#or even take you to the park because of some reason only sensible to them

[niadotcom]

.

[bongo-clash]

If I had a nickel for every billionaire that tried to kidnap me, I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice

DP/DC week prompt: Mistaken Identity

'Look, in Bruce Wayne’s defence, he has a lot of children with black hair and blue eyes, and he’d had a very long day. But in Danny’s defence, he has no idea what’s happening right now and, according to his previous experience in being kidnapped by billionaires, his reaction is incredibly reasonable.'

(No content warnings || fic under cut!!)

-

Danny’s been in Gotham for about a week with his family, and so far it’s honestly been one of their most relaxing vacations to date. Sure, the drive had been long and finding a place to park the RV had been unsurprisingly difficult, but once the initial getting-there-fanfare was over with, everything had been great. The whole ‘not my circus, not my monkeys’ thing had been amazing for his anxiety. The famous Batman was more than capable of dealing with his peanut gallery without some random dead kid intercepting. 

Okay, he was a little bit worried about Batman’s ‘no metas’ thing, but there was no good reason the vigilante would find out that little tidbit. It’s not like he’s even a meta in the first place! Being dead is a medical condition. Regardless, he’s doing the sensible thing and not making a show of himself; he may have flown over the top of the city invisibly on the first night to get some good shots to send to his friends, but no one needed to know about that but Sam and her gothic-architecture-inspo wall. 

The hotel they’re staying at has good breakfast, the buildings in the inner city look cool as Hell, they already have heroes dealing with their issues so Danny doesn’t have to do anything, and there’s no ghosts barging into his room but the constant chaos of the city still feels homey. Overall, a ten out of ten vacation spot. 

Surely, nothing can go wrong. 

“Tim? What are you doing here?”

He’s taking a morning walk away from the hotel after he and Jazz successfully convinced their parents he would be fine on his own, and he’d stopped in front of Wayne Enterprises because Tucker would be frankly offended if he didn’t. He ignores the call at first, because he doesn’t know anyone named Tim, and it’s not his business, but that’s clearly shown to be a mistake when the call comes again but closer, and then again, but with a man putting his hand on Danny’s shoulder. He’s turns around to tell whoever it is to clear off when he actually catches sight of the guy’s face.

Sleek black hair, sky-blue eyes, a healthy tan and a very expensive suit. That’s Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne as in the guy who owns the building in front of them. Bruce Wayne as in the multi-billionaire. 

Okay, don’t get him wrong, Bruce Wayne does some pretty honourable charity work, and his tech is pretty cool and Tucker’s obsessed with it, but Danny has a very sour history with billionaires and even before he’d met Vlad he wasn’t a fan of them; being friends with Sam for long enough does that to a guy. Dealing with the fruitloop had only cemented what he already knew, and that’s that you shouldn’t trust people that rich as far as you can throw them (or, maybe just not at all, since he figures he could actually throw them pretty damn far, considering the ghost powers). 

Plus, Bruce ‘Brucie’ Wayne has this really weird habit of acting like a ditz, and quite frankly, Danny doesn’t buy it. He’s been successfully running a huge company and heading welfare campaigns for years, and if he’s truly as air-headed as he presents himself to be Vlad would’ve snatched up his company and his wealth in a heartbeat. Vlad, who is the other billionaire he knows, who is also pretending to be something he’s not with the whole ‘gentle hermit’ vibe he maintains with the press. No, there’s definitely something weird about Bruce Wayne and he hadn’t particularly wanted to meet the guy to find out what it is. 

However, it’s looking like he doesn’t have much choice, what with the man having a hand on his shoulder and being about ten inches from his face. “Uh.” He blurts eloquently. “Hi?”

“Tim,” He repeats, frowning. “Why are you here? I told you to take the day off- don’t tell me you were just planning on sneaking off to work anyway.”

Danny’s certain Tucker mentioned some co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises called Tim, and he’s fairly certain Tucker mentioned he was the same age as them and also Bruce’s ward, but do they really look similar? No one’s ever said they do to his face, and he thought that was the kind of thing people talked about- the whole ‘who’s your celebrity lookalike’. So why-?

…Tucker also mentioned that almost all of Bruce Wayne’s wards have the same black hair and blue eyes. He’d even joked how Danny ‘fit the bill’. Oh no. What if this is an obsession-with-having-a-son-just-like-him thing? Do all billionaires do that or is that just Vlad? He could really do with someone else to compare the guy to that isn’t the fruitloop right now- it’d be really great to have some kind of gauge amongst general average billionaire behaviour so that he actually knew what to do. 

Staying quiet to gather his thoughts was apparently not his greatest move, though, because the man’s frown only deepens. Bruce Wayne’s hand moves from the top of his shoulder to his arm, giving it a light squeeze that seems like it’s supposed to be comforting but really just makes him more nervous. “I’m taking you back to the manor. You were supposed to take a day off and I really think relaxing would do you some good.”

Now, there are a lot of things Danny could do to absolve this situation, and the smartest of all of them would be to inform him that there’s been a misunderstanding and that he’s just some random tourist who’d been wanting to take some pictures. 

“I— what- can’t you just leave me here? Don’t you need to go in there?” Is what he says instead, because fight, flight, or freeze apparently includes brain freeze too. His mom was right, he never should’ve been allowed out unsupervised. Why didn’t he bring Jazz with him?

“The meeting can wait, you’re more important.” The man soothes, and suddenly the hand on his arm is pulling him away, leading him over to an incredibly expensive car and Danny’s so bewildered by the whole situation he doesn’t even fight back. He stands there, limp, as Bruce Wayne opens the car doors, nudges him inside, starts the engine, and drives further and further away from Danny’s hotel. 

They’ve been driving for about twenty minutes before his stupor finally breaks, and by then they’ve fully left the bustle of the inner city and entered the sparsely populated realm of high society estates— Bristol, he thinks it was called? Doesn’t matter. He needs to get out and he needed to be out yesterday; he can’t believe he ever thought he could have a remotely sensible vacation. Let your guard down one time and you get kidnapped by a man with more money than everyone else in the state combined (though, to be fair, that sounds more normal given his circumstances than it should. Still, the billionaire being Bruce Wayne isn’t normal). 

Now, there are a lot of things Danny could do to absolve this situation, and the smartest of all of them would be tell Bruce Wayne that he’d been too shocked to refute the man, but he wasn’t actually his son, and had finally gathered his bearings to say so and was very sorry for causing him undue stress. 

Instead, Danny jumps out of a moving car. 

Distantly registering the yell of alarm and the screech of the vehicle pulling to a sudden stop, he tanks the roll and springs back up again, taking in his surroundings for all of a second before sprinting in the opposite direction of wherever they’d been going. Bruce Wayne is definitely chasing after him- he can hear the heavy footfalls pounding behind him- but Danny’s been running from his problems for years. There’s no way he’s letting them catch up to him now. 

He rounds a corner and disappears into thin air, because Batman’s not a day time hero so what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him and surely he’d get that Danny was only doing it for the sake of his personal safety. I mean, who’s he to say that Bruce Wayne doesn’t layer on his fortunes with the occasional ransom situation? …Maybe not the best excuse he’s ever come up with, but the damage is done now, and he drifts away for a few more minutes until he figures he’s far enough from his initial launch point that he can drop the invisibility. 

Looking around, he can tell that he’s definitely lost, his surroundings still reeking of big money and the actual meat of the city barely hanging on the horizon. Well, technically he’s not that lost, given that he can still see inner-Gotham from here, but he doesn’t know where the Hell his hotel is in all that grey, and the walk looks far. While he was willing to risk the momentary power-usage to get himself out of the billionaire’s sights, he figures that trying anything else would be pushing his luck a bit further than it was willing to take him. 

He must’ve been thinking about it for a lot longer than he realised, though, because he hears a quiet thud behind him, and there is now a vigilante blocking his exit. Long-ish black hair, an admonishing expression, and a black and blue outfit with a bird decal.

That’s one of the Bats. NIghtwing, he thinks? 

Aren’t they all supposed to be nighttime vigilantes?

As if hearing his questions, the taller man tuts, bringing his hands to his hips like his mom does when he breaks curfew. He hasn’t got out the electric-stick-things that he’s pretty sure the guy owns, so that’s good. “Tim,” He starts, tone starkly disappointed, and- hold on, why is Nightwing on a first name basis with the Wayne Enterprises CEO? “I thought B told you to take today off.”

Hold on, that’s a weird thing for a vigilante to know about the Wayne Enterprises CEO, and- Danny’s assuming B means Bruce Wayne- why is he using such a casual nickname for the billionaire? Do they know each other? He supposes it makes sense if they’re all in cahoots, since the Bats’ stuff does seem pretty expensive-looking, but he’d honestly kind of assumed Batman was just some rich reclusive vampire or something. Like Vlad but morally-reversed. 

Unless Batman is still a billionaire and not just funded by Bruce Wayne. Nightwing knowing the Tim guy would make sense, then, given they might see each other at rich people things. But, actually, would that make sense? Vigilante socialites don’t usually go around telling their other socialite friends that they’re vigilantes, do they?

Unless Batman is Bruce Wayne. But that’s ridiculous. He’d figured the guy was hiding something, and the hoard of children is kind of indicative of a weird guy generally, but the man being some kind of edgy bat-themed hero in his spare time was just too ridiculous. There’s no way. 

…

…Holy shit. Batman is totally Bruce Wayne. 

That means that Nightwing is probably one of Bruce Wayne’s many sons, which means that he’s one of Tim Drake-Wayne’s many brothers, which means Bruce Wayne may have called him to chase him down and bring him back to the manor. Even though they shouldn’t be doing that because he isn’t Tim Drake. 

Now, there are a lot of things Danny could do to absolve this situation, and the smartest of all of them would be tell Nightwing that by some hilarious comedy-of-errors, Bruce Wayne had mistaken him for his son Tim the CEO when he is in fact Danny Fenton the tourist, and he’s very sorry for the fuss he’s caused, but he should probably call his sister to pick him up now, thank you very much. 

Instead, Danny feints left and tries to dash out the corner he’d trapped himself in from Nightwing’s other side. Nightwing grabs him like a small dog with one arm and raises a grappling hook to the nearest roof. Danny feels like this is probably karma for all the property damage he’s caused in Amity as they’re flung violently across roofs higher than his town’s tallest apartment complex. He is quickly discovering that being airborne is actually so much worse when you’re not the one in control. 

He doesn’t have an awful lot of time to ponder this, however, because they reach what Danny assumes is the Wayne residence soon after. Nightwing does an absolutely terrifying set of flips as they careen over to the other side of the ledge the mansion is on, and lets him go when they’re on the ground to put a finger against his hear, presumably to some communication device. 

“I’ve got him, B! We’re outside the Batcave now- yep, all safe- see you in a sec!”

…They’re outside the what now?

Nightwing slings an arm over his shoulder- some mix of friendliness and making sure he doesn’t run away- and leads him into a concealed entrance against the ledge just beneath the Wayne mansion. 

He has to be hallucinating at this point. There are actual bats in here. The whole place is scary and dark and gigantic and—is that a fucking dinosaur?

“Tim!” 

And, as if just to cement how utterly absurd today has been, Bruce Wayne is striding towards them with an expression contorted by worry, and he feels bad right up until the moment the guy cups his face with his calloused hands (calloused because he’s Batman, what the Hell). “Tim, I was so worried,” He croaks. “What happened back there? Why did you jump out the car?”

Now, there are a lot of things Danny could do to absolve this situation, and finally, finally, he-

“What the Hell is happening right now.” He blurts, taking a sharp step back and letting the hand fall from his face, watching as surprise falls over the men next to him like an overcast. 

Okay, maybe not the the smartest thing he could’ve said, but not the worst thing either, and that’s probably the biggest win he’s going to get today, so he’ll take it. “What are you talking about?” Nightwing asks gently, reminding him rather neatly that he is still in an absolutely gigantic pile of shit, seeing as he’s now going to have to explain that they have all made some very big mistakes today. 

“Uh, okay, so funny story- and you have to promise not to like, beat the shit out of me or whatever-“ He ignores the horrified faces they make at that, nervousness leaking out into a hysterical laugh. “But, uh, a very bad thing has happened, and— it’s like, fine! I won’t tell anyone if you won’t tell anyone, it’s totally chill and I’m really great at keeping secrets-!”

Bruce Wayne cuts him off, looking terribly concerned. “Tim, whatever’s going on, we’ll-“

“I’m not Tim!”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he backs away with his hands raised placatingly, panic heightened by the way the two men freeze in their tracks. “I am so sorry,” Danny chokes, figuring he can’t dig himself into any deeper of a grave than he already has. “I was just- I was outside Wayne Enterprises to take pictures and when you came up to me I had no idea what to do so I just froze, and by the time I came to I was in your car and like, I was kind of scared you were kidnapping me? Because I kind of have a history with billionaires and kidnapping so I just panicked and jumped out the car but that made everything worse ‘cause you chased me and now I’m in the Batcave and you’re Batman and-“

There is a very long pause when Danny’s words fail him. The Batcave is very quiet beyond the chittering of bats on the ceiling. 

“You have a history with billionaires and kidnapping?” Nightwing asks, like literally nothing else he’d said registered. 

Quite frankly, Danny does not want to know what their expressions are like. Averting his eyes, he replies- “That was definitely a weird thing for me to say. Sorry. Uh, yeah.”

“Are you safe?”

What is happening? “Like… right now? I mean, so long as you aren’t gonna feed me to that dinosaur then yeah; I’m just in Gotham for vacation. I don’t- it was a very nice vacation. Until like half an hour ago. Now it’s a stressful vacation.”

Bruce Wayne, to his credit, is not trying to kill him for his knowledge of the man’s secret vigilantism, which already makes him better than the only other billionaire he knows. The man drags a hand down his face, looking stressed beyond belief. “I should’ve known you weren’t Tim,” He breathes. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Yeah, now that I’m actually hearing you talk, you sound nothing like him. Bruce, were you actually listening when he was talking to you before you shoved him in the car? This guy’s midwestern. What happened to world’s greatest detective, B?” Nightwing snorts and, wow, they’re not taking this half as badly as he thought they would. And, hey, now that he’s thinking about it, these are the first actual vigilantes he’s ever met outside of himself and Valerie, and wouldn’t it be a waste not to ask them for pointers? 

Maybe it’s not the best idea in the world, but he already knows their secret identities and they’re being chill about it, so maybe they’ll be chill with his, too. Screw it, he’s doing it. 

“Again, I promise I won’t tell anyone- I’m, ah, pretty good with secrets like this.” They turn to look at him curiously there, and he tries to talk past the lump in his throat. “I’m kind of, um, also a vigilante as well? Funny coincidence, right? Small town gig, though, nothing like Gotham! And I’ve only been on the scene a few years, so… I don’t know what I’m asking, here. Any good pointers?”

Nightwing looks thoughtful. “Does this have anything to do with the billionaire you mentioned?” He asks.

“It very much has a lot to do with the billionaire. If Vlad Masters ever asks you for anything- I dunno, punch him? He’s got a really punchable face, you’d know if you met him. It’s all creepy and shit.”

Nightwing continues asking questions as Bruce Wayne’s head remains firmly buried in his hands, and sure, maybe letting this well-established team of heroes know about his less-than-legal and more-than-ectoplasmic hobbies might come back to bite him, but right now he can’t help basking in the fact that he gets to bad-mouth Vlad to someone who Vlad will probably care about his reputation with. Everything else comes second. 

“-Hang on, you said you’ve been a vigilante for a few years, right? How old are you?”

Okay, almost everything comes second. Both men are looking at him now with something that’s probably-definitely concern and is getting worse the longer he neglects to answer, and Danny is very suddenly reminded once again that the majority of Bruce’s children fit the same appearance-criteria as he does. 

He’s just doubled his own problem, hasn’t he? It’s not just one anymore-he’s going to have to deal with two billionaires now. 

He’s never going on vacation again. 

[wendytestabrat]

and the most unproblematic south park kid is…. (FROM THE VAULT [2021])

If there’s any South Park kid that takes home the crown for being the most unproblematic it has to be Jimmy honestly. I know I haven’t talked much about Jimmy but srsly like he’s such a good kid, the only time when Jimmy rlly did anything bad or malicious was when he was using steroids and shit to cheat in the special olympics, but Jimmy is really nice and treats everyone around him with respect and never gets involved in drama and so all the kids like him, like both the boys and Craig’s gang get along well with Jimmy. Honestly all Jimmy really cares about is just doing his stand up comedy and making people laugh which is a positive thing like he knows how to just focus on his passions and even though he’s crippled he doesn’t let that get in the way or make him bitter or anything, even though Nathan & Mimsy are assholes to him and try to tear him down, Jimmy never really fights back at them he just does his own thing. And I know what you’re thinking like yes, Butters is also really unproblematic and nice to everyone (and this is probably why Butters & Jimmy hang out a lot) but Butters is still kind of flawed because his issue is that he’s can be too nice and giving & naive and a bit of a pushover, so that’s why Butters gets taken advantage of a lot and it’s definitely turned Butters more bitter in later seasons. Jimmy is still pretty smart and passionate about a lot of things and he can still see through people’s bullshit. Jimmy isn’t afraid to like stand up for himself occasionally if he needs to like when Cartman tried to go to Jimmy’s house in the episode “Tsst” and he acted like he was Jimmy’s best friend and everything just so Jimmy would let him stay there, Jimmy was like “what’s my last name” FJSJSJ. And there was also that time when Jimmy was running the school paper and he stood up to PC Principal when he was trying to change it and put in ads or whatever, and that’s bc Jimmy just has a lot of integrity and stays true to his word and his beliefs, unlike the boys who act all fake all the time just to get people to like them so they’ll fit in. Jimmy is just naturally confident in himself so everyone likes him because of that. Jimmy can struggle though with being too nice too just like Butters like we saw in “Fishsticks” when he let Cartman walk all over him and take credit for the fishsticks joke but honestly I don’t rlly blame him, Jimmy just didn’t wanna stir the pot and cause a bunch of drama, even though Kyle kept telling Jimmy he needed to stand up to Cartman RRJFJDJE. But then Craig made a really good point and was like “at least he’s giving you half” or some shit like that. Craig was pretty much saying the exact opposite of what Kyle was trying to say and was being a good and sensible friend to Jimmy and trying to point out to him that he’s not gonna win this against Cartman (because Craig actually has a brain and knows it’s impossible to reason with Cartman unlike fucking Kyle) and he should be lucky and grateful that Cartman’s at least giving him half of the credit and the money for the joke.

[pepsi-maxwell]

small gestures

pairing: max caster/mjf rating: t (language) wordcount: ~1150 [ao3 link] prompt: @wrestleprompts week 5: a reluctant trip to the zoo to make their partner happy

-

It should be enough of a sign, Max thinks, that he’s willing to bring Caster to the zoo, in February, when half the park isn’t even open.

Apparently not, though, because all he’s done is bitch about Austin and Colten so far.

“—I mean, they cheated to win, pal, it isn’t fair—” he says, and Max has to really fight the urge to remind him of how the Acclaimed got the titles in the first place, because he’s trying to be nice to him for once, take him out to cheer him up, be a… ugh, a friend.

But apparently Caster is more content to vent about the ass boys, and how their body glitter was so distracting, and how Colten’s hair sucks, and Max just looks over despairingly at the monorail, because if he’d come at a sensible time of year he’d at least be able to sit down while Caster vented. Contemplate jumping out into the river or something to distract himself.

“Quit dwelling on it,” he says eventually, when there’s finally, finally, a blissful moment of silence. “You lost, big deal. You have a rematch clause, go challenge them at Revolution and stop whining to me about it.”

He feels like he deserves credit here for being far nicer than he could have been. For not laughing in Caster’s face that they got beat by the fucking Gunn Club, cheating or not, but instead, his kindness is being repaid by being forced to listen to Caster complain.

He should be on his knees thanking Max for deigning to bring him out to the fucking zoo, in February. Not talking about Austin and Colten, the thought of which is just making him angry, because he has his own problems with them and they could be bitching together, but the fact is, he doesn’t want Caster to complain, he wants Caster to—

“Let’s go see the lions,” he says abruptly. “Maybe we can watch them eat a goat, and pretend it’s Austin or something.”

He sees a minute twitch of Caster’s lips, which is more than good enough for him.

They’re a little too early to watch the lions eat, but they’re awake, at least, and the couple of cubs they have are playing in a way that makes him think of Piper and the way she flops down on her side when he comes home, and he thinks once again that Caster should be thankful he’s out here with all the poors, surrounded by animals, in February. 

He buys them both a coffee after the lions, because his hands are cold and he doesn’t have his gloves. Even lets Caster order some horrific sounding drink with far too much sugar and a colour not found in nature.

It perks Caster up out of his funk a little more, though. Enough to get him dragging Max around the next few exhibits, from the giraffes, to the gorillas, then to the reptiles, avoiding the bug house at Max’s insistence, but he’s still not completely back to normal.

Normal for Caster, at least, which is being a filthy pervert, but it’s a start. Not that Max wants to be bombarded with his attention again, but it’s just… 

He’s doing Caster a favour. That’s all it is.

He thinks he’s done well enough by the time they’ve done a full loop of the park. They’ve seen just about everything they could, including a couple macaques getting frisky, to which point Caster had finally said something sexual, and Max had thought, great. Job done, time to go home.

His feet are aching by the time they start the walk back to where he’d parked, and he’s thinking about blisters, which means he only half-hears when Caster says something to him.

“Thanks for the date, pal.”

He stops completely in the middle of the path. Looks at Caster, because he sounds… happy. Really happy. For the first time today, for the first time since Wednesday.

And he doesn’t sound the way he does when he does his fake flirting routine, which is the only reason Max doesn’t say “Definitely not a date, buddy,” before kicking him in the dick, walking off and leaving him here, but…

Today he’s being nice. Today he’s being a friend.

So this can be a date, maybe. Just this once. Just today.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, leaning in close. He watches Caster’s eyes widen comically before he presses his lips to his cheek. Just a chaste touch, even as his heart is racing in his throat, and he kinda expects Caster to try something, pull him in, kiss him properly. But he doesn’t, he just stands there looking like his birthday’s come early, so he slides his hand into Caster’s and squeezes as a reward for not getting fucking weird about it. 

It has the added benefit of letting him physically pull Caster to make him walk faster because it’s not getting any warmer out here and Max would really like to get back to his apartment and his cat, thank you.

“You tell anyone about any of this and they will never find all the pieces of your body,” Max says once they’re back at the car, because he still has his reputation to think about. Not that anyone would believe he willingly spent the day with Caster, but it never hurts to put the fear of Max into him.

He doesn’t think about how cold his hand suddenly feels without Caster’s in it as he reaches into his pocket for the keyfob to unlock it.

“Don’t worry, pal. Your secret that you’re really a sweetheart deep down is safe with me,” Caster says. “Besides, what’s to tell? I barely even got a kiss from you.”

Max feels his stomach jump as he glances over at Caster, leaning against his car in a way nobody else would be allowed to get away with. Looking at him with his eyes half-lidded, a smirk playing at his lips. Now he sounds more like he usually does. Now his words feel loaded with intent. Like he’s daring Max to kiss him properly this time.

And… it’s still technically a date, so… 

He reaches up to cup Caster’s cheek. Leans in close again, and this time Caster’s eyes fall shut, and Max hears the slight hitch in his breath before he stops breathing entirely.

He can hear his own heartbeat, racing in his chest.

“Don’t push your luck,” he whispers, before pushing Caster away.

And Caster laughs, gets in the passenger seat, and Max graciously lets him buckle himself in before starting the car, but he doesn’t say anything else, so Max thinks maybe, when they get to Caster’s place, before he gets out of the car, maybe he’ll end the date properly.

Because he’s such a good friend, after all.

[frostyreturns]

Frosty Ruins “Lisa The Beauty Queen” Simpsons S4E4

I've got a love hate relationship with the Simpsons. On the one hand it's a classic piece of culture from the 90's and one of the most iconic cartoons of all time. However it's also full of propaganda and is written by a degenerate. It's not worth writing a general criticism or commentary on the Simpsons because everyone has seen it and everyone has talked about it so I'm just going to focus on this particular episode titled Lisa The Beauty Queen.

Every comedy based cartoon has that one character that made you groan when you found out the new episode would be focused on that character. Nobody wants a Brian heavy episode of Family Guy, a Peggy episode of King Of The Hill and quite possibly the most dissapointing...a Lisa heavy episode of the Simpsons. Lisa as a character is the embodiment of everything wrong with the show. She's there to be the voice of intelligent reason, the moral compass and since the intelligence, reason and morals she embodies are those of the creator who has none of those things it makes her a retarded amoral drain on the show and the viewer.

See the Simpsons is a satire of the American family, and like most satire the elements being drawn in for criticism often are enjoyable unironically if you don't share the perspectives of the writer. Ron Swanson was the best and most intelligent character on Parks and Rec despite being created to mock libertarians. Rorschach is the best character in Watchmen and the true hero of the story despite the creator intending him to be a dirty bigoted moron. The same is true of The satire in the Simpsons. Sometimes they get it right and sometimes they get it very wrong.

Now Lisa is not just the comedy straight man, she's the anti-comedy. She's the eternal bummer, she makes the show not fun and serves the show only to create drama and cause problems. In this episode her issue is she's depressed because someone drew a cartoon caricature of her that made her feel ugly. The premise is then Homer entering her into a beauty pageant to boost her confidence.

There's absolutely no innocent reason for adults to try to make children look as appealing as possible and then sit and watch them perform. The idea that it's empowering or helps their confidence is absolutely insane. How can anyone feel good about being told here's a long list of unnatural things you need to do to look beautiful and then be gawked at judged and for the most part lose a competition based on something you mostly cannot completely alter. Because there's only one winner, so really only one or two might walk away feeling better about themselves, while all the rest will feel worse. And I'm just talking about women in general, all of this is a hundred times more sick being done with fucking 7 year olds. The parents who push their kids into it are disgusting, the people who put the competitions together are disgusting, and everyone who judges or watches them is disgusting.

Now some people might think the episode is actually criticizing child pageants and they'd be wrong. What the episode does is pay lip service to criticism and offers half hearted commentary on an issue only vaguely related. Like they have the pageant sponsored by a cigarette company using it as a way to advertise to children...what they are criticizing is tobacco companies and advertising...not child pageants. Or they'll show some of the bad behaviour but don't take a stance on it. For example they mention one of the contestants getting lash implants but the only comment on children getting cosmetic surgery (even though their example is goofy) is that it's not illegal everywhere...and even Lisa...the sensible and intelligent character there to be the moral compass is gazing at the girls implants admiringly and then they move on with the pageant. There's never a skewering of the concept of child pageants and any commentary on them serves the function of normalizing it rather than demonizing it as it should be. It's being presented as a way to boost young girls confidence. Lisa never has an issue with any of this until she see's how she's being used to advertise smoking. She even says later it successfully made her feel better about herself.

Now I'll leave it to you to decide why a man who's on Epsteins flight logs might write an episode where he encourages child pageants as confidence boosters for girls 7-9. Oh speaking of which one of the girls in the pageant was named "Tina Epstein." So yeah not only is this a Lisa episode but it's an episode where we have to sit through a take on child pageants that's anything but denouncing it as nothing but sick and disgusting pedophile fodder and is nothing but harmful and totally retarded.

I'm not even talking about the fact that this episode is not even true to it's own characters. If the point of the episode wasn't to normalize child pageants then Lisa would be totally against this as a concept as well. Opposing this sort of thing is one of the only thing feminists have right...and yet this normally militant feminist character is dancing around on a stage in tights singing patriotic songs to draw a connection between patriotism and parading children around for pedophiles. They even parade Lisa in front of the troops "as a reminder of what they are fighting" and say isn't she beautiful.

Truly one of the worst episodes of the Simpsons, even all the annoying pedophile stuff aside there wasn't anything funny, there were no side or background jokes that stood out to save it from being total trash. It was a totally serious episode with a totally despicible message.

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #577

Top Ten Transformers to Turn into Lego

I'm back! All the complicated “Best Years for Whatever” are done and dusted (for now? For ever?) and I'm retreating into the safe, warm, yet metallic embrace of those lovely Robots in Disguise. And hopefully the use of the word “embrace” won’t have me slapped with a “mature content” warning like last week’s list did; I've absolutely no idea why, unless Tumblr’s bizarro algorithm look umbrage with the title of the second single the Divine Comedy released in 1998, or maybe the name of the band who sang One Week in the same year. Anyway, I'm sure nothing about Transformers can ever be filthy, so we should be okay.

Another reason – well, okay, the main reason – for talking about Transformers this week is because I'm attending a convention again. When you read this, the TF Nation “Mini-Con” is taking place in Manchester, which is lovely because I don’t need to drive for two hours or book a hotel room. It's always nice to chat to like-minded Transformers fans, browse old toys, or even possibly get a drawing or two done. So it’ll be a fun time, I would imagine.

But having written about those ruddy great warmongers from Cybertron approximately a million times in the eleven years I’ve been doing this daft blog, what else could I possibly have to say? Well, amazingly, I found quite a few things I’ve not talked about! And for today I've narrowed it down to Lego. Because for Christmas I received the frankly rather marvellous Lego Optimus Prime set, a glorious (and quite massive) kit that lets you not only build everyone’s favourite sacrificial mecha-daddy but then transform him from a robot into a truck and back again. A great big brilliant-looking rendition of Prime that is also an actual working Transformer. It's an incredible, exciting, beautiful bit of engineering. It's a great toy – or building set, whatever you wanna call Lego. And as far as I can gather, it’s been quite popular too.

And that got me thinking – surely they’re gonna try to replicate this, yeah? They're going to want to return to that well (of Allsparks) and make another Transformer out of Lego? And if they do – and I'm fairly convinced they will – then who will they pick? See, it’s not quite as easy as you might think, because there are a lot of variables to consider. And so, to celebrate TF Nation parking its Bumblebehind in my own personal stomping ground, I'm going to suggest to both Hasbro and Lego which Transformers characters would be best to turn into yet another fantastic Christmas present for me at some point in the future. Till all are one (thousand bricks)!

Starscream: Optimus Prime is a robot that turns into a vehicle, so the most sensible thing to do – one assumes – is to make another Lego kit that’s also a robot that turns into a vehicle. And if that’s the way to go, then Starscream is a perfect candidate for a number of reasons. Well, at least two: one, picking a jet instead of a truck is a nice differential; and secondly, he’s a Decepticon where Prime is an Autobot. The traditional transformation of Starscream should be (he says as someone most assuredly not any kind of engineer) relatively straightforward to replicate? Maybe? Just as Lego Prime’s transformation is very similar to how it ever was, I think probably Starscream’s could be the same. And like Prime came with some fan-favourite accoutrements, maybe Starscream could come with his cape and crown from The Transformers: The Movie?

Soundwave: another genius move would be to go for one of the other iconic TF characters. Sticking with the Decepticons – to contrast Prime once more – then Soundwave benefits from visually being a good contrast, blue to red. They share similar faces, they’re both quite boxy; it’s a good look, them stood next to each other. And again, Soundwave’s old-school transformation should be more-or-less replicable in Lego form. Except here we have the opportunity for a tremendous gimmick, because Soundwave of course has his cassettes he keeps in his chest; so maybe Lego Soundwave could come with a Lego Ravage and Lego Lazerbeak who turn into little Lego Cassettes and fit in his Lego chest! And maybe a nice big Lego energon cube too.

Grimlock: if you’re gonna pick another Autobot, you need to do something a bit different. Grimlock is, again, one of the most iconic Transformers around. He’s a big grumpy dinosaur and everybody loves him. His historic method of transformation – which has remained mostly consistent across nearly forty years’ worth of toys – is pretty straightforward once again (I guess these eighties toys had to have fairly straightforward methods of transformation, thinking about it), and I think is replicable in Lego. And, I mean, he’s a chuffing robot T-Rex, what more do you want? Oh, okay, his little accessories can be his crown from the comic and his tea tray from that one episode of the cartoon. And maybe – just maybe – we could sneak in Wheelie as an extra bonus.

Bumblebee: one thing I’ve been sort of trying to avoid is just picking a Transformer who turns into a car. I feel like it’s kind of been done already to a certain degree with Optimus, and I think that there are so many big, famous Transformers who this could apply to – Jazz, Prowl, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker; or even the likes of Ratchet and Ironhide, or Hound, or Brawn – that it would basically boil down to “here’s a robot, here’s the car, it’s like the Optimus set but a bit smaller”. However, if you’re gonna do that, then I think Bumblebee is the best choice really. He's super-iconic, almost the face of the franchise at times, so he’d be popular no doubt; and there are quite a few possibilities you could go with for his design. Personally I think it’d be really cool if they gave you slightly different parts so you could either make him a VW Beetle or a Camaro, but I doubt that’d be possible licencing-wise.

Megatron: Megatron, in a lot of respects, would be the obvious choice. After all, he’s the other guy, the rival to Optimus, the big bad of the franchise. Surely if you were going to have two, you’d pick Ops and Megs? Like you’d have Batman and the Joker, right? Well, it’s complicated. I think one of the things that’s so successful with Optimus Prime – which I imagine is a deliberate choice – is how closely it hews to the original 1984 toy. There are lots of references to it, even in the instructions and stuff. With Megatron that’s really hard for a few reasons. I mean, he’s a gun; it’d just be a lot more difficult to engineer it so he turned into a gun but also looked good as a robot. Arguably, they didn’t achieve that in 1984 (or earlier, when the toy was first designed in Japan, etc, etc, etc…). Plus there’s the fact that no one wants Megatron to be a gun anymore; it’s just not the done thing for major characters in children’s properties to actually be firearms. Plus Lego wouldn’t want you running around brandishing a prop gun; think of the headlines. So the solution would surely be to make him a tank; after all, that’s what he usually turns into nowadays anyway. Megatron is a tank now and we have to accept that. So what do you do? Turn him into a tank in a way that reflects contemporary toys? Or do you make him in effect a Lego version of the classic G2 Megatron figure? I’m not sure, but whatever choice you make is intelligent compared to the Optimus Prime figure and is full of compromises. Hence he’s lower in the list. But: I still really want a Lego Megatron.

Optimus Primal: I’m nothing if not magnanimous. Y’see, I was never massively into Beast Wars; it sort of happened after I thought the franchise had “ended” (I should have known it never ends), and when I saw it I felt “that’s not my Transformers”. But I know that loads of people love it, so they deserve some Lego fun too. And – hey! – it would tie into this summer’s Rise of the Beasts movie! So yeah: we’ve got our standard Optimus-adjacent leader-figure, except he turns into a monkey not a truck. That’s all there is to it. I’ll be honest, having never had an Optimus Primal figure, I don’t really know how he actually transforms, so I don’t know if it’s something that’s even doable in Lego, but what the hell.

Hot Rod/Rodimus Prime: Hot Rod was one of the ‘bots I was considering as “let’s just think of one that’s relatively simple and just turns into a car”. But then I thought: can we go bigger? After all, we’ve had Optimus Prime; why not feature his futuristic successor? So you have a smaller Hot Rod figure you can build, which turns into a sexy magenta racing car. But! It also comes with additional bits and bobs, so you can change his legs and arms and – lo and behold – turn li’l ol’ Hot Rod into big, strapping Rodimus Prime. Who, yes indeedy, would transform into a sexy futuristic camper van.

Scorponok: one of the cool things I thought about Grimlock and Optimus Primal is that they don’t turn into vehicles (or “stuff”) but animals. And here we have Scorponok, another much-beloved character from the history of the franchise, who likewise turns into something cool and weird. Namely a dirty great robot scorpion. And that’s more or less that; he’s another one with a fairly simple transformation scheme that’s probably replicable in Lego. However, he does have a gimmick in that he’s a Headmaster; his head turns into a little bloke called Lord Zarak. I think what would be cool here is if his head could unfold into a smaller robotic figure reminiscent of the old toy, but inside that there sits a for-real Lego minifig that looks just like Zarak as he appeared in the cartoon.

Ultra Magnus: now we’re going crazy, but just imagine it. Ultra Magnus is a huge Lego set, the Transformers equivalent of that Rivendell set they released this year, or the really big Millennium Falcon. And, like the 1986 toy, he’s comprised of an entirely-white Optimus Prime – literally the same Prime from the existing set. So you have to build that, but then! He also has his car transporter trailer, just like the old toy. And just like the old toy this trailer combines with his cab (maybe there’s a little bit more Lego jiggery-pokery to make it attach properly), and bob’s your robot-uncle, you’ve got yourself a ruddy great Ultra Magnus figure. It’d be huge, sure. But it’d be so cool.

Devastator: talking about big… I was wondering about doing a Triple Changer like Blitzwing, but this would be much cooler. It’d be a massive set once again but just incredible if they could pull it off. Yes, it would indeed feature six smaller Constructicons – I figure each one about half the size of Optimus Prime, to make this thing in any way feasible – but as well as turning from cement mixers and bulldozers and the like into robots, they also combine to form Devastator. I’m not entirely sure how this would be possible; hopefully, even if you had to remove the odd piece here and there, it could be achieved without entirely disassembling and reassembling the Constructicons, so their shapes were recognisable when Devastator was built. And there you’d have it; one of the most iconic and impressive toys of the eighties rendered in Lego form.

I am now insanely excited about made-up toys that will almost certainly never exist.

[fkevin073]

damn idk what everyone in the comments on ao3 is on, BECAUSE OMGGG JACE IS NOW MY FAVORITE CHARACTER IN IKYLAO! pardon the pun, but what a prince of a guy! sensible, compassionate, and honorable (i hope there isn’t a surprised twist that will make me eat my words and look like a clown lol)

like he is seriously the only one using braincells, and duh he wants aemond to kill daemon for him, for one vermax is a baby compared to caraxes. him not wanting to fight daemon isn’t cowardly it’s just sensible! what is he supposed to do? go on a suicide mission to kill daemon, and leave his siblings in daemon or the green’s mercy????

even aemond who is supposed to hate him, admires him and sees his point. they’re in a war the micro issues of relationships, endgames is naturally gonna be secondary to the greater issues at hand. my favorite thing about this fic is the nuance of the character dynamics, cause most often in fics it’s like romantic love trumps all despite everything. but here romantic love exists, but so does familial love, and the duties you and loves have to the realm and others. and it’s clear that even if aemond and alysanne love each other, they can’t just forsake everything because of that.

i know it’s not in line with escapist angle of fanfic, but it makes your characters more realistic because they behave like actual human beings. most people are multifaceted and they understand that love doesn’t exist in a vacuum, and that romantic love and platonic aren’t mutually exclusive.

and people calling alysanne selfish, like huh???? she is literally trying to be everything for everyone??? is she were selfish she would’ve parked herself right on aemond’s dick steered him and vhagar to essos and never looked back! and i think they’re forgetting that aemond’s family killed her mother! and she saw her die in the most excruciating way possible, and that she died indirectly because of her. obviously she is going to feel tremendous guilt over that and that she will in her grief try to make up for what her siblings lost. because in her mind she caused that loss.

i’m so sorry that you’re receiving so many criticisms and negative comments on the direction of the story. i just want you to know that i understand your vision and i appreciate you so much.

i hope you’ll follow your own vision for the story and don’t let others influence it. but most of all i hope writing IKYLAO gives you happiness and fulfillment. thank always for sharing! (SORRY FOR THE LONG AF MESSAGE)

((actually most most of all, i hope for a happy ending for jace. idc what happens to anyone, i just want jace to be happy, healthy and flourishing at the end. between this and your jacegon fic i am now 100% a jace stan. pls don’t hurt my bby:())

AHH omg this is so amazing of you to take the time to write this comment! it really means the world. but yeah, Jace's decision to ask Aemond to kill Daemon is definitely controversial, and with reason! I mean it's that balance between being brave and cowardly. Jace isn't an idiot - he knows his family needs him, and he's been tasked with the Song of Ice and Fire. He's trying to keep the realm together as much as possible.

Jace is kind of Robb when he refused to fight Jaime following Whispering Wood - he's smart enough to know when he'd lose a battle, and he knows he'd lose against Daemon. Aemond is the only dragon rider with a CHANCE. and he gives Aemond a pretty fair deal, from my point of view. Besides it'll benefit the Greens greatly if Daemon dies, namely because then there'll be no one to kill them even after Jace takes the capital.

and yeah, I get that this fanfic is perhaps a bit heavier than some of the other aemond x oc ones. maybe that's not fair to say, idk. I think I've made Aemond and Alysanne very attached to their family and their ability to be protectors, so it might make things murkier? idk.

I'm going to be honest, people calling Alysanne selfish for wanting to be with her family after what Otto did is something I'm not going to understand. I respect different interpretations, even tho I don't agree with it. she's certainly flawed - impulsive, naive, righteous, and occasionally ignorant. but yeah, she's trying her best lmao.

I wish people were a bit uh, kinder in their criticism. idk if it's me being sensitive, but there are definitely a few takes I've seen that makes me doubt whether I've conveyed anything properly in this story. I digress!! Jace is a fave of mine always, so writing for him has been sm fun!

thanks sm for the ask!!

[ndantalion]

A Dream

(cw torture) Once in a long while you hear a car through the rain. The noise carries far, and it seems to take forever to reach the bend in the road where—for no reason other than its proximity to you—the sound shifts, and the vehicle changes from creeping closer to fleeing away. To your credit, you do let most of them make that change.

Sometimes the change is different. Sometimes it’s simple—a loss of control, a swerve off the road to avoid a figure faintly spotted through the downpour. Over the edge, into your jaws.

Sometimes you draw it out. My car began to slow so far back, and with the rain, it was difficult to tell at first where it finally stopped. And now I know, and feel a certain peace.

How will you change me?

Those who drive by every day find it difficult to imagine anyone staying at the Roadside Inn, situated at such an ugly, barren spot in a part of the country famed for natural beauty. Cars can be heard breaking the speed limit from every part of the property at all hours—at night, they make up for scarcity with an unmistakable increase in volume. Clouds cluster overhead, always, except for the few most rancid days of summer, where tourists take one look at the faded sideboards melting in the sun and come to accurate conclusions about the state of air conditioning inside.

The only weather justifying the Roadside Inn’s presence is rain, which does sometimes fall in breathtaking currents upon the ragged parking lot. Long after the locals stopped recommending the place to visiting friends, a particularly violent storm might push a car to stop.

Most of them leave the next day.

Some rooms are are still set up from the days when guests might book in advance. Anyone paying attention will note that they constitute the bare minimum for a motel—a bed with white sheets, brown curtains, a wobbling lamp. The reviews say as much, perhaps also noting an old smell that permeates everything or taking a wild guess at whether the proprietor is on crack or meth. None make the connection, of course, that the bare-bones rooms aren’t the inn’s primary function.

The proprietor only sits at his desk when it rains. Otherwise, he is in the attic, ear pressed to the underside of the old tin roof, waiting. Begrudgingly, he escorts families and groups to this first type of room. Even the odd single traveler, if they seem like trouble and you have recently been fed.

(Except you do not feed, do you? You listen.)

But most of those who enter alone are greeted jovially. And on the proprietor takes them, to the other sort of room.

Every person has a different reaction to pain. It is often most clear after recovery—once the pain has gone, how do we justify it? Almost everyone tries to assign it some meaning, some worth. While pain is acute, we push it away, but when it lapses even just briefly—

I can tell you’re afraid right now. There are markers, rapid pulse, dilated pupils. I’m not sure why you walked in here. Your breathing drowns out the rain.

Perhaps you’ll sleep more easily knowing this: there will be moments of reprieve. That’s where the stories come from. And it won’t just be the soft reprieve you’ve experienced in life so far, the brief satisfaction of your needs weighed down by the dread and expectation of everything surrounding it. No, you’ll forget what pain is, for a time.

The second type of room looks much like the first, because every time it finds an occupant, the proprietor closes the door behind him and never opens it again. What you do with them is not for him to know. He is used to dreams wandering through his own every night, and they are rarely pleasant. When they are, it’s even worse.

Now he hears your dream, he dreams your dream, your dream overtakes him. Oh, if only you were sensible of my genius. But I sometimes suspect you already knew the reason you found me.

The cars don’t stop in the rain anymore. They don’t even drive past. I don’t mind—your dreams are much more beautiful.

[alilmusebundle]

The week of the autumn harvest festival:

With Papa responding to an emergency call in, and dear Lock valiantly battling a minor cold, there is really no other option.

They have to pick up mama!

...

...

...

...and they are so very thrilled about this :)

---

They have no reason to drive. Papa is the one with an ageing flatbed from way back when he used to transport hay bales. It was agreed all around that Lock shouldn't drive whatsoever, and- well, papa only tried to get them to learn how to use it once. Once.

Why bother with a clunky machine when they can just step a forward and slip to the left into the glittering Between, walk a few feet through the languid golden swirl of time and space, and slip right back out exactly where they wanted to be in the first place?

It's not for everyone, of course! The Between was very disorienting for most not raised in it. Even those that visited, like mama in the past, tended to keep it brief. So, they used it as a shortcut for themself and no one else.

(Technically, they were not supposed to tell anyone what they were. Dragging someone with them could constitute as outright telling, so they refrained.)

They step out when the taste of smog permeates the Between and land just where they need to be: within the city airstrip parking lot. Early as they meant to be, they pull out their phone and unlock it to the screen that already has the taxi's number open, saved there before they left.

By the time mama finally makes it outside, the taxi is waiting, and Wes is ready with a smile and a wave.

"Over here mama!" They say, and vibrant green eye-lights snap to them.

Mama always dressed sensibly, so the bright scarf wrapped around her skull stood out in bright red and orange flowers. The white blouse and dark skirt make more sense, especially paired with the dark flats that flash in and out of view as she quickly walks over.

There is a few seconds of silence as they simply look at each other, Wes patiently waiting as those vibrant eyes pick them apart piece by piece. Whatever she was looking for must be there, because she gives a short nod before opening up her arms, and Wes obliges by kneeling down for a quick hug.

"It's good to see you darlin'," she murmurs against the side of their skull before pulling back just enough to pat their cheekbone. "Bless your heat, comin' here to get me."

"No problem at all, mama. The city ain't as bad as it used to be for me!" They make sure to open the door for her before they get in themselves. It's only proper after all.

(And if they take a small moment to make a face where she can't see it, well, that is just their little secret.)

---

Idle chatter about her flights- wait times in terminals, the woes of traveling places built for people much taller, an intense hankering for some real sweet tea, dagnabbit- last quite awhile before mama finally gets to the meat of things.

"Your words are sounding a bit stilted again hun."

Wes sighs with a smile and glances out the window. They had nearly lasted until their stop. "I know mama."

They can practically hear her frown. "Have you not kept it up? Y'know that pappy and Lock'd be more than happy to help you practice if- oh, who am I tryin' ta kid, I know better than that."

She cuts herself off, arms crossing as she shakes her head. Wes can't help but think her insistence on them maintaining an accent is silly nonsense, but they also hate the way disappointment radiates off her whenever they stop trying to fit in.

"Mama, no one really cares one way or another. It's such a small thing, it really doesn't matter." Exasperation leeks out in their voice, but they try their best to enunciate the words the way she'd want even still.

She turns and looks at them, and genuine annoyance floods them before she even speaks.

"Darlin', y'know most everyone in town talks like this! I don't want you ostracizing yourself, I want you to make friends-"

"Mama please-"

"-form some real bonds with your peers, and I know ya haven't been doin' that with or without takin' like the rest a us-"

"Mother, we're here!" They say somewhat shrilly before practically throwing themselves out the door.

---

After paying the somewhat amused taxi driver, they still have a bit of a walk up their long drive before they get to the dubious safety of the house and their sick sister. And, now that they're really alone together... well-

...at least they're getting this out of the way :)

---

The long, drawn out sigh from their mama gets blown away by the crisp autumn breeze. They shiver, shove their hands in their pockets, and look down at the gravel path crunching beneath their feet.

"You're my lil flower, Wisteria. Y'know I just want you to be happy, right?"

They know it's important.

They know finding love is necessary.

But love is difficult to wrap their hand around.

"What you're doin' now seems to make you happy... but findin' someone to settle with, here-"

It isn't difficult to love in some ways. There are many that they would kill for, even if they didn't feel the need to protect the entire town from threat already. It isn't as if they don't have friends or loved ones.

They flirt. They have dated. It was fun, finding what would make someone want to dance and swinging them into step. Human and monster alike were fascinating in how similar they could really be.

So far, no one had loved them back. Not in the way that mattered. Not in a way that made them stop thinking, humans and monsters and me.

" ...wouldn't that make you happy too?"

Their silence rings a touch to long. When they look over, their mama's sockets look so tired and sad, it's like seeing Lock in a bad headspace, and they know they messed up. So they smile and reach over, gently touching their mama's back.

"I'm sure it would mama. But I can't force these things to happen!" They could, but that would be walking off the opposite side of the line their mama wanted them to cross. "Please don't fret, it's not good for you. I'm sure to find someone in due time."

Mama sighs again, shaking her head. "You and your mouth full of honey." She mutters, and they take it as a sign that the matter has been dropped for now.

Home draws near in the silence that follows.

They're sure the matter will be brought up again come her next visit. It always does.

[trabandovidas]

Oh god asdfghjklzdfgh i hope you don't feel deceived in any way after this, but to be honest, there is no way in which anything can prepare you for the brazilian adaptation, truly, It's...well, you have to see it for yourself, really

But let's still try:

For starters, Orgulho e Paixão is not exactly a P&P adaptation, but rather a Jane Austen-inspired telenovela. I’ve not had the pleasure to read all of her novels (yet), so I normally regard it as a P&P adaptation, especially because it’s even more hilarious that way. But it’s actually a sense and sensibility, pride and prejudice, Emma, Northanger Abbey, Mansfield Park, and Lady Susan “adaptation” all together in one

I think it was aired somewhere around 2018, five years ago, and it has 162 episodes (or around 115 in the international version). It’s also rated as not apt for those younger than 12 due to scenes of violence and sexual hints and innuendos, so you know, there is also that 

The story revolves around the 5 Benedito (Bennet) sisters (Elisabeta, Jane, Mariana, Cecilia and Lídia), and it takes place in the Valle del Café (coffee valley) in the XX century. As I said, is not exactly an “adaptation” but more simply an “inspired on”. It’s also a telenovela, so there is, of course, a high amount of extra drama. I don’t think it should be regarded as something that is serious or that loyal to Jane Austen work, watching it that way will only cause one to be angry at it (and with reason). It would be worthier to just watch it as something light, and for the laughs only

If i were to describe it in any way, I would say it’s like someone has taken all the P&P fanfic tropes, made it latinoamerican, and run with it. Just so you see how bonkers this “adaptation” is, here are some moments that are regarded as “not that weird”  in the novel from the top of my head:

The jaguar attack. This is my favourite, as you may be able to tell, and i mean, it should say it all, really! I will never understand the why. But also, I get it, cause if P&P has taken place in latam, there would ve been several more wild animals attacks than in the original, but still! someone on the orulho e paixão writing team really said "Let's put a jaguar on our Jane Austen adaptation, maybe have it attack Lizzy even, it will be awesome" and everyone agreed. And i can’t said i didn’t enjoy it, to be honest

Elizabeth wears pants to Emma’s dress up ball. This is never mentioned ever again. Also why and how

Elizabeth running away in her underwear, to end up wearing only Mr Darcy Jacket over it in the middle of the country because why not, this is just some big old fanfic, believe me. The sooner you accept that, the more you will enjoy it

An Elizabeth- Darcy kiss after a fight between the first, what? 10 episodes? 5 episodes? There is totally a first kiss between the 4 first episodes. Also the phrase “if we don’t talk, we don’t fight” being spoken before another one. Again, as i said, fanfic as it best. But don’t worry, there is still a rejected proposal! Actually, i didn’t count them, but im preeettyy sure there is more than 2 proposals and a long -and several times interrupted- engagement. They end up “eloping” tho. Because why not

Darcy almost dies, like, at least twice. Maybe thrice. This is a basic telenovela move tho, so it was very much expected

At some point, Elizabeth walks over the roof of a train in motion with a bomb inside. Have i already said the storyline is bonkers? 

Georgiana ends up locking herself in a church with her aunt annoyingly playing the piano and making her aunt run after her in a try to disrupt and frustrate her and also take revenge for her brother and his girlfriend. At this point i had stopped questioning anything that happened, i just ran with it

Mr Bingley’s mother ends up with Emma’s father. Eh, whatever, this is nothing compared to everything else

and so much much much more. Sadly there are no more jaguars :(

And some facts i just love: 

Mrs Bennet is obsessed with saints, specially lationamerican saints. She knows them all by heart, and has a saint for every little thing and prays to them all the time. This is actually a key point for one of the many subplots. She even has 5 statues of some Saint upside down (San Antonio, maybe?), one for each of her daughters, until they each marry (Depending on the saint, this is normally done for either asking the saint to go find things or get them back, or for finding love. I have to say that, as a latinoamerican, i really enjoyed this little addition to Mrs Bennet character

Darcy name in the adaptation is actually Darcy Williamson which i find hilarious. (I mean, yeah, sure, let’s pretend naming him Darcy will make more sense/ be more “normal” in latam). Also i just adore the way Elizabeth says his name to tease him. Likewise, Wickham name is Diogo Uirapuru (a bird), and there is, so so so many bird play words because of this. He is also a "poet" that steals other people poems, and i love this new take of him

Elizabeth's best friend (after Emma) is a horse. A horse. Elizabeth. I-will-rather-walk-to-Netherfield-than-take-a-horse-Elizabeth. Now being best friend to a horse. ok sure why not

Also said horse almost dies once, too. Lady Catherine is too blame, of course

There is a whole “respect workers rights god fucking damnit” thing going on on the background which i absolutely love (and i mean, it totally makes sense given the time it is set on but still)

All the references to latam food and traditions and its relationship back at the time with the wave(s) of Italian immigration and the UK interference in Brazil economy and politics

the bennet sisters are colour coded for the entirety of the show for no reason at all. Elizabeth is red. Jane is light blue. I really don't know why tho

the jaguar (seriously, im not getting over it. ever. not a chance)

Also -and this is my favourite part- since the time period is different, and the continent and country is also different, society and its rules are too different, the story changes. For once, we get to see them all just date for a while before they marry. A long time, for cases like Elizabeth and Darcy, even if they go through all the imaginable troubles for one of the main couples in a telenovela. And even then we get a jump to several years after, when they are married and settled and have a kid

But we still actually get a lot of scenes of Elizabeth and Dacry just being a couple: Them cuddling in bed or the sofa, one of them resting in the other lap, so. many. kisses. going on walks, i think there is also a scene with both of them having a bath together at some point? going to picnics, talking about their relationship, growing up and improving themselves, fighting and bantering (of course), dancing, just talking and gossiping about their friends’ relationship etc, as well as seeing Bingley teasing Darcy about his relationship, seeking advice and sharing experiences, Mrs bennet reaction (several times, actually, and to all their relationship stages), as well as the rest of the bennet sisters. (We also get to see more of Mrs Bennet love for her daughters, and Lydia gets a happier ending at the end, which will always get extra points from me)

We don't get to see exactly all the scenes JA gives us, sadly, but this is more than most adaptations gives us. This is the only part where i allow myself to actually analyse this show, because it is -as far as i know- the only one that provides us with this chance, so you can sit down and try to see, if we stayed true to their characters, if they would actually say and do that which the show shows us or not. Other parts of it... as i said before, i don't think this is a show to be regarded with that much critical eye

I think some of JA most appreciated characteristics in her work got lost to those in the writing team, and they certainly took just some characteristics and personality traits from her characters and ran with that, making them a little more two sided (or even 1 sided) than the deep 3D characters she gives us, but as i said. This is not a work you sit down and analyse too closely, or else you will end up in a very bad mood. I mean, there is a whole ass jaguar attack on it and no one mentions it again after it happens! 

If you would love to see lot of this, mixed with the actual story (with several extra drama to it), or even just laugh and have a god time, then this an "adaptation" for you

If you expect something deep and that doesn't deviate at all from Jane austen work...then this is most definitely not the "adaptation" for you

it kinda bumps me out that no pride and prejudice adaptation gave us the post-second proposal scenes. i don’t know maybe it’s just me (or not), but i so wish i could see blingley silently congratulating elizabeth on the news, darcy and elizabeth walking around beautiful hills and talking about their relationship, about how darcy first fell in love, elizabeth explaining how she knew she was different and that’s what caught darcy’s eye.

i would also die to see them trying to act like they’re not secretly engaged and then when they decide to reveal the whole thing darcy standing close to her and gently whispering in her ear that her father wants to talk to her… i’m shaking in my legs just thinking about it.

and don’t let me forget about mrs. bennet’s reaction to the news and then finally trying to be nice to mr. darcy for the first time in her life. just comedy gold right there.

and now that i think about it, it would be amazing if we could also have a glimpse of their married life and their relationship with the bingleys and the gardiners.

[oneoftheprettynerds]

In The Name Of Love: Dark!Steve x Reader (Mob AU)

Chapter 5 in the Lipstick and Crayons Series.

Chapter 4: Fixed

Main Masterlist

A/N: I hate Tumblr, this is the second time. I don't think there will be any updates in May, none in June and July for sure. I'm being transparent, sorry. Thank you to the people who checked up on me, you guys are stars and to the anon who told me I love You, I love you too and you made my week 10x better. I don't deserve you guys.

Warning: Non-Con, Sickening Threats, Drugs, Mob Themes, Violence, Death, Manipulation, a mild mental breakdown, Cheap Tricks.

Genres + Characters: Mob AU, Single Parents AU, Steve Rogers x Reader.

Summary: Steve can’t ever repay you for what you did. After meeting you, Steve believes his broken family is the missing piece in the puzzle of your own wrecked one. Indebting the crime lord to you has been the biggest mistake of your life, cause now you can’t get rid of him, no matter what. Loyalty and favours go a long way in the mob.

Word count: 3K

Chapter 5: In the Name of Love

The letter was sent. Your post would reach your parents in two days. It was a letter explaining that you would go to drop off Grace at theirs this weekend and needed them to take care of her for a week at the very least.

This was the best solution you came to. You knew her leaving would not escape Steve’s notice but you hoped you had a few days for it to come that. You thought about what you could offer; you had money, savings, a lot one might say but you didn’t think any amount you had would be tempting to Steve. He clearly didn’t need any connections you had in your field because he didn’t exactly partake in legal businesses.

Sex was all you could offer and you were sure it was a major part of what he wanted. You felt disgusted to even think about possibly becoming a slave of his carnal desires. You just hoped that maybe it’d be for a short time until he got bored or until you could make a sensible plan, one successful in getting you out.

The thought that that day might not come was one you could not afford to have emotionally.

You thought a lot about escaping these days. Getting up and running off was not as easy as in movies, maybe it was even harder for you because of the fact you had a toddler too. You were ready to entertain him until you could get some contact with people who could get you off the grid. Where would you even find such people? You were pretty sure a good portion of them would be in his circle only.

This all seemed so very surreal, and it was hard registering the fact you might possibly never see your parents again, or Grace would never be able to step in the house you grew up again if you did leave. She’d never see her grandparents or her ancestral home or her friends. It would all be very different than her not seeing her father ever.

Relax. You knew you were getting too far away in your head again but somewhere in the back of your mind you knew your worry was legit, reasonable. You sighed and stepped outside the postal office onto the pavement.

The park in front of you right now was one you frequented with Grace a lot, all her three summers on Earth featured a picnic in this park. There was now a possibility of not anymore.

You pressed your middle fingers into your temples, trying to relieve the ache subsiding there. It was a habit you had developed early, massaging your head whenever you fell too deep into the overthinking pit.

You huffed and thought about picking ice-cream for dessert tonight, opting to worry about the smaller things in life. Maybe you could bake Grace’s favourite cookies one last time before sending her off. Your messy hair blew with wind as you made the mental grocery list of things to pick up before getting Grace from the day-care.

You sat in your seat, putting the seat belt on while sighing as you already started worrying about the impulse purchases you so often did at the grocers, a minor distraction from your major problem.

Only this time, you never made it there.

“Stevie, it’s important.” Bucky said ushering Steve out of his one-on-one meet with a local gang leader pledging his alliance to ‘The Avenging Cartel’.

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed and his nose adorably scrunched as he excused himself. Today had been a boring day so far. No new intel of or threats by ‘The Vices’ this past week. It was almost too good to be true, for them to be so silent.

He was actually thinking of planning a date with you if there was another week of inactivity by them. Tony had asked for only two days’ time to confirm some intel he got about ‘The Vices’ that he’d be happy to share if true, bases and shipments and whatnot. Estimating his revenge in these next couple of days and then next week for cleanup, he’d be free from one long overdue task, and could be more involved in all his girls’ lives. All three of them.

Everything was going to plan and yet something seemed amiss to Steve. He had learned to trust his instincts over the years and his gut was screaming at the calm, predicting a storm nearby.

Well, the day was only halfway done, there was still potential for a lot to go wrong.

Steve raised his eyebrows in question at his trusted comrade, his Bucky as he exited his chambers, already feeling that something was very off.

He closed the door behind him, not wanting the eager felon to eavesdrop in his conversation. When the door clicked shut, Bucky started, his hand covering his phone which was unnecessary as the phone was already on mute, “There’s a call about your girl’s kid.” Steve’s look of surprise prompted Bucky to continue, “They say no one came by to pick up the kid and well the mother’s not picking up her cell.”

“Weird, that’s out of the blue for her. Very unlike her.” Steve’s forehead wrinkled as he calmed himself from jumping to any conclusion and commanded, “Okay. Buck, take Wanda and pick Grace up. And talk to Pietro there, if he’s off-duty, call him in. Whatever he knows. I’ll tell Sam to track her phone, shouldn’t take long.” Bucky nodded and went about his way to do as instructed, himself worried for his best friend’s lady; she was as good as family now, he knew the extent of Steve’s feelings.

Steve, on the other hand, grew frantic on the inside, his façade not falling on the outside just yet. He dismissed the local crook, speed-walking to find Sam. His thoughts jumbled around as he tried to reach his destination, harsh possibilities being thrown at him, courtesy of his mind. An escape attempt by you was long overdue, he knew, but he didn’t think you were the type to pull another. Not after being aware of disastrous consequences.

But the main thing was, even though Steve couldn’t rule out the escaping possibility based on his opinion of you, he knew, he just knew in his gut that you would never leave Grace alone and bide time for your own self. That was the one thing that would never add up in this shit equation and he figured, albeit hesitantly, that his gut was right and something was very wrong.

“She did send a letter to her parents. We have it. It just says that she was planning to leave the kid at the parents this weekend, for at least some time. She didn’t mention anything else to them, about us or any detours. No out of city phone calls in the last few hours, no weird bank statements or purchases. Her phone was traced to her car parked outside the post office, but you already know that. Sam, as of right now, is hacking into her phone which should take just about a few more minutes.” Buck explained after doing some scouting.

He went and got Grace from the daycare earlier, then called in Pietro who showed him tapes of you dropping Grace off in the morning and then going away. He called your work to find out you had the Tuesday off.

The location on your phone told Sam and Steve you came straight to the post office after the daycare. That had been the phone’s position for the last few hours and supposedly yours too. Sam and Steve fetched the phone after breaking into your locked car, finding dozens of calls on it, from the daycare, some even from Steve whilst Sam was tracking it. They inquired the office ahead, and with a little bit of money and some threats thrown around when the staff showed integrity, they got the information of a letter being sent by you this morning. He got his men on that right away too.

When Bucky came back after dropping Wanda off with Grace, he immediately assumed the head position of the searching group, getting up to date. After getting some useful intel, he finally made his way to Steve and thus had explained what all he knew, from Pietro to the letter the men got by stopping the mail truck on some highway.

“Rogers, you won’t believe this.” Sam, as if on cue, entered Steve’s office. His bright eyes exposed his success in the task at hand, but his frown disclosed bad news. Steve grew concerned.

“Your girl had men tailing her kid, threatening her. Creeps who were even bold enough to not be discreet in their stalking. Her phone has a message thread with photos of her kid in what I assume is her own backyard,” Sam brought the phone to Steve and scrolled down the one-sided conversation to give evidence of his discovery, “the kid’s school and the last one was in a kid’s bedroom which I believe is the kid’s herself, can you confirm?” Bucky listened as intently as Steve did, baffled by the new information. Steve nodded, pinching his forehead. In this field of work, they were hardly agitated by new news that came to light but this was one of the few exceptional incidences.

Both of them, especially Steve, thought he was keeping an eye on her pretty meticulously, aware of every action and interaction of hers. This was nothing less than a bruising slap to his face, showing him his failure as a boss, once again since his first wife’s incident.

“In conclusion, someone staked her kid out and sent subtle, passive aggressive warnings to maybe coerce the lady into doing something, could be ransom or anything with her position. But she never followed up with replies for some reason, or filed a report. Did she not talk to you about this, Steve?” Sam asked, the situation making only a tad bit of sense. He figured out that you probably didn’t question the genuineness of the threats, so why didn’t you take action?

Steve brainstormed for any clue whatsoever, did you still not trust him enough? Yes he did come off a lot crueler last time than he intended but he did try to create a safe space for you in such matters. Apparently his intent for your security and safety didn’t come across as well as he had wanted.

<flashback>

“Trust the process, baby. Everything is just to protect you.”

Is that what he called stalking even Grace around and twistedly enough, sending you proof of that?The anonymous thread of photos was another nightmare of yours, thanks to him. The last being a candid photo inside Grace’s room, her sleeping in her bed this morning and that’s when you decided you needed to get out. Of course, that didn’t go as planned.

“How am I supposed to do that when you have cameras in my house?!” You scoffed and he reeled back at the accusation, having the nerve to look impressed at being uncovered and caught red-handed.

“Oh my fucking God, it was you! You sick pervert!” You jumped out of his grip, your eyes wide and horrified. “I wasn’t aware of what to make of it but of course, it was you! Who else would be sick enough to do that?” You let out a humourless chuckle. You always put things past him even when you keep telling yourself you shouldn’t. When will you ever learn huh?

The heavy ringing of your phone broke everyone out of their reverie, all the men worried of being uneducated of the current situation. As people in a fearsome mob, they had a knack for being well-versed and learned about every little thing, be it a slip-up or a trick-of-the-trade.

Steve frowned at the unknown number, not knowing what to make of it. The number was new with no prior calls before this, the status bar below it showing that. The blonde contemplated picking it up, likely wondering that if the person was calling you, they probably had no idea of your disappearance.

He would have ignored the call even the second time around if it was not for Sam and Bucky urging him to attend it; it could be a clue if you’ve run away or planned to do so, they argued.

As he put the phone next to his ear, chills ran down his spine for the first time in forever; he had never before known a feeling like this.

“You are a busy bee to catch, aren’t you Rogers?”

Steve could never forget the baritone voice. The same croaky voice that mocked him not even a year ago and made a spectacle out of his humiliation, out of the betrayal from his wife.

“Why do you have this number Rumlow? It’s you, isn’t it? You have her, you son of a bitch!” Steve let out a string of curses, this worse than any possibility he had come up with. Bucky and Sam stood alert at the mention of their eternal rival’s name, a douchebag who also managed to be the lowest scum on earth.

“You indeed have become rickety, Rogers. I’m honestly disappointed, I was expecting a good battle. Looks like your little girl has more vigour than you, she managed to elude what her old man wasn’t able to.” Rumlow’s grotesque chuckle made Steve ireful, his hands clenching and veins popping. In the room, Bucky stood by his side to receive his order whenever the call ended while Sam had already reached another room to track the phone call, your phone already dissected, assembled and controlled by him.

“Listen here, you motherfucker, and listen closely. If you even so much as harm a hair on her head, I swear to fucking God, my bare hands-”

The sound of Rumlow’s tongue clicking interrupted Steve and the blatant disrespect did not make things better.

“Rogers do you not understand that you don’t have an edge, huh? Haha, that’s really funny. You’ve lost braincells after the army.” After a pause, all the humour dropped from his voice as he continued, “Now listen here and listen close, you blonde bastard. You know what I want and how I want it. I’ll call again tomorrow for specifications and I want you to hand in the files Monday at a pre-decided place. If you don’t pick up the phone or even try to pull something, I might just have to get a taste of your bitch just to see how well does she take your cock for you to be this fond of her. I know this affects you, there’s no fooling me. If you still refuse to submit, I’ll be sure to send you parts of her as souvenirs after I’m done with her and then go after wittle Sarah again. It’s your choice, really.”

With that the call ended abruptly, Steve a raging mess. He threw a couple of things around, like the overpriced antique statues he never knew the purpose of. He knew what Rumlow wanted, the city center territory. The boundaries included jewelry shops, the largest shopping mall in the state, business corporations and MNCs. That was the most treasured are of the state, maybe the country even. But now the question arose, was it more precious than you?

“Barnes, call in a meeting at five. Call in all the frontrunners you can think of, we need all the favoured we are owed this time and more.”

As Barnes exited, the phone pinged and Steve saw a photo attachment from the number.

His grip tightened on the phone as it threatened to break.

It was you, of course.

Your head felt like it had your entire body’s weight. It felt like your eyes were stitched shut, your mouth dryer than the Sahara. Your body ached but not as much as your cranium, which weighed you down.

You went in and out of this album of feeling a couple of times at least, before you gathered the courage and decide walking into the white light you saw was your only option. When the glow embraced you, you thought you were finally free. What from, you didn’t know. Just that all the problems you had before this weren’t yours anymore.

But is death really that easy?

Your eyes opened as your entire body ached, a gasp escaping your mouth. It took you a little while to gather your senses and look around at the untextured cement walls. There was no light switched on, just you and plain darkness as your night vision sensed things, courtesy of the moonlight entering through some window behind you.

You were strapped to a chair, hands cuffed together behind you and legs cuffed to the chair, the captor even going so far as to wrap up your torso with ropes.

The rumble of the gate opening alerted you, your eyes clenching shut at the assault of the photons when the light switched on.

“I gotta say, you look sexier covered in dirt than you do in those uptight pictures with Rogers sweetheart.”

Your eyes snapped open to find a big burly man, with tattooed hands and scarred face look at you. You swallowed in fear as you stared right at him, hate brimming in your eyes for him as you simultaneously realized Steve screwed you over this time, real fucking badly; that you were caught in the very situation you had sworn to avoid.

Your mind immediately went to the before events, and subconsciously you worried about Grace. This man had you where, you didn’t know but you hoped that he didn’t have Grace.

Your dry eyes were beginning to get watery at the mention of your baby, but you wouldn’t show this man any weakness. You didn’t know what this cruel kidnapper of yours wanted, whether you were getting out of here alive or not.

The man chuckled at your antics and left with a promise to meet you later.

As one traitor tear escaped, your subconscious thought of Grace. You only hoped that the daycare had gotten through to your Mom or to any of your emergency contacts really. That your Mom was already flying down to get her safe and secure.

Even in your moments of ruin, you just wanted Grace to escape all this drama unscathed, for you didn’t fear for your own life anymore.

Read if things didn't make sense.

Wanda's family owned the daycare Grace went to, so Steve was able to pull some strings and get Grace in the last chapter

Pietro works there, he is also a member of the mob

The last time when Steve was at the daycare, he made himself the emergency contact (you'll find a very obvious hint in the last chapter) that's why Steve got the call for Grace, his phone was with bucky atm. Reader didn't catch that so she hoped her mother would have gotten the call from the daycare and gotten Grace

In the last confrontation, she mentions photos in the house but since Steve confessed to having cameras in the house both thought it was each other and didn't know there was a third party involved till now

Rumlow basically wanted to threaten reader and get her to do things for Grace's safety but since she never replied and they had already failed to catch a toddler once, they targeted Reader after getting to know how fond Steve was of her, after they knew he was showing it even to the public

[witchlyboo]

Definitely, maybe.

Part five: The one who belongs to someone else.

Introduction. Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four.

Paring: Latina!reader x Logan Lerman x Tom Holland x Ben Hardy x Timothee Chalamet x Pedro Pascal x Michael B. Jordan

Warnings: Swearing, angst, misspellings, some Spanish, me learning how to write properly, and NY stuff that I've learned from movies that we all agree to pretend are real.

Word count: 6.4 k

a/n: You been asking for smut, I know, I know, I just wanted to introduce you to all the boys first, and we're getting there, just one more ahead. Also, I'm working on a masterlist because we are getting too many parts already.

All body types and skin tones friendly. You can also enjoy it as a no Hispanic reader. Constructive feedback and misspellings correction is always welcome.

Red and blue lights flash the driving mirror.

—No, no, no, por favor que no sea a mi—You beg to the sky looking at the patrol that is asking you to park, or someone else, there's a lot of cars in this part of the city, there's a big chance is the panic who's controlling your senses.—Dios, mi abuela fue a la iglesia cada domingo de su vida y nunca te pidió nada, please let me have some of her divina recompensa.—But that's not how it works, you end up parking with just a few seconds to think what to say. There's a perfect explication of why you are driving a car that is not yours in the middle of the night and smelling like a minibar.

Then this ridiculous thought comes to your mind, you look expensive, you've never seen the daughter of a senator but you must be close to it, it would make you less of a feminist if you just use your attributes? Ugh, you feel sick just to think about it but don't have enough money to pay a fine, and the constant paranoia of being chased all the time as an immigrant will only get stronger.

You pull down your dress a little so your neckline can do its job but you regret it immediately, and you're pretty sure you look more like an expensive prostitute who stole the car of his lover than some influential men's daughter.

—License and registration.—You hear him say when he approaches your window. You don't like this but you have to play the dumb tourist, the pretty foreign girl that is too stupid to be dangerous, with the look you have tonight it shouldn't be hard. But damn you hate cops, any uniformed man that works for the government is your eternal enemy, and you don't know how long you could keep the nice dumb Latina game before spit on his face.

—There's something wrong, officer? ...You?!—Your sexy and fake high voice is ruined when you see the face of the man who stopped you. This night couldn't get worse.

—Wait, what happened with the party?—Evan interrupts you while you finish some notes for work, little remainders for later when you don't have an eleven years old kid running around you, he's not usually this energic and you have to blame yourself for that, you're describing a life of excess and eccentric fun, something you let behind so many years ago that your own son doesn't know even a bit of it.

—Ugh, a nightmare doesn't worth telling.—You remember vaguely most of it but what keeps fresh in your mind is bad enough to don't want to bring it back.

—But if Timothée is my dad I have to know the important things, including the bad stuff.—Sounds perfectly reasonable and that's what makes you groan at him. Sometimes you feel blessed that your kid is better than you in any possible way, and sometimes you want to kill his brain with video games and reality shows like the rest of the parents.

—Ok, cool, but I'll keep all the +18 content for myself, so this part of the story might be blurry for you.—It kinda is for you anyway.

You should’ve known this night was cursed, you had a feeling because a) your earring fell off at the same time Timothée texted you to give you the party address and say he can't pick you up. And b) he won’t pick you up. Your mother would say that’s reason enough to not go, a real gentleman wouldn’t make you go to an unknown place in the middle of the night on your own in a city like this. But you decide to ignore it because you are a modern woman and because it’s worth it. It better be.

The outfit must be something special. You always take your time to choose what to wear, even if just another regular day, and since this isn't the case you thought about it for hours, that made your mind busy enough to not thinking about Tom and the whole love confession. He texted you saying he'll come for you to go to class together on Monday, which is completely impractical because he's way closer than you but is progress and you're going to take it.

You wanted to ask for Sheep's opinion but you thought she might not care, has been a few days since she started acting strange like she's bothered just to see you breathe. You want to blame his boyfriend to take all her time and attention from you but is probably just her new job, she got a small role in a Netflix show, and even when you're so happy for her, that's the event that has changed her into someone completely different. But you give her time, stress can do bad things to people.

The winner is the exact copy you made of the black and white striped dress Cameron Diaz wore in "The Mask" beautiful, classy, and sexy enough without being too scandalous, not that you have any problem with that, but this isn't the occasion, you don't want to feel like you're being too much or too little, just enough, it's supposed to be easy, right? you were born for this. Just adding some big shiny earrings you got on a thrift shop that look like real diamonds and you're ready, not that you own any to compare. Red lipstick, dark eyes, and a messy bun to get that disinterested pitch every look needs.

Getting there wasn't a problem, you were in the rich part of the city, everyone know who, where and what just to brag about it. The excitement is growing with every second, you check your makeup like thirty times in the elevator and send texts to your mom just to let her know where you are, and because you have to share that moment with someone and you are limited of friends these days.

Timothée opens the door with red eyes, drunk, high, or somewhere in between, you know then you were right about the bad feeling. He jumps on you to kiss you and no matter how much you try to explain the delicacy of your lipstick, he does it anyway, leaving a taste of alcohol and shrimps in your mouth. Taking you by the waist he walks you to a group of people you don't know while you're trying harder to fix the red color of your mouth without a mirror.

—Here is the companion I bought, look at her, that's how five grand per hour look like.—They laughed but you were too disoriented to process all the things he said, it was supposed to be a joke? if it is, why isn't he correcting? Instead, his hand goes straight to your ass and presses it to get you closer to him.

—I'm actually an intern in the costume designer department of the new version of "Sense and Sensibility".—You wanted to mention your recent promotion to hairstylist and makeup artist but that might be too pretentious. Anyway, they don't seem to care what you are or not, in fact, they don't even see you, all eyes are on Timothée

—Oh, well, is easy to forget when you're paying them—All laughs again. Who is this person? Who are all these people, actually? You recognize some influencers, a few cast members but there's no sign of the director, other main actors, not even his co-star. You feel like an extra in a movie where someone will be killed in a luxury party, hopefully not you. You take his hand from your body and clear your throat.—I'm just joking my love, she looks stunning, isn't she? I’ll get you a drink.

He leaves and the group of people surrounding you suddenly dissipated like boiling water, you were on your own again and despite some judgmental gazes is like you’re not there, you’re sure you could just take your dress off and throw it to someone’s face and unless Tim says something about it, no one would care. You’re there as his companion, an ornament, and that’s not enough to earn their attention because it’s too obvious you’re the one in turn.

You walk to the only window no one is smoking and check your phone, you know, the thing you do when you pretend you have important issues to attend, but no, you end reading some old messages, pictures, texting your mom of how much fun you’re having at the party, and somehow you check your filed Facebook messages to find Logan’s name. You cover the screen so fast you hurt your nail, his name is enough to make you tremble like a Chihuahua, you haven’t talked to him since that night, you know from his sister he lives in the house he bought for you two and he’s having the happiest life without you. You want to believe that because that means you took the right decision but deep inside… no, you can’t be that person, you want him to be happier than ever.

You find the guts to open the message, and you read as slowly as is humanly possible. “My angel, I hope this finds you in perfect health…” Dios, just Logan could start a message like that, your smile is almost too big to fit in your face so you bit your nail to cover it a little. “I recently found one of the human body drawings you made for me to study, you’ll be happy to know…”

—That’s a fucking long-ass message.—Tim appears behind you and takes your phone from your hand, spilling some of his drink on your dress in the process. Apparently, he's been there long enough to read part of the message.

—Give it back.—You command in the most severe voice you have, your magical moment got ruined and you remember the hole of hell you are.

—"My angel, I hope this finds you in perfect health. I recently found one of the human body drawings you made for me to study, you must know I still use them now and then"—Timothée starts reading the message, and even when no one is close enough to hear it and you don’t really care about this people’s opinion, that’s not for anyone to read, that’s one of the few parts of your life you treasure the most and you’re not ready to get over it.—You little slut, are you cheating on me with a med student?

—Give it to me.—You repeat trying to take the phone from his hand but he’s faster and walks away putting it out of your reach.

—"I meticulously preserve them, I certainly know any piece of art made by you will be priceless in the near future"—You don’t want to hear it coming from his drunk mocking voice, so you try to ignore what he’s saying and put more effort on chasing the phone.—Should I had kept the jeans where you left the wet spot on? I didn’t know you were an artist, my love.

—Timothée, por el amor de Dios.—Now you're trying to climb him, it wouldn't be that hard to take him down, he's skinny and you're fierce. That's what you thought but he's not moving even with you are on top of his shoulder and his opposite long arm keeps the phone away from you.

—Who is this guy and why is he talking to my girl like this?—You see the olive eyes getting darker and the tone of his voice went deeper than you thought he could do. You desist from taking the phone, you know the bullies love the attention, maybe that's exactly what he wants and give it to him just makes it worse.

—I'm not your girl.—You claim fixing up your dress having enough of games, and you have no reason to keep worrying about losing your job, the filming is done, and apparently your relationship with him too. You don't care about any of that anymore, just want to read Logan's text.

Even behind all the alcohol and the eyes injected in blood thanks for who knows what kind of drug, you can see the disappointment and anger, but it's not a broken heart, Is the hissy fit of a child that loses his balloon and now everyone will pay for it, especially you.

—Are you sure about that?—You can see him swallow hard, almost looking vulnerable, but his voice is defiant and threatening to prove you wrong. He just has to stretch out his arm to reach the open window with your phone in hand, his intentions are clear and the only thing you can do is raise your hands as a reflex.—You were mine the moment you put a foot on my trailer, and I don't fucking share my stuff.—Before you can say a word he drops the phone from the fourth floor.

You know is senseless but you find yourself running out of the party and going to search the device, using it also as an excuse to get away from that place. This is the first time someone makes you feel meaningless, you know the famous' world is cold and lacking in empathy but this is ridiculous, they're a bunch of parasites fed by attention and power. By Timothée.

The screen is crashed and the rest of it is probably beyond repair, not that you're surprised, its life is longer than you've been in the country and you admit you should have replaced it much earlier but you're not the kind to throw away things that still work. However, is not the phone you are worried about, not as much as what it contains.

—That was obsolete anyway, I'll get you a better one.—You didn't know he was following you, his voice interrupts your self-wailing. He sounds calmer and a little embarrassed, but not enough to say sorry, you don't think he's capable of saying it.

You shake your head and start to walk away without a word, you don't want anything from him, not materially, at least.

—Don't make a scandal out of it, it's just a phone!—He yells erasing any trace of regret in his voice. He doesn't see the reaction he expected and that's when he runs after you and with a hand on your upper arm pulls you back, you gasped for the sudden bluntness.—That annoying habit you have of leaving when I'm talking to you.

You push him away with all the strength you have, which resulted in him almost falling on the ground.

—I don't care about the stupid phone!—You finally break, but sadly is not as satisfactory as you thought it would be.—You are mean, vain, arrogant and the worst part is that you enjoy being this despicable human because you have absolutely no consequences to it. Everyone around you just accepts it and I feel so sorry for you because the only possible way for you to fill the void inside is to be surrounded by that crowd of mules licking your steps—To your surprise, he has nothing to say, he's just standing there with no facial expression, whatever he feels is easily covered by his years of experience acting, even drunk.—I can't give you that and it's obvious they don't want me either. What am I even doing here?—You ask yourself thinking where would be the best way of getting a cab, is a rich zone, must be easy.

—Everything is better when you're around—His voice is thin and fragile, you have to process what he said three times in your head to understand his words. You're not willing to look at him yet.—You're not like the others.

—Pure bullshit. You love to repeat that misogynist discourse of girls being in a certain way because is easier than be responsible for the people you choose to be—You were hugging yourself the whole time, is a cold night, but not enough to be bothersome, you enjoy Fall weather—You got me for a moment, I give you that, you fooled me but I'm too tired of guessing what version of you is real—When you return your gaze at him, he doesn't try to hide the guilt anymore, but there's still haughtiness in there.—Now, if you don't mind Mr. Chalamet, I need to get a cab.

—No, you came with me, you leave with me.—There's no trace of alcohol in his voice anymore, a good scolding is enough to put you sober, you know that thanks to your mom. Oh god, you're becoming her.

—You didn't bring me here, gigantic head—You look at him and put your hand in front of him with the palm up. He stares at it for several seconds before put his own on it—Not that!—You shake it and start looking inside his jeans pockets until you feel the metal of his key car.—You can't drive and I have to get home. You'll find it in the studio tomorrow.

That's how you ended with a car way more luxurious than you expected, driving so slowly and carefully that the police stopped you. What a night, but at this point, you couldn't care less about anything that is not that message, is been months and you can't get over it, over him. Not even Ben moans, Tom's comforting arms, or fight with a movie star at 3:00 am. is enough to get him out of your mind.

—So is true, you don't wear anything that hasn't appeared in a movie, huh?—Michael B. Jordan is leaning on the car window with a mocking smile and a sparkle of satisfaction that you would love to punch but his uniform keeps you in line, where you come from police is not equal to justice, most of the times is oppression.

—You know where it's from?—That was kind of comforting, no one at the party noticed. Not that you care.

—Is The Mask, not some Adam Hitchcock's blurb.—He smiles and even when you really don't like him, it's nice to be with a familiar face, you are really tired of running away, scaping for problems that are a result of your null capacity to deal with emotions. Ugh, what a word.

—Is Alfred Hitchcock, actually.—You didn't want to sound priggish, but you correct him with no time to stop yourself, an old habit.

—You got me, smarty, you know more than movies than me. Where did you get this car?—You feel really nervous even when you got this legally, you have your documents and license on time and he's being nice enough to not want to run away in a car that you technically borrowed for yourself.

—It's not mine.—No shit, Sherlock.

—No shit, Sherlock, I was asking where did you steal it.—You wanted to laugh but there's something with the uniform that just doesn't allow you to be yourself.—Are you drunk?

—No, no, fuck, no, it's just, I don't feel comfortable with cops—He raises his eyebrows but that is his only reaction.—Listen, is my boss' car, I'm doing the favor to take it to the studio, and I'm really nervous because is fucking expensive, he's an asshole, I haven't drive un almost a year because you people only use cars if you're rich or your work and lives depend on it. I'm starving.—The last part came out of nowhere, you haven't eaten anything in almost 13 hours, maybe that's the actual reason why you are that moody.

He doesn't answer right away, takes his time to look at you, what makes you blush, he's really close, closer than he's ever been. Does he smell like green apples? Not the actual apples, the artificial smell they had given to them.

—Get out of the car.—Oh no, is he arresting you? Is he finally taking revenge for every time you make fun of his Hawaiian-type shirts? You know you have too much karma accumulated and a cop making you pay for it when you don’t believe in their sense of justice is kinda poetic, and evil.

You don’t want to discuss with someone with a taser, gun, pepper spray, or who knows what else. So you take your bag, the key car, and get off defeated.

—My turn is almost over, I’ll take you to eat something, c’mon.—He walks back to his patrol and you stay still for a few seconds still processing his words, you must look totally devastated for him to offer that. How you see it you have two options, go with him and spend an awkward hour with a person you don’t like or risk getting a fine, Tim can pay it, it’s not a big deal but you don’t want to owe him even the minimal thing.

You get in the car holding on to your bag to feel calmer, this is the first time you’re fully alone with him since you found him half-naked in your kitchen. Those defined abs may never leave your brain.

—Are you cold?—He interrupts your thoughts with his question, you didn’t notice you were shaking. He looks for something under his seat and gives you an NYPD hoodie, you hold it doubting your next move, is not like you don’t appreciate the gesture but it’d be easier to take if it doesn’t get that words printed—Is clean.—He says chuckling when he sees the way you’re looking at it.

—Is not that, just, you know, fuck the police, defund the NYPD, demilitarize the pigs and that stuff.—You say putting on the hoodie anyway, is a cold night and you won't help the institution wearing their propaganda.

—Yeah, I get it, but you can't change the system just from within.—You decide is not the right moment to have a political conversation so you shrug your shoulders and discreetly smell the hoodie, a mix of cologne, green apples, and cheap soap, you know is cheap because you buy the exact same, do its job.

—I'm in the mood for pizza.—You say casually, making a deal to yourself to try to be his friend, he is a small part of your life anyway.—Domino's is open at this time of the night?

—Tell me you're not consuming that shit, dear Lord, you been here for how long, two years? I can't believe your idea of a good pizza is Domino's. Stella hasn't taught you anything?—You're surprised by the level of condescension with a pizza and you mirror his smile, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Your school program includes people from all around the world so you don't have that much experience with actual new yorkers. Logan is rich, so he doesn't really count.

—What's wrong with Domino's? I don't buy much street food, is cheaper to buy things on the food market. Besides, all pizza is good.—The mention of Sheep makes you a little tense, so you don't say anything about it, is not a conversation to have with him.

—Don't blaspheme in the patrol, I just washed it—You laugh, finally, after a terrible weekend. You can see why she likes him, there is something about his voice, smile, and his eyes that feel... calm, like watching Friends after a marathon of Lord of the Rings.—There are rules to survive this city, and I'm surprised you have made it this far without a proper guide.

—Chill out Mr. Miyagi, I'm not from the jungle, and I've learned a lot by myself.—He gives you a lopsided grin as a request, and you put your fingers up ready to enlist your acquired knowledge.—Walk fast, like you're about to be stabbed, something that actually happened to me, with an umbrella—He nods and laughs being related to it.—Number two, no small talk, no one cares, even if they ask. Number three, if you look a stranger in the eye, especially a homeless person, you have essentially invited them to approach you.

—Number four, we never eat from Domino's, Papa John's, Pizza hut, or any other chain restaurant, only trucks and local places are allowed.—You roll your eyes but you get the point, is just, again, you're not much into street food, it doesn't taste like home and the only way to eat food like that is preparing it yourself.

—Fine, fuck capitalism, let's support local places—You make an obvious fake enthusiastic tone but he nods proudly.—Number five, you don't need a car to live here, not even know how to drive. I would have successfully avoided this police brutality if I had followed that rule.

—For someone who is about to eat for free, you whine too much.—He parks the car and gives you a sign to go with him. You see him go to a pizza truck and order, you realize at the moment how ridiculous you look, so before chasing him you let your hair down, take your huge earrings off, and roll up the skirt of your dress until your mid-thighs letting the hoodie cover the rest, and clean the red lipstick with a Kleenex from your bag. Now you look more like a college person and not a rich girl who just got seized.

—Here you go.—He says giving you a slice as big as your head, looks oily and spreading cheese everywhere. Perfect.

—Is it vegan?—You ask receiving the food with an obnoxious face. His kind grind turned into a dread expression and you give him your second laugh of the day.—I'm kidding.

You are about to give it a bite when you see passing next to you a huge rat with the exact same slice as yours in its mouth, running into the dark of the night happy to have obtained the food for its family. They use to scare you when you just moved out but now they're like any other pigeon in the sky.

—Rule... whatever, a rat with a slice of pizza is a symbol for good luck, congratulations.—He pets your head awkwardly, not sure if you're ok with the physical contact, which, surprisingly, you are.

—I see rats with bagels all the time.—Pizza and bagels, that's the main culinary wonders of the city, you like it, not much to object but is hard not to compare it with your home's food.

—Is easy to confuse a rough diamond with a simple rock.—You both eat in silence, enjoying the mixed sounds of the city and all the different smells, the whole situation feels like one of those lofi music videos. You remember thinking about moments like this before getting the scholarship, what would it be like to feel normal in the city of your dreams.

—How do you know that much about movies?—He asks after a few minutes when you take a break to drink something, that pizza is not easy to take.

—When I was a kid a spent much time on my own, so my dad bought me a used DVD reproducer, and at the corner of my neighborhood was this movie store where you could buy 5 pirate movies for one dollar. They were blurred, with a terrible sound, and most of the time with the wrong movie inside but they helped me to not feel lonely. Eventually, the store closed but I've watched everything in it by then—He gives you a warm smile, you never told that story to anyone, not because is too intimate to share, but because no one asked, it doesn't sound like a question with a complex answer.—Anyway, I watched Marie Antoinette when I was like eight, and I decided at that moment that however is done I wanted to be part of that magic.

—You hear all kind of people chasing dreams in this city but is hard to find someone who actually deserves it.—You blush and you cover it with your hair but the smile on your voice is impossible to hide.

—Is that a compliment? You must really want me to like you to date Sheep.—You laugh but you can see his face tense, so you can guess your friend has been busy breaking everyone’s hearts.

—She hasn’t returned my calls in three days so I don’t think there’s much you can do—You nod, all this time you thought he was the reason she is ignoring you but apparently you are both in the same boat.—But yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking, what I should have said is, Marie Antoinette at eight? I can see where all the damage started.

You gasp and throw your napkin at his head, he easily catches it without even looking at it and laughs; that was unexpectedly attractive.

—Why a cop?—You ask, not sure where that question came from, maybe you authentically want to know more about him, he just bought you food, and honestly, that's the easiest way to win your trust.

—I wanted to be an actor when I was a child. This is the city of opportunities so you may think that if you want to chase the big wonder, this is the perfect place to do it. But I grow up surrounded by these people giving their entire lives to get something just given to one in a million so I decided is not worth it. For many years I wondered what I wanted to do with my life and the answer was really clear, my dad was a cop, a good one, or that’s what people say. I don’t remember much because he died when I was seven—Conversations about death are not your strength, everything can turn out uncomfortable if you choose the wrong words.—It might not be that glamorous but if my father died for it, it surely worth it.

—For the good ones.—You raise your almost empty can of Coke and he does the same with a grin that warms the cold weather of the night.

—For the good ones.

The next two hours passed like minutes talking about anything and everything. It just felt right to talk freely with him, you didn’t feel judged for your awkward family moments or your random thoughts, not even once because he told you his too. At some point of the night he borrowed you his gym sweatpants, any of you could just suggest going home but that was off the table, end that peace just for weather reasons would have been a tragedy.

—I read Timothée Chalamet is a dick. Is that true?—The mention of his name remains you of your life and everything that comes with it, including the middle semester project that you must dedicate your entire day, one that is about to start.—What, you can’t talk about it?

—He is a complete dick with no sense of privacy or human decency—And when he interrupts a deep kiss to look at your eyes, smile, and caress your chin, you feel like a character of his Victorian movies. But he didn’t ask that.—But the next week he’ll be no longer my problem.

—That’s why we have rule twenty-three, don’t ask for a picture of a celebrity unless they are local—You have heard about it before but you haven’t got the opportunity to decide if you like that rule because the only celebrities you have seen are from work and that club’s party opening.—That means you’ll be free to go to the Stephen Kings’ movie projection there will be for Halloween.

You don’t know if that was a proposition, a suggestion, or just a simple recommendation, and whatever it is, you noticed he was nervous to ask. Is it wrong? It feels wrong like you were betraying your friend accepting to hang out with his boyfriend without her consent. But he didn’t ask you to go with him so is safe to answer.

—Yeah, I guess—You get a moment, four seconds top, where you shared innocent, curious, and tenting gazes like three graders in the playground. And that’s the further you will allow yourself to go.—We better leave, if the sunlight touch me I’ll turn into dust.

You get off the car hood and go to the side door, but this time he opens it for you. You give him a “seriously?” Look, receiving a little push in your arm as a response.

↬☀︎︎

A distant voice asks you to wake up, softly whispers that turn into caresses on your cheek, your eyes feel so heavy, even when you are well aware of your environment your eyelids keep closed.

—Good morning, Princess—This is the first time Tom calls you that way, the change from silly nicknames to Princess is enough to get you out of hibernation. He is squatting beside your bed, his smile is the promise of a better day, and chasing that idea you give him one small back.—Your mom has been texting me desperately all day, she said you're not answering her calls and is worried.

—Fuck, my phone broke last night, can I call her from yours?—That’s an oversimplification but in the search for a better story, that's what you decide to believe and tell. Tom nods and gives it to you, he looks happy, beyond that, this is the first time you see that subtle blush on his cheeks and the eyes sparkling. You sit on the bed next to his body looking for your mom's number, slowly he moves between your legs, you have shorts and an oversized Back To The Future t-shirt, you got took the time to prepare yourself to bed last night and keep Michael’s clothes inside your closet to wash them, like The Tell-Tale Heart, a little innocent secret who feels dirty somehow

The conversations with your mom are always long, nostalgic and the tears are hard to hold for both parts; after a long life sharing almost every day with her, her absence never feels smaller. But this time is different, Tom is exploring the bare skin under your knee with his warm hands, asking for permission with curious eyes, and when you don’t object to the touch the British boy keeps his exploring mission cautiously, giving special attention to see your eyes in case something change. Is time to hang up when he gives a long and loving kiss to your knee, the less erotic kiss you could think of but so intimate to bristle your skin.

—Not nice to touch someone's daughter when is talking to her mom.—The protest of your voice loses strength at every word, he heard that and just straight his back to reach your face, the gap is almost extinct.

—We're okay, she likes me.—He assures holding your hips and pulling you a bit to him. Tom looks very comfortable with the new closeness authorization, you like it but are not very sure about it yet, most of you still think of him as your best friend.

—Did she tell you that? Are you talking with my mom behind my back?—You laugh when he does, almost like nothing changed.

—She adores me, I swear, I'm invited to Christmas, you know?—You're not surprised, she invites everyone, Logan was too but the first time he got family plans and didn't make it to the second.

—You should go, maybe we can do...—His lips touch yours in a peak at the middle phrase and makes you forget what you were about to say.—Man, the audacity to interrupt...—Then he kisses you again, deeply, using his tongue to taste your inner lip and his hands holding your shirt in fists. That's a twist of events.

—Is that ok?—You hear a weak whisper coming out of his voice but you got so mesmerized on his lips that decided to ignore it and kiss him back instead. He responds to your touch and starts to lean over you to make you lay on the bed.

Jesucristo bendito, is this happening? like, actually happening? you must look like trash, you barely took all the makeup from the night before and didn't take a shower, you start to get so worried about smells, feelings, and what that'll mean to your already too much-spoiled friendship.

However, the time of doubts is done when Sheep starts yelling in the living room, you both reacted running to the sound and looking for your blonde friend. Michael is there but doesn't look like the same as a few hours ago, is annoyed and tired for the lack of sleep, a look that doesn't match him at all.—What did you do?—You ask him fast assuming she's mad for something he did.

—Just in time, the star of the movie, I was wondering how much it will take you to be the protagonist of this.—That is Sheep's voice talking about you and what must be your heart breaking from her words.

—Excuse me?—You wish your tone would be less savage but you can't help respond the same way she did.

—Logan wasn't enough, then you got the drummer, fucking Timothée Chalamet, Tom and now my boyfriend. I'm so glad I didn't leave you alone with my dad or I'd be calling you mom now.—You have no words to that, Michael doesn't even dare to look at you, he must have told her something she misunderstood, but Sheep, or well, Stella is saying things she actually thinks and keep to herself. Tom walks in front of you whispering things to her to calm her down but she is not looking at him, you didn't tell her anything about Tom either so he's taking responsibility this time.—Go ahead and fuck the whole city, Michael if that please you but you're crossing the line with Tom and you know that, you're going to ruin him as you ruin every man that enters in your life.—She has a very you moment having the last word of the dispute and getting out of the apartment with Michael going after her but not putting much effort in it.

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[mvrtaiswriting]

We were 18. - Jotaro Kujo.

Me?? Posting something about Jotaro?? How strange. This piece of work is also dedicated to two of my comfort characters, Kakyoin and Joseph. This artwork is really important to me, it really holds a special place in my heart so.. enjoy! 

Neutral reader x Jotaro Kujo

Jojo’s bizzare adventures: Stardust Crusaders (spoilers)

AU

SFW | fluff 

Trigger warning: usual jojo violence, reference to grief, insomnia.

Word count: 1760.

The ‘continue reading’ button is there for space purposes, to make the reader avoid any possible spoiler and/or sensible topics.

Hi! Are you a new reader? Check my masterlist for more content!

Please feel free to reblog or leave a comment :) help me support my art (it’s free!),

© bearing in mind everything I post/write is my intellectual property so please don’t steal/copy and paste and post it as yours.

Since you returned from your tumultuous trip in Egypt, your life has never been the same. Once you came back to your hometown, not a moment passed by when you didn’t remember the terrible scenes you’ve witnessed during the fight with Dio. The memory of Kakyoin’s death was still so vivid in your mind and the more you tried to shake that thought out of your head, the more you kept reliving it – over and over again.

There were times when you swore you saw Kakyoin among a crowd of people; times when you could just hear his voice calling your name. Every time you closed your eyes Avdol, Kakyoin and Iggy were there. You barely slept anymore – most of the times you did so, you had nightmares about what happened in El Cairo. You lost count of how many nights you have spent crying in your bed, curled up in between your sheets in the silence of your lonely house. Living alone didn’t help; you were used to sneak into one of the crusaders’ room whenever you needed a shoulder to cry on or, simply, a place where you could feel safe. It wasn’t unusual for you to wake up squished between Kakyoin and Jotaro or trapped in one of Joseph bear-hugs. But now, you were thousands of kilometres away from the rest of the group, alone in your cold bedroom. There was no one to go to, and no one you could talk about how you felt. It was just you and your painful memories. No one would understand what you’ve been through – how could they? How could you ever explain how intense the 50 days you spent with the crusaders had been?

Another nightmare woke you up, as per usual. You gasped loudly as if you just started to breathe again after a long apnea and quickly sat down in the middle of your bed, holding onto your sheet. You started shaking as your chest moved up and down with rapid movements trying to catch your breath, tears streaming down your face. You were staring at the void in your pitch-dark room, trying to control your sobs and make yourself realise that you were back to reality. You stretched one of your arms to reach the lamp on your bedside table, curling yourself up while you slowly started to calm down. Wiping out the tears from your cheeks with your jumper’s sleeve, you finally dragged yourself out of bed and slowly went to the kitchen, making yourself some tea.

As you sat down to drink your hot beverage hoping it would bring you some comfort, you started to rehearse your dream - as if you could just replay it in your head as one would normally do with songs or movies. It wasn’t very different from any other dreams you had.

Kakyoin’s body was lying lifeless against the roof Dio had thrown him onto, his expression crippled by the excruciating pain he must have felt. An enormous wound had completely swept away part of his body, leaving a big opening in the middle of it. You were screaming at him at the top of your lungs, begging him to spare the last bit of energy he had left in his body. But the ending was the same every damn time; he would use his last breath to reveal to Joseph the secret of The world, Dio’s Stand, and launch his last attack with Emerald Splash. You woke up every time you tried to reach Kakyoin’s body. You were never able to say goodbye to him -  not even in your dreams. The same thing happened with Avdol and Iggy too. You never got the chance to see them one last time, because you were busy fighting elsewhere.

You sighed loudly, stopping yourself from having another breakdown and sipping some tea from your cup. It was in that exact moment, that the phone rang. It was 3:00 AM where you lived, so you expected one of the boys to be on the other end of the telephone. You and the rest of the crusaders exchanged your numbers the last time you saw each other at the airport and had kept in contact ever since. To your surprise, the person you talked the most was Jotaro. You were about the same age and had created a strong bond during your trip, even if you would have never bet on it. Kakyoin used to always joke about your crush on Jotaro, always encouraging you to give it a shot. But things turned out to be too frenetic and dangerous to engage any sort of romantic relationship. Despite that, you would never miss a chance to sit next to each other or just spend most of the time together. The two of you even kissed at one point, but never talked about it again – not even during your strangely long phone calls.

Crawling your feet on the floor of your kitchen, you got up and finally answered the phone: “Hello?”

“Hey.” Jotaro’s deep voice replied. “How come you’re awake? It’s late where you are.” he added.

“You called. Is this a good excuse?” you said lightly laughing, trying to hide the sadness in your voice.

When the sun rose, you were still talking to Jotaro. He asked you about your dream – he knew about your insomnia and your recurring nightmares and just wanted to be there for you. He wasn’t the best at comforting, and most of the time he never dared to say a word; but you knew it was a sensible topic for him too, and the fact that he would let you confide in him was more than enough.

“It’s a big deal for me too.” he said. You just hummed, allowing him to talk freely about what was going on inside his head – and heart. “Sometimes I can barely breathe. I just wish everything was over.” he cut short, clearing his throat immediately after finishing his sentence. Hearing those words from him just broke your heart; he always showed himself as a cold, calm and collected person and never allowed his emotions to have the best of him. He could often come off as an emotionless brute, but you knew it was all a façade that hid a more sensible and soft side of him. A comfortable silence fell between the two of you, only broken by the sound of your breaths. “Don’t hang up.” you said ultimately, letting out a big sigh.

“I won’t. I’m here.” His voice replied, sounding velvet through the telephone.

--

The plane landed after what felt like an eternity, the flight from your country took countless hours to arrive in Japan. At the airport, a member of the Speedwagon foundation was waiting for you, Holly standing next to him. As soon as you got closer to them, Holly quickly fell into your arms, hugging you tightly. ‘I’m so glad you’re here!’ she squeaked, while cupping your cheeks in her hands and showering you with affection. You let out an embarrassed laugh, and after that warm welcome you finally reached the car. You seated in the backseat, tiredly resting your head against the window of your car’s door. You took a quick look at the clock and closed your eyes, trying to get some rest.

When you arrived, Holly gently woke you up. The car was parked in front of the Kujo’s residence, the place where it all started. A fast sequence of memories flashed in front of your eyes as you meticulously watched the house in front of you, remembering exactly how you felt when you arrived the first time, and how you felt when you left. Holly placed and hand on your shoulder and nodded, indicating to you Jotaro’s room. “He wasn’t in a great mood today, he hasn’t been in a while” she said hopelessly. “Just excuse him if he speaks to you rudely.” she added, feeling sorry for the harsh manners her son always displayed. You reassured her smiling, before walking to his room.

Once you stood in front of his door, your heart started beating so loud. A part of you was dying to see the boy you heart belonged to, the other was afraid to see him broken into pieces. But that was the reason why you went there in the first place. You didn’t want to leave him alone anymore. He needed a shoulder to cry on as much as you did – maybe more, if it was possible. You had to be there.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. Heavy footsteps came your way before the door opened, revealing Jotaro’s figure towering over you.

“(Y/N)? What are you doing he-“ he tried to ask, before getting interrupted by your hug; you almost pushed yourself against his body, making him take a step back to not lose balance. You wrapped your arms around his strong torso, breathing in his perfume and holding him as close as humanly possible to you. Being in his arms felt like being at home – a feeling you hadn’t experienced in a while. It wasn’t long before Jotaro reciprocated your hug, hiding his face into your hair and leaving a soft kiss on your head. He closed the door behind you and just held you in his embrace, enjoying the wonderful feeling of being reunited with you. “You don’t know how much I missed you.” he said, not even trying to let you go. You hinted a small laugh, rubbing his muscled back with your right hand. “I can imagine.”, you replied. He slowly distanced himself from you, placing his hands over your cheeks, staring at you with his eyes full of tears. He was scanning every inch of your face and figure, almost as if he wanted to convince himself that you were real, that you were there. He rested his forehead on yours, locking his gaze on yours, making it impossible to break eye contact. “I don’t want to lose you anymore” you whispered. “You saved my life so many times, in so many ways. I always thought it was the wrong time, I always ran away from my feelings but..” you continued, but before you could finish your sentence, he quickly put his lips on yours – shutting you up with a kiss. You could feel tears running on his face. You grabbed the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer to you, reciprocating the kiss.

“I have loved you since we were 18.” he whispered.

[docholligay]

For P/Valentines Day prompts: feeling their pulse + Winston and Lena

1800 words! Please enjoy some good 'I'm not leaving you and also I am fuck-stupid"

Tracer didn’t like to admit that she liked a bit of a scramble, but she really, really did. It would be better, of course, for there not to be such things in the world, but there were, for now, and so long as there were, Tracer was happy enough to be right in the middle of them. Everyone has a gift, her Aunt Lily had always said, and Lena’s seems to be a total lack of the kind of fear that occurs to sensible people.

She had been teasing, but she hadn’t been wrong, Tracer often thought. Part of the reason she had been such a good pilot was her willingness to take it to the exact razor’s edge before pulling back. Her ability to run through a hail of gunfire without pause made her a world-class flank. People sometimes said she had a death wish, but that was only people who didn’t know her very well. Tracer loved her life, took great pleasure in it, and wanted to keep it.

But there was something to be said for the thrill of knowing it could be lost. The risk is what makes it fun.

It might be that eventually, someday, she would make a mistake. She would make a mistake and then she’d hear a shot ring out of somewhere--she’d gotten up to this part before-- and then it’d be all choirs of angels or the flames of hell or utter dark and silence, and which it was really didn’t worry Tracer too much. Things were whatever they were, and she would simply have to make the best of it. Death would come for her someday, regardless, and there was no point in worrying about how and when. Even in the middle of a firefight, the trees in Paris had a lovely bloom, right?

Every once in a great while, however, something would happen that gave her pause to the whole idea that Death could be a casual sort of happening, or at the very least, reminded that Death could befriend everyone and not only her.

She backed against the wall in the side street, bullet holes from the last war making friends with the ones from this one. She shot back. Tracer wouldn’t destroy the city quite so badly, because she was a fair better shot. Shocking to know that something could be programmed that badly, really, but then again, technology wasn’t necessarily something she--

There was a roar that interrupted her constant internal patter. She turned fast enough to see Winston fall, just a ways from where she stood. There was a small pool starting at his side, staining the white of his uniform. She’d never much cared for the color red. Not a Manchester fan at all.

She blinked off nimbly, watching Winston as he crumbled in the middle of the greenway that passed for a park. Another bullet hit him in the shoulder. She ran faster. Something whizzed by her ear, nearly cuffing the small silver hoops at the top of it, but almost didn’t count. Nearly wasn’t there.

“Win?” Tracer crouched by him, ignoring the firefight behind her, “Win we ‘ave to get you out of ‘ere.”

He lay still, eyes closed, saying nothing. Tracer knew he wasn’t dead, for three reasons: One, she knew what a dead person looked like and he was still a bit pink for that, though maybe on a gorilla it was different, she thought unhelpfully. Two, she could see him breathing, a reason that was hard to weasel out of.

She put her fingers on his wrist anyway, and was reassured by the pulse.

Oh, and three, drifted through her mind: Winston is meant to outlive her. She knows this to be true, has known it down to the ground for as long as they have been friends. She has never prepared herself to lose him, because she’ll go first. That’s the way it’s meant to be, you see, and there’s no arguing with it.

An explosion to their left seemed to challenge this indelible fact.

There was a concrete barrier with backup, only a few yards away. May as well have been a football field. They were signaling her in with wide eyes.

“WIn?” she shook him, “Win you ‘ave to get up, big guy.”

“Lena…go..”

“Fuck off, Win, I’m not going nowhere without you.”

“I can’t..”

“Listen ‘ere, still owe me a pint, a supper maybe even,” she put her hands under his good shoulder, “as I’s able to put down the plane where you said it couldn’t be done. You bet me, remember?” She pushed him to sitting, “Think I’d let you get away with an unpaid debt?”

She looked over toward the barrier. It was so close. So close, and everyone pinned down by fire. Or at least, the fresher bits of Overwatch had not yet learned how to ignore fear.

They could make it. They would make it.

“Up, up,” she made her voice bounce brightly, “That’s it, head down, feet back up.”

Winston swooned, and leaned on her heavily, Tracer bearing it as best she could. They took slow, shuffling steps, even given Winston’s long stride, and Tracer saw the omnics, honing their aim on the slow pair.

“You know, love, not to be impatient about it, but I do lack focus, as Pharah’s so often said, and it’d be lovely if we could ‘urry on with this a bit.”

Winston opened his eyes, just enough to look at her, and mouthed something Tracer immediately ignored.

Fine then. She didn’t have to do things the easy way. If she had, she would have given up and died a long time ago.

“You can’t carry too much.” Mercy had been kind, but firm, giving her pills for a headache “Anything bigger than about half your size is a risk to you. It can hurt you. You have to be careful, Lena.”

She gently touched Tracer’s arm, making sure she was looking at her, and sat down on the bed next to her. “You never feel…delicate, I know. Your disability is a power, too. You have been doing a wonderful job. But it can--well, nothing bigger than half your size, Lena. Anything else is a risk.”

Tracer looked over at Winston, beginning to do the mental calculus and then tossing the paper away carelessly.

Well, the risk is what makes it fun, I suppose.

There was no world in which she was going to leave him. She could get to the barrier in about three blinks, with the both of them. She’d taken things bigger than a child before, whatever Mercy had to say about it. She sure hadn’t complained much when it had been Pharah, right? She’d get a headache. Maybe feel a bit strange and prickly. She could take that.

Losing Winston wasn’t an option, and he could lecture her later.

“‘Ang on, Win.” She pushed forward, hard as she could, and they moved 15 feet.

Stars blazed across the front of her vision, and a hot plume of volcanic pain erupted in her skull. She panted for breath, her hands shaking as she held tighter to Winston, tried to keep him upright.

“Fuck.” She summed up succinctly.

“Lena, don’t.”

“Shut up, Win.” She took another deep breath, calm as she could muster, as she tossed her guns aside, throwing off any extra weight, “We ‘ave to move, come on now. I’m all right. Take a big step, if you can, right? That’ll ‘elp me.”

He did, and Tracer pushed, the sounds of bullets whizzing past her, diving deep into the sea of time, overlapping memories and emotions and sights all in front of her for the brief moment she and Winston swam through it.

Back to Paris, present day. This time the pain exploded in her brain and went all the way down her spine, and she nearly fell over with a sudden shock through her body. Her vision began to shift and blur, the barrier so tantalizingly close now bending and warping. She felt her muscles twitch, quite without her consent.

This was, she admitted, probably not good. It might be that she’d need a bit of a lie-down after this.

“Tracer!” Mercy. Excellent. Mercy could help Winston.

She nearly ran out the fifty or so feet to where they stood, but was caught back by Genji, nearly missing a hit of her own. What the bloody hell was he doing behind a barrier? Wasn’t he meant to be a flank as well? Did he think flank was English for ‘living in perfect safety,’ or what? There was time to be angry about it later. Not now.

She heard Pharah’s voice, and gritted her teeth. Pharah was a lot of things, but she was loyal most of all, and there was no way she wasn’t going to assemble a group to save them. Blurry as her vision was, she could see the formation coming, hear Pharah barking orders and loading her launcher quickly.

She heard a loud stomp behind her, and knew what it was without looking. No time to wait.

It might be that eventually, someday she would make a mistake.

No, she thought, not a mistake.

She grabbed on to Winston, even tighter as she closed her eyes. The world was beginning to swirl in her mind, a bubble ready to pop, and she could feel a pressure inside of her. Something wet dripped onto her lip, tinny and metallic. She was leaning on it too heavily, whatever it was that let her blink as she did and be alive at the same time. She could feel it groaning under the strain. But it hadn’t yet buckled. She could make it go one more round.

“Push this time, Win. Push and we can make it.”

Pharah was coming. Backup was here, and they were pushing back the advance. They were going to make it. Tracer just had to dig down deep one more time. She flung aside everything else inside of her, just something else weighing her down, allowing determination to fill the space where anything else might have rested. Just one more. She could do just one more. They were almost there. She could get Winston to Mercy. She could do that.

Tracer blinked.

Not a mistake, she thought, as she slipped back through and fell to Pharah’s feet, the blackness coming over her. I didn’t make a mistake.

It was not so painful now, though she couldn’t see anymore, only hear Pharah saying something to her, but that was muddy and far-off, too. Her cheek scraped against the asphalt as her body clenched violently. She had one last thought before consciousness left her like a door slamming in her face.

I made a choice.

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

interlude ii ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 2.4k

warnings: none really! just an impending, pervasive sense of doom.

rating: m/t

notes: so happy to have finally gotten this little interlude edited and pieced together! just more soft moments because they deserve it considering what's going to be coming up. thank you everyone who has been reading/interacting with this little love project of mine; it took a minute to get myself dug out of the trenches and posting bite-sized chapters because this is a short-fic is definitely doing something to me (lmao) but we're here!

as always you can find translations on ao3, where it's easier to store them in a place that doesn't get in the way.

There is very little time between when Santino cooks her dinner and when he moves her into his apartment. It happens without much acknowledgment from her; she finds herself swallowed up in moments of casual intimacy that break her down to nothing except a girl in love.

Santino wakes her up by kissing her neck and pulling her against his chest; she makes him dinner barefoot in the kitchen, all of the recipes that her mother taught her, and he drags his hand along her hip to reach over her into the cupboard; he stands still and obedient while Euphemia slides his tie into place, and when he zips her dress for her, he peppers her shoulder with kisses. He tolerates taking a walk through the park, even in the chilliness of late Fall or Winter, because Euphie can’t stand to not get some fresh air once a day. When one of her friends asks why he lets her bully him into the cold weather, he wraps his arms around Euphie with a sly smile and says, “How could I not, when I am the one who gets to warm her up after?”

He is an exceptionally tactile man. There is always a reason for him to touch her, trace each line of her, put his lips against her skin. Santi isn’t a man who loves; he covets. And Euphemia shouldn’t like it as much as she does, but she does. Her therapist says that it isn’t uncommon for a girl who grows up without touching to crave it, desperately, like an addiction.

So, she finds herself living in his loft to feed that addiction—which becomes their loft—and teaching him words in French, and feeding him olives while sauce simmers (and does not boil), and kissing the red-wine taste from his lips. It’s all very romantic and greatly overshadows the moments where Santino comes home raging mad, or when his bad mood takes over their conversation and stirs a fight between them. They’re both hot-headed—her more so than he—and he knows all of the ways to diffuse her while she knows none about him.

But it doesn’t matter, in the end; because Santino always kisses her, and always says, Mi dispiace, cara mi, ti amo, ti amo, ti amo, lip-locking between each break in words until her lungs ache.

Euphie has never wanted to be loved sensibly, anyway.

Making money stops becoming an issue. Santino might have been fine letting her wrap up her loose ends, so to speak, encourages her, even—“You should never leave business undone, my Euphie,”—but he’d never tolerate her continuing to skim out of the pockets of his associates. Not out of respect for them, of course, but because Santino is more than happy to provide.

“I have to do something,” Euphie insists, often. But Santino clicks his tongue and shakes his head, inspiring indignation in her. “That money goes to my mother, Santi.”

“Princesa, what are you worrying for?” He replies every time. In this instance, he is reading over some documents, his voice casual, simple, effective at bringing her to heel. “If your mama needs money, she’ll get it. Tutto quello che vuoi è tuo.”

Euphemia used to think that he was doing it to be generous, but as time goes on, she knows that isn’t the case. If Santino didn’t think he was benefitting from sending her mother money every month, he wouldn’t do it: but he does. Euphemia stops playing at arm candy for other powerful men; he endears himself to her by taking care of her mother; he endears himself to her mother; he’s afforded a sense of control. There is no facet of it where he isn’t getting something out of it. And she thinks, too, that maybe Santino likes it like this, where she is completely reliant on him for everything.

She doesn’t mind so much.

She would, if Santino didn’t drench her in his longing, if he didn’t make her feel, every day, that he is desperate to treasure her. She has always heard about this kind of love—and it is love—and never thought she would have it for herself.

But she does now, and she doesn’t want to let it go.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Tea or coffee, mama?”

Santino is busying himself in the kitchen. They’ve been together for a little over a year now, and they’re on a tour of Italy—not for fun, necessarily, but for integration. They have just spent the last week with Santino’s father and sister, and now they will spend the next two days in the Tuscan countryside with her mother.

Two days for her mother, instead of the week that they gave Santino’s father and sister, in part because his father deserves more time and in part because Euphemia doesn’t think she can tolerate her mother in much more than two-day increments.

“Coffee, please,” her mother says, very charmed by Santino.

“Tea,” Euphemia interjects. She looks at her mother—her face is tired, and older than she really is. Euphie knows that this is a side effect of heavy, abusive drinking and years spent in emotional terror, not the passage of time. Still, she finds it hard to drum up anything except distant pity in her heart. “You don’t need the caffeine.”

“Oh, you always ruin my fun.”

Santino re-enters the room with a small cup—it’s an espresso cup, but he’s poured it with regular coffee.

“A compromise,” Santi explains, handing the cup to her mother, smiling handsomely. “To make both of my girls happy.”

Her mother preens, glows under the affection. “You are so sweet, Santi. A perfect son-in-law.”

He has always called her and her mother his girls. His own mother had passed since before Euphemia; and while he knows that Euphie’s relationship with her mother is strained at best, he does what he can to ease it. Because it makes her happy, he says, and if she’s happy, he’s happy.

“Not yet a son-in-law,” Euphie corrects, and Santino flashes her a quick, amused little smile.

“You see how cruel she is to me, madonna? I have asked her to marry me, you know.”

“Santi,” Euphemia sighs, but it has had its desired effect; her mother looks scandalized, mortified at her daughter’s resistance to marrying a man as good and handsome and charming as Santino.

“Effie, tell me that you haven’t been bullying Santino like this?”

“Mama, there is no reason—he is just teasing. Ascoltami, you don’t need to look so horrified.”

“I do not know where I went wrong with you, Euphemia Sancia.” Her mother clicks her tongue, muttering something under her breath and taking a drink of the coffee Santi made her, and Euphemia can’t bring herself to say that not everything she has done wrong in her life is a slight against her mother’s parenting skills.

Santino smiles and leans across to Euphie, bringing her hand up to kiss it.

“Don’t worry,” he says to her mother, his voice blooming with practiced warmth. “I will ask her as many times as it takes for her to say yes.”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest. She knows that he means it; he’s suggested it to her three times, now. It seems to be the only thing he doesn’t mind asking more than once.

“She’s always been fussy, my Euphemia,” her mother says, breaking the magic of Santino’s eyes on her. “Never happy with what she has, just like her father. Except for you, Santi—you are the only thing she holds onto.”

Exasperation and disgust flood over her. Both the mention of the man considered to be her father and any similarities they might share has her mood souring. “Mama—”

But Santino is sweeping in, like he always does when he can tell Euphie is getting tired of her mother, coming to a stand and asking her, “We should get started on dinner, cara mia, don’t you think?”

Just like that, he’s taken control of the conversation again. He sees her flailing and steadies her. Euphemia is certain that he doesn’t love her mother—that he doesn’t even like her—but that he can spend his time tolerating her with charm and grace despite knowing what her mother allowed to go on under their roof is indicative of the man that Santino is.

“Yes,” she replies, standing as well. “You look tired, mama. Take a rest while Santi and I make dinner.”

She wanders into the kitchen with Santino trailing after her. As soon as they’re alone, he winds his arms around her waist and kisses the juncture between her shoulder and neck.

“Is it true?” he asks coyly. “That you don’t hold on to anything except for me?”

She doesn’t want to tell him very much, because he knows already, and because to say it out loud will give it legs. A year together, and she still doesn’t want her feelings for him to have legs. Santino splays his fingers against her sternum and kisses her jaw.

“You know that it is,” she says at last, her voice a little unsteady. She can feel Santi smiling against her skin.

“Euphie,” he purrs, “marry me.”

Yes, she wants to say, as her eyes flutter shut. Yes, I’ll marry you, Santi. Anything that you ask. I’ll do anything for you, if you would just keep saying my name like that.

She wants to say it but the words won't come out. There is nothing quite like the feeling of Santino peeling back each individual layer of her defenses, piece by piece; so close, she knows, he is so close, but not quite. Not yet. She is most comfortable keeping him at arm’s length as much as possible—to kiss and to fuck and to let someone hold you at night is one thing. To let someone in past the barbed-wire of defenses is yet another, impossibly reckless. To be seen feeling anything deranges you, as the poets like to say.

“Sancia, hm?” he continues instead, when she can’t bring herself to answer, as the words stick in her throat. It’s one of those things where Santino seems to exercise a surprising amount of patience, this whole ordeal of to marry or not to marry; later, Euphemia will come to understand that it is because Santino believes their life together to be inevitable, that she will always say yes to him, one way or another.

For now, she turns in his arms, cocking a brow at him. He continues, “It means sacred.”

Euphemia nods sagely and props herself up on the counter. “Buon ascolto, my love. I suppose that means you should work very hard to worship me well.”

Santino laughs. He leans in, trapping her against the counter—though it isn’t much of a trap if she’s a willing participant—and noses the slope of her jaw.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “I suppose that it does.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

On the last leg of their tour of families, Santino insists that they spend a few days in Rome by themselves.

The days are used mostly for doing a lot of nothing; neither of them are particularly interested in sight-seeing, but rather interested in seeing each other, a thing which they don’t seem to tire of particularly quickly. Instead, they shop, or lay in bed together until the afternoon, or go out to eat when street lights kick on and the city takes on a life of its own.

“You are much happier, Euphie,” Santino says one evening, smoothing out his napkin on the table absently, “when you are not around your mother.”

It’s not a question, per se, though she knows that he expects an answer. But she is still young and a little petulant, and she likes to push his buttons and make him say exactly what it is he means, so she takes a sip of her wine and replies, “Yes.”

He arches a brow at her. He looks particularly handsome like this, she thinks—not around his family, just eating dinner in a streetside restaurant in Rome, illuminated in warm candlelight and the glow of the streetlights outside.

“Are you going to tell me why?” he asks, amusedly.

“If you ask.” Euphemia sets her wine glass down on the table, and when Santino reaches for her hand, she lets him take it, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “But it is so boring, Santi, to talk about my mother. Why don’t you ask me about something else?”

The brunette’s mouth is curving in a little smile. “Like…?”

“Like…” Euphie gestures with her free hand, like she has to really think about it. “Euphie, how did I get so lucky to have a woman like you? That is a good place to start. Or, what will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel? Or, Euphie, will I ever be so fortunate as to call you my wife?”

Santino laughs, leaning into their conversation, bringing her fingers up to kiss them. He has long lashes; soft, and dark, and they brush the tops of his cheekbones when his eyes close. Santino glances from her fingers up to her, that boyish grin on his face.

“I already know the answers to the first and last question,” he says casually, like it’s no big deal, but he’s grinning wickedly at her when he says it. She scoffs.

“Dimme poi,” Euphie insists. “I am dying to know, Santi.”

His expression is very sage, very wise, and he nods his head. “Il destino,” he says, winding their fingers together, “e tra un anno.”

There is something very heart-stopping about the way Santino articulates il destino, as though it is fact, as though there is something undeniable about their coming together.

“How do you know?” she asks. “In a year?”

“Because if you do not want to marry me by then,” Santino replies matter-of-factly, “then I am certainly not suited for marriage at all.”

She rolls her eyes, taking a drink of her wine and savoring the way his eyes trail over her, admiring, drinking her in.

“Well?” he prompts. She looks at him expectantly, and he reiterates, his gaze set on her, “What will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel, belladonna?”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest when he looks at her like that; like she is the only person in the entire universe, like she has become the sun that snags him in her planetary pull, like he will never, ever grow tired of looking at her. It sweeps the breath out of her.

“Anything, mio amato,” she murmurs. “Anything you want, if you promise to never stop looking at me like that.”

[janeaustentextposts]

As someone from a postcolonial country, am I the only one who dislikes Colonel Brandon because he is literally a coloniser?? Idk if I am unreasonable or extreme but Colonel Brandon canonically perpetuated the exploitation of my people. This is one of the few JA blogs out there that critically analyses Colonel Brandon as a character so I wanted to know your thoughts on this.

Yeah, the reality of Britain’s colonial past looms large where there are military characters. Given the Napoleonic wars, generally-speaking the Army and Navy characters are thought of as simply fighting against the French during that very specific engagement (and shows like Sharpe haven’t much helped push back against this idea,) but the British Empire was putting down its roots globally long before Napoleon had come into any kind of power, and Sense and Sensibility in particular was written in the late 1700s so there’s no reason to suppose Colonel Brandon’s engagement overseas was ‘protecting’ any home interests, but rather colonizing other nations. (Really makes ‘the air is full of spices’ line from the 1995 film feel less ~cool~ and more creepy exoticizing of a place that was absolutely exploited for the spice-trade, among other things. The genteel British people don’t really question this, and I wouldn’t expect most of them to, being products of their times, and Orientalism was even fashionable at the time, which is why the spice line is meant to show how worldly and interesting the Colonel is supposed to be, compared to the idea of a dull do-nothing landowner. But doesn’t stand up to deeper scrutiny when you consider the larger implications of what the army he was with was DOING in the places he visited. He wasn’t backpacking on a gap year, and even backpacker culture is its own can of worms, but I digress.)

Even my favourite, Captain Wentworth, isn’t exempt from this criticism. There’s obviously more heavy Napoleonic engagement within the recent scope of his career given the later time-period of the novel’s setting, BUT during less tumultuous times, his work would take him beyond conflicts between European powers to the places where European powers were carving up chunks of the known world for their own exploitation, and the Navy was a vital part of protecting those imperialist/capitalist interests.

The 1999 Mansfield Park adaptation is the only one I know of that even attempts to address British imperialism, specifically the slave trade, and it’s not neatly resolved, and that’s both realistic and frustrating to modern viewers. I don’t know if they had enough time and space to devote to even trying to unpack the hugeness of that issue, and if that was the aim, they failed; BUT a more charitable interpretation is that they were aware there was no tidy easy answer that would make everyone feel good about themselves, so the ambiguity was left in and the story moved on. Sir Thomas is a monster and Fanny knows it, but he has a very weak change of heart and seems to feel some shame at being found out, but it’s way too big a thing to dissect in what’s left of the film. Maybe it’s a commentary on the moral compromises some people feel forced to make in order to survive--as Edmund says, ‘we all live off the profits, including you,’ to Fanny, who is THE most dependent on Sir Thomas’ money, and in the least powerful position to push back against Sir Thomas’ horrific actions as a slaveowner. But as we know, there are very few parts of the British upper classes which were NOT tied to these abuses and exploitation, at the time.

We have only to scratch the surface of discussions of history coming out of the anger around monuments and street-names in major British cities and towns after major historical figures who had been previously seen as great philanthropists and change-makers in British history, who had known involvement in the slave-trade and other such despicable practices. These people were embedded in the whole society Austen was writing about, so the darker implications of Britain’s actions in the wider world will always find their way into the setting of the stories. Austen herself was in this society, and to some extent perpetuating the culture, because it would not have occurred to her to question it. Her novels don’t directly address politics, but certainly they’re informed by them, because the political is personal. Figures like Brandon and Sir Thomas Bertram are probably the easiest examples to make as their involvement in atrocities is easily presumed from their contexts, but really anybody in the novels would have to be living as a hermit under a bridge to avoid some second-hand consequence from the broader imperialist structure of society taking hold at this time.