because they were the only thing keeping him from sinking into whatever fury had been building behind his eyes.

“I wore what you told me,” you murmured. “Said what you told me to say. Stood still, smiled, kept my tone light. Did everything right.”

“You did more than right,” he said quickly. “You were brilliant.”

You looked back up.

“Then why wasn’t it enough?”

His face twisted. Something old passed over it. A flicker of pain he couldn’t hide fast enough.

“It was enough,” he said, voice low. “You are enough. You’re more than they’ve ever had walk through those doors, and they know it. That’s why they smiled so damn hard, ’cause they were too scared to admit they didn’t have the guts to hand you what you earned.”

You blinked.

He softened immediately.

“Darlin’,” he said gently, and that was the first time he’d called you that in a place like this. Not in the safety of your brownstone, not in the hush of his voice during quiet mornings or late nights. Here. Now. On a marble floor that didn’t want to carry your name.

He pulled you close, just enough to press his hand to the small of your back, shielding you from the glances nearby. “This is the last time someone underestimates you and walks away proud of it. I swear on my fuckin’ life.”

You exhaled, shaky. His hand rubbed small circles into your back, smoothing over the ache like he could press all the disappointment down until it flattened into something manageable.

“You said it yourself. You'll be in the magazine,” he went on. “A spread still gets eyes. Still gets press. They’ll see your face, your name, and the next time we walk into a building like this-” his voice dropped, almost growled, “-they’ll beg to put you on the front.”

You knew it wasn’t just a promise. It was a threat. A vow.

Remmick didn’t get loud. He didn’t need to. But the intensity in his voice had a gravity all its own, like if the world didn’t bend for you, he’d find a way to crack it open with his bare hands.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he said, softer now. “No matter what it takes.”

You leaned into him. Just slightly. Enough for him to steady you.

The world had felt heavier in the elevator. More than disappointment. It was like it had reinforced something you’d been trying to unlearn: that the door would still close, even when you did everything right.

But here, in the curve of his palm and the grit of his words, it felt manageable. Not fixed. But seen.

You didn’t say anything else as you both walked toward the exit, his hand never once leaving your back. His touch didn't say Keep moving. It said I’ve got you, and for now, that was enough.

He didn’t take you out that night.

You thought maybe he would. Half-expected it, honestly, with the way he’d looked at you in the car. Like you were glass and flame all at once, and he couldn’t decide which part to reach for first. His hand had stayed on your knee the whole ride, but not in that idle, drifting way men sometimes did when they got comfortable. No, his touch had been still. Focused. His thumb pressing slow, precise circles into the fabric, as if committing the shape of you to memory.

But when you stepped into the brownstone, he didn’t say a word about dinner, or drinks, or anything at all that required going back out into the city.

The door clicked softly shut behind you.

He locked it. Then checked it again, like he always did. Not once. Twice. Fingers lingering on the bolt like the world couldn’t be trusted not to knock again.

Then he turned, caught your eye in the dim hallway light, and you caught the redshift in his.

“Let me keep you in tonight,” he said.

Not a plea. Not a command. Just a fact.

You nodded before you even realized it.

It wasn’t long before the apartment was quiet again, save for the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of Remmick moving through the kitchen. You stood in the living room, still in your casting outfit, watching him open the fridge with that same thoughtful care he brought to everything. Like every bottle or jar might be hiding something important.

You didn’t expect him to cook. You’d never seen him eat. But the man knew his way around a pan, that much was clear.

He tied your apron around his waist without asking, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows as he set to work with the kind of slow, methodical focus that made the whole kitchen seem quieter.

Olive oil warmed in the pan. Garlic hit it next, the sizzle sharp and sudden before mellowing into something rich and familiar.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded. Watching.

He didn’t look up, but you saw his shoulders shift like he could feel your eyes.

“I had somethin’ else in mind for tonight,” he said. “Somethin’ with music. White tablecloths. Wine list thick enough to kill a man. But figured you might need a minute to breathe.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Still.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just watched him toss fresh herbs into the pan. Basil, thyme, a pinch of something red from a spice jar he’d labeled in your handwriting. You didn't allow yourself to consider how he even learned to write like you.

“What’re you making?”

“Pasta,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “The real kind. Not that boxed stuff.”

You raised a brow. “You knead dough too, Remmick? That part of the agency job description?”

His mouth twitched, knowingly so. “Never hurts to be versatile.”

You smirked, but didn’t push it.

The radio played something low and old from the corner of the room, letting its dusty melody thread through the space like smoke. You sank into the armchair by the window, curling one leg beneath you as you listened to the rhythmic scrape of Remmick’s knife against the cutting board.

It was peaceful. Domestic in a way that felt almost unreal.

He plated your food with a flourish and brought it over without a word, setting it gently in front of you like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Don’t wait,” he said, already moving to clear space on the coffee table.

You didn’t.

The pasta was perfectly done. Homemade sauce, deep and savory. You chewed slowly, trying to hide your surprise.

“You sure you didn’t work in a kitchen before this?”

“No ma’am,” he said, stretching out on the floor in front of you, back against the couch. “Just picked things up.”

He didn’t have a plate. You’d stopped asking about that after the third time it happened. He always said he’d eat later, that he’d already eaten, or that he wasn’t hungry. But the look in his eyes as he watched you always told a different story.

“Thank you,” you murmured, after a few more bites.

He looked up at you then. Eyes soft.

“You don’t gotta thank me.”

“I want to.”

Something shifted in his face. A flicker of something he didn’t say. He looked back down at the rug.

“I know today didn’t go like we wanted,” he said, voice quieter now. “But it’s a start. Ain’t no stars born in full blaze. You’ll get there.”

You hummed, letting the praise settle somewhere deep inside. The pasta disappeared slower after that. You were full before you finished, but you kept taking little bites just to keep him sitting there. Just to keep this moment still.

He cleared the plate when you finally set it down. Washed it, dried it, and returned like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t watched his shoulders flex through the thin linen of his shirt or followed the curve of his jaw as he leaned over the sink.

When he returned, he didn’t sit on the floor this time.

He eased onto the couch instead, the cushions dipping under his weight, the worn linen wrinkling beneath him. His body moved with the kind of slow care that wasn’t laziness, but calculation. Like he was measuring how much space he ought to take up, how much distance there was between your bodies.

Then he held out his hand.

Open. Bare. Still.

No words. Just that quiet, steady offering. Not an ask. Not a demand. An invitation.

You didn’t speak either. Just looked at him, looked at that hand, then back up into his face.

He wasn’t smiling. Not exactly. But there was a kind of soft hope carved into the lines of his mouth, a flicker in his eyes that said he needed the touch more than he wanted to admit.

So you reached for him.

Your fingers slid into his, warm and steady, and let him draw you forward. Not pulled. Not dragged or directed or coaxed, but simply… guided. Like gravity worked differently where he was.

You let yourself settle beside him.

His arm curled naturally along the back of the couch, but didn’t touch you. Not at first. He sat still as you tucked your legs beneath you, shifting until your shoulder just brushed his chest.

The lamp nearby cast long, slow shadows against the brick wall behind you. The whole apartment felt hushed, wrapped in soft amber and low sounds from the street that barely reached the window.

You tilted your head slightly, letting the silence stretch.

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And not with that mask he wore around others, the one he used when smoothing the way for phone calls and photoshoots, all cleverness and quiet, careful charm.

This was different.

His hand slid from the cushion behind you, moved down and found yours again. He cradled it between both of his like it was delicate. Breakable. A thing too precious to be touched without veneration.

He traced the shape of your palm with the tip of one finger. Slow. Careful.

And said nothing.

You let him do it. Let him take your hand in his and explore it like it might disappear, like every line and fold and soft edge meant something more than flesh and skin.

You looked at him for a long moment, studying the lines around his eyes, the way his hair was still mussed from running his fingers through it. His jaw was tense, but not with anger. Something quieter. Something more internal.

“You okay?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “Tired.”

“You sleep last night?”

He gave a soft snort. “Don’t need much.”

You let that go.

The apartment was quiet again. The kind of hush that felt deliberate. Sacred. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only thing keeping time now.

And then he spoke again.

“I ever tell you how much I hate bein’ helpless?” he said quietly. “Hate sittin’ in a hall waitin’ to hear how they gonna minimize you. Like I’m just supposed to swallow it.”

You didn’t answer. Just turned, leaning slightly into the curve of his arm where it hovered behind you.

“Hey,” you said after a pause. “You didn’t fail me.”

He didn’t speak.

“You hear me?” you pressed, voice firmer now. “You didn’t.”

He looked at you again then. That same old look. Like you were something just out of reach, Something he didn’t think he deserved but couldn’t stop staring at.

And then, like a dam breaking, he shifted.

His hand slid from yours, only to return a second later, cupping the back of your fingers, cradling them between both of his. He brought them close to his mouth, not quite kissing them, but holding them there like they warmed him.

“I just wanted it to be perfect,” he frowned.

You tilted your head.

“It is,” you said. “Not the job. Not them. But this? Us?”

He blinked.

“It’s getting there.”

That earned a small laugh. Quiet. Real.

You smiled.

“Thank you for dinner,” you said again, softer now.

His eyes lingered on your lips a moment too long.

“Anytime.”

And he meant it.

Anytime. Anything. Always.

Every inch of him said so.

You didn’t sleep much the night before.

Too much weight in your chest. Too many thoughts, all rustling like paper just out of reach. Every time your eyes drifted closed, they fluttered open again. The room was too quiet, the air too still. It felt like something was waiting. Or maybe you were.

But even if you had managed to drift off, you would’ve woken anyway. You always did, somehow, whenever he came close.

It was subtle at first. The soft creak of a floorboard just beyond the hallway. A change in pressure. Barely there, but enough to make your skin prickle. Like the atmosphere shifted slightly to accommodate him. The air grew heavier, like it recognized him before your eyes did.

You didn’t move. Kept your breath even. Let your lashes stay low, even though your eyes were cracked open just enough to see the shape in the corner.

Remmick.

Standing there. Still as a portrait, as if one stray blink might smear him from view. Bare-chested, in nothing but a pair of dark briefs that hung low on his hips, his skin pale and sharp against the dark. The moonlight didn’t dare touch him directly. It hovered in the corners instead, gathering where his shoulder met his throat, pooling in the shallow dip of his chest. His body looked almost carved. Lean, wiry muscle wrapped tight in skin that barely looked like it belonged to someone living.

But it was his eyes that held you in place.

They didn’t catch the light.

They made their own.

Twin glints of red shimmered low beneath his brow, steady and unblinking. Not the flash of a reflection. Not the glimmer of light hitting moisture. No. These burned from within, low and quiet, like embers buried deep beneath ash. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t pulse.

They glowed.

And in that glow was something else. Something wordless. Something ancient.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t make a sound.

Just stood there at the foot of your bed, breathing like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer. Like he’d been walking through a dream all night and didn’t want to wake you for fear of it ending.

It wasn’t hunger in his face. Not lust, either. It was… awe. Disbelief, maybe. As if he wasn’t entirely convinced you were still real.

And as you watched him, quiet, breath steady, you couldn’t help but wonder:

How long had he been doing this?

How many nights had he stood in that exact spot?

How many times had you not woken up? Had you not noticed?

The thought didn’t scare you. If anything, it stirred something softer. Stranger. Like the ghost of a heartbeat rising from the floorboards beneath you.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And neither did he.

By the time the alarm sounded, the sun wasn’t up yet, but he was already in the kitchen.

You heard the clink of porcelain, the soft scrape of a drawer sliding open, the rhythmic hush of his bare feet moving across the floor. The smell of something warm and faintly herbal drifted through the air. Something like honey and mint, but darker underneath. Earthier.

You sat up slowly, still heavy with the weight of half-slept dreams, and blinked against the dim light spilling in from the hallway.

Your clothes were already laid out again. Pressed and folded across the back of the couch. The same place as last time.

A blouse in cream and cinnamon tones. High-waisted slacks. The matching heels you'd only worn once, but that he’d polished clean anyway. Everything laid out with such care it made your chest ache. He didn’t miss a detail. He never did.

Even your hair products, combs, oils, moisturizers, pins, were already set neatly beside a warm towel on the kitchen counter. Like he’d anticipated the exact order you’d reach for them, the sequence of your morning carved into his mind.

You stepped in, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and found him whistling. Low and unhurried, some old tune you couldn’t place. He stood at the stove, stirring something in a small pan, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a quiet light to him this morning.

His hair was combed back, not slicked, but neat. The buttons on his shirt done all the way up, save for the top two, leaving his throat bare. His slacks were creased to perfection, and the leather belt cinched around his waist gleamed like he’d buffed it just for the occasion.

He looked over his shoulder at you, and his face lit up like it always did. Like you were the very thing he’d been hoping would walk through that doorway.

Because you were.

“Evenin',” he said with a smile, voice rough but still sweet.

You raised a brow. “It’s morning.”

His smile widened, almost sheepish. “Don’t feel like it.”

You moved closer, the floor cool beneath your bare feet, and leaned your hip against the counter beside him.

“You been up long?” you asked.

He shrugged, eyes flicking back to the pan. “Long enough. Wanted to make sure everything was just right.”

He handed you a steaming mug of tea without being asked. Your favorite, of course. Just the right amount of honey, just the way you liked it.

“You nervous?” he asked softly, not looking at you.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you watched him. The set of his jaw. The way his fingers flexed slightly on the wooden spoon. His body was still, but the tension was there. It always was. Like the storm never fully left his bones.

“Not really,” you said. “Not yet.”

He nodded. Then turned toward you fully, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into the waistband of his slacks. He studied you, head tilted slightly, eyes trailing over your face with that same intent scrutiny you were starting to get used to.

You didn’t flinch from it anymore.

“C’mere,” he said gently, holding out a hand.

You hesitated. Only for a second.

Then reached forward.

His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and careful, and he tugged you closer. Slow, but certain.

“I had a dream about you,” he said softly.

“You were wearin’ that same look. All bright-eyed and sharpened up. Like you’d walked straight out of some storybook meant to ruin someone,”

He laughed, soft and half-embarrassed, but didn’t look away.

“You make it hard for a man to think straight, y’know that?”

You didn’t respond right away. You just let the words settle, warm and slow in the hollow of your throat. Something in the way he said those words made your stomach twist. Made your breath stick somewhere deep in your ribs. It didn’t feel like the usual flattery. Not cheap. Not performative. Not the kind of thing you’d heard a dozen times back home or whispered at castings with a sleazy grin.

This was different. Lower. Honest. Like it surprised even him.

And maybe it did.

Because as soon as he said it, he seemed to catch himself. Barely. His throat moved with the effort of swallowing it down. His eyes dropped, and he took a small step back, as if distance might fix whatever he’d let slip between you.

“Go wash up,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ll get breakfast finished.”

You didn’t argue. Just nodded once and moved toward the bathroom, heartbeat louder than your footsteps.

By the time you stepped out again, hair wrapped in a towel and skin still warm from the steam, the apartment smelled faintly of sage and something sweet. Peaches, maybe. Or brown sugar. You couldn’t tell. Just that it was soft. Comforting.

The living room had a golden hue now, touched by early light filtered through overcast skies. Everything looked gentler, as if the whole city had been wrapped in gauze.

Remmick wasn’t at the stove anymore. The burner was off, the kettle still hot beside it.

He stood at the window instead, one hand resting on the sill, the other pulling the curtain back just a fraction. Not enough to see out fully. Just enough to check.

When he turned back around and saw you, whatever he’d been worrying about fell clean out of his face.

His eyes widened slightly. Jaw slackened. His whole posture shifted, like the breath had been pulled straight out of him.

“God damn,” he whispered, nearly under his breath. “Look at you.”

You didn’t need a mirror to know what he was seeing. The high-waisted pants he’d picked out the night before, fitted just right to your waist. The blouse with its delicate neckline and little pearl buttons, catching faint light. Your curls still damp but styled soft and neat. Face clean. Mostly bare, but radiant.

You let yourself smile. Just a little. “You picked the outfit.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t nod, either.

Just walked toward you, slow and careful, like approaching something sacred. His boots barely made a sound on the old wood floor.

“Still,” he purred, reaching out to brush something, nothing, really, from your sleeve. His fingers lingered a little longer than needed. “You wear it better than I dreamed.”

He fussed over you the entire time. Fixing buttons. Adjusting seams. His fingers lingered where they shouldn’t have. On your hip, on your collarbone, but always under the guise of perfection.

“You’re gonna hate the cabs in this city,” he chuckled, smoothing a wrinkle from your skirt. “Good thing we’re not takin’ one.”

You raised a brow, though you weren't at all surprised. “We’re not?”

He looked up, pleased with himself in that quiet way. “Got a car waitin’. Somethin’ a little easier on the nerves. And the shoes.”

You laughed. “You got us another driver?”

“I got you a driver,” he corrected gently, brushing something invisible from your sleeve. “I just happen to be taggin’ along.”

His words tried to sound offhand, but his hands kept pausing. Kept hovering like they couldn’t quite bring themselves to let go.

The last touch lingered too long on your lower back.

“If it comes down to it,” he added lowly, “I’ll carry you myself.”

You smiled at the joke, but when you met his eyes, it wasn’t a joke at all.

He meant it.

And for a second, the air in the room felt heavier. Pressed in close. Charged.

You cleared your throat. “We better go.”

He nodded once, like it snapped him out of whatever spell he’d drifted into.

But just before you reached the door, he caught your hand. Gently. Held it between both of his, the edges of his fingers slightly trembling.

“Today ain’t just a shoot,” he said, voice steady, low. “It’s your beginnin’. Your real one. So when they look at you, don’t flinch. Don’t fold. Let ‘em see what I see.”

“And what’s that?” you asked softly.

He didn’t smile.

“Perfection.”

The car rolled to a stop outside a tall brick building tucked deep into SoHo, the kind with no sign on the front and a buzzer system you had to know how to work to get inside. From the curb, it didn’t look like much. A delivery van was parked at the corner. Two men with light meters and cases of film were hunched over a dolly at the service entrance. But inside was something different.

The photographer’s studio took up the entire top floor. High ceilings, polished concrete floors, wall-to-wall windows dressed in gauzy white fabric that filtered in the pale morning light like milk through cheesecloth. You stepped in and immediately noticed the quiet chill in the air, too sterile to feel artistic. Not cold exactly. Just... clinical.

The space had clearly been prepared. No one had cut corners. A fresh bouquet of lilies and peonies sat in a vase by the makeup station. Garment racks overflowed with gowns in every imaginable shade, some still tagged, some borrowed from designers who only lent to the best. Studio assistants buzzed around with clipboards and cups of coffee, walking fast but talking softly. Respectfully. Not to you, but to him.

Remmick.

He stood just behind your shoulder, as he always did, not saying much but radiating authority in a way that made people clear a path. There was no need for volume, no need for presence to be announced. His silence had weight. The kind that made a room shift without realizing it.

You saw it in the way spines straightened when he stepped close, the way assistants lowered their voices mid-sentence, as if whatever they were discussing might offend him by accident. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t need to. His gaze alone, steady, unreadable, somehow both patient and predatory, did most of the work.

Every time someone turned, they looked at him first. Their questions never quite made it to your lips. The makeup artist. The stylist. Even the photographer, who was trying too hard to act like he didn’t notice. His eyes flicked to Remmick’s figure once, twice, like he was trying to place him. Like he didn’t understand why he felt nervous.

You’d started noticing it more often. How his presence rearranged a room. How the tone changed, the pace shifted. Like the energy bent around him before anyone knew it was happening.

The photographer, a trim white man in his late thirties with thin lips and thick-framed glasses, finally stepped forward. His pants were pressed too stiff. His cologne smelled sharp and expensive, but didn't mask the sweat already building beneath his collar. He gave you a quick glance. Nothing warm. Nothing memorable. Just a skim of the eyes like you were a fabric sample. He didn’t offer a name.

Instead, he turned his head, nose wrinkling ever so slightly, and addressed the stylist behind him.

“She’s darker than I expected,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. Not even a whisper of shame. “We’ll need to be careful with lighting. That undertone catches weird on film.”

You felt Remmick stiffen behind you. So subtly you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been so attuned to the way he breathed.

There was a silence, sudden and sharp, like someone had shut a drawer too hard.

But he didn’t speak.

Not yet.

You didn’t need to turn to know his hands were probably flexing at his sides, slow and deliberate. His restraint wasn’t the brittle kind. It was the kind that bided time. Waited for the perfect opening.

You kept your face smooth. Not blank, not soft, just controlled. Every inch of you brimming with dignity he clearly hadn’t expected. You caught one of the assistants glancing up from her clipboard, eyes wide and flicking from the photographer to you with something like alarm. Her jaw tensed, but she said nothing.

No one corrected him.

No one said a word.

But you simply walked past anyway, toward the makeup chair, head held high.

The chair sat beneath a ring of lights, too white and too bright. You sank into it with practiced grace, smoothing your robe over your thighs as a stylist bustled over, her nervous smile stretched too wide.

“Hey, sweetie,” she chirped. “Let’s get you glammed up, yeah?”

Her hands were quick, efficient. She swatched shades across your jawline with a speed that spoke more to panic than precision. None of them matched. Too yellow. Too gray. Too red. You didn’t say anything. Just watched as she fumbled, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for another palette.

“Your undertone’s so unique,” she muttered. “Really gotta find that balance... can’t let the camera flatten it...”

You knew what she meant.

And what she didn’t say.

Remmick hadn’t moved from the edge of the room. He leaned against a column, arms crossed, eyes locked on the back of your head through the mirror. Not breathing heavy. Not shifting. Just watching.

Guarding.

The stylist was careful with your hair, at least. Didn't try to fight it. Just lifted and pinned and fluffed with dutiful fingers, whispering tiny praises under her breath like she was scared of doing too much. She was trying, you gave her that. Whether it was guilt or fear or something closer to decency, you didn’t care. So long as she kept her hands gentle and her thoughts to herself.

“Camera loves your cheekbones,” she said, and that part sounded honest.

When you were done, you stood slowly, caught your own reflection in the mirror.

You looked like yourself.

Yourself, but sharpened. Framed in gold and plum. Lips glossed, lashes full, jaw set just right.

Behind you, Remmick shifted. You saw him in the glass, his eyes not on the outfit, not on the hair.

On you.

Always on you.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. But something eased in your chest.

The first few rounds of photos went smoothly enough. You moved between backdrops in different gowns. Deep purples, yellows, something champagne-colored with a sheer overlay that caught the light like water. The fabric floated when you walked, whispering against your legs, pooling at your ankles in gentle, liquid waves.

You didn’t pose so much as exist the way Remmick had taught you: shoulders open, chin tilted with certainty, mouth soft but deliberate. Posture like armor. Expression like invitation. You didn’t chase the camera. You let it come to you. Let it find the angles it wanted, as if it had no choice but to follow the pull of your gravity.

The flashbulbs burst in rhythmic intervals, bright and brief, filling the space with the scent of heat and ozone. Stylists moved around you in a silent, efficient orbit. Patting down your skirt hem, adjusting the hang of your sleeve, brushing an invisible strand of hair from your brow. But it was the photographer who kept lagging behind. You could feel it in the pauses. In the hesitations. In the way he kept glancing toward Remmick like a man who had questions he didn’t know how to ask.

He didn’t know how to handle it.

“Give me something more demure,” he called at one point, standing behind the camera with a squint and a frown. “Less... confrontational. Softer eyes.”

Your brows lifted. Not high. Just enough. And just for a moment, you let your tongue slip.

“I’m looking into a lens.”

“Well, yes,” he said, chuckling like he thought that’d smooth things over. “But it’s just... try to be less direct. You’re a feature, not the focus.”

You didn't say anything back.

Your mouth didn't even twitch.

But Remmick did.

“She’s exactly the focus,” he said, stepping forward from the edge of the lights, voice low and firm and without a speck of humor. “That’s what centerfold means.”

The room went still again.

Even the stylist’s hands froze mid-pin near your waist. The assistant by the reflector stiffened, eyes darting between the two men.

The photographer adjusted a light. His fingers weren’t as steady as before.

“I meant it compositionally,” he said, clearing his throat, not quite meeting Remmick’s eye.

“No, you didn’t.”

Remmick said it without blinking.

His tone hadn’t changed. Calm. Crisp. But the weight behind it was enough to press the silence flat between every heartbeat in the room.

And for a moment, the only thing that moved was the slow flicker of the overhead bulb as it warmed.

The photographer looked down, fiddled with his light meter, and muttered something about “another angle.”

Eventually, the shoot resumed.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t fold.

But you caught the way Remmick stayed closer now. Just outside the frame. Arms still crossed. Watching the photographer like a man making mental measurements. Every time the camera clicked, his eyes weren’t on the flash, but on the hands that adjusted it. On the words that came next. On every breath, every shift in tone, like he was deciding whether or not to let this man finish his job.

As the final shots were taken, dramatic lighting, a sheer backdrop, your hair full and proud against the white, he moved beside the stylist and spoke low, voice barely above a hum.

“She’s done after this one,” he said. “I’ll be handling approvals.”

The stylist didn’t argue. Just nodded, lips pressed together, hands folding neatly at her waist.

You were back in your clothes ten minutes later, the silk blouse clinging a little from the heat still radiating off your skin. The dressing room felt more cramped than it did before, the air heavy with setting spray and leftover perfume. Your throat was dry. One of the assistants handed you a paper cup with a straw, and you accepted it without a word, sipping slow, letting the cool water settle the heat in your chest.

Someone knelt beside you, working at the straps of the heels. Your feet ached, throbbing faintly from hours of posing. Never quite standing, never quite walking, just holding beauty in place.

Remmick was waiting by the door.

He hadn’t moved the entire time. Coat over his arm, one hand resting lightly against the wall as if to anchor himself. His body didn’t sway. Didn’t fidget. But his jaw ticked every few seconds, like he was grinding something silent between his teeth.

When you joined him, blouse tucked, shoulders square, he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you.

Looked long.

“You were perfect,” he hummed, voice barely above a hush.

“But?”

“But nothing,” he said, tone rough at the edges. “You were perfect.”

He opened the door with his free hand, held it until you passed through, his touch naturally settling the small of your back.

He didn’t comment on the photographer again.

He didn’t have to.

You saw it in the way he walked beside you. Shoulders set too tight, gait too rigid for someone supposedly at ease. His jaw was still clenched, the muscle there twitching with the rhythm of his steps. His fingers flexed every now and then, as if rehearsing something they’d wanted to do but hadn’t been given permission to.

And when you stepped into the elevator, he stood still. Hands folded in front of him. The red shimmer pulsed once, subtle and slow. You reached out, gently brushing the tips of your fingers against his wrist.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t flinch.

Just looked at you, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.

You weren’t sure what he would’ve done if you hadn’t been there to stop him.

But you were.

And he let you lead this time.

Just this once.

It had been a week since the shoot. Seven full days since your skin was powdered and styled, since camera bulbs flashed like lightning, and since Remmick’s hand hovered behind your back like a second spine. Steadier than any wall, quieter than any breath, always there.

And now, a week later, the magazines were out.

The sun hadn’t even gone down when you heard the lock click. You were barefoot in the living room, tea cooling untouched on the windowsill, your thumb slowly dragging across the same corner of the same page in a book you hadn’t really touched since morning. You weren’t reading. Just looking. Letting the quiet stretch long around you.

The soft hum of traffic rose from below, dulled behind brick and double glass. Somewhere across the alley, a radio crackled faintly from an open window. But inside, the air was hushed and warm, filled with the scent of sweet almond and black vanilla. Something Remmick had lit before he left, soft and curling in the corners of the apartment like memory. A clean smell. Luxurious in its calm.

You turned your head at the sound of the door creaking open.

Remmick stepped in, arms full. No coat, he hadn’t worn one in days now, but his favorite fitted blazer was slung on his shoulders. Brown and a little rumpled like he’d worn it too long. His sleeves were pushed to the elbows, forearms exposed, the collar open at his throat. His skin looked flushed, not from heat, but from effort. From thrill.

And in his hands?

Magazines.

Stacks and stacks of them.

Glamour. Thick, glossy. Dozens, no, maybe hundreds of copies, some with their spines still crisp, others already peeled open, like he couldn’t resist peeking before bringing them home. He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe and dropped the load on the coffee table in a huff of breath and triumph.

You blinked at the pile.

Then looked up at him.

Then back down.

“…Remmick.”

He beamed at you.

Actually beamed.

And for just a second, just long enough to make your stomach flip, you saw them.

Fangs.

Not teeth. Not canines. Fangs.

They hadn’t fully retracted. The points glinted faintly behind his bottom lip, his mouth too wide with joy to contain them, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to hide.

He didn’t notice. Not yet. Just stood there, catching his breath, eyes glowing faint and sweet in the lamplight like he'd returned from battle with spoils no one could take from him.

And you, watching from the couch, weren’t sure what took your breath first. His smile, or the fact that it wasn’t quite human.

“Every shop had a limit,” he said breathlessly, already tugging the first magazine open. “Three per customer, some of ’em said. Five, if I smiled real nice.”

You raised a brow.

He licked his thumb, flipped a page. “So I went to every damn shop in Manhattan.”

And he meant it. His shirt was damp at the collar, sleeves wrinkled at the elbows. A thin line of sweat traced his temple like he’d run half the way home. You could practically see the city on him. Subway grit on his cuffs, the faint scent of cold air and ink clinging to the folds of his blazer. He looked like a man who’d carried your name through the streets like it was gospel.

Then he found the spread.

Your spread.

Dead center in the glossy pages, your face filled the left half. Your body, the way they’d posed you, half reclined, your mouth parted like you’d just finished saying something worth listening to, took up the right. Above it, the title gleamed in embossed gold: A Southern Star on the Rise

He whistled low. “Would you look at that.”

He turned the magazine toward you like you hadn’t already lived it. Like you hadn’t memorized every contour, every careful arch of your brows, every piece of your expression caught in that still moment of light.

But he held it like it was sacred. Like scripture. Like he was revealing something you hadn’t quite grasped yet.

“Damn,” he muttered, opening another copy. “Print didn’t dull you a bit. Thought maybe it would. Thought maybe it’d catch you wrong. But no. You shine right through.”

He pulled open another magazine. Then another.

In seconds, your entire coffee table disappeared under layers of your own image. Identical pages laid side by side, all turned to the centerfold. There you were, over and over again. Still. Composed. Glowing.

Like a constellation laid across the living room. Like stars, just rearranged.

Remmick crouched beside the table, smoothing one copy flat with the care of someone laying down silk. He didn’t blink, just studied the page like it was breathing, alive. Like he was waiting for it to reach back.

Then he rose to full height, tucked a copy under his arm, and walked over to you. Still barefoot. Still silent.

Still watching.

And you, frozen on the couch, felt your throat tighten with something you hadn’t named yet.

“You seen yourself in these?” he asked, voice quiet and smooth. Like the question itself was fragile.

You nodded once.

He grinned and leaned in to kiss your cheek. Just a brush of lips. But slow. Like it meant something. Like it had waited all day to land there, and now that it had, the world could keep spinning again.

Then he reached for your chin. Callused fingers gentle as they tipped your face up, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.

“I want you to say it,” he demanded, though so gently you could've mistaken it for a polite question.

You blinked. “Say what?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you. Really looked. His pupils were blown wide, red bleeding through the blue, burning steady in the low light of your living room.

Not glowing out of hunger.

Not now.

Out of pride. Out of something heavier. Older.

He waited.

So you said it.

Soft at first. A breath, barely formed.

“I’m a fuckin’ star.”

His smile widened. Slow, hungry, like it’d been waiting just beneath the surface.

So you said it again.

Louder this time.

“I’m a fuckin’ star!”

And this time, he didn’t stop at your cheek.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. Gentle. Noncommittal. A press of gratitude, of awe. Like you’d just named something holy.

Then he straightened, tapped your shoulder once with two fingers like sealing a blessing, and turned back toward the coffee table. Toward the sea of open pages like he couldn’t stand to look at just one.

He crouched again. Fingers drifting over the print, barely touching the paper. Just enough to feel the ink. Just enough to make sure it was real.

Behind him, you stared down at your own face. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room felt covered in you. Until your name echoed back at you from every glossy surface.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

You reached for one of the magazines and ran your hand over the fold. The version of yourself staring back was powerful. Beautiful. Alive. You looked like a woman who knew exactly who she was.

The only thing stronger than the pride warming your chest was the look in his eyes every time he flipped a page.

He thumbed through another copy, quieter now. As if just the sound of turning paper was too loud. Then, almost absentmindedly, like the thought had just resurfaced between page turns, he said it:

“Oh, Vogue called.”

Your head snapped up.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept flipping, smoothing down a crease on one of the centerfolds.

“Said they had an opening next month. I booked it. Thursday, ten.”

You blinked.

“Vogue.”

“Yeah.” His voice was soft, distracted. Eyes still on the magazine in front of him. “Figured it was a good fit. Didn’t wanna wait.”

“You... booked a Vogue shoot?”

He finally looked up then, eyes wide and sincere, brows pinched like he was only just realizing something might be unusual.

“I mean… yeah. I told you, didn’t I?”

You stared at him.

He stared at your photo.

And then you laughed. Soft, incredulous, stunned.

Because of course he had.

Of course Vogue had called Remmick.

Of course they had seen the piece and knew exactly what they were looking at.

He hadn’t had to knock on their door, hadn’t begged or bargained. They came to him.

Because when they saw you, they didn’t see a gamble. They didn’t see a request.

They saw inevitability.

And Remmick?

He treated it like the most obvious thing in the world.

“You,” you said, smiling now, “are insane.”

He blinked once. Then gave a faint shrug, turning back to the magazine.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “But I’m not wrong.”

And when he looked at you again, spread out across a dozen pages, glowing under lamplight, you could see the truth settle in his expression.

He wasn’t just proud.

He was certain.

You were everything he said you were.

And now, the world was catching up.

You woke to the scent of freshly peeled citrus and the low sound of Remmick humming. The windows were still closed, the curtains drawn against a morning sky that hadn’t quite made up its mind. The apartment smelled sharper than usual. Grapefruit, maybe. Lemongrass. Something he knew cleared your head. You were still blinking the sleep from your eyes when his silhouette appeared in the doorway.

“Up,” he said gently. “Got somethin’ to tell you.”

You sat up slowly. “What time is it?”

“Little after six. But don’t panic,” he added, smile curling at the corners. “You’ve got hours.”

You raised a brow. “Remmick... what?”

He walked in, holding your outfit already pressed and draped across one arm. Light blue silk. Crisp ivory slacks. A bold, gold-buttoned jacket you didn’t recognize.

He held them out. “We’re goin’ to Vogue.”

You blinked. “I know. You said the shoot was today.”

He hesitated. Then, sheepishly, almost boyish, he added, “Right. But, uh… I didn’t tell you everything.”

You stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “It’s the cover. They want you on the cover.”

Your mouth went dry.

He took a step back. Just one. Holding the clothes like a peace offering. “Figured if I told you earlier, you’d start worryin’. Fret about posture. Or pores. Or your walk. Or-”

“Remmick.”

He looked at you then. Earnest. Glowing.

You pressed your palm against your chest, trying to slow the way your heart was kicking against your ribs.

“The cover?” you whispered.

“Front page. Full feature.”

It should’ve floored you. Maybe it still would. But right now, all you could do was nod and let him help you out of bed.

He guided you through the morning like a man who’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Hands careful, patient. Shirt laid out before you needed it. Jewelry untangled before you even glanced at the box. He pressed a warm cloth to your face, careful not to disturb the curl of your hair, freshly done the night before.

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead,” he said, and you knew he believed every single word.

And then, quieter, almost to himself: “And I’ll be right there to see it.”

The car was waiting downstairs. Sleek and black and already running, the driver greeting Remmick with a nod and holding the door open for you like he’d been coached. Your nerves didn’t settle, not even on the drive. But Remmick’s hand rested gently against your knee the entire way. Grounding. Warm.

The studio was quiet when you arrived. Museum quiet, gallery quiet. The kind of stillness that felt curated, intentional, like someone had taken great care to make the space feel more like a cathedral than a workplace. The polished concrete floors were cool under your heels, spotless and reflecting faint outlines of the high arched windows that lined the walls. Exposed brick, original to the building, gave the room a sense of old, lived-in charm, and soft white curtains billowed ever so slightly from vents high above. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender, linen, and something powdery-sweet.

You moved through the entrance with Remmick just behind you, his hand barely grazing the small of your back. Never guiding, just anchoring. He didn’t speak, didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to. His presence always did the talking.

The photographer met you before you’d taken more than three steps inside. “Étienne,” he said, with a faint bow of the head. His accent was French, thick and rounded at the edges, the syllables slipping from his mouth like warm sugar. His hair was silver at the temples, his blazer draped and elegant, and his handshake was firm but not aggressive. Warm, like he’d waited a long time to meet you.

“It is my absolute pleasure, mademoiselle,” he said. “I’ve admired your spread in Glamour. You moved with the camera. Not many know how to do that.”

He didn’t say your skin glowed.

Didn’t ask about your hair.

Didn’t say anything about being “surprised” by your presence.

He just met your eyes, quiet and open. Like you were someone worth listening to.

“Today,” he said, “you belong to the camera. Let’s make her fall in love.”

You let yourself breathe, just a little.

The rest of the team introduced themselves in a calm rhythm, one by one. No rushed hands. No clipped instructions. A stylist with a soft Brooklyn accent asked gently before adjusting your collarbone. A makeup artist barely older than you murmured a few compliments while swatching shades along your jaw. Matched your undertones on the first go. No hesitation. No apologies.

Your hair wasn’t “a challenge.” It wasn’t “big.” It was just yours. One woman, sharp-eyed and efficient, studied the fullness of your curls for a beat, then nodded once and said, “Let’s let it speak today.” No flattening. No translation.

You didn’t feel tolerated.

You felt expected.

Appreciated.

The way the room moved around you was not with caution, but with respect. Like your place had already been made, and they were just moving to match it.

And Remmick, he didn’t hover today.

He didn’t pace. Didn’t step in or offer unnecessary notes. He took a chair near the edge of the set, legs crossed, hands loosely clasped over one knee. His coat lay neatly across the back of the chair, and he looked like he was simply waiting for a performance he’d already seen, waiting to watch it unfold in the flesh.

He watched you the way a man watched a storm rolling in. Calm. Certain. Unwavering.

His eyes tracked your every step.

And when the camera clicked, when Étienne raised the lens and tilted his head just so, it began.

Soft commands, never harsh.

“Lift your chin just a touch, oui. That’s perfect.”

“Let the shoulder dip, like you’re sighing.”

“Not a smile. Just the idea of one.”

And you you didn’t pose. You existed. You did what Remmick had drilled into you for weeks: you let the room adjust to you. Shoulders drawn back, chin at just the right angle, spine fluid. You didn’t chase the lens. You let it orbit you.

Each frame caught something new: your strength, your softness, your refusal to shrink.

Backdrops shifted behind you. One faded into the next. Cool eggshell white to a moody, smoky grey. Then to a blush-rose curtain lit from behind to mimic early sunrise, and finally to a gold-toned gradient that bathed your skin in warmth, turning every line of your body into a celebration. Your hands, your mouth, the arch of your back. You weren’t just in the photo.

You were the photo.

At one point, as you adjusted in the sheer champagne gown, the stylist stepped close to smooth a wrinkle on your shoulder. She paused, tilted her head, then muttered under her breath, “I swear, you don’t have a bad angle.”

Remmick smiled at that.

Didn’t say anything.

But you saw his fingers twitch against his knee.

And when Étienne pulled the camera down after the final shot, when the room held its breath and the lights warmed one final time, he exhaled slow, his voice dropping.

“Mon dieu,” he said. “You are going to be the beginning of a new era.”

There weren’t cheers. No grand applause. Just a quiet stillness that settled over the room like snowfall.

The stylists nodded. One of the assistants wiped her eyes.

Your name passed around the room in whispers.

Back in your own clothes again, the familiar weight of your own scent folded into the fabric, you stood in front of the mirror, unsure what exactly had changed.

Something had.

You could still feel the echo of the lights on your skin, the soft heat of the set, the way Étienne had whispered magnifique under his breath more than once without knowing you heard him. The clothes they’d dressed you in had been draped and pinned and sculpted to fit your body like a second skin, but now that they were gone, what lingered wasn’t fabric.

It was power.

You weren’t wearing a magazine dress anymore.

But you still felt like a cover.

You gathered your things slowly. Slipped on your shoes one at a time. Tucked the lipstick you'd needlessly brought. Gave the studio one last glance over your shoulder, just to make sure it had all been real. That the lights weren’t a trick, that the hush in the room wasn’t some illusion of grandeur.

And then you saw him.

Remmick.

Standing at the edge of the studio floor, right where the light faded into shadow. His coat was folded neatly over one arm, the other hanging at his side, still and sure. He didn’t lean against the wall. Didn’t shift his weight. He just stood there like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, this exact you, to turn and meet his eyes.

And when you did?

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t grin. Didn’t offer some teasing remark or coy turn of phrase.

He just looked at you.

Like he couldn’t believe it.

Or maybe he could.

Like he’d known it all along but still wasn’t prepared for the truth of it staring back at him now, standing in her own skin, quiet and luminous and ready.

He extended his hand.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Like a gentleman.

Like a vow.

You stepped forward, each footfall soft against the studio floor, and reached out to take it.

His palm was warm. Slightly callused, as always. Big enough to hold you steady.

And when he leaned in close, closer than necessary, just so his breath could touch your ear, his voice dropped so low it barely cleared the air.

“They’re never gonna forget this.”

A beat passed. Two.

Neither did you.

Not the way the stylist said your name like it mattered. Not the way Étienne had bowed when the shoot wrapped, saying Merci, étoile. Not the way your hands hadn’t shaken once. Not the way Remmick’s thumb had grazed your knuckles on the way out, subtle and steady.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And the city welcomed its newest star.

You should’ve known not to get your hopes up.

Remmick had warned you once before. To not believe in the win until the ink dries and the check clears. And still, the moment the phone rang, you felt the breath catch in your chest like something was finally about to settle right.

It was early, too early, and the tea in your hand hadn’t even cooled yet. Steam curled in the morning light, soft and golden through the windows.

You heard him answer it in the kitchen. Not loud, not sharp. Just steady.

“Remmick.”

His voice, smooth. Polished. Still cold from sleep, but clipped with that quick professionalism he always wore when someone else was listening.

There was a pause. Long enough to tighten something at the base of your neck.

“…Come again?”

That was the first red flag.

You stood. Not rushed, not loud. Just enough to hear better. Half-expecting him to wave you off with a flick of his fingers, that little sideways smile he gave when things were under control.

But he didn’t.

He turned his back instead. Shoulders hunched slightly. Quiet. Like he didn’t want you to hear what was coming next.

He rubbed the back of his neck once, then pressed his thumb into the edge of the counter like he needed the grounding. His knuckles whitened around the phone cord, twisting it once, twice, tighter.

“Yes,” he said carefully, “I’m familiar with your lead editor.”

Another pause.

Then something darker entered his tone.

“Yes. The one with the impeccable eye for trend pieces.”

Your stomach dropped.

There was silence on his end. Long. Tense.

And then:

“They what?”

His voice didn’t rise. Not yet.

But it changed. Dropped lower. Flat and cold like steel before it’s drawn.

You stepped closer, quiet as breath, barefoot against the hardwood. Leaned just enough to see the side of his face. The angle of his jaw, sharp and flexed. The twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“They’ve already had their one for the year?” he repeated.

Low. Disbelieving. Dangerous.

His free hand came up, rubbing slow at his temple like he needed to press the words back out of his skull.

“Who’s they?” he asked, quieter now, but you felt the weight of it in your chest. “Go on. Say it clear.”

There was no response.

Just static. A voice on the other end fumbling for footing.

Remmick’s brows drew together.

“No, I’m not upset with you,” he said, voice thinning again into something cool and even. “I understand you’re just passing the message along.”

He closed his eyes a moment. You could see him working to keep it in. Like something old and sharp was waking in his blood, trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“I’d like to speak with the editor directly,” he said, softer now. “Yes. I’ll hold.”

And then his hand dropped to the counter. Fingers drumming.

Waiting. Ready.

The line clicked.

Then his jaw twitched.

“Good morning,” he said. Different now. Calmer, colder. Stripped of the courtesy he kept like a glove around secret hands. “Didn’t expect to catch you so early.”

You still couldn’t hear the voice on the other end. Not a single word. But you didn’t have to.

You could see everything you needed in him.

The stillness of his posture, the death grip he had on the base of the phone, the fine tremble running through the muscle of his forearm beneath that rolled-up cotton sleeve. It wasn’t the kind of rage that burst outward. It was the kind that boiled, thick and patient, one degree at a time.

“Yes,” he said, so polite it sounded rehearsed. “I was just speaking with your assistant.”

He closed his eyes a moment. Not a blink, but something longer. As if he needed to press the lids down tight to keep from rolling them.

“She told me they, meaning you, have reconsidered the cover.”

The pause that followed was electric. Tense.

Then, low and even:

“Right. Of course. Marketable. That’s the word you’re going with?”

He said it like the word itself offended him. Like it was dirty in his mouth. Too small for what he knew you were worth.

You moved forward without thinking. Just enough to lean your shoulder against the hallway wall. Careful. Watchful. Your arms folded tightly across your chest, heart beating fast and slow at once. He hadn’t seen you yet.

And you weren’t sure he was aware of anything anymore beyond that call.

“I see,” he said softly.

That was the shift.

The sound of something sliding into place. Like a bolt locking. A fuse catching.

“So let me get this straight,” he continued. Slow. Measured. Precise in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Your board approved the shoot. Your casting team signed off. Your editor watched the proofs. Sat on them. And now, after all that, you want to scale her back to a feature because you already had your cover for the year.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty.

It was dense.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t curse.

He didn’t raise his voice by an inch.

But every word landed like a coin dropped on concrete. Heavy. Sharp. Deliberate.

“You think this city’s gonna run out of covers?” he asked, the ghost of a laugh in his voice, but it wasn’t amusement. It was disbelief, slicked with venom. “Or is it just that you think she’s the kind of beauty you ration out, so you don’t have to explain yourselves twice?”

His free hand braced against the counter now, steadying himself.

“Was she too sharp? Too soft? Too dark?” he asked, the last word clipped so hard it cracked in the air.

You watched him as he stood there, completely still except for the way his shoulders were rising. Measured. Controlled.

But underneath that, underneath every inch of him, he was seething.

He wasn’t shouting.

But something inside him was.

And you knew it. Could feel it.

Remmick was holding onto composure with a thread, not because he didn’t want to break, but because he knew what would happen if he did. Because if he said what he really meant, what lived behind that voice, that mouth, those glowing eyes, he might set the whole building on fire.

And you hadn’t even heard the worst of it yet.

His voice didn’t rise at first.

It stayed low, clipped, deliberate. But the sharpness in it grew. Line by line. Word by word. Like something uncoiling inside him, slick with heat and venom.

“You listen to me,” he said, voice climbing with a force that prickled the air, “and listen real good, if you think for one goddamn second that this is a numbers game, a market play, a token, you’ve already lost the future.”

You flinched. Not because he was yelling at you. He wasn’t.

He was yelling for you.

“You want safe? Go print another profile on Gunilla Lindblad. You want forgettable? Put some washed-out French girl on the cover in a turtleneck. But if you want history, if you want impact, you don’t remove the only name worth remembering.”

He turned then. Saw you.

And his eyes didn’t soften. Not even a little.

“She’s the only thing your readers are gonna remember come fall,” he snapped, jaw set, nostrils flaring. “Not the blonde. Not the brunette. Not whatever recycled face you’re tryin’ to float next. Her.”

There was a sputter of protest from the line. You couldn’t hear what was said. Didn’t need to. You were watching Remmick’s knuckles flare white around the phone.

“No, I don’t care what the board says. I don’t care what the sponsor says. And I sure as hell don’t care what you think’ll sell. I know what sells. You’re lookin’ at the future and treating it like it’s a fuckin’ one-shot.”

His voice cracked with how tightly it hit the consonants. Near shouting now, not just raised. Commanding.

“You owe her the same shot you’d give any other girl in her place. And if the only reason you’re pulling her is because you already had your one,” he hissed the word like it was venom, “then you better grow a spine before I walk you into a lawsuit so loud it echoes into next year’s masthead.”

Silence on the other end.

Remmick didn’t wait.

“I want you at the brownstone tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Alone.”

His next words were a knife dragged slow.

“We’ll talk in person.”

And then he hung up.

Didn’t slam the receiver. Just lowered it with a kind of deliberate grace, a calm that only made the burn beneath more terrifying. He stared at the cradle for a moment like he could crush it just by looking hard enough.

Then sat, slowly, at the dining table. Exhaled through his nose.

He didn’t look up at you right away.

Just stared at the wood grain beneath his fingers, the set of his jaw making it clear he was holding something in.

Then his hand rose.

Palm up.

You crossed the room without a word and slid your fingers into his.

He pulled you down gently, like you were breakable, into his lap. One arm curled low across your waist, the other resting across your thighs. His hands were steady, even though you could still feel the tension in the muscles of his forearms, coiled and waiting, like it hadn’t quite drained from him yet.

His cheek pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm against the side of your neck.

“You’re goin’ on that cover,” he said, low and final.

There was no fire behind it. No venom.

Just certainty.

Like he was telling you the weather. Like it was already written in the next day’s paper.

You turned slightly in his arms. His hands tightened to keep you balanced, to keep you close. “Remmick…”

“No,” he cut in, soft. “No more backpedalin’. No more maybe next times. We play their game, we lose. You hear me?”

You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to shake.

He looked up then. Met your gaze dead on. The light in the kitchen caught in his irises, a faint, simmering red just beneath the blue. Not bright. Not threatening. Just there. Alive.

“Which means,” he continued, more gently now, “you’re not gonna be here tomorrow night.”

That made you blink. “What?”

“I want you out the house. Just for a few hours. Somewhere comfortable. I’ll make sure your ride’s arranged. I don’t care if it’s the theatre or a restaurant. Hell, spend it with friends if you want.”

You didn’t have any of those yet.

He knew that.

Still, his tone didn’t waver.

“I just need the place. Need it quiet. I don’t want you hearin’ what might be said.”

His fingers grazed your wrist, his thumb brushing along your pulse. You leaned back, just slightly, the movement slow. Measured. Testing.

“What are you gonna say?”

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. “Enough.”

That was all he gave you.

And somehow, it was enough.

He kissed your temple then. Just once.

The kiss wasn’t sweet.

It was solemn.

Like a promise.

Like a man setting something in motion.

And you, sitting in his lap with your arms around his shoulders and your pulse kicking hard against your ribs, believed him. Felt something shifting under your skin.

A current.

A warning.

You’d seen Remmick angry before. Seen the quiet tension in his jaw when someone spoke over you. The cold way he looked at men who looked too long. The clipped tone when a stylist suggested straightening your hair or brightening your skin.

But not like this.

Not cold. Not still.

This wasn’t bluster.

It was a verdict.

You pressed your forehead to his, and he closed his eyes like the touch settled something in him. His fingers slid slowly along the small of your back. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t grip.

He just held.

Quiet and firm.

And somewhere, under all your nerves, you felt that same fire rise too.

Because he was right.

This was your cover.

And they didn’t get to decide otherwise.

Not anymore.

cont'd.

[trulyinspiringmovies]

Nope

“Nope” wants to have a message that’s present in every character, but also doesn’t want it to be overtly explicit, causing the themes to get lost within characters motivated by outside influence.

OJ Haywood has just gruesomely lost his father in what authorities claim was debris from a plane in the sky. He has also lost a job opportunity for one of his horses to star in a commercial after the film crew irresponsibly fails to respect its boundaries. Now, OJ must sell his horses to a nearby amusement park owner named Ricky “Jupe” Park, who was also a child actor back in the day. While contemplating with his sister about selling the whole ranch to Jupe, OJ notices that one of their horses is acting weird. When he goes to investigate, he sees what looks to be a UFO.

I know that the opening statement for this review looks like a bunch of word vomit, but trust me, it makes sense. Jordan Peele is a director whom I respect immensely. I’ve mentioned that I used to watch “Mad TV” on YouTube with my brother back when I was in elementary school and watched “Key & Peele” in middle school. Seeing Peele’s transition from comedy to horror was amazing because he just does both so well. “Get Out” and “Us” were great movies first and great message movies second. “Nope” feels like it’s trying to be a message movie, but fails to try and make the movie great. When themes like racial microaggressions and social mobility are exhausted in his other works, he’s left with passively scary themes such as desensitization to spectacle. All the characters in “Nope” operate under this theme, but it’s hard to pick up on because the theme itself is so vague. This leads to characters feeling unrealistic because their choices are dictated by this adherence to the theme rather than logic. OJ and Emerald learn about the existence of a UFO and their initial reaction is to catch it on film to become rich. OJ knows good and well that this UFO violently murdered his father right in front of him. I don’t think he’d be too eager to profit off of this UFO. If anything, he’d probably want to report this to the authorities out of anger. In fact, he’s not even angry at this UFO because the character is so muted. Steven Yeun’s character also adheres to this theme in a weird way. He went through a traumatic incident in his childhood, and that’s putting it mildly. Instead of being scarred by it and needing therapy for the rest of his life, he idolizes and monetizes his tragedy. I know some people will try to justify these characters’ actions and tell me that’s exactly what Jordan Peele is trying to point out. The truly scary part is that there are people like this out there. The problem is, that’s a gross oversimplification of what’s really going on, which in turn leads to my dissatisfaction with how the characters were portrayed. This is most apparent with the TMZ reporter. The dude gets seriously injured and all he cares about is getting it on video. Same with Antlers Hoist with suddenly wanting the perfect shot. Putting the theme aside, I think there were elements that made the movie itself decent. I thought borrowing elements from “Jaws”, but putting it into the sky was a lot of fun. The sky is everywhere so you can’t escape the monster’s grasp. However, on the flip side to that, the sky is more open than the ocean, so you don’t get the fear of the obscured monster as much. I mean, the movie does it with clouds, but the sky can also be crystal clear. The twist with the UFO didn’t really work for me. Part of the fun of alien invasion movies is finding out about the motivations of the aliens. Finding out that the UFO is the monster boils the motivation down to “it’s hungry”. It sucks too since I thought the scene with the kids dressed as aliens was the best scene in the whole movie. Before it’s revealed that it was just a prank, it was a genuine “Oh shit” moment that had me even saying “nope” repeatedly. Also, I know Jordan Peele didn’t have anything to do with the trailers for this movie, but they were misleading at best and downright insensitive at worst. There’s a shot of a weird-looking man walking towards something the crowd is running away from. That shot is not in the movie at all. Then, you have the disfigured lady from the trailer. The trailer leads you to believe that she’s part of the horror of this movie, but it turns out she’s a sweet lady who was horribly maimed. It’s a little insensitive to weaponize that imagery to sell a horror movie, but that’s just what I think. All in all, I think this was a step down from what we’re normally used to from Jordan Peele, but still admirable for being something new. Ultimately, that’s what I want from directors and that’s why I respect Jordan Peele so much.

★★★

Watched on July 23rd, 2022

[dragonheart-swtor]

Sith Inquisitor Storyline: Drunk History Version

Y’all, and by y’all I mean one person (@sith-shenanigans thank you very much), asked for it, and I live to repeat this over and over for others’ amusement, so here it is. Have my summary of the pinball machine that is the Sith Inquisitor storyline, from memory, originally drafted a while back in DMs with a friend who’s never played SWTOR. Spoilers for the Sith Inquisitor storyline, obviously.

Without further ado: Let us begin.

- So your story begins as a recently sort-of-freed slave walking off a ship and onto Hell: The Planet. (The nonhuman Inquisitor immediately experiences 2483947 microaggressions.)

- You have to compete with a bunch of other people! Only one of you is not going to die and the overseer has already picked his favorite, seemingly purely because he happens to have red skin. They will both (the overseer and Teacher’s Pet) proceed to be as annoying as possible for the rest of the Korriban story.

- multiple people try to kill you, but you’re the protagonist, so fuck them

- “Teacher’s Pet, you go to the library and translate these texts. Protagonist, you go to this ancient tomb and figure out how to retrieve an artifact from a lock that no one has been able to open in ten thousand years.” “Libraries are boring anyway. Yawn.”

- You finally get to smackdown with Teacher’s Pet, which is satisfying as hell. Unfortunately the overseer gets pissy about it. Fortunately, the Sith you’ve been competing to be the apprentice of decided she liked you early on and has also been playing favorites, so you don’t die immediately.

- your master is great! much more into positive reinforcement than most Sith.

- at some point you semi-accidentally steal someone else's cult on Nar Shaddaa and now they worship you as a nigh-on god. whoops. you just kind of... leave and let them run their own business. you pay them visits later in the storyline.

- you also become part bug so you can go skinny dipping in radioactive waste. it’s fine, we promise.

- your master is trying to steal your body because turns out she's actually really old and kind of dying so she plans on kicking you out of your body, transplanting her own soul in your place, killing her old body, and assuming your identity after "you" "killed" "your master"! that's not great, better not let her do that.

-  you successfully didn't let her do that! wait, now she's sharing a body with one of your companions, an ancient monster who you kind of forced into submission and who serves you rather unwillingly now. there is apparently nothing that can be done about this so sometimes your eight-foot-tall monster not-friend talks in a high, unnervingly smooth feminine voice and tries to convince you she's on your side now that she's forced by this new body to not harm you. this is also not great but what are you gonna do. he is also Not Pleased about this by the way, and really who can blame him.

- some darth on the dark council named Thanaton decides to get pissy with you for reasons I don't remember and now he's trying to kill you. what the fuck.

-  he actually almost does kill you but your old master's other apprentices, who are now your apprentices, save you from the brink of death.

- (the apprentices, by the way, are very sweet and I love them. they’re murdered by thanaton almost immediately.)

-  your solution to "I need more power, fast", for some godforsaken reason, is "I'm going to learn to walk the line between life and death and EAT GHOSTS" and I wish I were exaggerating this

- you go out and eat a bunch of ghosts of old Sith on various planets

- subpoint to this: on one of these planets, you accomplish this by coercing the ghost's descendant, a Jedi padawan named Ashara, to get the ghost to appear so you can eat him. You end up murdering her masters in the process because one way or another they find out about your plan. She is understandably horrified by this turn of events and, feeling she has no chance of returning to the Jedi, reluctantly joins your crew and either (Light Side Quizzy) learns to balance light and dark sides of the Force and becomes ultimately stronger for it, or (Dark Side Quizzy) lives in abject terror of you for the rest of the storyline. I love her dearly as well. fortunately she is not murdered by thanaton.

- congrats! you ate enough ghosts to have enough power to beat thanaton up!

- unfortunately, you have Ate Too Many Ghosts Disease now and need immediate medical attention.

- your mind kind of just Shatters and you may or may not have hallucinations for a while iirc. either way you need help or you're just gonna disintegrate slowly until the ghosts overwhelm you and take over. you go to Voss and participate in some wild Force ritual they've got to take care of that. it's a fun time

- your body is also having a bad time and that also needs fixing; I don't remember where you go for this (Belsavis, I think?) but you end up checking out a machine made by a long-dead alien civilization and the machine turns out to a) be sentient and b) be responsible for CREATING A GOOD PORTION OF THE GALAXY'S NEAR-HUMAN SPECIES, IF NOT ALL OF THEM, AND DISSEMINATING THEM TO THE GALAXY AS PART OF THE RAKATA'S EXPERIMENTS ON CREATING FORCE-SENSITIVE LIFEFORMS IN HOPES OF KEEPING THEIR OWN SPECIES FROM DYING OUT BECAUSE THEY WERE SUPER RACIST AND EVENTUALLY THAT RACISM KICKED THEM IN THE ASS IN THE FORM OF A MASS REVOLUTION THAT WIPED THEM OUT COMPLETELY BUT THE MACHINE IS STILL HERE

- all right I’m calm sorry I derailed for a moment

- I have a lot of thoughts about things

-  anyway the machine bUILDS YOU A NEW FUCKING BODY and you're good to go now

-  (by the way, depending what species you're playing, it's entirely possible you learn at this point that your entire species only exists because of this machine!)

- (anyway.)

- okay, mind fixed, body fixed, ghosts consumed, we're good to go! time to murder a dark councilor!

- "we do that"

- except you don't because you're on corellia and this dipshit challenges you to a kaggath without really ever explaining in detail what a kaggath is or what the rules (if any) are, we just know it seems to be the ancient and very formal Sith way of saying "meet me in the denny's parking lot at 3am if you want an ass-kicking", and then hE RUNS OFF TO DROMUND KAAS WHICH DEPENDING ON WHAT GALAXY MAP YOU BELIEVE IS UP TO FIVE DAYS' TRAVEL AWAY

- YOU'RE CANONICALLY JUST CHASING THIS LITTLE BITCH THROUGH SPACE FOR FIVE DAYS AFTER HE CHALLENGED YOU

-  he then goes to the Dark Council to try to convince them to help him kill you and you literally have to just go to the Dark Council chambers too and kick in the door and go "HEARD YOU WERE TALKIN SHIT" in front of everyone

- (which to be fair is basically Sith philosophy in a nutshell)

-  Ravage and Marr spend this entire council meeting just exchanging tired glances and going "no, fuck you, why can't you kill them, they're your problem. fight for our entertainment now. fuck you"

- (Darth Baras did this exact same shit earlier the same day, by the way, with the Sith Warrior. and by “earlier the same day” I mean “like fifteen minutes prior to this.”)

- you fight Thanaton. to no one's surprise, because you're the protagonist and because he's being a little bitch about it, you kick his ass and slaughter him in front of everyone

- half the Council stands up and you just kind of go "oh shit I'm gonna die"

- but no

- you're being promoted

- congration you done it you're a dark councilor now

- someone complains because wait, they're not even a darth, you can't be a dark councilor if you're not even a darth

- first person responds with "well fuck you then, we'll make them a darth. hey you. your name is Darth Nox (dark side)/Imperius (light side)/Occulus (neutral) now. take a seat"

- "but - what?"

- "take a fuckin seat, babe"

- "o- okay" 

- "you run the entire Ancient Knowledge sector now, by the way, despite the fact that you may or may not be illiterate due to having been raised a slave, because that was what Thanaton ran and we only have the one job opening since the Warrior just killed Baras"

- (the Warrior, freshly coined the Emperor's Wrath officially, waves from their corner where they're cleaning Baras's blood off their boots)

- "I - okay, I guess"

and that’s the Sith Inquisitor storyline. That’s a wrap, folks, roll credits. if this gets enough notes and/or if literally anyone says they’d like to see it I may also post the Imperial Agent and/or do other class stories, I enjoy these way too much

[nightswithkookmin]

I am a hard Taekook shipper but recently Jikook have been melting my heart by being so cute and cudly and loving. I understand and i am sorry for so mhch hate from Taekookers but trust me Taekookers are a bit shaken right now. I cannot disclose my name here but i would like to say if Jikook is real or they decide to come out which i higly doubt then i am 100% in support and also ur page helped me open my eyes and see a diff sude of shipping which is needed alot more. I am Loving Love ryt now.

C'est la vie!

So sorry for the late response love. You've always been on my mind.

I get not every Taekooker is wild and rabid just as not every Joker is sane and fake woke. Lol.

I mean I'm still holding on to my grudge against your people for storming my business pages and leaving shit reviews on my books- and laughing about it? What was that? Damn. Had to change my author name and everything and I've since been publishing under an alias- let me tell you, it's no fun at all.

In retrospect, I shouldn't have called y'all's ship dead- but honestly it dead, it dried up like a drop of sweat on a dessert. What can I say? People just don't want the truth, lol- had these angry thirteen year olds and fake woke Jokers coming for my ass and my business ass on the flamingo app. Chilee. Your people don't want to be civil. Sigh.

Some people just have no sense of personal responsibility and when they get called out for it they slap you with the whole, 'no one asked you to put yourself and your business out there' - this creepy behavior and mental adroitness is not far from rapists blaming girls for wearing short shorts and mini skirts or thieves blaming people for not putting up a fence and shit to protect their property. It's fucked up.

And don't get me started on what they do to Jimin or JK... or even Tae- not to make you feel bad or anything. It's just my people suck, your people suck, we all suck square- don't apologize for it unless you plan on doing something to change it?

As for Taekook, yea I don't think there is anything wrong with shipping them. They have a beautiful bond, they are both visuals and both funny as hell. If you won't ship them I will. Lol.

Just know the reason you are shipping them? If you are shipping them because you genuinely believe they are a couple too then you need to stop shipping them and start supporting them?

And once you start supporting them then I think you'd sooner realize there isn't anything there to support in the first place. Lol.

I support Jikook because I believe with my full chest they are real and are closeted- emphasis on closeted. And for the record, they are the only queer couples in BTS.

Tae lost his queer card when he accidentally outed Jimin on that radio show. 'I think he likes men' yea, straight up het behavior. Lack of homo sensitivity.

Did you see JK's reaction when JM was asked to spill tea on their pervy behaviors behind cams? My butt quivered. Chilee, I thought he was gone out JK too. Damn.

I think the word real and closeted have come loose and cheap on these streets these days. I don't think most of these shippers when they throw it around fully understand the term or realise what it means and what it takes. If they did, they wouldn't randomly be labeling every ship as 'real' within the fandom.

If you believe Taekook is real and that they are equally hiding their sexuality as well as their relationship within the group, then you should understand how severe and traumatizing this fact is and would be for them as gay men?

The thing is, they are not just hiding parts of themselves and their identity for the sake of their careers or military or whatever if they are real, they are lying to millions, millions of people at a time about who they really are by keeping their identity a secret. Secrets are lies honey, however way we want to see it.

If they are real then they are concealing their true identity away from not just their families and friends- if they haven't come out to them, but acquaintances from work, businesses who wouldn't work with them otherwise, brands, sponsors, Heads of states, their fans....

It's one thing for a heterosexual to keep their heterosexual relationship a secret, it's another for a queer person to keep their queerness and or queer relationship a secret.

A lie as heavy as this is bound to take a toll on them, no matter how good they are at hiding it. A secret gets heavy before it gets easy. Not to sell you on anything but do you see any such secret taking a toll on Taekook? Because I see it taking a toll on Jikook.

Do you believe Taekook are closeted? Because I believe Jikook are.

Being closeted means they have to carry the guilt of knowing that each time they pander to heteronormative roles in variety shows or interviews, or imply by omissions that they are straight, or make generalizing statements about their sexuality to avoid addressing their sexuality directly or give it away, that they are lying to people and spewing half truths- seven years in a roll.

Being closeted is not a joke. It's heavy. I think you need to grasp this before you claim it for anyone.

People like to throw the 'closeted' phrase around willy nilly but fail to comprehend its weight and complexity and consequences especially for people that they believe are actually queer.

It's not easy lying to people about who you are. Unless you are a pathological liar and a psychopath, it's like drowning each day you wake up. You die a little each time. Your sexuality is a huge part of your identity and when you deny it for so long by lying and suppressing it, it's like shutting out a peice of yourself and silencing your own voice. The more you push it aside the louder it screams and the harder it fights to come out.

It's a state of constant internal struggle. You wake up everyday contemplating whether to risk the perfect life you've spent years building just so you can turn off the guilt that comes with keeping a secret of this nature.

And each time you get better at omitting or generalizing and evading questions that hint at your truth, the more you hate yourself and the more guilt you feel. This guilt can become a driving force that pushes you to make risky moves and take impulsive actions such as 'borderline outing your relationship'- does that sound like Taekook to you?

If you are not driven by the love you feel for your partner, you are driven by the guilt and neither is a great place to be if you are queer.

You lie everyday, you get caught up in the lies and soon you start believing in the web of lies you've woven around yourself such that you don't even recognize who you are or why you are, anymore. As such, you are constantly searching for yourself, to reconcile the bits you've hidden away and perhaps forgotten, and you keep exploring your identity because you are unsettled- honey, that sounds more like Jikook than Taekook to me but c'est la vie.

Being closeted is not about moments that get cut by editors, or less interactions, or being seperated or seated further apart from eachother. These are just ship street parlance. Being closeted is an attitudinal, internal attribute rather than external manipulations or influences- it's a science. Lol

Coming out may be risky for any of these boys if they are real, but I promise you hiding is much harder for them.

And so When I look at Taekook, and I see how beautiful they are yet I don't in God's honest truth see them 'dealing' with any or all of these struggles Jikook deal with or have dealt with at one point, in my opinion- forget the homophobia, the wanting to come out, the low key microaggressions they deal with even within the group- 'the Jk never stops crying,' 'the real men don't do this and that talk' talk, the toxic masculinity and internalized homophobia traits JK and Jimin used to exhibit in their early days talking about 'real men don't twerk,' 'real men don't wear rings on their pinky'- all the times Jimin have had to defend his masculinity or even femininity, or stand up for Kook's within the group. 'Men, men, men. What is men?'

Jikook are the only two within the group that in my opinion have struggled most with their identity, with embracing aspects of themselves; you hear them complain about 'living a lie' 'tired of hiding, lying' and all these are themes consistent with closet behavior that they've both explored in one way or the other and even as of 2020 they are still dealing with or 'exploring' their identities perhaps as a means to reconcile their true selves? I'm really struggling with this post because I don't wanna get salesy on your ass. Lol.

Don't get me wrong, Tae struggles and deals with issues too- mostly with loneliness, lowkey depression in my opinion, lowkey bullying- sometimes, lol and he often expresses a desire to find someone and be happy and yet 'his supporters' don't recognize that...

You can wait till Jikook come out officially as queer, if they ever chose to, to support them- Or you can choose to support them and love them now because that's what they need in order to officially come out as and when they choose to? Ok I'm being salesy. Lmho. I'll stop. Don't mind me. But think about it.

Ship whatever ship you want but support Jikook. It's all I'm asking. And by support, I mean don't exhibit any anti homosexual attitude towards them- deadass. You and I gone fight, square up toe to toe, if you do. Lol.

People don't need to be afraid of Jikook. They just need to treat them as human beings and not reduce them to a mere ship. They are a ship too yes, but they are more than that if you ask me.

You sound nice. I love you. I'm glad you enjoy my posts. Merry Christmas and cheers to our ships.

Keep supporting Jikook. Jikook is real.

Signed,

GOLDY

[ichayalovesyou]

Broken Bow parts 1 & 2 (Live Reaction):

Ah, so we’re kicking off with smarting up Archer’s prejudice against Vulcans that I know from all my Vulcantology research he grows out of. Neat.

Oh shit Klingon on earth?? Look at those glorious locks! Who are these weird squishy bendy dudes?? Oh that shiz EXPLODED. I’ve got my yeehaw phaser rifle and I kills a Klingon- fuck is THAT how the war started?! Whether or not that’s stupid remains to be seen.

Wowwwww this theme song... is... a lot. Star Trek, bruh, since when??? No. Just... no. Oh hey it’s Archer & Trip a lil’ light fantastic! Ngl Trip’s actually cute. Oh wow they really don’t know Klingons. Oh hey Phlox is here! I get where Archer is coming from about the plug pulling thing, even if Klingon culture is very “HONOR!!” and stuff. Even then, wouldn’t it be detrimental even to a warrior race for them to die when they can be healed?

Vulcans just love acting like everyone else is stupid don’t they? Wow everyone is racist at like, everybody (aliens wise) this definetly has established itself as pre-Federation. Ope! More new characters! Baby ensign dude (Travis!) and British ship’s engineer(?) oh hey it’s Hoshi Sato!! Oh look they’re acknowledging that aliens speak more than one language on their workds finally!! Behold T’Pol! She doesn’t sound like I thought she would? (Idk what that means lol but yeh)

Ohhhh man Trip, Vulcans don’t do haaands my dude, didn’t you get debriefed? But also would it have killed her to explain? Communicate damnit! Give us a speech elderly white boy! Yeehaw warp engines!! Cool speech call back or really it’s Kirk (& Picard and prob Pike soon) Doing the callback to Cochrane!

Oooh shady time travel aliens are back!! Phlox is here! I always got good/fun vibes from him, like, a lil’ creepy but in an entertaining way! Travis is adorable and I love him already, space station boyyyyy. THREE, THREE WHAT?? Travis’s generation are called Boomers?? LOL it makes sense that we’d have a baby boom after planetary colonization became possible but that’s practically a derogatory term now 😂

Time for a dinner chock full of microaggressions! Yup I was right, wowwwwwww everyone is being secret awful (T’Pol not so secret awful) but yeah I can see where all that VHS racism stuff comes from. Lol, oooooo Hoshi & T’Pol having a lil’ cat fight, Archer is such a dad lol. Poor Sato is so fucking stressed it’s okay gf! The ship is just not working and you’re learning Klingon and there’s an invisible alien aboard its FINE!! OH SHIT THAT KLINGON GOT KIDNAPPED!!!!!

Oh so the engineer’s name is Reed okay, oh this is the one with the Suliban. Wow T’Pol is kind of a bitch! She is just belittlement after belittlement, she’s like Spock but WORSE. Like, I’m definitely starting to understand Archer’s resentment toward them is coming from, not that it’s right, but it is understandable. Especially Vulcans have been having this sort of attitude toward humans (and other species) this whole time. Both races clearly have a LOT to learn.

Oh so this Suliban dude is a GMO, I actually freaking love Phlox. Good job Trip tryna bridge the gap between T’Pol and Archer but ooof still too salty. Oh wow! We’re going to Rigel for the first time okay?! Neat! Oof our Klingon boy out here getting interrogated oh shit! It wouldn’t be an earth 2000s scifi without a skanky bar and funky alien strippers. Uh oh Trip is about to make a mistake, oh thank god T’Pol stopped him *big exhale* everything is so new to us! It’s so interesting!

Ew creepy lady why u kiss him??? Oh it’s the “alien woman has to do (explicit/romantic action) to do (thing)” trope 🙄. Oh so there’s time travel shit going on??? Okay!!! What?! Okay! Man the GMO Suliban can do some seriously freaky shit! Okay I love Travis & Reed they’re cool, Reed is suave and Trav is adorable! OOp ARCHER GOT SHOT THE LEG! Close call close call!! Oh ffs T’Pol don’t take command, everything you’ve shown us so far is that you think humans are shit, hey maybe she’ll surprise me.

Ugh this is about to be- aaaaand it’s unnecessarily sexualizong T’Pol 🙄🙄🙄🤮🤮🤮. Trip can you please not call T’Pol out and be racist in the same sentence, I’d rather you just do the former please. OH YAY! T’Pol did surprise me! Good job T’Pol (and Trip... kinda... I guess). “One good turn deserves another” good line, but “doesn’t sound very Vulcan” is proof Archer really doesn’t understand Vulcans! Or at least not what they aspire to. Ohhhh Kay NOW we’re working together! Good! Good!!

I wonder who creepy time lord dude is. Sato THANK YOU why, WHY don’t starships have seat belts?!?! Makes no goddamn sense. Oh I was wrong earlier! Reed’s a pilot and Tucker’s the engineer, okay! I wonder what happened between this episode and Discovery (being the next closest in the timeline) that makes us enemies with the Klingons? Travis out here teaching Tucker how to drive I’m sure this will end well. I’m low key starting to get Bones-Spock energy from T’Pol & Archer. FURST PISTOLS WITH A STUN SETTINH HELL YEAH!

Alright alright, T’Pol is growing on me, awww Archer is soft! “U okay?” I can vibe with that! Hell yeah! I kinda wish I knew Klingon so I knew what this dude wa saying (but I’ve already got my hands full with Vulkansu). Archer why in the fuck are you wandering around?! Do you want to get caught/not found!??! Stay put dummy! Aaaand there’s the BBEG, oh, and he’s Suliban! Oh good thing that laser pistol is set to stun (oh and he dodged). Oooh scary transporter lmao.

Uh oh, was it al for nothing are these dudes gonna kill him anyway? Oh, no! Good so they just cussed Archer out lmfao. Thus the saga begins! Abandon yo grudges and pride Archer my dude, vouch for T’Pol hell yeah! Alright! I hope these two become friends hell yeah hell yeah! Time to boldly go say hi and introduce yourself to all these new aliens! Heck yeah!!

God I’m sure there were plenty of annoying ass Trekkies who were like “iT’s nOt rEaL sTaR tReK” like, how?? Because the costumes look different and they’re exploring a new time period and themes?? 🙄🙄🙄 gimme a BREAK with that shit, honestly. So far it’s been pretty interesting! Every Star Trek is Star Trek!

[w2beastars]

Waezi2′s thoughts on “Beast Complex” chapter 5.

Chapter five makes me think of how modern-day people CAN interact.

Luna the gazelle works as assistant in a TV cooking show that is anything but popular. The producer of the show is getting desperate and decides to try and appeal to a younger audience by getting a new cook named Benny who is young and full of energy and enthusiasm.

... also, he is a gigantic crocodile.

Yeah, Luna is not comfortable about this.

Benny is actually a super nice guy. But to Luna, he is a monster-like creature who could consume her with one bite. And it doesn't help that he jokes around about being a crocodile.

But what REALLY ruins his chances of having a good co-worker relationship with Luna is his honesty about what sort of food he specializes in.

Taken out of context, it sounds kinda like Benny want to eat meat.

What he is ACTUALLY saying is that he want to make food that satisfy the need for flesh that carnivores are born with. Sort of taking the concept of tofu to a new level.

But Luna is a gazelle, so hearing a crocodile talk about “giving carnivores the satisfaction they desire” makes her dislike Benny even more than she already did.

Here is the thing: Luna has plenty of reason to be mad at carnivores as a group as well as fearing them. This is the world of “Beastars”, illegal consumption of meat is a thing.

But that is not really Benny’s fault, is it? He is a nice guy, he just make controversial food.

Benny tries to make peace with Luna, arguing that they should get along since the program is a live television show. Luna however claims to be a professional and that she can control her personal feelings and opinions.

... Right.

When they make their first live show together, Benny is still EXTREMELY frank, telling the viewers about how they will make the fruit burger steak they are cooking taste like the “real thing”. 

And then...

God DAMMIT Benny, you MORON!!!

I get what he is saying about making the substitute-meat LIKE something from a gazelle... but the way he says it is just... JESUS!

Luna is unfortunately not that much better... with the exception that she is more or less a bigot(granted, her view is understandable).

The rest of the show is them bickering while at the same time making the dish without loosing concentration. The rating of the show skyrocketed as the viewers watched a carnivore and herbivore arguing about WHO was the real victim as they made a perfect meal.

After they finished fighting and cooking, having about 25% of the country watching them while holding their breath, we get the absolute coup de grâce as Luna has to taste the steak.

As in THE STEAK THAT IS SUPPOSE TO TASTE LIKE REAL MEAT!!!

And she liked it.

Just LOOK at Benny. This lady was badmouthing not only him, but carnivore cooks in general... and she is complimenting his meat-like food.

Beside this being super wholesome how good craftsmanship can triumph... well, this is a new level of vegan food. Luna is a born vegetarian, not an omnivore. And she admitted to liking the taste of food that should match the taste buds of a carnivore!

Benny is essentially a cooking wizard!

This chapter was a ton of fun, but it also shows the problem of feeling like a victim and how it can make you feel justified about being awful. Something that we see too often in today’s world.

It makes me happy that some subcultures, religions and sexualities are not as controversial as they used to be. Sure, there are PLENTY of hate and violence aimed toward them, but it HAS gotten better.

Some would say that the problem is that now some people can act all offended if someone is not political correct enough. I disagree. There is nothing wrong in pointing out microaggression. It’s the small casual acts of discrimination that can be dangerous since they can evolve into something else.

BUT!!!

It IS a problem how those who feel offended CAN react.

My dad used to say that there are three ways to ask someone to take a seat: a) “sit on that chair”, b) “please take a seat”, or c) “GET YOUR ASS ON THAT CHAIR!”

Let’s be fair, the LGBT+ community(just to name an example of a group who has suffered for YEARS) has suffered a LOT because of bigotry. They have every single reason to be suspicious and bitter. But it doesn't solve anything to be dicks to someone who is only doing something that MILDLY could be considered offensive.(I know this is getting long, but bear with me)

Allow me to use a real-life example:

I had a online friend who I thought was cool because she did not take shit from men being assholes to her since she was both an artist who made NSFW stuff AND was lesbian. She made a rule about not letting men go to her NSFW account since she felt uncomfortable with sharing NSFW lesbian content with guys(fair enough). So she got a ton of hate for it and was called a “hypocrite “. We were friends and she told me I was one of the only not-asshole straight guys she knew.

... I should have ended my relationship with her the moment she shamed me for liking “Hazbin Hotel”. She told me I had to be aware that I was guilty of associating as well as giving money to a “homophobe and bastiality supporter”.

Later I got invited to join a Steven Universe discord group where this person and her friends were in. Everything went well... until I casually mentioned that I liked “South Park” that they then told me was discriminating against Jews(?). Being an idiot, I tried to argue that SP was anything but that... and I got a warning.

One of the users who was actually a mod(!) unprovoked made fun of me for “praising antisemitic burning shit” and I was stupid enough to react... and then got kicked out.

Being a minority doesn’t stop you from being a bully. Political correctness CAN be used as a tool to be awful if one wishes to take one’s frustration over an injustice out on ONE person as if they were the source of the problem. Especially if you know that if that person you bully can’t say a thing since that makes them look like shit for talking back to, in this case, a LGBT+ person. I used days feeling awful and guilty, and I had to talk with friends to get over it and realize that I was not the one in the wrong.

LUNA is from a victim group. Herbivores getting eaten by carnivores is an issue, there are even criminal organizations who specializes in kidnapping and killing animals so they can be sold as food. But that is not really Benny’s fault. He just does something controversial, not something bad or evil. But he is SUPER easy to take frustrations out on since he is a crocodile who makes meat-like food. Sure, he could just be a normal cook and not try to push buttons with his new-age food, but sometimes you have to be kinda provoking to do something new and creative.

[soyouareandrewdobson]

Doing something for fun: RPGs about broken anuses.

As promised, after the abomination that was the Sam arc, I am now going to write random posts about more positive/fun things. However, I also decided to add a little twist to them and correlate them in some way thematically to Dobson. E.g. by reviewing a game/show that does all the things Dobson hates/obsesses about/or fails at right.

 And my first entry in that regard is related to a videogame that came out a couple of years ago, based on a tv show Dobson claims to hate. South Park: The fractured but whole.

 Seeing how the game is 3+ years old at this time and there have been tons of reviews & walkthroughs showing how good and fun the game is, I do not really want to cover the plot and all the things that make it great in detail. Lets just say you can really feel that Parker and Stone were heavily involved in the writing of the game, as it is filled to the brim with references to the show and the typical satirical humor of it, that in parts manages to cross the line even further for me than the show. Right from the start you get a very dark but smart social joke and commentary out of the way, when as you set up your characters looks and the difficulty of the game, it is the tone of your skin that decides how hard the game gets. Meaning if you play as a black person, you are having a very hard time. It is not too preachy, just an acknowledgment that yes, in American society, blacks can have it harder compared to white people. Especially when living in a town like South Park, where social standing is pretty low and the police force is inherently corrupt and racist, doing something so outrageously to black people, I do not want to spoil it. Let’s just say it ends in a better Lovecraft joke than any of the shit SJWs did in light of censoring Call of Cthulhu board rpgs.

The overall plot is simple: While last time the kids played fantasy and things escalated quickly as they do in South Park, this time they play superheroes, with two fractions having formed: Coon and Friends vs the Freedom Pals and things escalating just as quickly. What starts off as the hunt for a missing cat to earn a 100$ reward Cartman wants to use to start a multi billion dollar movie franchise just like Marvel, turns soon into the player and his friends having to fight a real crime conspiracy thought up by one of South Park’s most nefarious characters, which also involves genetic mutations, time travel and eldritch horrors. Thankfully you, the “New Kid” from the last game, even after losing all your previous powers thanks to no one playing fantasy anymore, gain new superhero powers, make friends with the South Park kids again and even learn new fart techniques by none other than Morgan Freeman, that help you out along the way. All while also slowly revealing more about your backstory hinted on in the previous game and the tragedy of your dad having had intercourse with your mother.

 Being a South Park and RPG fan for years, I wanted to play this game for quite some time, but only managed to do so recently. And even if I spoiled myself massively over time with cutscenes and major battles online, this game is still fun (thanks in part also to the fact I watched the cutscenes years ago and by now forgot a lot of them).  The turn based battle system is way more interesting than last time by also depending on you positioning the characters on the field in a strategy based RPG style, there are lots of classes to choose and powers to combine (I myself going for elementalist, assassin, plantmancer and blaster currently) and you have a ton of allies in the game. The original cast of the four main boys, Jimmy and Butters has expanded significantly in this game with characters such as SUPER CRAIG, Clyde as the blood sucking MOSQUITO, Token as TUPPERWARE and Wendy as the social media huntress CALL GIRL (yes, that is her name) and they all are fun to interact and play with, with each one having their own unique sets of moves and finishers once again. Even outside of the battle, thanks to the writing, there are always great lines from them to get when interacting or taking missions from them. I especially came to love Tweek and Craig, who are not just decent fighters (Tweek in particular is a great elementalist) , but in this game are also now a couple ever since that yaoi episode from South Park. Helping them reconcile after a bad break up over the course of the game just feels surprisingly nice, mostly because unlike other LGBT celebrating media out there (Korra and She Ra  e.g.) none of the characters crosses some sort of moral line where you question why they deserve to be together (Hello, Catra), it is not heavily handed garbage fishing for brownie points and it is obvious through dialogue and actions they care for each other, even if they are at first going through a bad break up as only South Park could ridiculously portray it.

 Overall, the game is also surprisingly “inclusive” and socially relevant without being preachy about it, if you ask me. From the aforementioned skin color thing, to LGBT representation via Tweek and Craig, the police being involved in a plot that especially nowadays is sadly more relevant than ever (mind you, I do not believe that in real life all cops are bad, but in my opinion bad eggs on both sides certainly led to the current situation in the US and that is all I say) to the fact you can over the course of the game decide not just if you are playing as a boy or a girl, but even something in-between, a cis-/transgendered person and decide your race, religion as well as to whom you are sexually attracted to. Granted, I barely see how it has any bearing on the game’s plot, but I appreciate the following things: a) the inclusion of the possibility to decide on those factors itself, making creating your character even more fun (a basic right others demand for certain games nowadays in all the wrong ways) and b) that the game does not make the biggest of deals about it. See, I am under the impression that often times the most progressive and inclusive thing is to just let the story and personality of a character speak for itself, instead of the fact that it also identifies by a specific gender, sexuality, race or other allignment. In fact focusing on those things on a character only is something I consider ”positive stereotyping”, which for me is just racism in the opposite direction. And if you no think I am going off track here and need to be beaten up by someone who genuinely has some grip on pc culture, don’t worry. This game features PC Principal actually doing an ok job teaching you about microaggressions in his typical PC Principal manner, which in itself becomes a relevant move in future battles and is hilarious to watch. Speaking of the new kid, putting things like your chance to gender identify yourself with it in more detail (which you can also adjust again later on in game if you feel like it) aside, for a silent protagonist he/she/it can have a nice level of debt to it, if you look too much into it.

 Not only does it have a funny backstory explaining its fart and social media powers, there are recurring scenes of the kid’s parents being on each others throat and the kid just silently eating dinner for the night that genuinely feel sad and create sympathy in our little FartLord to the point you just want the kid to go out there, have an adventure and hopefully find a way to change its parents for good, cause it is obvious they love the kiddo, but damn do they need to cut off the substance abuse.

 Storywise you get something out of this game that is way more entertaining and hilarious than the last two seasons of the show combined (FUCK the season of 2019) and game content wise you are also rewarded with a lot of shit, just for exploring the town. Be it you finding hidden yaoi fanart that earns you money, your allies helping you solve puzzles that reward you with exp and new costumes to further customize your outfit, making new friends on Coonstagram by taking selfies with all the major and minor characters of the town, helping Big Gay Al finding his missing cats, stumbling upon Memberberries, forging new artifacts to increase your strength, finding summons… all stuff that helps you not just gain exp and become stronger, but also makes you enjoy going through South Park outside of the main story content. In fact I spend a majority of my first twelve hours in this game only wrapping up the prologue missions and first two chapter of the game, while otherwise talking with as many people in town as possible, exploring the stores and houses, doing side missions etc. just for the fun of interacting with the characters and the world they are part of.

 Now, how does all of that relate to Dobson?

Well lets see…

 Game based on something he hates that has however rightfully more success than he ever deserves, with lots of political commentary and satire for years in its humor? Check.

 Game itself having more of that commentary done right then Dobson in his own comics and story attempts? Check

 LGBT representation via Tweek and Craig as well as Big Gay Al that does not feel too stereotypical despite Al himself being extremely stereotypical in design? Check

 Some pretty decent/hilarious female characters in the game once you know them? (again, Call Girl and Classi, who fucks the L out of the A-S-S) Check.

 Being a style of game he hates for no apparent reason, but executed well (RPGs)? Check

 Thematically focused on superheroes, a trend he is obsessed about, but here both appreciating while also poking good fun at common tropes of it and the marketing of the MCU, in doing so just highlighting how much of a mindless consumer Dobson is? Check

 Being a game where you can also play as any gender and race and its not turned into a “groundbreaking” industry changing feature pandering to minorities that in the eyes of corporations are just a market to exploit, not people? Check

 Heck, if Dobson was not a biased idiot, the game would be perfect for him. It even panders to his toilet fetish in videogames.

 Kid you not: a mini game in the game itself features the possibility to go to every toilet in town and shit in it. The process of defecation itself being a rhythm game and you earning exp from it once you took enough dumps. And considering Dobson once spend hours in Skyrim looking for outhouses, that sounds right up Dobson’s back alley.

 Bottom line, this game is fun. If you like South Park, superheroes and RPGs, this game is perfect for you. And seeing how it has been a few years since it came out, I think it should be possible to get a cheap copy of it somewhere. Go on, play it. But always remember: Never fart on another dude’s balls. It is just not the polite thing to do.

[bonesandpoemsandflowers]

So here’s a thing that happened, tumblr.

Many moons ago, I was in the Neuro ICU for a while. I was actually in there twice--for a week at first, then out, then in again for about two weeks. In between: “Nothing’s wrong! It’s resolved!” As you might imagine, given the spoiler there about how I went to the Neuro ICU twice: in fact, Something was wrong, and it was not resolved (then).

(it is resolved now, thank you)

This post is not actually ABOUT that, but we must start there, out of order.

This is a post about art and rivers and boys in cars. But we start in the Neuro ICU.

I don’t like talking about this time in my life. I would have been skittish and mysterious ANYWAY--I was raised like that--but I’m extra skittish and vague about my timeline because I don’t want to talk about it, you know? I survived something I had no business surviving. I had to relearn how to walk. That took months and that was the easy part. Because I am a big tiddy goth girl, and because I was very young then, people love to assume that the problem was drugs, and I did it to myself, as if that somehow makes anything less tragic.

I was 23 years old with a brain bleed due to a congenital defect, and even at the time, I had to defend myself: no, I’m not on drugs, I don’t do drugs, I didn’t do coke, I’ve never done coke.

I am also Colombian, which, I suppose, might play into their calculus about the coke, but WHO KNOWS. I was busy gibbering and almost dying at the time, which left little energy for noticing potential microaggressions.

Is it a microaggression, I guess, when you’re dying? Who knows.

I have never even been drunk, tumblr. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t snort. I never have. This is mostly because I’m a paranoid loon with an off again, on again anorexia, ya know, thing, so occasionally I get really hung up on irrational concepts of bodily purity. People think it’s a flex when I try to explain this, that I’m relishing in some kind of moral superiority. I’m not. I admitting to SEVERAL defects (“quirks”) of personality there. The eating disorder. The deep distrust: I will not be vulnerable in the presence of others, I will not dull my senses, I will not allow myself to be weak. A certain perfectionism. A certain tendency towards slow burn self harm. Grand ideas made of nothing that sometimes take hold.

My point is that this big disruptive thing happened.

I survived, which is AWESOME. And yeah, I had to relearn how to walk, and some other things, but you guys know that I do yoga and aerial silks and lyra and ran off to Thailand to train kickboxing for a summer on fighter street and I STILL do not shut the fuck up about it.

So, cool, cool cool cool cool.

And I don’t even want to talk about that part, the medical drama, the body horror, the institutional whatever. My neurosurgeon was fantastic and like a week after my discharge I was high as SHIT on prescribed painkillers my caregivers insisted I take and wrote him a gushing effusive letter about how he was MY HERO because I was ALIVE and anyway that basically makes you BATMAN, DOCTOR LEWIS, I FUCKING LOVE BATMAN.

Again: high as fuck, ok.

 My point is: I hate talking about this.

Because once you’re a survivor in people’s minds, that’s all you are. You are reduced to this one event that had very little to do with you. You are defined by this thing that happened to you.

And this isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s happened TO me! But still. Happened TO me. Not something I did. Not my action. Barely even my reaction.

But again, personality flaws. What does it say about me that I look at social norms about comfort and inwardly I snarl that I want no one’s pity?

Except I’m not actually that mean. I don’t snarl.

I just withdraw.

This is a tactic that has served me well in life a BUNCH of times. Is it always the answer? No. Is it often worth a shot? Listen. Yeah. Yeah, it is. Sometimes you flee an abusive home life because that’s the only option, and you don’t want to die. Hypothetically speaking: sometimes all you can do is run.

But sometimes you flee people with mostly good intentions, maybe.

This is all very high minded but what’s prompting me to write this isn’t exactly the upcoming (many year) anniversary of the event. It’s something way more mundane and dumb.

I have not logged into my facebook account since this happened. I never bothered deleting the account(s), either. I presume they still exist. I have no idea HOW to log back onto them, and, more importantly, no desire.

“So what?”

So, okay, back when I had my first stint in the Neuro ICU? Like, totally out of nowhere, I just disappeared from people’s feeds. (you all know I do this) Somehow part of the story got out and SOMEHOW, I have no idea how, a small group of my friends managed to independently track down the hospital I was at. And this is on next to no info, across state lines, like--I have no idea how the fuck they did it.

I also don’t fucking know who they were.

I was told, at the time. I have a vague idea of who two out of (I think) four were, or might have been. I was kind of busy at the time, with the dying.

And when I say I don’t like talking about this time: I don’t like even THINKING about it. I avoid it.

Fleeing. See?

So I don’t have a memory of the names. I don’t have memories of the memory.

“So what?”

So, I know from groups other than this one, groups less dedicated than this one, that people actually get REALLY fucking mad at you for not accepting their get better soon wishes. And like, I get it! You were very worried and I did nothing to reassure you.

I WAS BUSY.

I was busy dying. Almost dying. Not dying. I was busy sleeping 20 hrs a day. I was busy being unable to walk. I was busy re-learning to walk. I was busy relearning how to write with pen and paper and for months I COULD NOT DO IT, do you have any idea how that feels to someone who is and has always been and has always wanted to be a writer? Fuck it. Fuck you.

The initial disappearance. I am not to blame.

But then doing nothing to reach out to anybody for YEARS and YEARS--

Okay, maybe a dick move on my part.

“So what?”

So I think one of the people who managed to track me down in the hospital was my best friend from high school, a terribly sweet Brazilian boy who mostly called me not by my name, but simply: The Devil.

I dig it. Always did.

And it’s high school, right. Everybody is thirsty as fuck for their friends, one way or another. We never dated--we were both always dating or pursuing other people--but we had the typical high school bestie unresolved romantic tension deal going on.

This is important so remember it for later: the problem was not attraction. The problem was not one sided unresolved sexual tension. I had a particular thing for how he looked while driving, shades on, one arm slung over the wheel in that terribly and typically male lounging driving pose that’s probably a safety hazard.

We spent a lot of time in his car.

I didn’t drive, at the time, because my mother didn’t allow me to learn, and I got kicked out of my house and disowned when I was 17. This dude spent a LOT of time driving me places. Boys in cars is practically a genre of erotic poetry, thanks to Richard Siken. This is because boys look Cool driving cars, wearing sunglasses, pretending they’re not paying attention to you while you know they are.

So he was fun.

More importantly, I guess, the fact that he picked my ass up at like 6 AM over and over and over again for a big chunk of my senior year is one of the few reasons I managed to graduate despite being technically homeless.

He was not a morning person. I am not a morning person. He did it anyway.

Why didn’t we date, I wondered, years later, for a fraction of a second, and then I forgot about it.

“SO WHAT?!”

So I’m grown up and happy and fulfilled and in a lovely long term relationship (remember! we’re buying a house!), so it’s not about “what if?” It’s that I’m happy and grown up and I write books sometimes.

But there it is.

I write books sometimes.

Artists are constantly stealing ideas from everywhere and this is good. Artists also steal from themselves, grubby little hands on secret parts of our hearts.

So I’m writing this book, right. My Great Work. My Break Out Novel. My SERIOUS FUCKING BUSINESS book. My “this is the thing I’ve worked the hardest on in my whole entire LIFE” book.

And in this book there is a male love interest. He is a political statement. I’m writing him as sexy and heroic as possible. I want this to be the MOST attractive man I’ve ever written.

Latino. Sexy as fuck. Not a criminal. Overly responsible. Action ready, and terribly nurturing.

Hot Single Dad and Reluctant Necromancer is my masterpiece. A passionate statement and stance against the depiction of Latino men in media. A war cry to examine our own subconscious biases. A weapon raised against an unjust system.

I stole parts of him from Frank Castle. I stole parts of him from Geralt. I stole (MANY) parts of him from this one IRL hot dad former Army Ranger guy, Mexican American with a tattoo on his arm of a jack o lantern one of his kids drew. I stole parts of him from this cute Marine in my DMs who gave me story advice about guns and gear. I stole parts of him from indigenous leaders from centuries ago, from the peoples he is descended from. I stole parts of him from every man I’ve met who worked in dog rescue. I stole parts of him from myself, hiding secret parts of my heart in the male character so that no one will know.

Lovely. All good so far.

I got like two whole drafts in before I was thumbing through some printed out pages, idly thinking: how funny that I don’t have any real life, personal to me models for this guy.

All my prior male love interests, you see, are based on someone. In the werewolf trilogy, they’re BOTH based on someone--different someones. The villain, too, is jokingly referred to as the “evil werewolf ex boyfriend” for a reason.

Everybody is someone.

So how funny, I thought, that necromancer hot dad lacks any references from my own--

OH, wait, fuck--

Overly responsible brown dude with sad dog eyes drives the female lead/occult specialist around while good naturedly complaining that she’s weird as shit.

Oh, damn.

And suddenly a bunch of teensy little backstory details made sense.

Cool.

“So what?”

Bonus round of self realization: my own understanding of this time in my life radically shifted, turning, lurching, sickly rotating on a new axis.

Why didn’t we date?

Somewhere between then and now, post ICU but pre novel writing time--

This one time I overheard somebody talking to somebody else and it had nothing to do with me but sight unseen, on the other side of the stacks in a used bookstore, one dude said to another: “you know that if you were lighter, you’d have a chance with her, right?”

How terrible, I thought, and I forgot about it.

Why didn’t we date?

Because my mother told me, when I was very young, that boys from Brazil were all very wild, and I should avoid them. And she told me this so early and so plainly that I never thought to question it. When I was older she took harder stances that I easily ignored because I knew they were wrong--don’t you dare bring a black boy into this house. You’re dating a Jew? I can’t believe you did this to me. What are you going to do next, kiss a girl?

WELL, Ma, as it turns out, I mean, not til college, but yes.

But the smaller, more mild statement was so much more insidious.

I wonder if he knew. I don’t think he did. I wonder if he figured it out later. I have no idea, because we were friends when we were still essentially children, and now we are grown. Not everybody thinks about this kind of thing, and I don’t blame them.

How much damage did I do?

Does it matter?

Does he know?

I know.

I know, now, that my rallying cry against a system’s unfairness is also a cry wrenched wetly from my own subconscious depths. YOUR biases against? Yes. But more accurately: my biases against.

“So what?”

So this kind of epiphany shit leaves you breathless about it and you wanna scream. You wanna SHARE it. You must infect others with this knowledge.

But you can’t out of nowhere foist this apology on someone. That’s selfish. That’s about redeeming yourself in your own eyes AND asking someone else to confront unpleasant emotions on your behalf, even though they’re the wronged party. Selfish. Tell me I’m not a bad person, baby. Tell me I never hurt you, not even a little. Forgive me if I did. Wade through this pile of astral shit for me just to make me feel better. Reassure me. Hurt yourself for me in the here and now.

So I’m not going to do that, obviously.

“So what?”

But there’s that other part of it, right? Not the apology. The surge of emotion. The realization that all those morning drives back then added up to something deep within me, something so foundational to my concept of care and maybe even the start of something like love--the knowledge that this person gently carved some ideals for you, so long ago, so subtly that you never questioned it, never even realized, because it felt so natural, because something about it is so inherently good and right.

Despite everything--despite society, propaganda, colonialism, the prejudice of my upbringing, my own unexamined complicity, ALL of it--

Despite everything, this person taught me something so deeply about love and the shape of it, something so foundational that I built all my art on it and didn’t even see the beams of it until halfway through my most ambitious and soul bearing undertaking.

This is how you care for another, went the lesson, and I wrote pragmatic actions over words romantic male leads all the way down.

This is what love might look like, and in my own life, ever ambitious, I chose a poet talented with words and actions and good fight choreography, because I think that’s sexy and dichotomies are mostly bullshit, or at least things that happen to other people.

But I didn’t learn what love looked like from my childhood home life, obviously. How could I?

Without you, though, without you and your mirror sunglasses at 6 AM and your exasperated teasing, devil, witch, bruja, without any of those, where would I have learned? How long would it take me, to find someone who would teach me a wholesome lesson?

I’m small and cute and predators love a victim with a lack of context. I give myself and my wit some credit, but what’s pattern recognition worth if you never get any good data points?

Deep lessons.

Again: this kind of epiphany makes you wanna scream. Who to infect, with all this new knowledge?

Maybe no one. Probably no one.

But maybe, just a little, you wonder--

How would that conversation even go?

Hey, so I wrote this book--no, it’s my fifth, not my first, but thanks--so I wrote this book, and there’s this character, right, and he’s--well, hahah, I mean, he’s not exactly--I just--funny story, really--no, god, no, you don’t have to read it--it’s just--he’s just--I mean, no, you, you’re just--forget it, actually, just--

Like, what the fuck is there to say?

“I couldn’t have written this without you.”

And

“Did you check on me? When you thought I was dead?”

and

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice, at the time, that I meant anything to you.”

or is it really

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize until now that you meant something to me.”

What to do with all this emotion? Or more accurately--like rivers carve out gorges, here is the shape of something that once was. This shape will always be here. Even without a single drop of water ever again: we see the river.

What to do with the shape of all this emotion?

I consult the great Richard Siken via a feat of bibliomancy. Advise me, O Oracle. The oracle is War of the Foxes (2015), turned over blindly in my hands, opened randomly to The Worm King’s Lullaby, pg 45, verse 1:

The holes in this story are not lamps, they are not wheels. I walked and walked, grew a beard so I could drag it in the dirt, into a forest that wasn’t there. I want to give you more but not everything. You don’t need everything.

This advice is too good. I close the book.

The advice does not tell me what to do, but it’s too good. The verse reaches into my chest and carves out my heart, slices it open. Inside my heart: pomegranate seeds. Tiny jewels, fit for a dragon, snacking on garnets and rubies, and the apple of Eden wasn’t an apple, because it was the desert, wasn’t it? It was a pomegranate. Something with scales, maybe snakes. The serpent, the devil.

What to do with all this love?

I swallow the pomegranate seeds. I buy myself some time. I want to give you more, but not everything. Do you need everything? I don’t know. I don’t have it to give to you, in any case. Does it matter?

Why are you doing this, me?

Because art is messy. Art is cutting yourself open over and over again. You clean up most of the mess, try to bottle the fluids and label them nicely or deliberately misleadingly, fit for someone else’s consumption, but either way, you’re bleeding.

Maybe this urge is bleed with me or maybe it is oh, you already did.

I swallow the seeds. I buy some time.

I’m not done yet. I’m not.

Maybe all this adds up to nothing.

Maybe if I do this right, it adds up to a lot.

Maybe if I do this right it will feel real, maybe what I want is to gift the shape of these rivers to somebody else, all emotionally intimately with strangers. This is a shape that love can be. This is a silhouette you may recognize.

Maybe that’s a tribute, or a tributary.

But it’s not about you, not really, so don’t get too big headed about it. This is about Art and something like Justice. Big things. This is a book about big things, about history and dogs, history and gods, crimes and lies, slaughter and slander.

Right, yeah.

An act of faith, an act of will.

I swallow the pomegranate seeds. I buy myself some time.

It’s not harvest season yet. Not yet, not now, not yet.

If not now, then when?

When it’s ready.

There is no ready. Perfection is an illusion.

Yeah, sure, but page count is REAL.

You’re evading. That’s another word for fleeing. Do you know that?

Yes. I do.

How long will you run?

Just a little bit more. Just a little. I promise.

[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

Stuber

There are so few original concepts being made by Hollywood these days that I feel like I have to support them wholeheartedly even if they’re lackluster. Today’s original piece of programming is Stuber, a buddy cop movie starring Dave Bautista and Kumail Nanjiani. Bautista plays Vic, a cop hellbent on catching the drug dealer who killed his partner and a guy who never takes any time off. At the urging of his boss (Mira Sorvino) and his daughter (Natalie Morales), he takes a day off to finally get Lasik surgery but a huge lead in his case comes through right at that moment! Since he can’t see to drive, he calls an Uber - enter Stu (Nanjiani), who is working a terrible retail gig, secretly pining away for his best friend (Betty Gilpin) and just one bad review away from losing his Uber job too. Oil, meet water. HIJINKS. So does this original story lack luster? Well...

Honestly, I really enjoyed it! It’s tightly paced, the chemistry of the leads is fantastic, and it’s pretty damn funny. Come for the classic buddy cop tropes, stay for a thoughtful treatise on masculinity.

Some thoughts:

I tell you what, I’ve been spoiled by the John Wick movies because these action sequences just feel disorienting and jerky in comparison to the flawless ballet of Keanu Reeves annihilating bad guys on motorcycles while riding a horse. 

These gunfights are bloody too - there’s no illusions about the level of violence happening here. 

Listen, I love a buddy cop movie, and that inevitably means you’ve got a tough-as-nails character who is mourning a deep loss, most likely his wife, and is both unhinged and too devoted to the job as a result. So on the one hand, it’s kind of nice that we’re showing Vic mourning someone other than his wife. I suppose it’s also good that Karen Gillan is shown as a smart and capable cop partner, and that she and Dave Bautista have easy, excellent chemistry (I’m sure their time together in the Guardians of the Galaxy films helped quite a lot there). But like. Does Karen Gillan have to die in the first 5 minutes to propel Vic’s story forward? It’s 2019. Do we really have to keep having this same conversation? 

After all the trauma Vic is putting his eyes through, there is no way this Lasik surgery is gonna take. 

Credit where credit is due, Dave Bautista is an incredible physical comedian. He just GOES for it, every pratfall, every blustering into a wall, every labored punch in a fight scene. He attacks it all with gusto and a lumbering grace you wouldn’t expect. I’m telling you, he’s sneaking up quick to become the next Dwayne the Rock Johnson.

Additionally, this movie doesn’t work without Kumail Nanjiani. I’m so happy to see his star power just exploding between this and his new casting in the MCU as part of The Eternals. He’s one of the hardest working, funniest people in showbiz and I love everything he does here. The weariness, dealing with microaggressions from racist Uber passengers, the frantic energy when shit hits the fan. You really need a strong presence to be able to stand toe-to-toe with Dave Bautista, and their odd couple energy is chaotic and so much fun. I really love their dynamic, and it’s a big part of what makes this movie work.

I love this entire strip club sequence featuring a surprisingly feminist male stripper named Felix (Steve Howey) and Stu trying to convince him he doesn’t have to put up with his boss’s abusive behavior. It’s actually a really sweet scene which could have easily bro’d out and gone for a lot of cheap laughs.

The dog (pictured above) is amazing in every way and I LOVE HIM. He is perfect and such a good boy, and no harm comes to him - we even see him get adopted! There is even a whole PACK of other Very Good Boys and Girls shown throughout the film, and all of them live to tell the tale. Well done everyone.

It’s a weird balance the film is trying to strike that I think it *mostly* succeeds at, between showing us a lot of gross toxic masculinity, and also showing, in the form of Stu, another way. Now, Stu gets dragged along on Vic’s rampage, so he does a lot of hypermasculine things like shooting people and causing explosions, but he also has a lot of emotions about it and shows a lot of vulnerability. Ultimately, Vic teaches Stu he has to take responsibility for his own life and choices, and Stu teaches Vic that he has to allow himself to be open or he will lose everything in life that’s important to him. It sounds cliche because it is, but the way the characters grow and change as a result of their time together feels lik eit was genuinely earned, and in a 93-minute movie, that’s a feat in itself. 

Maybe I’m rusty and off my game, but I did NOT see that villain twist coming! But in classic “this villain is just here to be villainous” fashion, there is a LOT of monologuing going on that feels a little tired and lazy.

Another thing I appreciate is that this is maybe the only time the “friendzone” has been treated fairly onscreen. 

Did I Cry? A tiny bit. When Vic thanks Stu at the end. THEY’RE GOOD FRIENDS OK, IT WAS SWEET.

If you like action comedies, you could do far worse than this one which keeps a pace fast enough for you to stay engaged, and which features enough solid jokes that it can actually be called a comedy.

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

[boogiewrites]

Mae Flowers 4

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Mae LeBlanc (OFC)

Word Count:  4900

Summary: A modern, magical Alfie Solomons AU. 

Warnings/Tags: Language.Magic/Supernatural. Soul mates. Racism, microaggressions. Some domestic fluff, getting to know you stage. Talk of past neglect, depression, anxiety.

Click on my screenname then go to Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.)

Mae wakes up for the second morning in a row well rested. She'd gone to bed with a full stomach, having eaten their weight in seafood and grits the night before. She felt more at ease today with the fact that there was a man living with her now. He'd stood up for her, helped her cook and put Ruth and Nance's minds at ease for. She felt a warm feeling when she thought of him. It could be the magic, she thought.

Her inner light was growing stronger, it was being fed with another power like it's own, the darkness stirring up her previously unstable energies, making it build and heal itself from all the years alone and unsure. Alfie gave her a strange sense of fullness, stability of sorts she hadn't expected. Normally having another person in her life would make her feel anxious, second-guessing everything she did at the expense of her own peace of mind to keep the other person comfortable. But that wasn't happening with him.

She throws on her robe, scratching her head and yawning big, the smell of coffee hitting her nose as soon as her slippers start bopping across the old hardwood floor towards the kitchen. Alfie stood leaned against the counter in pajama pants and a soft, sleep rumpled t-shirt. His hair was a mess, one side flat and the other sticking up, his eyes lazy with smacking lips as he scratched his stomach waiting on the coffee pot to deliver.

"Mornin' love." he says with a slow nod, his voice deep and sleepy.

"Mornin'." she grumbles, taking a seat at the table in a sunbeam.  Percy lets out a little 'mrrrrowl' of greeting, bumping his head to hers as she runs her fingers along his spine. "Hey Perce." she mutters, his tail swishing in her face and making her nose twitch. She's slowly waking up, Percy laid out in front of her on his back, trying to be cute and keep her attention.

"Hazlenut or French Vanilla?" Alfie asks, standing with the fridge door open, staring into the dull glow.

"Thought you could read my mind." she smirks, her head slowly turning to him.

"I can but you don't know which ya want." he retorts with a snarky smile.

"Hazlenut." she answers with a nod, watching him bring the two mugs over to the table as he plops down next to her, landing in the chair with a loud scoot of its legs across the floor.

So what's on the 'ol agenda today?" he asks, sitting up straight and cracking his spine.

"Uh... not much. We got ahead yesterday." she nods and closes her eyes, taking a sip of the hot liquid and letting it warm her from the inside out. "Thanks for that by the way." she says, eyes blinking open now, looking more alert.

"Don't mention it. I'm here to help." he nods and watches her over the steam rising from his mug.

"If you need to like, do stuff here today you can." she offers. "Just basic stuff for me today to do at the shop. No orders or anything. All caught up for the week." she states with a lazy smile of thanks. "If you wanna unpack and get used to the place... bond with Percy." she nods over the lazy white cat soaking up a sunbeam.

"I do have stuff I can do today with ya out. Get me things all situated. What do ya say Percy?" he asks the cat with a smirk on his face.

Percy raises his head and looks at him, blinking slowly.  A weak meow escapes him before he lays back down totally uninterested.

"He doesn't care." Alfie chuckles.

"Alright." she nods, taking a bigger sip. "I'm gonna take this." she holds the mug in both hands and stands. "Gonna get a shower and get ready and be on my way. Make whatever you want, Friday's are my day I get a smoothie on the way to work." she says and he feels her excitement about the future purchase.

"Will do. I'll keep it simple. Lots of liftin' 'n that to do today." he groans and stretches, as she waddles back into her bedroom. ---- The calm she'd felt at home felt farther and farther away the further she got from home. The usual heaviness, that quivering ball of nerves that told her something was wrong, that she was wrong started to grow back into its usual place in her stomach. Mae sips her berry smoothie and leans over the front counter, her jeans feeling a little tight today, her toes curling and uncurling in the ballet flats that matched her green t-shirt that she'd had made for her company. Her loose spiral curls dancing around her shoulders, the various shades of almost black brown catching the light that came through the high windows of the crowded and humid building. This would be the only moment of peace that she got for the day, as the downpour of things that made her want to crawl up and disappear seemed to hit all at once, leaving her dazed and confused.

First, Jessica shows up. She struts in the door tits first with her large Starbucks cup in tow, overlined lips sucking away at the straw. She doesn't even look at Mae until she's right in front of the counter.

"What do ya need today Jessica?" Mae asks with a perfectly polite attitude, setting her drink down to the side.

"Where's that big leprechaun you've got in here now?" she asks with a smirk as she looks into the back of the shop.

"Leprechaun?" Mae's nose wrinkles up in question.

"What was his name. The big guy with the accent in here yesterday." she replies obviously, jutting a hip out in her annoyance.

"Oh. Alfie." Mae answers flatly.

"Yeah that big boy." she grins.

"He's not working today." she answers, trying to remain indifferent.

"Oh." she slumps and pushes her lips together into a tight line.

"He's also not a leprechaun." she clarifies. "He's English. Not Irish. And don't call Irish people leprechauns, that's just... some weird kind've racist."

"They're white and ginger, who cares?" she says without a thought and rolls her eyes. "Not like I'm calling you the n-word or something." she retorts like it means anything and Mae takes a deep breath.

"I'm not black, I'm Hispanic." she clarifies with a more forceful voice.

"Well, it's not like I'm calling you a... what's a racist word for a Mexican?"

"I'm Spanish not..."

"Tacos? Burritos? IS that something? Beans! Wait, no... Mexican jumping beans, yeah. Wait... that's not it."

"I know what you're thinking and there's no reason to say it. What do you want?" she answers more curtly.

"To see Alfie. He won't be in today?"

"No." another flat response.

"What's he doing today? Where's he at? What's his deal?" her inquisition begins, waving her cup in the air as she speaks.

Mae sighs and goes back to her smoothie. "He's at home. I don't know what he's doing. That's his business and you should respect his space. He was clearly not interested when you talked to him yesterday."

"He's just playing hard to get. You know guys, they act like assholes and you just have to get them to like you by doing stuff for them and letting them make fun of you sometimes. It's all part of it. Not like you would know. Not like anyone's trying to get with you." she snaps back.

"No, but that's..." Mae lets out a  heavy sigh. "Whatever." she gives up and takes a noisy sip of her drink.

"So he lives with you?" Jessica says with a tilt of her head. "You said at home. If not where does he live, you probably have that on file for his employee records or something, right?" she asks , leaning over the counter.

"He does live with me." she decides to not address the clear violation giving an employees persona information would be as she figures it's pointless.

"Wait... so are you guys like a thing?" she says with a clearly disgusted look on her face.

"No. He's a friend of a friend, he's new in town and needed a place to stay and I had a spare room."

"I have a whole guest house if he wants to stay with me. Got a pool and a hot tub." she grins. "So let him know I've got a real house for him to stay at if he wants."

"Are you saying my house is abstract?" Mae chuckles to herself.

"What?" she says with a twist of her neck.

"Nothin'." Mae rolls her eyes.  "If you don't need anything I've got stuff to do... so..." she says, looking over at the tall blonde under her lashes.

"You were just standing here so SORRY... thought you had free time." she retorts.

"I just opened. I have to let the systems boot up." she explains with a deadpan delivery.

"Is he workin' tomorrow?" she asks, one hand on the counter.

"No, we're closed tomorrow."

"Then Monday then?"

"Maybe." Mae shrugs.

"He's your employee, why don't you know?" she bites back.

"Because he's new here and he might need off to run errands to get everything settled." she says offers up. "Not that it's any of your business." she mutters.

"You just let your employee take off like that? Not knowing if he'll work and he can just drive around town all day?" she asks seriously.

Mae sighs again and takes another drink, not answering as a pain grew between her eyes.

"I wanna work for you then, dang." she laughs, her mood shifting fast. "Oh my God, ARE you hiring? I'd be willing to get my hands dirty for that little... whatever he is."

"He's English." Mae rolls her eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Little... what do English people do? Drink?" she asks seriously.

"Jessica I'm not hiring and just... please go, I have things to do." Maw says with a clear tone of exasperation.

"Fine. But I'll be back on Monday to see Alfie." she sass's taking a long drink from her straw as she walks backward, keeping an eye on Mae who watches her bump into a shelf as she tries to look cool making her exit.

"Bye Jessica." Mae says shaking her head.

"Tell Alfie I said Hiiiiii." she says before leaving.

"What an idiot." Mae says rubbing her forehead.

With a thoroughly racist and rude conversation to start the day, the day only picks up speed from there. A phone call comes in, an irate customer claiming she'd sabotaged her party. An order that was entered incorrectly by the customer, a miscommunication of what sort of flowers they wanted in their arrangements. Mae didn't know how this woman had written down Black-eyed Susan's instead of sunflowers on her order sheet, or picking a Transvaal daisy over a  shasta daisy, but she was certain this woman was overreacting at how the arrangements ruined her church's barbeque. Mae had pictures of flowers next to the names of them in her big folder that sat on the top of the shop counter specifically for this reason. She gave the book to customers coming in to make orders and it wasn't her fault she filled out the order how it was written and what the woman wrote wasn't right. She couldn't read her mind. But still, she was blamed, getting dog cussed for all she was worth, the woman even bringing the Lord into it and telling her she'd had to refund her in full. Which was in no way happening. After you sign off on the delivery sheet, everything is final. No refunds. There was a chance to say they were wrong before she signed, that's why Mae set it up that way. But the woman wouldn't listen and Mae ends up just saying 'I'm Sorry.' to everything she says, taking the abuse.

The woman gives up eventually after a few people are waiting for her attention for the lunch rush. She works as fast as she can, but the line grows as a little old lady requires her undivided attention, asking about every flower, telling her stories about the flowers her husband used to bring her when he was alive. On a slow day Mae would've indulged her fully but with customers waiting behind her the stress was sky high.

She apologizes and leaves the lady to talk to herself, ringing out people as fast as she can while they give her dirty looks. She had great pride in being a good business owner and people thinking she was bad at her job made her a mess. A child that was with a negligent parent that had been waiting, knocks over a shelf of succulents, her biggest sellers, destroying the handmade pots she'd made for them. In all, the day was a total shit show.

She shuts the shop up and cries as she finally gets around to cleaning up the broken pieces of pottery, nestling her little friends into one big pot for the weekend to deal with on Monday. She apologizes to them and she feels they understand, her tears falling into the new soil as she sniffles and packs them in. She hesitantly throws away the shattered pieces of pottery, thinking off all the time she spent painting and glazing each, how much time and money lost on them. How she'd have to ask for half the price until she could make more holders for the plants. A personal and a professional loss all in one.

She doesn't even skate home as she usually would. She throws her skates in her oversized work bag and walks, her feet feeling as heavy as her heart. Everything about the day had drained her. Her body was tired, her chest hurt from a racing heart all day from embarrassment and anxiety. Her pride took a hit from the disappointed looks from the customers. She takes a heavy breath, hand on the doorknob, hoping that Alfie wasn't about to add to the bad day she'd had.

As soon as she opens the door, the feeling she'd left the house with hits her again. She wipes her tear stained cheeks, setting her bag down by the end of the couch, seeing everything clean and tidy with candles lit and the smell of food coming from the kitchen. The house smelled amazing, it somehow felt amazing, like getting into a hot bath after the end of a long day. The build of depression holds strong as she sees everything he's done for her while she'd been out.

"Hello Mae!" he calls out cheerfully. "Ya need help with anyfing?" he says, moving pots around the stove top. "Give me just a second love and I'll be right in to help ya." he calls out over his shoulder.

She comes around the corner, her face was sunken and clearly upset, taking in the sight before her. A kitchen filled with a home cooked meal for them both. She sees bread in the oven, lasagna sitting on the table as he switches off burners and pushes the rest of a chopped head of lettuce into a large salad bowl. A tin of muffin batter sits on a tea towel at the end of the counter. She gets a swirling feeling in her stomach. It builds quickly and she starts to sob, putting her head in her hands.

He turns, wiping his hands on a towel as his eyes grow large at the sight before him. Her glow was dull, her curls falling into her face as her hands with their yellow chipped polish covered her crying face.

"No, no love now that won't do." he says, moving quickly over towards her. He takes her into his arms without a moments hesitation. "Come here, little Mae." he coos out, holding her to him. As much as he may have wanted, he didn't have much healing magic to pass around, he wasn't really a healer so much as a destroyer of things. "Shhh, there, there, love." he pats his hand on her thick hair, the smell of her shampoo rising up as he leans his face in close. She feels the warmth around her, the soft-spoken kind words from this man who had swept in and taken care of her without expecting anything in return. She felt her chest thump, her stomach building again and more sobs are pushed out as she lets herself wrap her hands into his t-shirt and press her forehead against his chest.  

He wears a deep-set frown, not knowing what was wrong, her thoughts a roller coasting of emotions, totally unstable and making his dizzy when he tried to read them. Her magic and mind were working hard and fast and he knew something must've set off the sensitive little thing she was. "Now lovely, we can talk 'bout what's got ya upset, or we don't have to say nuffin'." he gives a nod, putting his hands to her shoulders to pull her away, taking a handkerchief that was older than her out of his pocket and giving it to her.

She wipes her eyes and blows her nose with a little toot of a sound that makes him smile as she sniffles, nose twitching like a little rabbit. "I just wanna eat and sleep." she answers, staring into his chest, not looking up at him. Her voice was small but she felt smaller. She fought the urge to tell him she didn't deserve all this special treatment, she didn't understand why someone would be doing all these nice things for her. No one else ever had. Her last caregivers, the ones who left her the house had been good people, but they never coddled her. They never cleaned for her, held her while she cried, stood up for her when others would try to bring her down. They'd always left her to her own devices. She'd never had anyone to treat her like something worth going the extra mile for. It was all a bit too much on her weak shoulders after the day she'd had.

"Well lemme finish up dinner and you go get comfy and cozy on the couch and I'll come get ya and we'll take care of that 'eatin' bit, eh?" he suggests, rubbing her upper arms as he spoke to her with a voice that she could feel warming her from the inside out. Her light tried to fight past the years of neglect to make her bloom and be able to draw from that endless well of love she had so she could give it to her herself and not just those around her. But she was still weak, and there was time to grow. So it settles, feeling it's mate so close and humming in wait with a baseline of contentment.

She takes one of the fuzzy throws on the couch and wraps it around her, grabbing one of her decorative pillows and wrapping her arms around it to try to get comfy for a moment. She falls asleep while the bread is baking, her body giving over to a much-needed recharge after the stress that the day put her through.

Alfie pulls the muffins out and lets them cool, wiping his hands and giving a nod to the first big meal he'd cooked in decades. Being alone there wasn't much of a reason to cook big and when the last group of people he ran with being musicians in the 90's, he'd never had a reason to cook for a group of people. But now he had plenty of reasons to dust off the old domestic skills that his mother and sisters had helped him learn. The baking was more familiar, as per his old cover for his criminal days, but the meals were what took the most focus. With Mae's plethora of fresh herbs to use, and come harvest time a garden full of fresh produce, he was sure cooking would be something he used to help both of them learn some new skills.

He ponders what he should cover with her the next day as he watches her sleep on the arm on the couch. A headful of curls on top of a fuzzy blanket, her lips smushed out against the pillow she clutched in her arms.

"Mae." he says gently, leaning in close, a hand to her arm to rub her awake. She grunts and puffs out air between her pink and pouted lips but doesn't wake. The softness of her makes him smile, he enjoys it a moment without having to worry about making her uncomfortable. The long dark lashes spread out over freckled cheeks, her full brows set in a scowl. All curled up under the blanket she looked so small, and he supposes compared to him she is. Standing just a bit over five feet tall he supposes, her shorter frame gives her a stocky and soft appearance. With round hips that only slightly narrowed into thick thighs, he sees her small feet sticking out from the covers. Yellow nail polish to match that on her fingers on her toes. It wasn't only her body, her hair or her sweet face with it's round, button nose that was soft but her heart was as well. He could feel her power humming quietly, even it was still timid. His darkness wants it to burst, to flow out of her as it can do within him. It wants to soak up that innocence, that sweet softness that she's made of. His closes his eyes, his darkness rumbling, soaking up her delicate heat into its cold center, Alfie feels his limbs tingle, a prickling warmness that only she could give to him.

He exhales slowly, a hand soft to her hair, pushing it back. "Mae." he says, moving to give her nose a gentle tap.

"Mmph." she grunts, nose twitching as he eyes flutter open and meet his before she sits up to straighten her back, rubbing her eyes.

"Dinner's ready, love." he says, standing back up straight.

"'Kay." she mumbles, sitting in a daze as she wakes.

He beams at her, a smile she doesn't see. "Come on to the table when ya ready." he suggests, moving to go set their places.

She plops into a chair, the sleep slowly leaving her body as she watches him move around the kitchen, a towel over his shoulder as he cuts and plates her food.

"Now 'is I learned from an Italian, yeah? Found a wonderful little market when I when shoppin' today 'n got fresh cheese." he says proudly. "I went 'n did some of your shoppin' as well while I's out. Got more cleanin' supplies since I used most of 'em today. Got the bathroom and the kitchen. Dusted and vacuumed." he nods casually while trying to recall everything he did, wanting to let her know what he'd been up to, letting her know he was useful to her. "Already watered and fed all the babies." he chuckles. "Although I think a few in the greenhouse could use a personal touch. Wasn't about to try it meself. I'd just mess up all your hard work. So I figured we could start wif those tomorrow hmmm? Start simple with somefin ya like."  He moves his eyes to hers and finds a puzzling look on her face. Her eyes give true meaning to the term puppy dog eyes. Her mouth is slack, partially open and her big hazel eyes are glimmering at him. Not tears yet, but the look in her eyes says lots of things. He feels that loneliness that resides in her throbbing stronger. He decides to switch the conversation. "I made the bread, eh? That flour you use is top notch, love." he tries giving her compliments but it doesn't seem to help. "Used some cherry tomatoes out of the greenhouse for the salad, hope ya don't mind. The muffins are ready as well, made 'em with blueberries I found at the grocery. Hope ya like those." he continues plating her food. He doesn't look at her face, not wanting to seem nosey as she was clearly going through something. But he sees big fat tears fall onto the table top and he can't stop himself. As soon as he makes eye contact, he sees her face much like a baby's, a trembling bottom lip, wet rosy cheeks rounded before her face contorted and she hid it in her hands. "Oh come now, little one." he says dropping the utensils and kneeling next to her. "What is it love?" he rubs her back gently in a circle, his palm tingled as he felt the chaos inside her. Mending her was going to be a very messy job.

"Why are you so nice to me?" she chokes out between sobs.

His chest aches, his face falling out of it's friendly and polite expression he'd held in place for her sake. "Oh Mae," he whispers, pulling her to his chest. "There, there." he shushes her. "Why would I not be nice to you? You've been nothing but nice to me." he explains. "You're my mate. Your well bein' is me own, I would only be hurtin' myself to not try to take care of you." He invades her privacy, shutting his eyes and trying to see what was causing all the trouble.

He feels the day she'd had. He sees a lifetime of abandonment and neglect. All the bullies growing up, all the hardships she was given to overcome from a young age. An absent father, a childhood spent in the system and an adult life of loneliness and rejection. Putting herself out there time and time again to be met by men who didn't care or understand. He didn't see the loneliness, he felt it. He felt her bed only ever being empty and cold, he feels her heart struggling to maintain it's one-sided giving when no one would replenish it. Her power touches him as he's washed in all this hurt she knows. The light shines within her. With his eyes shut he can see it, glowing like the sun on an overcast day, trying to break through the barrier of gloom that spread across it. He can feel it's tired, that it's just as lost as her. But he most importantly feels that it knows he's there, whether Mae knows or understands it herself. Her power knew better things were ahead for them and Alfie felt more certain he would protect and help this beautiful soul as long as he could.

"I just... No one's ever... I'm not used to it. It feels..."

"Like you don't deserve it." he finishes her thought, hearing it ring true in his own head for so long.

"Yeah," she says with a whimper, looking back up at him. "How did you?" she trails off, wiping her nose.

"Because I know it too." he nods, using his handkerchief to wipe at her face. "But it's not true. Don't listen to that voice. It's a liar." he says sternly. "You deserve the world, Mae. You are bright and full of love and good and the world needs that so very desperately. You deserve every bit of kindness that comes your way. Don't you dare think differently."

Her doe eyes blink up at him, never having heard something like that said to her before in all her almost thirty years. "I..." she begins, not knowing where to finish her thought.

"You just sit and think about that, yeah?" he gives her a nod. "Let's eat on the couch." he suggests. "We'll stop this cryin'. We'll go get cozy and we'll eat until we can't breathe and that'll make ya feel better. Watch somethin' ya like?"

She nods and swallows noisily.

"Good girl." he gives her back a pat before pulling away. "Now go get ya blankets and I'll grab the plates." he says with a self-assured tone.

She lowers her head, eyes on the ground as she gets them each a blanket. He gets everything else in order and they flip through Netflix together, large plates of food sitting on pillows in their laps.

"What do ya like, eh? Nature documentaries I bet." he suggests and she gives a small but enthusiastic nod as she sticks her fork into her lasagna.

They sit together, side by side, eating the towering plates of homemade food. Alfie talks over the narrators, sharing things he knew, but mostly making up his own narration in an attempt to make her smile. "Now 'is one ain't lookin' for a mate, he's lookin' for trouble. He thinks 'is one's been talkin' shit, yeah. By the looks of 'em I'd say he's right. Look at those little shifty beady eyes, ya can't get that look past me." he wags his finger at the TV and looks down to see her smiling after a tiny huff of a laugh escapes her. "There she is." he says proudly, giving her a nudge with his elbow. She looks up at him bashfully for a shared glance, before turning her face back to the tv with a tiny smile that told him she'd be just fine.

@jaegeeeeer @negansdirtygirl22 @brianaisasongbird @hardygal69 @emerald-bijou @captstefanbrandt @coolgh0st @tinastarkandco @stylishmileage  

[thesffcorner]

What If It’s Us

What If It’s Us is a YA collaborative romance written by Adam Silvera and Becky Albertalli. It follows two boys: Arthur, a high school junior who is in New York for a summer internship at his mother’s law firm; and Ben, a New Yorker who is spending his summer in remedial chemistry classes. The two meet at the Post Office, as Ben is sending a box of his ex-boyfriend’s things, but they separate before they even get each other’s name. So could it be serendipity? This book, was not for me. I need to stress that it’s not because it’s a bad book; it’s a perfectly serviceable YA romance, and it even has some genuine moments. But man, I’m too old for this kind of story. If you are a teen, or like reading YA that’s geared pretty young you might enjoy this; if you are like me, you will just mostly be bored and disappointed. To start off, it was a struggle to get into this. Just based on the writing here, it’s unlikely that I will ever pick up another Silvera or Albertalli book. I found both of their writing styles grating, especially Albertalli, whose character Arthur was so insufferable for the first third of the book, I almost gave up. What got me through the end, was some of the humor and the sheer curiosity to see how it would end. Let’s start with the writing. I vastly preferred Silvera’s chapters over Albertalli; he is much more cynical and down to Earth, Ben was a character I related to a lot more, and his sense of humor was much closer to mine. The parts of this book I liked the best were the scenes between Dylan and Ben (who I thought had way more chemistry than Arthur and Ben, imho), and their banter was hilarious. Silvera has a good grip on writing dialogue that’s sharp, fast and funny, with characters making a joke and riffing on it until it becomes absurd, and that’s exactly the type of humor I enjoy. However, his sections weren’t flawless; in fact, I think as the book went on, I found I cared more for Arthur’s part of the story, while Ben’s meandered, and a lot of the things that made Ben and his story interesting were pushed in the background, for the sake of the romance. Albertalli’s chapters started out really poorly; the first chapter from Arthur was incredibly grating, and I couldn’t stand his naive, overly-enthusiastic, sheltered energy. He was incredibly pushy and obsessive, and the extra mile he went to, to not only talk to Ben, but also find him bordered on stalker territory. He does improve as the book goes on, and I appreciated the few moments he matures and shows some teeth. But I had the same issues with Arthur’s chapters as I did with Simon from Simon and the Homo-sapiens Agenda; the overly happy tone, the really corny jokes, the obsession with musicals, celebrities, and especially New York. What I will give this book credit for is that Silvera and Albertali have nicely contrasting writing styles that worked really well together. When Arthur and Ben do find each-other, their dialogue is appropriately funny and awkward, and I could tell that the people writing their relationship were friends. I also had no issue distinguishing between Albert or Ben, even though both PoV’s were first person. Where a lot of the issues started for me, was the plot. As someone who lived in NYC, I can totally believe that Arthur and Ben would be able to find eachother again after separating without knowing each other’s names. What I had a hard time believing was the speed at which their relationship progressed, and some of the relationship they had with the side characters. This book, has some of the wildest coincidences and contrived moments I’ve read, and it really, really didn’t work with the main theme of the story. The essential question of this book is: what do you do, if you find your soulmate at the worst time? Do you try and make it work? Should you even try if you know it won’t last? Can you truly know it won’t last? It’s absolutely the worst time for Albert and Ben to date; they are both seniors, Ben lives in NYC and Albert in Georgia. Ben isn’t good at school, and his college prospects are both limited and he himself isn’t particularly interested in college. Albert is applying to Yale. Is it even worth to pursue a relationship, if they know they have at most 2 months? The book tries to take a ‘realistic’ approach to these questions, not just with the ending (which we’ll get to), but everything else to. The first date Arthur and Ben have is awkward. They fight. They misunderstand each other. There is a bit where one of the characters gets tickets to a really popular Broadway show, but due to his perpetual lateness, they miss the chance to see the show. But at the same time, this is a book where bitter exes magically become friends again, where a parent flies her kids’ best friends all the way from Georgia to New York for a single day, and two boys fall in love in the course of 2 weeks. Look, you can either have a genuinely ‘realistic’ look at relationships between young people, be they romantic or platonic, or you can make it cheesy; it can’t really be both. The entire plot with Ben is about how his friend group ended up hooking up with each other and now they no longer speak to one another. You can’t expect me to believe that they will just magically become friends again after that. The same thing goes for Arthur; yes the situations are presented as uncomfortable and awkward, but it still felt overly contrived. Everything that the boys are worried about ends up not being true: Arthur is afraid his best friend isn’t okay with his sexuality, and his parents are divorcing? Nope, false alarm. Ben might have to repeat junior year, and his friend has a heart condition that sends him to the hospital? Don’t worry about it. I’m not saying I want this book to be misery, and it’s not that bad things don’t happen; heck, some of the best scenes are the more serious ones, like Ben and Arthur’s fight about the show tickets, Arthur’s fight with his friends, Ben calling Arthur out on a microaggression, and the homophobic man on the train. But because the book can’t quite decide between Silvera’s unhappy-ending, cynical storytelling, and Albertalli’s upbeat, motivational/uplifting comedies, it ends up reading incredibly uneven. But what really made this book not fun for me was the romance, and by extension the characters. Let’s start with Ben, because I liked him a bit better. Ben has a lot of emotional hang ups; he’s just exited his first serious relationship, he’s failing school, he has bouts of moodiness, he’s insecure about his finances… he has a lot going on. But he’s trying to cope with all of that, and his friendship with Dylan was the best part of the book. But like I pointed out, he not a consistent character. None of his insecurities are really resolved or properly discussed; he relies heavily on Arthur for emotional support and self-esteem, but he also doesn’t trust Arthur. He hides really dumb things from him that just pile up, and he really does do a lot of things that signal that he really doesn’t care as much about Arthur. A lot of his hang ups, like his lateness, his insecurities, his reluctance to share seem to disappear and appear only as the plot needs them. I was never sold on Ben loving Arthur, and his reluctance to even try long distance was telling. At first, I couldn’t stand Arthur; he was grating, annoying, a stereotypical wide-eyed boy, obsessed with musical theater, with overbearing parents, incredibly sheltered, in awe of New York to a ridiculous extent. I will full on admit that I am in the minority here; most people prefer Arthur over Ben, I just don’t like these types of characters. He does improve significantly, but he never gets over that extra quality that drives this whole plot forward. He does everything to an extreme; his search for Ben is extreme, his jealousy over Ben’s ex, his neurosis about dating, the reasons he gets angry with Ben and even rushing headlong into a sexual situation he’s not ready for. Throughout the book, he’s constantly the character who’s pushing things too fast, too far, and because of that his relationship with Ben felt really uneven. It’s hard for me to believe that he feels ‘forever’ about Ben, when they’ve known each other for at most, two months. The last thing I want to talk about, is the ending. It’s left open, and I can’t say I liked it. There are open endings that make sense and feel appropriate; here, it’s not that the ending doesn’t make sense, it’s just… not satisfying. It feels like the authors didn’t know how they wanted to end the book, so they just… didn’t. It doesn’t answer the question the book is asking, it just goes “well, what IF” and that’s just not a good ending if you’ve already been reading this book just so you could see the answer. Overall, I didn’t really enjoy this book. There are better queer romances out there, and if you are very young, or a die-hard Silver/Albertalli fan, you might like it. Everyone else, skip this, and read Red, White, Royal Blue instead.

goodreads

[candlefright]

The Blob (1988)

This is less of a new venture and more of a reflective blurb. 

Can we all just sit down and talk about the underappreciated remake; the ooky spooky oozy woozy gobbling wobbling Blob?

Please be advised that reading further will result in potential spoilers for the film listed in title and related films: so if you haven’t seen The Blob (1988); come back when you have, or abandon all hope, ye who enter here…

I was a thirteen year-old babysitter the first time I watched this movie. When you babysit, you inevitably wind up with some free time when the kid lays down for bed and you’re waiting on the parents to get home. A brief period of time where you get to feel semi-adult, and for tweens like me, steeped in my own burgeoning angst, a scary movie was the closest thing to a thrill I could touch without putting myself in danger. I popped some popcorn, I pulled out the snacks I couldn’t have when the kid was up. I hopped on-Demand (some of you might not remember on-Demand, I feel old writing it out) and found Chuck Russel’s The Blob. I was already familiar with the hokey but legendary original from 1958. I figured it was within my fear threshold; nothing to worry about, why not dive in head first?

Let me start with the facts, The Blob opened on August 5th in 1988, sandwiched between Cocktail (July 29) and Young Guns (August 12). In the commentary and in interviews, director Russel has attributed the film’s lack-luster success with the competition it faced hitting the box office. It’s true, Cocktail grossed nearly $12 million opening weekend and was given extended runs of up to ten weeks in some theaters. Young Guns fared about as well, breaking $7 million in it’s first week and packing theaters for nearly eight weeks in some locations. The Blob, however, grossed only nearly $3 million, with what has been estimated to be about $9-10 million budget, and averaged a modest two-week run in most theaters on average. (Source: The Numbers)  

Now, over thirty years later (and 60 years since the original), the film has respect, but in my opinion, not nearly enough.

The horror snobs will tell you that The Blob remake doesn’t stand up in comparison to films like The Fly, or it’s cosmic-horror cousin, The Thing. I’m calling bullshit. The remakes of The Fly and The Thing are phenomenal, refreshed versions of influential films, and The Blob deserves equal respect. While The Fly and The Thing leaned on the edge of a very serious, professional revamp; The Blob dared to poke fun at the tropes of the original, and then willfully and literally fed a tired stereotype to the beast. They also framed a female as the unlikely hero while illustrating her journey in a subtle way that only young girls with experience in microaggressions can understand. While The Fly and The Thing are remarkable remakes, and remakes that I cherish and love; they both center on the male persona. The Blob invites the strong female perspective and openly challenges the idea of the strong male lead.

Shawnee Smith plays the role of the high school cheerleader. Her doe-eyed stare is one of the first things we encounter during a scene that I appreciate for it’s illustrative power. The setting appears deserted until this scene. A small town lured into sleepy stasis right before the introduction of each leading role. The silence is dispelled by cheers and stomps; the entire town is at the local football game. So we see, this is a small town. Everyone knows each other by name. Children grew up together here. There is a delicate shell of community waiting to crack under the flat foot of impending doom. This scene is fragmented by the cheers of the crowd. We see Meg the cheerleader (Shawnee) pining over the freshly sacked, dazed Paul (played by actor Donovan Leitch Jr.) who comically asks her out on a date right there on the ground, still counting the cartoon birds orbiting his skull. He feels like the stereotypical male character, the re-imagining of Steve McQueen’s Steve from the original. The football player and the cheerleader; this feels like the serendipitous event that would normally predate a love story.

Meanwhile between claps and thunderous booms, the camera flashes to our third lead role: Brian Flagg (played by actor Kevin Dillion; yes, Matt Dillon’s brother.), the skid row rebel with a bad reputation and seemingly no concern for his own safety; as expressed by his weak attempt to jump a broken bridge on his motorcycle (of course, bad boy). 

We’re seeing what feels like an immediate dynamic between the three; notice they will be relevant and can speculate the potential relationship they will have with one another. We can see Meg as the girl next door, Paul as the white knight in football gear, and Brian as the trouble-making instigator who will almost certainly be butting heads with Paul. Spoiler alert: all of these initial assumptions are true. 

Brian Flagg is your classic bad boy “fuck you, won’t do what you tell me” burn-out who is known by name at the local police station. Granted, this comes as no surprise in a small town, but his relationship with Sheriff Herb (played by my Walking Dead favorite, actor Jeffrey DeMunn), who warns him to watch his behavior now that he can officially be considered an adult in the eyes of a judge. Brian scoffs this off characteristically, butting out his cigarette and rolling his eyes in the way boys with authority complexes tend to do.

The film proceeds down a long, horrifying snail trail of goopy gore and apocalyptic dread. If you’ve seen the film, I won’t bore you with one great long write-up of each scene, but I will pick out my favorites.

At the local pharmacy, Paul and his wannabe frat friend Scott Jeske (played by actor Ricky Paull Goldin) lurk around. Scott needs to pick up some skins for what he hopes will be a lucky night with his squeeze. This is the bait-and-switch that totally eviscerates McQueen’s role in the 1958 original. Without our knowing, Scott has inherited Steve iconography, and we get a peak at the nature of high school boys and their burgeoning sexuality. We see the other side of popularity, of the jock reputation. Chivalry flies out the window, and we laugh at Scott when the local priest reverend Meeker (played by Beware! The Blob!’s Del Close) grills him on his participation in the church. All the while, waiting for a pack of condoms to be delivered by the pharmacist. I still laugh wholeheartedly when Mr. Penny, the local pharmacist (and Meg’s father) stands between the good reverend and Scott and asks: “You want the ribbed, or the regular?”

This joke is only further extended past the punchline when Scott denies that the condoms are for himself, but rather for his friend Paul, who he says is too nervous to get them himself. Moments later, Paul will come to retrieve Meg. He encounters Mr. Penny, who peers over his newspaper and, with wide eyes, delivers one of the most memorable lines of the whole film: “Ribbed.” (Fun fact: the condom scene was based off of a real event from the director’s life.)

Paul and Meg’s date is interrupted when they nearly reduce a homeless man to a skid mark on asphalt. A homeless man whose hand has been completely engulfed by our star; the lovely baby blob. Brian is in hot pursuit, trying to calm the old man in that I’m-damaged-but-I-have-a-heart kind of way, earning him some gentleman points and drawing him into the triangle we ruminated on earlier. As expected, Paul and Brian immediately butt heads. It’s clear that the jock/bad boy dynamic is completely in play, here. Paul wants Brian to stay, basically accusing him of foul play- while Brian is quick to want to disengage. Meg is stuck in the middle, focusing on things more important than a pissing contest: like the wounded man they’ve helped into the car. What follows once they reach the hospital is quite honestly one of the most terrifying scenes I ever watched as a young girl.

Paul’s death hit me like a Mack-fucking-truck. Even as a kid, I had immediately cataloged him as a main character. He was safe, untouchable, the football superstar. The McQueen legacy. I read about this scene. Leicht really was under all of that slime (mostly composed of a thickening agent called methocel), struggling for air. Comparable to being waterboarded, Leicht crawled inside a large base shell and was covered in the flimsier material before it was pulled and dragged over his face to create the harrowing effect. 

Oh, my gods. How my face mirrored Meg’s in that moment. I remember pausing the movie and getting out of my chair, earnestly shocked and frightened. I was thirteen, and shaking. I was disgusted, terrified, and stunned. I gathered myself, and stomached the rest. Watching Meg struggle to free Paul, only for his arm to slough away into a soupy mess- it will always stick with me. To this day I will re-watch this scene and marvel it as one of the first films to ever solicit my interest in the special effects industry. 

Alterian Studios was responsible for these unholy effects, including special effects legends like Tony Gardner, whose film credit list reads like a Walgreen’s receipt; Chet Zar (who had a credit in Dark Man for his special effects prowess), and the incredible Bill Sturgeon (who had a hand in several favorites and cult classics such as Army of Darkness, Hocus Pocus, Aliens, and Killer Klowns from Outer Space). The work of this team, those mentioned and unmentioned, is really impressive. Practical effects were always a part of the horror scene, from the very beginning; but the 80′s really welcomed and embraced a new age of creativity. It wasn’t enough to just produce a monster anymore, it was about fooling the audience into believing these things could climb right out of the screen and swallow you whole if you dared to look away. While the crew in charge of legends like The Thing and The Fly will forever be shining stars in any fan’s lexicon- The Blob only smoldered, and now rests as a sort of hidden gem that I feel nobody gives a second glance. Which is shameful. If you’ve seen The Thing, The Fly, From Beyond, Event Horizon, or any other FX-heavy horror: The Blob should most certainly have a place somewhere in that collection. No excuses. 

After Paul’s death I was primed for the rest of the movie. I really was, my sense of safety was shattered and I was on the edge of my seat with sweating palms. Who was going to be next? The blob dissolved people!? I was stuck between fear and fascination. Paul’s death is a showstopper, an absolute mess that deserves more recognition than it has received, and to place it beneath the visualizations of its like-films is just a shame. Watch Paul’s face as it stretches and then deflates and slips away into the ambiguity of the blob; with streams of syrupy red blood streaming into what looks like a sentient tumor. 

Scott’s death is also an honorable mention. I appreciate this scene mostly because of what it represents to me as a fan of the original: the burning effigy. Scott represents what is left of that football player icon. He’s also a total sleaze who, for some reason, has a fully stocked bar in his trunk and a collection of class rings to toss out like party favors. His karma comes so quick, he watches his dates face cave in like a sinkhole, then gets swallowed up himself. 

Scott’s death felt like a high-five. The demise of the jocks resonated with me; pointed out the bad in both of them- how chivalry could be just as boring as sleaze. These men weren’t special, they were poignant representations of the type of boys we all fall in love with: The white knight, who uses his chivalry as a means to assert dominance, and the sleaze- who uses sheer charisma to assert dominance. Watching both of these boys literally melt away within the first 30 minutes felt like a deliberate act of kicking that tired, overused trope out of the picture. Which just leaves us with leather-jacket McGee; Brian Flagg.

Another one of my favorite scenes is when Meg chews Brian for being so damn apathetic. She looks him in the face, searching for help in what is a helpless situation, and he totally dumps on her. His fuck-me-fuck-you attitude completely ignites her. She said what I was thinking as a girl:

“You act like you're different, you put on this big show, but you're just like everybody else in this town, you're full of SHIT, Flagg!”

This is the moment where Meg completely rejects what would be a characteristic stereotype. 

It is so important, how her exhaustion eclipses her next-door nature. How as a female character, she blinks away the obscurity of the male-savior trope and calls a spade a spade. Dressing rebellion up in a leather jacket doesn’t make a hero. A hero spits in the face of apathy, the way Meg does to Brian, confronting his bullshit “I don’t care” attitude with her own intuition. Pretenders don’t survive horror movies. Hell, even heroes don’t survive horror movies always, and Meg makes that poignantly clear by throwing Brian’s crybaby hungry boy attitude back into his face. The apocalypse is a little more urgent than your abandonment anxiety or survival complex, Brian. This is final girl energy, that utter rejection of fate, that “fuck fate, I will change it with my bare hands” sense of responsibility. Meg is a small town girl, a small town hero- and a bad motherfucking bitch.

So, needless to say, Brian quits pouting and hops on board. Is it because he’s got a thing for Meg? Does she remind him of his place in this spiraling catastrophe? Is she a love interest? His motivation felt driven by his attraction to her, perhaps his own responsibility- feeling obligated to shield the token sacrificial lamb from an inevitable end. Whatever it is that drives him, he resigns himself to helping her- and the horrors star to accumulate around them. Including the death of a cook (sucked down the drain almost comically), and the death that gave me a panic attack: the sweetheart waitress Fran Hewett (played by the lovely Candy Clark). 

Fran’s death was scary because it fully described, without mystery, what it felt like to be aware of your own approaching death. She scrabbles in the phone booth like a trapped animal, dialing 911 in search of Sheriff Herb. When his head floats into her line of sight, half-dissolved and digesting within the Blob, terror sets in like a death rattle. The shots of this scene are claustrophobic and stifling. We feel her raw terror, we see her as the individual who cracks in the face of death- the real sacrificial lamb of the film. Her role, though small, was innocent and wholesome. We’ve all known a waitress by name, we’ve all been treated special by that woman who seems to channel maternal energy. Watching her die feels like peering down the barrel of a loaded gun. She braces herself against the booth and then the glass breaks, engulfing poor Fran in a mass of agonizing pink gloop. 

This scene was filmed using a mock-booth that was only 3ft tall, with an articulated doll made of Candy. They blasted the doll with air mortars to create what was the world-ending scene of the film for me. I myself am claustrophobic, and this entire experience sat with me long after I watched the movie. I would have nightmares of being trapped inside a photo booth, surrounded by pink, waiting to be burned away to slime.

The blob gets bigger, angrier, and more effective. It infiltrates the local theater through the air ducts and wreaks havoc for a strobe-festered horror on the crowd inside. Children are swallowed up, girls peel off the floor like melted bubble gum, and our main characters juggle the chaos with the introduction of the fucking government.

That’s right, the Blob is a scientific experiment gone AWOL. I’ll give kudos to Brian for his role in their involvement. Where Meg believed in the integrity of the government, Brian sets her straight: these people are worse than the thing they created. I’m not trying to say not to trust the government (now I am, don’t trust the government), but the film definitely winks at what is a very real concern. The danger of government experiments, what would happen if something like this actually took place? My first thought was that they were going to nuke the city, blow it to smithereens the way we saw in Return of the Living Dead. However, it seems that they don’t intend to do this, instead these hazmat poindexters want to sacrifice the whole town to the “specimen”. They scare the public into believing Brian and Meg are “infected” with a pathogen related to the Blob. One of my favorite supporting characters, the lead scientist Dr. Meddows, does his best to manipulate the public into a sense of ease. He seals Meg, her little brother, Brian, and a fellow colleague in the sewer in order to preserve his specimen. Human life is expendable. He meets his deserved end by literally getting sucked out of his suit (a comical, entertaining way to see someone go).

I won’t leave without mentioning the death of the melt veteran from Robocop; actor Paul McCrane’s deputy Bill Briggs. Dude literally got folded in half hamburger-style and was never seen again. Props to that effect, was very cool. 

Like the blob in the original, this blob doesn’t do the cold. Long story short, they run a truck full of CO2 into the big pink mess and freeze it into tiny shards. The good reverend from the beginning has lost his mind throughout all of this, and I suppose, in honor of open endings, saves a piece of the blob for the day his senile ass wants to bring about a second coming.

Though Meg and Brian both live through the entire ordeal, the film is still satisfying. You root for them the whole time, you bite your fingernails and wait for the moment a pink tendril comes out to end it all. 

The Halloween movie had underwhelmed me as a child. I wasn’t checking every room of the house for a masked man. I was looking in my sink and my shower for signs of a color out of space. I could rationalize a murder. I couldn’t make sense of a manufactured organism getting out of control. I couldn’t rationalize or shake away the fear of being enveloped in viscous sentient acid. 

Say what you will about The Blob remake. Say it isn’t as influential, you’re lying. Say it isn’t as entertaining, you’re definitely lying. The Blob is a hilarious half-satire about the things that scare us the most: things we can’t understand nor control. It taps into the same vein of supernatural fear that cosmic classics like The Thing and The Fly boast about. 

If you haven’t seen it; do.

If you’ve seen it but not in a while: go back, sit down, pop some corn, settle in, and take it in. Take it in for the silly filming errors, the drifting booms and clockable reflections, the subtle mistakes in FX. Appreciate it for what it is, a sci-fi thriller that isn’t afraid to make fun of where it came from. 

Stop spending as much time comparing films that pushed the limits of what are now very modern special effects. Appreciate the handiwork of the practical magic involved in making this shit come to life. With the rise of CGI, films like The Blob are going to become increasingly more difficult to find. That’s not necessarily a knock on CGI, I have appreciation for it as a separate medium- but practical effects will always have me by my balls.

Enjoy craftsmanship, watch The Blob.

[sage-nebula]

Fire emblem or pokemon. For the ask please!

I’m going to do Fire Emblem: Awakening. If you want Pokémon, please send that in another ask! (And specify games or anime---it matters!)

My favorite parent-child relationship

Chrom and both Lucina and (male) Morgan. I know there’s a tendency in fandom to characterize Chrom as this bumbling, clumsy dad who has no idea what he’s doing---but in canon we actually see that he’s a loving, supporting father who can get stern when necessary (that cockroach incident), but also cares deeply about both of his children and tries incredibly hard to be there for them. While we don’t get to see as many interactions between Chrom and Morgan as I would like (we only get their supports since Morgan doesn’t get to be involved with the actual plot), I still do love the supports, and the potential that is there for drama and conflict given that, in some timelines, Grima!Robin spirits Morgan away in order to raise him to be her perfect little soldier. (I even have an AU in my head for a scenario in which that happened, but then Morgan later falls into the Shepherds’ custody. There’s quite a bit of strife, particularly since Chrom and Lucina are adamant about not harming him, but others such as Frederick and Severa feel that he’s a threat, and Morgan himself is quite messed up due to all of the years of psychological abuse that Grima laid on him. I’ve never written anything for it, but damn do I have it in my head.)

So yeah, definitely Chrom with both of his children. My family. ♥

My favorite sibling relationship

LUCINA AND MORGAN, HANDS DOWN. Man, words can’t describe how much I love their relationship! Aside from the supports being adorable, there’s potential for conflict and development here that doesn’t exist in Lucina’s other sibling relationships, and that potential lies in the fact that---over the course of the plot---Lucina attempts to kill their mother. Obviously she can’t bring herself to follow through with it regardless of what choice is made, but she still draws Falchion against their mother, which is something that I feel Morgan would have a very negative reaction to, particularly given how much he adores Robin. (Of course, he’s not allowed to participate in the plot and so we never see him find out, but even still.) I do think that this would all be smoothed over in that same scene (I actually wrote a fic of that once, but it’s no longer on Tumblr---I can repost it if anyone wants), but all the same it would definitely cause conflict and strife, and that conflict simply doesn’t exist if Lucina’s mother is anyone else.

There’s also the fact that Morgan has amnesia, which is something that I think would also add more depth to their relationship. Lucina remembers all of the horrors that existed in the Bad Future, and Morgan doesn’t---and in a way, I think Lucina would be grateful for this, that her little brother was spared the memories that give her nightmares and keep her up at night, that motivate her to keep fighting for a better future, while plaguing her with anxiety and vicious fear all the while. But at the same time, Morgan losing his memories of the Bad Future means that he also lost his memories of her, and I think that would hurt. He regains some over the course of the plot---he does remember her, at least to some extent---but many of his memories are simply gone, and since I imagine they were very close, I think that would probably hurt Lucina a lot, too. (And Morgan himself would feel guilty, even as she assured him that he shouldn’t.)

And then there are the AUs---some of which we even see in-game, such as in Future Past---wherein Grima!Robin takes Morgan away, and Lucina has to keep fighting on without her brother, and if the are reunited at any point, he has been abused and warped to the point where he’s actively trying to fight and kill her despite how badly she wants to save and protect him. God, the angst quotient is off the charts here, so on top of the two being sweet and loving, how could I not love this?! BEST SIBLINGS, HANDS DOWN.

My favorite family relationship (other)

I have to admit, though, that I really do love Chrom and Lissa’s relationship. Their supports, wherein he takes none of her self-deprecating bullshit about being a bad princess (and insists that she’s a great princess, and proves it by having her talk to the others around camp) is very sweet, and I love how we get to see them support each other throughout the game as well. To that end, I do consider Frederick to be a pseudo part of their family (in the way that Zazu is to the lions in The Lion King, kind of), and I love his relationship with them as well. Frederick is best family babysitter, by far.

My favorite friendship between two people

I’m really attached to Robin and Gaius in this regard, largely in part due to my headcanon that they were childhood friends from ages 12-15, though Robin doesn’t recall it during the amnesia. This, of course, causes some angst on Gaius’ part, but even setting that aside I just love the way they bounce off each other and I really enjoy the friendship, even if a large part of my enjoyment comes from that headcanon.

But that said?

I also really cherish Chrom’s friendship with Gaius! I think that Gaius is a very important relationship for Chrom, because aside from the fact that Gaius is his future brother-in-law Gaius broadens Chrom’s horizons while at the same time making no illusion to the fact that he’s not doing this for Chrom’s benefit, he’s doing it so that Chrom can stop inadvertently rubbing salt in existing wounds due to Gaius’ own low, underprivileged status. Chrom isn’t trying to be insensitive in his supports, but he is nonetheless---and Gaius makes it clear that his actions in showing Chrom the seedy underbelly of the world are to stop those microaggressions and open Chrom’s eyes to what he’s doing, while at the same time doing so in a way that isn’t as harsh of a shut down as he originally dished out. Gaius offers some reality to Chrom, in other words, and this helps Chrom grow as a person. I really enjoyed their supports.

My favorite friendship between a group

THE JUSTICE CABAL, OF COURSE! Specifically, Owain, (male) Morgan, and Cynthia. All of their supports are absolutely fantastic, and the amount of shenanigans that they can (and do) get up to are unreal. I actually still have an idea for a birthday fic wherein Cynthia and Owain give Morgan a Justice Cabal birthday (shenanigans GALORE), but I haven’t written it yet despite having the idea for several years running now. Maybe I’ll do that this coming May.

My favorite mentorship

Mmm, is there one? I suppose the closest is Robin and Morgan, with the way she tries to teach him various tactics and strategies even as he tries to surpass her. It doesn’t get very much focus, though.

My favorite rivalry

Hah, probably Chrom and Vaike, if only because I can’t think of another one, and Vaike is pretty insistent that Chrom is his rival throughout their supports. (Meanwhile, Chrom tries to pretend that he doesn’t reciprocate, but let’s be real . . . he does. He reciprocates a lot. That cooking contest proves it.)

My favorite hatred/antipathy

MMMMMMM, honestly? There are quite a few good ones that I could name (such as Chrom and Gangrel, for instance), but I think the one that catches my attention the most is the one between Grima and Chrom.

Like, honestly---Grima against the royal family in general could work, because obviously there is a lot of antipathy between Grima and Lucina due to the Bad Future, and between Grima and Robin due to the fact that Robin was bred like a prized dog in order to be Grima’s vessel---but I focus on Chrom because I feel like Chrom stands to have the most to lose here, particularly in a timeline where Chrom and Robin are married and have their children. If Grima possesses Robin, then Chrom loses his wife. If she takes Morgan, he loses his son. Lucina could die. Chrom himself could die, and in my Risen!Chrom AU, well . . . he meets a far worse fate at Grima’s hands. When you consider the fact that Chrom is the Exalt during the vast majority of the plot and the fact that he is the one that wields Falchion and carries the Fire Emblem, that also marks him as Grima’s primary enemy, even though Robin is Grima’s primary target. They’re not quite at foetp level for me, but there’s definitely a ton of antipathy there, and I think it’s quite fun to work with.

My favorite potential relationship between characters who never talk in canon

The DLC chapters actually give us a lot of interaction between characters who don’t otherwise have supports, and so technically these characters do get to talk in canon, but I’m still angry that we never had legitimate supports between Lucina and Severa. There’s no excuse for it and I’ll never be over it, especially since Future Past heavily insinuates that Severa is Lucina’s second-in-command. There was no reason not to give us supports between them, IntSys. None.

[tessatechaitea]

Nightwing #10

I don't think I've ever read any Blüdhaven stories but I'm already angry that I have to learn the ALT code for the u with an umlaut.

After learning about Blüdhaven from Preboot Superman, Dick Grayson decides it's the place for him! He's heard that what happens in Blüdhaven stays in Blüdhaven (probably because what happens is usually murder and what stays is the corpse thrown into a concrete foundation being laid) and that totally sounds like the Dick Grayson way. Because lately, the Dick Grayson way has been more like the James Bond way. He wants to get back to familiar territory and the best way to do that is to move to someplace completely foreign to him. Dick decides to get a job volunteering with a program that helps teens stay out of trouble. He nails the interview and, later, probably the boss.

Are there sexual harassment policies in place for trying to fuck volunteers to an organization? It's okay to bang them if you're not paying them, right?!

Dick Grayson is going to get so much püssy in Blüdhaven. Another person Dick will be working with at Don't Let Teenagers Become Violent And Steal My Things Headquarters is a guy named James Nice. That's suspicious! You don't get a name like Nice without being a cold-hearted dildo puncher. I should know because my last name is...um...it's just Tess, actually. Never mind. Forget I said anything. Although, seriously, with all the links to my old websites and my Twitter account and the name Grunion Guy and my Xbox Live Handle and who knows what other things (like probably mentioning my name directly in an early review when I was drunk or something), it wouldn't take much effort for a stalker to figure out who I am. So why haven't I been stalked yet? So disappointing. After Dick leaves, James and Shawn are all, "We should wear our supervillain costumes to the meeting tonight to show that we're in control of our supervillain tendencies! It'll help the teenage supervillains we're helping to understand that they can also avoid being violent and stealing other people's things. Maybe we can even convince them that they're superheroes instead of superzeroes! That's such a great slogan that it's probably already been copyrighted and now our organization is going to be sued and we'll all go back to our lives of crime. I guess that's not all bad seeing as how we live in Blühaven, Crime Capital of places with umlauts in their name." Dick goes home to learn that normal life is too boring to live for a ward of Bruce Wayne's who was raised in a traveling circus to be a Talon and slept with a dwarf throughout his teen years. So he'll probably be out fighting crime before you can type the ALT code for a u with an umlaut over it. Meanwhile, the Blüdhaven mayor is having a meeting with his staff to ensure that Blüdhaven doesn't become too family friendly in it's new campaign to lure families to the strip.

Nice bit of writing, Tim Seeley, to cover the fact that you don't know what "on fleek" means! Or that you just didn't care enough to look it up because it's fucking stupid. Slang doesn't prove that you're cool and in the know. Slang only means you're an unimaginative chump who wants to fit in so badly that you'll say stupid shit like "fleek" to describe whatever the hell is fleeky.

Being an older person, the only reason to use young people slang is to annoy the fuck out of them. But just because it's the only reason, it doesn't mean it's not a good reason. Making teenagers cringe is a healthy adult pastime, especially when they think they're the cool ones for recognizing a cringe-worthy moment. Oh, we know everything we do that makes you cringe, young people. It's the only reason we do any of it. Searching my site, I used "on fleek" once when I mentioned how I have never said it. Besides, it was almost certainly uncool to say by the time I even learned about it! That's another part of the fun of using youthful slang. By the time adults know about it, it's been abandoned by the youth. We all know it but the youth think we still somehow think the slang is still en vogue. Super cringe points! Marvel comics might have a case for suing DC Comics since Mayor Madrigal is basically Perry White. I mean J. Jonah Jameson! That last paragraph (which was only a sentence) is for people who think I'm stupid and unsubtle. It's both proof that I am to people who think that and proof that I am not because there's a whole underbelly of criticism against fangenders and their Marvel vs DC war in that sentence. Paragraph! Thankfully, some crime gets committed near Dick's new place, so he dons his costume and exits the window of his apartment in his Nightwing kit. So I guess he doesn't give a shit about his secret identity, does he? People are going to notice shit like that! And some of those people are going to be curious enough to figure out which window that apartment belongs to. And some of those people are going to earn big money selling the information to mob bosses. The crime was committed by a talking ape who Dick quickly takes down for the Blüdhaven police. The ape is Gorilla Grimm from Gorilla City. I don't mean to sound racist in so many fucking ways I can't even fathom it but how does Dick recognize one Gorilla from Gorilla City over another? I would have sworn this was Grodd except that Grodd would never wear a wife-beater and a trucker's cap. Oh, maybe that's how he recognized him! To be fair to myself and my totally racist question which I didn't mean to be racist in suggesting that apes are equivalent to black people and the possible truth but probable stereotype that white people can't identify one black person from another because I really did just mean that I wouldn't be able to tell one gorilla from another, I probably wouldn't recognize Dick Grayson from one comic book artist to another without a bevy of clues that have nothing to do with his looks. I'm sure if Gorilla Grodd and Gorilla Grimm were real gorillas, I'd totally be able to tell the difference. Unless I'm Gorilla Face Blind. I might be! I haven't met enough gorillas to know for sure. Poor Gorilla Grimm. Your parents don't give you that name if they think you're going to amount to anything. His hopes and aspirations were probably stillborn thanks to the name. Thanks a lot, Ma and Pa Gorilla! Fucking dicks. Nightwing just got done thinking how nice it was to get back to Black and White crimefighting instead of trying to navigate a gray world where somebody, somewhere, is constantly finding a reason to criticize you when Gorilla Grimm begins talking.

Profile much, Nightwing? Am I off the hook for comparing a gorilla to a black person now that Tim Seeley has done it? Not that I did it at all! But I wrote something that suggested that if you were of a mind to read it that way, due to the gray world we live in and the penchant for finding offense wherever a person can to feel more righteous than the next person. Because I totally didn't mean the comparison! Just because I noticed that something I wrote could be read that way and then brought it out in the open to say that it wasn't meant that way doesn't mean I meant it that way! Also, I'm sure Tim Seeley didn't mean it that way either. I'm just trying to deflect the mob to somebody else!

I once made the accidental racism comment before in a Twat Lobo commentary that I noticed afterward and called myself out on. But not that it was accidentally racist, what I said. Just that it could have been seen that way! I reprint it here for good times:

Now I want to write a comic book called General Calamity and Wanton Violence. It would be set in the old west and be full of gore and good-intentioned racist microaggressions. You know the kind! Like when some white gunslinger has his ass saved by a Chinese fella and the gunslinger says, "You ain't so bad, fer a chinerman." And the Chinese Gunslinger smiles graciously while planning on whether he's going to piss or shit in the white gunslinger's stew later. You know! A fun comic book! Oh shit! I just had an Asian-American Doll moment! I didn't mean for the comic book to sound like it was a white guy named General Calamity and a Chinese guy named "Wonton" Violence! Man, my cynicism almost failed me but I caught it just in time! Although, fuck me, it's a good idea! "So, you're name is Wonton Violence, hunh?" "No, it is 'Wanton' Violence,' you ignorant cocksucker!" Of course, Wanton Violence delivers his line over a smoking pistol and the corpse of the ignorant cocksucker.

I still believe that would make a good television series. Probably an independent series or somewhere like Netflix where the studio doesn't try to exert their control on every little bit of the production until they've turned it into something the broadest audience can like. And by "broadest" of course I mean "stupidest." The Blüdhaven SWAT team take Gorilla Grimm off of Nightwing's hands because Gorilla Grimm is a suspect in a nearby murder. See, the murder victim was torn apart and had all their bones broken. Totally something a damn filthy ape would do, right?! But since Gorilla Grimm told Nightwing to his face he was innocent, Nightwing begins to suspect that maybe Blüdhaven might be a little gray after all! Like maybe they're cleaning up the city a little too enthusiastically to ensure tourists flock to their casinos. Like maybe Blüdhaven isn't so different from Gotham at all. The SWAT Team doesn't arrest Nightwing in the way law enforcement likes to arrest superheroes but he does give Nightwing a firm slap on the wrist and a warning. I suppose if I arrived at one of the stores whose floor I clean and found a jerk in a costume doing the work for free, I might be a little bit annoyed too. Gorilla Grimm tells Nightwing to talk to Shawn Tsang about how he didn't do it. Nightwing will probably do that but it's not like he can interfere with an arrest being made, even if he thinks the arrest is wrong. That's up to the courts to decide (even though they'll get it wrong too because our justice system is terrible and biased toward law enforcement because they need to keep them happy so that they'll work with them on real cases and not just the cases where the cops are all, "Put this bad person away because we said so or we're not helping you ever again, District Attorney"). If Nightwing were to interfere, he'd be no better than that criminal Tim Drake. The Blüdhaven Tourism Board learns that Nightwing is working in Blüdhaven. Time to pay him to be the face of tourism! "Come to Blüdhaven for the hookers, blow, and casinos! Stay to catch a glimpse of Nightwing's ass!" Nightwing heads back to talk to Shawn Tsang about Gorilla Grimm when he discovers that she's actually the supervillain known as Defacer. I don't know what her super power is. Spray painting? Anyway, it's just what Dick didn't want. He just got done trusting a villain who turned out to be an actual villain. Now he's falling right back into the same theme! Why can't people just be good and bad?! What is with all of this shit about good people doing bad things for good reasons or bad people doing good things but in terrible ways?! Knock it off and just be good or bad, stupid people of the world! The Ranking! No change. It's only a rating of No Change because Nightwing is ranked at #3 and I'm not yet ready to say it's better than The Flintstones. Maybe in some ways it is, depending on what you want out of a comic book. That's the problem having mainstream superhero titles on a ranking list that also includes modern versions of old Hanna-Barbera cartoons. But I really fucking enjoy everything about The Flintstones. Maybe if I were gay and I wanted to fuck Dick Grayson, this would be better than The Flintstones. But I'm not gay and I want to fuck Betty Rubble, so there you have it. Although, you should be reading this comic book! That's just a fact. I mean, it's an opinion but it's my opinion so it might as well be a fact. Oh, I should also mention Marcus To's art is fantastic. I don't want him getting all butt-hurt again because of my intense hyperbolic criticisms that are simply meant to be funny in that way it's funny when an old person is shit on by society and they have no recourse but to scream and rant and bleed out of the eyes. So, you know, good work, Marcus! Now maybe your sycophantic followers won't harass me for criticizing your stupid Justice League International cover! I still stand by my assessment of the cover even if the inside art was so good you could wank to it!

[compare-wp10]

Censorship Has Mutated During Coronavirus Pandemic

See on Scoop.it - COMPARE RISK COMMUNICATION

Censorship, Pandemic Style Censorship is unfortunately alive and well during this pandemic madness, taking on a variety of mutated forms as it participates in the various rights-trampling parades going on in America. We have seen the petty tyrant governors and mayors use this time to overreach and cavalierly brush aside constitutional rights in the name of safety. The First Amendment has been particularly roughed up, with the free exercise of religion, free speech, and the right to peaceably assemble all taking major hits. Matt Taibbi — not exactly a rightwing stalwart — warned last month of what he called the “Inevitable Coronavirus Censorship Crisis.” He was responding to a rather insane and disturbing article in The Atlantic that was basically making the case for adopting a more ChiCom approach to dealing with internet speech. That’s right, a venerable American publication was advocating for more censorship. The ChiComs themselves aren’t letting the crisis go to waste. Pro-commie establishment members of Hong Kong’s parliament are pushing legislation to censor and punish any language mocking the mainland’s national anthem. As I wrote last weekend, social media platforms are using the pandemic as an excuse to censor any voices that run counter to the preferred narrative. There is to be no real free speech or debate about how we should proceed through each new phase of dealing with the pandemic. Each of the major platforms has opted to be tools of the various states and prop up whichever arbitrary shutdown rules are in place. The media bias we’ve seen during all of this is a perverse sort of self-censorship that the MSM hacks are doing to themselves. They’ve been running with whatever the official word from China is, and surely they know that the censoring is kind of baked into the cake with that deal. It’s always amazing to see American “journalists” be drawn to the types of ideologues who would be the first to shut them down. This may not be directly related to the coronapocalypse, but it happened on Monday. The United Nations took some time to offer the great unwashed a list of words that we should no longer say. I’m not really sure which part of the UN’s charter lays out why it should be in the censor game, but then I still haven’t figured out what in the hell they have to do with climate change. The shutting down of church services is a form of censorship as well, and I can’t help but believe that the Democratic governors have enjoyed keeping the church folk away from worship just a little too much. Thankfully, saner legal heads seem to be prevailing on that front in the last couple of weeks. The policing of speech had become worrisome long before this pandemic hit us. The danger now is obviously having some of these more tyrannical types make some new permanent censorship rules. Speech that’s censored today may very well remain censored when we emerge from this rough patch. I’ve been fighting censorship since I first started doing stand-up and it’s a battle I’m willing to wage until they find a way to shut me up. PC Police Step Up Efforts to Completely Ruin Stand-Up Comedy This Ought to Work Out Well Many low-wage workers earn more on unemployment than in their former jobs https://t.co/jMwBs9efgG pic.twitter.com/7iKO5Hq9KX — CBS News (@CBSNews) May 19, 2020 PJM Linktank My Tuesday column: My Last ‘Obama Is the Worst’ Column This Month (I Think) HILARIOUS: Trump Campaign Mocks Biden. Journalists Don’t Get the Joke Texas Reopens. What’s Really Happening With Its COVID-19 Numbers? Sheriff Revolts Against Lockdown: ‘We Are Not Stormtroopers. We Are Peacekeepers’ And not just for fun. Wow! Guess Who’s Taking Hydroxychloroquine? Donald Trump! God wins. Again. Hallelujah! Church Lawsuit Forces Oregon Governor to Re-Open EVERYTHING Ben Sasse Picks the Correct Fight With His Democrat Challenger Shock! Pensacola Shooter Turns Out to Be Al-Qaeda Operative Who Plotted His Attack for Years SANITY: New Jersey Gym Owner Defies Lockdown Order and Cops Refuse to Stop Him The Real Coronavirus Timeline Liberals Don’t Want You To See China Threatened Dan Crenshaw. Now He’s Demanding Sanctions. Attorney General Barr Just Made Major News on ‘Obamagate.’ You’ll Want to Sit Down for This Trump Didn’t Botch the Coronavirus Response, Andrew Cuomo Did VodkaPundit: China Orders New Wuhan Virus Lockdown Because They Beat COVID-19, Honest Quarantine them in a jail. Why Did New York Infect America With Coronavirus? New Report Blames Cuomo, de Blasio FBI ‘Mistakenly’ Reveals Identity of Saudi Diplomat Suspected of Aiding 9/11 Jihadis Anti-Lockdown Champion Elon Musk Just Picked a Side and It’s Glorious Obama Fired an Inspector General to Cover Up a Sex Scandal and No One Said Boo About It Liberals’ Direct Cash Payments Promise to Do to Main Street What They’ve Done to the Black Community: Crush It ‘Joe Has Absolutely No Idea What’s Happening’ It Is Very Strange That General Flynn Was Unmasked Almost 50 Times VIP VodkaPundit, Part Deux: Giving Government the Finger: Americans Ending the Shutdown on Our Own Terms VIP Gold The Tragic End to Deshone Kizer’s NFL Career…And It Began Where QBs Usually Go to Die The Emotional Toll Social Distancing Has Taken on People Should Not Be Underestimated From the Mothership and Beyond I like this story. The internal watchdogs Trump has fired or replaced Excellent. Oklahoma Governor Signs Bill Banning Red Flag Laws School District’s Fight For Armed Teachers Heads To OH Supreme Court NZ Gun Crime Rates Soar Following Gun Bans GOP Governors Rip McConnell Challenger for Partisan Attack Ad I’ll binge-watch this. Graham Moves to Subpoena Brennan, Clapper and Other Major ‘Obamagate’ Players Pelosi’s Strange Reason for Not Wanting Trump to Take Hydroxychloroquine Katie Hill Threw a Tantrum Because Republican Mike Garcia Won Her Vacant Seat Rep. Jim Banks: ‘Shameful’ Dems Are Focused on Going After Trump Instead of Holding China Accountable Leader McConnell Taps Rubio to Lead Senate Intelligence Committee Amid Burr Investigation The Misleading Attack From CNN’s ‘Reliable Sources’ on Fox News’ Coverage on Flynn and COVID-19 Petty Tyrant Update. Ohio Governor Reveals How State Will Respond to Businesses Not Complying with Restrictions WATCH: Crowd Cheers New Jersey Police After They Refuse to Cite Violators of Lockdown Order Trump to the WHO: I’ll Permanently Pull U.S. Funds From the Organization Unless… James Woods: Trump ‘Loves America More Than Any President in My Lifetime,’ Obama Admin Was ‘Scum and Villainy’  Twitch Thots are Horrible but They’re a Symptom, Not a Disease When Even CNN Gets There’s a Problem in the Flynn Case, But the Judge Doesn’t, You Know It’s a Problem LA County Public Health Director Isn’t an M.D.; Why Do These Official Websites Say She Is? Petty Tyrant Update II. Bill de Blasio Threatens Fences Around NYC Beaches and Warns Swimmers They’ll be ‘Taken Right Out of the Water’ Kira Davis: I Don’t Want To See One More Damn Coronavirus Commercial #MouthBarf: Who’s Ready For Michelle Obama’s “Prom-Athon” With MTV? Um…Feminist Susan Faludi: “Believe All Women” Is A Right-Wing Straw Man That Liberals Don’t Actually Embrace Navarro: Let’s Face It, The CDC “Really Let The Country Down” In The COVID-19 Crisis Eric Trump: Dems Have A Very Deliberate Strategy To Use Social Distancing Rules To Prevent Trump From Holding Rallies Gov. Gavin Newsom, ready to lay off first responders, kicks off coronavirus assistance for illegal aliens He’s not owned! He’s not owned! Ezra Klein corncobs himself trying to pretend he didn’t get trolled by Trump campaign’s ‘Truth Over Facts’ site Losing. Their. MINDS! Chris Cillizza calls Trump ‘an unlikable jerk that gets stuff done’ and the Left breaks out pitchforks and torches Oh. 2 professors warn using wedding pictures as Zoom background is a “microaggression” Poland marks centenary of St. John Paul’s birth Bee Me Back To Normal: Conservatives Go To Work While Liberals Stay Home https://t.co/GKabQNFVrM — The Babylon Bee (@TheBabylonBee) May 18, 2020 The Kruiser Kabana pic.twitter.com/cq0yyGR9yy — Archillect (@archillect) May 19, 2020 Let’s treat Taco Tuesday with the reverence it deserves, people. ___ Kruiser Twitter Kruiser Facebook PJ Media Senior Columnist and Associate Editor Stephen Kruiser is the author of “Don’t Let the Hippies Shower” and “Straight Outta Feelings: Political Zen in the Age of Outrage,” both of which address serious subjects in a humorous way. Monday through Friday he edits PJ Media’s “Morning Briefing.” His columns appear every Tuesday and Friday.