#someone take away my collage maker

[worshipper-status]

Literally so happy because my God is actually excepting of my obsession, but I’d kinda like to know how to worship him better less directly? (Ie. tips on digital alters/general worship tips?)

An excuse to ramble! Thank you :D

Worshipper's Guide to Indirect Worship

This is going to be my sfw guide for less direct methods of contact and digital altars, I may make an nsfw guide at some point on my own as a counterpart to this but for now...

(long post below)

Digital Shrines

Digital shrines are a good format for indirect worship, because you can curate it from anywhere, and no one will know. Technically I have two digital altars but one is more a back up of the other. One is I have a folder on my computer that contains all the media of the shrine, and the shrine itself is on my personal discord server. Usually I separate the shrine itself into media, devotionals, personal devotionals, writings, and links by using different discord channels. The channels breakdown like this for me:

Media: photos and videos of solely them

Devotionals: images I find on the internet that I feel embody our relationship, media created by someone else. Also picrews usually

Personal Devotionals: Visual media I have personally made to embody our relationship and can take full credit for creating. (This is a specific folder I made just to keep my art and others art separate)

Writings: Poems, songs, rambles, gushing, fantasies, etc. Any thought you have about them that's important enough to write down, put it here.

Links: I use this as a dumping ground for ideas I got from articles, purchases I want to make, or anything that requires a link to something else but directly relates to my worship of My Goddess.

Tumblr can also be a general dumping grounds kind of shrine, where I would not be too honest tbh, but it's a start. I prefer keeping my shrines private for the most part. My general advice is to stay away from tumblr for everything because you're not going to feel 1000% comfortable expressing your worship to its full extent because of the possibility of it being found by strangers. Also some things are just tmi to be honest. I have writings in my folder documenting times me and My Goddess have banged in detail so I don't forget. Tumblr doesn't need that kind of detail on here. So try and keep shrines at least somewhat private for your own sake. People are dicks.

As for advice for things to do to worship indirectly (and this goes hand in hand with the shrine a little bit) here's a list with general advice and ideas:

Scrapbook/Junk Journal about them (I'm biased this is a personal favorite of mine). Get a notebook, some scrapbook supplies, and either dedicate it to photos of your beloved or journal about any time you guys interact in ways that feel meaningful to you! I keep one physical scrapbook that I use for collages for My Goddess's photos, and am planning to start a junk journal for more writing purposes. I'll probably solely be using it to write about personal interactions with My Goddess, and on slower days, things I love about Her in general. It's both kinda a traditional journal and a part of my obsessive behaviors. You can also do stuff like this digitally with moodboard and collage makers like Canva which have free options.

Document about them. This is kinda vague so I'll explain. As part of my shrine, I have a document I'm building dedicated to bullet note points about My Goddess. If She randomly drops a fact on me about Her childhood, or Her interests. I write it down there so I don't forget. I want to be a good worshipper so I want to be an expert in everything about Her. I usually use a note taking app for this that I can organize into subgroups. Notion is a favorite of mine (despite them selling their soul to the AI overlords sigh) because it allows a lot of creative freedom in organizing the documents AND it's linked to my email so I can't lose it. Obviously, a google doc will accomplish the exact same thing, however my entire personality type is best described as extra, so I have to do things with extra effort at all times.

Write for them. This is where my pagan background kicks in a little bit, but in certain pagan traditions, especially stuff like Hellenic Polytheism, writing hymns or poems or songs for the gods was very important to their practices. So why not write those things for your God? It doesn't need to be shared, it can be bad, it can be whatever it wants to be. What I usually do, is I write poems for My Goddess, and keep them in my junk journal or digital shrine, depending on if I'm working physically or digitally, and if I'm feeling brave I'll share it with Her, but most times, they stay hidden in the depths of my shrine stuff.

Biggest overall piece of advice, create for them. Nothing shows devotion, quite like the personal experience of making something for someone else even if they never see it. Honor the Gods with the act of Creation, ya know?? It doesn't even have to require you to be good at drawing or whatever. Are you someone who gardens? Name a plant after them. Like makeup? Figure out what makeup styles they prefer on your chosen gender and wear those all the time, even if they're not there to see. Sewing? Make a stuffed animal of them. Speed runs? Dedicate every run to them, create a record for them. It can be as big or as mundane as you want and none of it has to be outwardly expressed to the other person. Just dedicate whatever hobby you have to them, and suddenly you'll have tons of shrine material.

Now for the quick part, of this!

General Worship Tips! (These are more indirect tho)

When getting dressed, pick outfits you know they'll appreciate. (Just please don't sacrifice your personal style for this)

Capitalize their name/title no matter what. They deserve the respect of one extra button push.

Write letters, even if you live close, even if you see them everyday, and even if you never send them. Use this as a format to express your emotions unbarred.

Save every photo they send you of themselves. If you need to edit people out of the photo do it, but you better be saving every instance of themselves they give you.

Fill your space with things that express yourself yes, but also have stuff that reminds you of them. Do they have a favorite animal? Buy those kinds of stuffed animals. They say they like certain types of aesthetics? Put some of that decor in your space.

I don't paint my nails, but if you do, paint them their favorite color.

Have dedicated jewelry pieces for them. While My Goddess did not give it to me, I have a memory of them associated with a bracelet I wear every single day. You can just buy a piece of jewelry and assign it as a symbol to them. They don't have to know.

Interact with their interests, with passion. Do your best to care about everything they care about. It'll give you guys tons of stuff to do, and help you understand them better.

Make pinterest boards dedicated to certain moments you want i.e. first date, wedding, future house/apartment dreams, pets you want with them, nursery room ideas, etc.

Make playlists dedicated to them.

Alright that's all I really have for right now! I hope some of this advice has been helpful and at the very least legible lol. I hope everything with you and your God goes well! If you want any more advice do not be afraid to ask me more questions :)

[publicprocessingbemethang-blog]

So much bull shit I e caused my own heart.

Idk if I even write about all the bullshit that happened at the event I was hosting with these fine as WHORES. Long story short, everybody dy fucking, everybody talking shit, I did the most work.

Being the fat friend sucks.

I ain’t fucking none of them. And everyone ever only gives me attention when others are t giving it to them.

Some of my friends pointed out how me alpha only hanging with me cause they lost they gang.

I told them, well admitted to them I’m in love with me sibling.

They said all the past drama made sense. They were honest about how pathetic it looks to still be taking to KING.

Idk if I even wrote about the mean shit he said to me or how he was about to pick a white bitch over me.

Last night I ran into Film maker. He came to the event and brought friends and was geeked to see me. He bout me a shot and we hung out a little.

He playcate to white ppl a lol too much for me. But I feel bad for blowing him off twice now.

He like really in the commercial game, is so fucking cute, is dark skinned and nice. He use she/her for me tho and idk why I ain’t say anything yet

Still just internalize that I’m always someone’s second or third choice.

Like literally every partner I’ve ever had has let me know I was a rebound. That they were actively in love with another.

Gonna start focusing on self again. Dive deep back into school and not go to things I don’t want to go to.

Wanna just build and study and smoke. Might try to go to all the libraries and museums in the cities.

Invest my time into making my room saucy and my art.

Galleries. Art openings.

I know I’ve said one thing and done another like at least twice a day, everyday…

But there is only so much heart break one can take.

I don’t want to get depressed again and always ys stay inside doing nothing but watching tv. And gaining weight. I lost a bit this summer.

Gotta dance by myself again all the time.

I remember I did that often in the past and I felt better in my body…

oh, to be alone. I push ppl away they. I want someone so trauma informed and such a switch that they hold on when I pull away…

Check in when I push or pull

And sit with me as I feel uncomfortable and anxious and embarrassed

I want someone so secure in themselves they don’t take it personally when I can’t fuck

Push me out my stifling zone

Honest with me in a straight forward tender way. Like a caress and spank, soft but with a lil sting.

I want someone to hit and spank me and then massage me and cuddle me.

I want to wrestle and get read to

I like don’t want to be monogamous but also I ain’t ready for poly. Like fr fr open? Like threesomes and solos at play parties? Like we can flirt and kiss anyone but when together we show a lot of PDA

But the weird ones lol. Like they hold the back of my neck, rick with me. Let me spell their neck and play with their fingers. I want them to be like slightly possessive, but we got touch check ins so we can be our own ppl

I just want them to like the bits. Like let me be mean to them and in a smooth taking, sensual way they put me in my place

I want us to be nerdy and have so many code names and our own hums and moans, we can talk for hours without anyone else being able to understand

Fuck am I doing tho? I got work to think about! Okay I will try for my next post to be about work and art and room and collage ideas. Cause my focus always be on yearning for love

[lovable22]

The Many Faces (& Hair Styles) of Aaron Tveit: NYMFW for Todd Snyder Edition 
Pier 59 Studios 
Monday, February 5, 2017

📸:Blog below for original photo/source

[dragon-kazansky]

Made with love | Helmut Zemo

Chef Zemo AU! 👨‍🍳

Gender neutral reader

Collage by @realremyd

[Previous chapter]

Part 14 - Finale

Tony Stark stood at the opposite end of the square. He was staring right at the restaurant on the corner. The restaurant with the lovely view. The restaurant with the nice outdoor seating area. The restaurant he was to be at tonight.

Tony clenched his fist beside him. He just needed to get the rights to the building. He needed Helmut Zemo to accept the cheque and sign it over.

Sure, the restaurant looked fresh and new, but no amount of make overs would save it from the wrath of Tony Stark. He was a man with a plan, and tonight he would come out on top.

His eyes narrows on the movement in the window. Someone he didn't recognise was checking over the tables. With a sigh, he turns on his heel and disappears.

Veronica had a clipboard in hand with a checklist. She was checking off everything and making sure the whole restaurant was ready for tonight. You were by the bar with your own clipboard, going through a list with Sam.

"That's everything. Think you can handle it?" You ask him, looking over the shelves behind him.

"With Bucky and Natasha here, I think we got it. Just waiting for those coffee beans."

"Natasha has gone to get them. I got a few bags, though I think people will be more interested in your end of the bar," you chuckle.

Sam winks at you.

"I've got many tricks up my sleeve."

"Blow them all away!"

You check off the drinks list and turn around to face Veronica.

"All menus out?"

"All accounted for," she replies. She smiles and checks off her own list.

"Good. Left or right?" You asks.

"Right."

"Right is your side for the evening. I'll have left and outside."

"I can help with outside," she says.

"Outside is neutral territory then," you chuckle. She nods and you both mark it down. "I'll go check the kitchen, the waiting staff should be soon, make sure Wanda knows."

Veronica nods and you head into the kitchen.

Helmut has his back to you as he gives out orders. Chefs are spread throughout the kitchen, each with their assignments. You smile at the way he is handling it all.

You let him finish giving out orders before coughing softly and calling his name.

Helmut turns instantly and smiles at you.

"How's it going, chef?"

You haven't called him that since the day you made that paella with him. His lips curl into a mischievous grin as he steps closer to you.

"All is well in my domain. How about out front?"

"We are ready for the main event."

He kisses you.

"Your father would be so proud of you," you tell him.

Hearing you say that makes his heart flutter. That's all he ever wanted to do.

"Something smells delicious," you say, laughing softly.

Helmut glances over his shoulder.

"That could be a number of things."

You both laugh together before you kiss his cheek and let him crack on with it. You made a promise to see him later when you both head home to change.

When you go back out, Wanda is with her staff for the night. Wanda was beyond excited to play head waitress tonight, she wanted to be as useful as she could to you. You assured her she had ways been helpful. After all, she did play match maker.

Wanda turns when you approach, dismissing the staff who go ahead and make themselves busy with Veronica.

"Are you excited?" Wanda asks.

"I'm nervous. Tonight has so much to prove."

"We can do it."

"I know," you sigh softly. Wanda pulls you in for a hug.

"We're a team, we're going to do this."

You nod. You both take a deep breath together and smile.

"Let's finish the final touches and get our asses back so we can all change for the evening."

You nod and go through the last checklist.

Back at the apartment, you change your clothes. As a host you wouldn't be wearing your apron, so you wore something smart and presentable. Helmut was all ready to go, his apron back at the restaurant. He was just waiting for you to finish up.

When you were done, you stood in front of him in the living room.

"Ready?" He asks.

"Ready."

You take Helmut's hand and kiss him as he leans in. You both smile and leave the apartment.

It was becoming very real now.

You arrive at Escorpión Morado. Helmut has all staff gather in the kitchen. You stand beside your boyfriend as he faces his staff.

"We only have one shot to show Tony Stark that this is my restaurant. One shot to prove that we're not irrelevant. Escorpión Morado has stood here this long and it will stand for many years to come. He can offer me all the money he wants, but I will never sell my father's pride and joy to him. I need everyone focused, ready, and open for any changes. Nothing can go wrong here."

Everyone replies with 'yes chef!'

He turns to you and nods. You nod back and gesture for Veronica to follow. Wanda and the wait staff follow behind, Sam, Bucky and Natasha behind them.

You and Veronica stand in front of the doors. You can see all the people you invited waiting to come inside. The butterflies in your stomach are having a ball.

Sam, Bucky, and Natasha take their places behind the bar.

Wanda and the waiters stand to one side of the room.

You take a deep breath and put on a smile as both you and Veronica open the doors.

"Welcome everyone."

One by one you guide them inside. Veronica and yourself guide people to tables, having accounted for everyone you invited. That included extra guests of which you anticipated Tony to have considering you went to his party with more than he bargained for.

You smile, greet, talk them through the menu.

However, all but one table was full. You cast glances at Wanda, Natasha, and the boys. Each of them shrug.

Tony hadn't arrived yet.

Helmut stands by the kitchen door. You lock eyes with him and shook your head subtly. He glances toward the door and grits his teeth slightly.

Stark was doing this on purpose.

You turn to fine other guests. They're all local people. Some have been here since the restaurant was first built. Some who came here as children. Some who had been every day. They knew this place. They knew Helmut. They knew why this was happening tonight.

You smile at those who recognise you for your hard work these last few weeks.

"It's wonderful to see everyone. Thank you all so much for coming, though it appears our V.I.P of the night is running late. I hope you'll be happy to wait just a moment longer. Though, should he not arrive soon, we will just have to start without him."

There were no signs of negativity. They agreed to wait.

You looked at Sam.

"Perhaps drinks are in order?" You smile at him.

"Coming up."

Wanda nodded at the waiters. Each of them pulled out a notepad and began taking orders for drinks. You turned back to the door and waited.

"Where do you think he is?" Veronica asks, coming over to stand beside you.

"No idea, but he must be up to something."

Just as you said that three figures appeared up ahead. They walking across the square together. You narrow your eyes trying to work put exactly who they were. You knew for a fact none of them were Tony.

As they got a little closer, you could see them.

Pepper, Strange, and Heike.

You wanted to scream, but you were going to be a professional. He sent is entourage ahead.

As they come to the door, you greet them the same way you had everyone else. Heike was looking at you with such a piercing gaze, but you didn't let that bother you.

"Come in, Veronica, will you show them to their table?"

"With pleasure," she says, though not for a single moment did she mean it.

You watched as they followed Veronica to their table, but then turned back to the open door.

Helmut came up beside you, his hand on your back.

"Nothing?"

"Not yet. His party are here though," you say nodding at the table. He glances over and sighs when he sees Heike looking at him. She looks eager to gain his attention.

"Want me to wait with you?" He asks.

You shake your head.

"No, go back to the kitchen. We'll start taking orders now. You need to be ready for when they come in."

He kisses your temple and makes his way back to the kitchen. Heike rises from her chair and stops him at the kitchen door.

"Can we talk?"

He glares at her.

"No."

He pushes on and goes into the kitchen, not wanting to hear any more.

You turn Wanda and nod at her. She claps once and the waiters are on the floor taking orders. You pull put your own notepad and help them out.

You smile as you take the order for the nearest table. A lovely old couple who remember the days Heinrich ran this place. You chat with them before heading to the kitchen.

Orders are already pinned up and ready. Helmut is there to take your order. You smile at each other as you hand it over. He pins it up and shouts it out.

You wink at him and head back out front.

Headlights. You can see headlights at the other end of the square. Everyone in the restaurant can see them, all turning to look.

You stand by the door.

A red sportscar.

Tony Stark.

It cruises across the square. How he managed to get it there, you will never know. This square wasn't for cars.

It cruises along, only coming to a stop by the door. The headlights turn off and the drivers door opens. The man of the hour climbs out and turns to you. He closes the door and comes to stand in front of you.

"I hope you're hungry Mr. Stark."

"Starving."

You gesture into the restaurant. He walks in. Veronica shows him to the table and holds his chair out for him. The room was silent as they watched him take his seat. Veronica steps back and looks at you.

"As you were," he calls out.

You nod at Veronica who gets him a menu and takes his starter order.

You walk up to the bar and look at Sam. He already knows what you want. You had discussed it with him before hand. He pushes the drink across the bar to you.

You take it and present it to Tony yourself.

"Morado de Verano."

He takes it. He looks at it. He smells it.

You stand there and watch.

He sips it.

You are the way he seems to freeze for a moment. He tastes it. He's annoyed by how good it is. You can see he likes it, but he won't admit it.

You smile.

Sam sees you smiling. He gives Bucky a little high five behind the bar.

Just as you walk away, the waiters comes out with the starters. They flood the restaurant and present their dishes. You head into the lit hen to help.

Helmut looks up immediately as you enter.

"Well?"

"He's here. I gave him a drink. Veronica took his order."

"I have it," he taps the order.

You nod and take one of the orders waiting. Helmut tells you which table it is for and you nod.

"I love you!" He yells, before you leave his sight again.

You laugh and yell back, "I love you too!"

Things are going smoothly. People are enjoying their starters and there's conversation in the air. Every so often you glance up at Stark's table. There is not a single smile there.

You nod at Sam and makes another round of drinks for the table.

Orders for the main courses come in. You take Stark's order yourself. You ignore the way he stares at you. You especially ignore the way Heike is staring at you. You note down their orders and put on a smile, leaving as quickly as you could.

Natasha leans in before you reach the kitchen.

"I could take her out, you know."

You laugh.

"Not tonight Nat."

You go into the kitchen and give Helmut the order. He takes it from you, fingers purposely brushing against yours and making you blush. He smirks when he sees your reaction and then shouts out the order.

He looks at you.

"All good?"

"Yeah, in here?"

"Yeah. Though I am missing you terribly tonight."

"Aw, you'll see me later. You should bring out the main course yourself for Stark."

"Right. I'll be out."

You nod and leave, another exchange of 'I love you' being exclaimed to each other with laughter.

You go around and make sure everyone is doing OK, but as you do, Heike gets up and approaches you.

"What can I do for you?" You say, remaining polite.

"I want you to get Helmut for me."

"No, he's busy I'm afraid. He's cooking your meal."

"Then I want to go see him."

"No customers in the kitchen. You'll be in the way, plus, he's busy. I just said as such myself."

You hated how polite your voice sounded and how much it hurt to smile at her. God, you wanted to rip her hair out and kick her to the street.

"It's important."

"I'm sorry, but you need to sit back down now. The main courses will be out shortly."

Heike throws a mini tantrum as she stomps her foot before returning to the table.

You resist running a hand down your face as you retreat to the bar. Natasha is topping up some drinks as you approach.

"My offer still stands."

"At this rate I may accept it. She's just trying to annoy me, and it's working."

"Deep breaths."

You roll your eyes and take the tray. Natasha gives you the table number and you go on your way.

When the main courses come out, Helmut exits the kitchen with Tony's meal, and only Tony's. Behind him are a couple of waiters with the rest. They put down their first, Heike looking unimpressed they someone sent served her, and then Helmut presented Tony with his meal.

Before he could get away, Tony grabbed Zemo's wrist.

"This won't change anything," he said.

Zemo smiled.

"It changes everything. Look around you. These people live here. They came because I invited them in honour of my father. They came because this place matters. You're running a business, I'm running a family legacy. You can't win."

Tony let's go of him.

"We'll see about that."

On the table sits the cheque. The same amount of zeros on it as the day he presented it.

Zemo picks it up.

Tony begins to smile.

You stand beside Helmut.

"Try it," you urge, nodding at the dish.

Tony inhales. He looks at the food. Glancing between you and the dish he slowly takes a bite.

Once again he left blown away by what his tastebuds are experiencing.

You hold the cheque in both hands, out in front of you. The whole table looks up at you. Swiftly, you tear in two and let both halves fall to the table.

"You can't cook like Helmut can. You can't run a restaurant like Helmut can. You can't respect people like Helmut can," you say slowly.

Heike stands quickly, not even trying her meal.

"He doesn't love you, you know."

You roll your eyes again.

"No, he adores me. I adore him. Let it go, Heike. You just can't accept that he moved and run you after what you did to him. You need to leave. You're not welcome at our restaurant again," you tell her.

"Your restaurant?"

"Yes, our restaurant," Helmut says, smiling. He puts an arm around you and pulls you into his side.

You nod behind Heike once. Wanda and Natasha grab an arm each and escort Heike off the premises. The restaurant is filled with cheering as she is kicked out.

Tony sits there and looks at the pair of you.

"You'll fail. Within the year you'll fail," he tells you.

"No, I don't think we will."

Veronica comes up behind Tony and grabs the back of his jacket. She tugs it, urging him to stand. He sighs and does as she wants. Veronica escort him to the door where she let's go and gives him a hard kick. Tony stumbles forward onto the hood of his car which remained parked right outside the doors. Pepper and Strange are quickly to follow on their own.

You stand there hand in hand with Helmut as you watch them scamper away.

Once they are gone, the whole restaurant stands up and cheers.

You laugh loudly.

Helmut laughs with you and kisses your temple.

Tony Stark couldn't have that it takes true talent to run a restaurant. His food would never compare to Helmut's. His service would move compare to yours.

You look around.

"Eat up, it will go cold!"

The customers all dig in. Helmut gestures for the table Tony had been at to be cleared. He guides you into the kitchen as they do that.

"You handled that very well," he tells you.

You smile.

"I think we both did."

He places his hands on either side of your face and looks at you.

If someone had told him a few years ago he would be standing here falling in love all over again, though this time with someone who actually did mean the world to him, he would call them a liar.

Yet, here you were.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Helmut leans in and kisses you quite passionately in the middle of the kitchen. Neither one of you care for the staff that come and go as they prepares for deserts.

You pull apart and look at him, placing your hands on his.

"Let's finish up tonight."

"Yes, let's."

You kiss once more and he lets you go back out front.

It's late when you're looking the doors. The restaurant looks a bit askew from all the people moving about, but other than that there was nothing to worry about.

The waiters gathered the plates and glasses. Sam and Bucky tidied up the bar, putting everything back where it belonged. Natasha and Wanda worked together to while down tables and sweep the floors. Helmut was in the back helping the kitchen staff clean.

You were at the till counting up the profits for the evening. Deserts had been free simply because everyone had celebrated Tony Stark being kicked out of the restaurant.

You totalled it all up and bagged up the money, putting it away for safe keeping. When you came back, Helmut was waiting for you by the bar.

"Do you have a minute?" He asks, smiling softly at you.

"Of course," you say, going over to sit with him.

On the bar in front of him was a file. He opens it up for you and places a pen down on top of it.

"What's this?"

"My paperwork for the restaurant. I've had it reprinted."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to sign it."

You stare into those stunning brown eyes of his as he stares back. There's a soft smile on his face.

"What do you mean?"

He chuckles softly and his hand glides along the bottom of the page he had presented to you. You lean in a little to read it.

You gasp softly.

Owner & Manager - Helmut Zemo

Co-owener & Manager - ................

The space was blank. He wanted you to sign it. You look back up at him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"This is quite a commitment."

"I know."

"I'd have shares in your restaurant."

"Our restaurant."

He didn't stop smiling.

You turn back to the page and slowly find yourself lifting the pen. You click it and look down at the space where your name should be.

You smile.

You can feel tears threatening to fall.

Helmut puts an arm around you and pulls you into his side. He kissed your cheek, lips lingering there.

"I want this," he whispers.

"Me too."

Then suddenly your hand is scribbling. Your name sits on the line. You drop the pen and smile.

Helmut litters kisses all over your face.

You both laugh.

"This is actually happening."

"Yes, it is."

You look at him and smile. He smiles back at you. You kiss him. This kiss felt so different from all the ones before. This one was sealing a deal. Sealing a future together.

He is yours and you are his, and together you had this restaurant to run. A restaurant which had a bright future ahead of it all because you entered his life.

“Lets go home,” he whispers.

You chuckle softly.

“Yes, chef.”

@namethathasnotbeentaken @belle82devart @cathrin2405 @lieutenantn @wilder-fangirl @latenightartist-author @lucky-luck-lucky @hb8301 @charistory @thatoneartgalsstuff @thesuitkovian @malkaviangirl @zemosimp420 @realremyd @the-chaotic-cow @lostghostgirl94 @zafiro-draco @lazygurl05 @pinkcutiepiee @goddessofmischief03 @whovianayesha @myybebe @awesomesauce-abbie @that-stupid-head-tilt-thing @swooning-for-mc-avoy @nonamec0s @apparrio @scuttle-buttle @alex-the-nb @my-blood-is-maple-syrup @greeneyedblondie44 @somethingthatsaysbubbles

[in-superbloom]

did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen? (a.i.)

right where you left me: prologue

pairing: ashton irwin x olivia jones (oc)

warnings: uhh a kinda grieving theme i guess? but no deaths. it has a sad tone overall, but nothing major (in this chapter hehe). foul language because i can't help myself. the tiniest mention of alcohol, but as a memory. think i should probably warn you that this contains a very sad ash. also not much dialogues. this is mainly for explanation and introduction, but very important for the story. if you find anything else that might be triggering, please let me know so i can add it here !!

author's note: oof okay. so. this is the prologue of a series very very dear to my heart that i've been working on for what it feels like my whole life but really it's been just a few months. but i'm in love with the story (which rarely happens with my own writing) so i hope you can enjoy it too !! this is also my very first time posting a fic since 2013 so pls keep that in mind <3 no i am not shaking as type this ofc not also: although i have the full story ready in my head, this is the only chapter that's written. i wanted to wait until i had at least a few ready before posting this but i'm too anxious for that lmao just saying this bc it will take a good while until i have any more chapters, so <3 (p.s.: i went over this thing a million times since may so if you find any errors pls look away, i'm not fixing this thing anymore. thanks <3)

another note: anna from the future here to say that i completely forgot about the playlist i made for the story lmao here it is in case you're interested k thanks bye <3

credits: title is from taylor swift's song right where you left me. model in the picture: paola locatelli. banner by me.

i also wanted to take a minute to thank some really nice friends that i've made here over these past few months & that i'm extremely grateful for @wastelandcth @suchalonelysunflower @littledrummerangie i cannot thank you babes enough for inspiring me the way that you do & for letting me yell about this to you && for encouraging me so much 🥺 i'll never be able to explain just how much this means to me, so i'll have to settle for saying thank you at any change that i can get <3 i love you all 💜 also gem my baby, thank you for the inspo with the banner 💚

@bluesdelis look babe i did it 😌 you know how grateful i am for you & for you letting me have a breakdown every week about my writing for the past 8 years so let's not dive into that or else i will write something bigger than this prologue jsjsjdjd love you 🖤

i hope you all have a good reading and a nice day ♡

let me know what are your thoughts about the fic ! ♡

word count: 4.1k

☆☆☆

Cold. That was the first thing that Olivia’s brain processed.

Still with her eyes closed, she buried herself more into the duvet, while her arm blindly reached for the furnace in human form that she calls boyfriend. However, as soon as her arm was only met with cold sheets, her eyes shot open.

Blinking the sleep away, she sat up on the bed, searching for the infamous red clock resting on Ashton’s bedside table that was supposed to look like a vintage alarm clock. Olivia had ordered it online at an auction website a couple of years back, as a gift for his 23rd birthday, since it was something he had mentioned multiple times prior that he was looking for, but still hadn't found. But when it finally came in (two weeks after the due date), it looked nothing like the picture she saw on the website. Feeling beyond frustrated, she wanted to send it back immediately and ask for a refund and maybe leave a not so polite review on the seller's page. But Ashton stopped her right away, laughing like the situation was absolutely hilarious to him, while saying, 'I like it, it’s quirky'. So, the clock stayed and found a home right next to him in their room.

Some days, however, she would wake up at some ungodly hour because of the blaring noise of the only ringtone the clock had. But whatever annoyance she could feel towards the object, it always vanished as soon as she felt Ashton's lips gently touching her face in a good morning kiss before he would get up to start his day, leaving her to catch some more hours of well deserved sleep.

As the furthest from a morning person as a touring musician could possibly be, Olivia had always feared that living under the same roof as Ashton would turn her into an early bird like him, but she's thankful that it never happened (not that he needs to know about that).

When she sees the red clock, she smiles at the sudden but welcome memories of them flooding her foggy brain, but frowns slightly when she realizes it reads 12:13 pm. Ashton rarely lets her sleep past 10 am.

Gathering all her strength and will, she rises up from the bed, smoothly picking up a grey wool sweatshirt from the chair (way too baggy on her slim body, but it smells like him), pulling it over her head and relishing on the soft material warming up her body. Making her way to the door and calmly going down the stairs, she can’t help but stop for a minute to admire the picture frames on their walls, one in particular catches her attention – probably one of the most prized pictures and memories they had. It felt older than it actually is, but it was around 4 years ago, she's sure – a little while after the two of them met. The picture was of their group of friends that still remains the same: Ashton and his best friend, Luke; Olivia, her best friend, Calum and their old hometown friend, turned into Calum’s new friend at college, turned into everyone’s friend, Michael; and her then newly band members, Suki, Eli and Ravi. Together, their group was the life of the party through all their college years, and it showed by the big smiles and drinks in hands they all had in the picture. It was a very special night, the first time Olivia’s little band played for the public – for a small audience sure, but it was a wonderful night nonetheless. What a long road it had been since that night.

Her nostalgic thoughts were interrupted by a shiver that went through her whole body, and it made her realize how oddly cold the whole house was, not only their bedroom. Which, granted, it was November in New York and the weather was just getting colder, but that’s exactly why Ashton always made sure to keep the house warm enough. As much as she loved the chilly season, the warm weather always reminded him of his hometown, and who was she to deny him that?

The smell of fresh made coffee could be sensed even before she reached the kitchen. Arriving there, the curly haired woman still found no signs of her boyfriend, so she went straight after the coffee maker pot sitting on the far left corner of the cream marble counter. Smiling softly at the tons of memories of Ashton's sleepy figure making their favorite beverage, she reached for a coffee mug on the cupboard on top of the counter and poured the remainder of the hot liquid on it (it's her favorite mug, if she must choose – it was a gift from a fan, and it had printed on it a collage of the pictures of her and Ashton that were posted on social media through their first year of relationship).

Moving to the glass doors that lead to the mini garden they cultivate, she didn't have to open them to spot the 6-feet-tall man sitting on a bench outside, looking oddly small in his oversized clothes, coffee mug tightly held between strong hands. Something about his figure made Olivia frown, however: he was staring with an unwavering look at her small but eye-catching pot of yellow daffodils that were almost as much of a pet to them as Stitch at this point. Sensing that there’s something definitely off about his semblance, she made a mental note to talk to him and find out what’s wrong later. So she goes back to the kitchen, knowing that he might need this quiet and private moment for himself.

She lost count of the minutes that went by (couldn't have been more than five) before she hears the garden's door opening and closing, and then his bare feet are dragging his brawny body to her. Except, he goes over to the sink, walking right through her, not showing any sign that he even saw her hunched figure over the counter table in the middle of the room.

Alright, someone's in a mood.

Olivia tries to swallow the annoyance already bubbling inside her – he knows how much she hates to be ignored, no matter how mad he might be – by trying to think of what she can say that won't piss him off. This is always a hard feat to accomplish when Ashton gets in these moods, but there’s a reason for them to work so well together.

“I missed my favorite body heater when I woke up,” she says in her best sweet voice, knowing how quickly his resolve crumbles when he hears that voice.

Still, no reaction.

That settles a worry at the pit of her stomach, because Ashton is never like this. Even when he's not in the mood to talk, he always gives some kind of reaction to her words; it doesn't matter how small, just enough to make her feel acknowledged.

When he's finished washing his mug and the few scattered dishes across the sink – she noticed that he already had lunch, if the lone plate in the drying rack is anything to go by –, he dries his hand in a towel, turns around and throws it on top of the same counter Olivia was leaning up against. Once again, he walks away not even sparing her a look.

Indignant, she leaves the now empty coffee mug on top of the table and follows him as he walks up the stairs, any determination to not aggravate his mood now well gone.

“Hey! In case you didn't notice, I'm right here. Whatever got you in this sour mood, I'm certainly not to blame, so can you stop being a child now and talk to me?!”

Ashton just keeps walking – more like sluggishly dragging his body – until he reaches their bedroom and suddenly stops just merely two feet inside the room, looking around with vacant eyes; like he was expecting to see something that wasn't there.

“Okay, that's really mature of you. Are you planning on ignoring me all day then?” Olivia questions exasperated, staring angrily at the back of his neck, where the condor tattoo lives – her favorite of his, but that sight doesn't bring her any peace today like it usually does.

Her glare only breaks when she hears the familiar sound of dog tags swaying on her right side. Shifting her gaze to the direction of the sound, Olivia notices Stitch, their small, black & white French bulldog – who she thought was outside in the garden – slowly trudging his way from around the bed until he stops at Ashton's feet, looking up at one of his humans with sad eyes. That realization only makes the worry in her stomach grow uncomfortably.

“Hi buddy,” Ashton's voice cracks a bit from the lack of use, but he smiles softly at the sweet dog, and crouches down to pet him.

Olivia can't help but gasp as she notices three things all at once that leave her overwhelmed: first, how she didn't even notice Stitch was in the room when she woke up – which never ever happens, in fact, most days he wakes her up whenever he deems her bedtime as finished and can't ever contain his excitement when she finally gets up; second, how the windows blinds are closed, which, again, rarely occurs under their roof, not if Ashton can help it. And third, how sad and melancholic the whole scene in front of her is – how sad and melancholic Ashton is. Pointless to say by now – that's also a very rare occasion.

A chill creeps up Olivia's spine, putting her body into high alert and also serving as a reminder of how everything looks out of place today. Trying to keep her head from spiraling down way too soon, she wraps her arms around herself and crouches down beside her two favorite boys, trying once more.

“Ash? Can you hear me?” even with her throat closing, she softly asks, purposefully putting her face in Ashton's point of view. Her only answer is the low whispers he's letting out to Stitch, while cradling the tiny dog in his arms, spreading gentle kisses on his head.

“I know, bud, I know. I miss her too,” is the only whisper she could understand and immediately wishes she hadn't. The weak wail that comes from Stitch's throat seems to fit perfectly with how the three of them feel.

Ashton then looks up and for a couple of seconds, and Olivia can swear he’s staring right into her eyes. But when he shows no reaction, she knows he’s just staring ahead and not at her, with that look that says there’s too much going on inside his head. She feels the urge to embrace him and get him to talk about whatever is on his mind, so they can share that weight like they always do, but when Ashton gets up from the ground and settles on the bed with Stitch, Olivia can physically feel the crack in her heart caused by the feeling she’s left with.

While Ashton is pulling the duvet over him and the dog, with clearly no intentions of getting up anytime soon, Olivia stands up on her feet with a new-found determination – she needs to figure out what the hell is going on.

This nightmare had to be just that, right? Nothing but a very vivid dream – she's had those before. Scary sure, but they always go away, and soon enough she's back into Ashton's arms, with Stitch jumping on the bed ready to lick their faces off. She just needs to wake herself up from whatever fucked up dream this is – right?

She's running down the stairs this time, frantically in search of something, of what exactly, she doesn’t know – but she knows she needs an answer. The more she looks for something, the more desperate she gets, not knowing what to look for. Then suddenly, something catches her eyes.

The white and blue calendar that's held up by magnets on the side of the fridge. She knows their calendar is red and yellow. They got it from their favorite flower market. Slowly, as if scared of what it might be there – “It's just a calendar, for fucks sake” – she approaches the damn thing. Upon inspection, she deems it as a normal calendar – she really doesn't know what she was expecting – until.

She knows what's wrong with it now.

It's November. She knows it, because the Asian and last leg of her first world tour is about to begin November 21st, eleven days from today. Right after Mike's birthday, she knows this.

Then why does the calendar say today is January 14th?

☆ ☆ ☆

Ashton woke up with a jolt. He quickly sat up, frightening the little Frenchie that was asleep right next to him on the bed. Trying to make sense of his surroundings, he roughly rubbed his face to get some sleep off of it and soon reached for the dog that was staring at him with sleepy but sad eyes. Ashton is sure Stitch understands far more than a dog is supposed to understand about their current situation.

The room is covered in shadows, almost pitch black, but he can see the sunlight even through the thick dark grey blinds covering up the windows. Ashton knows he won't be able to sleep again at that moment, so he gets up from the bed – much slower than he used to. His heartbeat is still out of control because of the nightmare that woke him up, but he can't bother to pay attention to it when Stitch is softly wailing beside him. Ashton lets out a ghost of a smile when the dog rests his head on his right upper thigh, looking up at him with an expression Ashton knows all too well.

“C'mon you little ravenous creature, let's feed you,” the bulldog excitedly jumps to the ground, already running his way down the stairs, not even waiting for Ashton to get up.

That gets a real smile out of him, but it vanishes as soon as he glances at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It reads 5:13 am, nothing out of the ordinary for him. But that small and inoffensive clock, with its red paint peeling off, holds a lot of memories for him. Memories that two months ago would bring joy to his heart, but now he almost wants to throw the object across the room.

It was a stupid thing, really. He had been wanting a vintage alarm clock and Olivia got one for his birthday. But the product they received was definitely not the one she bought, and if he's being honest, he didn't like it as much as he made out to. But seeing her so excited in the weeks before it arrived, and how disappointed she was when it did, he couldn't help but try his best to make her smile that luminous smile again. It's part of his nature by now.

That's also the reason why he lets her think that he doesn't notice when she wakes up at some ungodly hour (her words, not his) along with him, because of the annoying and only sound the alarm clock is able to produce. He always leaves soft kisses in every inch of bare skin he can find on her sleeping figure, so she goes back to the dream land and doesn't wake up before 10 am. No one wants to deal with that kind of bad humor, not even him.

As much as he likes being a morning person and absolutely enjoys her company in the mornings, he knows she'll take any and every extra hour of sleep she can get before starting the day. And that's why he loves that she's so stubborn that his early bird tendencies never got to her – he knows she feared that this would happen when they moved in together, but he met her like this, fell for her like this. He wouldn't change a single thing about her.

Ashton drags himself out of the bed, wincing slightly at how cold the wooden floors are under his bare feet. He doesn't bother putting some socks on, or a sweater – the cold weather in the house is uncharacteristically comforting to him. Nothing feels warm without her anyway.

While descending the stairs, he mentally curses himself for not being strong enough to look past the picture frames on the wall. One in particular catches his eyes – a picture from the night of Olivia's first concert with her band. The memories of that night are still painfully vivid in his mind: the laughter among their group that eventually infected everyone at the pub, Suki and Luke's first kiss and the silly smile that didn't leave his best friend's face all night, the standing ovation Olivia got after her three-songs set, and her captivating and breathtaking smile that made him realize right then and there, while watching her sway to the music, that he was definitely falling in love with her and there was nothing he could do to stop it – not that he wanted to.

So many memories held up on that wall, in the relatively short time since they met, that he can't help but wonder if that's all they'll get in this lifetime.

Ashton is abruptly taken out of his thoughts by Stitch's barks coming from the bottom of the stairs. He quickly jogs down the few steps left and goes straight after the dog's food in the kitchen's cabinet. After Stitch starts to happily devour his breakfast, Ashton goes to make his coffee, doing enough for two people like he always does, since Calum drops by most days for a chat or to drop Duke before going to work. Although all three of them know he just can't bother to make food for himself in the morning, while Ashton is the group's elected chef. Ashton always says he just needs a boyfriend – Olivia says Calum already has one who makes him breakfast every day.

He grabs an apple from the fridge and makes his way outside to their garden. Even though a lot of their memories took place there, the garden is the only space in the house where he doesn't feel like suffocating all the time. At least here, he can breathe some fresh air and look at the sky when he's feeling overwhelmed – which is basically all he's been doing for about a month now.

Yet, a lot of the garden has Olivia's name written all over.

He remembers vividly the day she came home after spending two weeks in LA doing some pocket shows, with a pack of daffodil seeds and the largest smile. She excitedly told him that a friend gifted it to her when she mentioned the little garden they were planning to build together at their new house. The friend told Olivia that daffodils symbolize rebirth and new beginnings, so as the good lover of symbolism that she is, Olivia loved the idea of having those flowers to symbolize their new beginning.

Ashton, on the other hand, wasn't a fan of the flowers at first – he just didn't see the appeal to them. But nonetheless, he indulged her, letting Olivia plant the seeds near the bench they used to sit during the quiet and unrushed afternoons, so they could admire the sunset, and she could happily look at the daffodils.

Pointless to say – the damn flowers grew on him.

Now, however, looking at them without Olivia and her contagious joy next to him, they were back to be as dull as they were before, if not more so.

Still lost inside his head without any sense of how much time went by since he sat down, Ashton doesn't hear the front door closing, and doesn't notice that he's no longer the only person inside the house until someone sits next to him on the bench. Yet, he doesn't show any sign of acknowledgement to them.

A few minutes go by before either of them speaks up.

“Luke said you didn't go to see her yesterday,” Calum starts softly, not wanting to disturb the calmness of the morning.

Ashton takes a few seconds to respond, “No point in doing that.” The black haired man licks his lips while thinking carefully about his next words.

“You know staying inside this house all day by yourself won't help either,” Calum turns his head to his left and takes a good look at Ashton's uncharacteristically hunched over figure, and immediately thinks that anyone can tell this man is not himself anymore. His second thought is that Olivia would hate seeing him like this.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do? Move on with my life like nothing happened? Like I'm not slowly and painfully losing the love of my life? Just because it’s easy for you doesn't mean it's easy for me.”

Calum closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He knows Ashton doesn't mean it, it's the anger and frustration talking. He knows it. Doesn't make it sting any less.

“I'm not telling you to move on with your life, because that's far from what I'm doing, and I certainly don't expect you to do it. I'm just saying you need to occupy your mind or else–”

“I'll go insane? Think it's a bit too late for that,” Ashton interrupts with a bitter tone that doesn't belong to his usual chirpy voice.

“You know it's not,” Calum sighs and drinks the rest of his coffee, moving his body slightly, so he's facing the blonde man, “I got a job interview for you at that school you talked about so much last summer, the principal said you can go any day this week. I went ahead and sent her your resume as well as explained everything that she needs to know about Olivia, so you don't have to. You just gotta put on some decent clothes and show up.” he sees Ashton's face softening a little and takes it as a victory. A few beats go by and then, “Maybe take a shower too. That's gonna make you feel better.” Calum leans in closer to his friend's personal space and takes a sniff, causing Ashton to deflect from him slightly, but not to push him away – another small win.

“Definitely take a shower, you stink. When was the last time your hair saw shampoo?”

“Fuck off,” is Ashton's only reply to the younger man's inquest. But Calum can see a smile creeping up on the blonde's face, which brings out a smile of his own.

“I'll send you all the details later today,” he checks the hour on the watch on his wrist and gets up, “Just please, Ash, go. I can't lose you too.”

Calum gently lays a hand on Ashton's shoulder and squeezes a little. The man doesn't look up, but gives a curt nod to his friend, who's satisfied enough. Calum stops on the threshold of the garden glass doors to give some kisses to Stitch – who came to make Ashton company as soon as he finished his food –, and then he puts the coffee mug on the dishwater. And soon enough, he's on his way out of the door. But not before snatching a tangerine from the fridge.

Ashton is left by himself once again. As he hears the sound of the front door closing, he thinks that this might be his life from now on. Just him and Stitch, trying their hardest to make it through another miserable day without the love of their lives. While everyone else comes by just to make sure he's still breathing. Breathing, maybe, but alive?

Swallowing the tears, he looks up at the sky. It's a deep, beautiful mix of orange, pink and blue, but he knows that it won't last long and soon the rain will be pouring down. He thinks about how much Olivia loves the rain.

God, he needs to pull himself together. She would hate to see him like this. Maybe he should take Calum's offer after all, he really needs to occupy his mind.

Making a mental note to thank Calum later, and also to apologize for how rude he was to him this morning, Ashton slowly gets up from the bench to put his mug on the sink and makes his way to the living room, with the small dog loyally following his every step. He puts on some cartoon that for once doesn't remind him of her (she always lovingly made fun of him for still watching those) and cuddles with Stitch on the couch. He can take a shower later.

Not half an hour goes by, he falls asleep and has a good dream for a change. He dreams of the days he spent with Olivia in the Philippines last February, right before her first world tour started. Some of the most magical days of their lives – surrounded by delicious food, a whole new culture to learn about and the warmth of the sun. Infinite counted days full of love and passion, where they were the only people in the world.

Even his subconscious knows to hold on to that brief moment of happiness, because he might never live that again.

[annicaax]

So again some dev company has spammed my ib... asking me not to post too many screencaps...hmm

well they might not know but I exercise FULL RESTRAINT...

i DON'T POST FULL CGs

OR GIVE AWAY THE PLOT!

Yeah I DO POST SOME FUN ROMANTIC BITS...

BUT THOSE SHOULD CREATE INTEREST AMONGST PLAYERS ... NOT STOP THEM FROM PLAYING!

I dunno I see whole CGs... edited collages...etc etc...so why am I the only one being targeted here...?

Well, I dunno... But I'm disappointed.

You know what game company it is... Because you'll see less of that man and that game from now on... (Weekly episodic, next one's gonna come on Saturday)

Enough...now no more posts from me...

After I was loving it so much... Alas it's come to this...

Again I wanna say... I was ONLY SPREADING THE LOVE! SHARING THE FUN... NOT INFRINGING UPON OR DAMAGING THE RIGHTS OF SOME COMPANY...

because as an author myself I'd never put someone else's copyrights at stake.... Because I know the pain, the hurt when someone steals something from you... or someone takes away, aims at the credits that were supposed to be yours. (yeah this is slightly different for game makers because they aren't individuals but still)

well, I should take my time off from Tumblr, work on my own novels... Because honestly making such posts is time consuming. But I still do because it's fun and because I wanna share...

But being pointed out or advised like this isn't what I want in return. It's no fun... No no.

[gammacousin]

Okay. I’m ready to real talk Black Widow. I don’t want to but as an activist there’s an obligation I have to share and educate. I nerd to forget but I suppose it shows the power of this movie if it brings something real into the light.

*Spoiler Warning. Trigger warning for everything.*

There are some things I want to say that could potentially spoil aspect of the Black Widow film. I also would advise you to skip this post if you have a darker past, if you aren’t interested in getting serious, or wish to skim by, I’m sincerely not judging! I come on here to avoid the universe as well. You do you, I totally still love you if you don’t read this and want to move onto something nerdy or more fun. This isn’t the post for you.

It’s taken me a while to process and organize my thoughts. Skip if you don’t want to hear deep, raw stories.

3

2

Okay. Nerd review first.

The level of girl power and any and all glass ceilings… There is SO much left to do. So much that needs to still be addressed. But seeing 3 women run this show: Yelena, Natasha, and Melina was an absolute joy to observe. This isn’t the end of some hard waged war, it’s the beginning and I beg you; Disney/Marvel. Please give us more of this? It’s so important for young girls to see other girls kicking butt and winning. Quick summary of nerd feelings; Losing Nat still burns. Yelena is a boss.

Okay…Real talk.

I have to get a little deeper here now. My personal story absolutely played into how I felt about this film and I wish I saw some trigger warnings about the material covered. Do I know Black Window’s story? Yes. In and out. I can read it, I can write my FF on it. However. Little to no one knows my story and so absolutely no one is to blame for not warning me. I was not expecting to come out this shook.

I’m sharing this because it’s happening now, today. In the real world. I doubt the film makers had this mind over other social issues, but after feeling like it’s irrelevant, that my pain is somehow less than, I’m realizing through my activism it’s not.

I grew up in a cult where women are not relevant. You matter up to a point. You are useful, to a point. If you’re giving 24/7, you’re not giving enough. If you’re not smiling as you’re doing cult stuff, you’re complacent. In addition to why I’m about to share, my house growing up was not a safe space which is a story for another time. So it’s a stack…this janga-ish game that eventually just comes crashing down.

My trigger started moments after the film started the handing over of the kids. When Alexei chooses the job over the welfare of the girls. Alexei put his two “daughters” in danger to save ‘face’. To put the job ahead of two children…it hit home. In the group I’m from, fathers, mothers, grandparents, siblings will absolutely choose the group over blood. You are nothing and you mean nothing if you ‘defect’. If you break a rule. If you complain. If you say ‘no’. If you put in a bad review for a leader, if you have anything bad at all to say about the organization as a whole. You can confide something deep in someone you trust and it absolutely will come back to hurt you.

The title song shook me completely. This collage of video and images of brainwashing, treating these girls like absolute objects is disgusting in itself. But when you’re raised in this other world, there’s a level of brainwashing that is absolutely unmatched. Videos, books, quizzes, 12 hour lectures, weekly meetings.

People are unified to the point where you lose your own identity. There’s a language- a literally language- words you start to misuse. Verbiage only people in the cult use. Kids of any age will watch any rated film. Frequently the themes are about obedience and or cooperation and the consequences if you do not cooperate/obey. Death is a such a common theme that either you become petrified of your own shadow, petrified of breathing wrong, or turn completely numb. In sharing these videos, the goal is to instill this fear that you will never be enough. That you will die- turn into a charred hot dog of a figure if you do not obey 8 white men - the leaders, in New York. That your friends, classmates, neighbors, family will die if they don’t believe what you do. That you’re held accountable if you can’t bring them to your side.

The song for the credits hit me. I cannot listen to it. I have no idea what it was about.

When I watched the film, I couldn’t focus at this point at gosh barely 15 minutes in. I had already checked out. I heard keywords. “Entertainers,” “I feel stupid and contagious…”

In my world, I did not matter. What mattered was, what was presented to the public. To your group. Meeting some checklist of this perfect family at any cost. You’re not an individual, you’re a number. Literally. Your records are documented by men in the back room- your actions, your track record. But ultimately? You’re part of a numeral equation reported to headquarters. And if you’re a woman, you do not have a say in how you look, dress, act or in what you say. You are as the title song says, …“Entertainers”. You smile. You do your job, and you are ‘happy’ about it. Your job is to dedicate x amount of hours cleaning the room you gather in, and in recruitment of other members…

There’s a ‘job’ in the cult called a “pioneer”. Okay. No, we might not have been trained assassins. But you are trained to manipulate emotionally. To prey on the weak. You get books, magazines, movies, speeches, lectures- you rarely get a free Saturday. Oh and the job isn’t paid. So make sure you’re working (part time because full time secular work isn’t acceptable) at a desk job (because college and getting an education is not allowed). Don’t make friends with the people who work with you, they’re out to get you. Back at the club; You answer questions like it’s some schoolastic quiz every week and quote what your reading. It’s a brainwashing tactic. If you say something enough times, you remember it. You start to believe it. You spend hours reading these things, training… Your job is to target people who have lost- and have lost a lot because they’re vulnerable. You learn to go to cemeteries, and literally stalk people who are grieving. Like Val. If you can catch someone when they’re weak, senses are dulled. They’re desperate. And you bait them with this false promise. This idea that all THEY have to do is change all that they are, join you, and they’ll see their dead loved ones again. That they are doomed if they don’t change. Most pioneers draft 2-4 people per lifetime. If you’re a great saleswoman, you can draft more into this horrific world. And I regret the hours I spent lying, torturing people. For some cult that doesn’t give two cents about me.

I 100% believed of I didn’t convince my classmates, neighbors, to join my side they would either turn me in or they would be killed by a divine being. From 2 years old I was supposedly handing out pamphlets. The doom is not a quick painless death, no. You have visuals. You have men getting up to talk in detail about what your ‘friends’ will look like as corpses. Visually descriptive to the point where I still feel a bit numb to it all. That you will have to bury their bodies after the whole divine destruction. That you will have to “clean up” the earth. You are numb- convinced- bullied to the point where you believe this is true.

If you’re hurt as MANY WOMEN AND CHILDREN ARE, and you don’t have two people to testify and say they saw it- it never happened. Abuse is the norm. And if you speak up about it? You’re called a liar. Your friends cut you off. They think you’ll die along with everyone else if you put in a ‘bad review’ or leave. You’re bullied into submission and taught from a young age that you are not in control of your own decisions. You relinquish yourself under the pretense that the men you have such reverence toward are under some divine being’s control.

Your parents hurting you is acceptable. And don’t you dare speak against your father if he’s deeply involved. Don’t even think about approaching if he’s on a phone call. If you’re hit you take it- because you “deserved” it. And you smile. You shove that pain deep down. You hide the bruise, the cut lip, the depression, the bottles of pills you’re swallowing the whatever….You’re screwed if you faint, throw up, pass out, because you’ve missed a meeting. You better be dying for that to happen…

The idea that is portrayed in the movie (IMO) is that you can forgive family who hurts you. I see people forgiving Alexei and what’s her name. Look- that’s great. It’s a fun film. Alexei is funny. Here’s what I saw; it’s a toxic man- nay- father who can’t accept responsibility. He takes pride in what the girls have become- monsters. Not in who they are at their core. He has no idea who they are. And the mom has this photo album…I’m tearing up. She remembers this a certain way, a wishful thought. I’ve confronted my own mother about our past and had an album thrown at me, “We were happy. You were happy.” The fact is I was told the smile. You’re forcing this perception that everything was normal. That it’s okay to go back. (I’m not taking away Yelena’s view that everything was real to her, that’s fine for the sake of the story, and sweet. The moment between her and Alexei..fine. Milena turns and takes their side at the end, great.) The problem with how I saw this, is that’s not how the real world works. I don’t owe my parents forgiveness when I didn’t mean shit to them. When people leave the cult they’re cut off. Treated like they’re dead. I didn’t find these moments cute, I found them horrific. Hugging me, saying he’s proud of me is the toxic sh** my father would pull. Ignoring the holes in the wall, in my skull, the phony impression he gives to the rest of the group. Hugging me…after sweeping everything he did not only to me, but countless others under the rug because the cult…because 8 men in NY will protect him. Legally. Or otherwise.

I don’t need to forgive my parents. If you’ve been mistreated, you don’t owe anyone anything. They can “try” to do the right thing, that doesn’t somehow block out years of mistreatment. Years of trauma. Sheetrock only patches the surface of the broken walls. Wounds heal but some scars stay with you forever. Metaphorically or otherwise.

‘Entertainers’ was a trigger word because if you’re high enough in the ranking system you’re asked to “testify” or share a story. It’s in front of a couple thousand. It’s an “honor”. What it really is, is a three ring circus. You will only see women on the sidelines reading from the cards while only men stand at the main podium. They’re reading what they have told them to say. Stories are manipulated, cut, changed to fit a narrative that better suits the group of a couple thousand members.

Dreykov. I hate this. But I have to go there. I’m neck deep already, might as well. I think the worst part of all of it is that you can’t touch the person who made you this way. Those 6-7-8 leaders are untouchable. It doesn’t matter what you try. What legal entities, ex groups have tried. There’s a term for us and we are considered ‘mentally diseased.’ Members are told to avoid us. And in case you were curious, no, they can’t just break their nose on a table to be free- if only it were that simple. Gosh that got me. I would cut a limb, split my skull open, if it meant I could just cut a chord. It takes years of therapy and I still have nightmares. Urges to just, go. I’m OKAY. But most escapees are not. If you manage to escape with your life and don’t end it because the pressure, guilt, abuse that comes with leaving is too much. (This is sadly the fate of MANY LBGTQ+ members.)

The only hope is either the group eventually runs out of money or they’re taken down legally. Both of which are impossible since many older members will leave all they have to the group rather than to their family. It’s a complex billion dollar publishing company that plays monopoly with people’s investments, homes, and lives.

If you speak up, you’re the liar. So you cannot free your friends, who have turned on you, already cut you off, and discarded you the day you walked out and didn’t come back.

Watching Natasha, and Yelena free their sisters made me think of every woman who is stuck in this cult. For every woman, child, currently being sexually/physically abused and can’t say sh** because they literally believe god will kill them. If I say anything to them, they block me. If I expose what’s happening they will lie in court. That’s what is happening. And it’s not in the news, it’s not talked about. Because you can’t. You’re forced into silence. There’s a block. A literal legal force field that you cannot penetrate. They have their own lawyers. You can’t break into it. You’ll lose every, single, legal battle you try to fight.

Was this a decent movie? Yes. Was I expecting to share this days after release, no. I’ve been forced into silence for so long, told that people have it far worse and that I shouldn’t talk about it. But just today I saw a grown ass couple in an escapee group, talking about how one trigger word sent them into a depressive spiral. Wondering if some god damn lightening will come out of the sky and knock them dead. And we frickin struggle in silence. People will just shrug and go “oh it can’t be that bad,” while my gay best friend can’t catch an effing break. While someone else suffers at home because god wants it that way. Someone else will bury their kid today, maybe not even hold a funeral for them if they were ‘mentally diseased.’

For people like that couple I met today, like me, if you don’t just see a fun film but a darker past or maybe it’s brought up some memories for you, I’d honestly love to chat!!! Message me! I feel like for as painful as this is to hash out not too many people know about what goes on behind a group of smiling, well dressed woman who come knocking on your door. “It’s just a religion.”

I guess I didn’t realize…the criminal aspect of what happened to me. You’re so ingrained to keep quiet. To smile. To ignore, to suppress. I can smile, joke laugh, but visualizing…inadvertently seeing this mirror was so unbelievably uncomfortable. I would always rather help someone else because it takes me out of my head. Live in a bubble where I can call my trauma a ‘fantasy’. What’s real is when someone like me has a bad day? Lol! Look, my husband literally checks his phone to make sure a conversation never touches a couple hundred trigger words that will absolutely send me into the closet with a gallon of ice cream or a bottle of whiskey. I can’t imagine what someone else, what some other traumatized individual goes through. (Maybe that’s why the Bucky stuff makes me all angry She-Hulk too..)

Look, talking people ex members of this group, out of suicide is a daily endeavor to the point where it’s borderline on autopilot. But having this, I suppose, brilliant, piece of cinema turn the camera around left me raw and writhing and angry. Not for me, but for everyone else still stuck. With every year you spend in that cult, add ten more to therapy.

If you feel like me at all, you’re not alone. Not anymore. We were raised to feel alone in the world. That the universe is somehow out to get us and that’s simply not true. You don’t need the people who raised you if they were absolute shit bags. And you DO NOT have to forgive them for keeping you in that environment. Family isn’t family if they’ve hurt you. You owe them nothing. It is healthy to feel your feelings (and you and your feelings are valid. )

Anyways! I hope to be able to talk about more fun Marvel topics soon. But this felt important so thanks for listening. I’m really not hating guys, this is just…it’s heavy. And I beg you to do your research into cults and to help out where you can.

Love and light,

-M

[bush-viper-cutie]

MASTERLIST

~ ~ ~ Series ~ ~ ~

Heather Potter (ongoing)

Pairing: Snape x OC (VERY slow burn)

Summary: Follow Heather Potter (Harry’s often forgotten twin) through their Hogwarts years.

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Love Me Roughly 

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Summary: Severus Snape survives the war and decides to start his new life and leave everything and everyone behind.

---

Death’s Home (Gothic AU) (Ongoing for October)

Pairing: Snape x OC

Summary: 22 year old Severus Snape moves into a very old home with his parents after leaving the wizarding world.

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~ ~ ~ One Shots ~ ~ ~

A Warm Kiss

Pairing: young!snape x fem!reader

Summary: You attend Slughorn’s party alone and unsure of what to do with yourself. You decide to talk to Severus Snape, a classmate you never talk to, and end up having a night you won’t forget.

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Needed Words

(A Warm Kiss Part Two)

Pairing: young!snape x fem!reader

Summary:  After what happened after Slughorn’s party last night with the dreamy and reserved Severus Snape, you’re eager to see him again. Severus is eager to see you too and quickly lets you get carried away with him in the back of the library.

---

What Now? 

Pairing: young!snape x reader

Summary: All of Hogwarts is forced out of the castle to participate in several activities throughout the grounds. It’s an awful time for both you and Severus Snape until you convince him to go along with your great idea.

---

Finding Rocco

(What Now? Part Two)

Pairing: young!snape x reader

Summary:  After a night out after hours, you enlist Severus to help you find Rocco after losing him yet again. He is determined to return him to you, even at the expense of his safety.

---

Blue Heart 

(What Now? Part Three)

Pairing: young!snape x reader

Summary:  A week into summer break and you are finally able to hang with your boyfriend, Severus Snape, and surprise him with an invitation to your house while your parents are away.

---

Happy Birthday

Pairing: young!snape x reader

Summary:  It’s your birthday and you can’t wait to attend a big party where most of your fellow 7th years will be, including one Severus Snape. Ready to be more outgoing, you take a chance and participate in several fun activities that leave you wanting more.

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First Kiss 

Pairing: young!snape x reader

Summary:  Severus makes a new friend and receives his first ever kiss.

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The Pond 

Pairing: young!snape & fem!reader

Summary:  Lonely and disliked Prince Severus Snape befriends a village girl in the forest just outside his castle’s woods.

---

Garlic Chips 

Pairing: young!snape x reader

Summary:  You drag Severus down to Hogsmeade with you to enjoy the day with him. Some warm snacks, a spot by the frozen lake, and snow falling all around you. What could be better?

---

sMuggled Art

Pairing: young muggle!snape x reader

Summary:  Severus is forced to take work in his father’s coworker’s wife’s store where he meets (Y/n). Severus’ view of the world seems dark, and you don’t really make things any better, but there is yet hope to change his mind!

---

Midnight Stars Tree

Pairing: young!snape x reader

Summary:  Three days before the start of seventh year, you attend a yearly potions demonstration at a wizard hotel across the street from a wizard museum. Every student seventeen and older participate in a tradition where you skip the last demonstration to hide away in a secret spot in the museum with someone of your choosing.

---

I’ll Be Your Valentine

Pairing: young!severus x fem!reader

Summary:  Severus is humiliated once more by his friends in an attempt to fit in. It was a miscalculation on his part, but he couldn’t have predicted how disastrous his mistake would be. It had taken you days, weeks, months to build up the courage to confess your feelings to your crush, but what did you expect to have happen when doing it on Valentine’s day?

---

Late Birthday Wishes (NSFW)

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Summary:  Severus heads down to celebrate his 24th birthday at the Three Broomsticks. You’re working a late shift at the bar and find yourself intrigued and attracted to the mysterious stranger that has just walked in.

---

Slow and Steady (NSFW)

(Late Birthday Wishes part two)

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Summary:  The morning after for Severus is just as amazing as the entirety as last night with you. He’d spend longer if he didn’t need to head back to his job teaching potions. You manage to sneak in a little extra time, though, making his day amazing.

---

The Crystal Ball

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Summary: Dilyn Grisial, a renowned match-maker, promises a teenage Severus Snape and his classmates a chance at finding their soulmate. Severus struggles with the possibility he may not even have one especially after it’s been years since he first tried reaching them.

---

Green Lace and Peonies

(The Crystal Ball Part Two)

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Summary: Severus Snape goes on a date with the girl his crystal ball paired him with. The date does not go as he thought it would, but he comes to realize how perfect she really is for him.

--- 

Only You

(The Crystal Ball Part Three)

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Summary:  After Severus has a bad interaction with a particularly annoying and irritating guy, he opens up about his feelings and accepts what he’s told about his worth.

---

Messages (part 1)

(The Crystal Ball Part Four)

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Summary:  Severus experiences a major bump in his relationship that he’s never experienced before. It’s easy to be confident in a working relationship when being together is a daily habit, but when the relationship turns long distance after summer is over, he just doesn’t know how to keep himself afloat.

---

Mess After Mess 

Snape

Summary:  Severus is forced to restock almost all his potions ingredients at once all because of two clumsy students who never learn their lesson.

---

Thrice Hexed 

Snape

Summary:  Severus has to deal with one of his more annoying students who asks for his help with the dark arts, which he is reluctant to do, but is forced to help.

---

Pretending 

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Summary:  Severus is forced to attend Lucius’ party. The plan is simple, get rejected enough times, have Lucius think he’s a helpless cause, and go back to Hogwarts to continue reading his book.

---

Messenger 

Snape

Summary: Severus is tired of Minerva making him run around the castle delivering his messages and makes him get an animal that can do it for him.

---

Too Hot 

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Summary:  It’s way too hot for Severus to think about anything other than melting on the spot.

---

~~~ Headcanon Requests? Lil stories?~~~

Guinea Pig Adventures: Curse of the Friendly Tickles

New Student, New Friend

---

~ ~ ~ Drabbles ~ ~ ~

Severus Loses His Glasses - 100 Words

---

Severus Drinks Coffee - 100 Words

---

Severus and Hagrid Drink Tea - 100 Words

---

Severus Grades Essays - 100 Words

---

Severus Grows an Orange - 100 Words

---

Severus Catches a Cold - 100 Words

---

Severus Helps Lockhart - 100 Words

---

Severus Tries to Sleep - 100 Words

---

Severus Cuts His Hair - 100 Words

---

Severus Carves a Pumpkin - 100 Words

---

Severus in Bed (NSFW) - 100 Words

---

~ ~ ~ My Art ~ ~ ~

Snape Hands      Young!snape and Snape collages     

Care to Explain Yourself?!        Snape has a cold

Amusement park part 1

[meetthefantasticmrfox]

The Librarians Chapter 2

Holy mushrooms this took off quick. Special thanks to all of you who have liked and reblogged, even to my first follower! This really made my day!

Anyways! uhm Chapter 1 is here...

The Librarians Chapter 1

Hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it and if you have gone and read my other posts this is not the story I was talking about in my Intellectual Genius post, that one I am still writing and haven’t really found time in my surprisingly busy day. 

Have fun and here are some warnings and other do-dads!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: Jeremy has ended up in the hospital, somewhere he cannot afford finacially to be and his employee Logan Constell has been running the library between very frequent visits to his sickbed along with Jeremy’s parents and little brother.

Pairings: Loceit, and Parental Remile.

Warnings: Swearing, hospital scenes, mentions of sexual abuse and alcohol, very angsty chapter this one, and just let me know if I need to add.

Alternate Universes/Headcannons: Human Au, Vitiligo Headcannon for Janus, Sibling Headcannon for Virgil & Janus

Janus=Jeremy for you first time readers

Virgil=Victor (middle name is Virgilius or Virgil so he goes by that)

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The last thing Jeremy remembered was falling from that ladder and the sunset following him down to a sure injury. He didn’t know if Logan’s confession had made him fall or the distraction of the sun in his eyes but whatever had caused it had led him to cause nerve damage in his left leg.

“You’ll need extensive physical therapy and a brace with crutches, maybe even a wheel-chair for a while afterwards.” That’s what the doctors had told him at least. Nothing about any heart or bodily problems other than his leg unfortunately. 

“The bills are far too high for anyone with your lifestyle and salary to afford.” Logan said in one of his visits. Jeremy hadn’t said a single thing to him out of all the week he had visited. He was aware he wouldn’t be able to afford his therapy or medical care and the thought of being a crippled on the streets of Florida seemed to have paralyzed his tongue along with his leg for the time being. Jeremy hadn’t been able to move it even a centimetre in over thirty-six hours which wasn’t exactly a good sign according to the doctors. Now it was seventy-two hours which was even more concerning. So concerning that Jeremy hadn’t even really slept the past few nights.

“I...I’m sorry for what happened with the ladder.” Logan said pointlessly.

“I knew better.” Jeremy said in response quickly, despite the dried lips and hoarse vocal cords for not have spoken in over three days.

“Pardon me?” Logan was shocked to have heard him speak.

“I. Knew. Better.” Jeremy repeated slowly and louder. Logan stayed quiet this time having sensed a sharper tone in his employers voice. 

The two sat there in silence for several minuets before something miraculous happened. The door opened and instead of a doctor walking in a man with summer green eyes and hair in a sand colored over coat with a cotton candy pink undershirt and glasses. He wore equally sand colored pants and sleek black shoes. In followed another man with pitch black hair and eyes like the night sky wearing a simple white shirt and leather jacket with dark jeans and tennis shoes. The man in black had smooth milk chocolate skin much like Jeremy.

“Oh my!” The man in tan had a higher pitched voice than Logan had expected and he had covered his mouth as soon as he saw Jeremy. His face paled just the slightest bit and tears began to coat his green irises.

“Em, calm down the doctors said he was fine for the most part.” The man with the night-like eyes muttered to the one named ‘Em’ and touched a broad hand to the other’s shoulder.

“That’s our boy Remy! How can you not be upset right now?!” Em looked at the other with a hint of anger in his teared eyes.

“Dads please don’t fight right now.” Jeremy snarled before the one named Remy could reply.

They both paused and stared at the librarian.

“Logan, meet my parents. Emile is trans and got surgery after having me. He’s a therapist for the recently traumatized and this is Remy, my birth father. He’s a businessman for a string of coffee shops known as Sleepy Time Teas and Wonderful Morning Coffees.” Jeremy sighed and gestured towards the two men. Emile shyly waved at the man sitting down while Remy barley gave him a single glance.

“Is he your...?” Before Emile could finish the question Jeremy cut him off abruptly.

“No, he works for me at Hawthorne.” 

“Oh, well it’s nice to meet you...uhm Logan was it?” Emile scooted over to shake hands with the intellectual who politely took the gesture.

“So what’d you do?” Remy said dully and waved a hand towards the non-moving leg.

“I fell.” Jeremy said simply and didn’t show signs of enjoying this visit.

“Y’know we’re your parents and you should show a little more respect with that voice of yours.” Remy snarled at his son. 

Jeremy just glared at Remy with such intensity flames might as well have burned in his dark green eyes.

“Remy calm down, he’s hurt and probably under a lot of stress with the library and the medical bills. He might never walk right again.” Emile hurriedly said before a fight broke out.

Logan checked his watch, sensing the building tension between Jeremy and his family. “Well I must go back to the library. My lunch break is nearly over.” and with that Logan rushed out. Jeremy would never admit he was kind of ashamed that his family feud drove his employee away.

Once Logan was gone the flood gates opened. Emile started truly crying and stifling it best he could while Remy fumed about how disrespectful Jeremy had always been.

This continued for a few minuets before Jeremy broke.

“JUST SHUT UP!” His voice stopped everything. Remy’s eyes widened in shock and Emile had jumped so hard he had stood up.

“I am PARALYZED in my bed and you are complaining on my TONE?! I have medical bills piling up to my neck while I have a salary of barely a thousand a year and you don’t even bother to ask me how I feel!” Jeremy lid off the sheets and moved best he could, dragging his numb leg with him as he attempted to stand. 

“Jeremy ju-” Emile started.

“Don’t get involved Emile. It’s about time he showed some backbone.” Remy snarled.

“No! Let him get involved. He’s the therapist for trauma and you’re just a coffee and tea maker!” Jeremy shot at him.

“Jeremy you shouldn’t speak to your father like that!” Emile hurriedly said before Remy could say anything. “And you shouldn’t be standing, for Christ sake sit back down you look like you’re about to faint!” 

“I’m fine.” Jeremy said through gritted teeth and just about that time there was a high pitched ring and Jeremy staggered and nearly fell but gripped the railing of his hospital bed. His numb leg drug on the ground and he looked down at it with the remainder of his vision before the door opened again and a doctor and nurse rushed in.

“Why is he standing?!” The doctor and nurse immediately gathered Jeremy and laid him back down on the bed as sleep claimed him again.

~ Time Skip ~

Logan came back a few days afterwards when Jeremy was supposed to start physical therapy. Apparently Emile and Remy had covered . Emile had sent Remy away and someone new had arrived. The new person was much smaller and younger than Jeremy and Logan suspected maybe a close cousin or even brother. He had jet black hair and big deer-like brown eyes. He had stared at Logan strangely when he first came in like he was analyzing him looking for a threat. The boy had eventually calmed down and looked back at his phone. Jeremy was busy talking to Emile about something Logan could not hear.

“He’s my employer.” Logan said abruptly. The boy next to him jumped at the sound of someone talking to him.

“H-he’s my brother. Uhm adopted. I am.” The deer-eyed boy said shakily and made staggering eye contact with Logan. 

“Logan.” The intellectual introduced himself quietly.

“Virgil.” Virgil answered back quietly. “My real name’s Victor, Virgilius is my middle name.” 

“Like the Roman Poet?” Logan asked slyly. Logan had always been a bit looser around people younger than him. He had been a teenager once, he understood them a bit better than adults. He was just now getting to be one.

“I guess. I write poetry in my spare time but it’s pretty dark.” Virgil shrugged and seemed to relax just as Logan had.

“Do you have your notes?” The librarian slowly asked.

Virgil slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small purple notepad with a hand-drawn skull with a stormcloud with a lightning bolt behind it. Before Virgil could flip the notepad open Logan spoke again.

“Did you draw this?” He seemed amazed.

“Uh....yeah actually. It’s a therapy method Jeremy taught me. Channeling your feelings into art or words. Poetry and art are kinda fun I guess.” The boy said slowly.

“It’s astonishing accurate for a high school student.” Logan complimented.

“Yeah.” Virgil looked down at his realistic drawing and seemed to smile slightly.

“Were you and Jeremy close?” Logan asked warily.

“Yeah, I’d say so. He used to go on walks with me and helped me with homework. On the weekends he would take me on drives at night once he got his license. Then he went to collage and dropped out because of tuition. Remy thought he had gotten involved with alcohol or something and had lost his job. Jeremy told me he had gotten sexually harassed so he quit. Remy wouldn’t listen though. He never does.” Virgil explained quietly.

“I...I never knew.” Logan turned back to where Jeremy was slightly smiling with Emile now and his eyes occasionally drifted to Virgil sitting in the corner.

“He wouldn’t have told you. Jer has always been kind of closed off. As far as I knew I was the only exception.” Virgil stated blandly.

“Hey Vee!” Emile smiled brightly and waved him over. Logan suddenly felt out of place. He considered leaving but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He needed to talk to Jeremy.

Jeremy embraced Virgil best he could and ruffled his brightly indigo streaked hair, messing it even more. They started talking and Jeremy smiled brighter than Logan had ever seen. That smile made his palms sweaty and his heart skip, Logan wanted that smile to stay forever...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay yeah this chapter was angsty and Remy is way out of character but I needed a reason why Janus was always so bitter. I managed to include some fluffy heartache bits though so I’m proud of myself. Next chapter I think I’ll include the library again, and I can’t decide whether to put Janus(Jeremy) in a wheelchair or put him on crutches SO you my dear foxlings get to help me out. Crutches or Wheelchair and should he be permanently paralyzed in that leg? Let me know via a dm or just comment (reply) on this post.

 Until next time my dear Foxlings!

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

DELAIN: Chillin’ As Doomsday Approaches

In the band’s press release, you state that Apocalypse & Chill will surprise your listeners. What are some of these surprises you have in store for them?

We always write our music pretty organically, so we set out with every album to make it bigger, better, and louder. But it’s not like we’re going to completely change. We just go with whatever inspiration brings us. However, on this album there are some new elements. We’ve got a real choir, we’ve got Timo screaming, and we have full instrumental tracks, which we’ve never done before. There are definitely some parts where we really explored what we could do differently. And then what I mainly think will surprise our listeners is, especially in the first half of the record, the sound is very electronic, without going away from sounding like Delain. They’re all very much from a pop and electronic side of the spectrum. And I think that some of our fans who like us for our previous material, they will kind of be scratching their heads during the first half. But towards the second half of the album, it picks up on the orchestral elements again and becomes more symphonic. There’s plenty of new things on the record, but I definitely think that our fans will be able to appreciate what we’ve done.

How did these electronic influences creep in? Was there something specific you were listening to or interested in that made you want to incorporate it into your music?

I don’t know. I think that within the writing team, Martijn comes up with really 80s synth parts and I often come up with kind of like 90s dance parts. Those two mix well in our music. But it’s not like we said, “We’re going to incorporate this.” When we meet up to write, we all take some ideas with us, like a verse or a chorus or a theme or whatever. We sit down and listen to it and see what we want to work on all together. That’s how those ideas work themselves into the music.

With these ideas, themes, and lyrical inspirations, was there anything going on in your life or the world in general that catapulted these ideas into the songs?

Yeah, I think so. One thing that’s relevant for the way that we’d written this album is the fact that we’ve recorded it very fragmented. Martijn is a producer who really spearheaded this idea of “let’s do everything in several blocks of just a couple of songs” instead of in one go. Because first of all, we didn’t have enough time to have one big block for writing and recording and mixing the entire album because we’ve been touring like crazy. So, this gave us a lot of flexibility, but also the chance to go back on the songs now. All these ideas come from different places as well. But I must say that over the last few years, definitely a lot of it has been inspired by the concerns about the world today. If you open up a newspaper, if you turn on the TV, you see the world quite literally being on fire. And then if you open your socials, you’ll see everyone living their most perfect lives. There is this great contrast between the two where you wonder how can these actually exist at the same time and is this even the same world? And I think that contrast is also visible in the songs on our album.

The visual of the album cover and the promo photos have a 1950s cinematic movie star theme. Is that the concept or theme behind it?

It was really that contrast between the impending doom that you sense when you look at the news these days and then at the same time the complete projections that is very much the majority of things you see on socials. That was very interesting. Since it is so much about zeitgeist, Netflix and chill, it’s a very 2019 thing. So, we felt like the play on words was really fitting for this album. And then when I was playing with the idea of that title…it’s not like I think of a song first and then the title and then the artwork. Usually when you think of a title, there is an image in your head. Or when you think of the music, you see something, like you can imagine it. And for this title right away, I could imagine someone lounging while the world is on fire. I actually put this image together in Photoshop, but I am not a very practiced designer. We really liked that image. We’ve been also looking for images that were more towards the kind of covers that we usually have, like the more art nouveau/romantic/goth imagery, but it just didn’t fit the theme and the title as well as this one. What we eventually did to give it that identity and authenticity that my mockup was lacking, is we gave it to this collage artist. She works really analog. She cuts up images and papers and she reworked the image into what is now the cover and also continued that for the promo photos in the inside. Inside of the booklet you’ll find all of us wearing sunglasses and having different natural disasters reflected in our sunglasses. We put that topic throughout the entire artwork. Not that a lot of people get to see CD booklets these days, but for those who do buy the physical thing, we always try to give it something extra.

How did getting Beast in Black’s Yannis Papadopoulos to sing on “One Second” come about? Did you specifically write his part or realized after the fact that he’d be a good fit?

We realized afterwards that it would be a good fit. We really like working with guest musicians. It’s always a very nice surprise to see what other people, other creatives come up with when they listen to your music. Yannis, we’ve been in touch with him for a while. We met him in Greece. I remember during an after party at a show he taught me a bunch of Greek curse words! We had a few songs where we thought we could really use a guest here, we could really imagine his voice there. Then we were at a festival this summer and they played there as well, and that’s I think when the deal was struck. We gave him a choice. We had three songs where he could imagine it. We always try to give our guests an amount of freedom, so they can really make it their own.

The video for “Burning Bridges” has such cool visuals and beautiful scenery. Where was that shot, and how did the concept and the characters come about?

It was filmed in Snowdonia, which is a gorgeous part of Wales. We filmed it with the company Video Inc., which is a company that we’ve actually worked with for four different videos in one year. In 2019, we did four videos with them, including “Ghost House Heart.” The idea behind “Burning Bridges” for me lyrically was really that the protagonist of the song keeps leaving his surroundings in order to get away from the negative energy there—the negative energies are following him. The real question is, are those negative energies actually coming from your surroundings or are you the one bringing them? And then leaving and burning your bridges behind you will solve absolutely nothing. That was the idea that we wanted to work with for the video as well. What I really like about Video Inc. and how they work is we’ve had in the past where we pitched a song to other video companies and they came up with all these ideas that didn’t fit the song at all. And then we thought, “Oh, we have to give him some more input.” So, any images or ideas that we have with the themes, we send them over, but sometimes then people just say, “Okay, we’ll do that.” And what I really like about Video Inc. is they take the idea and then they go over it. They’re the video makers, that’s their expertise, and they give their own twist to it. “Burning Bridges” is definitely one of the most dramatic ones of the four videos, and I’m really happy with how it turned out.

You’re the frontwoman and the main focal point of the band, but the album closer “Combustion” is a cool instrumental that gives the rest of the band a chance to shine. Was this a song specifically created as an instrumental or music that you had trouble finding words for it?

It wasn’t meant to be a song with lyrics ever. Actually, this song was written by Timo and I’m sure that Joey also had a say in it because his drumming parts are very prominent. They actually started performing this song as a showpiece Joey had at his graduation at music school, and they performed it there. We really loved that song and that performance. Another thing is when we write songs for Delain, we really like pop structured songs. None of us in the band are ego trippers, none of us try to show off what we can do. We just do what the song needs, but on this track, they really get to shine. And I think that it’s really cool to give them that moment to shine because we have some really fantastic musicians in the band and they play very functional parts in the regular songs. So, I think that this is a great opportunity for them to show what they’ve got. Also, this is an egocentric reasoning, but for me, a lot of the songs have become much harder to sing. I really appreciate the two minutes of taking a breath during the shows! I think that on the album Apocalypse & Chill, that song for me, represents the explosion, the combustion, the apocalypse itself, if you will. I think it’s got a very symbolic function on this record.

What’s the music scene like in the Netherlands? You’re a very well known international touring band, but what was your humble beginning like?

Delain is a little bit of an odd example in that case because Martijn had rolled out of Within Temptation, who were at their breakthrough, and he had so many well known guests on this album that he wrote and that took a long time. There was a lot of work that went into that, and he had a whole big business plan that he used to get to the labels as well. But we got into that label straightaway for the first record because of all that hard work that Martijn had already put into it and the planning he did and the whole set up of the project. But, if I look at the scene that I was in before I got involved with that, the Dutch metal scene is a very small scene. Everyone knows each other, everyone is in everybody’s bands. I was I think in four bands at that moment. I was in a band, a guitarist in that band was doing a project, and I was in that project and then Martijn did arrangements for that project. And that’s where he heard me. So, he asked me for his project. I know that’s a very confusing sentence, but that may be a good representation of the Dutch music scene. It’s very interesting because a lot of metal comes from the Netherlands and actually a lot of symphonic metal comes from the Netherlands. But you would never tell if you looked at the Dutch mainstream music media. I don’t know, maybe it’s because it’s not exotic enough for us, or maybe it’s because it’s too exotic. The Dutch popular music is basically just dance and hip-hop. And I have nothing against dance and hip-hop, but sometimes it’s weird to me. I do these Dutch guest things and there will be people from multiple genres, and I will always be the one with the most followers on Instagram and Facebook. And they will be like, “But we don’t know you!” And that’s very typical for Holland, I think. Music that is very well known internationally is not really well known in the Netherlands itself. On the other hand, it also has its benefits because I bet that even if Delain would have a massive hit in the genre that I could still go grocery shopping without people recognizing me!

Delain has been around for 18 years and you have this new album out and upcoming gigs for the next few years. What are you looking forward to the most in the near future?

We have already reached so many things that we wanted to reach with Delain. It’s been really amazing. It’s been an absolute roller coaster. Martijn and I do most of the work behind the scenes, and we’re a really tight team and we both have started talking about how we might want to start doing some things outside of Delain every now and then. I think our biggest goal for now is to really find a balance and do anything in order to keep making beautiful music together. Because if I look at what we’ve done in the past, if I look at the album that we made now, I’m just really, really proud. It is really a product of our team. The sum is more than its parts, so to speak. I just really hope that we can keep doing that and make a lot more beautiful music and hope that people keep enjoying it. Delain has been around for 18 years and you have this new album out and upcoming gigs for the next few years. What are you looking forward to the most in the near future? We have already reached so many things that we wanted to reach with Delain. It’s been really amazing. It’s been an absolute roller coaster. Martijn and I do most of the work behind the scenes, and we’re a really tight team and we both have started talking about how we might want to start doing some things outside of Delain every now and then. I think our biggest goal for now is to really find a balance and do anything in order to keep making beautiful music together. Because if I look at what we’ve done in the past, if I look at the album that we made now, I’m just really, really proud. It is really a product of our team. The sum is more than its parts, so to speak. I just really hope that we can keep doing that and make a lot more beautiful music and hope that people keep enjoying it.

[creampuffqueen]

alright so here’s some more repressed memories i’ve uncovered as i’m going through my wattpad:

the book cover drama

basically there’s a thing where people would make good book covers for other people to use for their stories. i’d already had one made before, so i requested another, from a different person.

now, being 11 years old and dumb as nails, i did not realize this person was stealing art to make the covers. it was all just random warrior cats fanart from the internet, edited/filtered and slapped onto a new background with some words and given away. but again, i was dumb, and didn’t notice the inconsistencies in the person’s “art”

so, much to my surprise one day, someone messages me and accuses me of stealing their art! i was so upset! how dare they! i got this cover from a cover-maker who drew it themself!

turns out, nope. there was a whole thing, and even after the artist and i worked it out, they still made me take down the cover. so i had to make a terrible one in pic collage and slap it on there. eventually my friend made me a new one, though.

moral of the story: don’t steal art!!!!

[geeky-introvert]

Bad Boy I . Ivar X OC

Summary: Isabella is a senior at high school and has the house to herself for the weekend while her parents are away. She planned a relaxing weekend for herself, no bothers at all, but that all changes when a party goes on next door from her hosted by someone from her school. As Isabella watches from her bedroom window she notices Ivar, the bad boy she has a crush on, is staring up at her with that dangerous smile of his….

Word count: 3525

Warning: Smut, virginity loss, slight angst and I guess young kids doing stupid things? You’ll get the idea.

Tag List: @lisinfleur @mdlady @didiintheblog @alicedopey @lupy22 @rekdreams247 @mblaqgi @oddsnendsfanfics @aphnxrising​ @happydaysandersen​ @therealcalicali​ @naaladareia​ @inforapound​ @captstefanbrandt​ @waiting4inspiration @tabalugax @p8tn0lish

If anyone else wants to be added to the tag list let me know please.

Isabella was one of the top students in her school with high grades and planning ahead for collage. She had big dreams to become a doctor. Saving lives was what she desired to do. Everyone knew she was a good student.

Her parents were going away for a weekend getaway together. Originally her aunt was going to watch her but something came up and she had to cancel. She felt bad for her parents and so she promised them that nothing bad would happen and that she could take care of everything. They did hesitate but knowing their daughter they trusted her to look after the house while they were gone.

It wasn’t long before she found herself on a late Friday afternoon home alone all by herself. It was very quiet and peaceful, which made her think was perfect and planned to have a nice quiet weekend to herself.

All this was short lived though. As soon as the sun had set the music was turned on from her neighbour behind her house. She knew who lived there, a palatinate blonde popular girl and cheerleader captain. By the sounds of it she threw a party because she felt like it and invited all her friends and their friends, which wasn’t Isabella.

She didn’t care though about not being invited, but it bothered her that she had to put up with the loud music, so much for a quiet weekend.

As the night dwelled the loud music continued. She was surprised none of her other neighbour’s had called the police on them yet and started to think if she should, but she didn’t want to be one of those people.

She gave up trying to study and decided to watch a movie in her bedroom, but even that was difficult to focus on. Curiously she got up from her bed and stood in front of her window on the second floor to watch the party dwell on. She recognize a lot of people, none she was friends with.

As she scanned over the rowdy people she locked her eyes on someone who was looking directly back up at her.

Ivar Lothbrok. The bad boy and trouble maker from her school was staring up at her with that dangerous smile of his. For as long as she could remember she always had a crush on the guy. He was ridiculously good looking and could smile in a way that made all women’s legs feel like jelly, which was the effect he had on her.

But she tried to stay away as she kept telling herself he wasn’t good for her, that didn’t stop him from trying to make talk with her though during school. As much as she would like to get to know him, she was too focused on her studies to worry about boys. She had been staring at him longer than she thought and he continued to look up at her with shining glee.

He blew out a smoke from his cigarette and then waved for her to come down. That’s when she snapped out of her thoughts and shook her head with a sad smile at him before she closed the curtains. It was strange for him to look at her like that, she had never noticed it before, and for her to come down to the party was out of the question. Her parents would through a fit if she did anything stupid.

Eventually someone had called the police to complain about the noise and underage drinkers. Everyone scrambled. Isabella watched from her window kids jumped over fences or too off down the road to avoid being caught. Some even jumped into her yard but quickly left by jumping another or running around to the front.

“Run forest, run!” She mimicked.

It was over. By then it was almost midnight but she planned to watch another movie since it was the weekend. She came down stairs to get herself some popcorn when she noticed that her back sliding door was open.

She didn’t remember leaving it open, or in fact opening it at all. However she didn’t linger on it, and closed it before locking it. In the kitchen she put a packet of popcorn in the microwave and leaned on the counter as she waited for it to finish.

Out of nowhere she felt an arm wrap around her waist and a hand cover her mouth, before she was pulled back against a hard chest. Her muffled screamed wasn’t heard and her attacker seemed to hold her close before they spoke.

“Bell! It’s only me!” Ivar’s voice sent chills through her but relaxed her enough to not scream. Once he let her go she let him have it

“Are you out of your mind?!” She fumed angrily.

“Maybe.” That alluring laugh of his was bothering, and it was even more bothering that he found humour out of her scare attack by him.

“Why are you in my house? Did you come through the sliding door?” That would solve the mystery.

“You should lock your doors; you never know who might enter.” He grinned and looked her up and down with lingering eyes and an amused smirk. “Nice Pj’s.”

Isabella looked down at herself and flushed when she realised she wore her boxers and oversized star wars shirt.

“You need to leave.” He had no right being in her house.

“Just let me hangout for a bit, at least until the cops clear away.”

“You’re the one that’s been drinking, not me. Why should I let you stay?”

Ivar stared at her in thought before he grinned and stepped closer biting his lips.

She felt nervous as he cornered her like a beast against its prey and wanted to slap that smug look off his face. As attractive as he was he was still in her home without her permission.

He placed his hands against the bench either side of her and leaned down at her face. “I think I’ve figured out that your parents aren’t home.” Her silence was his answer. “We could do anything you want….”

His hand came up and brushed some of her loose hair behind her ear making her flinch under his touch. She carefully looked back up at his face, her eyes confused as she stared into the beautiful blue flames he possessed. Ivar slowly leaned closer, nose brush up along the side of her check and smelled her hair with a satisfied exhaled.

The microwave beeped making her jump a little and knocked her out of the thoughts she had.

“I’m about to watch a movie.” She didn’t know if she was going to regret her choice later.

“I like movies. In your room, right?” He guessed right.

“Yes…my room.” She wished she made the movie set up in the living room.

Before she knew it they were both going up the stairs. That was the start of how everything in her life changed.

It was hard to stay focused on the movie when she had a boy sitting in her bed right next to her, and to make it worse it was her crush. She kept glancing at the movie and at Ivar from out the corner of her eyes as they shared the popcorn. His focus seemed to be fixed on the movie with no problem.

At one point they both reached for the popcorn at the same time and touched each other’s hands. She pulled away like she was just zapped and allowed him to go first; this of course made him snicker softly from her reaction and focused back on the movie again.

She didn’t realise how long he had stayed until the movie ended and it was well after midnight.

“You should head home.” It might’ve sounded a little rude but at that point she just was growing more uncomfortable the longer he stayed.

“Why are you so eager to get rid of me?” He lay on his side and leaned his head under his hand.

‘Why does he have to be so good looking?’ She asked herself as her eyes lingered over him and back to his face. He seemed to know she was looking him over, or another better word, checking out.

“It’s late and the movie is over.” She pointed out, but that meant nothing to him.

“Come on, Bell, let me stay.” His eyes lingered over her exposed thighs as he licked his teeth.

“Ivar, you shouldn’t even be here. I’m not supposed to have people over.”

“I feel special then.” He reached out to touch her thigh that was exposed and she drew her leg back out of his reach.

“You shouldn’t do that…”

“Why not?” He sat up and leaned against the bedhead. “Why do you push me away, when it’s clear you actually want me here?”

“I don’t….” She was kidding herself. Having Ivar right there, in her bed, smiling widely was everything she could’ve dreamed off.

Ivar shuffled over on the bed and right beside her, his face close enough that she felt every breath he gave against her skin.

“I’ve seen you watch me, and I’ve watched you from afar. You’re beautiful. Now that I’m here I don’t want to leave.” He whispered lowly to her.

His hands rubbed over her exposed arm and the other was against her cheek where he tenderly brushed his thumb. She couldn’t back away, not when he was so close. It had only been a fantasy and he was now there for her. His eyes shimmered like crystals as she looked up to meet his gaze, as she leaned into his hand touching her face without much thought.

Her eyes fluttered as he leaned in and kissed her tenderly. She kissed back with hesitation.

She shivered as his fingers ghosted over her bare arm and slowly made its way down to her thigh, where he rubbed her skin under his warm palm. His lips slide across her own, his tongue darting out to lick across her teeth. He distracted her with the kiss as he tried to sneak his hand under her shirt.

“Wait…” She pushed away and stood up from the bed, feeling anxious about what he had intended.

“What’s wrong?” He wore that cocky smile of his as she paced the room trying to calm herself.

“T-this shouldn’t happen….” A part of her wanted more, but there were so many reasons that it shouldn’t happen either.

“Or perhaps you’re ticklish?” He smiled as he followed around her room.

It was true, she was ticklish.

She met eyes with him and saw that crazy mischief glee in his eyes as he advanced towards her, and knew what he intended to do.

“Don’t….” She backed away shaking her head as she tried fighting back a smile.

“You better start running.” He meant to do it.

She bolted from her room with him hot on her heels. They ran around the house and she laughed as he tried to catch her. She saw the fun in it as she made him run all through the house, laughing and squealing softly. Isabella and Ivar carried on like children for a bit before he cornered her against the wall. His approach was slowly and closed her in with his arms preventing her escape from him.

He leaned closer, intended to kiss her, but she quickly managed to duck under his arm and run back upstairs.

She went in her room and tried closing the door on him but he pushed himself before it slammed shut. He then proceeded by tackling her onto the bed and tickling her sides without mercy.

“Ivar!” She squealed and tried to get away from his hands.

This wasn’t like her. It was out of her comfort zone. Just yesterday she was watching him as he jogged with his friends on the school oval. No here he was, in her room, god knows what was going through his mind as he clearly showed he wanted something to happen that night.

And secretly so did she.

When he finally did she was out of breath and found him straddling her, staring with his predatory smile, before she was consumed by another despite kiss by him. She hesitates again, and shuttered when his hand managed to finally sneak under her shirt and up towards her breast. She broke from the kiss and tried pushing him away.

“Ivar, wait-“

“Let me.” He pushed her down against the bed and stole another kiss from her.

She let out a soft whimper against the kiss when his hand massaged her breast and fingers ran over her perked nipple. She didn’t want it to stop, but at the same time she was terrified. He moved away from the kiss only to kiss her neck and gently nipple at the flesh making her breath hitch.

“I-I’var….I’ve never done this before.” It was embarrassing to admit it to him.

“I know, that’s alright. I’ll be gentle, unless you ask me not to be.” She didn’t have time to react, because he pushed the rest of her shirt up to her chin, exposing her breasts and latched onto one of her nipples between his lips.

It was like nothing she felt before. The sensation feel of his moist lips and tongue swirling round the sensitive tit was so erotic, which made her body break out in shivers as he did this to both her nipples, switching so the other wasn’t left alone.

He moaned lowly against her skin before he moved away and kissed her passingly. She was distracted as he moved her boxers down, and by the time she realised it he had them completely off and threw them aside.

She went to say something, but words couldn’t be made as she watched him slowly descend down her body and hovered over where it was most private. He didn’t stop there. Holding a grin he lowered his face and flatted his tongue over her folds.

A startled gasp left her when she felt his lips and tongue over her sex, licking along her slit. Her toes curled over his shoulders feeling a new kind of pleasure bloom within. It was all so foreign, and yet she craved more of it.

Ivar savoured her juices and licked them clean as he moaned in pleasure against her sex. He didn’t want this before she was easy, but because it was her, the woman he had watched from afar for so long and he now he had her. He never wanted to lose her, not after what they were doing and what was about to happen.

He carefully inserted a finger in her entrance and his lips suckling gently at her clit. She arched her back against him, panting and whimpering lowly from the overwhelming pleasure. His finger pumped through her, curling against her walls making her wince but was replaced with a moan as he flicked his tongue against her clit

His mouth left her sex and looked up at her with a lazy smile. He didn’t say anything as he removed his finger and sat up from the bed. She watched, a little confused, but realised what he was doing when he removed his shirt from his over his head and unbuttoned his jeans whiling kicking off his shoes.

She admired his toned bare chest and her heart skipped a beat when she saw his cock bobbing out, but couldn’t tear her eyes away. Ivar got a condom out from the pocket of his jeans and torn it open as he proceeded to put it on over his cock.

He then crawled back onto her, spread her legs wide for him and positioned his cock against her entrance. She was scared, and clearly showed it because he kissed her softly with his hand wrapped around his cock, palming himself before he carefully started to push his cock against her entrance.

There was no going back, and she didn’t want to.

She felt his cock press against her entrance and slowly started to stretch her open, and pain was all she felt as he entered her more.

“Wait it hurts…” It was a pained whimper that made Ivar stop and rub her face in his hands.

“I know. It won’t last long, just relax.” He tried to encourage her as he aimed to have his cock fully in her.

She did as he said and dug her fingers into his back as he entered her more. The pain lingered, and for a moment she thought it would never end, but this would soon change and didn’t take long for Ivar to be flushed right up against her with his throbbing cock burred deep.

He kissed her softly before he started to slowly move his waist. His thrusts were slow and kept a steady pace as he gently guided both her legs over his moving hips. She felt herself being rocked back and forth with his cock entering over again, and grew used to the feeling of him fucking her rather quickly.

After so long waiting for this Ivar knew he wouldn’t last long. His arousal built up and sped up his thrusts, careful not to get too excited as his pace quickened. His lips roamed over her exposed neck, grunting with each thrust he gave her, savouring her pleasured moans. He heard her gasping out his name and squeezing herself around him and he knew she was close to her end too.

Isabella bit her lips as she felt his cock thrust into her, his groin hitting her skin over again sending a thrill of sensation she heard throughout her room along with their pants and moans. His hand dipped between them and started to rub her clit in circular motions.

“Ivar, Ivar, ahah….I-I can’t, ah! Hold much longer!”

“Let yourself go, Bell. Come over my cock.” His crude words only aroused her more.

She wrapped herself against him with both her legs and arms pulling him closer as she felt her orgasm erupt over her quivering body followed by a cry of pleasure.

Ivar snarled lowly with flared nostrils as he fucked her harder with a couple more sharp movements from his waist before he felt himself fall apart and spilled his seed within the condom.

Both remained tangled around one another as they let out heated breaths and sweat from their bodies shimmering through the moonlight of the barn. Neither said anything at first. Ivar slowly removed his cock from her and condom off him before he rolled onto his back beside her

Isabella had many thoughts running through her head over what just happened.

“You’re a nice fuck.” Ivar said so bluntly and got off the bed to dress himself.

She lifted her blanket up to her chest to cover herself feeling too exposed and stared at the ceiling. He pulled his jeans up and looked down at her with a cocky grin.

“We’ll have to do that again.” He casually picked her mobile from the nightstand and added his number in. “I’ll expect a text from you.”

“Alright….” She didn’t know what else to say to him.

“See you at school.” He winked and put his shirt on before he left her room and went back out the sliding door, leaving her alone and with her thoughts.

She felt a little sore and tried to adjust herself on her bed. A tear rolled down her face as she felt used and Ivar took away her virtue, but she didn’t really tell him to stop, so she didn’t think of it that way.

It was so late and she was tired. She let sleep take over, her thoughts left with how Ivar made her orgasm and how amazing it felt.

[badgirlsinterviews]

The Paths of Beauty [Interview]

Interview with writer and actress Camila Sosa Villada, author of ‘Bad Girls’.

Written by Sergio Alzate.

11/05/20

Source: El Tiempo.

In her novel, Camila Sosa narrated the experience of a travesti community in Córdoba, Argentina. (Photo credit: María Palacios)

Camila Sosa Villada likes to take in the world with her eyes. For her, life is made up of images: vignettes that catch her eye from which she discerns a speck of light, a dash of colour, a certain meaning. Through her eyes, she listens, she feels, she smells, she sounds out, she travels and she consumes the world around her, a world which is made up of images that she treasures and stores away. Through these snapshots, she forms a collage of her reality and her experiences. They are, in other words, parts of a puzzle which she pieces together, bit by bit, creating a unique, absolute, indescribable final image: one of beauty.

Beauty (not as an anatomical category, nor as the opposite of faithfulness) runs through the pages of Bad Girls, her most recently published work which recounts the experience of a group of travestis who gather each night in the Sarmiento Park, in the city of Córdoba, in Argentina. As such, a travesti mother is able produce milk with her silicone breast; a mute woman turns into a bird; headless men fall in love; gardens burst and cover everything with their lush and uncontrolled vegetation; people declare their bodies as their home; laughter, embraces, words, and love become the shelter from violence; shouts echo with one brutal, resounding, infinite message: “being travesti is a celebration”. Miracles and sparks of beauty unfold with furious tenderness from page to page.

Some of these themes were discussed by Camila in her 2014 TedTalk. The actress, theatre-maker and writer spoke of the suffering of travesti and sex worker bodies, her father’s prediction that she’d end up dead, left in a ditch, the life of a pregnant girl who would meet her clients in the park, her hair filled with weeds from having done her job lying down in the grass. After recounting all of this, Camila asks in a broken voice: “Have any of you have ever imagined that there could be anything more concretely poetic than that?” That’s exactly what Bad Girls is: poetry, concreteness, beauty. 

The novel contains a theme which appears over and over again: beauty, the search for it, the curse of it, its joys and sorrows. What made you write about it?

I think I’ve always been privileged. I’m able to see the world in a way that’s different to others. I felt like a dealer: at night I’d be out with the group of travestis, and then during the day I’d go to university. In those worlds, there were moments I observed that were so defining, spectacular and profoundly beautiful that they affected me on an emotional level. I wasn’t speaking about them arbitrarily: things have always appeared beautiful to me. Not for what they look like our sound like, but for what they emanate. Beauty is the foundation of my book. 

In ‘In Praise of Shadows’, Jun'ichirō Tanizaki speaks of the beauty of shadows, which goes against how beauty in the canon of Western literature is based on light. The beauty of travestis, that which inhabits the shadows, the parks, away from the light, is a bit like that, don’t you think?

Yes, exactly. We were gorgeous during the day as well, though. Like something out of a Tarantino film, we’d go about in the sun, very early in the morning, strutting of the park under the morning sun towards McDonalds, where we’d have breakfast. We’d walk to the bus stop, the red sun over the city, everything glowing orange. Our beauty was a disruption, interrupting the aesthetics and order of a city as catholic as Córdoba. We tried to be beautiful in the light of day, and we succeeded. 

In his essay ‘The Simulation’, Severo Sarduy says that women don’t exist, with travestis constructing their identities based on that knowledge. What do you think of that?

I think we gave in to feminine beauty at some point. But we also moved away from imitating them. We began to explore sensations which still haven’t been defined, and which exist only amongst us travestis. It’s not to do with sexuality or identity. It’s a declaration of our existence in the world. Meeting a travesti who had money or was from a well-off family was rare. While all of us were marginalized, we all had our own bodies through which we constructed our unique existences, capable of being in our own ways. 

Speaking of bodies, the narrator in your novel state we can judge countries by the way they treat travesti bodies. Are these bodies national history? What can we read in them?

Men decide how the bodies of travestis should be, their desires dictate how our bodies are to develop. How incredibly unjust and terrifying! In the past, they wanted travestis to have hips like Sofía Loren. Then they said: “No, we want them tall, slim, and tan”. Now, they want us to be natural. Luckily, girls are therefore no longer obliged to get surgery. But this is just a first approximation, because there’s also the class struggle, something which has never been so concretely exemplified as through the bodies of travestis. Claudia Rodríguez (writer and trans activist from Chile) says that society doesn’t inform us of the danger of certain surgical procedures. All we knew was that, in order to change the world, we first had to change ourselves, our bodies. We fought to become beautiful, marketable, attractive, and when we didn’t have money for silicone, many of us would inject ourselves with industrial silicone, sentencing ourselves to a slow death. And we’d also be at risk of getting AIDS and other diseases, because we’d be terrified of going to the hospital. No one like you can be found there; no one there caters to us, listens to us, reassures us. All of them are hugely different to you. 

However, in the midst of it all, beauty and tenderness always remain. Do you see these as means of resistance? 

It comes naturally to me: I say without thinking that I’m looking for beauty in horror, or flowers in the mud. I tell it as I see it. I think discussing violence is akin to goldsmithing - it requires you to be extremely meticulous, and to take care to make sure what you’re working on doesn’t turn into something finicky or terrible. I have to have the patience and the eye of someone whose job requires them to be millimetrically precise. You have to be like a shaolin monk, wandering through the desert with a staff, looking for beauty. Without beauty, life is unable to exist. 

There’s also a series of miracle that occur throughout the book - some happier than others, but, ultimately, all of them are miracles. What drew you to this miraculous calling?

Neither of us would be here today if it wasn’t for the tale of a miracle. In Argentina, there’s a popular saint called the Difunta Correa. My parents brought a little medal to her sanctuary, and left it there with a promise: that the three of us would go back there together if I left the street and sex work. Three months later, I debuted in my theatre show Carnes Tolendas. I began gaining recognition and I never took cocaine, nor did sex work, ever again. I stopped being exposed to violence. The same year my parents made that promise, I experienced two violent instances with two clients. My parents sensed that, and prayed for a miracle to happen to me. So yes, my reading of it is that magic does happen. 

When Auntie Encarna, one of the characters in the novel, becomes a mother, this stirs up hatred within the community she lives in. What upsets is so upsetting about the thought of a travesti becoming a mother?

Every day, through their various methods and systems, capitalism and the patriarchy are competing for authority over childhood. They therefore want to ensure that it’s them who are raising the children of our country. The danger for them, is that they know that a travesti is incapable of perpetuating their systems of control. I prefer to look at it romantically, and refuse to believe that travestis would ever work for capitalism. That’s what bothers them. They’re scared of losing their control on the order which bestows them with their privileges. They also fear the thought of the existence of families formed through instincts, feelings, and emotions as subversive as love. 

The narrator asks herself how many times she’s written the word “violence”. Twenty years have passed since the events of the book - how many times do you think that word continues being written down today?

News about recent deaths still come up in conversation. We are trapped in a violent system. Violence is still there, but the support for us travestis, as well as other sectors of society, has increased. That possibility has arisen because of us, because of the girl who goes out to buy vegetables, the girl who does sex work, the girl who leaves her CV in a clothes shop for the first time, the girl who opens up to the people she’s living with to tell them she’s going to dress as a woman, the girl who writes books, the girl who sings, the girl who acts,the girl who creates a new kind of knowledge. All of us are creating an animal-like support where we resist and say “look, everyone, we aren’t genocidal, we aren’t rapists or child abusers, nor do we want to steal from anyone.” Violence still exists, and it has become even more intense.  

The travestis which appear in the book find a way of speaking and existing through their biting sense of humour. How does this particular type of language allow bonds to grow between people?

I think one of the most reductive takes on the topic is saying that “we treat each other like that to numb the pain.” In other words, we treat each other cruelly in order to later face the cruelty from the outside world. Last year, I read Claus and Lucas by Agota Kristoff, and there it may be interpreted that, like in the book, we are training in order to become desensitized. And I may be mistaken about this, but I believe that it’s to do with how we knew that language is the most powerful thing that exists. Through words, we could play speech in ways others didn’t expect. We’d say the most horrible things to each other with the greatest affection, and we’d say the most affectionate things in cutting and hurtful ways. We’d make up words, we had secret codes, nicknames that belonged to us. Our lack of privilege drove us to become very intelligent, and we soon realised that language was the only thing that truly belonged to us. As a result, we occupied it in the way we saw fit.

[myfriendpokey]

GARBAGE DAY!

a bunch of scrappy shorter pieces to clean out my drafts folder for the new year!

***

A videogame will tend towards exhausting every possible variation of a design space whether anyone wants it to or not.

Videogames and duration - if something is good it should continue being good however long you extend it. You don't really encounter the idea that something can be good for a little while and then be evil.

***

Works of art are "in conversation" with their audience, with materials, with history, with each other. The aim of an artwork is to start, or add to, "the conversation". "Conversation" sort of edges out the older tic whereby art "examines" or "explores" something, which always made me think of a big magnifying glass being propped up for the benefit of some eerily calm 1950s scientist. But now that sounds too chilly, and perhaps sort of sketchy in the power dynamics it implies. "Conversation" is much warmer, informal and more fluid - "conversation" is the assurance that any given power dynamic can be dissolved away in the warm glow of basic, mutual humanity. Let's talk it through! My door is always open! Whenever there's a complaint over labour conditions or harassment it's nearly de rigueur to also quote the wounded-sounding HR lackey, upset that people didn't talk to them about it before going public. Why would anybody deny the friendly, outstretched hand of the respected opponent and their entirely in-good-faith quibbling about word meanings, personality and tone? Why don't we have an honest conversation about the "honest conversation", that numbing discourse cloud sprayed out like formic acid to neutralize a threat, to melt any unsettling edges or contraries back into the familiar gloop of the private and the personal.

***

One of the pleasures of videogames is that of an infinitely repeatable, always identical procedure. Pressing the button makes something happen, and by pressing it again it will happen again in the same way. So there's a kind of abundance or excess built into the system - like partaking of a fruit which will never be depleted, and in the process taking on in your own actions something of that same infinity. You can temporarily identify with the self-identical, eternally reproducing action that you are performing. I think one of the difficulties of videogames is that as you get (slightly!) older, that immortal quality becomes more visibly alien, harder to align to your sense of self. That these mechanics act like black holes, able to absorb any amount of your life without ever being satiated, becomes a terrible curse rather than an unexpected gift. That endlessness now seems eerie and artificial, a horrible parody of life rather than the highest version of it. 

The dadification of vgames has gone much remarked. But as well as a demographic shift I think this reflects a certain anxiety about the centrality of these immortal entities, these endless loops, within the culture. As reward for your fealty to the Mario brand you get even more Mario games, which by now you may not have time or energy to actually play. The VG dad (or even the buff, single pseudo-dads of the superhero movies) is eternally exhausted with the genre that he’s trapped in. We hear him groan and complain as he painfully slogs through the motions. The gratuitous loop is redeemed by the finite human suffering of the dad, as he manfully does what it takes to keep these things going forwards to the next generation, so that the next set of children may be able to actually take pleasure in them again. But the attempt to symbolically re-integrate these things into human life by casting them as a family drama never quite works: their ultimate indifference to that life shines through. A blind, eerie deathlessness is both their charm and their authority.

***

That saying that when all you have is a hammer everything else looks like a nail - similarly, when all you have is willpower, everything looks like an obstacle to be pounded into submission by that same willpower. 

Laziness is a good thing in that it means stepping back from this idiot insatiability of the will. If you're lazy you have to pay more attention, because you're more aware of both your own limits and the limits of your material. 

I think there can be value in suspending a formal problem rather than building an exhaustive system to solve it forever. That way it's still something you have to think about, something that still throws off and reroutes the normal workings of your awful private fantasy machine. Dropping text strings into the game as elements to spatially encounter is not ideal technically but does force you to be more responsive and exploratory with how you use that text. Robust systems can be cool, but can also really homogenize everything - now "text" is just the miscellaneous stuff within the all-purpose "textbox" at the bottom of the screen, cementing its role as filler content.

The funny thing about really systemic, open-world type games is that their very robustness tends to suffocate exprience before it happens. We know nothing will happen which will significantly impact this camera POV, this dialogue system.. anything can happen except for anything which would require a fundamental change to the underlying inventory system. But maybe the whole pleasure of the open world game is just being able to hold those experiences in suspense.

***

Mostly the characters voicing my own opinions in my videogames are explicitly malign and sinister - which is a corny device for me to vent without worrying as much about browbeating people with my opinions. But it's also a way of having those opinions without allowing them to overdetermine the rest of the game, or be fully in control over the more ambivalent and drifting work of "putting together different pieces on a screen to make interesting spaces". So in that sense my own ideas really are the enemies, and any plot role they serve in the game is a dramatisation of the effort to create a space where they lack controlling power.

***

RPG Maker is a collage machine, you get a set of pictures and start placing them around until they start to form some kind of charged and interesting space.

I think the collage aspect is a lot of what I enjoy about making these things, which is why games with more polished or consistent art styles frequently leave me cold. For me the greater the discrepancy between different objects on screen means a greater effect when they're combined. 

How does gameplay etc tie in? For me gameplay can divert the interest but never truly capture it. For decades games have had the problem of effectively being able to train you to do something, but having no idea what that thing should be or why it would matter. They effectively move your attention around without being able to settle it because their inner logic is basically always the same ahistorical, mechanistic void. But this can be a good thing - the permanently restless and unsettled nature of videogame attention can't illuminate itself, but can do so to other things in passing. 

Distraction becomes a way to examine surfaces, rather than being sucked into depths or settled to one fixed meaning. And the drift of unsettled consciousness is ultimately what animates game collages, the spaces that shift and react as attention plays across them, revealing or withholding. And so from this perspective, the answer to why I make videogames is: because I don't trust myself to look after an aquarium.

***

Design is managerial aesthetics - a mode of expertise framed as meta-expertise specifically because it scales up so well to systems of mass organisation and production. It's a universal discipline insofar as the task of removing any obstacles to the frictionless flow of attention and of capital is now also a universal chore. In this context a designer is like the MBA who can be dropped into any business to improve it, without ever having to know just what product they make – because the ultimate goal is always the same, the same tools can always be used. 

The cutesy books about the design of everyday life and so forth exist in the same vein as the ones that tell us there's nothing wrong with marketing because ultimately isn't all human discourse and activity some form of marketing? Isn't everything "design"? The strange top-heaviness with which these things outgrow their host categories parallels the unstoppable expansion of executive salaries within the businesses themselves. The task of managing other people's labour becomes ever more grandoise, ineffable, cosmic and well-paid as that labour in turn is framed as a kind of undifferentiated slop which exists for the sake of being shaped by creatives.

***

tragedy / comedy:

Generalizing hugely I feel like tragedy is about an event or experience so powerful it changes everything - for the characters involved, for the people in that world, for the audience watching - while conversely comedy is the idea that no event or experience can change anything. Oedipus dies and there's a big announcement and everyone has to sit through the awkward two-minute silence before getting back to work, while trying not to fart or itch too noticeably, and the next day somebody's selling Oedipus commemorative pens which run out of ink five minutes after opening, and the pen cap gets lost and the cat starts playing with it. 

In comedy the tragic can still happen, it’s just never strong enough to escape the constraints of the inert material universe which we find ourselves in – all that which remains so stubbornly intractable towards the higher instincts. I can talk about the dignity of man but there's still a risk that my pants will fall down or that someone will hit me with a ladder, causing my head to get stuck inside a bucket of paint, etc. Or my voice might be ridiculous or I might have a stutter (old comedy standbys!), or someone might hear part of my words out of context and assign them a different and unintended meaning. Comedy is consciousness imprisoned within a cumbersome matter which it can't completely do anything with, but also can't exist without. 

Taken as a worldview, this sort of risks congealing into the kneejerk reactionary things-can-never-change, whatever-moment-of-human-history-i-was-reared-in-is-eternal-and-inviolate radio DJ / South Park mindset. And of course somebody's view of what constitutes a tragic, life-changing event depends greatly on whether it's happening to them or someone else. But as exaggeration, in its neurotic overemphasis of the inescapable material, i think this approach still has interest and use. Many of my favourite writers have a kind of comic understanding of consciousness: consciousness becomes a churning material process with its own independent momentum which has to be examined and accounted for as part of any real reckoning with the world. In this light comedy becomes a way to think about opacity and limitation, both in physical matter and in our own selves.

I think many people have made the point that vgames are generally comic, intentionally or unintentionally. The rhetoric around them still tends towards the tragic: make the choice which changes everything! Deal with the consequences, accept your fate! But in practice those moments feel less visible than the clumsy material layer of GUIs, inputs, mechanics and representations that contain and constrain them. The opacity of the black box is one inhibition: was that meant to happen? Was it scripted or a glitch? Maybe I should reload my save and try again. Another is the inertia of the various game systems and loops themselves - [x] character may have died but you still need to collect those chocobo racing feathers if you want the Gold Sword. The numbers in a videogame "want" to keep going up, whatever happens: there's an affordance there which exists independently to any merely human wants and needs, and so tends to act as a gravity well for distracted consciousness as it wanders around. When people talk about tragedy in videogames it's usually with the implicit rider that it's within a game, or set of game conventions, which have become naturalised enough to become invisible. Which also tends to mean the naturalisation of a form, of inputs, of technology, of distribution mechanisms and assumptions, which however arty we can get are still inherently tied to the tech industry. Every art game is to some extent an invitation to spend more time internalising the vocab of your windows computer.

I've mentioned that the materialism of comedy can tend towards unthinking reaction. But the insistence on certain limits inherent to the human body – requirements like clean water and clean air, food and shelter, actual bathroom breaks and not piss jugs and also not having to live six feet beneath a rising sea level - can be helpful at a point when all these things are regarded as negotiable impediments to the pursuit of future profit. Maybe it’s a good thing that some materials can still be so insistent about refusing to be absorbed into the will.

***

I think what I most enjoy about art is the sense of a game with moveable stakes: where you never quite know the value of what you're playing for, which now appears absolutely trivial, and now appears to stand in judgement of the whole world, etc. I think this is also the Adorno idea of the aesthetic as really the extra-aesthetic, that which can step outside or threaten to step outside the limits of the merely aesthetic. It's why "just make a good game / pop song / comic / etc" never quite works, in rhetoric or in practice: the really good pop song is never that which just gives the enjoyable three minutes of listening we might consciously assign to be its remit, it's what overflows or undercuts that category, that which however briefly seems at risk of stepping outside it and into the realm of everyday life.

I grew up on pop culture so I don't have to feel positively towards it. Who am I meant to be defending it from? The handful of surviving WASPs reared on Brahms who get the ostentatiously-fussy-culture-review posts at print newspapers looking to pick up a slightly higher quality of margarine advertisement? The best thing pop culture ever gave me was its own critique: that of containing artists and moments which couldn't be squared with what the rest of it was saying, which seemed  to call the whole enterprise into question and in doing so broadened the sense of what was possible. Pop culture was never quite identified with itself, the value it has is in containing elements which make that self-identification impossible. So it always throws me off to see people celebrating "pop culture", like it's a self-produced totality, when that totality was only ever good for kicking.

Pop culture survives through a negativity it can never properly acknowledge.

[images: Tower of Druaga, Detana!! TwinBee, True Golf Classics: Wicked 18, Microsurgeon, Dark Edge]

[hlwim]

Not All of Me Will End [2/3]

Summary: Nothing remains of her but what must be left behind. Tags: Character Death, Cancer, Tragedy, Angst, Bittersweet, Post-Canon Pairings: Royai, Edwin, Havolina AO3  ff.net

who dies

The registry office in Wellesley opens only by appointment—they had no way of knowing, and so wait outside for a nearby shoeshine boy to disappear down the road and then return again with the judge in tow. A chair is brought from the hotel next door, for Riza, and set beneath the narrowing shade of an overhung awning. They are married there, witnessed in the open air by the shoeshine and a passing farmhand dressed primly for church—because in his haste, the judge forgot his keys. Riza is too tired to stand, although she raises her hands to Roy’s and manages to speak her vows clearly enough to satisfy.

Roy bends down to kiss her, and her cheeks and chin are coated in a fine sheen of sweat.

Driving to the house in his car is a bizarre experience—the road used to be just wide enough for one horse-cart abreast, but now it’s paved smooth. The trees on either side have been trimmed back above solid-cobbled stone walls, and they even pass a pedestrian or two, wielding umbrellas against the reemerged sun.

Riza sees none of it. Fitfully, she sleeps with her coat wedged between the seatback and her tilted head. She’ll be cold when she wakes, so he keeps a blanket waiting on the bench between them.

They’ve already had the furniture delivered, and groceries will arrive on a schedule worked out with the general store in town, and he’s arranged to have a local girl come three times a week for cleaning and laundry and sometimes to cook. He’s only learned a bit more domesticity during their too-brief engagement, and even if he’s terrible as a husband, at least—the thought comes so quick and cutting and he cannot banish such ugliness outright—at least, she won’t have long to suffer it.

The hired girl isn’t around when they arrive, which he can take as a relief. He gathers Riza from the car and carries her inside to the waiting bed, watching the steps and her face in equal measure.

She won’t look like this when she has finally died, but it’s too close. The shift from his arms to the bed is boneless and near-silent, as guilt lodges a lump in his throat. He knows, but still he kisses her cheek and her temple and the edge of her hairline, coaxing enough movement from her to calm his racing heart.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, running his hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear as she frowns into the pillow. “I’ll just be downstairs.”

Fresh flowers occupy each room—the girl will be responsible for changing them on every other visit—but otherwise, the space is impersonal. He spent little time in the parlor or the dining room as a boy—both seemingly shut up by cave-ins of boxes and debris, but he knew the kitchen well, and the library and his assigned room upstairs. Nothing remains of what he remembers here: splits in the plaster of every wall have been mudded over and painted, the clutter-occupied floors are swept and varnished to shine. All the furniture is new, from some maker a few stops down the line. The library has lost its shelves. The previous tenants blocked off its fireplace a few years back and used the room as a nursery.

Downstairs, sunlight floods through scrubbed windows, and Roy carries in from the car crate after crate of paintings and photographs that have made the long trip west. They retain only the faintest odor of mildew from their long storage.

The few chances he’d had to visit her up at Briggs and stayed the night, he would wake in her bunk somewhat unnerved by the sheer mass of faces peering down on them. She had festooned each wall with a collage of photographs, in a steady rotation of old and new. The mountain was a lonely place, as she’d written so often, each time imploring him to send pictures of anything resembling home: puddles in the street outside his house, the foggy glint of lamplight above his aunt’s new bar, Havoc and Breda’s candid grins when caught out on a break.

She almost never sent pictures of herself in return—cameras are contraband in the north, unless personally sanctioned by the führer. Roy has a few of those images, clipped from newspapers, of Riza frowning professionally at Lieutenant General Armstrong’s shoulder or blurred in the background, a streak of gray on the endless white. Riza, naturally, hates every one of them.

The paintings require a keener eye. She had only spent a short time curating her collection, venturing out to the markets every Sunday, always seeking the smaller vendors who sold their own wares rather than dealing in reproductions. She favored flowers, still lifes of books and vases, and birds—always in cool colors, composed of pastels or pencils or crayon. Instinct tells him not to arrange by subject or size, but the gradient of hue he creates seems somehow unbalanced. He takes a few canvases down, puts them back up, matches and mismatches.

Only half the crate is empty, and inspiration has failed him. The clean and orderly whiteness of the room is only tarnished by his efforts. Frowning, Roy flicks through what remains unhung. A cityscape, a willow weeping over a stream, a cafe scene—and of course, the portrait.

Grumman had commissioned an oil painting of Riza a year past, which she had gamely sat for—assuming she’d never have to see the monstrosity once completed. It was the perfect mirror of her mother’s portrait, similarly commissioned before a sudden elopement, and the old man had once made it the centerpiece of his parlor, surrounded on all sides by hunting trophies and artifacts of battles past.

Perhaps Riza’s portrait had been meant as a replacement—the way Roy remembered it, Riza resembled her mother in all but eye color—as the original seemed to have gone missing in Grumman’s move from East City to Central Command. But with tears and sniffles of preterm grief, the führer had insisted they take this new portrait with them. It is the only piece Roy brings directly to the cellar, setting it on a shelf just above the floodline and leaving the canvas tightly twine-bound.

It’s hard to tell if the cellar’s been scrubbed out as much as the rest of the house, although he can clearly see someone’s swept the scrolls and rats from the wine racks lining the southern wall. They never bothered to run electricity down here, and he doesn’t have an ignition glove—he has to fumble around for the matchbox and nearly burns his fingertips trying to reach the wick of the oil-lamp waiting by the bottom of the stairs. Cobwebs and spirals of dust are illuminated, and not much else.

A few pieces of muslin-shrouded furniture congregate in the corner, and one of them, he thinks, looks just a bit like Master Hawkeye’s old table from library. Instead, he finds a stack of crates, all missing nails and lids loose. Mostly it’s books and musty curtains, but he finds a few photographs as well. Remnants of prior lives long gone. She won’t want any of them, except—

Still pressed into its cardboard envelope, although the studio name has been worn away by time or exposure. He can remember the moment of the flash, and Auntie’s hand tightening on his shoulder. Master Hawkeye stands as a solid column of black coat and hunched shoulders, and Riza clutches her bouquet of buttercups to her chest, eyes on some passing cart instead of the camera. A simple thing, posed and preserved in the murky amber of the old water printing.

Why had they taken it? Roy flips the photograph itself as though it might reveal an answer, but there is only a perfectly straight line of pencil letters across the back, carefully recording their names. Perhaps it had been at his own insistence, wanting some permanent record of the beginnings of his life, some proof that he had been a child with dreams and ideals, who’d boldly written a letter to a man he’d never known demanding a place as his apprentice. And Hawkeye had written him back, had agreed on strength of his former friendship with Roy’s long-deceased parents, and had brought his little daughter to greet them at the train station with buttercups and an off-balance curtsy.

Roy doesn’t touch the paper, wanting to keep the oil of his skin from staining the ink, but he gently trails a finger across their faces. Even if she doesn’t want it, he’ll keep it somewhere close.

When he finally ascends, Riza has made her way downstairs, appraising his efforts from an old-fashioned lounge set in one corner.

“It’s alright,” she says, without waiting for his excuses. “A couple of bare spots, but we can fill them.”

She wants to be, in her words, properly married—she teases his caution, rightly noting that neither of them are exactly blushing virgins, but still he hesitates. She walks upstairs, strips down, and arrays herself on the bed all under her own power, as if to prove him wrong.

“Why do you think I saved up all my energy today?”

She is beautiful in such exposure. Even if it hovers at the very edge of every thought, he does not see her in these moments as sick or as a woman dying. She is freckled ivory skin and soft breasts, blonde hair spread across the pillow in a blinding corona, deep eyes like forest faun beckoning him down to rest.

Kneeling at the bed’s foot, he kisses the inside of her ankle—a ticklish spot that yields from her a quiet bubble of laughter. He undresses out of her reach, following the hum of her pulse, up her calf, her kneecap, the warmth of her thighs, and then sharply around to her hip, outlining the bone just beneath her skin with feathered touches. Her smile is gentle impatience, silent, letting him finish, but she is imploring, as always, for more.

He is grateful for the time they have spent building this intimacy before—when the milky future had seemed so clear in her eyes, when he had dreamt with abandon of every now-impossible branching path. He had, with the balm of passion, soothed the aching loneliness that haunted them both, had taught himself the arc of her spine and the sweet exhalation of her undoing. The rough edges, too, and the moments mismanaged that saw them collapse into laughter on her narrow bunk. He can touch, can love, can embrace with the purity of perfect intentions, can watch the tremble of her lips and press his against her neck, can envelope her whispers with his own, can twist and tug the fraying thread that unravels her and then let himself follow after.

Years later, he will remember this night as the last time they made love, forgetting the few quiet hollows that followed after, each shorter and more awkward and fumbling, as the long line of final days spiraled around him, unbroken.

It is essential to establish a routine—she sets up a study in the old library and chafes at his over-attention, preferring that he should have his calls and his telegrams and his campaign of letters in some other room of the house. Necessity of command does not shutter itself just because he needs a leave of absence, and although he’s built a new team worthy of uninhibited trust, Roy is grateful for the distraction. Riza tells him to take the typewriter because she hates the clacking of keys, but he knows the tremble of her fingers has already weakened their dexterity.

He doesn’t ask what she spends all day writing—from breakfast to afternoon he can hear the nib scratching across pages, a feverish pace that seems to speed as she begins to slow.

“It’s important. Things I’ve thought about. Things I remember. I had so many ideas for the future of this country, and I’m not going to let them waste with me in the ground.”

Roy laughs, dividing lunch between their plates. Downstairs, the hired girl is sweeping.

“You sound like your father.”

“Please,” Riza says. “He lost his fight and then gave up on the future. He wasn’t an anarchist from his deathbed. Just a selfish old man.”

A spark flashes through her eyes—a memory? A moment of confusion?

“Oh!” she breathes. “That’s a great title for a pamphlet.”

They’re set at a little table beside her desk, and she leans over, snatching up a pen and a scrap of paper. Anarchist from the deathbed, she writes.

“I’m not publishing that.”

“Who says I’m leaving any of this to you?” she retorts lightly, tossing the scrap back onto her pile. She hasn’t yet touched her food. “You forget, I’ve seen your paperwork.”

“I can hire an editor.”

She smiles, plucking his hand from the tabletop and kissing his knuckles.

“I suppose. I only married you to avoid writing a will.”

It’s difficult to mark the precise start, but her decline is quick. She used to spend their evenings after dinner reading in the sitting room, but gradually the books disappear and she takes up teaching herself to paint with oils: a small series of canvases depicting flowers in artfully arranged still-lifes, which grow steadily impressionistic, day by day.

He’ll find her sometimes midday, studying the photographs arranged through the room with a hard frown creasing her face. When caught, she’ll call him in and quiz him on each image—the subjects, the date and location, the precious personal significance of each. He knows why, and plays along with all the greater enthusiasm.

Telegrams begin to pile up unanswered, and he calls the sub-district operator to instruct that only emergency calls are to be forwarded. He finds excuses to sit in the library with her, to bring her tea and rearrange the shawls wrapped around her narrow shoulders.

At night sometimes, she wakes with screaming terrors, certain in such moments that her father will claw his way from the grave to kill them both and eat their bones. She sees specters of old friends and twice begs his indulgence for the poor quality of her paperwork. In moments of lucidity, she mocks her ramblings with cold frustration. Her hands tremble all the more, and she clenches them white against her knees.

She keeps writing. She tears the paper, scratches over, speckles her skin with ink. Some of it, he knows, must be nonsense. But he picks up each scrap, smoothes each balled-up page, and does what few little things he still can for her.

He is adjusting the wireless signal in the library when she drops her pen for the last time, her head shaking and her throat sighing.

“No more,” she says, when he offers to transcribe her dictations. She meets his eyes when he kneels into her down-turned gaze, as though surprised the question had had a corporeal source. “It’s not all there is to say, but it’s enough.”

That was a Monday. On Tuesday, she argues with her father about money and then falls silent for two hours, staring through her empty canvas. She jumps at every sound and cries out to him for protection the moments he disappears from her darkening sight.

It is breaking the rules—she had said goodbye in all the ways that she wanted, long before there was such certainty—but he calls mostly on a whim late that night, while writing out a check for the groceries due to arrive tomorrow. The stairs have become a growing vexation, and for the fifth day in a row, Roy has carried Riza up to their bed, ignoring the protests that emptied her wheezing lungs.

Rebecca picks up and calls Jean to the extension before Roy can object. He begs them to bring the dog.

He tries to help—rearranging certain photographs to cluster together, steering conversations over breakfast to East City and to academy days. It’s so hard to guess what she will or won’t know when they finally arrive. He braids her hair while she ignores the food, and he brings a thicker shawl down, and he begs her not to move from the chair he sets in the sunlight of the sitting room. She holds a book between her fingers and squints at the text.

“Do you have calls?” she asks. “I didn’t even hear the telephone.”

“No, no calls. They’re all leaving me alone now.”

“That’s right.”

Even the softest sigh weighs her so heavily.

“What else have you told me before?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, kissing her cheek. “Just stay.”

“Of course,” she says, with a wan smile. “I’ll be right here.”

He can hear the car crunching through the drive’s untidy gravel, and he waits just inside the front door, where he can see and be unseen. Hunched together, oblivious, Rebecca holds her face in her hands, shoulders heaving, as Jean rubs small circles on her arms.

As instructed, they have brought nothing but the dog, and he bounds happily through the grass. He must be approaching old age, but he retains the energy of a puppy—tail thumping the ground hard as he comes to sit at Roy’s feet.

“Hey, mutt,” he says, kneeling to scratch Hayate’s ears and the sweet spot on the back of his neck. The collar’s new, and now there’s an address stamped on the back of the tag. Residence of Havoc and Catalina, if he had to guess.

“Hey, uh—Roy.”

Jean frowns. They’re all civilians out here, and it feels wrong.

“Hi,” Rebecca says, breathy from the recent tears. She lurches forward into a hug—and Roy accepts it, although they’ve only met a handful of times.

He leads them inside, holding the dog in both arms. Riza hasn’t moved, although her hands are twisting in her lap, and her smile on seeing them is lopsided.

“Hello,” she says hesitantly, with a look more frightened than friendly.

“Look who’s come to visit you,” Roy says, as he sets Hayate on the floor. The dog approaches Riza, tail wagging cautiously, before setting his chin on her leg. She places her hand between his ears, tremors hidden now by his fur.

“Hi, Riza,” Rebecca says, kneeling to be in her line-of-sight. “I’ve missed you.”

A flash—he will be the only one who knows, but Riza recovers from it enough to keep going.

“I,” she says, “missed you, too.”

Rebecca nods, joining Riza in gently scratching Hayate’s spine.

“It’s so nice to see you again.”

“It’s been a while,” Riza says, a question directed at the dog more than the rest of them.

“Yeah, it has.”

Jean’s hand closes over his shoulder—Roy realizes then that he’s retreated to the doorway.

“Let’s give them a minute,” Jean says quietly.

“There’s…”

He blinks.

“Coffee. In the kitchen.”

“Sounds great.”

Riza does not look up at his exit—she is concentrating only on her current efforts, and there’s nowhere in the house they could go that he wouldn’t hear her calling, if he were to be needed. Nodding, Roy backs into the hall, leading the way to the kitchen’s closed door. Rote memory: he enters, stopping only a half-pace inside, dazed by the effort.

“Why don’t you just sit down? I can figure it out, boss.”

So he does: pulls a never-used chair from beneath the kitchen table—he’d meant for it to host breakfast, but any meals he didn’t bring to her library were always taken in the sitting room, with her photographs—and he drops heavily, as though his knees are only hinges, lacking any backstop. Limp flowers sit in a vase at the center of the table, long past their prime.

He’d told the girl not to come by today. They were having guests. And he’d call when she was needed again.

“So, how are you?”

“I—”

Answer on instinct.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“No offense, but that’s horseshit.”

He doesn’t remember the process being so instantaneous—Jean brings over two cups of burning black coffee, and then he sits in the chair right beside Roy rather than across.

“You look like shit, boss. You lost a bunch of weight.”

Jean stirs sugar and cream into his mug, brow raised.

“I eat what she eats,” Roy says, “which I guess isn’t a lot lately.”

Coffee he’s always taken just as is—he lacks a reason to swirl a spoon around the bottom and create a natural moment to pause. Instead he stares down into the corrupted liquid mirror, avoiding his own eyes.

“They said that’s the first thing. That she’d stop being hungry, stop wanting food, before—”

Before. He feels the breath leave him, raggedly.

“I know it’s coming. I mean—I’ve known. But it’s close now. She’s right here, and she’s… so far away.”

Out of sight when she hasn’t been, for such a long time, and he can’t bring himself to drink, tightening his hands around the cup enough that he wonders why the porcelain won’t break. He is half-strength without her, half-sized against the looming of her absence.

“Roy, how are you?” Jean asks again, sincerity slowing each syllable.

“I really don’t know.”

It’s bizarre to be the focus of attention, in this way. He’s had confidantes, adjutants, lackeys, even a few hired thugs, but friendship was always difficult to come by. Roy hasn’t thought of anyone in particular as an intimate—at least, not since Maes Hughes died, too many years past. Jean is close enough to being a contemporary, even if he was too young by a year to experience Ishval.

And there’s something in the look he gives Roy: not pity, not close to understanding, but something akin to authenticity. The memory is buried deep, but they’d once shared an experience unique to all others—the proximity of death, the certainty that they both would be the last person each other saw. In the hospital, there’d been only jokes to mask a careful aversion of eyes, of delving too far into horror and transformation. But sometimes at night, Roy would lie awake and know from the unchanged pattern of breathing to his right that Jean was also lying awake. It was a comfort.

A drop of water appears on the table between his arms—such a strange occurrence, considering the chances of rain indoors.

“I tell myself it’s not so bad,” Roy says. “She remembers me—I think because I’m here. And even when—when she doesn’t know, sometimes she’s happy.”

He glances up briefly, trying to smile, but Jean is awash in blur.

“She thinks we’re just here, and we’re happy. I don’t want to lie to her, but…”

A shrug.

“It’s easier. For me. And because in a minute or two, she won’t remember it anyway. Is—is it horrible? That part of me wants it to just be over?”

“No,” Jean says quietly. He sets a hand on Roy’s arm—warm, gentle, unexpected. “It’s shit, boss. Pure shit, watching this kind of thing happen to someone. Let alone the woman you spent your life loving.”

“Were we always that transparent?”

“More than you’ll ever really know,” Jean says with a short, quiet laugh. Roy flattens his fingers on the tabletop. His nails look pitted, bitten down to the quick.

“I’m scared of what happens when it is over. I don’t think I know who I am, after this.”

“I know I don’t have an answer for that,” Jean sighs. “But I wish I did.”

They leave the coffee in the kitchen—Riza will want none, and Rebecca is occupied with filling the quiet. She has pulled a little pouf up to Riza’s chair and leans over the arm, holding both of Riza’s hands gently. The dog is curled between them, leaning up against Riza’s legs beneath the blanket.

“You’re back?” Riza says to Roy. “When did you go?”

She is so small. He’s been too close to see it until now.

“It hasn’t been long. Are you tired?”

And she smiles, so relieved.

Jean tells him, somewhat pointedly, that they’re going to stay the night in the village—after Rebecca is already in the car, door closed, and turned away to hide her face. Roy stands just inside the foyer to watch them go, waving once.

When he returns to the sitting room, Hayate is up, tail wagging gently, as Riza holds his face and runs her fingers down his snout.

“You’re beautiful,” she says. “I hope I told you that many times.”

Roy carries her upstairs, to the bed, as she trails an arm behind, coaxing Hayate to follow. He’s slow, but steady for a dog of his age, and he waits patiently for Roy to arrange the blankets before jumping up on the bed, turning his circles, and coming to rest against her feet.

“Do you want anything?” Roy asks.

“Some water,” she whispers, turning her head to the pillow, “please.”

The house is dim but not dark. The jars of flowers set before each window scatter the light, painting meadows and winding rivers across every room. Motes of dust dance between, illuminating an aisle to the door. The coffee cups still sit untouched in the kitchen, and the lilac here has browned completely. The shriveled little blossoms cloud around the vase, untouched by breeze or sunlight.

When he returns to the bedroom, Riza has turned on her side, faced away from the door. Hayate has moved up as well, curling close to her stretched arms. His eyes are open, and he is watching Riza’s face.

Roy does not cross to her side of the bed—he sets the water on his own end table and kneels. He kisses her cheek and her temple and the edge of her hairline—and then lays himself beside her, molds his legs against her legs and stomach against her bent back. He is trembling, he is cold and hollow and he knows knows knows.

Beneath his hand, her heart thrums and skips.

“It’s alright,” he whispers. “I’ll be right here, when you’re ready.”

[moonicekitten06]

Happy 2nd Anniversary Yuri On Ice!!!!!!

Happy second anniversary guys! So it’s been two years and Yuri On Ice has come so far, grown so much, and the fandom is more alive than ever before!

Yuri On Ice has inspired so much in my life, and continues to inspire me every single day! The characters, the music, and the story continues to live in my every day life and in my art and in my writing. I have grown so much as an artist just from Yuri On Ice and I have actually written, not posted, but written over 100 K in fanfiction for this fandom! I have never been this dedicated before to anything in all the fandoms I’ve been in, but I’ve really been able to immerse myself in this fandom.

So today, and celebration the second anniversary, I’m going to share mostly collages of the screenshot challenges that I have done for all the work that I’ve posted! I have to do collages, because I have created so much that Tumblr will only let me share 10 pictures and I’ve done possibly more than 10 pictures...

Where do I even begin?

Yuuri Katsuki.

We get to take this journey with Yuuri over 12 episodes and really watch his character transform from his mindset that he’s just an every day skater, that there’s nothing special about him to someone that is worthy of not only being under Victor’s tutelage but being a part of Victor’s world and the skating world. He had lost his faith that he was good enough to be part of that world after failing at the last Grand Prix, but after getting a second chance his character really transform into someone who is no longer just driven by anxiety and self-doubt but he is full of confidence and, even pride, but most of all he is full of determination that he will win gold in the next season. So we get to take this journey with him and see his character transform and I think that is what is really special about this series is the character transformation.

Victor Nikiforov

So we don’t get to learn much about Victor’s character other than when we meet him at the beginning of the series he has lost his inspiration as a skater and as a performer. He has come to see his success and his gold medals as true chains and feels very listless and is unsure of what he should do, until he sees Yuuri’s video that has gone viral. And this is where we meet Victor as he shows up in Hasetsu to teach and coach Yuri to help him win a gold medal at the Grand Prix final. But over the course of the series we watched his character transform from someone who no longer has inspiration to someone who has learned to become this very coach figure that he’s aspired to be but also realizing that he still wants to be a competitor, that he’s not done with the skating world and that he really wants to go back to it but also move forward with this new life he’s built. He now has new purpose after going on this journey with Yuuri. And of course not to mention the gold ring he now wears that he has proclaimed once Yuuri wins gold they will get married...can’t wait for that!

Yuri Plisetsky

My smol angry child! We really watch Yuri transform from this very bratty, petulant almost, very childish personality to one that has matured, slightly, and has learned that he still has a lot more to learn in life. When we meet him he’s being a complete bully to our precious Yuuri, which we have just seen him cry and break down in the bathroom before Yuri shows up to proclaim that there will be only one year in the senior bracket. But we watch him move forward and realize that he’s not going to automatically dominate the senior field like he did the junior field, he realizes that he really needs to push himself to the limits and even past his limits in order to pursue his dream of winning gold, beating Yuuri, and keeping Victor in Russia! That we see him transform in a way that he’s really gone from his sole purpose in life is nothing but skating, to the isolation of everything else in his life, to that of opening new doors to friendships and relationships. We really watch him grow, and it’s also hard to realize and remember when he’s competing against all these older competitors that he’s only 15, that this is his first year and seniors. So he still has a lot of room to grow and if they do a second season I really look forward to seeing what they do with his character!

The Relationships

Can we just talk a minute about how healthy Yuuri and Victor‘s relationship ends up being? I mean, no one had to die for them to be happy together, the world didn’t come to an end, there were no heated squabbles or debates no cheating on each other, it’s a very healthy relationship! So can we just take a moment to be like hey, this is what a relationship should be like! So can we just take a moment to appreciate that they’re can actually be healthy relationships in this world?

The Costumes, Music, and Programs.

Where do I even start what is this? This subject has been the source of true inspiration for many people in the Yuri on Ice fandom. The costumes are so elaborate and unique and beautiful and they all fit the characters very well while the music, (oh my God how can I even touch on the music), the music has inspired fans in so many aspects the notes are written in the stars as far as the fans are concerned! And the programs! The uniqueness of each individual program, and the fact that we don’t have a single warhorse program in the mix at all, which is probably due to licensing, but they had to work, the creators, extra hard to create the individual costumes, the music, and the programs! Not to mention the fact that all the programs are very realistic and fit skating to T, none of it has gone outside as what real ice-skating is. So this subject has inspired people to make art, has inspire people to make music, and has inspire people to make costumes and stories and I could go on and on with this but the Yuri on Ice fandom has been inspired!

History Maker

This song, this song breeze life into me sometimes when life tries to kick me down and keep me down. The lyrics are so inspiring and not only fit the series but they really suit life in general. Yuri on Ice teaches us to stop at nothing to pursue our dreams, that we need to do what we can and push ourselves to our limits and even passed them in order to do what we feel we are passionate about. And this song, on bad days picks me up and on good days keeps me going, it has been my ringtone for I don’t know how long now but it is the reason why I sometimes miss phone calls because I’m too busy jamming out to History Maker!

YOLO

I really think this theme, along with pursuing her dreams, is something that is equally important add a message that the series teaches its fans. We only have so long on this earth and we can either toil away or we can make the most of it and make each day our own and I think this series really teaches that it’s important to remember we only live once and to make each day our very best.

So what’s next?

I have no idea but I can’t WAIT to find out!