#not sure there is much by way of a cohesive poem here

[uncivilcivilservice]

“put ur Spotify on shuffle and write down the first lyric of the first ten songs that come on, post the poem that results” (character playlist edition)

Tagged by @monstersinthecosmos (thank you!)

Devil's Minion Playlist

I can't run anymore, I fall before you

Here I stand, helpless and left for dead

My love are you the devil?

Dare me to jump off of this Jersey Bridge

Turn around

And I'd give up forever to touch you

Looking out across the nighttime

There were nights when the wind was so cold

Tell me again about how it hurts

You know better babe, you know better babe

Armand Playlist

There is a wall in my life built by you

Dearly beloved, for your entertainment

I remember the minute, it was like a switch was flipped

Don't fret precious I'm here

You can run, you can hide

To all things housed in her silence, nature offers a violence

Give me a reason to believe that you're gone

When I was a child I heard voices

There's rotten things left in me

I don't wanna talk right now

I'm an angel? Tell me what you mean by that

Daniel playlist

Cut my life into pieces

Out on your own, cold and alone again

When I was a child they'd ask me where it hurt

Hey little boy is your daddy home? Did he go and leave you all alone?

From birth I'm stained, a creature, all of us one in the same

I can't run anymore

Could it be different? Did I ruin the day?

My grip on secrets slipping while I'm speaking in tongues

Oh, oh I'm getting older

And I'd give up forever to touch you

Marius Playlist (shorter playlist so only 5 lines)

Sweetheart you look a little tired, when did you last eat?

Don't fret precious I'm here

Be still my love

I, I have known love before

I made another mistake

Tagging: @desertfangs @covenofthearticulate @airazor65 @teethingpains @dontbesylly @fangsinclay @thevampiremariusderomanus

[ratssmpzine]

Here are our guidelines for collaborations between participants, whether that be artists and writers, multiple artists, or multiple writers! Collaborations are welcome and encouraged here!

Plain text below the cut!

Collaboration Guidelines

Collaborations between participants are highly encouraged by the zine mods as they help the zine feel more cohesive and connected! You can sign up for the zine with a collaborator or you can team up with another participant once applicants have been accepted.

There is no limit on the amount of collaborations you can participate in, but each collaboration has to count as a “Main Work” for one member and will count towards their three pieces. For example, if an author was writing a fic and one or two artists wanted to team up and do art for it, the author would count the fic as one of their three works, but the artists would not have to. If an artist wanted to draw a piece and a writer was inspired to write a poem or story around it, the art would count as one of the three works for the artist but not for the writer. Basically, in every collaboration one person should have the work count towards their three piece limit, but all other participants would still be able to do three different works if they choose to.

A collaboration will count as your minimum one piece to submit to the zine even if you aren’t the person taking it as a main work! Participating in a completed collab is just as much a full contribution to the zine as a solo piece of art or writing.

For communication between collaborators participants will be allowed to open private threads in a particular channel and use those if they would prefer to talk separately from the rest of the group. If two members knew eachother before the zine, they are welcome to talk privately if they prefer, but for people meeting in the zine who may not know if the other participant is a minor, we ask that all communication take place where the mods can monitor what happens.

You can apply to the zine as a collaborator! Just make sure to write the name and discord username of the person you are collaborating with in the designated space so that we know to accept both of you if one of your applications is approved. This will not hurt your chances in any way, but we ask that you only use it if you genuinely intend to work together.

There is tentatively no limit on the amount of people who can join in on a singular collaboration, but this is subject to change if we find that massive collaborations become a problem for the zine layout and organization.

For collaborations between artists and writers: In collaborations between artists and writers, the guidelines for writers remain the same (1-3 poems or a 1k-10k word short story) but the requirements for artists are loosened somewhat. Firstly, collaborations between artists and writers are the only place where a canvas size smaller than the vertical A4 page would be allowed, as the image can be placed into the text, with writing taking up the rest of the page. Just keep in mind design when working with smaller canvases and try to pick a size where the text would still look good! For collaborations like this, the mods may make mock-ups each check in so that the canvas size can be adjusted if it fits oddly into the text. The requirements for a background are also waived— a submission could be a small headshot, bust or full body of the character reacting or emoting like the are in the text, or some detailed custom headers or sidebars, or even a small drawing of an object relevant to the story, perhaps in a design to be used as a scene break. However your group would want to do things is fair game!

For collaborations between multiple artists: The guidelines for these pieces are the same as the guidelines for an individual art submission. The final piece should still be a full, detailed image in one of the two provided canvas sizes, though how you decide to divide that up or work together will be up to you.

For collaborations between multiple writers: The word count limit of 1k to 10k remains the same for short stories, however if you would like to divide that into two separate pieces that are somehow connected or in conversation with one another, that would be allowed. The poem limit for a single work is also increased to four. If you want to insert poems into a short story or write a poem about a short story to either start or end it, the poem’s word count will count towards the word count of the short story. However, like with artists, we aren’t going to dictate how you decide to organize your collaboration.

[hazelwitch800]

I'm here for the ask gamee!! I wanna make sure how alike we are haha sooo 4, 19, 23, 29, and 39...Is that too many? It's way too many lol, feel free to choose between them

Lin!!! Omg you're an angel, thank you for giving me the opportunity to be so self indulgent! And I want to hear all of your responses to these questions in turn 😏

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

Omg wow I found this so hard arrrrgh! I think I find this one hard because there's not a word in particular that I love, but I absolutely WILL go feral over a writer's word choice, especially when it's anything surprising or interesting or creative that just makes me think oh wow, what a great word! I do actually have a list of "good words" on my notes app though lol, so here is a selection of some of those: tranquil, raw, permeate, hollow, scorched, lethargy, deft (there were many others lol what a strange list 😅)

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

I only started properly writing at the beginning of 2022, but I really have been writing here and there all my life. I was a total bookworm as a kid, and was always writing stories. The first job I ever wanted was to be an author 😁 I have loads of old notebooks from my teenage years filled with snippets of prose and poems, but I never really finished anything or wrote anything cohesive. I feel like discovering the Internet was a major road block because it ruined my attention span and I barely read a book for years! Honestly, fanfiction was the intense hyperfixation I needed to get myself into gear - I've never had such a strong urge to create before!

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

Ooh I love this - the environment I write in feels super important to me. Okay, so, sometimes, it's at my desk at home during the working day (sssshhhh!), accompanied by the modern day working from home soundtrack: the ping of Teams messages. Other times, it's on the sofa, snuggled under my electric blanket turned up to the max. And when I can make it work, it's in my favourite place of all - my local library. It has a beautiful reading room panelled in old, dark wood, and there's a huge skylight up above. It's a wonderful, peaceful place to work. Maybe not so great for when I'm writing smut 😁

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry?

When I first started writing, I honestly felt like inspiration just threw itself at me from the void, lol. Nowadays, it's harder. Honestly, I think a lot of my inspiration comes via logical thinking, just trying to figure out what a certain character might do or say in a given situation and letting that guide me. Ooh, also, the act of writing in itself is SO important for me inspiration-wise - there is SO much that just comes to me as I'm writing. Like it just seems to appear in my mind. Which is annoying as it means outlining or plotting beforehand doesn't really work for me, I have to have a half idea and then see how it plays out on the page!

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

Honestly... Self discipline hahaha. That feels like such a sad thing to admit. But I'm the type of person who likes to see things through to the end. I rarely just WANT to write, but I make the time to and I keep at it. I am actually taking more breaks recently, though, and intend to take a longer break to fully recharge soon :)

[multiple-authors]

(17 November 2023)

Today has been nice so far. Got out of bed after lying in bed longer than I should have, knowing that the longer I stayed in bed the harder it would be to get out and the easier it would be to fall into bad thoughts. Today I wanted to save myself from that. I went to the gym, dropped my bike off for a service and have since had breakfast and a bath. Sitting down to do some making today. I want to remind myself first of the thoughts I've had this week. I met with Consuelo after work last night for a cup of tea. Served by the sexy waiter is most definitely not gay. Realising that I need to feel sexy in myself, confident on more layers than one to have a real libido. Thinking I'm asexual has been common. Leaning into fiction because it gives me the space to test and act things out with the safety of it not being real in the same way as the non fiction of my own life.

Manifesto for my life in practice: 1. "I have nothing to say, only to show" – Benjamin. Applied, actionable thinking over abstract, generalised theory... Specifically look at material culture, the material building blocks of life/reality making. Lots of small paintings together to create a scene. Not necessarily all cohesive in terms of jigsaw physics. Action over thinking, and if thinking, make sure I am doing it as action, with intention, not floating around.

2. "Deep down I am just scared, and that's ok". Let go of too much control, fear won't leave, learn to accept it. Cut the shite and remove all the distractions or worries or uncertainties. Just do the work and work to completion, without experimentation, perfectionism, opinion of others as the focus, just work and it will happen.

3. Be nice to myself. Treat yourself like a child. Check in with myself to see how I am feeling. Ask myself if I am ok. And listen for the answer. Feed myself with lots of nice food, this is a priority everyday. Sleep eight hours. I have realised I do actually need eight hours in bed for sleeping. Treat myself to small luxuries, like flowers, warm face flannels, nice smells.

4. Stop reading painting as an attempt at solving the world, and depicting the whole world, at being right. It is asking too much. Forgive myself for not being the perfect painter, for not making the perfect paintings. Think about ZS's Fascinated to Presume. Think about the performative,  socially constructed or assigned. Be the unreliable narrator of my own life, because being wholly objective here is impossible, trust myself. Maybe the point is to be confused, inaccurate, show my fateful plight.

Soaking wet: Finish some smaller pieces about soaking wet as a general concept: everything is soaking wet. what is happening? everyday, casual happenings, things about to happen. Problem has arisen with image generation, not necessarily generation but bolting it down, I have been too indecisive and I get paralysed by the possibility. To solve this, think of a painting not as a depiction of the absolute, or something fully refined, just an episode. Painting as a poem, an essay, a sentence. Are we going to work via image or via writing.

[fancoloredglasses]

[RERUN] 7 Little Superheroes (a good ol’ fashioned...kidnapping mystery?)

[All images are owned by Marvel Disney. Please don’t sue me]

This is a review that suffers from some serious “wall of text” issues, in that there’s not a SINGLE image or video clip from the episode save the title screen! Well, we’re about to fix that! If you wish to slog through what is essentially a book report, you can do so here.

I’m sure most of you have heard/seen a variant of the “Ten Little Indians” trope in which someone invites a group to a secluded area with no chance of escape, then composes a cryptic poem about the means in which every one of them will die, one by one. In fact, Rooster Teeth did one of these in which they “killed off”  most of their executives.

Anyway, the writers of Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends thought this would be a great story to adapt. Just three problems...

1. The “Spider Friends” were just three. No worries, we’ll just bring in 7 guest heroes!

2. The show is only half an hour long (minus commercials and credits, so more like 20 minutes) No problem, we’ll cut the cast to 7 total.

3. That damn issue with violence on kids’ TV, plus do we really wanna kill off heroes like Captain America? Ummmm...right...they’ll just be...captured?

The villain of the episode is the Chameleon. I’d never heard of him before or since viewing the episode, but a quick Wikipedia search says he is the half-brother to Kraven the Hunter and a master of disguise (given his name, that makes sense) His voice seemed familiar, so a quick IMDb search revealed the actor also voiced Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, from the Rankin-Bass Animation production of The Hobbit (a much better version than Peter Jackson’s production as it was more cohesive while being less than 20% as long, but I digress...)

If you would like to watch the episode, Disney+ has your hookup.

The episode begins with the Chameleon spouting the first lines of the poem...

7 Little Superheroes vanish one by one...7 Little Superheroes, soon there will be none!

We switch to Spider-Man swinging through New York, when he encounters a letter addressed to him along his patrol route (is he that predictable? Why hasn’t anyone set a booby trap on one of his regular perches?) inviting him to Wolf Island Mansion for some sort of gathering (not in the least suspicious...especially since Iceman and Firestar have similar invites...seriously, booby traps!)

Peter informs Aunt May that the three of them are going to a house party. Aunt May decides to invite their dog Ms. Lion along as well. Peter objects, but do you really think he could say no to Aunt May?

When the heroes reach Wolf Island, Iceman’s ice slide accidentally covers the lake that Prince Namor of Atlantis, the Sub-Mariner (hero #4) was swimming in. Iceman apologizes, but Namor insults them and flies off (yes, the undersea prince can fly. Don’t ask me, I just report this stuff!)

Upon entering the mansion, the group encounters the Sorcerer Supreme, Doctor Strange (hero #5), Captain America (#6), and Shanna the Jungle Queen (who? I mean #7)

[NOTE: the comic version is Shanna the She-Devil, but the writers understandably changed her name for the episode...I mean, no sense pissing off the parents! Either way, I’ve never heard of her...]

The Chameleon makes his presence (and intentions) known. This pisses off Namor (what doesn’t?) and he decides to leave...

...only to run into a force field (bet that pissed him off too) which covers the mansion, trapping everyone on the grounds! Then we get our first clue as to who’s on the chopping block...

7 Little Superheroes in quite a fix...One will meet fire, and then there will be six!

The group deduces that their “host” is the Chameleon, and that he very well could be disguising himself as any of them! (I thought he just disguised himself. Can he mimic powers too?)

Namor (no doubt in the most pissed off way possible) decides it’s best to work alone as he can’t trust appearances. (know what Namor is an anagram for? Mor...an? hmmm, doesn’t quite work, but you get my point)

(Thanks to Imperius Wrecked)

You’d think he’d be able to smell the difference between water and alcohol...)

Namor attempts to fly over the pool to the exit...

...but the Chameleon ignites the alcohol. The heat further weakens Namor and he falls into the fiery pool!

Meanwhile, Spider-Man is searching on the roof of the mansion, but falls into a trap panel (on the outside of the building? The Chameleon must have a hell of an issue with squirrels and raccoons getting in...), allowing the Chameleon to assume the web-head’s identity.

Let’s check in with Iceman and Captain America out on the grounds, shall we?

6 Little Superheroes trying to stay alive...One will step into quicksand, and then there will be five!

Seems a bit specific, don’t ya think? I mean, all you have to do is stay off the ground, right?

Iceman falls prey to a snare trap that suspends him about 10 feet off the ground. Cap rushes to his aid...

...only to catch a tripwire of his own, sending flying barbs his way. They’re easily blocked by his shield, but there are a lot of ‘em. “Spider-Man” arrives on the scene, suggesting Cap dive into a nearby pond until the barbs stop flying. (three guesses what the “pond” actually is...)

Captain Gullible dives in, and is pulled down by the quicksand. Iceman freezes the rope to free himself (why didn’t he do that before?) and is about to freeze the pond to save Cap, but “Spider-Man” offers to use his webbing to pull him out instead, only the webbing doesn’t stick to Cap and he sinks below the surface...

...as “Spider-Man” swings away, chuckling menacingly as Ms. Lion snarls at him.

Firestar and Doctor Strange arrive, and Firestar deduces that it must have been the Chameleon. The three follow Ms. Lion back to the mansion...

...where we see Spider-Man finally freeing himself from the trap panel by climbing down the flue (seriously, how does the Chameleon not have a problem with woodland animals invading his home?) just in time for Iceman to hit him hard with a blast of frozen mistaken identity.

The group quickly realizes their error when Ms. Lion shows concern for Spidey.

Let’s check in on Shanna the She-Devil Jungle Queen. She has climbed a nearby spire to get a view of the surroundings. I’m sure the view is impressive, but instead of getting your breath taken away by it...

...shouldn’t you be watching the Chameleon setting off the explosions in the very spire you’re standing on? (he does get around, doesn’t he?) Shanna falls into a pit (what? no poem?), but not before she sends a telepathic distress call (wait, she can do that? I honestly don’t know, as I’ve never heard of her) to Doctor Strange. The Spider Friends and Strange rush to her aid.

Unfortunately, by the time they arrive, the Chameleon has changed into Shanna. (This is beyond being a quick-change artist. This is shape-shifting!)

“Shanna” then jumps down and hangs off of a nearly ledge (you’d think someone with Shanna’s agility could get herself out of that predicament) as the group approaches. “Shanna” falls just in time for Spider-Man to swing in to catch her.

The group might have been fooled if not for Ms. Lion not liking her (who knew cartoon dogs were such excellent judges of character?), so the now-revealed Chameleon takes his revenge...

...by opening a trap door under Ms. Lion! Fortunately, Spider-Man grabs her before she falls.

The group chases “Shanna” into a maze of caves (pretty sure you can guess what happens here) The Chameleon hides as Firestar flies by, then transforms into her.

5 Little Superheroes want to know the score? One will run into herself, and then there will be four!

First off, shouldn’t that be “4 Little Superheroes”, since he already took out Shanna? Second, it’s now pretty apparent (well, a 50/50 chance) to the group who the next victim will be (unless the Chameleon plans on targeting Ms. Lion)

Fortunately, the group guesses correctly (or have they forgotten about Shanna?) and run after Firestar, who was scouting ahead, (have these people not learned to not let ANYONE out of their sight when there’s a shape-shifter around?!) but not fast enough...

...as Firestar encounters “Firestar”, who blasts her with freezing air, incapacitating her as she falls down a trap door!

Meanwhile, Shanna manages to free herself from the rubble (guess the count was right after all) and goes looking for the group (pretty sure we all know what’s about to happen...)

“Firestar” starts a recording as he joins the group, making everyone think he’s the real deal.

4 Little Superheroes, scared as can be...A demon will devour one, and then there will be three!

Right on cue, a robotic “demon” shows up to attack the group. Shanna chooses this moment to find the group, distracting them long enough for the demon to blast the group, sending everyone except Doctor Strange flying...

...then he eats Strange! Spidey deduces “Firestar” is not who he says he is, so the Chameleon runs off.

3 Little Superheroes, racing to pursue...But one will fall right off the bridge, and then there will be two!

In the middle of the Chameleon’s poem, he starts a tremor as Shanna falls (heh) behind. Spider-Man tries to web her...

...but she falls into the chasm below before the web reaches her! (not sure why he couldn’t try again...)

So with just the wall crawler and Iceman left, things seem grim. In desperation, the pair heads outside so Iceman can try to break through the force field again.

2 Little Superheroes out in the sun...the Iceman will be melted, and now there is but one!

Once again, the Chameleon strikes before he finishes speaking...

...this time with a heat ray that nullifies his ice powers, then a tractor beam to draw him back into the mansion!

[Gonna hit the pause button and go back 41 years to when I first saw the episode up to this point. I honestly was shocked that the show would kill off Captain America and Doctor Strange (I had no clue who Shanna was and, to be honest, Namor was being a complete ass and deserved what he got), but in both Iceman’s and Firestar’s cases, their fates were a bit more benign as Firestar was being incapacitated by icy jets of air (so essentially tortured instead of killed, then?) and Iceman was captured rather than given a death scene. I guessed this was because they had “star power” immunity and would eventually be rescued (I mean, they wouldn’t kill the title characters, right? Right?) Yes, now I know how things worked better, but my younger self...

Pause over, let’s resume]

It seems that Iceman and Firestar are imprisoned next to each other, so the Chameleon tricks them into using their powers on one another.

Meanwhile, web-head has re-entered the mansion. One rotating wall later, he falls into a web (ironic)

1 Little Superhero eaten to the bone...Leaving myself, the super super villain, all by myself alone!

A giant robotic spider comes across the web, hoping for a bit of cannibalism (of a sort, I guess...) Spidey discovers the “web” is made of electrical cables...

...so tears the end from one and jabs it into the spider, shorting it out with a jolt of deus ex supershit.

Escaping the room, he finds a room where all six “victims” are alive. (Cap, Strange, and Shanna are imprisoned, while Namor, Iceman, and Firestar are incapacitated by their weaknesses)

That’s when the Chameleon announces he has rigged the island with enough explosives to level it!

OK, the show time counter is at 21:21...let’s see if the bomb can be defused by 22:21.

[While we’re on the subject of suspension of disbelief, how the hell did the Chameleon get Namor out of the fire, Cap out of the quicksand, and Shanna out of the abyss...not to mention moving Iceman and Firestar from their cells to this chamber...when he has been sticking close to the heroes or in his control room the entire episode? Strange was obviously transported there by the robotic demon, but how did the Chameleon keep him from casting spells?

Soapbox over, now for the thrilling conclusion!]

First, Spidey redirects the heat lamp drying out Namor onto the block of ice imprisoning Firestar (wouldn’t she have suffocated by now?), with the melt flowing around Namor, reviving him, and Iceman, dousing his flaming cage. (29 seconds left according to the show time counter...) Namor then destroys the generator near the cage (guess it was electrified...? That explains why Cap wouldn’t just use his strength to bend the bars. 9 seconds to go, by the way...)

The Chameleon takes off in his helicopter (22:34; Everyone’s dead, including the Chameleon) and deactivates the force field. Doctor Strange magics everyone to the roof...

...and Spidey shoots a web onto the chopper, pulling himself up and inside. (Nice to know the Chameleon is polite enough to let the authorities know what vehicle he’s in)

Meanwhile, the timer is obviously running slow as it’s reading T-minus 20 seconds one minute and 49 seconds after the one minute timer started. (did you follow that?)

We switch back to the chopper where Spidey has finished tying up the Chameleon with webbing. (obviously the Chameleon got beat up off-camera where no parents could object) Spidey then grabs a megaphone and calls to the others.

7 Little Superheroes, get together gang...Swing on my spider-line cuz there’s gonna be a bang!

(No shit! It should have happened over a minute ago!)

The heroes fly off, abandoning poor Ms. Lion!

(The timer should have gone off a minute and sixteen seconds ago. The Chameleon really needs to not skimp on his timers next time) Firestar realizes they forgot the dog.

Spidey takes aim and shoots a line, snaring Ms. Lion and pulling her to safely as the explosives go off a minute and thirty-five seconds late!

The web-slinger give Ms. Lion the props she deserves for giving the heroes an unexpected edge as we fade out.

I really wonder what this tale would look like today with (limited) violence being allowed in televised animated programming. While Marvel obviously wouldn’t kill anyone, they could put the heroes in dire peril enough to take them out of action without seeming as contrived.

[lantsovsupremacist]

nikolai lantsov: currents

warnings: nikolai lantsov being the best man ever wouldn’t you know 🙄☝️

spoilers: set during king of scars but no major spoilers!!!

you looked up from the paperwork strewn about the desk situated in a far corner of the war room. tucked away here, you would never be the first target. some might call it paranoia or chalk it up to the trauma of the civil war, but you simply preferred a spot to observe quietly in the shadows.

toyla and tamar followed the king inside, nodding at zoya, genya, and david surrounding you.

“oh. it’s you. it’s all of you. i...” the man, or more likely boy, who skittered into the room spoke in a squeaky tone, “an absolute honor. a dream, really.”

briefly meeting nikolai’s eyes as he turned around from shutting the door behind him, you transferred your line of sight to the figure now bowing at your feet. zoya scoffed, eyes rolling to the heavens. genya and david shared a cohesive frown.

dropping the pen from your hand, you pushed your hair over your shoulders and straightened. you listened thoughtfully as he gave an introduction to each of your fellow grisha, recounting his apparent conclusions of them. when he treaded the sparkling waters that were genya, your face began to drop into anger.

“the first tailor, who bears the marks of the darkling’s blessing.”

her flinch did not go unnoticed by you. and as the only one whose temper rivaled yours kept hers in check, you failed to. the pressure immediately began to decrease in the room and the air dry of any moisture. nikolai’s head whipped up, perhaps the one most familiar with your temperament (other than zoya in your shared youth—never happy to be on the receiving end of a soaked kefta in class).

his hands flew up, taking a step towards you, bartering with any position he could gain. your fierce protection over genya was not unknown to those close to you, a flaw in the monk’s faulty perception. you let your shoulders fall, calming any potential downpour.

if yuri noticed your show of power, he made no move to address it, “ravka’s most powerful tide maker. oh the stories of how the darkling sanctioned you with the power to drown men on land.”

you froze but not because of a lie. his words were all true. the darkling hand selected you for this special training at age eleven. you allowed the legend to transpire, protecting you much like kaz brekker, dirtyhands of ketterdam. this was not a lore you would repeat with starry eyes and dreams of an otherworldly fantasy. none of the lives you had been forced to take before jumping ship to join sturmhond during the civil war could be washed away.

for all of your hard edges and brutal words, there were chinks in your armor that could not be hidden. tamar and toyla brought a hand to their weapons in startling unison. zoya’s eyes called out for yours.

nikolai’s features immediately darkened, an eclipse shadowing the usual light in his eyes. he rose from his chair slowly, exhibiting all of the power that he had inherited.

the shameless monk managed to hold himself upright but the unchecked tremble of his fingers exposed the fear instilled by the king’s actions.

“if i ever hear of her name—any of their names—leaving your mouth again,” nikolai began, his words sharper than the edge of his sword, “for any purpose in any country,” nikolai paused to watch yuri shrink under his steady gaze, “there will be nothing left for your believers to mourn into martyrdom.”

you held your chin high, your eyes twin daggers poised to launch across the room and eagerly embed themselves in a target. the ire in your chest began to subside upon witnessing yuri’s response to your boyfriend’s threats, only to be readily replaced by a flush of desire as his hazel eyes sharpened.

breaking eye contact with the monk who could not decide where to offer his, you glanced about the room. zoya had steeled herself beside you, radiating enough anger to address each of yuri’s mislead and misspoken opinions. even david’s face appeared from behind the book in his hands, though he kept his page by leaving it open to rest on his lap.

“am i correct in my assumption that you have heard me clearly,” nikolai’s voice carried across the walls, not quite commanding any longer but instead demanding the attention of those stood inside.

“y-yes your highness,” yuri stumbled out weakly as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his wiry nose.

after finishing up matters with your friends, nikolai took off out of the room, glancing back to make sure you intended to follow. you fell in step behind him, remaining quiet until you reached the stairs leading up to his chambers.

“i could have handled him, you know,” you pressed nikolai, hands repeatedly flexing and unflexing as they brushed against the sides of your blue kefta. your tone held no anger, simply indicating a truth.

nikolai drummed his fingers against the railing, pausing before turning back to face you, “of course you could have, love, but where’s the fun in that for me?”

you appreciated his willingness to defend your honor but the playfulness in his tone felt forced. he did not even make an attempt at his trademark smile imbued by charm and confidence. you decided in that moment that you would do to see it’s safe return.

“nik,” you spoke, repeating yourself after the absence of an answer, “nik.” your hand finding its way into his own hanging limply at his side.

“do you really see yourself in that way?” his voice shook, nearly choking on his final words.

any time the topic was brought up, nikolai was reminded of your stance. you had broken down to him the night after the darkling fell at the hands of alina starkov. no matter any of your friend’s persuasion, you stood firm in your position. you deserved to pay for the harm you inflicted on so many innocent. you were a monster, one who had given in to being handcrafted by another.

the untroubled nature with which he typically carried himself had vanished. your own expression faltered. his particular kind of magic, knowing smirks and careful quips that were like incantations for smiles, vanished.

and while it was normal for nikolai to drop the facade of a charming king around you, the pain held in his eyes plummeted your heart into your stomach.

“i think i did once,” you replied airily, not wasting your breath on a lie that nikolai could surely detect before the sound waves settled, “right after the war ended.”

nikolai chewed on the inside of his cheek anxiously, “but you’ve intentionally chosen past tense to describe these feelings.”

“yes,” you nodded, drawing your lover closer to you by the lapels of his jacket, “always so observant. it’s only of the many things i admire about you.”

nikolai sighed, closing his eyes and letting his blonde curls fall upon your forehead. you brought a hand up to stroke his cheekbone, soaking in the warmth of his skin pressed up against own.

“your strength,” nikolai said after a moment, drawing a hand to your waist, “your perseverance.”

“hmm?” you hummed quietly in question, content to reside with him inside this moment only belonging to the two of you.

“qualities i admire in you, my love,” he smiled after a moment, not entirely to be described as filled with confidence but surety nonetheless.

the flush of color in your cheeks always reminded nikolai of the pink dahlias planted in his favorite corner of the garden. maybe it was because it was where he had first kissed you. he decided that was probably his reason, although he never needed one to justify the beauty of either the memory or girl in front of him now.

too caught up in the memory, nikolai’s lips dipped to yours. you could always grasp a lingering taste of saltwater no matter how far away he was from sea, how many weeks removed. it reminded you of home. it was home.

“i love that you protect me, sobachka” you whispered against his lips, down his jaw and neck.

you did not need the exaggerated tales of your terrifying capabilities to destroy to wear as armor anymore, for you had the best man you had ever known to guard you.

as his hand wove into your hair and the other spiraling lower down your back, your breath hitched in your throat when he answered, “i can do so much more than that, my sea.”

nikolai settled on a simple quip, something guaranteed to make you smile. as a boy, he dreamed of a girl who would laugh at all of his jokes. when he grew, he figured many would be forged, a fallacy to fall in good graces with the king. he had yet to detect a lie within the giggles that left your lips.

the golden haired king would do anything to see you smile. he would pour hours into chasing perfection for you. once, he had even allowed toyla to confer with him about romantic poetry. despite the recitation being quite dreadful, you had laughed the most you had in a long time that day. now, just to catch up with the smallest piece of that magic again, he brought a new poem to you each night.

“i thought that i had seen the most gorgeous sights as sturmhond,” he began, unable to help biting his lip at your smallest quirk of a smile, “the volkvolny showed me how to fall in love with the endless waves at sea.”

you sucked in a breath, immersed in the way he spoke so intentionally. he was entrancing. you loved to hear about his travels before you met him, immersed in his storytelling.

“but none of them were every as beautiful as the ones you make,” he finished with a grin.

instead of reaching up to smack him at the cliche, you ignored your first reaction and instead pulled him closer to you. with your hands tucked against the back of his neck, you allowed your thumb to ruffle his lose and unruly curls. here, he was soft and gentle, untouched by his role.

“our ship had four other tidemakers,” you voiced softly, recalling your betrayal of the darkling after sturmhond’s crew imposed a mutiny, “but you chose me to lead the crew. you told me that was because i was the most powerful, but i certainly wasn’t with the waves. my power was not as practiced with currents.”

“but they were the prettiest,” he chuckled with puppy dog eyes honoring his nickname.

you gaped at this confession, “are you telling me you picked me as a leader during a war because the waves i created were pretty?” the initial seriousness in your tone melted away with every breath.

“i remember calling them the prettiest,” he twisted your hips, swaying you with him, “didn’t help me that the girl that could make them was the most gorgeous one i had ever seen. darling, i’m a prince, so i will inform you now that i have met a lot of people.”

your laughter was more delicate now, trailing off as you found direction in his eyes, “i had not been trusted with currents in years,” your voice softened, “he wanted my power elsewhere. i hated all of it. do you know the only memory i have of my parents is my father guiding the currents with me while we fished outside of town as a child? i was so excited to create like that with my power but all i did was destroy,” fighting back any moisture building in your eyes, you continued, “you gave me that back, nikolai.”

nikolai felt his heart stir inside his chest. he caught up to one of his most favorite smiles of yours. a rarity it was, reserved for the quietest and most understated moments that you could hardly share due to the both of your occupations and temperaments.

“i love every part of you,” nikolai dictated, “every drop of saltwater in the sea could not compare.”

you repeated the phrase before stilling, “well, now you’ve gone and ruined this with another one of toyla’s fictions.”

“ah, ah,” he tsked, “i made that one up myself, love.”

[sodone-withlife]

icarus fell, and blood stained the ground

i'm back!! (but not really—the new school year literally starts in an hour and it will be back to my pathological dependence on academic validation. at least i can say i've technically published another fic before summer break ends)

anyway, here's the fic in response to part 1 of sumayyah's post. i published a companion poem for this some time ago. as per usual, i gave up on proofreading so hopefully any mistakes don't detract from the story. also, i hope the formatting and jumping back and forth between italics makes sense—let me know if it doesn't, though it might be easier to read on ao3 (it should go up on there by 4pm PST because school)

warnings: murder, major character death (may potentially be classified as suicide-by-proxy, depending on your interpretation), guns, canon typical violence, slight gore at the end, mentioned substances

word count: 1.9k words

The damned man thought of everything, Jessica thought as she scowled at the damned folder that sat innocuously on the large mahogany desk.

The desk that would soon be cleared, all traces of the previous owner gone.

She lifted a shaky hand and brushed it through her hair, shuddering at its greasy and unkempt state that hinted at the state she had been in recently. Weary to the bone, she forced herself to sit back up and grab her phone, dialing the number that was written on the sticky note placed on the inside cover of the folder. It didn’t surprise her to hear an unfamiliar female voice answer the phone with a “Ms. Brooks?”

He had thought of everything, after all.

Really, the only thing she was surprised at was the sheer extent of his connections—but thinking back to her phone calls with Haley back when he was still practicing law, the talks about extravagant offers from top corporations and firms, she really wasn’t surprised. Thus, it made sense that her call to the top law firm in the state would be answered within two dial tones and by someone who already knew who she was.

And within minutes of talking with the woman who introduced herself as Ms. Stevens, Jessica became even more aware of just how prepared her brother-in-law had been before he walked to his dea—

Not an in-law anymore—her brother. He had long since earned that designation, that spot in her broken family, no matter how much self-flagellation he put himself through in regards to her sister’s murder and no matter how much abuse her father hurled at him in the years before the man who once viewed him as a son succumbed to dementia.

Hours later, despite having already reached her limit twenty minutes into the call, she finally hung up the phone with only funeral arrangements as an immediate concern. Slowly, she stood up from the chair and mechanically made her way into the tiny bathroom that had once been a familiar sight, when her nephew was still a child—

She forced her mind away from that minefield; she wasn’t willing to spend another sleepless night thinking about what had gone down in the past month, what had happened a week ago in that apartment, what her nephew was doing and thinking in the cell that only seemed to become colder and crueler the more she thought about it.

How many prisons had he visited? How many interrogation rooms, holding cells, general population cells, max security cells, death row cells? Did he ever get used to it? Could he allow himself to get used to it, to forget that these people are also human no matter the crimes they’ve committed?

A careful hand fell onto Jessica’s shoulder, and she shuddered under the warmth that seeped into her body, a warmth that had been lacking from her life for a long time now. She turned to see Morgan staring back at her, concerned.

“You didn’t pick up your phone,” he explained neutrally, flicking his eyes towards her phone—and sure enough, there were ten missed calls, each from a member of the team. She looked back up but avoided his concerned gaze only to latch onto her reflection in the mirror and internally winced at her haggard appearance.

“Did you—“ she coughed, clearing her throat, “have you figured out what happened?” Morgan’s unspoken question about her well-being went unanswered, and she continued to avoid looking at him.

She watched the man shake his head through the mirror, unsurprised and once again cursing her brother for his incessant habit of playing his cards close to his chest, especially when it came to personal issues.

How else is—was—he one of the best at poker in the bureau, often even beating Reid?

“He hasn’t talked, either,” Morgan informed her quietly, saving her the pain of asking the question herself. “Forensics is still struggling to put together a cohesive picture. To be honest, I doubt we’ll ever find out what actually happened in that apartment.” He shook his head, frustrated at the man he considered his brother.

If either of them bothered to ask, they would have found that both were truthfully unsurprised at this outcome, given what they only recently learned about the factors and circumstances that led to it. The few established facts about this case in addition to speculation based on systematically organized notes left in an even more meticulously organized folder painted a clear enough picture of the events preceding the fall.

But it wasn’t really an accidental, flailing fall.

In all truthfulness, he didn’t fight it.

Icarus let himself fall to his death in an attempt to compensate for his hubris, to suffer the consequences of his mistakes, and it was both a cowardly attempt to escape the hellish burns caused by the boiling, melting wax and a selfless attempt to teach posterity to avoid ending up like him.

Jessica remembered the warmth of Morgan’s embrace when he ignored all protocol and took it upon himself to inform her of what had transpired in the past two months, regardless of the still-ongoing investigation. It didn’t do much to soothe the cold that had threatened to swallow her whole as she listened to the details in silent horror.

He had sat her down in her apartment, the one she had taken care of her ailing father in before he finally died and the one she couldn’t bear to move out of for all of the memories that had been formed inside—with her father on his good days, with her brother, with her nephew

“A week ago, we were invited by MPD to consult on a series of killings that happened over the course of a month. We had an eye on the situation since the second murder, and there were two more victims in the span of a week before we were finally called in,” he began quietly.

He had suspicions as to what was happening by the time the team was invited in on the case at the personal request of the MPD chief. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had come across this profile before, but there were simply too many puzzle pieces with matching edges for the connections to be brushed off as a coincidence.

“Based on the rate at which bodies were popping up, we anticipated another one within two days of us being called in, but the killer had gone suspiciously silent. We went through crime scenes, forensic reports, and things weren’t adding up.”

"It’s a local case and we’ve coordinated with MPD multiple times, they know the drill. I’d like to take a personal look as well, the brass has been all up in my business about this case given its proximity to the Hill."

That’s what he said to the team regarding him suddenly taking the initiative to go to the crime scenes despite his responsibilities—it had been a while since he last went out to crime scenes, often taking care of the office politics and coordinating the investigation back at whatever precinct or office the team had taken over.

“There were odd inconsistencies, missing pieces of evidence… There was evidence to show that the killer was an amateur, but ultimately the profile we ended up building was nowhere near as detailed as we hoped it could be—but it ultimately went a long way in helping us figure out what was really happening.”

Old case files going missing from his home office, growing interest in his job, sudden mood swings happening long after the worst of puberty, increased isolation, dropping grades…

Absentee fathers of Georgetown students being stabbed and shot to death as if the killer was unsure about what to do, an innocuous Jack-in-the-Box takeout bag sitting near the last three bodies…

Numerous signs, and yet it was the outwardly irrelevant piece of trash, perhaps a sign of the killer’s gluttony—a sick joke that only he could have recognized—that led him to put all of the horrifying pieces together. It’s been over a decade, and yet the memories of that damned day remained as clear as ever, dogging his every footstep. Nightmares in which the worst happens still often visit him in his sleep, sometimes even combined with the effects of Peter Lewis’s drug concoction, effects lingering even after all these years.

“Somehow, we completely missed the fact that he fit the victimology. Maybe it was because of his efforts to distract us… If we had put it together earlier we might have been able to figure it out much earlier, and maybe everything could have turned out differently.”

Only after intensive counseling and careful editing of his case reports was he allowed to continue in the bureau after Lewis and his targeted attacks, and yet he knew he was still being watched. It was with that thought in mind that he made a decision on how to handle the situation. Either way, his life would be irrevocably changed, and there would be casualties alongside him.

All he had to do was figure out how to minimize them.

“He never came in that morning; Reid was the first to notice the lights off in the office. We were headed towards his apartment complex as soon as we saw a cleared-out office with a retirement letter being the only thing left on the desk. All of the pictures, trinkets, law books, messy stacks of paperwork—gone.”

A retirement letter for formality's sake, one copy emailed directly to the director and one printed on his desk, to simplify some things for the bureau and to ensure that Jessica and his son get his pension should the worst happen. All of his decisions, meticulously recorded and justified, except for this last one to protect the team from the consequences of his choice. All of his notes, all of the claimed evidence, carefully stored in the file box he left next to the retirement letter back in the office. Favors accumulated since law school called in, contacts throughout the local justice system ready to step in and deal with the fallout.

All of this, an attempt to compensate for the mistakes he’s made over the years and his hubris, to protect the remnants of his family and the team.

Morgan couldn’t finish telling Jessica what had happened, voice somehow caught in his throat and refusing to cooperate. He simply shook his head, and she folded in on herself, the weight of the last week too much for her to hold up. Slowly, he pulled her into a hug, rubbing her back but not doing much more to soothe her.

This is a wound that wouldn’t ever heal.

The story ends like this:

Icarus burned, and Aaron Hotchner said nothing as the hand that held the gun against his temple shook with uncertainty. Everything he wanted to say was written—one might call him a coward, but writing had always been so much easier for him—and he knew that he would be the final casualty, that the killings would stop after tonight.

Icarus fell, and Aaron Hotchner was flung sideways, the unyielding bullet from his gun fired by his own son shredding the brain that thought had of everything but the emotional and psychological effects his final decision would have on his family and friends.

Daedalus grieved over his son’s crumpled form, and Jack Hotchner would be found with his father’s dead body in his shaking arms as he stared blankly at sights unseen to the team, who had come hours too late.

Blood stained the ground, seeping into the cracks and crevices of grasping fingers, and nothing would ever be the same.

[lambden]

Here’s some belated Geraskier fic that I finally get to post, as last week’s flash fic challenge has wrapped up! This was originally published anonymously; kudos to those of you who guessed that I was the author. Head to the collection to see the picture prompt that inspired this, as well as view the other works. I've been having a great time participating in fandom events like this; I promise there's more on the way!!! (Read on AO3)

Up To Date

prompt: "You were so hot that when you asked if I was the blind date you were looking for, I lied and said yes. But then your actual date comes up to introduce themselves and I'm so embarrassed."

G, 2.3K words, modern AU, Geralt/Jaskier

It shouldn’t be this difficult to find inspiration. He never used to struggle like this in high school, finding his muse in everyone and everything. Even his mundane trip on the city bus to and from school would give Jaskier hundreds of ideas, for poems too personal to publish or lyrics too deep for his band to use. Back then he had thought he lacked discipline and experience, so the clear choice had been to take his interest in poetry one step further and go to university.

The problem, as he’s now discovering halfway through his second year, is that he maybe hates university. He loves it, of course; he loves the praise from his professors and peers, he loves learning about the history of literature and art. He even loves the academic rivalries that wax and wane every term, and the competitions that ignite a mean streak in him he didn’t know he had.

But his assignments are of worse quality than anything he’s ever written before, and try as he might, they aren’t getting any better. Putting words on the page just to meet a count is impossible for a poet, not when the space and thoughts and images are all supposed to be cohesive. Poems used to flow from him so freely he hadn’t been able to keep track and now his well of motivation has just about run dry.

That’s what led him here, for the third time this week. His creative dysfunction has forced him into the day-to-day habits of an elderly man who spends his days reading in public gardens. It hasn’t helped so far, but maybe this third time will be the charm. Jaskier finds his favorite place: right by the koi pond, next to a strange art installation with ivy crawling along it. He sits at the base of the giant question mark, dropping his backpack onto the bench beside him.

“This better fucking work,” mutters Jaskier to himself and the koi, opening today’s book to a random poem. He refuses to let his mind wander at first, gluing his eyes to the page and reading with intense intent. The first poem he sees is about love.

Groaning, Jaskier flips the page. The next poem is also about love.

The third poem is about war, and Jaskier thinks that might be alright, until he realizes what this long-dead poet is trying to tell him, which is that war is also about love. Because it is, of course, but also of course it is. Jaskier scowls deeply and flips through the book to a random page, hoping to find something to spark inspiration that won’t just make him feel hopeless and single and hopelessly single.

Before Jaskier can get through the title, someone speaks to him, startling him so badly he jumps. “Are you Yennefer’s friend?”

Jaskier scrambles to catch the book by its cover and nearly drops it. He hadn’t even heard anyone approach. “Sorry?”

The stranger audibly sighs, as if Jaskier has inconvenienced him terribly. With all the force of someone announcing their presence at their own death row, he grits out, “I’m here for a blind date she set up. With you.” Jaskier looks up at the man and sees him wearing a blank expression, pointing at the question mark in front of the bench. “By the thing.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, still looking at the man. It takes a second for the words to sink in because the stranger is perhaps the most handsome person Jaskier has ever seen. He could write a thousand poems and still fail to capture his beauty. He has golden eyes, for one, and a sharply chiseled face. Even grimacing like this, his jaw is set in the loveliest way, and his stern brow is framed by platinum white hair, half-tied up. He’s wearing a fairly gloomy outfit for a blind date, but maybe he told whoever Yennefer is that he would be dressed in black. Regardless, he’s making it work.

The gorgeous stranger is still waiting for an answer, scowl worsening as Jaskier tries to make his decision about how the fuck to handle this. Really, there’s no decision at all— he just impulsively takes the leap. All his best ideas come when he’s stumbling forward blind anyway. “Yes,” he finally says, jumping to his feet. “Yes, um, I’m sorry, you caught me off-guard. I’m Jaskier.”

“Geralt.” They’re of a similar height, but Geralt is so much wider. Jaskier wants to climb him like ivy on a question mark. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“It’s fine! I got here a while ago. You know, can’t be too early!” Jaskier has never been early for anything in his life. He sits down again and shoves his books into his bag as quickly as he can. Geralt shifts his weight back and forth between his feet before awkwardly sitting on the bench next to Jaskier, looking out at the garden. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before,” he admits, which is true. His usual lies and schemes are much less chaotic.

Geralt doesn’t reply to that, leaving Jaskier to privately wonder about his dating life. He stares at the plants, giving the impression that he might be hideously nervous. Jaskier has no idea why someone like Geralt would be nervous about anything but it’s an awkward situation, to say the least. Right as Jaskier’s about to suggest they get out of here before Geralt’s real date shows up, the man asks, “What were you reading?”

“I was studying, sort of,” Jaskier says. “I’m a student.” Then abruptly he wonders how much Geralt knows about who he’s supposed to be, and he swallows, pulse racing.

Glancing over, Geralt’s yellow eyes meet his. There’s no obvious doubt there, just a curiosity. “What’s your major?”

“Poetry,” Jaskier grins as their conversation starts to pick up something resembling a rhythm. “What about you, are you in school?”

“No,” says Geralt, cutting his dreams of a normal date conversation short. “Are you any good? At writing poetry?”

What a weirdo. Jaskier’s heart thrums. “I’d like to think so!” This, at least, is something he knows how to talk about. Except, of course, it isn’t really the truth. “Well… recently, I’ve been in a bit of a creative rut. Just waiting for the right burst of inspiration to come along.” Perhaps this blind date that he’s stolen will suffice, but he doesn’t say that. “This place is great for that, actually. I mean, it hasn’t worked yet, but I’m sure any day those fish will sing for me.”

Geralt blinks. Jaskier feels a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck. He tries a different tactic, crossing his ankles and asking politely, “Are you a reader? What kind of things do you enjoy?”

“Nonfiction,” Geralt answers, slightly stilted. His gaze drifts over to the plants once more. “Not biographies, more like… encyclopedias and field journals. I like field journals.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says, shrinking into himself. This is going terribly. “I’ll have to go bribe some scientists for their field journals, then.” The corner of Geralt’s lip twitches, and Jaskier’s stomach flips. Gorgeous and weird and maybe, although he’s trying his best to hide it behind seven layers of nerves, maybe a little amused by Jaskier. Jaskier is going to fuck him right here in the garden. “Do you take journals of your own for work?”

A rather roundabout way of asking ‘what the fuck is it that you do’ but somehow, it lands. “I’m a… researcher,” Geralt mumbles. How very vague. “But I don’t publish my findings very often.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Do you work… for a company?”

“No.”

“Right. So you’re just keeping all your findings to yourself for no good reason at all.”

“No.”

“Then it sounds like you’re a pretty terrible researcher, actually.”

Geralt’s eyes flash as he turns to glare at Jaskier. “What?”

“Well, if you don’t share what you’ve found with anyone—”

“My… colleagues—”

“Aha! So you have colleagues!” Jaskier pokes Geralt’s side. “You aren’t just holed up in some depressing storage unit with months and months of research just for you.”

Once more, Geralt half-smirks. Not even half— more like a one-fifth smirk. “Years,” he admits.

“Years…” Jaskier tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “Why do I have the feeling that you’re perhaps a significant number of years older than me?”

“I had the same thought when I saw you sitting here,” Geralt mumbles.

Jaskier snorts. “Seems like something Yennefer should have warned us about, perhaps. I would ask you directly how old you are, but I’m fairly certain that the only response I will get is a very gruff no.”

“No,” says Geralt, nearly smiling.

Making a show of pouting, Jaskier folds his arms over his chest. “Is that your favorite word?”

“No.” Geralt breaks into laughter as he repeats himself, and his whole face lights up with it. Jaskier laughs too, delighted by how joyous Geralt looks. He’s even more beautiful when he’s happy like this, and Jaskier wants very badly for this not to be their last date. “If I tell you my favorite word, you’re bound to judge me for it, as a poet.”

“As a poet, I swear not to mock you,” Jaskier raises his hand to cover his heart, barely restraining himself from grinning.

But before Geralt can share whatever it is, someone else approaches their bench. A second stranger— a woman about his height with short brown hair, wearing a pretty blouse. Jaskier notices her much more quickly than he’d noticed Geralt, and he makes the connection instantly. This can’t possibly end well.

“Oh, Yen wasn’t kidding,” says the stranger, eyeing Geralt. “You are very distinctive!”

Geralt stares back at her, slack-jawed for a moment. “What?”

“I’m Renfri,” Geralt’s date introduces herself. Jaskier wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole, especially when she glances over at him. Her gaze slides back to Geralt, as does Jaskier’s, and yeah, he is very fucking distinctive with that white hair and those yellow eyes. Damn. “My friend Yennefer set us up for a blind date…?”

As Jaskier contemplates throwing himself into the koi pond, Geralt twists to stare at him. Jaskier can only imagine how mortified he must look right now; his face burns as both Renfri and Geralt look his way. Perhaps Renfri will figure it out before Geralt says anything; she looks like a smart woman.

But Geralt just gets up, dusting himself off and shaking his head. “No,” he tells Renfri, which would almost be funny if it weren’t the weirdest thing Jaskier has ever seen anyone do. Then Geralt leaves, turning to walk away from both of them, leaving Jaskier and Renfri alone together in the garden. Renfri frowns, watching him go with obvious increasing confusion. Jaskier also jumps to his feet, equally confused but determined not to lose sight of Geralt.

He chases the man— and it does feel like a chase, Geralt must be fucking speed-walking away— and finally tracks him down well outside the garden. Geralt is thundering down a set of stairs leading to a parking lot and he doesn’t stop at the sound of Jaskier careening towards him. Only when Jaskier desperately calls his name does he finally stop, slowing until he reaches the bottom landing and then standing there, still.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier calls down the stairs, breathless. He begins to descend them but Geralt doesn’t turn around. “Fuck, you’re fast! Shit. I’m sorry, Geralt.”

Without looking his way, Geralt complains, so quietly that Jaskier nearly misses it, “Yennefer is going to kill me.”

“I would have fucked off,” Jaskier says quickly, hurrying down the rest of the steps until he gets to the bottom. Geralt still doesn’t look at him so Jaskier slides none-too-gracefully into his space, demanding his attention. He’s hardly red in the face or anything, but he looks embarrassed. Jaskier crumbles. “I’m sorry. I— seriously, I don’t care, I would have fucked off. I should’ve left, I should’ve— You should go back there, she’s beautiful!”

Geralt’s nostrils flare but he doesn’t look away. “Why did you lie,” he demands, flat.

“Well,” Jaskier deflates. “Um. You’re beautiful.”

“Hmm.”

“I really am sorry,” he offers.

Geralt, still watching him closely, says, “You don’t sound sorry.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jaskier throws his hands in the air, breaking away from Geralt’s stare— in the greenhouse, surrounded by bright lights and open, manmade nature, it had been easy to sit under the weight of Geralt’s eyes on him. Down here, at the end of a staircase and the entrance to a dark garage, chest still heaving, it feels too intimate. He puts some distance between them, sighing. “You want me to go back there and explain the whole situation to poor Renfri?”

When Jaskier finally turns around again, Geralt’s gaze hasn’t left him. “I want you to come have dinner with me instead,” he says, slowly but purposefully.

“Oh,” breathes Jaskier. “That’s— well, if you want that.”

“I already made a reservation for two. My name’s on the list.” Geralt is fidgeting with the end of his sleeve at first but when he approaches Jaskier he drops it, striding forward without hesitating. “Table for Geralt and one young brunet friend of Yennefer’s.”

Jaskier chokes on his own surprised laugh. “I don’t actually know Yennefer,” he needlessly explains.

“She’s going to hate you,” says Geralt, half-smirking, and then he adds, “Well, she’ll hate both of us now.”

They get to the restaurant twenty minutes late, Geralt’s hair mussed up and lips a bitten red and Jaskier wearing his backpack and a shit-eating grin. The host sees them and immediately tells them their table has been cancelled, and they end up getting terrible two-dollar slices from a hole-in-the-wall pizza place. They eat on the way back to Geralt’s car and then he drives Jaskier back to campus, kissing him soundly in the door to his apartment until Priscilla comes home and yells at Jaskier to get a room. As they squabble Geralt apologizes, polite and nervous, and kisses Jaskier’s cheek and tells him it was nice to meet him.

Jaskier goes inside and spends the next thirteen hours writing the best poetry he will ever write.

[kuboism]

Bleach Canon Vs. Studio Clown Episode 1

Intro to the series

WARNING: Long read but theres plenty of pictures

The first deviation we’re greeted with is what the anime presents as the arrival of hollows into the human world. With a likely artistic rendition of them forming from the shadows of Hueco Mundo and dripping/bleeding over into the human world like splotches of ink, after which they disappear - unable to be perceived by humans.

A/N: Which, kubos to the anime, is rather neat.

The anime also decided to incorporate the first volume poem which is the thematic beginning and a great establisher of the mood/themes of Bleach, which roughly translates to: 

我らは 姿無きが故に それを畏れ

“We fear that which cannot be seen”

And then they curiously add a line to this poem? 

姿無き故に敬う

”We revere that which cannot be seen"

A/N: Which, initially seems on brand with the spiritualism of that “which is not seen” - the shinigami, DEATH itself if you will. However, unlike the themes of “fear” and “fear of death/the unseen”, “reverence” is not really a theme prevalent or definitive for bleach. Reverence is not particularly reserved for death or death gods, but antagonists with themes of divinity/the Soul King himself, but I digress.

Next off the bully scene has a couple of missing/reworded lines, as well as some of the delivery changed, but overall it’s not significant enough to mention.

I also wish they’d kept Ichigo’s shit yourself scary face from this moment right here, since it really underlines how serious and personally invested Ichigo is in bringing small justice to the souls of the departed, but I can only pray a future remake does include it.

^ I am disappointed in y’all :/

vs.

v Karma delivery, bitch

Then for some reason the next scene is changed significantly:

In the manga, it builds up slowly to Ichigo’s reveal of supernatural abilities with the iconic TM character profile intros (which I can see why weren’t recreated in the anime, but I sure wish they put them in....)

with him spooking the bullies off with the ghost girl right behind him

Versus his scary face doing the job instead.....

It’s a small change, and I can see why it would be opted for - we don’t really know if they even saw the ghost in the first place (then again you could argue that would spook them anyway). There is a tonal difference in the long run though. The manga emphasizes once again *why* ichigo is scolding them in the first place - he sees the people disrespected by them knocking down the vase, he wants them to acknowledge their actions *because* in his mind, there are real victims he knows from it. While in the anime, since the ghost is not yet introduced, it feels more like “you are disrespectful to the dead” in a more generalized way vs. him actually being acquainted with the dead and treating them like the living. 

(Again, not sure why change it so much at all........the suspense and reveal are in the manga just the same.... but ok)

As well as cutting off this small moment where you can see Ichigo’s very human (and cute!) interactions with the ghosts. To him they’re just as real as the living, and he lends them a hand whenever they ask for help.

Also lmfao this 4kids level of censorship.....

It goes on rather faithfully for a while, no significant omissions, then Pierrot decides to randomly replace Yuzu’s lines with Karin??

Manga:

Anime: 

Which is an odd choice, given that not only does Yuzu sense ghosts just fine (albeit at a much lesser level than her family) and that later comes into play with Fishbone & Grandfisher, but Karin literally later admits that she doesn’t even want to acknowledge their presence, so why the change....?

They also cut short Karin’s little talk about Ichigo’s stats, which is a fair change for screentime’s sake, but mentioned for the record.

There’s a bit of a divergence with Yuzu lore, when the manga explicitly states she sees them, but not “clearly”, the anime focuses on her barely sensing them. I guess it doesn’t matter that much in the long run, since she is not that prevalent in the story, but it’s here for the record nonetheless.

Anime: 

vs. 

Manga:A

Also this next bit was removed, probably for the sake of pacing (which, totally fair!!), but it’s funny and I love the Kurosaki family so here it is:

It does make the flow a bit better in the manga, since this talk of selling his talents distracts Ichigo and creates an opening for his father to strike, in the anime, the same is done with Ichigo just randomly saying 

and thats where his father attacks him, which isnt really an issue, just kind of funny of how the manga is like:

Ichigo’s distracted by his sisters plotting to sell him out and hence Isshin has his chance to strike back

vs the anime being like:

Ichigo randomly thinks about dinner mid convo about ghosts and thats what distracts him from play-fighting with his dad 

gfdkhlgfdg okayyyy....moving on 

In the manga this scene is interspliced with Ichigo’s inner monologue about the nature of his powers (with hip jargon like “for real” courtesy of Viz ) 

(but my beef with Viz translations are for another day)

Also the line about “He told me more ghosts than ever have been haunting me” has been given to Karin for some reason, probably to make her feel more included in the scene/Ichigos life.

Notably, Isshin’s response is changed from “What?! He talks about stuff like that with you (Yuzu, singular)” to “What?! He talks about stuff like that with you guys?” as well, again probably to include Karin more into the dialogue. (Mmmm ok....)

Minor detail, but Karin’s lines has been changed to more “boyish” speech structure in the Japanese dub, which may seem insignificant, but ...... that is for later. 

.....

This little exchange

 is replaced with: 

Which, seems innocuous adaptation differences, but Yuzu’s lines keep decreasing and it’s a short enough moment to like....include and establish how motherly Yuzu is acting towards Ichigo.....but ok...huh. 

And now we get into the big boy changes.

So, probably for the sake of grounding the supernatural element of the series, the anime decided to skip time to the next morning and introduce the hollow attacks with a news report.

Which.....is an interesting choice. I am assuming this is addressing how the real world perceives the hollow attacks, which Bleach doesn’t put too much effort into addressing, but very soon after this we learn about stuff like memory replacement and other various technology to keep things under wraps so this is either redundant or implying that shinigamis have not been doing their job, which hm......

Next off is the bizarre choice to paint Isshin out of the picture for the night

Not sure why, but ok

Again, where’s the shinigami with their Kikanshinki (memory replacement devices)??? Pierrot where’s the lore coherence......

Anyway, Ichigo goes to replace the girl’s vase, but suprise-surprise she’s gone-zo. Wonder what happened to her.....

(And....again, people vehemently don’t want a reboot when the anime looks like this? )

So Ichigo hears a scream and a hollow scream and follows the sound (Ok?).

Totally random hollows attack. Which Ichigo somehow has never seen so far? Mind you, this isn’t like in the manga, where Fishbone was sent by Aizen specifically after Ichigo to make him aware of it. These are random-ass hollows attacking people, so how come Ichigo suddenly sees them. Ya coulda played it safe Pierrot, and stuck to the book, but we got plot inconsistencies episode one so let’s party.

The girl is, of course, not eaten and they run away.

She trips at the most inconvenient moment. (can ghosts trip? Ghost don’t even have legs in japanese lore and Kubo draws them floating around so okkkkkkkk)

(ok ok, im just being petty, bUT YKNOW)

(convenient tripping on deadass levelled ground is convenient)

(also God I really want that bag Ichigo’s got on his shoulder, it looks so nice)

Random-ass hollow closes in and 

BOOM

Rukia

(Now, if the rest of Bleach and the manga didn’t exist I would like this moment. We get a glimpse into Rukia’s abilities, into shinigami as a concept and we don’t really get to see her slice and dice hollows that much overall so the moment itself is rad in isolation.

Now, unfortunately for Pierrot’s screenwriters, Bleach manga exists and so does it’s lore, which again, would not be inconsistent with each other if the adapation was faithful. Now, Ichigo sees a shinigami, for some reason, for the first time in his 15 years of life. All of a sudden. 

You could argue, that much like in the manga, this is all part of Aizen’s plan TM, but like, she literally leaves right after leaving Ichigo gaping in awe ghfkjgdf. Why’d Aizen give him an appetizer, I really don’t understand how this change is benefitting the narrative in any way. It’s ....dare I say....generic.)

Rukia yeets the hollow

(why is this kid suddenly not wearing shoes?)

and goes off on her merry way, leaving Ichigo shooketh

ALSO RUKIA MA’AM THERES A FUCKING STRAY GHOST RIGHT AT YOUR RIGHT????? ISNT IT YOUR LIKE....JOB.......... TO HELP GHOSTS MOVE ON??? i know killing hollows is the fun part, but like ghjkfdlgfd ??? are you gonna ignore her???

( his fucking face ghfjdkgdlfgfd)

So after this wholeass pointless detour (you’ll see why it’s pointless in a moment)  we timeskip again (the filler is strong in this one. These 6 minutes were worth not coming up with something cohesive and removing scenes that actually make sense ah yes)

Ichigo is in deep thought TM about who tf is the stranger he’d just seen. Likely mulling over the monsters and how this person was able to slay said monsters. Probably thinking how unusual they are.

and as if on cue

the stranger makes their presence once more

(my God these faces gfhgkldfg)

....

Now let’s briefly address what happens in the manga instead.

Instead of the whole timeskip scene with the fight, Ichigo simply returns to his room on the same day, and oddly enough recognizes the species of the butterfly he sees? (nerdy boi! nerdy!! boi!)

rukia arrives much the same

(With the little text emphasizing how he’d never been aware of soul reapers, which is unsurprising given their secrecy, and makes sense in the long run since their first meeting is specifically orchestrated by Aizen. Two species that werent meant to interact brought together by his schemes.)

Back to the anime:

Ichigo pauses to ponder who tf they are and why the fuck they’re there.

and then the anime has the gall to suddenly revert to sticking to the manga, which like.... Ichigo kicks her for no reason? I guess because she isn’t answering? Even though Ichigo knows she has a sword and can wield it? Reckless boy.

Manga Ichigo thinks she’s a burglar, therefore, unsurprisingly, is comfortable kicking her outta his house. It’s a silly moment, but it also shows how accustomed or stupidly brave he is with the supernatural.

In the anime Ichigo asks her who she is instead of all that, and she responds pretty similarly to the manga

AND THE NEXT SCENE IS WHERE IT CLICKS WHY THEY WENT OUT OF THEIR WAY TO REMOVE ISSHIN FROM THE HOUSE.

(Ichigo and Rukia addressing the pointless filler, this leads nowhere)

Rukia check him out like she’s checking if the oranges on sale dont have mold on them 

slapstick ensues

and Rukia decides to answer his question.

Vs. the manga in which Isshin doesn’t leave his children home alone for some random conference and is actually used very efficient for two reasons:

1) building up on the burglar gag with actually funny slapstick that is based on a previously established joke

2) Instead of Rukia just saying “oh usually people can’t see me”, we get an actual demonstration of it, the reader gets to see “oh Isshin can’t see her - she must be a spiritual entity,” which further clicks with her surprised reaction at him being able to kick her in the first place.

The next scene is the classique Pierrot censorship.

Ghost girl runs away from what I’m assuming is Fishbone.

Aside from not showing her get eaten, the scene is pretty much delivering the same message, 

bUT

BECAUSE OF THE STUPID ASS FILLER WITH THEM MEETING RUKIA BEFORE THIS, I CAN ACCUSE RUKIA OF NEGLIGENCE.

UNLIKE THE MANGA, where Rukia arrives the night before and is specifically seeking Fishbone, therefore having no time to help this girl pass away, 

This vvvvvvv

could have been prevented if SOMEONE DID THEIR FUCKING JOB THE DAY BEFORE VVVVVVV

(I rest my case. Thank you Pierrot for making Rukia either negligent or an idiot. Awesome, And mind you, these changes were unnecessary. The manga’s pacing is fine. They could’ve extended scenes. But nope, had to go for making them meet beforehand.)

Anyway, we get to see some actual stakes in the manga

The next scene which is this in the manga 

has two changes to it. Firstly, obviously Isshin being consoled by Yuzu isn’t included since he isn’t home in the anime, and even if he were, I can see why that would be removed, cute as it may be.

And secondly, due to them having met prior Ichigo asks two additional questions:

And Rukia nods at both, which means she acknowledges that she had seen the girl the hollow was after and yet did nothing to help her pass on. 

(Reminder the Bleach anime was in production WAAAAY past the first 4 volumes, which gave a good general idea of the series, which y’know, was fine to adapt as is.

You’ll see these changes add up into becoming inconsistent with further Bleach lore. There’s a reason people call Bleach a hot mess, and I’m afraid Kubo ain’t really it.)

(Volume 14 Note from Kubo where he talks about the anime being announced)

Back to the series

Pet peeve time: Wish the anime was half as expressive as the manga

These scenes are supposed to represent

This panel:

(Nitpicking? Perhaps, but idc)

So uh, this scene is odd

Again, because of the addition of that filler with the hollow

Ichigo has seen her in action

And they even added Rukia trying to convince him 

even though, yknow???

LITerally the previous day???

Anyway  in the manga, where Ichigo has reason to be distrustful of her and her claims since y’know hes never seen her or a shinigami in action, but has enough proof that she’s a ghost bc his dad didn’t see her, he simply dismisses her before she can reply, and instead of just getting angry for being called a pipsqueak

she shows both Ichigo and the audience proof of her spiritual powers by binding Ichigo and forcing him to quietly listen to her explanations.

(To reiterate - Anime Rukia  has to verbally try to convince Ichigo WHO SAW HER FIGHT A HOLLOW THE OTHER DAY that shes no ordinary ghost. And because of that, she has no other reason to use Sai on him other than that shes mad she was called a pipsqueak bc she just tried to verbally convince him shei is a shinigami. When they could just adapt the manga and have her both demonstrate her powers and put him in his place at the same time. Wild.)

Also CRIMINALLY BORING SHOT, WITH CRIMINALLY BORING RUKIA

#NotMyRukia

LOOK AT THE MANGA

LOOK AT HER SMUGLY OWNING ICHIGO’S IGNORANT ASS #FuckYeahRukia

Also the subs may not show it if you’re watching it on Netflix, but anime Rukia says “I am not allowed to lay my hands on humans outside orders,” which like, you ARE LITERALLY DOING THAT. Manga Rukia is fine with bullying Ichigo, but she draws a line at killing him, but man Anime Rukia, you give no fucks about the laws huh.

why so cheerful?

(also Rukia be right tho)

(specifcally compared to hell you could say Soul society is a resftul place lmfao)

Also anime salary man gets to rest in peace, even like, pray and shit

Meanwhile the manga

YEET TO SOUL SOCIETY

(also notice how we’ve been robbed of ichigo’s silly socks

I swear the anime knows how to suck the soul out of the manga 

Get it? Soul! haha ....moving on.)

Really Rukia? One of your jobs?

GUESS YOU WERE OFF DUTY HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(I’M SORRY BUT LIKE, SEE HOW POINTLESS THIS FILLER IS UGH!!!)

(Again pet peeve but look at how ugly this screen is COMPARED TO THE MANGA)

(What have they done to you, queen)

(also they never mention the name Konso ( or as Viz calls it here -”soul funeral”, thanks Viz)

Next on, not a pet peeve, but an observation:

Anime Rukia keeps her sketchbook in her kimono

Manga Rukia keeps it at the titty

Yep, which you neglected to do the day before,

she literally says “With the konso I did just a  moment ago” like she used the word before. Like you can contextually get it, but why cut that line out of the dialogue if you don’t change the next line it’s referenced in?

There’s also a dialogue change from the manga’s well, Viz uses “vaporize” which is not a bad choice given the specific wording Kubo uses, but the original says 

昇華 • 滅却

sublimate/convert • extinguish

which is a clever little nod/foreshadowing to the nature of souls in bleach and that they can be “converted” in and out of a hollowfied state. 

While the anime just says “to slay hollows”, and albeit it lacks the little nod the manga has to offer, I can’t see how they’d include it in the anime at that stage so I’m fine with them simplifying it to like, an exorcism.

A better question then Rukia - WHY DIDN’T YOU SEND OFF HER SOUL????

also WAIT THE GIRL IS STILL ALIVE?? she’s dead-dead by this point in the manga.

BULLSHIT !!!  YOU LITERALLY EXPLAIN LATER WHY!! ACTUALLY YOU EXPLAINED EARLIER WHY!!! YOU LITERALLY SAID THIS, 1 MINUTE AGO :

Anyway, Fishbone almost grants her the priviledge of escaping this God-awful anime, but is suddenly stopped?

AND CAN TALK??

wait WHY DOES FISHBONE TALK?? GHFJD isnt this supposed to be  a juicy reveal for later when Ichigo realizes “hey theyre not actual complete monsters - but used to be humans!” Hm, ok.

Also leaves her alone? Damn ok...

Reminder:

Moooving on...

Speaking of the manga, this little moment is missing:

Since there is no pointless filler that would make him ask about the ghost girl therefore exposing Rukia’s slacking off of her duty, Ichigo realizes that there must be a hollow nearby bc in the manga he actually has braincells to spare. 

Also wiping off the Baron’s moustache moment is gone 😢

Missing and dearly missed is also this moment, which consolidates how protective Ichigo is of his family. He only needs to hear Yuzu scream to click that the hollow is nearby and his family is in danger. I feel like anime Ichigo should be even more worried since his sisters are alone but ok??

Also foreshadows their dynamic of Rukia trying to stop his reckless attempts at pushing himself to protect his family, bc yknow....she has her own Kaien trauma to process.

Next off....

This is .... a choice....

They were very eager to give Yuzu’s lines to Karin just a couple of moments ago but now this whole exchange:

Where we see a very pragmatic yet soft side of Karin

She doesn’t know what is happening, and doesn’t expect her brother to fight it - he just wants him to be safe, because she loves her family. At least warn him before it gets to him and hurts him.

is replaced with this:

Yuzu, sweetie, what do you think he can do to achieve that.

I guess at least Anime Ichigo tries to get Rukia to do her job as she looks down on Yuzu in silence. 

But compare it to the manga:

#MyRukia stops by Karin to check for a pulse and reassures Ichigo that his sister is alive.

Manga Ichigo is NUMBER ONE oniichan in town and doesnt have time to call out to a stranger to save his family - HES BEYOND READY TO GO FIGHT, RECKLESS AS IT IS, EVEN THOUGH HIS OWN FAMILY BEGS HIM TO JUST RUN. because he cant let himself be unable to protect them. He cant live with himself if he doesnt try his darnest to protect them.

*elevator music playing as ichigo tries to get rukia’s attention but she fucks off downstairs, but instead of doing shit he just does the worm on the floor*

which I guess is more realistic for a teenage boy, but Ichigo is literally traumatized by being unable to protect a family member. Y’all think a ghost he’s never seen before is gonna stop him? 

Yooo, pathetic. #NotMyIchigo

[illfoandillfie]

Easy As A-B-C

Pairing: Professor!Gwilym Lee x Reader

Summery:  Professor Lee is getting sick of marking papers, you offer an alternative. One where he doesn't need to think at all.

Warnings: SMUT (18+), unprotected sex, bimbofication (without hypnosis), oral sex (m and f receiving), hand job, light dom/sub dynamic, dom!reader, sub!Gwil, overstimulation, maybe a little bit of hair pulling

Words: 4,537

A/N: This was massively massively inspired by my love @dracoladon​ and her Drarry fic Lucid (seriously, go read it because she’s a much better writer than me and also sex dumb Draco is hhhhhhh). Reading it made me want to write more himbo fics but without all the hypnosis stuff thats in my Future Management series. Then I got talking to @peachydeacon​ about himbo!Rog which led to talking about himbo!Gwil and this fic is the result of our discussion lmao. It was also partly inspired by a post on a porn blog that popped up on my dash but I can’t link to that because tumblrs dumb. 

Also, it is a professor gwil fic but set after reader has graduated so it’s all above board lmao

Blurb Advent: Day 24

Taglist:  @vee-ndetta @atomic-watermelon @kellypenac @labessieisallama​ @deakyclicks​ @jennyggggrrr​ @drowseoftaylor​ @hannafuckingsucks​ @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming​ @queenmylovely​ @ilovequeenmorethanyou​ @johndeaconshands​ @borhapbois​ @stardust-galaxies​ @cherries-n-rocknroll​ @rogersslave​ @scorpiogemini 

Gwilym looked unreasonably hot while he was grading papers, his brow knitted, wearing a look of serious concentration made all the more noticeable by the reading glasses sliding down his nose. His loose tie and the undone top buttons of his business shirt lent him a casually dishevelled air, and that wasn’t even mentioning the way he absentmindedly twisted his pen between his fingers as he read and reread sentences he was struggling to understand, occasionally pausing to underline something or write a note in the margins. It all painted a very sexy image, the kind of serious sexy only a professor could achieve, though this sexiness was nowhere near new. You’d found his manner oddly arousing even when he’d been your professor. Of course, that had been a few years ago and well before you’d had your chance encounter in the local second hand bookstore that led you to ask him out. He’d stuttered out something about never having even thought of you as more than his student and “really I feel almost as if I’ll get in trouble for the conversation as soon as I get back to campus.” But the awkwardness soon changed when you confessed to having had a minor crush on him back in the day and having since hoped to run into him. He seemed more open to the idea of dinner with you after that and, if you were being honest, more cocky too, but cocky in a decidedly dignified and charming way. Anyway, one thing led to another and now here you were somewhere close to a year and half later and you were struggling not to stare at Gwil as he graded papers and looked professor-ally disarrayed and hot.

You knew it was something to do with the Romantic era poets that the students had to write about because he’d read a question out to you earlier to get your opinion of if it was confusingly worded. “No, I don’t think so,” “Then why in god’s name do none of my students get it?” he looked about ready to hit his head against the desk until he passed out but he returned to the topmost paper with a sigh and ruffled hair from where he’d run his hand through it. That’s when you’d started trying not to stare. A tall order when all you could think about was dragging Gwil to the bedroom and ravishing him enough to make him forget all about John Keats and poetry and the English language itself. Not that that was exactly hard. No, Gwilym had a tendency to get a little dazed and confused when you really gave it to him. Sex drunk you’d decided to call it. A transformation that you quite delighted in witnessing and causing. Gwil was sharp as a tack usually, always ready with some obscure fact or quote from literature. It was part of what made him such a good teacher, his memory for all things bookish, as well as his approachable (if a little stern) demeanour and his determination to get the best from his students. But it wasn’t hard to shut down his brain, cloud his memory and entirely befuddle him. One time you’d snuck into the bathroom at the restaurant you’d gone to for dinner and poor Gwilym had become so spaced out he’d spilt half a glass of wine in his lap and then walked into the glass door as you left, even with you leading him by the hand. You supposed that what they said about great power and responsibility was true. All the same, it was a fun power to wield and you knew that, with the right sort of attention, you could have Gwilym babbling incomprehensible gibberish with no memory of what a poem even was, which was surely something he’d appreciate right about now.

You blinked yourself from your reverie as, finally, Gwil set his glasses aside and rose from his seat, groaning as he stretched out the stiffness in his back. He rolled his neck back and forth, your eyes following, before letting his shoulders drop and moving to sit next to you on the couch. “I can’t do it anymore, I can’t read another word about Byron or I’ll loose it.” He sighed, draping an arm around your shoulders and leaning into your neck. “Byron? I remember that assignment. Everyone hated you for it,” His breath was warm against your skin as he spoke, sending a tingle down your spine, “Well if this year’s lot is anything to go by, the feeling was probably mutual,” “Mmm, I remember one girl saying she was going to shove her copy of Don Juan up your arse if she didn’t pass,” He lifted his head again and laughed, “And yet my rectum remains Byron fee and no other injuries befell me, so either I taught you enough to get by or you were all a bunch of cowards,” “Bit of both probably. And why would this year’s be any different, huh?” “I don’t know, you haven’t read any of their attempts at cohesive analysis. Some of them are just throwing out terms like allusion and anapestic and personification all willy-nilly, clearly without properly understanding them. ” “I think you’re being too harsh on them. They’re first years after all and it’s not always easy to understand all that poncy poetical bullshit. Plus, you know it all already so of course everyone else seems stupid to you,” “Maybe,” he conceded, though it seemed to take some effort. “Honestly, someone should put you in their position, see how well you go with it,” “Yeah? And who would do something like that?” Gwilym laughed as you shifted to straddle his lap, accepting the kiss you offered, “You?” “Maybe I will. Spell personification for me,” “You know it’s not high school English, right. We don’t do pop quizzes on spelling and grammar.” “I know you don’t, but this is my subject and I’m testing spelling. Besides,” you let your hand drop between you, brushing lightly over the front of his pants, “I promise it’ll be fun.” Gwil gave a half-hearted eye roll, “P-E-R-S-O-N-I-F-I-C-A-T-I-O-N, personification. D’you want me to use it in a sentence too?” You knew he’d get it right. Gwil always had been good at spelling off the top of his head which you supposed was a side effect of all his reading and the years devoted to the written word. But it was still a little annoying. Mostly because he was being a bit of a tool about the whole thing, but it didn’t help that you’d grown quite wet thinking about how you’d like to have him, like to turn him into the fucked out airhead you’d seen before. You shook your head and tutted at him as if he got it wrong. “No, that’s definitely it. I’ve just read it about a hundred times, I know I’m right. P-E-R-S-O-N-I-F-I-C-A-T-I-O-N,” he spelt it faster that time, trying to prove that you were wrong. “Try allusion for me,” “A-L-L-U-S-I-O-N,” Right again. You sighed as if you were disappointed. Gwilym raised his eyebrows but said nothing. “What about caesura?” “C-E-A-S-U-R-A,” The mistake was an easy one to make, two letters flipped around the wrong way, and you could tell he knew it was wrong as soon as he’d said it. He was surprised when you leant forward to kiss him again, cupping his jaw with one hand as you dropped the other and slowly pulled down the zip on his work pants. “But I fucked up,” he said softly, eyes still closed as you pulled away a few centimetres. You just smiled as you thought of a new word, “Anapestic,” It was another word Gwil had mentioned as seeing in his student’s essays so you knew it would be fresh in his mind and he proved as much when he spelt it, “A-N-A-P-E-S-T-I-C,” He was right of course, so you tutted and pulled your hand away from his crotch, grabbing his chin with your other and forcing him to look at you, “You can do better than that.” His features shifted at the sudden loss of contact, the look of concentration returned once more. If anything, your much closer proximity to the expression made him seem all the more hot but you resisted the urge to give in and drag him to the bedroom, curious if he’d catch onto your little game now and, equally so, to see if he’d play along, “Try Onomatopoeia.” A longer word gave him more chances to get things wrong but would his pride and his brain allow that? Apparently so. “O-N-O-M-” Gwil paused and thought for a second, his eyes narrowed as his looked at you, “O-N-O-M-A-T-O-P-I-A,” the last three letters were said with such deliberate diction that you knew he’d figured it out. “Good boy,” you said, letting your hands slip inside his undone pants to massage his dick. His hips jolted at the contact and he let his hands fall to your arse, squeezing. “What about, dactyl?” His reply was instant, unthinking, and totally correct, “D-A-C-T-Y-L,” You clicked your tongue condescendingly as you once again removed your hands from him. “Fuck,” “Well that’s what happens when you get things wrong, honey, and such an easy one too,” “I didn’t get it wro- fine, give me another,” You smiled, unable to hide how delighted you were that he was interested in following your rules, even if it was just his competitive streak rearing its head to show that he could out smart you, “Assonance,” Gwilym spelt the word slowly and carefully, making sure to only say one ‘s’ and to leave off the ‘e’. And you made sure to reward him for it, shuffling backwards on his lap so you could shimmy his pants down his thighs and wrap your hand around his cock. He raised an eyebrow at you but otherwise made no comment as he leant back in his seat to enjoy the attention. “Romanticism,” Once again Gwilym was careful with his spelling, intentionally replacing the ‘c’ with a double ‘s’ but that was the kind of behaviour you wanted to encourage so you kept stroking him off, twisting your wrist, dragging your thumb over his flushed tip. It must have felt good with the way he was sighing, shifting his shoulders as if to move his whole body closer to yours. “So clever baby, what about,” you paused, dredging up memories of poetry analysis and the words you used to have burned into your brain but which you’d not had much use for recently, “Enjambment” “Ummm, E-N,” Gwil hummed as you leant over him and let a trail of spit drip onto his cock, using your hand to spread it over his length, “Enjamb-ment, uh, E-N-J-A- no E, no A, M-E-N-T,” You leant into his ear and spoke softly, “That’s right, being so good for me, so clever. What should I do next though? Ride you? Or maybe suck you off? Or just keep doing this?” “Uh,” Gwilym shook his head a little as if to clear it, “mouth? Please?” “Of course, baby. If you can spell dissonance for me.” You were quietly confident that he’d get the spelling wrong, already noticing the first sign of his impending brainlessness, extra filler words where he’d normally not need them. It was funny though, usually he wouldn’t reach that stage until he was much closer to nutting. “D-I-S” he rushed through the first three letters and then stopped, biting his lip, “T-um, A-N-E-N-C-E.” You were sure the errors in that word were less intentional than the previous few and, as promised, slipped off his lap and settled yourself between his legs, pulling his pants off so he could spread them wider for you. You held eye contact as you let your tongue trail along the underside of his cock, tracing along a vein, though you couldn’t help but smile as he groaned above you. “Can you spell Decasyllable for me?” you asked before closing your lips around the head of his cock. “What? Oh, um, D-E-C-K- fuck,” he broke off as you swirled your tongue around his tip. “Fuck’s not a letter, baby,” you sank down on him again, bobbing a little lower. “I know, um, Deck-syllable, D-E-C-K-A-S-Y-B-L-E, I think. Is that right?” In answer you hummed and took him a little deeper, pushing his shirt up towards his chest. Gwilym took the hint and pulled it off before he grabbed your hair, leaning his head against the back of the couch. For a moment you just focused on sucking him off, listening to his shallow breathing and whiny groans. But you weren’t finished with your game yet.

“Epigraph?” you asked before bobbing down on him again, pushing yourself to take him deeper still. Gwilym remained silent as you gagged and pulled back from him again to breath freely. “Well?” “What did you say?” “Epigraph. Can you spell that?” He nodded as you resumed your bobbing, his hand grabbing at your hair, “E-P-P-E-G-R-A-F-F.” You hummed around him and his hips bucked up, pushing him further down your throat for a second. “No, don’t stop,” he whined under his breath as once again you let him fall from between your lips. “Sorry baby,” you wrapped your hand around his base and switched back to jerking him off, “you’re so hard though and I know you want to earn your orgasm like a good boy,” Gwilym nodded. “Okay, so spell meter,” “M- oh, I don’t know,” “You do know, baby, you just gotta try. Meter,” He scrunched his face up in thought, “M-E-E-T-R,” “See, I said you knew it, and you did it so well!” Gwilym gave you a dopey smile, looking proud at your praise, “I did?” His mouth dropped open with the movement of your hand. “Of course baby! You got it completely right because you’re so clever. What about sonnet, do you think you can do that one for me?” He nodded enthusiastically, “S-N-E-T,” “Very good! Okay, three more and I’ll let you cum,” “Okay!” “Okay, what about,” you thought for a moment, watching your hand pumping over his shaft as you trailed your fingernails lightly over his thigh, “Spell rhyme,” “Ummm,” Gwilym bit his lip in thought, soft grunting noises rising in his throat in time with your strokes. “It’s a bit of a tricky one,” “Yeah.” “And it’s hard to concentrate isn’t it?” “Mmhmm, so hard to con-ten-tate,” he thought for a little longer as you slowed your hand, “rrr- R-I-M,” “So clever baby! Okay canto,” “Oh! Ummm,” Gwilym pouted and whined as you unexpectedly drew the tip of your tongue around his head, “I don’ know,” “No?” He shook his head, eyebrows furrowed. “Okay what about, poem?” Gwilym seemed to have reached the last dregs of his knowledge, grunting in frustration as he shook his head again.” “You sure you don’t know?” He bucked his hips up into your hand as he shook his head again. “Alright, I’ll give you an easy one then. Spell your name for me, spell Gwilym,” Gwil’s eyes lit up at the suggestion but his face quickly slipped into a frown again, the expression getting more pronounced with every passing second he didn’t say anything. He sought out your face, his eyes brimming with frustrated tears, “I don’t…” his fists balled up as he looked to you for help. “You don’t remember?” He shook his head once more, a tear shaking loose and rolling down his cheek, “you said it was easy.” “It’s okay if you don’t know,” “Really?” he sniffled. “Of course it’s okay. You’re not supposed to know things.” “I’m not?” “Awww, of course not baby. That’s why I’m here, to know things, and you’re just here to make me happy.” Gwilym sighed and leaned back against the couch, smiling again. “Do you want to give it a try for me?” “Umm,” he whined as you slowed your strokes “It would make me very happy,” “Okay, umm…G? L? ummmm, M?” “You’re so clever, baby!” Gwilym giggled proudly and grinned at you as you adjusted your grip on his cock. “You’re my good, smart boy, aren’t you baby?” “Mmhmm,” he bucked his hips towards you as you took him into your mouth again. “Feels go-od,” he mumbled, almost panting with how close he was. You dragged the hand that rested on his thigh up to cup his balls as you sucked on his tip until he moaned and came, spilling his seed over your tongue.

You kept working your hand along his length, even after you’d pulled your mouth from him. “Was that a good orgasm baby? Did it make you feel good?” He nodded, pouting a little as you kept wanking him, “good oggsam,” It took all your effort not to laugh at that, biting on the inside of your cheek to keep from letting so much as a chuckle slip. Very few things delighted you as much as when Gwil forgot how to talk properly. “You know,” you said as you finally let his cock free, “sometimes when people have orgasms they feel euphoric. Do you feel euphoric?” “Mmhmm, you-porik.” “Clever boy. Do you want to help me feel euphoric?” “How?” “With your mouth,” “Oh! Okay!” You braced yourself against his knees as you stood, leaning forward to give Gwil a small kiss on the lips. He closed his eyes and smiled up at you contentedly as you shimmied out of your own clothes, dropping them all to the floor. “You going to let me lie down?” you asked, tapping Gwil on the shoulder. He looked around confusedly for a moment before his eyes settled on you, growing wider as he realised how naked you were. Without warning he surged forward, his hands grabbing your arse as he nuzzled his face in the valley between your breasts. If it were up to Gwil he would have stayed there all day but you had need for him elsewhere so you yanked his head back by his hair, earning a small noise of displeasure. “Don’t complain, baby. You want to make me feel euphoric, right?” “Mmhmm,” he hummed earnestly. “And how do you think you could do that?” “I don’t know,” “Maybe, cunnilingus?” “cun-un-un-un-gus,” “Exactly,” you directed his gaze down to your pussy, failing to hide your amused grin. But he was too far gone to notice, happily slipping to his knees in front of you. Telling him to wait for a second, you climbed onto the couch and spread your legs, beckoning him between them once you were comfortable.

He hadn’t been able to say the word but that didn’t mean he wasn’t skilled at the act. A string of soft hums and throaty sounds rose to your lips as he licked your cunt, the scratchy sensation of his beard only amplifying the soft, wet, warmth of his tongue.   “Can you, oh, can you spell poem for me baby?” Gwilym hummed and then started naming letters, his mouth still pressed against your cunt as if he didn’t realise he couldn’t talk and suck at the same time. You didn’t bother to stop him when he said too many letters or correct him when all of them were wrong. You just let his breath wash over you, his tongue flicking against your clit with each new letter, eliciting longer moans and sighs from you. “Fuck Gwil,” you panted, “keep going,” “Keep going,” he repeated, his voice muffled as he dragged his tongue all the way down your slit and then back up again, making you whine. You jolted when he reached your clit again and pressed against his head, keeping him close to you, your other hand trailing up your chest to tweak your nipples and knead your breasts. Occasionally you’d give him an instruction – “faster please,” or “do that again,” or “fuck Gwil, right there,” – and he’d repeat the words back to you, softened and often a little slurred together or mispronounced, before doing as he was asked, drawing you closer to release. He was pleased whenever another groan or mewl slipped from your lips, responding to them with sounds of his own as if he were savouring a particularly delicious meal. It seemed he’d taken what you’d said about making you happy to heart, though some of his whines might have had more to do with his cock, hard again and straining to be touched as his attention remained focused on you. “I’m c-lose ba-by,” you grunted as Gwilym pressed his mouth to your lower lips, as if to give you a soft chaste kiss, only to begin shaking his head side to side, rubbing his face against your cunt. “loase,” he muttered to himself, trailing his tongue back up to your clit, making you grind your hips up into him. It was impossible to keep your mouth shut in the face of such a feeling, wantonly moaning as you felt your orgasm bubbling to the surface. Gwilym hummed against you in response to a particularly loud moan which managed to be your undoing, your knees trying to clamp shut around his head as he continued to suck at your clit.

When you calmed enough to let go of his hair and loosen your thighs from around his ears, Gwilym looked up at you. His face was shiny and wet but he seemed to have regained some of his usual awareness. His eyes weren’t quite as vacant and his smile less dopey than it had been. “Feel good?” he asked, sounding almost normal except for a slight lightness in his tone. “Very good baby,” you leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips, tasting yourself as he opened his mouth and accepted your tongue. Slowly you dropped your hand between you, finding his cock again, not quite done with your brainless toy. He grunted against your lips and bucked into your hand as you stopped his return to sense. “Isn’t this fun?” you said softly as you pulled back, holding Gwil by the chin to stop him from trying to follow. “Yeah, fun,” a smile slowly tugging at his lips, “what is?” “Not needing to think, baby,” “Oh! Yes,” he laughed. “You’re too pretty to have a brain anyway, aren’t you? Much better off letting it leak out of your head,” “Mmhmm, much,” “And do you know what good, dumb boys get?” “No?” “They get fucked. Would you like that?” “Yes yes yes,” “Alright, lie back for me,” you chuckled, giving his cock a final stroke. Gwilym settled on the carpet on his back, grinning as you straddled his lap. Silently he held out his hand, all but two of his fingers folded against his palm. “No, I don’t need your fingers sweetie,” you said, giving the tips of his two fingers a light kiss, “as dextrous as they are and as much as I enjoy them, I think I’m okay skipping straight to your cock,” He nodded, letting you place his hand down on the floor again. You watched his face as you slowly sank down onto him, once again the picture of cunt drunk bliss with glazed eyes and his lip between his teeth. He smiled as you leaned down to kiss him, rolling your hips against his slowly. As you tongues entwined again, Gwilym framed your waist with his hands, slowly dragging them up your sides and onto your chest. He cupped each of your breasts in one of his palms, squeezing softly as you rocked forward and back. “Better than Byron isn’t this?” you asked, pushing yourself up a bit, but not so far you couldn’t kiss him again. “Wha’s Byron?” You laughed, “Y’know I think this might be the dumbest I’ve seen you. Can’t believe all it took was a rigged spelling test. He obviously didn’t understand, staring blankly back at you.

What he did understand was that you were moving further away from him and he whined as you pushed yourself to sit higher again, bracing your hands on his chest as you used your knees to raise and lower yourself. It still wasn’t enough though so you shifted again before too long, placing a hand behind you to grab Gwil’s leg. You leant back on it changing the angle of Gwilym’s cock, and felt his hands drop from your chest, no longer able to reach as easily. They came to rest on your leg, his fingertips digging into your skin as you rode him, keening as you felt the start of your orgasm building in the pit of your stomach. “Fuck Gwil, fill me so well, feels so good,” “My dex-ik-tus cock?” You couldn’t help but laugh, taken by surprise at his misunderstanding and mispronunciation of dextrous, but you nodded in agreement too, repeating your sentiments about how good it felt. “Wanna make me feel even better?” “How?” You sat forward again and reached for his hand, pulling it to your clit. Gwilym took the hint, messily rubbing as you bounced on his cock, but his whines and moans only grew as you rode him. “You’re close?” “Mmhmm,” You were on the verge of asking if he could hold it when he came with a groan, pulsing inside you. But you didn’t stop. “I’m close too, baby, so I’m gonna keep fucking you, okay?” He nodded, eyes fixed on you. “Good boy.” You panted, grabbing his wrist to hold his hand at your clit and adjusting your rhythm. Each time you sank back down onto him you did it harder, slamming his cock into you as deep as you could manage, groaning with each one. Your orgasm was frustratingly close but Gwilym was becoming steadily more sensitive as his subsided, wincing more with each of your thrusts. The winces turned to whimpers which turned to whines as you whispered that you were so close. “Almost baby, almost,” “Please. Hur’s,” “Nearly, just. One. More,” you threw your head back with a moan as you finally found your release, Gwil whining when you pulsed around him, a fresh tear running from the corner of his eye onto the carpet as he squirmed under you.

“Sorry, baby,” you said softly as you carefully dismounted him. He hummed as you kissed him again, leaving an extra kiss against the tip of his nose. “Did so well, such a good boy for me,” “Yeah?” “Mmhmm, so good,” He gave you a slightly watery smile and let you pull him into a cuddle, sighing contentedly when you brushed your fingers through his hair. You stayed like that for a while, knowing that later you’d regret lying on the floor for so long but unable to find the energy to move or the willpower to tell Gwilym you had to let him go. He gradually lost the fucked out expression, becoming more aware of his surroundings and more capable of clear speech. “How are you feeling?” you asked when you realised he’d blinked away the last of his sex drunk vacancy. “Better than before. Little tired but much more relaxed and very satisfied. And, before you ask, yes that’s satisfied and yes I can spell it if you want,” “I believe you.”

[invisibleicewands]

His beard bloomed and his hair sprang forth, like a riot of corkscrews, during lockdown. Now Michael Sheen sweeps on to the National Theatre’s Olivier stage in the manner of an Old Testament prophet descending from Mount Snowdon – or must we call it Yr Wyddfa?

Sheen is best known as a great mimic who played Chris Tarrant in last year’s TV series about the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire coughing scandal, Quiz, and Tony Blair in the 2006 film The Queen opposite Helen Mirren – plus David Frost in Peter Morgan’s play and film Frost/Nixon and Brian Clough in the The Damned United movie.

Here though he takes on the role of the narrator in Lyndsey Turner’s bittersweet revival of Dylan Thomas’s verse drama written for radio in 1954 – re-imagined here in a care home. [...]

Looking pallid and paunchy in his creased shirt and saggy trousers, Sheen takes the role of the story’s narrator, made famous by Richard Burton. Only here, Sheen relates the tale not to the audience but to his father, whose memories have been robbed by Alzheimer’s.Inebriated by the whisky he keeps hidden in his jacket, Sheen stumbles eagerly through the verse as if making it up as he goes along – painting pictures of people (and their dreams) in the Carmarthenshire port that lies ‘fast, and slow, asleep’. [...] The care home setting does feel cheerless at first, but it’s a clever way of focusing the rambling yarn. And furniture on casters – including a shop counter, steaming stove and kitchen table, set with multiple cloths to denote different homes – add a sense of magic and playfulness.Nor could you wish for a more loquacious, richer narrator than hirsute, woody-voiced Sheen, who looks like he’s been training outside an off-licence. I just wish it had been bookended with silence rather than someone else’s words. DailyMail

[...] On the circular stage of the reconfigured, socially distanced Olivier auditorium, Brown’s character patiently sets about starting up the day’s routine with the residents drifting in to sit and talk and stare into space. But the temperature climbs with the unexpected arrival of Mr. Jenkins’ son Owain (Michael Sheen), whose short-fuse exasperation turns swiftly to anger when his father cannot or will not communicate with him. Calmed by the staff, he and his father begin looking at an old family photograph album and Thomas’s original text takes over, now presented as a portrait of the village of Mr. Jenkins’ not-quite-forgotten past. [...] Whenever it is staged — it was last seen at the National 25 years ago — the chief problem is the lack of momentum. Characters’ (in)actions lack consequences, which makes it hard to engage with them except on a momentary basis. Owen and Turner’s new frame seeks to address that directly by making Sheen’s character not an inert, impartial observer but a man desperate to tell the story to and with his father in order to connect, to awaken his father’s distracted mind. Previously neutral descriptions are thus charged up, which intermittently animates proceedings. [...] The ultimate moment of connection between father and son is affecting but the production’s dangerous proximity to unearned sentimentality is also visible. And in the foregoing hour and three-quarter running time (with no interval), the sustained inertia grows wearing. There’s welcome tenderness aplenty but, when it comes to storytelling, there’s too much telling and, alas, too little story. Variety

                                                                                                                             Michael Sheen is terrific in Dylan Thomas’s linguistic tour de force, which remains undimmed by the years [...] The whole home thing is a nice enough idea that ambles on agreeably… but it’s a thrill when the play proper starts: it feels like the air suddenly fizzes and crackles when Sheen’s narrator introduces us to Llareggub on one ‘starless and Bible-black’ night. Ultimately, the care home business feels minor and diversionary, a framework to (kind of) explain why the poem is being performed. But it doesn’t really have a payoff or purpose beyond the performance of the poem itself. I'm not sure anyone really needs my opinion on I ‘Under Milk Wood’ as Thomas wrote it. But for what it’s worth I think it’s brilliant – time hasn’t dimmed it, his language remains bracingly wild, elemental and weird. And this is a very good, detailed performance of it – Sheen is impassioned and urgent, like he’s electrified by the surging flanguage; the cast of mostly older actors tend to get more playful roles, and seem to be having terrific fun. [...] You bought your tickets to see Michael Sheen doing ‘Under Milk Wood’ and you’ve got Michael Sheen doing ‘Under Milk Wood’ – nobody’s going to feel disappointed. Time Out

[...] Sheen – shaggy, bearded and full of humanity – leads as the narrator but this is really an ensemble show, animated with amusing turns by Siân Phillips, Cleo Sylvestre and Ifan Huw Dafydd among others. It comes with an inventive framing device (additional material is written by Siân Owen) in which Sheen plays the son of Richard Jenkins (Karl Johnson), who is losing his bearings when he is visited by Jenkins Junior in his nursing home. [...] While this is a charming production that bewitches, it begs the question of why a drama that is so consciously retreating into the past is revived now, and how it speaks to our pandemic landscape. Thomas draws a picture of a place steeped in stasis and saturated in nostalgia. Time has stood still here, as Thomas makes clear in the symbolism of the village clock’s frozen hands, and it arguably represents his yearning for a bygone world after the second world war. This production seems entirely conscious of its retreat into the past and it resembles a lost world that is both comforting and jarring after the horrors of the pandemic. The Guardian

To hear Michael Sheen deliver Under Milk Wood feels akin to witnessing Gielgud's Hamlet or Rylance's Rooster Byron. It is nothing short of theatrically seminal.As hoped, the poetry is magnificent. He orchestrates Dylan Thomas's posthumously performed masterpiece as a maestro conductor, all waving hands and syncopated rhythm. There are times when his words seem to literally hang in the air, leaving the socially distanced Olivier audience hypnotised. I could listen to him say "Now behind the eyes and secrets of the dreamers in the streets rocked to sleep by the sea…" on loop forever. [...] The concept doesn't always feel completely cohesive - it seems strange that everyone so willingly joins the performance when Sheen's character is so cold and skittish with them initially - but Lyndsey Turner's beautifully choreographed in-the-round production is convincing enough to override such niggles.The metanarrative also has the noticeable effect of causing Sheen to speak as if he is conjuring Dylan's words on the spot. This lends both an immediacy to the language and also a purpose to its rich imagery - after all, here is a man desperately trying to paint pictures in his father's addled imagination. Under Milk Wood is in some sense a victim of its own familiarity, and Turner's staging lends a much-needed freshness over reverence. [...] Whatsonstage

A charismatic Michael Sheen is part showman, part shaman in this staging of Dylan Thomas’s 1954 radio play, conjuring a Welsh town into lyrical, beguiling life with mostly older actors on a bare stage. Lyndsey Turner’s production marks a triumphant reopening for the National’s Olivier Theatre, where the audience now sits on all sides, a configuration that lends itself to simple production values and a deeper communion between actors and onlookers.It begins oddly, though, in the middle-distant past with Sheen as an angry, wild-bearded writer visiting his demented father (Karl Johnson, heartbreaking) in a care home. Thomas’s poetry is the only way to reach the old man, and his fellow residents are duly summoned to incarnate the townsfolk of the author’s fictional Llareggub (“bugger all” backwards). It’s an awkward framing device with a serious point: to stress the importance of community and memory, and salute the talents and rich lives of elder generations. But what a lovely, bittersweet spell this show casts. Sheen, like Richard Burton and Anthony Hopkins, grew up in Port Talbot, an hour from Laugharne where Thomas lived and partially wrote the play. He has the contours of the language and the landscape in his head, and an orator’s relish for Thomas’s evocative phrasing. We first see Llareggub asleep, “starless and bible black” and meet its inhabitants in their dreams. [...] Eveningstandard

[semper-legens]

67. The Black Flamingo, by Dean Atta

Owned: No, library Page count: 360 My summary: Michael is a lot of things. He’s Jamaican, Greek, and English. He’s gay. He’s alone. At least, that’s how he feels. He’s a black flamingo, something different, something to be stared at. But it’s time to emerge from the shadows - and take his place on stage... My rating: 3/5 My commentary:

Here’s some experimental YA. Is writing a novel entirely through the medium of poetry a Thing now? I mean, granted, I’ve only ever actually read one book that does this, the Poet X, but I want it to be a trend because I’m very much into it. Poetry allows for a writer to explore themes like identity and becoming in a different way to traditional prose, and this book is very much about that as an idea - identity, belonging, becoming, and finding your people.

Michael is a young gay man living in London. He’s mixed race - his father is Jamaican, his mother is Greek, and he’s not sure how well he fits in. In a story like this you really have to have an engaging main character that the reader will find interesting; the narrative lives or dies on Michael, and he’s a really engaging portrait of a person at that age, trying to find himself, stuck between worlds, with all of the confusion and drama that being a teenager brings with it.

Identity is obviously a huge theme in this book, and Michael’s story explores the intersections between his various identities well. One particularly affecting scene is when he tries to go to various organisations at his uni and comes away with the impression that he’s not enough for each one - not Jamaican enough, not Greek enough, not gay enough, not enough to define himself as any one thing. Which is bullshit, obviously, but it’s a real fear that people in his position might face. The story doesn’t offer any easy answers, instead showing how he comes to find a balance with his various identities and settle into a place where he knows who he is and where he is, and is confident enough to show it to the world.

As I’ve said, this is a book written entirely in poetry, and I wonder what my reaction to it would be if I hadn’t read the Poet X first, because this doesn’t rank as high in my estimations as the Poet X did. What that book did and this doesn’t was really make it feel as though every individual poem was a stand-alone poem while also tying into the larger story - this book’s approach is a lot more cohesive as a narrative, but at the cost of that diversity in types and lengths and approaches of poems. I didn’t gel with it as much as I did with Poet X. That’s not to say that it’s bad or anything, it was just less appealing to me.

That’s all for this one - next time, some non-fiction, and a spot of murder.

[ibtk]

Book Review: ‘Dreaming of You: A Novel in Verse’ by Melissa Lozada-Oliva (2021)

(Full disclosure: I received a free e-ARC for review through Edelweiss. Content warning for violence against women.)

We all know the story of Selena Quintanilla. The Tejana pop star who was murdered by her best friend and the manager of her fan club, Yolanda Saldivar. There are heroes. There are villains. There are fans. There are girls trying to find their reflection in a rippling pond, and then feeling startled when a piece of gum falls out of their mouth. There is a frog that thinks the gum is a fly and chokes to death. Where were we? This is a story of mirrors, or what happens when you bring the mirror back from the dead and when you look in it you see yourself eating yourself. This is about You, except when it’s not about you. This is a love story.

the female killed her best friend, because only one woman can exist at a time, whoops! honestly so sad that she’s dead but like, what if she lived long enough to like a tweet from a pro-life organization idk?

Another one died today and the world felt darker because we were left with ourselves.

I loved peluda, Melissa Lozada-Oliva's 2017 book of poetry, so I pounced on Dreaming of You: A Novel in Verse the second it popped up on Edelweiss. Even though I don't know much about Selena (I was in high school when she was murdered), the idea of exploring celebrity worship by resurrecting an iconic pop star proved an irresistible hook. That, and Lozada-Oliva's poetry is enchanting: fierce, with dark sense of humor and cutting cultural insight.

In this fantastical collection, complete with a cast of characters a la Shakespeare, Melissa holds a seance to bring Selena back from the dead. The details are sketchy, but the ritual involves a flash drive, some period blood, lipstick, and a bottle of Fabuloso.

Rounding out the cast are Yolanda Saldivar, who murdered Selena once and is apt to do it again; Papi/Abraham Quintanilla, both desperately happy to have his daughter back - and outraged at Melissa's transgression; She, "the shadow side" (a stand-in for all women, or so I assume?); Las Chismosas, "the eyes and the ears" who fill in the story's gaps and are reminiscent of Shakepseare's Weird Sisters; and You, meaning you and I, the readers, "the consumer and the consumed."

At first, Selena is a nebulous being, like a "fuzzy version of a girl." But as she continues to crystallize, her creator begins to disappear. Meanwhile, both Melissa and Selena are being stalked by Yolanda. And as news spreads of Selena's miraculous rebirth, more dead celebrities begin to appear (picture it: A Celebrity Prom!).

Most of the time, I felt like Dreaming of You worked better individually than as a whole; each poem is its own beautiful creature, but together they only kinda-sorta functioned as a cohesive interrogation of popular culture and celebrity worship vis-à-vis Selena. To be fair, I'm kind of a dunce when it comes to poetry, so maybe I just didn't get everything that Lozada-Oliva was putting down. Entirely possible! But Selena takes a loooong time to appear - the seance scene is nearly one-third of the way in - so I'm not entirely sure that's it. And on more than one occasion, I lost track of who was narrating.

Even so, Dreaming of You is an intriguing and thoughtful collection, chock full of memorable one-liners like these:

"She wears a Freudian slip and loves the way her nipples feel underneath it."

"Why are people in relationships always taking naps?"

"I can see myself crying over a body but also being the body."

"It will always be now and we can’t do anything about it."

"What is the word for getting someone to fall in love with us during karaoke?"

Bonus points: Lozada-Oliva manages to reference Annie Wilkes and Sharp Objects (the audiobook of which I'm listening to RIGHT NOW, after having just/finally seen the minseries!) in one poem. *chef's kiss* [insert "I understood that reference" gif here]        

[endlessdoom]

Endless Random /idgames WAD Adventures #005

bildoom1.zip

THT: Threnody (oh shit)

Heroes 2 (oh fuck)

Hells Half Acre

Demon's Revenge

Dreams

FATE01.WAD "Fate Series"

bildoom1.zip

Uploaded to the archives in 2011, but with real date being 1995. This WAD with 3 maps is probably one of the reasons why so many tenge are afraid to explore the /idgames archives randomly. It is clearly a rather novice WAD from 1995 that has all the kind of bugs and factors that we would find during that decade. Admittedly, 1995 was not a very bright year for WADs, but what can we expect? They were barely a year old with real editors. One way or another, this collection of 3 maps is one that has a certain childish charisma that I can't help but laugh at. It's crap, sure, but even in the crap there's a certain charisma.

The first map is probably the most understandable of them all. It looks pretty ugly and plays pretty ugly. The use of only one type of texture on extremely high walls is quite common, as well as a strange use of linedefs that seems to mimic a kindergarten crayon drawing. On the other hand, the path is understandable enough and the secrets connect well enough to at least deliver some playability.

The second map is a simple combat arena with Mancubus and a few extra enemies. From an objective point of view, it's the best map in terms of quality for the simple fact that it doesn't ask for much and does what it needs to do. And yet it is mediocre.

The third map is probably the most interesting in terms of design, but a headache in terms of path-finding. What we have here is a layout that starts with a hub system that hides a multitude of secret paths in total darkness. We have to search through each of the paths until we find all the keys to escape this nightmare in a final fight. While the beginning gives a certain sense of adventure, it quickly becomes a miserable dungeon crawler with unfair combat and lots and lots of darkness. I don't want to imagine how this looked in the original DOOM.EXE. In conclusion, it's very bad, but I've seen worse.

THT: Threnody

A collection of 20 maps makes this a respectfully large megawad that works in the style of Community Project, with the difference that the authors have managed to work under a fairly cohesive factor that gives a certain palpable identity to THT. Speaking of THT, this is also a WAD in the form of a tribute to one of the legends of the community, one of our greatest pillars and fantastic creator. THT stands for Ty Halderman Tribute, creator of the iconic TNT mappers group and also the maintainer of /idgames archive from 1997 to 2015. That's an amount of effort that very, very few of us in the community will ever manage to encompass. That's a lifetime of providing us with both content and pure hard work. This WAD is a dedication to Ty, a love letter of sorts that without needing to be an exact replica of his past works, has certain monuments to his legacy. A WAD that contains a particularly special essence, let's see what it is all about, shall we? 

While the megawad is designed in the form of a tribute, it does not attempt to replicate Ty's style exactly, nor copy directly from his creations; on the contrary, it chooses a system of references so subtle that they function like little poems whispered in silence. As we move forward, we will see things that remind us of his great contributions, while at the same time we play with the vague notion that we were already in this place once. A kind of dream that we never dreamed, and in that this megawad manages to carry that fantastic tribute idea.

I may have felt quite frustrated at times thanks to the constant hordes of enemies and the pseudo-slaughter gameplay at times, but every stage made it worthwhile. On the other hand, I'm capable of putting up with punishing combat, but confusing layouts? That really kills my patience, but I understand that sometimes the glory and fun lies in this singular aspect, the exploration and the feeling of being lost. On the other hand, don't let my words sound so extreme, this isn't Eternal Doom either, but you will need to pay attention and take note of where you've been and where you're going. If you like that, then you will love it. But even if you don't, let me tell you that I had a great time and thoroughly enjoyed the megawad. It's a long, but satisfying adventure that ends on a nostalgic note through space and time, like a dimensional goodbye from mirrors we don't see. A fine tribute that I'm sure Ty would love.

Heroes 2

An interesting megawad that works similar to what we would find in the ''shovelware'' discs of the 90s, that is, a compilation of random items united under the desire of commercialization. On the other hand, Heroes 2 doesn't have more than 3000 levels and won't make us regret our existence... that much. It is a compilation of 32 maps for Doom 2 compiled during 1996. What we will find here are maps so 90s that we will breathe both nostalgia and frustration. All the tropes that are common during these times lie in this megawad in such a way that it becomes like a kind of relic museum. It's perfect if you love this kind of WADs, but on the other hand, it's a great punishment if you prefer the life changes of modern times.

Hells Half Acre

From 1996, there is not much to expect in this WAD. It is a map that replaces E2M1 and contains some questionable design decisions. It starts with a simple room that then expands to reveal a pool connected to a multitude of paths. These paths are a marvel. As lost as they are cramped, it feels like I'm playing Daggarfall or a dungeon simulator. Possibly that was the author's intention. There is nothing special about this WAD that seems to set no higher expectations. While the design isn't truly terrible, it isn't great either and falls perfectly in the realm of mediocre in all its features. From the bland gameplay to the extremely confusing path system, the progression is just too boring. You don't miss anything by skipping this map, so it's an experience I'd totally recommend ignoring.

Demon's Revenge

A solid level designed with a theme reminiscent of Thy Flesh Consumend. Quite small but with enough detail and good touch to give it a charismatic essence that successfully unfolds in an enjoyable average time. With a relatively challenging gameplay, the level features an excellent balance between visuals and combat, offering a solid effort that is worth playing, even if it doesn't stand out for much else. Small errors here and there in decision making can be found, but overall, there's nothing major that truly destroys the map. As I said, solid all around. The only strange thing is that it doesn't have any MIDI songs, which makes it feel slightly awkward, but still fun.

Dreams

Simple, concrete and without much appearance. This is a 1996/7 level that doesn't try to be pretentious and delivers what it sets out to. A short level with a dungeon design that combines the classic textures of a hellish fortress with a few tints of absolute darkness. Nothing special but nothing terribly bad. Decent, honestly.

FATE01.WAD "Fate Series"

It looks like this is a 90s marathon this week. A simple, straightforward WAD replaces a single map and offers a system based on three connected rooms on a ''find the key'' basis. Combat is explosive, intense but simple without much tactical tact or any sort of deep mechanics within it. It's not too bad, but I would honestly classify it as mediocre. Nothing special or worthwhile.

[mossyshadows]

hello!! i dont think the problem is encouraging ppl to search for context, but a lot of times the tumblr maryoliverrichardsikenartcompilationsectect often discusses it super condescendingly, pretentiously, and judgementally.

my brain read sextet instead and was like ‘oh six bloggers 😳👀’ lmao... ANYWAY do you mean people discuss the context with a bad attitude? like acting better than people who don’t know the context vibe, is that what you mean? i’m not sure i’m fully understanding your point maybe i’m just being dense lmao so if you want to elaborate or whatever feel free!!

i’ve seen people discuss how those poets’ work is often taken out of context like a snippet of a mary oliver poem about a heron being interpreted to be about Romantic love or richard siken quotes used in edits for straight couples etc, or their work is ‘overused’ (which i kind of understand bc i think i practically read all of crush via tumblr quotes and edits before i ever read it in full ... lmao. but equally, if it’s good enough for people to like it that much, what’s the harm, there’s a reason they’re that popular right? though popularity seems to come with a lack of context, like i said, the nature poems etc) 

so i can understand why people bringing stuff up like that can seem judgemental/pretentious like ‘oh i’m better than you for having read these poets’, is that what you’re referring to or i’m misinterpreting and you’re referring to something else?? like is it the way certain posts are worded or something? personally, if someone said to me ‘actually this work is about ___’, i wouldn’t consider that necessarily be judgemental or condescending, more just a ‘hey i read this so here u go!’ like a fyi! sharing of info they have?!

hmm, anyway do you find that your interactions with ~~that area of tumblr~~ hinders your impressions of those poets/works or how likely you are to read their work at all? like does it cut you off from those poems? yeah, sometimes a ‘fandom’ can put me off wanting to read/watch something but idk if that extends to reading poems for people? idk i don’t think the poetry/lit ‘side’ of tumblr is that cohesive/defined/extensive personally for it to put me off looking up certain writers just because of bad vibes i get from people reading it, but that’s just my experience !

anyway since you brought them up, for anyone who wants: 

mary oliver poems, here, etc, etc, @maryoliverpoetry

richard siken, some poems from crush, four proofs, his spork press editor notes (scroll/search for siken)

[mexicancat-girl]

Inspiration

A MarcNath fic written in part for #MLPrideFest2020 and Pride month in general

AO3: Link, 5700+ words

.

...

It’s been a long day. But instead of feeling tired, Marc feels restless, and strangely energized.

After all, the absolute favorite part of his day happens after school.

Once the final bell chimes, Marc instantly stuffs his notebook in his bag with lightning speed. He gives a little wave to some of his friends in class, before he quickly makes his way out of Ms. Mendeleiev’s class and down the hall.

He and Nathaniel were going to meet up to work on their comic. They always met up Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and today was Friday.

Though, as of late, they were spending nearly every day of the school week together. To work on their comic, of course. But more and more often, they just…hung out. And talked.

A solid half the time, they went wildly off-topic and didn’t even touch their comic. And while normally the two of them weren’t much for talking, when together, they could chatter up a storm.

Marc’s pretty sure they’ve re-treaded The Great Sailor Moon Debate at least a dozen times already—in which Nathaniel firmly believed the 90’s anime was the greatest version of the source material, while Marc defended the Crystal reboot for it’s better writing. Nathaniel would playfully call Marc a heathen, while Marc would retort with Nath being nostalgia blind. Then the two would get locked in a stalemate, and finally admit that Madoka Magica was better anyways. Rinse and repeat.

It was just…so easy to talk to Nathaniel. Even when Marc would get flustered and stutter out a mess, because of his stupid crush flaring up, Nathaniel wouldn’t judge him. He’d wait patiently for Marc to finally get a halfway cohesive sentence out, absorb it, give it his full consideration, and then take the conversation from there.

It helped that the two of them were on the introverted and shy side, knowing when to talk and when it was just enough to sit quietly side-by-side. They both had similar interests and passion driving them. They sort of…clicked. Understood each other in a way they didn’t with others. They got each other.

It’s the biggest reason why Marc enjoyed spending time with Nathaniel. Though his crush undeniably played a part in it…

Marc startled, running into the doorway of the art class slightly. He didn’t do it very hard—just barely clipped his shoulder against the arch—but he still jumped a foot in the air and yelped.

“You okay…?” a voice asks, warm and familiar.

Marc feels himself flush. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” he gets out, with a bashful laugh, rubbing slightly at his shoulder. He looks down at an amused Nathaniel, who’s half-hanging out of the doorway, having managed to get to the room before Marc.

“Lost in thought?” the redhead asks, jerking his head to move his bangs out of face.

“Sort of?” Marc offers, hitching his bag further up his shoulder and following in-step with Nathaniel over to their usual table in the Art Club.

The place was empty, which was a surprise. They had Art Club on Wednesdays, sure, which was when the art room was the busiest. But their teacher always encouraged students to work on projects in the room if they wanted, so usually there would always be at least one person in here.

It was nice, though, having the room all to themselves. Marc certainly wasn’t complaining.

“Thinking up new ideas for the comic?” Nathaniel asks, sitting in his normal spot, Marc sliding in next to him on the left, as was per usual.

Marc lets out a long groan. “Not really…I’ve sort of reached a…a writing block, actually,” he admits while threading a hand through his hair, feeling just a bit ashamed.

“That’s rough, buddy,” Nathaniel says sympathetically, but there’s a playful lilt to his smile that catches Marc’s attention.

Marc pauses, and considers, his eyes narrowing as he looks over at the other boy. “…Was that a reference?”

“Dunno. Is it?” Nathaniel asks, much too innocently.

“It is, isn’t it,” Marc says, more statement than question, levelling a finger at Nathaniel. Who is looking all the more amused with the way Marc’s challenging him. “Which anime?”

“I can’t believe you instantly jump to anime. I don’t always make anime references,” the redhead huffs, voice just shy of a whine.

“Cartoon then,” Marc decides. “It doesn’t sound like something from comics, or comic-related.”

“I mean. You’re not wrong, exactly…”

He tilts his head, taps his fingers against the table. “Is it something I’ve watched…?”

“Well, I mean, I’d hope you’ve watched it,” Nathaniel starts, voice turning teasing. “Or else I might just revoke our friendship.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he chides, but not seriously at all, bumping their shoulders together with a roll of his eyes. “Just say it’s Avatar and go, you drama queen.”

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner,” Nathaniel mimes speaking into a microphone, holding his pencil up to his mouth like a complete dork. “Local writer gets cartoon reference, more at nine.”

“Dork,” Marc snorts, giggling.

“I’m not a dork,” Nathaniel states, shoving Marc playfully. “You’re the dork.”

Marc feels his grin widen. “Yes, because I’m the one that quotes things like a total dork on the reg…”

Nathaniel gasps, shoving at Marc’s shoulder again. “Shut up! You do that all the time!” he sputters, indignant.

“I really don’t.”

“You quote Shakespeare!”

“Nath,” Marc starts, putting a hand on his shoulder, giving him the snootiest look possible. “All writers quote Shakespeare. Keep up.”

“Go and quote your Shakespeare, then,” Nathaniel says, dramatically rolling his eyes and shrugging Marc’s hand off his shoulder. “Maybe writing a soliloquy will help with your writer’s block, or something.”

“You know, that might not be a bad idea…” he admits, before scratching at his temple and smiling sheepishly. “But I don’t think I’ve ever actually learned how to write one.”

“I mean, that’s fair,” Nathaniel laughs, nudging him playfully with the eraser of his pencil. “Writing like Shakespeare is bonkers. Poetry’s already complicated as it is.”

“How is poetry complicated? You can literally write anything as a poem.”

“Exactly,” the redhead nods sagely. “You can write anything. That’s way too many possibilities.”

“You know what? Fair.”

The two grinned at each other for a few long seconds, only broken by the door opening. Marc jolts in his seat, whipping his gaze away guiltily from staring into Nathaniel’s pretty blue eyes. He’d always had a habit of getting lost in them, if he wasn’t careful.

Mr. Carracci blinks back at them for a few seconds, before smiling softly. “Oh! Hello there, boys. Just about to head out, so I came to grab my things.”

“Do you need any help, sir?” Nathaniel offers, already half-out of his seat, the art teacher waving him away.

“No, no, I’m quite alright. You boys just sit and keep doing whatever you were doing before. Don’t mind me,” the older gentleman tells them warmly, already crossing the room to his desk at the very back. “Just remember to close the door on your way out when you’re done, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Marc and Nathaniel chime together, relaxing in their seats once more.

The two share a look, grinning slightly, before they open their bags and start to riffle through for their materials.

Marc cracks open his notebook, staring down at the page full of scribbles. He huffs, cracks his knuckles, and picks up his pen.

------

  A solid ten minutes pass, and nothing new is on the page. At least, nothing that hasn’t been instantly scribbled out in a fit of frustration.

Marc tries to sigh quietly so he doesn’t disturb his partner. Tapping his pen against his lips restlessly, he glares down at his notebook like it’s done him a personal offense.

Nothing comes out right. It all sounds…dumb. And clunky. And unrealistic. His prose is all out of sorts, too.

Nothing is up to snuff. It’s frustrating.

By the time Mr. Carracci is telling them goodbye, Nathaniel is already drawing furiously in his sketchbook. He’s so laser-focused, he only pauses to wave slightly at the teacher because Marc poked him in the shoulder and hissed at him to be polite.

Marc is the one that wishes the man goodbye properly, actually speaking and acknowledging him. “Goodnight, Mr. Carracci! I hope you get home safely.”

“You boys as well.” The art teacher smiles at them, warmly amused, and a bit…knowing, almost.

What he knows, Marc isn’t sure. But the sheer paternal energy from the man is almost comforting, when Marc gestures at Nathaniel with an apologetic smile, and Mr. Carracci nods back, eyes glittering in understanding.

The man leaves like he’d arrived: quiet and gentle, like a sweet Spring breeze.

Deciding he’s probably had enough of a break, Marc turns back to the daunting pages of his notebook.

  ------

 He can’t do it.

Marc feels the distinct need to slam his head against the desk, but just manages to keep himself from doing it.

He doesn’t want to startle Nathaniel out of his muse. If he makes a ruckus, it might ruin his drawing.

Speaking of drawing…

Marc can’t help but be curious, leaning slightly over to look at what the redhead has been so perfectly enraptured with the past few minutes.

He blinks. And then rubs at one of his eyes, thinking maybe he wasn’t seeing things correctly.

He’s not, though. Seeing things.

Because what Nathaniel is drawing is… him?

It’s of Marc hunching over his notebook, pen against his lips, looking frustrated.

It’s a nice drawing. The proportions are all there, the expression is spot-on, and Nathaniel’s even in the process of shading it.

The only things that seem slightly off are Marc’s eyes and lips. His eyes look like they have more lashes than an old-school shoujo manga character, and his lips look way plumper than they are.

And—is that a little heart next to the pen pressed against his lips…? Or is that just some sort of accidental stray mark?

As Marc tries to puzzle that out, his heart thrumming in his chest quite suddenly, Nathaniel’s pencil stops moving. The lack of familiar scratching against the page throws the room into an eerie silence, for all of three seconds, before the sound of Nathaniel nearly choking on his spit replaces it.

The redhead all but lunges forwards, bodily covering his sketchbook, looking back at him with the exact same look of a deer caught in headlights.

Marc leans back and shuffles into his spot, face warming as he realizes he’d all but draped himself over Nathaniel to watch him draw.

Not just draw anything, either. Draw him.

“S-Sorry,” he stutters out, tripping over his own tongue. “I-I didn’t mean. I just. Um?”

He clicks his mouth shut, finding that words weren’t doing him any good. Nathaniel is staring at him with an expression of pure mortification, face steadily turning as red as his hair.

And then the other boy laughs, strangled and high-strung, and just this side of hysterical.

“I-I-It’s fine!” Nathaniel squeaks out, voice jumping an octave.

The two stare at each other for a painfully drawn-out moment.

“I, uh…P-Probably should’ve asked to watch you,” Marc admits, tugging self-consciously at a section of his messy hair. “Sorry.”

“N-no, no, it’s…Fine,” Nathaniel says with an awkward laugh, still hunched protectively over his sketchbook, eyes darting about the room instead of looking at Marc. Like a cornered animal.

Another pause.

“I-I, ah. Should’ve asked. T-To draw you,” the redhead says, slowly and haltingly, gaze now firmly on the wood-grain of the table, like it’s the most riveting thing in the world. He taps his pencil restlessly on the tabletop. “Sorry. S’probably creepy…”

“No, no, not at all!” Marc yelps, quickly waving his hands in front of himself. “It’s great! I-I mean. I’ve…never had anyone draw me, b-before, and…And you did an amazing job, so…”

Nathaniel takes a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself, before he peers up at Marc cautiously. He’s hiding behind his hair, in that way he does when he’s embarrassed or shy, but his uncovered eye gleams bright under the florescent lights.

“Y-you, um. You really think so…?” the redhead asks softly, almost disbelieving, and Marc nods his head so fast he feels like an enthusiastic bobblehead.

“Mhm! It’s amazing,” he says emphatically, with a bit too much feeling. Instead of looking weirded out, though, the other boy’s lips upturn into a lopsided smile. “I mean, I’ve always known you can draw people really well, considering our comic being based on actual real-life people? But, I guess it’s sort of…different? Seeing myself being drawn. It’s like seeing myself from your eyes, you know? It’s something wholly unique.”

He knows he’s gushing and rambling, but he can’t help it. Nathaniel’s art… It’s always been amazing, and it always manages to get Marc to wax poetic over it.

It’s just even more amazing to see himself in Nathaniel’s sketchbook, as a realized drawing, something so obviously bursting with energy and care. With both enthusiasm and careful consideration, somehow perfectly harmonious.

“Are you sure you’re not just saying all that to butter me up…?” Nathaniel finally says, smile widening, stretching out his pink cheeks.

Marc blinks back at him, taken aback and confused. “But…I always compliment your art?”

“Yeah. I know,” Nathaniel starts, chuckling breathlessly. “But, I mean…Most people compliment my art to get me to draw them, y’know.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” Marc retorts instantly, scandalized. “All artists deserve compensation for their work! I’d never do that to you, Nath. D-do you think I’d do that? Because I wouldn’t.” The redhead raises an incredulous brow at him, and Marc presses, firm. “I wouldn’t.”

Nathaniel stares at him for three seconds, brow still raised, before he bursts into laughter.

“S-sorry! Sorry! I’m not,” he wheezes through his giggles. “I’m not laughing at you, I s-swear. Okay?”

Marc feels…just a bit lost.

“O…kay?

“Look, I know. I know you wouldn’t do that. It’s just,” Nathaniel sighs, shaking his head, the movement causing his long bangs to swish in front of his face. He takes a second to tug them behind his ear, smiling that crooked smile of his, making Marc’s heart skip a beat. “I wanted to tease you a little. I know you’d never use me like that, Marc.”

The earnestness in his voice, the openness of his expressions, they’re as easy to read as a book. The catalogue of Nathaniel’s expressions is Marc’s favorite book, actually, no matter how weird and cheesy that sounds.

“I just…I guess I didn’t want you to get your hopes up or anything, of me drawing you,” Nathaniel says slowly, seemingly picking his words carefully. He taps his pencil against the table rapidly, a nervous tap-tap-tap. “I only really draw what catches my attention or inspires me. It’s a bit harder to draw on-command…”

“Right. That makes sense,” Marc notes aloud, fiddling with his choker as he realizes just how similar both their creative processes actually are. It’s no wonder they worked well together. “It’s…actually sort of the same with me and my writing.”

“Yeah?” the other asks, pencil stalling.

“Yeah,” Marc nods. He pauses, bites his lip. “I mean, when I don’t have writer’s block, of course.”

It’s a lame thing to say, a total cop-out. But it’s not like Marc can just tell him. Tell Nathaniel point-blank that he’s what inspires Marc to write, the most out of any possible subject in the world. Including Ladybug and Chat Noir, the literal subjects of their comics.

Because Marc means it in a totally non-platonic sense; that Nathaniel inspires Marc to write with all of his heart. And it would be hard to explain away as it being in a ‘friend way’.

So, he’d rather not explain it at all. Like a coward.

In spite of his total lameness, though, Nathaniel grins back at him. “Is that why you’ve been just sitting there this whole time…?”

Marc sighs, long and loud, and gently thunks his head on the table. “Yes,” he says shamefully, voice muffled slightly against the wooden surface.

Nathaniel laughs, a bright and loud sound that makes Marc’s heart squeeze in his chest.

“Ah, alright then. That makes sense,” he snickers, voice warm and teasing. “Guess I have your writer’s block to thank, then, for helping me with my own art block.”

Marc’s heart takes the time to do a bout of gymnastics, and he turns his head to the side to peer over at the other boy. “Wait. What? How?”

Nathaniel smiles back at him crookedly, tapping his pencil in a jaunty rhythm that sounds vaguely familiar. Maybe a video game song. “I couldn’t figure out what to draw, but I looked over and saw you looking so pent-up and frustrated, it sort of made for a good drawing.”

Marc stares at him, taken aback. The other rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “And I mean, you were sitting there so still…You made the perfect model, actually.”

Marc snorts, completely disbelieving. “You mean to tell me that me being stuck in a writer’s block actually solved your art block?” he demands, sitting up and turning his body towards his friend, who simply looks bemused. “How’s that even fair?!”

“Dunno,” the redhead says with a chirp and a shrug, a shit-eating grin unfurling on his face. “But I’m not complaining.”

“Well—Well I am!” Marc sputters out, levelling a finger at Nathaniel’s face. The other boy goes cross-eyed to look at his judgmental digit. Marc lets out a disbelieving laugh, “I ended up being your inspiration, and I’m still suffering over here…!”

“Alright, alright,” Nathaniel says, gently batting Marc’s finger away. His voice is placating, but his smile was still a bit too wide in his mouth for Marc to believe. “I mean, you were a big help, being my model and all. So, use me as your inspiration, if you want.”

  ------

 Marc’s mind stalls, “So, use me as your inspiration, if you want” echoing on repeat.

It’s a flippant statement, but it still makes Marc’s face burn. He sputters, stuttering.

“Th-th-that’s not h-how it works!” he manages to choke out after a longer-than-necessary pause, turning and snatching up his notebook, hugging it against his chest and curling himself around it.

A sudden sense of deja vu hits him like a bullet.

It’s almost like when he first met Nathaniel, hopelessly crushing and too much of a shy mess to show him his writing.

He’s still hopelessly crushing now, but he’s also loosened enough and gotten enough confidence that he can show the other boy his writing, his passion.

But as he uncurls himself from shielding his notebook, it’s already too late.

The smile on Nathaniel’s face has dropped, the playfulness gone. Instead, his face shutters, replaced with an awkward grimace.

“Right. You’re right,” Nathaniel says stiffly, voice incredibly hard to read, but there’s unmistakable hurt in his eyes. He ducks his head, his bangs jostled from behind his ear, falling in front of his face in a fiery curtain to shield it once more. “I mean, you can’t write if someone’s forcing you… And it’s not like I’m an interesting subject, anyways. I wouldn’t make for good inspiration at all.”

“Th-that’s not true!” Marc snaps, without thought. The other boy jerks his head up, staring at him in shock. “You’re plenty interesting, Nathaniel! I’ve written about you before!”

Oh.

Oh no.

He did not mean to say that last part.

Nathaniel’s blue eyes are wide and gleaming like the sun glinting off the sea’s waves, staring soulfully at him, blue locking with green.

The moment stretches between them. Marc holds his breath. Or, more accurately, the breath feels like it’s been sucked straight from his lungs.

“You have…?” Nathaniel asks, voice soft. Awed, almost. He leans forwards, and Marc barely keeps himself from flinching backwards, stiffening in his seat. The other boy carefully places his fingers against the cover of the notebook still clutched to his chest, fingers splaying out to press his palm against the cover.

A siren blares in Marc’s scrambled and panicked mind, sounding suspiciously like the Kill Bill siren.

Nathaniel is touching his chest. There’s his notebook in the way, of course, but. Nathaniel is touching his chest.

Marc feels like he’s going to pass out. Whether from shock, blushing too hard, or not being able to breathe, he’s not sure. Maybe all three at once.

“Have you written about me in your notebook…?” Nathaniel asks wonderingly, dropping his gaze at the notebook in question, tapping a rhythm against the cover. Marc gulps thickly when the redhead looks back up at him, blue eye searching, lips slightly parted and looking very kissable right now.

“Pull yourself together, Marc,” he hisses to himself in his mind. “Do not kiss the boy.”

“S-s-sometimes,” he manages to choke out, voice squeaky, watching as Nathaniel’s eye widens and gleams. He averts his gaze, nervous and overwhelmed, clearing his throat. It doesn’t help his stutter. “W-when I c-c-can’t think of c-comic stuff.”

It’s a half-truth at best—barely truthful at all—because Marc pretty much exclusively writes about Nathaniel when he’s not working on their comic. Hell, he writes about Nathaniel even when he’s technically not writing about Nathaniel. Every romantic bone in his body, every scrap of adoration, is fueled through the dialogue he writes between Ladybug and Chat Noir.

Everyone’s praised their comics for having such realistic dialogue and fantastic chemistry between the main characters. What no one else realizes is that Marc pretty much writes everything ripped straight from talking to Nathaniel in real life, or from his own lovesick fantasies of what he wishes Nathaniel would say to him.

His sorry excuse for a half-baked half-truth is all Marc can come up with to not blurt out a full confession then and there and ruin everything.

“Can I read some of it…?” Nathaniel asks, voice thick with excitement and something else Marc can’t exactly name.

“Fuck no,” he thinks frantically and emphatically. “That’s embarrassing!”

The other boy bursts into raucous laughter, finally leaning out of Marc’s space, and the realization dawns that he just said that out loud.

God damn it.

Nathaniel’s head is thrown back as he laughs, the pale column of his neck on display and definitely the next thing about Nathaniel that will star in Marc’s future daydreams. Good Lord. He’s such a disaster, and Nathaniel has an unfairly nice neck.

Wait. That’s weird to think, right…? What is he, a vampire?!

Marc groans loudly and buries his burning face in his hands, no doubt red up to his ears.

“Kill me now,” he whines, while Nathaniel seems to laugh even louder. “Please.”

It takes Nathaniel a full twenty seconds before he manages to get himself somewhat under control. “B-But if you do, who’ll w-w-write about me?” he snorts, falling back into his laughing fit.

“Oh, I’ll write about you alright,” Marc says darkly, feeling mortified beyond belief, peeking between his gloved fingers to glare at his partner. “I’ll write your eulogy.”

“I-I’d be down,” the redhead wheezes out, clapping a hand on Marc’s shoulder. He wipes the tears of mirth from his eyes with the other hand, smiling wide. “I’m s-sure you’d write a bitchin’ eulogy.” He perks up. “Actually, maybe we could have that in our comic at some point! One of the heroes could fake their own death or something.”

“Sure, w-we can pull a Sherlock later,” Marc sighs, rubbing his face, the embarrassment barely receding. His cheeks still burn like a furnace beneath his fingertips; the pros of wearing fingerless gloves, he supposes.

Nathaniel squeezes his shoulder and jostles it playfully. “Hey, maybe you can write that scenario up for a future issue? It might be fun to see if we can fit it in later, and it’ll get you writing again!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll try it,” he groans, passing an irate hand through his hair, tugging at the dark strands. “Please stop man-handling me…”

“Sorry, sorry, it was for motivation’s sake,” Nathaniel jokes, but quickly lets his hand drop from Marc’s shoulder, respectful to a fault.

“It was hardly motivational…”

“No, I’m pretty sure it was.”

Marc levels him a flat look. Probably not as effective with a pink face, but. An attempt was made.

Nathaniel raises his hands in a placating motion, the motion decidedly cheeky when paired with the mischievous curl of his lips. “Alright, how about this? I try and tell you one last thing to inspire you to write. After that, I’ll leave you to it, ‘kay?”

Marc can’t help but feel a bit suspicious, raising a pointed brow at the other’s suggestion. “Really…?”

“Really,” the redhead nods.

“And this’ll be an actual inspirational statement…?”

“Hm. Well.” A pause. “I’d hope so?”

“Hmmmmm,” Marc hums, tapping at his chin. “I guess that’d be fine?”

So long as it was something to help distract Nathaniel from his huge slip-up, he was down for it.

“If you’re going to quote an anime theme song at me, I might reconsider, though,” Marc says in teasing warning, lips twitching into a grin.

The other pouts spectacularly at him, and Marc fights down a giggle at how ridiculously adorable he looks. “Ye of so little faith, Marc. Maybe I won’t say it after all—”

“No, no, please! Don’t stop because of me,” he says, giggling a bit and setting his notebook aside, carefully closed. “I’m all ears. Really.”

“Alright,” Nathaniel drawls out, blue eyes glittering.

And then he’s leaning in again, one arm propped on the table for balance, before Marc can say another word.

Nathaniel has a boyish grin on his face, lopsided and toothy, eyes half-lidded and piercing. It’s confident—bordering on flirtatious—an expression that seems nearly uncharacteristic for someone like Nathaniel.

But he makes it work.

Oh, does he make it work.

Marc’s face feels like it’s on fire, and his heart is back doing some complicated gymnastics routine. There’s about a foot of space between them, and the distance is steadily diminishing as Nathaniel leans in, closer and closer.

Marc’s breath stutters out, sounding shallow to his own ears, while his pulse skyrockets.

They’re nearly nose-to-nose by the time Marc wonders if he should be closing his eyes or not—because this is a kiss, right? How can it be anything else?—and then Nathaniel completely diverts his course.

Nathaniel’s silky hair flutters and brushes just slightly against the side of Marc’s cheek. He can feel the other’s breath puffing against his ear, and fights down a full-body shiver, nerves alighting all at once.

The redhead whispers right in Marc’s ear, “Start writing, or you’re straight.”

Marc sputters and wheezes, rearing his head back, feeling like Nathaniel had decided to sock him in the stomach instead of whatever the hell that was.

He gapes, mouth working frantically and only spilling out stuttered gibberish.

Nathaniel waits him out for a full five seconds, eyes bright, before he starts to snicker.

“N-Nathaniel,” he ends up whisper-yelling through a wheeze, which only sets off the boy in question. He finally backs away from Marc, out of his personal space, and starts cackling.

“I—Why—I c-can’t believe you,” he hisses, swatting at Nathaniel, who seems to cackle even harder. The redhead only makes a minimal effort to shield himself, too caught up in his mirth.

“S-s-straight Marc,” wheezes the redhead through his laughter, tears streaming down his face, his voice no longer capable of forming words afterwards.

“H-How dare you. I’m a proud heterophobe—” Nathaniel doubles over, clutching at his stomach. “—a-and I will not stand for this forced straight narrative.”

The other boy nearly falls off the bench. Marc—because he is a good friend, who cares for his dumbass friend-slash-crush-slash-tester of his patience—reaches out and catches him before he faceplants on the Art Club’s dirty and paint-splattered floor.

Nathaniel clutches at Marc’s token red hoodie, still absolutely hysterical.

“P-p-proud heterophobe!” he parrots back, planting his face on Marc’s shoulder.

“I was born Assigned Heterophobe At Birth,” Marc says, quite seriously, only to get a loud laugh all but in his ear in answer, for his troubles.

  ------

 It ends up taking Nathaniel a good four minutes straight (hah) in order to calm down. Every time he seemed to calm down a bit, one look at Marc’s flat and judgmental look, and he’d rev up all over again.

He’s been laugh-crying so hard, even snot was leaking out his nose. Nathaniel fumblingly wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer, and with a grimace and a mutter, Marc hands him a tissue before he managed to smear snot all over his own arms.

And yet, Marc notes with a long-suffering sigh, he still thought Nathaniel looked cute— puffy eyes and snot and all. He had it bad.

He hadn’t even realized his crush had gotten to this point, but, well. It has.

He was fucked.

“I dedicate my life to the gay agenda, and this is the thanks I get?” Marc demands in the closest approximation of iconic offended resignation, only to trigger a peal of giggles from the redhead. “Listen, if you die because you laughed too hard at my stellar gay jokes, I will not be held accountable.”

“W-will you go t-to my funeral?” Nathaniel asks, much too brightly for a boy who’d nearly choked on his own spit from uncontrollable laughter.

“Didn’t we go over this earlier? I’d write your eulogy.”

“Ah, r-right,” the other snorts, grinning dumbly, all wide and toothy. It was a charming expression, Marc notes with fond exasperation. “Your bitchin’ eulogy skills.”

“Yes,” Marc sighs, smiling in spite of himself at his dumbass friend, smile no doubt grossly fond and gooey.

He couldn’t help it, either. He was useless against Nathaniel’s dorky charm.

“So…” Nathaniel starts, finally seemingly able to breath properly once more. “Did it work?”

He eyes the other warily. “Work…?”

“My inspirational statement,” Nathaniel states, quite seriously, smirking in a completely infuriating way.

“You call that an inspirational statement?!” he demands in a hiss, all the while Nathaniel snickers evilly. “I told you to tell me something to inspire me to write! Not—not whatever the hell that was.”

“I mean. I personally think it was pretty inspiring,” the redhead says innocently, blinking his big blue eyes. The overall effect was ruined by his sheer cheek.

“It might’ve been for you…!” Marc retorts. He plays up his offense by placing a hand on his chest like an aghast French noblewoman. “But I asked for inspiration, not a threat.”

“Hey, it’s still motivational, right?” Nathaniel snickers, propping his elbow on the table and leaning in close again. Marc feels his heart trip in his chest once more. If Nathaniel keeps this up, Marc might just need to go see a specialist or something; his heart doing non-stop frantic gymnastics probably wasn’t healthy. “And besides, if you just do what I said, you wouldn’t have to worry.”

“You’re the reason I’m a Professional Heterophobe,” Marc deadpans, which earns a bark of laughter from the other.

“Impossible. I’m bi,” Nathaniel says, so casually light and flippant, it felt impossibly fake. The slight tightening of his smile and the way he tapped his fingers restlessly on his arm only cemented this. “S-so. We’re actually gay solidarity.”

“Right,” Marc manages to say, mind whirring a mile a minute.

This didn’t mean anything. It didn’t. Just because Nathaniel is bi doesn’t mean he’ll like Marc back.

But.

It’s possible, however slight. And the chances are definitely higher than they were before, when Nathaniel had just been straight. Or not out of the closet yet.

The redhead’s entire posture has turned tense, fingers tapping quicker against his arm. He’s looking at Marc, cautious, gauging.

As if Nathaniel would ever have to be afraid of Marc, of all people. He was probably one of the most blatantly gay people at school, out and proud of it. He was also someone so ridiculously in love with Nathaniel Kurtzberg, he would never turn his back on him.

“Gay solidarity can only take you so far,” Marc starts, wagging a finger jokingly at Nathaniel. “You’re on thin ice for testing me, mister.”

Marc grins, trying for something casual and playful. The beaming smile he gets in return outstrips him a thousand times over.

“We’ll see,” Nathaniel replies, rather cryptically, but his smile isn’t dimmed at all by his vagueness. He shoves his bangs behind his ear, as he says, “Now, who’re we choosing to fake their death for later?”

“Mightillustrator, so Reverser can write his eulogy,” Marc suggests, half-joking, only to get a warm laugh and even warmer smile from the other boy.

“Can’t wait to draw it,” Nathaniel says softly, grabbing onto Marc’s right hand and squeezing it. Marc feels his breath catch, hand tingling from the points of contact. “And I can’t wait to read what you write about it.”

With the way Nathaniel’s looking at him—shy, blue eyes peering through his lashes—Marc lets himself smile shyly back and think, maybe… just maybe… the possibility isn’t as farfetched as he’s been thinking. Him and Nathaniel. As partners, and partners.

“I can’t wait either,” Marc replies, voice just as soft. It’s as if neither one wants to speak too loudly, to not break the moment, somehow.

Marc turns his hand over, threading his fingers with Nathaniel’s, and squeezes them together. Black-painted nails and black fingerless gloves settling perfectly together with a pale hand with bitten-off nails and wayward pen doodles on the knuckles and the palm lightly stained with paint.

Nathaniel ducks his head slightly, ears pink and smile wide enough to split his face.

Marc has to let go after a few seconds to pick up his pen and ready himself to write—he’s not ambidextrous as Nathaniel is, the talented bastard—but it doesn’t seem to matter. Nathaniel instantly scoots over on the bench, pressing their sides together, shoulders and elbows and thighs firmly connected.

Marc twirls his pen in his hand, looks over to beam at Nathaniel—who beams back—and then opens his notebook.

He feels like he won’t be able to write fast enough to capture all he’s feeling, this swell of emotions. Overwhelming joy, sweet fondness, a burst of giddiness, confused disbelief, a flutter of embarrassment, steady hope, and heart-thumping love.

He’s perfectly inspired, now.

So he puts his pen to paper, and writes.

...