#(famously he just absolutely loved being The Master‚ and it was more or less all he did from the 80s onwards until the end of the classic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hotdamnhunnam · 3 years

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Filthy Fucking Pet

A/N: Here’s the next requested fic from my Dirty Little Secret – Super Kinky List! In which Jax Teller owns and abuses you like an actual animal… this shit is mad intense lol and Jax is an absolute alpha male asshole. **Please note the warnings: This fic is all about the kinks, please do not read if this is not your thing!!**

Pairing: Jax Teller x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, dom!Jax, extreme degradation/dehumanization (master/pet kink, sweat kink, foot worship, ass worship, Jax humiliates you to the max, realistically this is not at all a healthy relationship) Request: This Dirty Little Secret request (anon)

Word Count: ~2.6k

**Please note warnings above**

Triggering content after ‘Keep reading’ cut…

Seriously, this shit is super savage and sick and twisted. You’re basically Jax Teller’s personal house pet. In addition to kinky stuff like rimming and the general vibe of extreme submission, this is also the first fic I’ve posted on tumblr that features foot worshiping (I swear I have no interest in feet irl really – as with pretty much all of the kinks in my kinkiest fics honestly, it’s just a theoretical fantasy that I have only for Charlie, and only in theory… since theoretically I have no limits with my sex god king…)

Anywhore, enough ado about nothing! 🙃 All of the kinks in this fic are mentioned in the above warnings, so please just be mindful of them before you jump in…

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You used to be human. But now... it feels as if you've never been.

From the day you and Jackson first met, way back when, you had fallen in love with the crown prince. Fallen to your knees to serve him as his bitch and that's all you have been ever since. Pleasing him is your business. You're his little whore, and his personal pet: nothing more, nothing less.

Anything but human honestly. You're whatever Jax Teller wants you to be. His kinky sex kitten, his filthy fuckpig, or his damn dirty dog on a leash. It's the best. You don't speak, you don't eat—not human food, at least—you just serve at his feet. This is your whole existence. And God, you feel so fucking blessed.

You spend all your days in his house, day in and day out. The castle of the king of Charming. It's such a gift just to live under the same roof as him. Whenever he's not home, you miss him so badly it hurts. But you keep yourself busy by doing the housework. Constantly crawling on all fours, you use your grubby paws to scrub the floor, and sweep the dust off of his furniture.

Then once you're done with all your chores, you kneel down by the front door, and wait desperately for your master. Just counting the seconds until he returns.

Every time that it happens, the moment you hear the smooth roar of the engine as his bike gets in... then his powerful footsteps approaching the entrance... your heart starts to beat harder, faster. On fire in the presence of Jax. There is always a butt plug stuck deep in your ass, with a big fluffy fake tail attached. You're otherwise naked except for your collar and tags.

And today, as your master comes home after quite a long time far away, you are happier than you can take—your whole body quivers and quakes, and your tail starts to wag.

When Jax finally walks in, you gaze up at him with wide, worshipful eyes. He's so damn beautiful you could cry. You yelp and whimper a few times in greeting, to express how excited you are to be seeing your king. By now your human brain has certainly stopped working. Your hungry tongue hangs from your open mouth, breathing needy and loud, as subhuman growls and thick gobs of drool keep spilling out.

He smiles down at you as he enters, worn out from a long day of being Jax Teller, the baddest motherfucker ever. He must be exhausted, no doubt.

But still his gorgeous grin is big and genuine, bright as the sun, his slicked hair such a brilliant blonde, eyes as deep and as blue as the ocean. Clearly pleased at the sight of your tail-wagging motion, a signal of your pure devotion.

"Happy to see me?" he teases playfully, as if he has to ask. Typical Jax.

You nod gleefully in response to that. Your perfect master reaches down to pat your head, stroking your hair now as you purr for him, showing how much you adore him, as his faithful little pet.

"That's a good slut," he coos. "Go on, you know what to do."

Lowering your face to the ground, as ever eager to go down, upon those words he speaks, you hurry to remove his shoes. Those famously white sneaks. Then tug his socks off with your teeth—damp with a long day's worth of sweat, getting you drunk on his intoxicating scent, the pure essence of Jackson—then press sloppy kisses all over his beautiful feet. Servicing him like this is everything you need.

Ugh, you've missed him so much... full of love and submission, arousal dripping from your crotch, you stuff his socks into your mouth both at once, then lift your face off of the floor and sit back on your heels in your usual kneeling position. Your paws are propped under your chin as you blink up at him. He knows just what you want.

"Look at you, cunt. You wanna play fetch?" he says, chuckling as you bob your dumb head eagerly up and down. It's so much fun when he rolls his sweaty socks into a ball and throws it all over the house, for you to chase around. Playing that game is such a privilege. "Hmm, I would... but I'm not in the mood. Master's too fucking tired. Too bad for you, bitch."

Aw. Too bad indeed. Wallowing in self-pity, you pout and hang your head in a deep bow, but you know better than to plead. He turns to walk away now, and you follow at his feet. Crawling as you are it's always hard to keep up with his speed.

He's yawning by the time you reach the master bedroom. Some nights he has more energy when he gets home. Sometimes he'd slam you up against the wall and fuck you hard in every hole, wild and savage as an animal, filling you with his thick creamy cum, so deliciously full...

Apparently not tonight, though. You can't blame him, you know. You can't blame Jackson Teller for any damn thing, to be honest. Of course not. Because he is your fucking king. Whatever he does, he's your master, your god; everything about his whole existence is flawless.

You watch in rapture as he strips naked, carelessly flinging his kutte and the rest of his clothes to the floor, and flops facedown in bed to lay his weary head to rest. Fit for the king he is, his bed is big and plush and luxurious. At this late hour, he's too tired to even bother with a shower, you notice. Fuck yes—that's how you like it best.

Hopefully he'll let you use your tongue to clean up all his glorious sweat. Then whenever he leaves next to take care of business, you'll still get to savor his scent in his absence, inhaling it off of the sheets and the mattress. Your thirsty mouth is watering just at the thought of it, as you scurry all over the bedroom to clean up his mess.

Gathering up all the clothes that he scattered, you can't help but take a deep breath. Inhaling the essence of this sinfully sexy bastard.

You indulge in a whiff, as you slobber and sniff—focusing on the pits of his shirt so damp and sweaty it's obscene, and the rich-smelling crotch of his jeans, soaking up all the musk of his cock and his balls and his ass which smells so good it hurts—and especially his underwear... before dutifully dropping them into the hamper, along with the socks that you brought from downstairs. Though you hate washing Jax's sweet scent off of anything, one of your chores, of course, is to take care of all the laundry for your master.

"Get over here, bitch. You should clean up after me faster," he scolds, dominant voice husky and low, somewhat muffled as his head is partially sunken into one of his deluxe pillows. "Did you just get distracted by sniffing my sweat? You're such a greedy, filthy fucking pet."

You instantly start whimpering in apology, overflowing with self-hatred as you hasten toward the foot of his bed. You would say sorry, in so many words, if you could, as you should.

But you can't, given that you're not human. And your master knows that of course. All you want is to worship his body, and show him you're sorry, but you need permission before you can move from your place on the floor...

"Crawl up onto the bed," he commands, well assured you will follow his orders as fast as you can. "Go ahead, you pathetic whore. Make yourself useful and worship my back. Can't you see I'm exhausted and need to relax?"

Oh, how you love when he lets out his inner beast and treats you to the absolute most savage side of Jax.

Though you also love when he is soft, when he treats you with sweet talk and cuddles you up... this is the side of him you adore even more. His abuse is just what you live for.

"I want a full body massage," he orders, as you set to work on his muscular shoulders. "Yeah, use those paws. And that dirty mouth of yours... so dirty... mmm, that's it, lick all the sweat off my body. Desperate fucking dog."

You don't need him to tell you—that is exactly what you're dying to do—but it's so much better when he does. So damn hot. It's insane just how much you get off on his dirty talk.

And he keeps going on as you worship his perfect physique. While your hands rub and knead every inch, your mouth traces a line down the smooth divine curve of his spine, running down the black ink of the reaper design, wet lips puckering into passionate kisses all over his dewy skin, slurping up each new bead of fresh sweat as it dribbles and leaks. Every so often, his degrading words and his delicious groans of pleasure cut to cruel sadistic laughter, whenever he wants to humiliate you for being such a freak.

That just makes you love him even more. You're his subhuman whore, reduced into a literal pig as the maddening scent and flavor of your master makes you fucking squirm, wriggling like a worm, every sound out of your throat a squeal or a squeak. His savage strength makes you so weak...

"Unghh God, you're such a fucking animal," he snarls as you salivate all over his sculpted muscles. "Get that worthless face lower down where you belong. Yeah, you know what you want. Suffocate in my asshole."

And that very instant, you do just as told. You wedge your whole damn head into the sacred space between his sweaty cheeks, diving in deep, digging for gold. It's salty and sweet and so so fucking hot. You don't even care whether you'll ever come up for air or not. He's everything you need and all you want to breathe. Your king Jax Teller is a motherfucking god...

When he growls and reaches back with both of his strong hands to push his palms against your skull and smash your face even deeper inside his crack, the pure aggression of the act gives you a goddamn heart attack.

Before you can even recover from that, he suddenly shifts—you gasp for a split second as his magnificent body lifts.

But the next thing you know, he is squatting low over your mouth, then sitting the fuck down till your tongue is lodged deep in his tight sweaty hole and his big heavy balls are completely smothering your snout.

Jax throws his head back with a guttural groan as he starts to grind, taking your mouth for a ride. You could die just from that fucking sound, from the taste, from the feel of his full body weight as he shudders and sighs, dominating your face. Degrading you just right. You could do this all night. Then he looks back down, bright blue gaze locking with your eyes, open wide, sex-crazed and lost in a mad loving daze.

Is this fucking real? Even as it happens, you honestly can't fathom how good it feels...

And there's no way that you wouldn't notice, in this position of pure bliss, your master's fucking enormous cock. While you drown in his ass, savoring your sweet feast, that massive piece of meat is throbbing right above you like a beast, hard as a rock.

"Fuuuck, that's it—eat my ass, you good-for-nothing pig..." Jax explosively grunts as his hot sphincter squeezes and strangles your tongue. "Look what you're doing to my dick. You're gonna make me fucking cum. That what you want?"

Ohhh Godddd...

He goes on before you can respond. "Well, that's just what you're gonna get. Ughh—such a good little pet..." he praises as he begins pumping himself, the pink tip of his dick giving off the rich scent of his juices, each sweet drop that glistens, all glossy and wet. Some of his precum drips to your forehead.

But that's not where his full load is going to land. No, that's all gonna go down your dirty whore throat. Jax then clutches the top of your head with one hand, fingers rooting hard into your scalp, making you gulp and gasp, as you suck on his ass, while his other fist jacks off his perfect dick, faster and harder with each fucking stroke. He's so hot it's a joke.

"Shit—gonna cum—take it, bitch... take it all till you choke..." he moans, pulling his ass swiftly off of your slobbering lips and then pressing the tip of his cock onto your twitching tongue. Blessing you with a huge load of sweet white hot cum. By this point you're struck dumb.

You can feel your eyes roll to the back of your skull, as you savor his flavor and swallow him whole. You are so goddamn grateful. Jackson Teller is feeding your body, your heart and your soul.

You're reminded right now of what you've always known: that you are his to own. He is more than human, so much more, all that you live for... and you are so much less and always have been. Falling in these roles just feels so fucking natural. He is a fucking god—everything you are not—and you're a fucking animal.

Once he is done using you as his subhuman cum dump, your master is gracious enough to let you clean him up. You wrap your lips around his flawless cock to lick and suck off every drop. Pressing French kisses all across his freshly drained balls and his perfect pink asshole. Hoping that your beloved master knows he's your entire world.

"Good girl," Jax sighs, as your face nestles in the space between his strong powerful thighs. "Bet you wish you could sleep with me here in this bed. But that would be wrong. Don't you know where you belong, you filthy little pet?"

Ah, yes—you could never forget. With a whimper of submissive bliss, you give your master one last kiss, right on the tip of his delicious dick. Admiring how even right after he came it’s still so stiff and throbbing and thick.

And then you climb off of his mattress and crawl into your tiny pet bed, set right by his nightstand. The spot where you're so blessed to sleep beside this divine god of a man. You curl yourself up nice and small, into a little ball, so you can fit. And all the while you're still squealing like a pig. You just can't help it.

The king of Charming huffs out one of his majestic snickers at the sound of you grunting and groveling, so low-down and pathetic. "Goodnight, pig."

Your heart flutters—so grateful and glad that he calls you that, just what you are to him, always will be... so fucking filthy... you know that he is pleased, and his pleasure is all that matters.

You already can't wait till the morning when he'll let you drink from his dick, hopefully. But till then you'll just sleep, knowing that all your dreams will be sweet, for you dream of one thing only: pleasing your master.

And you're living that dream, as unreal as it seems. Your real life is as good as it gets.

You'll go on forever loving every minute of living with Jax Teller—living for Jax Teller, now and forever—as his filthy fucking pet.

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… Sooo I know that was SUPER kinky shit, but I hope there are some filthy bitches who enjoyed it, and would love to hear if you did!! 😅❤️

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twentiethcenturymoviesandtv · 4 years

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Star Trek: The Characters

Storytelling, especially where it regards movies and television, is always evolving.

Whether it’s in deeper themes, better effects, different genres, or evolving archetypes, there is always something that is changing, except, perhaps, where the importance of characters are concerned.

Characters are an integral part of storytelling, particularly where it concerns television. When it comes to television, the setup is everything, and the characters are part of that setup, that ‘home base’ that the audience returns to at the start of every episode. The characters are the people that the audience gets to know, who star in each adventure. Characters are what holds the audience’s investment, the reason fanbases tolerate bad episodes and praise good ones. In the end, the main characters keep an audience’s attention, making each episode, even the bad ones, enjoyable.

In short, characters can make or break a television show. It is vital that they be likable, or at the very least, interesting, lest the audience utter those eight deadly words:

I Don’t Care What Happens To These People.

Once those words are uttered, it doesn’t matter how gripping your narratives are. The viewers will start to leave.

See, while a film can get away with some lesser characters by distracting with an interesting concept, set-piece or a fast-paced story, television can’t. Thanks to a smaller runtime and a smaller budget, television, by necessity, tends to be character based. As a result, the main cast of a television show has to be able to work in multiple stories of different kinds.

This means that writing for characters on television can be pretty difficult.

The best television characters tend to merge two ideas together: That of relatability and entertainment value.

You see, television, like all stories, tells stories of exaggerated versions of reality, especially in the cases of science-fiction adventure shows like Star Trek. The only way to make an audience buy an unbelievable world is to create believable characters to place in that world, that relatability in the stories and characters. When we see McCoy’s frustration, or Kirk’s boldness, or Spock’s reservedness, we see elements of ourselves, our own personalities and lives. It is vital to make characters seem real, if not realistic.

The question is, does Star Trek manage to do that?

That’s the question we’re going to be answering today. Let’s take a look, starting with the Captain of the Enterprise Crew: James Tiberius Kirk.

Kirk truly was The Captain in every sense of the word. A Reasonable Authority Figure who did far more adventuring than realistic counterparts would have, Kirk was an Action Man, level-headed, dutiful, and always loyal to his ship and his crew. A Bold Explorer (it’s in the job description), Kirk, while not fearless per say, took the Chains of Commanding quite seriously, and would often face down hugely powerful beings, power-mad computers, or other forces beyond him in order to save his crew. A Determinator to the last, known for his interesting ways to think outside the box and refusal to accept a ‘no win scenario’, he is the unquestionable Hero of the show, the Leader, who often throws the rules aside to do what he feels is right, in a constant battle To Be Lawful or Good. He was a Charmer, an expert fast-talker, and very smart. In later installations of the franchise, Kirk would become a Living Legend, much as he became in our own pop culture.

All that being said, the common cultural image of Captain Kirk isn’t quite right. Allow me to adjust it, as best I can.

More than any other character in Star Trek, or perhaps the history of television in general, Captain Kirk is possibly the most misrepresented character of all time. Since the ‘60s, Kirk has evolved into an icon of heroism, machismo, and brash boldness, with even the recent Star Trek reboot depicting, not Kirk, but rather, the distorted, separate idea of Kirk in the modern light.

This idea, quite frankly, is just not right. While Kirk did have his share of romances, he was no womanizer, often entering into dubiously consented-to relationships reluctantly, in order to save the ship. The relationships he did actively pursue, he threw himself into wholeheartedly, and he was just as crushed as the other party every time they fell apart (for proof, watch City on the Edge of Forever or The Paradise Syndrome). Kirk was no player. As a matter of fact, he was a deeply compassionate man who respected the women in his life as much as he respected Spock and McCoy. It just so happened that the women in his life tended to not stick around, unlike his one true love: The Enterprise.

Even his reputation of the ‘Cowboy Captain’ isn’t accurate. As I mentioned before, Kirk was defined by compassion. His moments of ‘rule-breaking’ wasn’t to impose ‘the way he thinks things should be’, it’s because Kirk cannot bear to watch helpless people in trouble. The few times where he does break the famous ‘Prime Directive’ (To not interfere with less developed races) is to help. Kirk was a deeply moral character, determined to not stand by while people were taken advantage of. He wasn’t rash, either. While it may be accurate to say that the ship’s doctor, Leonard McCoy, was a bit on the hot-headed side, it is entirely inaccurate to accuse Kirk of the same. Kirk was an extremely smart man, a level-headed captain who was an expert at thinking fast. He trusted his instincts, but he trusted his advisors too, often finding a balance between McCoy’s impulsiveness and Spock’s cold rationality. Kirk’s intelligence and competence is often lost, overshadowed by his more extreme companions, and some audiences have forgotten the truth of Kirk’s character: a cunning problem-solver capable of saving the day under enormous pressure, whose decisions are far from based in irrationality. He is a romantic, duty-bound to protect his ship and crew, greatly exaggerated and mis-characterized in the years following his captaincy.

As such, Kirk was a well-rounded, balanced character, far more three-dimensional than the modern idea of him tends to give him credit for.

That’s all well and good, sure, but how does he fit as a main character in a television show?

As a matter of fact, absolutely incredibly.

Kirk serves as a wonderfully effective lead, compelling, entertaining, and interesting. Infinitely more developed than most leads of his time, and even more modern examples, Kirk was a game-changer, a revolutionary kind of protagonist who just worked. The perfect balance of the main trio of the series, Kirk is the perfect face for Roddenberry’s ideals: a hopeful pragmatist, an idealist who proves the best of humanity: compassion mixed with intelligence, boldness combined with understanding. A man of action surrounded by True Companions, Kirk was an extremely gripping protagonist who felt intensely, a perfect person for the audience to connect to and be invested in. He drove the stories, opposed the villains, and always saved the crew, as a hero should, but it’s important to note that Kirk was hugely human, possessing many of our greatest attributes, but some of our failings as well. He wasn’t perfect. Sometimes he made the wrong choice. In the end, though, he was us, or us as we should strive to be: always learning and helping, and always reaching for the stars.

But of course, Kirk wasn’t alone in his position as the ‘lead’ of the show. It’s doubtful the show would have survived in the popular culture as well as it did if it weren’t for his support team, his True Companions: Dr. Leonard McCoy, and, more famously: Mr. Spock.

If Kirk represented the best of humanity, Spock represented the critique of it. In a previous article, I pointed out that Spock exists as a very unique character: a half alien, half human crewmember who, while equally valuable to the script and the characters as Kirk was, served a different purpose: to point out and explore humanity from the outside.

Like I’ve mentioned before, Spock is a different sort of character than Kirk is. Where Kirk is a demonstration of the best of humanity as we see it, Spock is a demonstration of humanity as someone else might. He served as a criticism of the human condition, a character at war with himself and his heritage, split between the emotional humans, and the rational Vulcans. Spock is the Number One, almost Comically Serious as he eschews his more illogical half and chooses to embrace the stoicism of the Vulcan people. A Gentleman and a Scholar, Spock has Hidden Depths, a heart of gold and deep emotions that he usually succeeds in hiding.

Most of the time. More on that in a minute.

Spock’s role in the show was The Smart Guy, the Stoic who had all the answers, all the statistics. He was the champion of impartial logic, of cold rationality. His job was to give Kirk the hard answers, to bring to him the facts and give him their options, especially the unforgiving ones. He is the cold to McCoy’s hot, a stern-faced, cold-blooded computer.

Or is he?

Much like Kirk, there is a lot more to Spock than meets the eye. While the cultural perception of Spock has often mutated into a parody of itself, much as it has done to Kirk’s reputation, Spock remains a much deeper character than he, or a brief skim of the series, lets on. As I said earlier, Spock is at war with himself, uncomfortable in his own skin. He insults humans for their humanity, but has strong, deep friendships with them. He is not above expressing frustration and their emotional natures when pushed (usually by other forces that knock his guard down), but isn’t frustration a human emotion?

Spock is a bag of contradictions, a supposedly emotionless master of sarcasm, a man without feeling who invites his close friends (emotional humans) to a private Vulcan ceremony, a cold-blooded creature with undying loyalty who occasionally makes ‘illogical’ decisions that would make Kirk proud. A lover of music and a sympathizer to space hippies (Not one of Star Trek’s better episodes, admittedly), Spock was an outsider who fit neither fully as a Vulcan or Human, a person who was struggling to find his place in the universe.

At first, this seems incongruous with the ice-cold exterior he projects, however, rather than being an example of inconsistent writing, it’s a shining example of development and nuance.

You see, Spock never gives up his following of logic. He just begins to approach it differently.

Spock’s style changes slightly as Star Trek progresses (most notably in the films, released ten years after the show’s final season), from cold, ‘computer’ logic to something else: human logic.

One thing of especial note in the original Star Trek show is that you could see characters visibly affecting one another. Kirk, Spock and McCoy all influenced each other in the ways they thought, reacted, and planned, and worked best as a unit. In this, the humanity of the main cast affected Spock in his slow, reluctant appreciation of human merits. In time, Spock began to make one or two decisions based on human logic, intelligence and emotion. In episodes like The Menagerie or The Galileo Seven, Spock makes decisions that seem out-of-character for him, based in emotion.

Spock is, in many ways, Star Trek’s best known and favorite character. The most visibly recognizable, as well as the most distinct, Spock is given more episodes exploring him than any other character, with installments like Amok Time and Journey to Babel, (the latter of which we explore his parents, and discover why it is that Spock has such a hard time with his human half) helping to examine Spock as a character.

The end result was a beloved science fiction icon, Kirk’s right hand man, an analytical, fascinating character as well-crafted and loved as Kirk himself.

Spock and Kirk are often remembered fondly, and are typically considered the most memorable and iconic characters of the franchise, but they don’t work alone. Their dynamic is as effective as it is because of balance. Spock is one extreme, and Kirk is the middle, but it’s no good without the other extreme: Dr. Leonard Horatio “Bones” McCoy.

McCoy is all hot-blooded human, the third of the main Power Trio. An old-fashioned competent doctor who wasn’t entirely thrilled with deep space, McCoy is a deeply emotional character, duty-bound to follow his morals. He clashed with Spock regularly, routinely criticizing him for his perceived lack of emotion. Despite the fighting, McCoy respected Spock greatly, counting him as a close friend, despite their arguments and different perspectives. A cantankerous pacifist (though not above getting into the action when needed), McCoy is a Super Doc and a Sarcastic Devotee, a Grumpy Old Man who serves as the Heart to Spock’s Brain (hah!), a man who values Honor Before Reason who values the Good Old Ways. He’s a Determined Doctor who does everything he can for his patients, and a Deadpan Snarker to the point where he can match Spock in verbal sparring.

Bones represents the unpolished rawness of humanity, getting carried away with his emotions sometimes, but always with the best intentions. Another Jerk with a Heart of Gold, McCoy’s gruff nature accompanied a deeply moral man, very concerned with human empathy and doing the right thing. No philosophical discussion was complete without McCoy’s two cents, telling Kirk what he thought the right thing to do was. He was the quintessential Knight in Sour Armor, who would follow Kirk to the ends of the earth, complaining the entire way.

Despite the fact that he’s not as well-known as the other two members of the Power Trio, Bones was a vital component to the True Companions dynamic. His Vitriolic Best Buds relationship with Spock made up one of the most interesting and compelling dynamics on the show, serving as perfect counterbalances to one another. However, although his most famous role in the show was arguing with Spock (and delivering phrases such as ‘He’s Dead, Jim’), there is another, equally important position that he held in the trio.

McCoy served as a foil to Kirk, as well as one to Spock, a confidante, a close friend, providing perspective. While Spock was focused on the logic, Kirk on the best thing for the mission, McCoy’s focus was purely on the ‘patients’, the people, the right thing to do. No matter the situation, McCoy was the closest to empathy with the people involved, and provided the audience with another surrogate, saying the things that the viewers are thinking.

While not being a terribly big fan of space (and liking transporters even less), Bones was the epitome of the Frontier Doctor to the stars, taking care of every patient, even if they weren’t humanoid (Devil in the Dark) or a heavily pregnant woman who refuses to listen (Friday’s Child). McCoy was painfully human, reminding us of our most problematic traits while also holding onto that wild, fiery compassion that made him so incredibly humane, relatable, and understandable, making him just as vital to the Enterprise and her crew as Kirk or Spock.

The trio worked best together, providing a perfect main cast for an audience to follow. The formula was an interesting one, allowing the audience to hear separate viewpoints and ideas, listen in to the philosophical banter, and truly feel the strong friendship holding the leads together. The dynamic between them was powerful, an extremely vibrant bond that connected all three very different characters.

The result? Extremely dynamic characters that remain iconic and memorable even to this day.

But the cast didn’t stop there.

The other characters of Star Trek, while not quite possessing the pop-culture iconography of the main trio, still hold their own rather impressive cultural footprint.

None more so than the chief engineer, Montgomery Scott.

Scotty’s job was to be a miracle worker, solving impossible problems in impossibly small amounts of time. Whether it was the transporters, the phaser banks, the shields, or the engines, Scotty was the man for the job. Nobody had a better understanding, or love for the Enterprise than Scotty (except maybe Kirk). He was the king of outside-the-box solutions, and had the Enterprise jury-rigged to push her past her limits more times than can be easily counted. As the name implies, he was also Scottish, and extremely stereotypically so. Kilt, whiskey, haggis and all, Scotty was extremely proud of his heritage (though not quite as much as Chekov). Fitting the traditional stereotypes, Scotty had a fiery temper, with a Berserk Button triggered by any insult to the Enterprise. A Gadgeteer Genius (and the inventor of Scotty Time) as well as a Genius Bruiser, Scotty was both the brains and brawn, more than capable of holding his own in a fight, or thinking of a new, creative way to push the Enterprise past her capacity.

Scotty also held the distinction of being third in command, routinely taking the Captain’s chair when both Kirk and Spock were in the landing party. He was also the focus of a few episodes, making him a rare character with a Day in the Limelight, with episodes such as Wolf in the Fold, The Lights of Zetar, By Any Other Name, and The Trouble with Tribbles giving him a little more screen time and story than is typical. Scotty was an indispensable member of the crew, a life-saver on more than one occasion, and another of the legendary, iconic characters of the original Star Trek.

But it didn’t stop there.

Lieutenant Nyota Uhura was another prominent character. As the ship’s communications officer, she codified the term ‘Bridge Bunny’, although she proved herself far more useful than she’s typically thought of. Whenever given the chance, Uhura is a capable Action Girl, intelligent, witty, and good at her job, being extremely fluent in multiple languages. She too got her days in the limelight, with episodes such as Mirror Mirror, The Gamesters of Triskelion, and The Trouble with Tribbles giving her more to do than just sit at her station and say ‘hailing frequencies open’. Uhura was Silk Hiding Steel, not typically in the heat of the battle, but tough as nails when she had to be. (I’ve talked about Uhura’s extensive influence on the real world in the Legacy article, but even that doesn’t scratch the surface of what Uhura’s impact has been.)

There were others on the bridge crew of equal importance, including the ship’s helmsman, Hikaru Sulu.

Sulu was a level-headed officer, amiable and cultured, with an extensive knowledge of botany, fencing, and antiques. Yet another Deadpan Snarker (it must run in the cast), Sulu is another Genius Bruiser, as skilled in fighting as he is in his piloting, with a great sense of humor. He is given special attention in episodes like Mirror Mirror and The Naked Time (Albeit as evil, and Brainwashed and Crazy), but often got great character moments in multiple episodes (especially Shore Leave). A reliable officer and loyal to the core, he made an interesting character by himself, although he did end up forming a fun ‘Those Two Guys’ dynamic with the youngest of the cast, Pavel Chekov.

Chekov was introduced in season 2 as the navigator of the Enterprise. A bright young man with a fierce, passionate loyalty to Mother Russia (which evidently invented every good thing known to man), Chekov tended to be at the receiving end of a lot of the embarrassing agony in the series (mostly because Walter Koenig had a great scream). Also serving as a relief science officer, Chekov was plenty smart, if a bit of a Cloudcuckoolander, and the king of Cultural Posturing. Reckless and impulsive to balance Sulu’s calm good humor, Chekov’s temper tended to get the better of him. Like the others, he’s given a bit more screen time in episodes such as Mirror Mirror, The Trouble with Tribbles, The Way to Eden, The Deadly Years and Spectre of the Gun, but got to shine in plenty of other episodes, demonstrating his capabilities (despite being ‘The Intern’ and the Plucky Comic Relief) as a competent officer. Unsurprisingly, he was yet another Deadpan Snarker, lending his style of jokes well to bounce off of Sulu’s drier humor.

But there was more to the crew than the bridge.

Another crew member of note was Christine Chapel, one of the nurses who operated in the sickbay. Chapel was notable for having an attraction to Spock, as well as being another in the long line of Enterprise Deadpan Snarkers. One of the most caring of the Enterprise’s crew, Chapel was given larger roles in episodes like The Naked Time, What Are Little Girls Made Of?, Amok Time, and Plato’s Stepchildren.

Arguably though, one of the most important characters in all of Star Trek was the Companion Cube: the Enterprise herself.

The Enterprise was one of the most powerful ships in Starfleet, a character in her own right. The epitome of the Cool Starship, the Enterprise was well known for Explosive Overclocking, and always coming through in the end (with a little help from Scotty). A Lightning Bruiser of a ship, the Enterprise became as legendary as her captain and crew, as beloved as the characters themselves to the point where one of NASA’s shuttles was named after her.

The characters of Star Trek are legends, both in and out of universe, and they are for a reason. No member of the crew is useless. Everyone has a purpose and a job to do, and each was distinct and unique. No two characters were the same, and each brought their own special personality and abilities to each episode they appeared in.

And that’s what made the drama of the show work so well.

Each character felt real, memorable and genuine. We as an audience worry for them with each danger, and cheer with each victory. We liked these people. We cared about what happened to them.

And they worked.

In each scenario and situation, the characters found new and interesting ways to deal with the circumstances, while never losing the core elements of their personalities. That’s important, hugely so. These characters were loved, and still are, for a reason. They work very well as characters, both in main and supporting roles, providing entertaining and compelling figures for the audience to invest in. The balance between relatability and entertainment was hit perfectly for every single character, allowing everyone to shine in their own ways in each episode. They felt real, and in the end, that’s the point of a character.

After all, one doesn’t get to be some of the most iconic television characters of all time by being boring.

Thank you guys so much for reading! Join us next time as we discuss Star Trek’s place in the times and the culture. If you have anything you’d like to say, don’t forget to leave an ask! I hope to see you all in the next article.

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alwayshaveneverholdd · 2 years

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hiiii can i get a TXT & Ateez compatibility pls?🌷

I’m an INFP saggitarius she/her who is an introvert/shy and my social anxiety really shows but once you get to know me, i can get really annoying & vibrant if you will. Observant, a good listener and very clingy at times.

My style is more towards soft girl and I love to accessorise. I absolutely love the colour pink, it’s basically my life. I choose fits that make me feel confident & comfortable and they’re pretty preppy too.

I’m a lil child-like (especially the things I like such as like having a mini happy dance when excited) & also one who’s obsessed with the fantasy world & i love the idea of royalty (specifically princesses, harry potter & narnia etc.) I enjoy posing on social media and also enjoy being the one capturing the photos. (but i wish to have someone take them for me one day🥲) I’m pretty adventurous as long as there is someone with me to go through the “challenges” together with & i can get very impulsive in my decisions.

Honestly, I try to fit in most of the time cos then it’s less awkward for me to talk to others but sometimes there’s those random bursts of energy that makes me feel more self-confident which makes me feel proud of myself. Oh, and I absolutely love sweets!! Some things I do in my free time include playing the guitar, piano, singing, dancing & listening to music.

// so sorry if it’s too long… i didn’t exactly know what to write🥺 can’t wait to read them💗\\

WOOHOO I was waiting for a TXT one lol

TXT: Beomgyu

I think Beomgyu would SO enjoy someone who gets excited like he does over random stuff and can just have a good time and be loud together.

Y'all could have the most fun and strange conversations about fantasies worlds and he would ask questions like "what if Narnia is filled with demons trying to trick the children and they actually are all living in a dream after being devoured" and then you could debate and stuff uwuwu

As @neo-wonderland once famously said, "In another life, Beomgyu could be Stalin. But like. Make it hot and less murdery."

Beomgyu is a master of small manipulations and pranks to make life more interesting. As a certified Pisces Bitch he will always use his Satan-given talent in manipulation to try and get his way. Props if you don't fall for it, but expect a pouty nimrod for a few hours.

He's the kind of boyfriend that would tease you, take it too far, and then spend the rest of the day making up for it with fun adventures and lots of affection.

YEEEEEHOOOOO if you're impulsive then lmfao get ready to MOVE TO MOROCCO AND BUY A TWO DOGS AND PARAKEET 4 MONTHS INTO THE RELATIONSHIP. Beomgyu's sag mars and aries venus says "let's jump into any situation as much as possible". So yeah perhaps you'll be chased down the streets for shoplifting and then catch a plane to France, get married, and honeymoon in the local jail for wearing fake staches and trying to sell knock-off gucci bags on the street. (This is an exaggeration, but I think you get my point lol you guys would have lots of fun doing random shit together).

This could be a double-edged sword, because while It may be fun to be with someone who likes adventures, you guys might end up in situations that you didn't completely think through. This is where I would hope you have some earth placements, and maybe y'all could rely on Beomgyu's One (1) earth placement, Taurus Saturn, to reign in the fun and add some groundedness. Or hell if you want a totally spontaneous relationship then fuck earth placements, power to you.

Beomgyu would be the type of boyfriend to protest your trying to fit in. He would encourage you to be the weirdest you can be, and in this encouragement, would deliberately embarrass you in public by doing things like shoving his arms into his pant legs and frolicking around.

And about the fashion and social media, Beomgyu would LOVE. Love. love helping you pick out outfits, styling each other, or just admiring your cute pink wardrobe. He would hang upside down in a tree if it meant getting The Right Angle for your social media posts lol. And then he'd want you to take a pic of him flexing on the tree. Okay Gyu.

Basically a very fun relationship!

ATEEZ: Yunho

That entire pink soft girl aesthetic is so up Yunho's alley. Not to mention he would very much enjoy learning new things about you as you slowly open up to him. He would be very sweet and would only take you outside your comfort zone if you wanted.

Yunho loves to laugh and make others laugh, so when you've got that burst of energy going he's right there with you. Yunho can match your pace at whatever level. He would enjoy dancing around with you and just having a good time being goofballs.

Another thing: Mr. Taurus Venus here would really enjoy trying out new dessert places with you, or ordering in some sweet things for a night on the couch watching something that will probably end in you guys falling asleep cuddling uwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwuuwuwu

Yunho would humor your interest in fantasies, mostly asking you to explain the complexities of a fantasy world. He would gift you fantasy books he knows you haven't read, and take you to places like Everland where you can enjoy the fantastical nature of it!

HIGHKEY a boyfriend that would want to get all dressed up in traditional royal attire and hire a photographer to take pictures of you two. We all know he's a rich boy and a lot of that money would be spent on you! He would take you shopping to buy you clothes lol and be excited to see you try stuff on.

Super wholesome.

#pinkheadflowers #ateez compatibility #txt compatibility #ateez #tomorrow by together #tomorrow x together #choi beomgyu #beomgyu #yunho #jeong yunho #ateez jeong yunho

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sm-pantheon · 3 years

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SMPantheon AU Information

Greetings, Tumblrer. Can I interest you in my Dream SMP God AU? Yes? Great. Hope you like reading.

I should clarify, before we begin, that there is one rule in the Pantheon: and that is not to date those in other classes. This rule is often broken due to the enforcer's blatant biases, so some people get off scott-free. This rule doesn't apply to dating humans, however, because of the need for classic zeus-style, demigod-bearing hijinks.

THE TRINITY

The creators of the universe, the dreamons. Gods of Chaos. Two have been replaced so far.

Dream XD The creator, the father, the man...god...thing Himself. Yes, that H is capitalized. He was the first god to exist, and every heavenly being stems from Him in some way. He enjoys seeing people suffer. He loves George in secret, even if He hasn't yet reciprocated. He stripped Captain Puffy of some of her power because He deemed the God of Order to be getting in the way of His chaos. His mask has the XD emoticon on it, fittingly enough.

Dream The 'son' of the Trinity, and the enforcer of the love law. His position was once filled by Mexican Dream, before he was demoted for being a dumbass. He later demoted Mamacita for falling in love with Mexican Dream, because they weren't in the same God class anymore. He is notoriously biased and nepotistic with his enforcing. He's also an asshole. His mask has the :) emoticon on it.

Drista The 'holy spirit' of the Trinity. A child. She causes chaos wherever she goes, whether intentionally or not, which makes DXD very proud. Her position was once filled by Mamacita, before she was demoted. She often hangs out with the demigods, most often Tommy. Wherever she goes, hijinks ensue. He mask has the >;P emoticon on it.

GREATER GODS

The most powerful gods, besides the Trinity.

Philza The God of Freedom. A ruthless killer, but a pretty good father figure. He was the first non-Trinity god, and appropriately he matches up with their chaos. He is most notably the god who invented angels, and personally made the first one, Clara. A long time ago he fought with Awesamdude because of their conflicting symbols and won, demoting Sam to the rank of a regular God. His wife is Kristin, a (dead) human, but one time he had a fling with a refridgerator. Confusing times. His sons are Tommy, Tubbo, and Wilbur, and his grandson is Fundy.

Technoblade The God of Violence, often regarded as the 'Blood God'. He is a force to be reckoned with, and you can probably trace him back to every world war in some way. He has a more stoic and calm side, which only Philza and his family can bring out. He acts as sort of an uncle and brother to them, sometimes caring for the kids. He would rather die than have his own, though. He feels an attachment to his friend Ranboo's son, Michael, because they are both pigmen. He plans to train him when he grows hold enough. His pride and joy is the section of the underworld he invented, which is the section where sinners burn eternally.

Antfrost The God of Love. Currently he is taking refuge on earth with his boyfriend Velvet, who is the third archangel. He's never been very friendly with Dream, so it would be inevitable that he would be punished for loving Velvet. To avoid this, he fleed to a small town on earth. He has had a long-time rivalry with Ponk because of his innate hatred of cats.

Foolish Gamers The God of Creation. He is a master builder, and has built the temples of all the Gods. One day, Sapnap, the God of Destruction, challenged him to a fight, and whoever lost would be demoted. He accepted and won, which is why his equal is now lower on the totem pole than he is. He created the earth with Hannah at the command of the Trinity. His best friend is Eret. He often enlists the help of the rock nymph HBomb for help with terraforming and foundation building.

Karl Jacobs The God of Time. He can control time by slowing it down, speeding it up, pausing it, rewinding, etc. However, he is only allowed to use it when the Trinity gives permission. Usually, he just sits around and helps his "not fiancés", Quackity and Sapnap, with their work. He was born soon after Philza.

GODS

Averagely powerful gods.

Sapnap The God of Destruction. He was originally a greater god, but lost a fight to Foolish and gave some power up as a result. He is responsible in part for all the natural disasters of the world.

Awesamdude He was stripped of some of his power by Philza (with assistance from Techno, although he'd never admit it). He acts as a father figure to some of the younger heavenly beings. He created Sam Nook, an altered clone of himself, to be a Nanny for Philza's children. He now takes care of young Fundy and Michael. Loves Ponk in secret.

Badboyhalo The God of Purity. Cannot do wrong, after all he is the only person who actually is dating someone and is following the rule. Has a public record stating he has never sworn. He's highly devoted to his pursuit of holiness... and also Skeppy.

Skeppy The God of Fortune. After all, he's made of diamond. He's a goofball, especially around Bad. He's Bad's best friend/boy friend, B.B.F., as he would say!

Captain Puffy The God of Order. She has always had a rivalry with the Trinity for directly contradicting them with her existence. Because of this, her dates with Niki have to remain a secret, or else she'll be demoted again. Currently she's filling the paws of Antfrost as God of Love until he comes back, or a new heir is born.

Hannahxxrose The God of Nature. She mostly hangs out on Earth, tending to gardens worldwide, but she stays in heaven an ample amount too. She was literally born from Foolish's idea to create nature for earth, which she then assisted in plans for.

JSchlatt The God of Sin. He was originally a Greater God, but he had to be demoted so that the human race wouldn't be absolutely fucked. He's technically in charge of the Underworld, but he doesn't do jack shit down there. He's a raging alcoholic, and is always complaining about heart problems. His best friend is Minx.

Eret The God of Power. He isn't part nymph or anything, but the nymphs respect him and have crowned him as their king. He gladly accepts this role. His best friend is Foolish.

MINIGODS

Less powerful gods.

GeorgeNotFound The God of Beauty. He is fully aware that DXD is in love with him, but he doesn't want to reciprocate for fear of the rule. Still, he hasn't ratted him out... yet. He often hangs out with Sapnap, and he used to hang out with Dream, but he has become more distant as of late.

Mamacita The God of Justice. Also known as Girl Dream. She was removed from the Trinity for loving Mexican Dream after he was demoted. Since she and him still have a lot of power, they've been tasked with running the Underworld. Her mask has the :/ emoticon on it.

Mexican Dream The God of Death. Was removed from the Trinity for generally being a dumbass. He co-runs the Underworld with his Mamacita. He has also adopted Quackity as a twin. His mask has the ;] emoticon on it.

Quackity The God of Humor. He doesn't do a whole lot, just hangs out with his fiancés and his unofficial twin. An absolute jokester.

Slimecicle The God of Joy. A lovable goof who has never done a thing wrong in his life. He has a human wife, Grace, and his son is Connor. He skips around heaven a lot, and often hangs out with the angels.

Ranboo The God of Identity. He is *platonically* married to Tubbo (so Dream can't technically punish him!) He has a son, Michael, and he often hangs out with the demigods. He is considered the least powerful full god. He has a habit of forgetting things and also a habit of stealing all the gender from the other members of the Pantheon.

Niki Nihachu The God of Grace. She mainly takes care of the children along with Sam Nook, and hangs around the water nymphs. Her best friend is Sally.

Jack Manifold The God of Spirit. Previously nicknamed 'Thunder', he is an epic gamer lad. He famously invented 3D glasses and also Britain.

Ponk The God of Bravery. Has had an age-old rivalry with Antfrost because of his fear of cats for eons, and he is quite happy that he's gone. He has a strained love for Sam, which they have to keep secret. Only Sam has seen the rest of his face, under the mask.

DEMIGODS

Half gods, half humans. They are free to travel between earth and heaven.

Tommyinnit The youngest son of Philza and Kristin. A rambunctious teenager who is quite popular among the gods, especially Drista. Often flirts with the goddesses, and always says he has a crush on the Queen of England.

Tubbo The middle son of Philza and Kristin. A chaotic man-child and also goat boy. He is absouletly adored by the Trinity. He has a "platonic" husband, Ranboo, and a son, Michael.

Wilbur The eldest son of Philza and Kristin. A musical prodigy, who is an adult but doesn't quite act like one. He has a wife, Sally the water nymph, and a son, Fundy.

ConnorEatsPants The only son of Slimecicle and Grace. He is a massive sonic fan. If you asked life advice from him, he would tell you that the only problem with being faster than light is that you can only live in darkness.

SEMIGODS

Demigods, except it's not a 50/50 split between God and human. Other races can also be added.

Fundy The son of Wilbur and Sally. He is 25% God, 25% Human, and 50% water nymph, but most importantly, 100% furry.

Michael The son of Ranboo and Tubbo. 75% God and 25% human. He's good friends with Technoblade because of their shared pigman-ness.

NYMPHS

Mythical and elemental creatures.

Sally A water nymph. Married to Wilbur and the mother of Fundy.

HBomb A rock nymph. Often helps Foolish with his builds.

Alyssa An air nymph. She's been wandering around the outskirts of heaven for an eon with Callahan.

Callahan An air nymph. Wandering with Alyssa.

Minx A fire nymph. Best friends with Schlatt and Niki.

ANGELS

Heavenly servants.

Punz First archangel. He's currently the Trinity's bitch, but if you offered him enough money he would absolutely betray them.

Purpled Second archangel. He just follows Punz around and helps him with his tasks. He isn't very devoted to his job. He was the one who came up with the idea of space.

Red Velvet Third archangel. He has fleed heaven with his boyfriend Antfrost. He's working as a baker on earth.

Michael McChill Replacement third archangel. He was created out of a necessity for three archangels, and he isn't very well adjusted. He has no motivation and has only talked to Philza.

Vikkstar The guardian angel of all the demi/semigods. When he's not watching over them, he is hanging out with Lazar.

Lazarbeam The general of the heavenly guard. He slacks off very much, and often hangs out with Vikkstar. Aggravated easily.

Clara The first angel, and the most wise. She is seen as an oracle and is prayed to as frequently as the gods. She often hangs out in Tommy's dreams.

Sam Nook An altered copy of Sam, made to be a nanny to Tommy, Tubbo, and Wilbur. Now he takes care of young Fundy and Michael.

HUMANS

Just like you and me. Except some are dead.

Kristin Married to Philza and mother of Tommy, Tubbo, and Wilbur. When she died, Mamacita offered her a job as the Grim Reaper so that she could hang out with Phil more often.

Grace Married to Slimecicle and mother to Connor. Is the second Grim Reaper, alongside Kristin.

Ghostbur Human clone of Wilbur that Foolish accidentally made when fooling around with the demigods. Has since died and chills out in the animal sector with his sheep, Friend.

Lani Tubbo's sister from his old foster family on earth, who he lives near. Knows everything about everyone in the Pantheon, somehow.

Corpse Husband The janitor of the Underworld. Was a massive sinner when he was alive, but managed to convince Mamacita to let him work for her instead of suffering for eternity.

Mr Beast A generous billionare who runs a private church for the rich in his town. He communes with Karl on the condition that he won't try to gain things for himself using him.

5up A turnip farmer who died and now hangs around Fundy.

.....

Alright. That's it. So. Much. Typing. My fingers hurt. I accidentally deleted all my progress around the halfway point but I persevered. Also, this blog will be used for designs of the AU characters I'll be making. Thanks for reading this far!

Bye. Thanks again.

Oh wait now I have to add a shit ton of tags ughhhh

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justforbooks · 3 years

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Robert Lee Frost was born on March 26, 1874. He was an American poet. His work was initially published in England before it was published in the United States. Known for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech, Frost frequently wrote about settings from rural life in New England in the early 20th century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes.

Frost was honored frequently during his lifetime and is the only poet to receive four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry. He became one of America's rare "public literary figures, almost an artistic institution." He was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal in 1960 for his poetic works. On July 22, 1961, Frost was named poet laureate of Vermont.

The poet and critic Randall Jarrell often praised Frost's poetry and wrote "Robert Frost, along with Stevens and Eliot, seems to me the greatest of the American poets of this century. Frost's virtues are extraordinary. No other living poet has written so well about the actions of ordinary men; his wonderful dramatic monologues or dramatic scenes come out of a knowledge of people that few poets have had, and they are written in a verse that uses, sometimes with absolute mastery, the rhythms of actual speech". He also praised "Frost's seriousness and honesty", stating that Frost was particularly skilled at representing a wide range of human experience in his poems.

Jarrell's notable and influential essays on Frost include the essays "Robert Frost's 'Home Burial'" (1962), which consisted of an extended close reading of that particular poem, and "To The Laodiceans" (1952) in which Jarrell defended Frost against critics who had accused Frost of being too "traditional" and out of touch with Modern or Modernist poetry.

In Frost's defense, Jarrell wrote "the regular ways of looking at Frost's poetry are grotesque simplifications, distortions, falsifications—coming to know his poetry well ought to be enough, in itself, to dispel any of them, and to make plain the necessity of finding some other way of talking about his work." And Jarrell's close readings of poems like "Neither Out Too Far Nor In Too Deep" led readers and critics to perceive more of the complexities in Frost's poetry.

In an introduction to Jarrell's book of essays, Brad Leithauser notes that "the 'other' Frost that Jarrell discerned behind the genial, homespun New England rustic—the 'dark' Frost who was desperate, frightened, and brave—has become the Frost we've all learned to recognize, and the little-known poems Jarrell singled out as central to the Frost canon are now to be found in most anthologies". Jarrell lists a selection of the Frost poems he considers the most masterful, including "The Witch of Coös", "Home Burial", "A Servant to Servants", "Directive", "Neither Out Too Far Nor In Too Deep", "Provide, Provide", "Acquainted with the Night", "After Apple Picking", "Mending Wall", "The Most of It", "An Old Man's Winter Night", "To Earthward", "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening", "Spring Pools", "The Lovely Shall Be Choosers", "Design", and "Desert Places".

In 2003, the critic Charles McGrath noted that critical views on Frost's poetry have changed over the years (as has his public image). In an article called "The Vicissitudes of Literary Reputation," McGrath wrote, "Robert Frost ... at the time of his death in 1963 was generally considered to be a New England folkie ... In 1977, the third volume of Lawrance Thompson's biography suggested that Frost was a much nastier piece of work than anyone had imagined; a few years later, thanks to the reappraisal of critics like William H. Pritchard and Harold Bloom and of younger poets like Joseph Brodsky, he bounced back again, this time as a bleak and unforgiving modernist."

In The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, editors Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair compared and contrasted Frost's unique style to the work of the poet Edwin Arlington Robinson since they both frequently used New England settings for their poems. However, they state that Frost's poetry was "less [consciously] literary" and that this was possibly due to the influence of English and Irish writers like Thomas Hardy and W.B. Yeats. They note that Frost's poems "show a successful striving for utter colloquialism" and always try to remain down to earth, while at the same time using traditional forms despite the trend of American poetry towards free verse which Frost famously said was "'like playing tennis without a net.'"

In providing an overview of Frost's style, the Poetry Foundation makes the same point, placing Frost's work "at the crossroads of nineteenth-century American poetry [with regard to his use of traditional forms] and modernism [with his use of idiomatic language and ordinary, every day subject matter]." They also note that Frost believed that "the self-imposed restrictions of meter in form" was more helpful than harmful because he could focus on the content of his poems instead of concerning himself with creating "innovative" new verse forms.

An earlier 1963 study by the poet James Radcliffe Squires spoke to the distinction of Frost as a poet whose verse soars more for the difficulty and skill by which he attains his final visions, than for the philosophical purity of the visions themselves. "He has written at a time when the choice for the poet seemed to lie among the forms of despair: Science, solipsism, or the religion of the past century ... Frost has refused all of these and in the refusal has long seemed less dramatically committed than others ... But no, he must be seen as dramatically uncommitted to the single solution ... Insofar as Frost allows to both fact and intuition a bright kingdom, he speaks for many of us. Insofar as he speaks through an amalgam of senses and sure experience so that his poetry seems a nostalgic memory with overtones touching some conceivable future, he speaks better than most of us. That is to say, as a poet must."

The classicist Helen H. Bacon has proposed that Frost's deep knowledge of Greek and Roman classics influenced much of his work. Frost's education at Lawrence High School, Dartmouth, and Harvard "was based mainly on the classics". As examples, she links imagery and action in Frost's early poems "Birches" (1915) and "Wild Grapes" (1920) with Euripides' Bacchae. She cites the certain motifs, including that of the tree bent down to earth, as evidence of his "very attentive reading of Bacchae, almost certainly in Greek". In a later poem, "One More Brevity" (1953), Bacon compares the poetic techniques used by Frost to those of Virgil in the Aeneid. She notes that "this sampling of the ways Frost drew on the literature and concepts of the Greek and Roman world at every stage of his life indicates how imbued with it he was".

Robert Frost's personal life was plagued by grief and loss. In 1885 when he was 11, his father died of tuberculosis, leaving the family with just eight dollars. Frost's mother died of cancer in 1900. In 1920, he had to commit his younger sister Jeanie to a mental hospital, where she died nine years later. Mental illness apparently ran in Frost's family, as both he and his mother suffered from depression, and his daughter Irma was committed to a mental hospital in 1947. Frost's wife, Elinor, also experienced bouts of depression.

Elinor and Robert Frost had six children: son Elliot (1896–1900, died of cholera); daughter Lesley Frost Ballantine (1899–1983); son Carol (1902–1940, committed suicide); daughter Irma (1903–1967); daughter Marjorie (1905–1934, died as a result of puerperal fever after childbirth); and daughter Elinor Bettina (died just one day after her birth in 1907). Only Lesley and Irma outlived their father. Frost's wife, who had heart problems throughout her life, developed breast cancer in 1937, and died of heart failure in 1938.

Frost died in Boston on January 29, 1963 of complications from prostate surgery. He was buried at the Old Bennington Cemetery in Bennington, Vermont. His epitaph quotes the last line from his poem, "The Lesson for Today" (1942): "I had a lover's quarrel with the world."

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Robert Frost #Famous Birthdays

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simptasia · 4 years

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neurodivergence in abc’s lost

i’m gonna be listing off and talking about the canon neurodivergent characters in lost. i won’t be adding characters that i personally headcanon as neurodivergent in some way, what i’m writing here is elaboration upon what has been given to me by the show. please note that none of these people’s conditions or disorders were named in the show, so such diagnoses being named here are me taking that extra step based upon their symptoms

first of all i wanna point out that based on what i’ve seen the show, that the island’s healing powers applies to conditions inflicted upon the mind, not ones inherent to the mind. thats why daniel’s brain damage heals, but people like hurley and locke will always continue to have depression

hugo “hurley” reyes

schizophrenia and depression

our most prominently featured mentally ill character. it might seem bold to label him with schizophrenia when it’s never said that that’s what he has. but during his time on lost, he displays many of the symptoms: paranoia, pathological self loathing, delusions and hallucinations. now, it’s a fictionalized depiction of schizophrenia and that’s probably not even what the writers had in mind but it’s none the less a really, really good and respectful portrayal of it

it would take too long to list off all the times when hurley displays paranoia (heck, it’s easy not to notice how much its a part of his character) and self loathing. delusions? the situations regarding the numbers and his bad luck (canon never ever Proves what hurley believes to be true regarding that stuff)

they did an episode dedicated to hurley having hallucinations. a man named dave who drives him to self destructive behaviour, self hatred and attempted suicide. fun fact: when people with schizophrenia in real life have hallucinations, they tend towards just auditory. hurley gets visual as well as per Rule Of Drama. this is not a bad thing, just a narrative tool

(steering slightly into headcanon for a bit here but i personally ignore the dharma made Hurley Bird they revealed in the epilogue and just take hurley hearing that bird say his name as an auditory hallucination. for two reasons: one, hurley hearing/seeing things that don’t exist is already consistent with his mental state. and two, that bird literally, genuinely did not fucking say hurley)

extra notes

to be clear, in case there's confusion, hurley really does have magical powers. he can talk to dead people. that isn’t a delusion or hallucination. you can understand how confusing and distressing this must be for hurley

he's had a compulsive eating disorder since he was ten due to the pain of his father abandoning him. his struggle with this is well documented

at several points during the show he’s shown to have trouble spelling. he especially confuses his “y(s)” and “ies”. it’s not clear if this is due to poor education or a learning issue. or both, really. it’s safe to assume with him being poor, mexican and mentally ill, that school wasn’t easy for hurley

hurley has unjustifiably lived at mental health institutions on at least two occasions (the first time was against his will, second was volunteer)

john locke

depression

locke suffers from severe self esteem issues, and i know most lost characters do, but i mean to the point of irrational and destructive behaviour. he has an obsession with being deemed special in order to justify his existence. he also suffers jarring mood swings. (he can switch from calm and jovial to angry and defensive at the drop of a hat). when he was wheelchair bound, this threw him into a depression. when he failed to convince anybody to come back to the island, he attempted suicide. he would have gone thru with it too. he will go to extremes to make sure things stay the way he wants them to (killing an innocent woman so they can stay on the island, tying up and drugging boone so he won’t tell anybody about the hatch), and will fall into despair if he fails

also note that the things im saying about locke are not a comment on people with depression. i don’t think all depressed people kill and drug people. those were statements on locke’s character that i believe are a part of his mental state. my point is: he’s emotionally unstable and he tried to kill himself. and i think his extreme need for validation (from people and the universe in general) is especially concerning

to me, this all says to me that locke has clinical depression

locke isn’t as easy as the other people on this list to classify as Canon Neurodivergent but at least to me, i think it’s very obvious. like i feel bad being so vague but like, basically, watch any locke episode

daniel faraday

acquired brain damage, severe memory degradation as well as other neurodivergent behaviours (i’ll go into it)

he’s played by jeremy davies. enough said

okay, jokes aside. at some point in the past daniel and his assistant theresa were involved in some vaguely referred to time based experiments. while she was catatonicized, the accident left daniel severely brain damaged (also daniel spent years doing radioactive experiments without head protection, which would not have helped and indeed that is foreshadowing of this whole debacle)

apparently this left him in a state where he can no longer take care of himself, having been assigned a carer. his most outstanding symptom is that his ability to process short AND long term memory has been impaired

short term: he’s shown to have issues retaining memories from day to day. he wasn’t sure if he had met charles widmore already (he hadn’t). charles lays some exposition on him and when daniel asks why he’s telling him this, charles says, with sureness, that “because by tomorrow you won’t remember this”. counting on that to be an absolute fact seems silly to me but that does seem to the case. again, Rule Of Drama is in play here

long term: he can no longer access memories he formed many years ago, famously the memories he formed with desmond in 1996. all in all, this condition is highly plot convenient. can’t argue with results, really

no, i can keep going, i got more, this is daniel fucking faraday we’re talking about: his ability to remember 3 playing cards has been impaired (note that this is a skill most 4 year olds master), he forgot the secret code the science team were all taught and when he introduces himself to jack there is a long pause, in hindsight implying that daniel forgot his own name

like real life memory conditions, theres varying level to how much he does and doesn’t remember. he’s thankfully not in a 50 first dates situation and doesn’t forget everything day to day. clearly he remembers people if they’re around enough, like during his time on the boat. charlotte, miles, frank, naomi...

upon landing on the island, his memory slowly gets better (considering his condition beforehand, the fact that nobody comments on this is staggering)

when dan is fully healed? i could not say, i could theorize, but such things are nebulous. but still, the times we see dan without his brain damage, he still behaves like a neurodivergent person. just not like he was when he was brain damaged. he stims near constantly, has a tendency to repeat names and words (echolalia) and it’s shown that dan compulsively counts in his head. he counted up to 864 beats, if i remember correctly, which is about 10 minutes of counting in his head. by no stretch of the imagination is that neurotypical behaviour

(im not trying to sound defensive. and i don’t think anybody, anywhere, is arguing that daniel faraday is a neurotypical. unfathomable)

going into headcanon territory again, his ND traits, when not brain damaged, say to me that he’s autistic and/or has OCD and possibly anxiety. thats all theorizing on my part tho. but the fact of the matter is, damage or no, he’s neurodivergent

notes

his apparent need for tactile sensory input is legendary in the lost fandom. in layman’s terms: him pet pet. not just people but objects too. humans, overall, tend to touch things to process input better. many ND people do it more, and it seems daniel is a case of that (i am not making a solid statement on jeremy davies’ neuro state. that’s his business)

he shows an inability to properly process grief

he also shows shocking indifference to his own safety, resulting in reckless behaviour. how much of this is a result of his mental state or his upbringing is up for debate. i think it’s a combo of both

without his brain damage, he appears to have an eidetic memory

danielle rousseau

trauma induced mental illness

pretty self explanatory. the loss of her expedition, husband and daughter, as well as 16 years of loneliness (on THIS island) has resulted in emotional instability for danielle. she’s prone to paranoia, trust issues, irrational behaviour

she’s just not well. she’s right most of the time but she’s not well

libby smith

indeterminate mental state

libby was institutionalized (the same place hurley was sent to) and placed on medication (which seemed like sedatives to me, based on her expressions). in the show it’s not what clear what put her there, but having just done some research, i’ve discovered that Word Of God says that libby became mentally unstable after the death of her husband dave smith. so this is probably another case of trauma induced mental illness. she must have had a pretty extreme episode to cause her to be sent to a place like that. something to think about

but alas, it’s libby, so not much info. moving on

benjamin linus

anti social behaviour disorder (is my best guess)

oof. depictions of mental illness with characters who are immoral are depictions of mental illness nonetheless. i feel almost silly saying this but: ben is not... okay

ben displays issues (at best) with empathy, compassion and morality. how much he cares about other people is highly debatable but one thing that's certain is that he does genuinely love his daughter. everybody else is ????

but the loving alex thing rules out him being a sociopath or having narcissistic personality disorder. and it is genuine because when he loses it with grief, it’s not a performance, because the only audience is us...

he’s a compulsive liar, lying even when it doesn’t benefit him. lying just because. ben is highly unpredictable, which isn’t inherently a neurodivergent thing, but when a person goes from a calm discussion to strangling somebody, all roads point to Uh Oh (i don’t know the technical terms for Uh Oh). many of his outward emotions are performed (the difference between his fake smiles and few real smiles is noticeable). he’s manipulative, he treats people like objects for his benefit/plans, he’s self absorbed, he has zero issues with murder unless it’s a child. he does have some moral standards. but overall, uh, [just gestures at ben]

also ben is repeatedly offended when other people don’t trust him, which is HILARIOUS, but also shows a cognitive dissonance on his part

hmm i need more here, im gonna break out the big guns

that’s some basic info there and doesn’t that line up with ben?

the article goes on to say that people with this can put on superficial charm. that is, behave friendly and “normal” when they have to. which ben is shown to be able to do

and this

“Serious problems with interpersonal relationships are often seen in those with the disorder. Attachments and emotional bonds are weak, and interpersonal relationships often revolve around the manipulation, exploitation, and abuse of others.”

reminds me of his situation with juliet. and locke. and his “friendships” in general

i snipped the wikipedia article for this because unlike the rest i felt,,, underequipped to talk about this sort of thing

ben being mentally unwell is clear enough in canon and i think this disorder is what lines up best with it. please note that ben is capable of change and growth (like people in real life who have such issues) and like the show i’m not gonna paint him 100% evil or irredeemable. i’m just saying what’s true

notes

ben says at one point that he doesn’t dream anymore. it’s highly probably that this is a lie, but if it isn’t, well that's not good. it’d mean his brain isn’t entering into REM sleep properly, which can lead to emotional problems

ben doesn’t blink as much as most people do, something michael emerson did on purpose. this can apply to some neurodivergent people

it’s shown that he was quite nonverbal as a kid. in the flashbacks in “man behind the curtain” little ben barely speaks

honourable mentions

pretty much all the survivors suffer from PTSD due the trauma of the crash

a great deal of the characters suffer from PTSD from trauma in general due to their awful lifes. like, abusive parents, war, loss of loved ones, etc

and i must note that ben, daniel and locke suffering from parental abuse, ranging from emotional to physical, is something to factor into their cases

claire, similar to danielle, also suffered trauma induced mental illness due to the loss of her baby and feeling like she was abandoned

sayid is depicted as dead inside during season 6 due to The Sickness, so thats like a magical form of depression. and one could argue that he already had regular depression beforehand

boone joked about shannon having bulimia. (whether or not it’s true, boone is an asshole) if it’s true, shannon has an eating disorder, which is considered a form of mental illness. espech one so self image based

self harm

self harm is not an inherent part of mental illness but such concepts are often linked so i felt i should mention some of these, it’ll be quick

hurley’s aforementioned eating disorder

charlie takes heroin as a form of self harm (that isn’t a theory on my part, it’s clear as day that charlie started taking it because his sense of self worth was so low that the drugs felt like the only option)

locke, hurley, (both as mentioned above), jack, desmond, michael and richard have all attempted/nearly commited suicide

so what can we conclude from this? well that's up to you, really. that i love lost a fuck ton? that the actors and writing in lost is amazing? that all the neurodivergent based depth got saved for the boys? yeah

but i wanna conclude with this: a part of what makes lost really special to me is that these people i’ve talked out here? they’ve suffered, and oh boy it was tasty suffering, but all of them, yes even libby, were more than suffering

these people have nuance. one way or another, these people (to varying degrees) were happy at times. silly. funny. angry. opinionated. they loved. they were loved. they lived and breathed as human beings. that means a lot to me

lost is a story of broken people given a second chance. take that as you will

thank you for your time

#lost #charthann #missinglost #(i don't wanna lose this so i tagged you guys)#i've made a list like this before but i wanna go into detail #and before i knew it i made an incredible essay #lost headcanons #most of this is based on canon but as i said there is extrapolation at play #and i mention some headcanons along the way when i felt it was needed #gosh this became a whole Thing #i hope y'all enjoy it!#and this isn't counting ppl i headcanon as ND #like jack being autistic or charlie having HPD #i could go into that too

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twitchesandstitches · 4 years

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Wedding Eve in Hoard Keep Commission

Another comm for @alt-hammer set in their Noblestuck AU, this time featuring Porrim and Bronya visiting the land of the Pyropes before the historically unprecedented wedding of Latula and Mituna, introducing Terezi, Karkat and Kankri, as well as Redglare!

Featuring hyper pregnancy, unbirth, size difference, hyper boob, hyper butt, hyper belly, Redglare being really very large, and Kankri attempting to cause musicals.

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There were many ancient buildings from before the modern age of the noble families, of the like that probably would not be made again for many ages.

They were something from an older age; buildings inherently magical, aetheric essence pulsing through them and their own strange functions and unique enchantments like blood through a living thing. There were factories in the underlands of the Zahhak castles, daily pumping out scores of weaponry, armor and the foundations of architecture under the watchful eyes of mechanists who would be sorely loath to admit they had no idea what they were working with. To look inside those factories was to see… well, nothing. Nothing at all in there but a solid, tangible and black emptiness, staring right back with a presence all its own. No one was quite sure what happened to the material they put in.

And there were the massive and ancient ships of the Amporas and Serkets, enormous war machines that could end entire civilizations with the fearsome weaponry at their disposal; larger than some city districts, flying beneath the ocean itself or skipping on the waves with no apparent means of production; death itself to anything on the water. The means to make more was lost, and many felt this was absolutely for the best.

Every one of the noble families (the Megidos in their halls of the dead, the Captors atop the universities of magic and lore, the Pyropes and their dragons, the Leijons in the distant jungle lands and the Maryams in the oasis secured from the walking corpses of long dead monsters, the Zahhak aristocrats and the sea-faring Serket pirate lords, the Makara priesthood atoning for the sins of their blood, the Peixes and the Amporas of the shorelands, and most recently the Vantases and their human kindred-in-arms) had laid claim to one of these mighty relics.

It might, depending on one’s perspective, be a prerequisite. Each of the families was descended from people who had laid claim to one of these relics or taken it for themselves, worked out how to get it operational, and then used it for all it was worth. They had largely remained in power because they were untouchable, some more literally than others. Even the Vantases, who were only a single generation into being a noble house, had done so when they had been found worthy to use such an artifact.

It wasn’t surprising that war had plagued the continent until only recently.

At the far west of the continent, there was a mighty mountain range, covering much of the entire coastline, all the way to the magocracies of the Captors and their metropolitan libraries, and it was the land of the Pyropes. They were the dragon riders, among the largest and strongest of knights, blessed with insight, and empowered by the mighty blood of their ancestors. In the wars of the dragon riders they had won out, and they had laid claim to one such relic that was greatly prized by anyone who wanted to hold their land, for it was literally untouchable in war.

The Pyrope lands were marked by the trees growing across much of the mountain range. These trees, in their many varieties, were probably magical in nature: there were several thousand species alone across any given direction; needle-leaf conifers growing on the highest reaches, flowering trunks that grew into the supports of tree-cities around the cliff sides, expansive banyan trees near the wetter areas of the Vantas wetlands, and massive greenwood trees that were big enough to be mistaken for mountains themselves closest to the sea, but all the trees had this in common: their leaves flowered bright teal, the same blue-green shade as the blood of the dragons that called the land home.

The dragons, and the trolls who ruled and had long since bonded with those dragons.

Fortresses of various sorts were a hallmark of the continent, especially here with the many various dragon rider lineages having warred against each other for eons, and fortifications had featured heavily in the conflicts. But against the largest mountain in the entire mountain range, there was an especially massive castle, one so large that it wasn’t legally considered a castle at all, but a sprawling city with fortifications.

It was older than any troll bloodline to still be extant. It was older than any modern civilization; it had been there before the humans had come, it may have been there before the trolls had arisen from their swampy origins, and it would likely be there long after all else was dust.

See it clearly; think of a mountainside, soaring high into the heavens, one of the largest mountains in all the world. Now imagine around it, an impossibly large castle assembled around it; perhaps even grown in some fashion, considering the strangely organic pattern in the stone work that wasn’t likely for something that had been assembled.

Imagine its walls clinging tight around the mountain, around terraces and plateaus, over cliff sides and descending along the paths of rivers. Imagine bolt holes and tunnels into the mountain, veins for the castle and the lifesblood that was its people; and within its massive depths, thousands of people living there. Farmers and artisans, clever craftsmen and wise scholars. Writers, sculptors, and dragons. Hundreds of dragons, of many different varieties from the Red Queen famously bound to the Pyrope line itself, to the many different varieties and sizes, all the way to tiny coal-stokers just big enough to fit in a human’s lap. And humans! They dwelled here, freely, without fear, in open defiance that they had once been shackled in other lands not so long ago, and that said something of the character of the trolls who owned this keep now.

The keep had been passed down over the ages, from one owner to another. It had been hotly contested by both warlords and settlers, and why not? It’s powers were not fully known, but anyone knew of its famous ability to generate a massive shield that no sword nor spell could pierce, not even the mountain-breaking superweapons of the Serkets; to hold the keep, and to master its powers, was to be truly untouchable in your own lands.

And the size, and curvaceousness, of its seer-warriors was well known in the modern day. The keep channeled its energies into them, making them far larger than normal, and it's magic now ran in the blood of the Pyrope line, so that its daughters grew bigger and more bountiful than any other save perhaps the Maryams.

This keep had been kept for eons, from many hands won over another, until its present owners had slain the most vindictive of the old dragon riders, burning their history down so they could start fresh; some, less well disposed to their uncompromising ways, had suggested they started the war to do the same to the whole continent.

But, all the same, the Pyropes sought to protect others. They’d bonded with their dragons, internalizing some of their mentality, and they believed that dragons ought to protect what they cared about most. What they cared about was their people. And thus this great city-castle was the Hoard Keep.

Porrim Maryam, in one of the grand plateaus near the peak, enshrouded in the warm and protecting walls of the Keep, thought it all sounded very nice.

Certainly, she thought, it was very different from the home she’d known. Porrim was a vampire, of the Maryam clan that came from an oasis city considered a center of refinement and culture, and she was familiar only with the desert. She knew well the open sky before her, and the sun beating down. But here? It was colder, and the sky a small sight between the towering walls of stone.

It was… surprisingly cozy.

Personally, she thought the whole thing kind of looked like a big iridescent cake someone had smashed into the side of the mountain.

It was just like a multi-tiered cake. At the bottom was a vast terrace, of sprawling little villages bordering farmland and caves that their fungal farming and crawler-beast ranching was done on a scale to feed their entire territory with ease. The villages got bigger, clumping into micro cities until you got to the border of one of the upper walls, and then you got another, rather larger terrace, where much of the industrial and artisan workers lived, keeping the sewer systems functional, the rivers and canals streaking through the castle properly maintained.

And the terraces got narrow as they kept going up, the upper classes and nobility poised up high as if to leap down and strike anything that threatened the people who kept them alive. In turn, the dragon nobles (as they were called) were honorbound to swoop down and defend their people, with flame and blade.

Porrim looked up into the sky as she walked. Great leather-winged shapes flew, periodically belching clouds of flame, their eyes burning bright like small suns.

There were many reasons the Pyropes had never been ousted, not even during the greatest conflict between them and the Makaras when the humans had sought sanctuary with the dragonlords. Having fiercely loyal living siege breakers was certainly a factor.

But respect might have been a greater factor, and love for the protecting dragonlords was something the other trolls who had claimed this keep in the past hadn’t managed. Certainly, the Pyropes were much loved by the humans, Porrim thought as one showed her around town as a proper tour guide, much to the consternation of the actual tour guide.

“Anyways, if you tilt your eye-jigglies that away,” he said, pointing towards a large building across the street. “I’m pretty sure that’s one super big library. Dunno what the name of it is but it’s huge, I’ll give it that.” He was a little below average height for a human; to Porrim and her friends, who naturally stood far larger than humans, he was adorably tiny. A slender human, his skin a deep brown and his hair curled, he bore a few details that suggested he’d been trained in the magical traditions of knighthood. The flowing capes he wore suggested it, and his were a bright red, rather than the teal clothing seen elsewhere.

Porrim rubbed a hooked horn, rising from her dark hair; her other horn was slightly curved instead of hooked, and both were very long, and as per the traditions of her people, heavily carved with the heraldic symbols that indicated full status as a vampire matron among her clan. The same curves, spirals and flowering designs carved into her horns ran down her black skin, over her broad shoulders, her heavy arms, and especially the massive belly slung out in front of her, nearly as big as she was and wiggling with something inside. Or rather, multiple someones; Porrim had absorbed several people in order to reform them as vampires, and the process left her quite big!

Their tour guide led them onwards, apparently deciding on a whim that it would be a good idea to lead them there.

Porrim didn’t mean to make her hips sway so seductively, so enticingly, the hems of her robes fluttering around her knees. They’d just grown so large, and the width of her pelvis so great, it had affected something in her stride; she couldn’t help but advance like each step was carrying her upwards, her other hip swinging sharply down, for a delightful rhythm that attracted attention to her with each. She felt eyes nervously shift to her and then away, as if embarrassed, and beneath her veils, Porrim smirked in delight.

In front of her, her tattooed belly wobbled heavily from within, the occasional hand pressing out against its surface, or a leg or torso just barely visible. Distending so far its lower slopes nearly touched the floor, supported by a number of oiled straps from her shoulders and tied to a huge round brace holding up the bottom of her belly, she was very clearly pregnant. And in the particular traditions of the Maryam clan, pregnant with adults; absorbed through powers particular to her own clan, her body remaking them into new vampires. This detail was common knowledge around here, and Porrim glanced aside, smirking beneath her glossy veil when she saw people’s eyes lingering on her massive belly. Do they want to be in there too? She wondered.

‘You bet, babe,’ said a voice that was not her own. The people inside her, while they were being reshaped into true vampires, were usually completely out of it in a dreamless slumber connected to her mind, filling her pleasurably as their half-thoughts soothed her own. But sometimes, a strong enough emotion or thought made itself known, and briefly, Cronus awoke from his own dormancy in her to say this. She smiled and put a hand against her stomach, and thought she felt his hand press back.

They were nearly to the library and Porrim found her breasts constantly bouncing right over her face as her belly jogged them up. The noble families tended to get… ample as they grew more powerful, owing to certain arcane traditions and quirks of their magical bloodlines, and the Maryams grew very rapidly, so that Porrim wasn’t entirely used to having breasts nearly as big as her entire upper torso bounding and overflowing on top of her gravid belly. They projected out by at least three feet, each nearly as wide around as her torso and their motion a soothing, pleasant friction. She did have to walk carefully to avoid walking right into someone.

Each step, her huge hips swaying here and there in step with the forward moment of her massive belly and breasts, felt terribly uneven. Something was throwing her weight off, and Porrim tugged at the insufficient fabric bolt securing the fabric around her breasts. “We should have brought a poet. Your home is lovely, Latula!”

She spoke to a taller troll standing beside her. Porrim Maryam was a tall woman as trolls went, and Latula was much larger, as befit a scion of the dragon line; Porrim’s horns were only on level with her shoulders, and when Latula threw a playful punch into her shoulder, it nearly knocked her off stride. This was no mean feat; Maryam matrons like her could shrug off direct impacts from falling buildings, and it was hardly a surprise that Latula was so strong; the teals were enormously strong for the greenblood trolls, and Latula had trained in the magical ways of a knight, adding to her physical power.

“What, Kankri doesn’t count?” Latula joked. She was built on broader lines than her friend; while Porrim was a tall and curvy (and heavily pregnant) figure of a troll, her body adorned in the Pyropian attempts to replicate the gauzy silks and heat-resisting veils and robes of her homeland, Latula was much more bottom heavy, her breasts a little bigger than her head but her butt was as big around as a lot of Porrim’s whole body, her big belly outslung in a firm, maternal mass, and her hips absolutely enormous. Watching thighs more than six feet around slam into each other in an aggressively friendly swagger was certainly a thing to see.

Porrim wondered if it was like a warning bell for the Pyropes, who tended toward this kind of figure. Listen for the clap of mighty thighs and the smacking of a huge butt, it suggested, and be unafraid for nothing is stronger than the dragonrider near you!

Latula’s fastened a furred cloak around a body-glove that carefully outlined her entire body, streaks of yellow visible in patterns on her sides, and in her cleavage, there was a small medallion worn on a necklace, disappearing between her cleavage to be held safe and snug between them. It glowed faintly, and Latula made a show out of tucking it and giving her breasts a bit of a flounce, as if to keep it secured as close to her heart as possible. She looked a bit proud, even bashful.

Porrim glanced at her, smiling faintly.

Latula tilted her head up, awkwardly pushing up smoked red glasses to her eyes. The furred collar couldn’t quite hide the blush rising up to her cheeks.

They were now at the doors of the library and passing into it, their tour guide (who was named Dave, according to a neat script on his cloak) headbutting it open for no apparent reason. Then again, he had been trained in the Pyrope ways, according to the iconography on that robe as well; the terminal scales were only granted to those that were authorized to use Pyrope magical techniques and were up to their specifications. Some of the others were a bit more enthusiastic about popping into a random library.

In particular, Bronya hopped forward, her hands clasped with some difficulty in front of her own bustline; she was even more ridiculously big than Porrim, her breasts rising up in front of her face so much it must have been hard to see, the sides of them spilling past the diameter of her massive hips, but even they looked small compared to her gigantic belly. It was even bigger than Porrim’s, dipping nearly to the ground, and it would have been flat on the ground if not for an elegant and unobtrusive brace hoisting it up to somewhere around her knees. Just like Porrim’s, the forms of slumbering people being reshaped into vampires surged against her skin periodically, but it seemed like there was a more in Bronya than in Porrim; as big as Porrim was, she could have used Bronya’s belly as a bed.

Bronya’s long hair fell down past her hips, a streak of bright green flowing past her curved horns and ending somewhere past a backside that distorted edges of even the Pyrope-style robes she’d put on. The tailors hadn’t had any more luck getting her outfit to fit properly, and until they could find something that fit, she was making do with robes that at least fit.

“I’ve always wanted to see the libraries of the Pyropes!” She said excitedly, bounding forward and almost trampling a few people with her huge, gravid belly.

“Me as well,” said Kankri Vantas, the last of their number. He was smaller than either of them, closer to the diminutive humans in height; a muscular, broad shouldered troll, he was surprisingly wide for his size, and when he moved you got the impression it was best to get out of the way. The carefully controlled expression of his round, dour face abruptly opened into a genuine expression of true delight; the half-cape worn by a Vantas knight swung back behind as he flourished his arm in a dramatic gesture. “Just think of it! Books gathered from across the entire landscape!”

Bronya leaned down and carefully took hold of his hands, fingers wrapping carelessly over his palms. “Works of art discussion and techniques through the ages!” Impulsively she spun him a little, right in front of her belly and allowed him to support himself off it like a climber on a happy cliff.

“Records of lectures from famed philosophers of golden ages!” He declared, letting himself be spun around!

“Architectural designs and fashions throughout the ages, in numerical order of objective fanciness!” Bronya spun him around; above them the library was a sort of hollow tube, with a circular staircase spiraling upwards. Many floors fanned out from it, each one dedicated to a broad subject (Such as works of fiction, artwork, and at the very top, a collective ‘we don’t really know where to put it so here it goes’ floor). Around them, librarians paused in surprise, contemplating the sight of so much jiggling and belly poking out. They took some interest for academic reasons; a glowing woman with prominent fangs, tattoos and green clothing read ‘Maryam vampire’ pretty clearly.

“Comprehensive maps to the most ancient ruins known to trollkind and ruminations on their cultures!” Kankri declared passionately, and with even greater passion, added “Damara even donated some!”

“And little joke books that Karako might like!” Bronya said, referring to her adopted child, who was currently off at a daycare.

“I feel… so passionately about this,” Kankri said as she stopped twirling. “It could almost…” he placed a hand on his chest. “Make a troll want to…”

The others, detecting the warning signs, winced.

“Want to sing!”

Bronya and Kankri both prepared themselves, breathing in deeply…

Dave tapped them both on the shoulder… or at least on Kankri’s shoulder, Bronya got an impatient poke in the hip. They both looked down at Dave, who gazed up at a solid wall of shapely troll to gaze as sternly as he could without really caring that much. “Guys, chill. You’re not allowed to do musical routines in the library on this day of the week.”

Bronya frowned sadly. “Ohh…” she perked up. “Still, I have always wanted to come here!” She hurried off, trying not to knock anyone down with her huge belly. Some cautious researchers, intrigued by the Maryam rites of unbirthing and recreation, followed after her softly.

Kankri put a hand to his nose, frowning deeply, and as he finally caught up to events, a scandalized look came over him, mingled with horror. “I almost… defied local customs! Me, an outsider! Invited to these lands and I almost broke a taboo!”

“Ehh, I wouldn’t say it's a taboo,” Latula said, behind him, waving a hand. “It’s just supposed to be done on certain days…”

He fled to her, clasping her hand. “Latula, I swear, I did not mean to break the ways of your people!”

She patted him on the head. “Chill, dude, you’re cool.”

Kankri turned to Dave and bowed to him. “I thank you, tour guide. Without your advice, I may have committed a terrible wrong.”

“Yep, without me you would have been the worst criminal in two hundred years,” Dave said, not blinking.

Kankri hurried away, perhaps to find a book to drown his shame in, and Latula glared at Dave, who was now grinning a little. “Dude! Don’t mess with him like that, he thinks you’re serious!”

Dave just kept grinning. “He makes it easy.” He thumbed at the door. “I’ll be hanging right here if anyone needs me or when you wanna bounce from here. Just… standing there. Being all cool, and fancy. And with a really cool cape. A cape way cooler than what you got.”

Latula growled. “I wanted to be the tour guide!”

Dave pointed at her while walking backwards. “Hey, dragon princess, brides don’t do dirty work! And not just because your mom thought it would be funny to annoy you like that.”

Latula made a few inarticulate noises of strangled frustration as he left.

Porrim, a book on sculpture techniques and cultural relevance through the ages in her hand, waved to her. “Please, Latula, please sit down.”

Grumbling to herself, Latula walked back over and sat down. The bench creaked as she sat down, her massive butt overflowing both in front of it and that, rising up a couple feet higher just because of how much butt she had. Porrim was much the same, but given that her belly was so huge that she required a couple people to carefully put some pedestals beneath it for support, it wasn’t so apparent.

Kankri and Bronya didn’t feel the need to come back; they would, Porrim supposed, meet up with them when they were done here. Perhaps they would spend the day here; they had several months before the big event was upon them, and with that thought, she glanced at Latula, who was still fuming but calming herself down, tugging something on a string out of her cleavage.

Porrim watched her with a faint smile; her fangs were long, protruding over her thick lower lip, and it was about as menacing as a goldfish. (And not the fire-breathing, mile long ones either.)

It wasn’t common for the nobles to leave their home territories, she reflected, even on business. Though this was business of a sort, given the need for the allied noble families to show solidarity.

It was particularly important for the Pyropes. History lived with them, in libraries like this; in the grand court archives where every crime in their lands was recorded, and in other records. The ones where historical crimes were marked down. The Pyropes had a particularly vindictive view when it came to justice: ‘a perpetuator for every crime, and a noose for every perpetuator.’ They looked at history and they saw the wrongs left to fester, both recently and in the distant past, and it was their pleasure to repair it.

So much of the continent’s history was a crime. To the trolls, but by other trolls to them. There were injustices down to the carapacians that had arrived from across the sea, and most of all to the humans that lived under troll rule. Porrim glanced at some humans walking by, their sleeves long and their faces staring down by habit, and she wondered how many of them bore the marks of shackles burned into their wrists, or ownership stamps bound into their foreheads.

Many tealbloods had owned this keep. Not all of them had been kind. There was a lot of blood soaked in these stones, and she supposed the seers the Pyropes trained were specifically trained to come to terms with the horrors in their past. But it was the Pyropes that had set the humans free; it was Redglare herself who had broken the chains of humans, told them they were free, and declared who was responsible for their torment.

It wasn’t the Pyropes who had started the war that had burned the continent down and had killed thousands, but it was the Pyropes that had flown down on their dragon armies, and left nothing but ashes and vengeance behind.

It was Pyrope blades that cut the Makaras down to nothing but a few bloodlines, their ash-stricken homelands a suitable punishment for the horrors they had inflicted. It was dragonfire that had scorched keeps and castles, barracks and naval fleets, and had turned entire kingdoms to soot and grisly chunks.

Porrim had been trained to think of these sort of things, for the days when she might set policy. Her own oasis city had been a neutral ground and sanctuary for ages, maintaining careful balance and kept secure by the inhospitable dangers of her homeland, and she had taken to politics quite well. She kept thinking about the significance of the Pyropes inviting others to such a big event as this, and it struck her that it was very much an extended hand of friendship.

Now she observed that Latula had pulled her trinket out from between her boobs, her claws lightly tracing it, her bright teal eyes looking distant as though she were thinking of something, or someone else. Latula stared at it longingly, sighing softly to herself and clearly lost in thought.

It was a chunk of teal crystal inlaid with gold; chipped right off from a variety of pseudo-floral mineral that grew very quickly in the underground cave systems where a lot of the local agriculture was grown in conditions that didn’t require sunlight; edible mushrooms, cave-dwelling giant bat livestock, digger beasts, and so forth. These crystals naturally glowed faintly and had a unique beauty, lustrous and gleaming like fine metal when properly treated.

It was a tradition among the Pyropes to offer them carved medallions, necklaces, medals or other such things as an engagement gift. It meant something; the crystals below had been traditionally allowed to grow to such size that their immensely strong structures could carry massive weights, and serve as the foundations of cities and castles. Even a small one, properly treated, could be the seed of something that carried houses and lifted up mighty realms. And they had to be decorated, carved; you had to make it look pretty, had to put a creative spark into your gift; that made it personal. Inlay it with precious metals, or an abstract image of hands clasped together, and the more tastelessly ostentatious, the better. The people of the dragon lands tended to have all the fine artistic discernment of a concussed magpie.

Now Latula’s claws traced geometric lines and sharp angles arranged into a lovely, if clumsy design. It was an artistic peculiarity of the Captor mages, who rather liked patterns based in mathematics. It was not a well-carved piece, though; the edges were chipped everywhere, cracks were visible here and there when the chisel had bit too deeply. But the carver had tried, working around some very severe motor control difficulties; fingers that spasmed and twitched on their own had nonetheless worked hard, sheer stubbornness triumphing over the limitations of his body. Space had been used to convey as much a design as the actual carving, the design was as simple as possible for the carver to manage it without too much difficulty, and while it was hard to say what the design actually was, it looked pretty.

Latula tenderly cradled the medallion and its gold-colored necklace strings, and she kissed it softly.

There was a soft popping sound. Latula tilted her head up and stiffened when she saw Porrim grinning at her, and even glowing faintly.

Porrim opened her mouth to say something.

“Nuh uh!” Said Latula, waving a finger and tucking the medallion back into her cleavage, the slight impact making the lower crest of her breasts shift slightly around her belly. “You keep those dirty thoughts to yourself, vampire lady!”

“What makes you think it was going to be dirty? I promise you, all my thoughts were about how romantic it is.”

Latula sneered. “You know my magic is all about foresight and seeing the future, right?”

“...I wasn’t going to say exclusively dirty things about you imagining that medallion as being Mituna, now was I?” Porrim said innocently.

“Yes, and you were going to be explicit about it!” Latula crossed her arms with an indignant ‘hmph!’.

A long moment passed between them as the banter wore down, after that. People walked past them, perhaps word spreading that today the scion of the Maryam Clan was visiting. People came to peek, and Porrim noticed a few people poking their heads from around bookcases, and she felt the warm caress of their gazes upon her stomach.

She placed a hand upon the upper crest, and it was a little higher than her jawline. Her breasts, rising over her belly by at least four feet straight up, interfered seriously with normal vision from the front and so she made do with rather more esoteric senses granted by the fertility powers of her bloodline, the same ones fed and amplified by the bodies being reshaped by her busy womb. Cronus, in some approximation of awareness, thought some miffed thoughts about them being so open about it.

Porrim certainly loved showing her body off as much as possible; she worked hard to get such a splendidly massive figure! Impishly, and to test the waters of public reaction, she tugged at a swath of translucent green fabric flowing down the side of her breasts, insufficient to provide full coverage, flowing down the sides of her body (both belly and back completely exposed, her tattoos flowing across exposed skin) and bundling up around her massive hips, finally trailing off in a slit-thigh style around her knees. As it was, her belly and breasts stretched her clothing enough that the fabric was pressed hard, and she was perilously close to a wardrobe malfunction at all times.

She didn’t actually mind, though.

Further thoughts on this matter was interrupted by something very heavy dragging on the floor, and a bookcase being pushed aside by a weight so big that even the shelf and its payload couldn’t ignore it. They looked and Latula’s mouth opened as her future vision flashed through all possible events of the next few minutes to settle on the most likely one. She sighed. “Bronya, really?!”

Eventually, Bronya shuffled out. It took some time for the actual Bronya to appear; at first all they saw was a huge belly, more and more of it coming into view with various laborious steps. It didn’t bounce or jiggle, as was normal with such big attributes. It was too heavy for that, dipping low as gravity and the weight of many new residents made it even heavier, and finally Bronya came into view, still eclipsed by her own belly.

Bronya had been big before. Now, her brace had snapped at some point before she’d dared seek out Porrim after what was very likely a moment of weakness, and Porrim’s first guess was that her stomach had grown to the point that even the distinctive braces of the Maryam’s couldn’t cope with the new weight. Her belly rose higher than her horns, the typical distended shape of a gravid vampire belly more sphere-shaped from all the weight of the new residents in her womb filling it out.

Some part of Porrim, overeager to stuff as many as possible into her womb, was quietly in awe. She wondered how Bronya had even moved down here with all that weight!

Porrim rolled her eyes. “Not to repeat Latula but… really, Bronya?”

“I’m sorry!” Bronya squeaked, her belly now pregnant even more with new residents. “But the head librarian was so very cute, and her staff was really cute, and I just couldn’t resist!”

“The staff!?” Latula said. “What’d you do with Stelsa and her girls, hrm?”

Dave emerged beyond Bronya, his usual expression of practiced aloofness bubbling away. “So, hypothetically speaking… how bad would it be if pretty much the top five administrators were suddenly out of commission for a while?”

“Um. That’s a good question. How long is a while?”

Bronya looked speculative. Porrim leaned forward into her belly and after thinking, said, “It depends on if Bronya fully vampirizes them. It could be anywhere from a few days if she doesn’t, to… a lot longer if she does.” she thought about doing a rough calculation, and then decided it’d be funnier to let Latula try to work it out; she usually made some amazing expressions at those times.

Bronya looked appalled. “I can’t let them go so soon!” she said, with an edge of dismayed shock at the very notion. “I just got ahold of them!” Various hands pressed fervently from inside of her belly, protesting the very idea.

Latula, with her own mystical connection to thoughts and minds, certainly heard what they had to say. “...Ah. Well…” She frowned, considering this deeply, tapping a claw against the side of a horn. “Huh. Guess we could word it as a diplo-whatever thingy. We could get someone to wrap that up in fancy words?”

“That’s grand to hear!” Bronya said brightly, hugging her heavy belly with a delighted sigh. “We only just met, it wouldn't be fair to depart so soon!”

A short moment passed.

Then Kankri came, a big stack of books in his arms. “I cannot believe you have the entire series of the transcribed Letters From an Anonymous Lout Complaining About Copper Grades! All eighteen volumes! This is such a rare…” He paused, peeking around the books in much the same way as Porrim had to do from her own monstrous bustline. He blinked at Bronya’s newly massive belly, the wary but entranced crowd of onlookers, and Latula apparently unsure if she ought to be amused or annoyed.

“Did I miss something?” He asked.

-----------

Their time in the keep went on pretty much like that, and for the next month as they settled it, more of the same came and went.

Bronya did her best to restrain herself, and Redglare herself, the Dragon Queen of the keep, took an interest in the legal consequences of her impetuous ‘adoption’ of the library staff; what their clan status would be if fully vampirized, how that might be a tie between their houses, whether this would magically make their position as part of the Pyropes void in a magical sense, and other such questions that weren’t that interesting to Porrim. She was an activist in improving the lives of others, but she didn’t pay much attention to the legal issues.

It would still be some time before the actual wedding, and Porrim was well aware of the momentousness of the occasion. The grand war between the noble houses was still fresh in people’s minds; there were still places burning from Pyrope attacks, or lands left leaderless from night-time Maryam vampires striking in the dead of night. Places where the Makaras had detonated forbidden magical weaponry and it would be generations before anything could dare inhabit them again. And there were worse nightmares than that, still lingering in the quiet places people hadn’t yet opened up.

These rather gloomy thoughts were on Porrim’s mind as she went to meet up with Latula, her betrothed, and Latula’s younger sister Terezi, and with her was Kankri’s younger brother, Karkat Vantas.

“That’s the history of the world, I suppose,” she said softly to Karkat, as they walked up to a former dragon roost. “The ancient families break the world, and then our descendants clean up the mess, and do it all over again.”

Karkat made a thoughtful noise; his voice was deep enough, and his blunt fangs broad enough, that it sounded like a growl. He walked up the stairs a good distance from her; not out of dislike, as she was pretty sure he’d had a crush on her as a younger boy, but out of bashful fear of accidentally bumping into her belly or huge hips. Even a single misplaced swing of his hand might be more inappropriate a touch than he was comfortable with.

Porrim chuckled at the thought. The Vantases were just so… bashful.

“I dunno about that,” he said eventually. He was even smaller than Kanri, though perhaps only by half a foot or so; he was slightly built, broader at the hips and thigh than typical for a troll boy, his round face as delicately featured as a statue built of soap, even his horns round and stubbly. He looked fragile, like a lovely glass figurine that would crack at the touch, and it was quite a contrast to his usual grumbling, manic energy.

They stepped out into the staircase and into the dragon roost. He looked around for someone, briefly distracted. Today, there were many trolls, some humans and carapacians mingling among them; some of them were tending to the few dragons left around, while most were simply reading or gazing into the sky. A few wearing the revealing, comfortable robes of the trained seers sat there, staring out as they allowed their minds to wander freely and their magic to take hold of the could be and grant them the future sight.

(Metaphorically. Most of the seers sacrificed their senses in exchange for seeing the abstract and the possible futures; sight was common enough, and Latula had lost her sense of smell, and she was far from the only one to do it like that.)

Not seeing who he was looking for, Karkat continued. They walked past dozens of house-sized stalls, designed to accommodate dozens of dragon breeds, and now, almost all of them were empty. It was the same story across all the roosts; once there had been ten dragons for every troll, the keep always abuzz with the distant beat of leathery wings. But that had been before the war, and the loss of so many.

“Mituna and Latula’s wedding isn’t political,” he said. “Sure. There’s the usual political crap around it, and I guess they can use it, but… in the old days, they’d have been married off. Hell, what’s the chances the dragon seers and the high mages would have bothered ever talking to one another? But… this war changed stuff, Porrim.”

They came to a balcony, overlooking the lands and lower levels, and there were several others there; a large seer bigger even than Porrim, and resting on a couch, a particularly massive knight apparently dozing, her bustline bigger than the couch she was napping on.

They stopped at the balcony, and it struck a thought in Karkat.

“The dragon riders set the humans free,” he said. “They defended my home when the brownblood knights tried to take it over for the war effort, and they declared us nobles when all was said and done. And now… the kids of that war are becoming friends. We’re getting married.” He leaned on the balcony, still looking out with a contemplative air at the sky. “Does that sound like the kind of world that would be made in the old days?”

The large seer Porrim had seen was sitting there, larger than anyone else there, perked up at the sound of his distinctive voice. She turned, and first Porrim realized how big she was, taller than Porrim even sitting down. As she stood up, there was a lot of wobbling from various outlying parts of her body, her robes cut to show off as much of her as possible. When she stood to her full, imposing height, her seat was left creaking behind her, sinking inwards without her massive body to put weight on it.

Oblivious to this, Karkat gestured outwards to the horizon. It was hard to honestly see a horizon in the circumstances; the keep was simply so huge, it’s walls so high and extensive that if you looked onwards, in any direction, you’d probably just end up seeing more of the keep. The fortifications loomed high into the sky for miles around, in the distance terrace forms and mountainside lakes defined warmer edges around some of the most distant walls far below the descending lowlands. Rivers winded, rather like glistening ribbons, all the way from the mountain itself and spilled downwards, splitting into dozens more, and the sunlight made them glow at this time of day.

And from wall to wall, it was filled with more city. Buildings built upon other buildings, rope-bridges connecting to one another in lieu of traditional streets, the architecture flowing up the walls and climbing higher; there were a few houses or civic buildings that peeked over the walls, many hundreds of feet up. The sound of it all was a physical presence, or perhaps the sound of a dance; a single vast sense of movement from below, the pulse and breath of so many people creating the life of the city. Humans, trolls, and other beings all living together without any real interest in how historically unusual that was, that only a few generations ago so many of them would have been in chains in other lands…

Them living together, in peace, had been as unthinkable as a tealblood marrying a goldblood mage. Or perhaps a mutant being raised to knighthood.

Now the seer that had gotten up approached. She was powerful enough to have picked up on his thoughts, and now she spoke aloud, “We’re in a better position than our ancestors were, and I guess we got a duty to keep doing better.”

“See, that’s what I’m saying,” Karkat said as Porrim turned towards the seer, her eyes a bit wide with surprise. “We can do better! I mean, look at where you came from; best as anyone can guess the whole place used to be farmland and then someone let loose something bad there, and now the whole place is one big undeath zone. But you’re fixing it; it's actually getting better than it’s been in hundreds of years. We can actually fix the crap going on!”

“Or look at where you’re from,” said the seer, now standing directly above Karkat, and she was not only tall but… thick, her breasts jutting out so that Karkat was put into shadow beneath them. He blinked upwards, the experience familiar enough that it instantly made him realize who it was. “The lake your guys live on. It used to be a fishing village where people tried to hide away from everyone else, and now? When you make a challenge, everyone listens. Hell, it’s a place where humans get to have a voice.” She grinned, her teeth big and sharp, and the scarred eyes staring out were glassy and a dull red, seeing nothing at all.

“Ah, there you are, Terezi!” Porrim said as Karkat whirled around and sank his arms into her stomach in a very serious hug. His expression remained as dour as usual even as his shoulders heaved with the strength needed to really sink into her, but at least her outfit had the right kind of cut for skin-on-skin contact, cut around the sides to make room with her expansive belly.

Terezi Pyrope laughed warmly, reaching down past her huge breasts to sink her claws into his robes and pull him clear off the ground into a face-smothering hug where her breasts overflowed his entire head and shoulders, pulling more and more of him right into her cleavage and against the flat plane where her breasts joined her body. Despite him being abnormally heavy for his size, she carried him easily with the frankly ludicrous strength honed by the mystical bond to dragons that her ancestors had passed on; the power of the great beasts flowed through her, as surely as any other seer of her kingdom took the spirits of dragons and stranger creatures into their bodies (whether through a sort of mystical pregnancy, or other means) to empower their foresight.

Karkat was an intensely private person; he might have come off as manic and emotionally expressive, and certainly he never lied about what he felt, or what he really meant by what he said, but he kept as much as he could to himself. He was naturally suited to have been a spy or perhaps an inside agent if he had lived in more troubled times; as it was, he never really let himself be too open, perhaps out of a sense of propriety; more stringent and grim than Kankri. It was a bit of a Vantas thing, Porrim supposed.

But he was… well, he wasn’t smiling, but he was clinging tight to her, openly and unashamed of doing so in public where everyone could see; his arms sank into her breasts now, and he didn’t appear to care about the intimacy of being in her cleavage, not in the heat of the moment, or its own curious romance.

It was, in Porrim’s view, adorable.

She felt bad putting a pin in it. “I know you two enjoy yourselves,” she said dryly, noting the distinctive outward curve of Terezi’s belly. “But there is such a thing as time and place…?”

Terezi, unabashed, slowly let go of Karkat and allowed him to slide down her front. He dropped to the ground in a little crouch and stood up, and both of them mirrored each other, instinctively adopting the same pose; it wasn’t quite insolent, but it was definitely heading that direction.

Terezi grinned, providing a great distinction from Karkat’s more serious demeanor. Every bit of her was a contrast; where Karkat was short, she was abnormally tall for a troll, towering above him so much that his horns were somewhere around her waist, at best. Where he was generally on the slim side, she was enormously wide; even bigger and curvier than her older sister Latula, her hips were over five feet across and big enough to cause serious trouble getting through doorways; she nudged one hip against Karkat’s face, trying to get a reaction out of him.

The slit hem of her robes rode up against that hip, sliding away from incredibly wide, soft thighs that Karkat could easily use as a mattress, if he didn’t mind sinking in. Her robes were teal, and modified somewhat; a deep cleavage hole provided a grand view of her bustline, her clearly pregnant belly protruding out by about a foot and dipping low over her waist line, and the hemline was cut short around her knees. IT showed off a lot of her body, just as Terezi liked, and incidentally was easy to move around in. An important consideration, for the adventurous lifestyle of a Pyrope seer; they were often called to direct action, as their foresight was generally demanded in a combat capacity.

It was honestly hard to imagine Terezi moving fast, though Porrim felt this was a bit of a slight. Even without a butt big enough to serve as its own ultra-cushioned seat, Terezi’s breasts were so big that the automatic assumption was that they would hamper movement. They were almost as big as Karkat was, and would likely eventually be considerably larger than his whole body; already, their lower crest dipped below her waist line, almost over her hips, swelling out wider than her torso was broad… about twice as wide as her torso for each breast, in fact. They looked heavy, and Porrim knew from experience that such massive assets were not to be taken lightly.

Apparently on automatic, Karkat and Terezi’s hands came together. Porrim chuckled and went to sit down.

Karkat and Terezi came after her, and paused in midstep; Karkat turned to look at something behind them. “Um, Porrim? We have company.”

“It is a public space,” Porrim said, adjusting herself for the complicated task of sitting down when equipped with a belly bigger than most of your body, a butt bigger around than most seats were really designed to accommodate, and breasts big enough to give even more weight to that belly, even without all the people in her womb making her balance a tricky thing.

“Uh, not that kind of visitor.”

“Hi, mom,” Terezi said cheerfully.

Porrim froze up, and turned around. She suddenly remembered a pillar… or someone big enough to be mistaken for one.

It was said that magic and the essence of dragons ran in the blood of the Pyropes; Terezi and Latula, growing as big as they were and as ludicrously strong as they could be, were strong contenders for the idea. Sitting in a particularly oversized chair and overflowing a lot of it was an even better case example.

“Hello, young Maryam,” said the cool and authoritative voice of Dragon Queen Redglare, the undisputed leader of the Pyropes, commander of the dragons by right of guardianship, and the troll who had personally ended the seemingly eternal wars of the nobles through both diplomacy and force of arms, and now that Porrim realized she was there, the full weight of her presence set on the area like a lead weight.

You couldn’t look away from her. Even sitting down, doing nothing, attention was pulled her way, like flames being drawn to a much brighter, hotter fire, and it had nothing to do with her beauty, or her great size. There was a word for what she had, but somehow charisma seemed insufficient to fully describe the subtle qualities of grace, inspiration and power that Redglare could give off.

Latula was tall, Terezi was big, and both were curvy enough to do terrible things to doors when they tried to move through them in a hurry, but even laying down, Redglare made them both look small. The chair creaked beneath her as she sat up, her immensely long and pointed horns arcing up slightly as she settled into position. There was a faint noise as the knightly attire she wore, richly decorated like a sort of wearable tapestry, did its best to accommodate a figure packing more mass than some crowds did. Breasts taller than even a Makara bruiser rose up high above her, pooling over her powerfully built and matronly body like a couch stripped of framework, and as Redglare moved, it was sincerely humbling for Porrim to see so much… mass moving around.

She was even bigger than her mother, the Dolorosa. That was a very intimidating thing to live up to.

Redglare sat up fully, her massive butt making a notable dent in her clothing and the chair. Behind her broad back, the couch was severely bent, her fearsome weight far too much for it to survive; her lust for drama had taken out yet another bit of furniture. Beside her, Porrim saw Latula sitting on another chair and holding hands with a smaller, incredibly handsome goldblood troll with four horns poking through his wild hair, a contented smile on both their faces.

“Isn’t it inappropriate for a bride and groom to see each other before a proper wedding?” Porrim asked, unable to stop herself from being impish.

“Not around here, it isn’t,” Terezi said dryly. “Dunno where you heard of that kinda tradition.”

“I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about,” Redglare said, affecting an air of innocence. “Why, if I saw them being so inappropriate, I would have already said something!” She very pointedly looked away from the pair.

Latula giggled. The goldblood next to her did as well, sticking his tongue out cheerfully. It wasn’t easy to see his eyes beneath his hair, though it was easy to see the scars webbing around from below his eyes; he took a more... reckless approach to magical experiments than was perhaps wise, and it had left its damage. His hand jerked and twitched in Latula’s grip, but she held him firmly and securely and without any reaction to this.

In only a month, Latula’s belly had swelled hugely, its firm and distended shape suggesting something a little more internally complex than just gaining weight; while not as massive as Porrim’s belly (and for good reason!), she was still getting big enough that she needed her own supportive brace to support it. Her belly hung low, the lower crest about even with her knees when she was standing, and looked about as big as a couch for the goldblood that Porrim suspected was the reason her belly was so big and, well, gravid.

Latula was very obviously pregnant; this wasn’t a big deal in Pyrope views, which regarded marriage as a vague formality in any case, but Porrim still worried about the diplomatic repercussions that might come about, what with heirs and all. Trolls lived long enough that getting an ideal heir was usually a matter of just waiting long enough, but getting them early on could pose some tricky questions with educating them; something that normally required life experience from the nobles in question.

If Porrim had to take a guess, she suspected that Latula’s growth wasn’t just additional children being gestated as the result of frequent personal time with her beloved. Magic had an emotional component, and it was pretty likely that being so affectionate and loving was adding to her growth, or double-impregnating her in some unexpected, mystical fashion.

Her beloved, Mituna Captor, looked quite proud of her growth. He leaned into her, and Redglare tilted her head aside, like an ancient nest lord proudly regarding some mischievous but very skilled dragons at play. “Sure is a good thing I have no idea where my kid or kid-in-law are,” she said laconically. “Otherwise I might have to pretend I actually want to bother with what they do on their own personal time.”

“Yup,” Latula said.

“Sure is a good thing I don’t know where they are, then.” Redglare sat up completely, and slowly stood off the couch; it creaked complainingly as she left it, and watching her stand up was a sight all on it’s own; her massive hips produced a sort of moving eclipse behind her, and her breasts were so incredibly massive they were visible even from behind her.

Redglare took a step to the balcony, resting the massive shelf of her breasts against the wall. “Hey, kids. Come here a sec, would you?”

Porrim, uncomprehendingly, cautiously raised a hand. Redglare turned, and nodded at her. Meekly, Porrim approached, the overwhelming size of the towering dragon lord like a magnet.

Terezi and Karkat followed, still holding hands, though with a dutiful air. Latula and Mituna followed too, but at a bit of a distance, perhaps unsure whether to drop the pretense or not.

There was a long moment before Redglare said anything else. A tension of a sort, not taut but loose and fraying, settled around them as she gathered her thoughts.

Eventually, Redglare spoke. “Huh. A wedding with a Captor mage, with my own daughter, with nobles of the other kingdoms attending. All on their own, too.” She adjusted herself, resting into her imposing bustline like her own moving cushioned table. “Believe me, kids. When I was your age, I’d never have believed I’d say something like that.”

“Yes, mama,” Latula said meekly.

Redglare snorted. “Boy, if my Latula were here and being all ‘dutiful daughter’ and stuff, I’d tell her to quit it. I didn’t make rivers run rainbows with blood so you guys would have to be serious and crap. Live a little, y’know?” Behind her, Latula nodded seriously. Mituna rolled his eyes… or Porrim supposed he did, his head tilted in the right way anyways.

“But. Yeah. We’ve spent hundreds of years just fighting back and forth over scraps our ancestors screwed up, and doing our best to screw up what’s left. I mean, look at all the monsters the Amporas have to clean up.” Redglare started to count things off on her fingers. “The desert you Maryams are fixing up; the rogue monsters that keep popping up here and there, hot spots of wild magic making the land rot and go insane… lost experiments wandering the world, all along and miserable… automatons that are slaves to their programming, and war machines that don’t have any thought but just killing whatever they think is an enemy… and that’s not even getting into the literal demons appearing from where too much hate and despair sank into the ground.

“This whole land has been screwed up for a long, long time. I hate to say it, but the work of fixing it doesn’t stop with me. I’d love it to. But my generation isn’t going to be the one to make sure it gets fixed. Probably not yours, either; this is a job you pass on.” She turned slightly, breasts dragging on the balcony, her half-lidded eyes pausing on Terezi’s belly. “And you’re making some headway on that so, hey, congrats on getting your boy before he wises up to you being a total smart ass, kiddo.”

Terezi nodded sagely. “Yeah, that’s the plan.” Karkat snorted.

“But, jokes aside, fixing it permanently isn’t your job. But keeping it going is. Same thing for making sure there’s no backsliding, either.” Redglare’s expression softened, loosened, her eyes distant. She winced, and looked for a moment as though she were remembering something sharp and painful. “There’s too much of that. Every inch we get, someone wants to pull it a foot back into where we were. So don’t give anyone even an inch. Understand, kids?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused.

She chuckled. “Smartasses. But yeah, you get the idea.” She looked into the sky. “Me, ‘Rosa, Karkat and Mituna’s dads, the Leijon chief, and the others… we started this. But we don’t finish it.” She turned, looking square at them, and the intensity of her gaze, the fervor of her belief, hit Porrim like a ton of bricks. “You don’t either, but you can take it further than we ever did.” She grinned. “You can do it. I know you can.”

Porrim tilted her head down. She wasn’t sure she believed she was the one to do that.

She stood close enough, though, that Redglare could tilt her head up, her touch light and gentle. “Hey, kiddo. None of that. I believe in you. Follow me? C’mon. Chin up.” Porrim cautiously smiled, and Redglare grinned: wild, fierce, a dragon in all ways but the physical.

Redglare shifted tacks, her point made. “Come on, no looking all serious and crap.” She spread her arms wide, turning and her huge breasts sliding down, lowest slopes somewhere around her knees once they came to rest, and projecting out more than Redglare herself was tall. “It’s a wedding! Cheer up a little, dorks.” She flounced off. “Don’t let a cranky old dragon knight pester you any, huh?” She headed off, to leave them to their own devices, and she stopped.

She paused, in front of Latula and Mituna. She peered down at them, her expression suddenly caught between the cool exterior she normally tried to project, and something more raw; something red and wet and enough to bring tears to her eyes, and her lip tremble, just for a moment.

She looked down at her eldest daughter, her proud and skilled child, and at the goldblood she’d thought of as a son for quite some time, but never really hoping that she’d be able to say so for real. And here they were; to be married soon, sealing a bond between their kingdoms, not out of political necessity but because they wanted to.

She reached down, producing a startled pair of squeaks from the two as she hugged them tight. “I’m proud, of the both of you,” she said softly.

Redglare let them go, then, and left.

Porrim watched her go, thinking about what the dragon lord had said.

She supposed they really did have a job to do.

It was a duty as nobles.

#my writing #commissions #fics #twitchy!karkat #twitchy!terezi #twitchy!porrim #twitchy!bronya #twitchy!homestuck #twitchy!redglare #twitchy!latula #twitchy!mituna #twitchy!kankri

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tearsofahime · 5 years

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Anyways buckle down folks this has been sitting in my head ever since I started seeing spoilers about the identities of the zodiac heroes that have been revealed in Season 3

Click below on why I think Marc Anciel will get a miraculous in season 4/5 and what I will predict it will be (Spoilers for everything up to Party Crasher and Ikari Gozen):

The first and obvious piece of evidence that would lend some form of credibility to this theory is based off of the number of confirmed (and shown) miraculouses in the show vs the number of eligible users. As of season 3, we know that there are 19 miraculouses in Paris: The Ladybug and Black Cat, The 2nd-tier Miraculouses (Bee, Fox, and Turtle as well as the Butterfly and Peacock), and the 12 Zodiac miraculouses (Rat, Ox, tiger, rabbit, dragon, snake, horse, goat, monkey, rooster, dog, and pig). Take away 2 of them (the Butterfly and Peacock as they go to Gabriel and Nathalie) and you are left with 17 miraculouses that can be given to new heroes.

As we have seen from past episodes, Ladybug tends to appoint new heroes based off of who she is close with and can trust as well as who is best fit for the task at hand. So far, the people Ladybug has appointed as heroes have all been Marinette’s friends (or her peers), and given that this is also a kid’s show designed to cater to and be relatable to kids, it would stand to reason that ALL of the new heroes would be around Marinette’s age. In addition, in “Timetagger”, Older!Alix also talks about there being a TEAM of superheroes in the future, which presents plenty of opportunity to explore the lore of the show through each Kwami and their powers and what better way to do that then to add new superheroes to the Miraculous team (plus it would be a waste to see some miraculouses be used but not all of them over the course of the show, even if some light is shed on past heroes in history).

Back to the math: There are 17 miraculouses, and 15 members of Madame Bustier’s class (including Lila), plus recurring students like Luka, Kagami, and Marc, totalling to 18 candidates for kwamis. As “Ikari Gozen” and “Party Crasher” confirmed, Kagami and Luka both get Miraculouses, leaving 15 to be distributed amongst Marinette’s peers and classmates. The Cat, Ladybug, Fox, Turtle, and Bee miraculouses were all accounted for with Adrien, Marinette, Alya, Nino and Chloe, leaving a total of ten left. Alix, Kim and Max were confirmed to be Zodiac heroes of the Rabbit, Monkey, and Horse, respectively. This leaves 7 miraculouses remaining, and 8 potential candidates.

Now this is where the theory and predictions of who will get what remaining miraculouses occurs.

If you go off of the popular fan theory that the girls of the class will each get a miraculous (Which many had used to predict Alya and Alix’s miraculous holder statuses so would hold more weight as a basis for a theory), the remaining girls in the photo, Juleka, Mylene and Rose, will each respectively get the Tiger, Rat, and Pig miraculouses. I know it’s confirmed through reference image leaks posted by Jeremy Zag that Marinette will be a temporary wielder of the Rat miraculous, but that is just that: Temporary. Marinette is Primarily the Ladybug holder and as such if given the chance (which is certain there will be), she will gladly give it to someone else who can use it to assist her in saving the day.

Many a Fan theorist will also suggest that Sabrina, due to her immense personality trait of her loyalty to Chloe, will be a shoe-in for the Dog Miraculous.

This now just leaves Ivan, Nathaniel, Lila, and Marc and the Ox, Rooster, and Goat miraculouses to be distributed amongst them.

As stated earlier, we’ve seen that Ladybug appoints new heroes based off of people she knows she can trust from her civilian life (with the exceptions of Queen Bee, which was an accident but one that served to better Chloe, and Kim, who Master Fu himself appointed, although I’m sure had he not given Kim a miraculous then Marinette would have anyway). With the matter of trust, we can ABSOLUTELY rule out Lila based on the virtue of her being a liar hell-bent on ruining Marinette’s life (As well as how the show seems to hint/imply her being a future villain from the end of “Timetagger” and from Lila allying herself with Gabriel which means from a plot standpoint, her being willingly given even one of the “Lesser miraculouses” like a zodiac one will be unlikely).

With Lila out of the way, that leaves an equal kwami-to-remaining-friend ratio. If one goes off of physical appearances and traits, Ivan with his size and strength would be a shoo-in for the Ox, and Nathaniel with his bright red hair and fiesty-if-you-anger-him temperament could work well with the Rooster (who could also help him learn to open up and be less shy).

That leaves Marc with the goat.

“Why Marc? Why not another recurring teenager like Aurore or Wayhem as an alternative candidate to Lila?”

It’s doubtful that Marinette even KNOWS Wayhem personally outside of being Adrien’s fanboy, and we’ve hardly seen Aurore on-screen except to have Stormy Weather be a plot vehicle for the intro episode and a recap episode, and we hve yet to see Marinette and Aurore interact in a way that would suggest that they’re actually FRIENDS and not just mere acquaintances.

MARC on the other hand, has been established in the show as being a friend of Marinette’s (as seen in “Reverser” with Marinette already showing her familiarity with him), and is also the one character outside of Madame Bustier’s class that is seen frequently hanging out with the rest of the ensemble class (as seen as being invited to the Heroes Day Picnic in “Mayura”, getting invited to test play Max’s new video game, and getting invited to Adrien’s boy’s-only party (that had initially just been amongst Adrien’s school friends).

With Marinette already being familiar enough to Marc to be friends with him and him being close enough to Nathaniel and the rest of the class to be invited to hang out with them relatively frequently, it is ABSOLUTELY plausible that Marinette would consider him to be trustworthy and enough of a team player to give him a miraculous.

“Why the Goat though?”

Marc getting the Goat miraculous would be fitting for many reasons. One of the most obvious would be the similarities in color schemes and patterns between Marc’s Reverser form and Ziggy (the goat kwami).

This would not be the first time that a Kwami-Holder match-up would make a callback to the holder’s past akumatization: Alix’s time travel powers as Timebreaker ended up being similar to her powers as Bunnyx, and other Kwamis like the snake, fox, and bee kwamis all design-wise had at least SOME similarity to their holders in terms of physical appearances/character designs.

Another reason, appearances aside, that a goat would be suitable for Marc is that his personality would be suitable to be matched with a goat. Goats/sheep are popularly characterized as skittish, anxious, and overall kind of shy, which are all personality traits that can be used to describe Marc. Some kwamis match their users in terms of similarity of personality, others are opposites that complement their holder’s personalities. Either way, one would agree that a goat would be very fitting personality for Marc. There is also the fact that Hope Morphin (a friend of Thomas Astruc and who was the inspiration for marc) also said on her twitter (I couldn’t find the tweet at the moment) that Marc’s favorite animal is the sheep/goat. Make of that what you will, as she could just be banking on a popular theory.

Speaking of Hope, the creators of the show, through various tweets have confirmed Marc is LGBT, and given that Marc was based on Hope, who identifies as genderfluid and bi.

That, along with Marc’s comparatively more “feminine” features (like his painted nails, his visible eyelashes and his pink-tinted lips which suggests he wears lip gloss), lends to lots of fans and show creators referring to him as “androgynous”.

Why bring up Marc’s androgyny as a point? Good question. Consider Ziggy the Kwami. Thomas Astruc confirmed in a tweet that Ziggy was named after David Bowie’s stage persona, Ziggy Stardust.

David Bowie’s “Ziggy Stardust” alter ego was FAMOUSLY known for his androgyny.

Now back to Ziggy the kwami. Another interesting feature design-wise about the goat kwami is her seemingly “feminine” features like her long eyelashes (just like a certain androgynous writer). The goat kwami, though genderless like all other kwamis, does prefer female pronouns according to the wiki. However, just because Ziggy uses feminine pronouns doesn’t automatically mean that it rules out that Marc won’t get the goat simply because he doesn’t match the “gender” of the kwami, as although most of the male miraculous holders have been given kwamis with preferred masculine pronouns, female holders like Ryukko and Rena Rouge have kwamis that use masculine pronouns. Given Marc’s androgynous design and behaviors, it wouldn’t be out of the question for him to have Ziggy as his kwami at all, On the contrary, it would be a PERFECT fit from a symbolic standpoint (and let’s face it, writers, ESPECIALLY showwriters like the miraculous ladybug team, LOVE their symbolism).

“I don’t think Marc should get a Miraculous. He’s hardly there in the story.”

We’re all entitled to our opinions and I respect yours as long as it doesn’t step on mine. Personally, I think giving characters a day in the limelight as a newly-appointed hero provides for LOTS of character-development, which is something that admittedly, most of the miracuclass could benefit from having more of. Even so, the show was confirmed for their fourth and fifth seasons, which leave plenty of episodes for which less frequently-seen-but-still-relevant-enough characters like Marc (and let’s face it, Nathaniel too) could get more episodes focusing on them. And if not, they’re still considered very good enough friends of Marinette’s and valuable and cherished members of the Miracuclass to still be considered in the running to be Zodiac heroes, especially over other characters that have even LESS story presence like Wayhem or Aurore.

#marc anciel #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug theory #miraculous ladybug spoilers #please pay attention to this i spent two hours writing thus

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grigori77 · 5 years

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2018 in Movies - My Top 30 Fave Movies (Part 3)

10. BLACK PANTHER – remember back in 1998, when Marvel had their first real cinematic success with Blade? It was a big deal on two fronts, not just because they’d finally made a (sort of) superhero movie to be proud of, but also because it was, technically, the first ever truly successful superhero movie starring a black protagonist (the less said about the atrocious Steel movie the better, I say). I find it telling that it took them almost twenty years to repeat the exercise – there have been plenty of great black superheroes on-screen since Wesley Snipes rocked the fangs and black leather, especially in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but they’ve always been in supporting roles to the main (so far universally WHITE) stars (the now-cancelled Luke Cage was a notable exception, but that’s on-demand TV on Netflix). All of this makes the latest feature to glide smoothly out of the MCU mould so significant – the standalone star vehicle for Civil War’s OTHER major new success story (after 2017’s Spider-Man: Homecoming), Prince T’Challa (Chadwick Boseman) of Wakanda, finally redresses the balance … and then some. Picking up pretty much RIGHT where the third Captain America film left off, we see T’Challa return to the secretive, highly-advanced African kingdom of Wakanda to officially take up his new role as king and fully accept the mantle of protector of his people that his role as the Black Panther entails. Needless to say, just as he’s finally brought peace and unity to his homeland, an old threat reappears in the form of thuggish arms dealer and fugitive-from-Wakandan-justice Ulysses Klaue (Andy Serkis, gleefully returning to his blissful scenery-chewing Avengers: Age of Ultron role), leading T’Challa to travel to Busan, South Korea to bring him back for judgement, but this is merely a precursor to the arrival of the TRUE threat, Erik “Killmonger” Stevens (Michael B. Jordan), a mysterious former Special Forces assassin with a deeply personal agenda that threatens Wakanda’s future. This marks the first major blockbuster feature for writer/director Ryan Coogler (co-penning the script with The People V. O.J. Simpson writer Joe Robert Cole), who won massive acclaim for his feature debut Fruitvale Station, but also has good form after sneaky little sleeper hit Rocky-saga spinoff Creed, so this progression ultimately just proves to be another one of those characteristic smart moves Marvel keeps making these days. Coogler’s command of the big budget, heavy-expectation material is certainly impressive, displaying impressive talent for spectacular action sequences (the Busan car chase is MAGNIFICENT, while the punishing fight sequences are as impressively staged and executed as anything we saw in the Captain America movies), wrangling the demanding visual effects work and getting the very best out of a top-notch ensemble cast of some of the finest black acting talent around. Boseman brings more of that peerless class and charisma he showed in Civil War, but adds a humanising dose of self-doubt and vulnerability to the mix, making it even easier for us to invest in him, while Coogler’s regular collaborator, Jordan, is absolutely spell-binding, his ferociously focused, far-beyond-driven Killmonger proving to be one of the MCU’s most impressive villains to date, as well as its most sympathetic; Oscar darling Lupita Nyong’o is far more than a simple love interest as tough and resourceful Wakandan intelligence agent Nakia, The Walking Dead’s Danai Gurira is a veritable force of nature as Okoye, the head of the Dora Milaje, Wakanda’s elite all-female Special Forces, Get Out’s Daniel Kaluuya muddies the waters as T’Challa’s straight-talking best friend W’Kabi, and powerhouse veteran actors Angela Bassett, Forest Whitaker and John Kani provide integrity and gravitas as, respectively, T’Challa’s mother Ramonda, Wakandan religious leader Zuri and T’Challa’s late father T’Chaka. Martin Freeman and Andy Serkis have joked that they’re essentially the “Tolkien white guys” of the cast, but their presence is far from cosmetic – Freeman’s return as Civil War’s bureaucratic CIA agent Everett Ross is integral to the plot and also helps provide the audience with an accessible outsider’s POV into the unique and stunning land of Wakanda, while Serkis is clearly having the time of his life … and then there are the film’s TRUE scene-stealers – Letitia Wright is a brilliant bright ray of sunlight as T’Challa’s little sister Shuri, the curator of Wakanda’s massively advanced technology and OFFICIALLY the most intelligent person in the MCU, whose towering intellect is tempered by her cheeky sense of humour and sheer adorability, while Winston Duke is a towering presence throughout the film as M’Baku, the mighty chief of the reclusive Jabari mountain tribe, despite his relatively brief screen time, his larger-than-life performance making every appearance a joy. This has been lauded as a true landmark film for its positive depiction of African culture and presentation of a whole raft of strong black role models, and it certainly feels like a major step forward both culturally and creatively – it’s so rewarding to see a positively-charged black intellectual property enjoying the almost ridiculous amount of success this film has so far enjoyed, both critically and financially, and it’s something I hope we see far more of in the future. Like its predecessors, this is a fantastic superhero movie, but under the surface there are some very serious, challenging questions being asked and inherently powerful themes being addressed, making for a deeper, more intellectual film than we usually receive even from a big studio that’s grown so sophisticated as Marvel. That said, this IS another major hit for the MCU, and a further example of how consistently reliable they’ve become at delivering great cinema. Very nearly the best of the Phase 3 standalone films (that honour still belongs to Captain America: Civil War), and it was certainly a spectacular kickoff for the year’s blockbusters.

9. BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY – I’ve been waiting for this movie for YEARS. Even before I knew this was actually going to happen I’d been hoping it would someday – Queen were my introduction to rock music, way back when I was wee, so they’ve been one of my very favourite bands FOREVER, and Freddie Mercury is one of my idols, the definition of sheer awesomeness and pure talent in music and an inspiration in life. Needless to say I was RIDICULOUSLY excited once this finally lurched into view, and I’m so unbelievably happy it turned out to be a proper corker of a film, I could even tentatively consider it to be my new favourite musical biopic. Sure, it plays fast-and-loose with the historical facts, but remains true to the SPIRIT of the story, and you know what they say about biographical movies and their ilk: “if it’s a choice between the truth and the legend, print the legend.” That’s a pretty good word to describe the man at the centre of this story – Queen frontman Freddie Mercury truly was a legend in his own lifetime, and watching the tale of his rise to fame alongside fellow musical geniuses Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon is a fascinating, intoxicating and deeply affecting experience, truthful or not, making the film an emotional rollercoaster from the humble beginnings with the formation of the band, through the trials and tribulations of life on the road and in the studio, the controversies of Mercury’s personal life and the volatile personal dynamics between the group themselves, to the astonishing, show-stopping climax of their near-mythic twenty-minute performance slot at 1985’s Live Aid charity concert at Wembley Stadium. Needless to say it takes a truly astounding performance to capture the man that I consider to be the greatest singer, showman and stage-performer of all time, but Mr Robot star Rami Malek was equal to the task, not so much embodying the role as genuinely channelling Mercury’s spirit, perfectly recreating his every movement, quirk and mannerism to perfection, right down to his famously precise, deliberate diction, and he even LOOKS a hell of a lot like Mercury. Sure, he’s come under fire for merely lip-syncing when it comes to the music, but seriously, there’s no other way he could have done it – Freddie had the greatest singing voice of all time, there’s NO WAY anyone could possibly recreate it, so better he didn’t even try. (Honestly, if he doesn’t get an Oscar for this there’s no justice in the world.) Malek’s not the only master-mimic in the cast, either – the rest of the band are perfectly portrayed, too, by Gwilym Lee as May, X-Men: Apocalypse’s Ben Hardy as Taylor and Joe Mazzello (yup, that kid from Jurassic Park, now all grown up) as Deacon, while there are equally strong supporting turns from Sing Street’s Lucy Boynton as Mercury’s lover and lifelong friend Mary Austin, Aiden Gillen as the band’s first manager John Reid, Tom Hollander as their lawyer and eventual manager Jim “Miami” Beach, Allen Leech as the Freddie’s scheming, toxic personal manager Paul Prenter, and New Street Law star Ace Bhatti as his stoic but proud father, Bomi Bulsara. This is an enthralling film from start to finish, and while those new to Queen will find plenty fo enjoy and entertain, this is an absolute JOY for fans and geeks who actually know their stuff, factual niggles notwithstanding; it’s also frequently laugh-out-loud HILARIOUS, the sparky, quick-fire script from The Theory of Everything and Darkest Hour writer Anthony McCarten brimming with slick one-liners, splendid put-downs and precision-crafted character observation which perfectly captures the real life banter the band were famous for. The film had a troubled production (original director Bryan Singer was replaced late in the shoot by Dexter Fletcher after clashes of personality and other difficulties) and has come in for plenty of stick, receiving mixed reviews from some quarters, but for me this is pretty close to a perfect film, chock-full of heart, emotional heft, laughter, fun and what was, for me, the best soundtrack of 2018, positively overflowing with some of the band’s very best material, making this one of the very best times I had at the cinema all year. They were, indeed, the champions …

8. MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE - FALLOUT – while Bond may remain king of the spy movie, and Jason Bourne still casts a long shadow from the darker post 9-11 age of harder, grittier espionage shenanigans, I’ve always been a BIG fan of the Mission: Impossible movies. This love became strong indeed when JJ Abrams established a kind of unifying blueprint with the third film, and the series has gone from strength to strength since, reaching new, thrilling heights when Jack Reacher writer-director Christopher McQuarrie crafted the pretty much PERFECT Rogue Nation. He’s the first filmmaker to return for a second gig in the big chair, but he’s a good fit – he and star Tom Cruise have already proven they work EXTREMELY well together, and McQuarrie really is one of the very best screenwriters working in Hollywood today (well respected across the board since his early days co-writing The Usual Suspects), an undeniable MASTER at both crafting consistently surprising, thoroughly involving and razor-sharp thriller plots and engineering truly JAW-DROPPING action sequences (adrenaline-fuelled chases, bruising fight scenes, intense shootouts and a breathless dash across the rooftops of London all culminate in this film’s standout sequence, a death-defying helicopter dogfight that took the prize as the year’s BEST action beat), as well as penning some wonderful, wry dialogue. Anything beyond the very simplest synopsis would drop some criminal spoilers – I’ll simply say that Ethan Hunt is faced with his deadliest mission to date after a botched op leaves three plutonium cores in the hands of some very bad people, leading CIA honcho Erica Sloane (a typically sophisticated turn from Angela Bassett) to attach her pet assassin, August Walker (current big-screen Superman Henry Cavill), to the team to make sure it all runs smoothly – a prospect made trickier by the resurfacing of Rogue Nation’s cracking villain Solomon Lane (Sean Harris). Tom Cruise is, of course an old hand at this sort of thing by now, but even so I don’t think he’s EVER been more impressive at the physical stuff, and he delivers equally well in the more dramatic moments, taking superspy Ethan Hunt to darker, more desperate extremes than ever before. Cavill similarly impresses in what’s easily his meatiest role to date, initially coming across as a rough, brutal thug but revealing deeper layers of complexity and sophistication as the film progresses, while Rebecca Ferguson makes a welcome return from RN as slippery, sexy and very complex former MI6 agent Ilsa Faust, and it’s great to see Ving Rhames and Simon Pegg back as series keystones Luther Stickell and Benji Dunn, who both get stuck into the action far more than in previous outings (Benji FINALLY gets to wear a mask!); Jeremy Renner’s absence this time could disappoint, but the balance is maintained because the effortlessly suave Alec Baldwin’s new IMF Secretary Alan Hunley gets a far more substantial role this time round, while Sean Harris tears things up with brutal relish as he expands on one of the series’ strongest villains – Lane is a thoroughly nasty piece of work, a monstrous zealot with a deeply twisted but strangely relatable agenda, and method man Harris mesmerises in every scene. McQuarrie has cut another gem here, definitely his best film to date and likewise the best in the franchise so far, and strong arguments could be made for him staying on for a third stint – this is the best shape Mission: Impossible has been in for some time, an essentially PERFECT textbook example of an action-packed spy thriller that constantly surprises and never disappoints, from the atmospheric opening to the unbearably tense climax, and if ever there was a film to threaten the supremacy of Bond, it’s this one.

7. THE SHAPE OF WATER – one of the most important things you have to remember about my own personal mythology (by which I mean the mishmash of 40 years of influences, genre-love and pure and simple COOL SHIT that’s informed and moulded the geek I am today) is that when it comes to my fictional heroes, I have a tendency to fall in love with the monsters. It’s a philosophy shared by one of my very favourite directors, Guillermo Del Toro, whose own love affair with the weird, the freakish and the outcast has informed so much of his spectacular work, particularly the Hellboy movies – the monster as a tragic hero, and also the women who love them despite their appearance or origins. Del Toro’s latest feature returns to this fascinating and compelling trope in magnificent style, and the end result is his best work since what remains his VERY BEST film, 2007’s exquisite grown-up fairytale Pan’s Labyrinth. Comparisons with that masterpiece are not only welcome but also fitting – TSOW is definitely cut from the same cloth, a frequently dream-like cinematic allegory that takes place in something resembling the real world, but is never quite part of it. It’s a beautiful, lyrical, sensual and deeply seductive film, but there’s brooding darkness and bitter tragedy that counters the sweet, Del Toro’s rich and exotic script – co-authored with Hope Springs writer Vanessa Taylor – mining precious ore from the fairytale ideas but also deeply invested with his own overwhelming love for the Golden Age of cinema itself. This makes for what must be his most deeply personal film to date, so it’s fitting that it finally won him his first, LONG OVERDUE Best Director Oscar. Happy Go-Lucky’s Sally Hawkins thoroughly deserves her Oscar nomination for her turn as Elisa Esposito, a mute cleaning woman working in a top secret aerospace laboratory in Baltimore at the height of the Cold War, a sweet-natured dreamer who likes movies, music and her closeted artist neighbour Giles (the incomparable Richard Jenkins, delivering a performance of real sweetness and integrity). One night she discovers a new project in the facility, a strange, almost mythic amphibious humanoid (Del Toro regular Doug Jones) who has been captured for study and eventual vivisection to help create a means for men to survive in space. In spite of his monstrous appearance and seemingly feral nature, Elisa feels a kinship to the creature, and as she begins to earn his trust she develops stronger feeling for him – feelings which are reciprocated. So she hatches a plan to break him out and return him to the sea, enlisting the help of Giles, her only other real friend, fellow cleaner Zelda (The Help and Hidden Figures’ Octavia Spencer, as lovably prickly and sassy as ever), and sympathetic scientist (and secret Soviet agent) Dr. Robert Hoffstetler (a typically excellent and deeply complex performance from Boardwalk Empire’s Michael Stuhlbarg) to effect a desperate escape. The biggest obstacle in their path, however, is Colonel Richard Strickland (Michael Shannon), the man in charge of security on the project – the rest of the cast are uniformly excellent, but the true, unstoppable scene-stealer here is Shannon, giving us 2018’s BEST screen villain in a man so amorally repellent, brutally focused and downright TERRIFYING it’s absolutely impossible to take your eyes off him – who has a personal hatred for the creature and would love nothing more than to kill it himself. He’s the TRUE monster of the film, Jones’ creature proving to be a noble being who, despite his (admittedly rather bloody) animal instincts, has a kind and gentle soul that mirrors Elisa’s own, which makes the seemingly bizarre love story that unfolds so easy to accept and fulfilling to witness. This is a film of aching beauty and immense emotional power, the bittersweet and ultimately tragic romance sweeping you up in its warm embrace, resulting in the year’s most powerful and compelling fantasy, very nearly the finest work of a writer/director at the height of his considerable powers, and EASILY justifying its much-deserved Best Picture Oscar. Love the monster? Yes indeed …

6. DEADPOOL 2 – just as his first standalone finally banished the memory of his shameful treatment in the first X-Men Origins film, Marvel’s Merc With a Mouth had a new frustration to contend with – Wolverine riding his coattails into the R-rated superhero scene and outdoing his newfound success with the critically acclaimed and, frankly, f£$%ing AWESOME Logan. It’s a fresh balance for him to redress, and bless him, he’s done it within the first five minutes of his own very first sequel … then again, Deadpool’s always at his best when dealing with adversity. There’s plenty of that here – 2016’s original was a spectacular film, a true game-changer for both Marvel and the genre itself, unleashing a genuinely bankable non-PC superhero on the unsuspecting masses (and, of course, all us proper loyal fans) and earning one of their biggest hits in the process. A sequel was inevitable, but the first film was a VERY tough act to follow – thankfully everyone involved proved equal to the task, not least the star, Ryan Reynolds, who was BORN to play former special forces operative-turned invulnerable but hideously scarred mutant antihero Wade Wilson, returning with even greater enthusiasm for the material and sheer determination to do things JUST RIGHT. Working with returning co-writers Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick, he’s suitably upped the ante while staying true to the source and doing right by the fans – the script’s another blinder, a side-splitting rib-tickler liberally peppered with copious swearing, rampant sexual and toilet humour, genuinely inspired bizarreness (a grown man with baby balls!) and an unapologetically irreverent tone nonetheless complimented by a f£$%load of heart. Original director Tim Miller jumped ship early in development, but the perfect replacement was found in the form of David Leitch, co-director of the first John Wick movie, who preceded this with a truly magnificent solo debut on summer 2017’s standout actioner Atomic Blonde. Leitch is a perfect fit, a former stuntman with innate flair for top-notch action who also has plenty of stylistic flair and strong talents for engaging storytelling and handling a cast of strong personalities. Reynolds is certainly one of those, again letting rip with gleeful comic abandon as Deadpool fights to overcome personal tragedy by trying to become a bona fide X-Man, at which he of course fails SPECTACULARLY, winding up in a special prison for super-powered individuals and becoming the unlikely and definitely unwilling protector of teenage mutant Russell Collins, aka Firefist (Hunt for the Wilderpeople’s Julian Dennison), who’s been targeted for assassination by time-travelling future warrior Cable (Josh Brolin) because he’s destined to become a monstrous supervillain when he grows up. Deciding to listen to his “better” angel, Wade puts together his own superhero team in order to defeat Cable and start his own future franchise … yup, this is as much a platform to set up X-Force, the Marvel X-Verse’s next big money-maker, as it is a Deadpool sequel, but the film plays along to full comic effect, and the results are funny, explosive, blood-soaked and a magnificently anarchic joy. Brolin is every inch the Cable we deserve, a world-weary, battered and utterly single-minded force of nature, entirely lacking a sense of humour but still managing to drive some of the film’s most side-splitting moments, while Atlanta star Zazie Beets, originally something of an outsider choice, proves similarly perfect for the role of fan favourite Domino, a wise-cracking mutant arse-kicker whose ability to manipulate luck in order to get the better of any situation makes her a kind of super-ninja; Dennison, meanwhile, is just as impressive as he was in HFTWP, turning in a performance of such irreverent charm he frequently steals the film, and the return of Stefan Kapicic and Briana Hildebrand as stoic metal-man Colossus and the world’s moodiest teen superhero, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, mean that the original X-Men get another loving (if also slightly middle-fingery) nod too. But once again, this really is Reynolds’ movie, and he’s clearly having just as much fun as before, helping to make this the same kind of gut-busting riot the first was with his trademark twinkle, self-deprecating charm and shit-eating grin. He’s the heart and soul of another great big fist up the backside of superhero cinema, blasting tropes with scattergun abandon but hitting every target lined up against him, and like everything else he helps make this some of the most fun I had at the pictures all year. I honestly couldn’t think of ANYTHING that could make me piss myself laughing more than this … the future of the franchise may be up in the air until the first X-Force movie gets its time in the spotlight, but Reynolds, Leitch, Reese and Wernick are all game to return, so there’s plenty of life in the un-killable old lady yet ...

5. BAD TIMES AT THE EL ROYALE – my Number One thriller of 2018 is a cult classic in the making and the best work yet from Drew Goddard, co-writer/director (with Joss Whedon) of Cabin in the Woods (one of the best horror movies ever made, in my opinion) and screenwriter of Cloverfield and The Martian. It’s an intoxicating, engrossing and somewhat unsettling experience (but in a very good way indeed), a gripping, slippery and absolutely FIENDISH suspense thriller to rival the heady best of Hitchcock or Kubrick, and, as his first completely original, personal creation, Goddard’s best opportunity to show us JUST what he’s truly capable of. Wrapped up in multi-layered mystery and deftly paying with timelines and perspective, it artfully unveils the stories of four disparate strangers who book a night’s stay at the El Royale, a “bi-state” hotel (located on the California/Nevada border) that was once grand but, by the film’s setting of 1969, has fallen on hard times. Each has a secret, some of which are genuinely deadly, and before the night’s through they’ll all come to light as a fateful chain of events brings them all crashing together. Giving away any more is to invite criminal spoilers – suffice to say that it’s an unforgettable film, fully-laden with ingenious twists and consistently wrong-footing the viewer right up to the stirring, thought-provoking ending. The small but potent ensemble cast are, to a man, absolutely perfect – Jeff Bridges delivers one of the best performances of his already illustrious career as seemingly harmless Catholic priest Father Daniel Flynn, Widows’ Cynthia Erivo makes a truly stunning impression as down-on-her-luck soul singer Darlene Sweet, John Hamm is garrulously sleazy as shifty travelling salesman Seymour Sullivan, Dakota Johnson is surly but also VERY sexy (certainly MUCH MORE than she EVER was in the 50 Shades movies) as “dirty hippy” Emily, Lewis Pullman (set to explode as the co-star of the incoming Top Gun sequel) is fantastically twitchy as the hotel’s troubled concierge Miles, and Cailee Spaeny (Pacific Rim: Uprising) delivers a creepy, haunting turn as Emily’s fundamentally broken runaway sister Rose. The film is thoroughly and entirely stolen, however, by the arrival in the second half of Goddard’s Cabin leading man Chris Hemsworth as earthy, charismatic and darkly, dangerously seductive Charles Manson-esque cult leader Billy Lee, Thor himself thoroughly mesmerising as he swaggers into the heart of the story (particularly in a masterful moment where he cavorts, snake-hipped, to the strains of Deep Purple’s Rush in the lead-up to a brutal execution). This is thriller-cinema at its most inspired and insidious, a flawless genre gem that’s sure to be held in high regard by connoisseurs for years to come, and an ELECTRIFYING statement of intent by one of the best creative minds working in Hollywood today. One of 2018’s biggest and best surprises, it’s a bona fide MUST-SEE …

4. AVENGERS: INFINITY WAR – is it possible there might be TOO MUCH coming out all at once in the Marvel Cinematic Universe right now? What with THREE movies a year now becoming the norm, not to mention the ongoing saga of Agents of SHIELD and various other affiliated TV shows (it seems that Netflix are culling their Marvel shows but there’s still the likes of Runaways and the incoming Cloak & Dagger on other services, along with fresh, in-development stuff), could we be reaching saturation? My head says … mmmmm … maybe … but my heart says HELL NO! Not when those guys at Marvel have gotten so good at this job they could PROBABLY do it with their eyes closed. That said, there were times in the run-up to this particular release that I couldn’t help wondering if, just maybe, they might have bitten off more than they could chew … thankfully, fraternal directing double act Antony and Joe Russo, putting in their THIRD MCU-helming gig after their enormous success on the second and third Captain America films, have pulled off one hell of a cinematic hat trick, presenting us with a third Avengers film that’s MORE than the equal of Joss Whedon’s offerings. It’s also a painfully tricky film to properly review – the potential for spoilers is SO heavy I can’t say much of ANYTHING about the plot without giving away some MAJOR twists and turns (even if there’s surely hardly ANYONE who hasn’t already seen the film by now) – but I’ll try my best. This is the film every die-hard fan has been waiting for, because the MCU’s Biggest Bad EVER, Thanos the Mad Titan (Josh Brolin), has finally come looking for those pesky Infinity Stones so he can Balance The Universe by killing half of its population and enslaving the rest, and the only ones standing in his way are the Avengers (both old and new) and the Guardians of the Galaxy, finally brought together after a decade and 18 movies. Needless to say this is another precision-engineered product refined to near perfection, delivering on all the expected fronts – breathtaking visuals and environments, thrilling action, the now pre-requisite snarky, sassy sense of humour and TONS OF FEELS – but given the truly galactic scale of the adventure on offer this time the stakes have been raised to truly EPIC heights, so the rewards are as great as the potential pitfalls. It’s not perfect – given the sheer size of the cast and the fact that there are THREE main storylines going on at once, it was INEVITABLE that some of our favourite characters would be handed frustratingly short shrift (or, in two notable cases, simply written out of the film altogether), while there are times when the mechanics of fate do seem to be getting stretched a little TOO far for credibility – but the niggles are largely overshadowed by the rich rewards of yet another MCU film done very well indeed. The cast (even those who drew the short straw on screen time) are all, as we’ve come to expect, excellent, the veterans – particularly Robert Downey Jr. (Iron Man/Tony Stark), Chris Hemsworth (Thor), Mark Ruffalo (Bruce Banner/the Hulk), Chris Evans (Steve Rogers/Captain America), Benedict Cumberbatch (Doctor Stephen Strange), Chris Pratt (Peter Quill/Star Lord), Zoe Saldana (Gamora), Bradley Cooper (Rocket Racoon), and, of course, Tom Holland (Peter Parker/Spider-Man) – all falling back into their well-established roles and universally winning our hearts all over again, while two characters in particular, who have always been reduced to supporting duties until now, finally get to REALLY shine – Paul Bettany and Elizabeth Olsen, as the Vision and Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch, finally get to explore that comic-canon romance that was so prevalently teased in Civil War, with events lending their mutual character arcs particularly tragic resonance as the story progresses … and then there’s the new characters, interestingly this time ALL bad guys. The Children of Thanos (Gamora and Nebula’s adopted siblings, basically) are showcased throughout the action, although only two really make an impression here – Tom Vaughan-Lawlor is magnificently creepy as Ebony Maw, while Carrie Coon (and stuntwoman Monique Ganderton) is darkly sensual as Proxima Midnight … but of course the REAL new star here is Brolin, thoroughly inhabiting his motion capture role so Thanos GENUINELY lives up to his title as the greatest villain of the MCU, an unstoppable megalomaniac who’s nonetheless doing these monstrous things for what he perceives to be genuinely right and moral reasons, although he’s not above taking some deeply perverse pleasure from his most despicable actions. Finishing up with a painfully powerful climax that’s as shocking as it is audacious, this sets things up for an even more epic conclusion in 2019’s closer, and has already left even the most jaded viewers shell-shocked and baying for more, while the post-credits sting in particular had me drooling in anticipation for the long-awaited arrival of my own favourite Avenger, but in the meantime this is an immensely rewarding, massively entertaining and thoroughly exhausting cinematic adventure. Summer can’t come fast enough …

3. UPGRADE – in a summer packed with sequels (many of them pretty damn awesome even so), it was a great pleasure my VERY FAVOURITE movie was something wholly original, an unaffiliated standalone that had nothing to follow or measure up to. But Blumhouse’s best film of 2018 still had a lot riding on it – they’re a studio best known for creating bare-bones but effectively primal horror (even The Purge series is really more survival horror than dystopian thriller), so they’re not really known for branching out into science-fiction. Going with one of their most trusted creative talents, then, was the kind of savvy move we’d expect from Jason Blum and co – Leigh Whannell is best known as the writer of the first three Saw movies (a fully-developed trilogy which I, along with several others, consider to be the series’ TRUE canon), the film phenomenon that truly kicked off the whole “torture porn” sub-genre, but he’s become one of Blumhouse’s most well-regarded writers thanks to his creation of Insidious, still one of their biggest earners. Once again he wrote (and co-starred in) the first three films, even making his directorial debut on the third – admittedly that film wasn’t particularly spectacular, but there was nonetheless something about it, a real X-factor that definitely showed Whannell could do more than just write (and, act, of course). Second time out he’s definitely made good on that potential promise – this is a proper f£$%ing masterpiece, not just the best thing I saw all summer but one of THE TOP movies of my cinematic year. It’s also an interesting throwback to a once popular sci-fi trope that’s been overdue for a makeover – body horror, originally made popular by the cult-friendly likes of David Cronenberg and Paul Verhoeven, and the biggest influence on this film must to be the original Robocop. Prometheus’ Logan Marshall-Green is an actor I’ve long considered to be criminally overlooked and underused, so I’m thrilled he finally found a role worthy of his underappreciated talents - Grey Trace, an unapologetically analogue blue-collar Joe living in an increasingly digital near future, a mechanic making his living restoring vintage muscle cars who doesn’t trust automated technology to run ANYTHING, so his life takes a particularly ironic turn when a tragic chain of events leads to his wife’s brutal murder while he’s left paralysed from the neck down. Faced with a future dependent on computerised care-robots, he jumps at the chance offered by technological pioneer Eron Keen (Need For Speed’s Harrison Gilbertson), creator of a revolutionary biochip called STEM that, once implanted into his central nervous system, can help him regain COMPLETE control of his body, but in true body horror style things quickly take a dark and decidedly twisted turn. STEM has a mind of its own (and a voice that only Trace can hear), and an agenda, convincing him to use newfound superhuman abilities to hunt down his wife’s killers and exact terrible, brutal vengeance upon them. There are really strong performances from the supporting cast – Gilbertson is great as a twitchy, socially awkward genius only capable of finding real connection with his technology, Get Out’s Bettie Gabriel is subtly brilliant as Detective Cortez, the cop doggedly pursuing Trace’s case and, eventually, him too, and there’s a cracking villainous turn from relative unknown Benedict Hardie as sadistic but charismatic cybernetically-enhanced contract killer Fisk – but this is very much Marhall-Green’s film; he’s an absolute revelation here, his effortlessly sympathetic hangdog demeanour dominating a fantastically nuanced and impressively physical performance that displays truly exceptional dramatic AND comedic talent. Indeed, while it’s a VERY dark film, there’s a big streak of jet black humour shot right through it, Whannell amusing us in particularly uncomfortable ways whenever STEM takes control and wreaks appropriately inhuman havoc (it helps no end that voice-actor Simon Malden has basically turned STEM into a kind of sociopathic version of Big Hero 6’s Baymax, which is as hilariously twisted as it sounds), and he delivers in spades on the action front too, crafting the year’s most wince-inducing, downright SAVAGE fight sequences and a very exciting car chase. Altogether this is a simply astonishing achievement – at times weirdly beautiful in a scuzzy, decrepit kind of way, it’s visually arresting and fiendishly intelligent, but also, much as we’d expect from the creator of Saw and Hollywood’s PREMIER horror studio, dark, edgy and, at times, weirdly disturbing – in other words, it’s CLASSIC body horror. Whannell is a talent I’ve been watching for a while now, and it’s SO GOOD to finally see him deliver on all that wonderful promise. Needless to say it was another runaway hit for Blumhouse, so there are already plans for a sequel, but for now I’m just happy to revel in the wonderful originality of what was the very peak of my cinematic summer …

2. SPIDER-MAN: INTO THE SPIDER-VERSE – oh man, if ever there was a contender that could have ousted this year’s Number One, it’s this, it was SUCH a close-run thing. Sure, with THREE major incarnations of Marvel’s most iconic superhero already hitting the big screen since the Millennium, we could AGAIN ask if we really need another Spider-Man “reboot”, but I must say his first ever blockbuster animated appearance leaves virtually all other versions in the dust – only Sam Raimi’s masterpiece second Spider-feature remains unbeaten, but I’ve certainly never seen another film that just totally GETS Stan Lee’s original web-slinger better than this one. It’s directed by the motley but perfectly synced trio of Bob Perischetti (a veteran digital artist making his directorial debut here), Peter Ramsay (Rise of the Guardians) and Rodney Rothman (writer on 22 Jump Street), but the influence of producers Christopher Miller and Phil Lord (creators of The Lego Movie) is writ large across the entire film (then again, Lord did co-write the script with Rothman) – it’s a magnificent, majestic feast for the eyes, ears and soul, visually arresting and overflowing with effervescent, geeky charm and a deep, fundamental LOVE for the source material in all its varied guises. Taking its lead from the recent Marvel comics crossover event from which the film gets its name, it revolves around an unprecedented collision of various incarnations of Spider-Man from across the varying alternate versions of Earth across the Marvel Multiverse, brought together though the dastardly machinations of criminal mastermind Wilson Fisk, aka Kingpin (a typically excellent vocal turn from Liev Schreiber) and his secret supercollider. There are two, equally brilliant, “old school” takes on the original web-slinger Peter Parker on offer here – Chris Pine impresses in his early scenes as the “perfect” version, youthful, dashing and thoroughly brilliant but never ruining it by being smug or full of himself, but the story is dominated by New Girl’s Jake Johnson as a more world-weary and self-deprecating blue-collar version, who can still do the job just as well but has never really been as comfortable a fit, and he’s all the more endearing because he’s SUCH a lovable slacker underdog. The main “hero” of the film, however, is Dope’s Shameik Moore as Miles Morales, a teenager who’s literally JUST acquired his powers but must learn FAST if he’s to become this universe’s new Spider-Man, and he’s a perfect lead for the film, unsure of himself and struggling to bring his newfound abilities to bear, but determined to find his footing all the same. There are other brilliant takes on the core character here – Nicolas Cage’s wonderfully overblown monochrome Spider-Man Noir is an absolute hoot, as is anthropomorphised fan-favourite Spider-Ham (voiced by popular stand-up comic John Mulaney) – and a variety of interesting, skewed twists on classic Spider-Man villains (particularly Liv, a gender-bent take on Doctor Octopus played by Bad Moms’ Kathryn Hahn), but my favourite character in this is, tellingly, also my very favourite Marvel web-slinger PERIOD – Earth-65’s Spider-Woman, aka Gwen Stacy (more commonly known as Spider Gwen), an alternative version where SHE got bit by the radioactive arachnid instead of Peter, very faithfully brought to life by a perfectly cast Hailee Steinfeld. It may sound overblown but this is about as close to perfect as a superhero movie can get – the script is an ASTONISHING piece of work, tight as a drum with everything lined up with clockwork precision, and instead of getting bogged down in exposition it turns the whole origin story trope into a brilliant running joke that keeps getting funnier each time a new character gets introduced; it’s also INSANELY inventive and a completely unique visual experience, specifically designed to look like old school comic book art brought to vivid but intriguingly stylised life, right down to the ingenious use of word-bubbles and textured printing dots that add to the pop art feel. This is a truly SPECTACULAR film, a gloriously appointed thrill-ride with all the adventure, excitement, humour and bountiful, powerful, heartbreaking emotional heft you could ever want from a superhero movie – this is (sorry MCU) the VERY BEST film Marvel made in 2018, and maybe one of their very best EVER. There’s already sequel talk in the air (no surprise there, of course), and I can’t wait to see where it goes. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE give me a Spider Gwen spinoff. I’ll be good, I swear …

1. A QUIET PLACE – the most unique and original film of 2018 was a true masterpiece of horror cinema and, for me, one of the best scary movies I’ve seen in A VERY LONG TIME INDEED. It’s a deceptively simply high-concept thriller built around a dynamite idea, one that writer/director/star John Krasinski (co-writing with up-and-coming creative duo Bryan Woods and Scott Beck) has mined for maximum effect … Krasinski (still probably best known for the US version of The Office but now also gaining fresh traction for killer Amazon Original series Jack Ryan) and his real life wife Emily Blunt are Lee and Evelyn Abbott, a mother and father who must protect their children and find a way to survive on an isolated farm in a world which has been decimated by an inexplicable invasion/infestation/whatever of mysterious and thoroughly lethal creatures that, while blind, use their incredibly sensitive hearing to hunt and kill ANYTHING that makes a sound. As a result, the Abbotts have had to develop an intricately ordered lifestyle in order to gather, scavenge and rebuild while remaining completely silent, a discipline soon to be threatened by Evelyn’s very advanced pregnancy … there’s a truly fiendish level of genius to the way this film has been planned out and executed, the exquisitely thought-out mechanics of the Abbotts’ daily routines, survival methods and emergency procedures proving to be works of pure, unfettered genius – from communication through sign language and slow-dancing to music on shared headphones to walking on pathways created with heaped sand and painted spots to mark floorboards that don’t squeak, playing board games with soft fruit instead of plastic pieces and signalling danger with coloured light-bulbs – while the near total absence of spoken dialogue makes the use of sound and music essential and, here, almost revolutionary, with supervising sound editors Erik Aadahl and Ethan Van der Ryn becoming as important as the director himself, while composer Marco Beltrami delivers some of his finest work to date with a score of insidious subtlety and brazen power in equal measure. The small but potent cast are all excellent – Blunt has rarely been better in a performance of impressive honesty and a lack of vanity comparable to her work on The Girl On the Train, affecting and compelling as a fierce lioness of a mother, while Krasinski radiates both strength and vulnerability as he fights tooth and nail to keep his family alive, regardless of his own survival, and their real-life chemistry is a genuine boon to their performances, bringing a winning warmth to their relationship; elsewhere, deaf actress Millicent Simmonds (Wonderstruck) effortlessly captures our hearts as troubled, rebellious daughter Regan, delivering a performance of raw, heartbreaking honesty, while Suberbicon’s Noah Jupe impresses as awkward son Marcus, cripplingly unsure of himself and awfully scared of having to grow up in this terrifying new world. There’s great power and heart in the family dynamic, which makes us even more invested in their survival as the screws tighten in what is a SERIOUSLY scary film, an exquisitely crafted exercise in sustained tension that deserves to be remembered alongside the true greats of horror cinema. Krasinski displays a rare level of skill as a director, his grasp of atmosphere, pace and performance hinting at great things to come in the future, definitely making him one to watch – this is an astonishing film, a true gem I’m going to cherish for a long time to come.

#black panther #bohemian rhapsody #mission impossible fallout #The Shape of Water #deadpool 2 #bad times at the el royale #Avengers infinity war #upgrade movie #spiderman into the spiderverse #a quiet place #2018 in movies

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thefederalistfreestyle · 6 years

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[. . .] "For Ham and Burr, this show is just a monster," says Nik Walker, who plays Burr in the U.S. tour headed to Cleveland. "We never leave the stage." Finding actors to fill the tall black boots of the historic headliners takes some doing. The creatives who built "Hamilton" got it right out of the gate. Miranda was the original Hamilton on Broadway; Leslie Odom Jr. won a Tony Award for his portrayal of the grudge-holding Burr. Producer Jeffrey Seller ("Rent," "In the Heights," "Avenue Q") has set a high bar for subsequent productions. "With care, with diligence, with hard work, we can ensure that every company has the quality that New York had," Seller says. [. . .] As Kail has said: "This is a story about America then, told by America now." Seller amplifies the well-known quote: " 'Hamilton' is telling the story of America with what America looks like." That's good news for Joseph Morales, who will play "A. Ham" in Cleveland, the shorthand you're likely to see on merchandise sold in the lobby at intermission. Morales has worked with Kail and company before, in the national tour of "In the Heights" as Usnavi, the owner of a corner bodega and sometime narrator of the show, a role Miranda originated on Broadway. Landing that gig was big. "Hamilton" is bigger. Life changing, really. For one thing, there are the bragging rights that come from being Hamilton in "Hamilton." For another, the unstoppable franchise offers other rewards: Walker was cast just in time to help pay for his wedding. Finally, the piece is an astonishing work of art. (If you are inclined to disagree, please take it up with the committees that awarded "Hamilton" the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 2016 and 11 Tonys that same year, including Best Musical. I'll be busy seeing "Hamilton" for a second time.) "The show has been a master class for all of us," says Morales. It asks everything of you and more. Only "the best of the best" can pull it off. "Being around all these people has absolutely changed me," he says, inside and out. "I'm constantly inspired every day." By curtain call, says Walker, "we're all tired, we're all hurting." Epsom salt baths, rather than cocktails, are a common after-show indulgence. What makes "Hamilton" such a challenge? Famously, there are the density of the lyrics and the speed at which they are delivered. In 2015, the year "Hamilton" opened on Broadway, enterprising scribe Leah Libresco counted 20,520 words in the 2 hour and 23 minute cast album, which works out to about 144 words a minute. "If 'Hamilton' were sung at the pace of the other Broadway shows I looked at, it would take four to six hours," Libresco wrote for the politics website FiveThirtyEight. (She examined modern works such as "Spring Awakening" as well as chestnuts, including "Phantom of the Opera and "Pirates of Penzance.") The velocity of "Hamilton" requires the cast to have nimble tongues - and tendons - particularly Morales and Walker. "Me and Jo Mo talk about it often," says Walker, a Shakespeare major who considers Miranda's libretto "heightened verse." "I think the cost of having a show that is so beautifully detailed is that it takes a lot to do it 8 shows a week. People get tired, people get sick, people get injured. That's just what happens. "With this show, your understudies are always on - always, always, always," says Walker. As the understudy for Burr on Broadway, he should know. Walker also went on as Washington, James Madison and the fabulously named Hercules Mulligan, a friend of Hamilton's and a spy working to aid the American Revolution. "When I was trailing Chris Jackson [Broadway's original George Washington] one of the things that he said to me that I'll never forget was, 'if you don't got it, don't come into work,' " recalls Walker. "If you're not prepared to give everything you got, stay home. The show actually needs you to give everything you have. Every time. "You really have to rise to the occasion of what this is - it is a nonstop, three-hour endurance trial." "Jo Mo" is Walker's oft used pet name for Morales. And Morales has been known to greet Walker as "pumpkin." Antagonists onstage, the men could star in their own bromantic comedy. Like any relationship worth talking about, the one between Hamilton and Burr is complicated. "I think this show depends on their friendship at the beginning - that's the emotional pay off at the end when they take separate paths," says Morales. "But in the beginning, yeah, I think they're totally friends." Hamilton is a man of heart-on-his-sleeve passions. Burr, more cool and calculating, prefers to work the shadows, to keep people guessing at his plans. "Talk less. Smile more," Burr advises Hamilton in the song "Aaron Burr, Sir." Their love-hate association echoes other, classic clashes of temperamental opposites - Jesus and Judas in "Jesus Christ Superstar" and Mozart and Salieri in "Amadeus." Miranda likens their first fictionalized meeting in a tavern to the moment Harry Potter encounters Draco Malfoy. (For Shakespeare buffs, there's also a touch of Iago in Mr. Burr.) [. . .] "For all its variety of style and subject, rap is, at bottom, the music of ambition, the soundtrack of defiance, whether the force that must be defied is poverty, cops, racism, rival rappers or all of the above," wrote Miranda and Jeremy McCarter in the indispensable "Hamilton: The Revolution." "I think 'Hamilton' is what we need right now," says producer Seller. "Art that is the best reflection of our values, of our aspirations - of who we are and who we can be as a nation. "We can disagree and we can debate. And we can have elections with winners and losers, but first and foremost, we have respect for our democracy. We have respect for our citizenry and we celebrate our diversity." Now that's the most civil thing I've heard in a long time.

'Hamilton': The revolutionary, boundary-breaking, hip-hop hit musical opens in Playhouse Square (cleveland.com)

#hamilton #joseph morales #nik walker #philip tour #hamiltour #interview #cleveland.com

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curriebelle · 6 years

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I ask this is a completely sincere, curious way. What is so great about Oscar Wilde?

Oh he’s awesome! For one, he’s an absolutely glorious writer. He’s got two main strengths there, and the first is that his descriptions are stupidly sensual and beautiful, full of rich detail. Reading Oscar Wilde is like drinking honey. This is the opening of Dorian Gray:

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs…

Every line is just saturated with sensation and luxury. It’s beautiful! :D

The second thing that’s great about his writing is he’s fucking hilarious. I highly recommend either going to see “The Importance of Being Earnest” or reading it as soon as you can, because it’s ungodly funny. Wilde’s so goddamn funny he’s got an entire joke format more or less credited to him - idk if he pioneered it but he definitely mastered it. I’ve heard it called a Wildean reversal or Wildean paradox before. The most famous one is probably “There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” I honestly don’t want to spoil more of his punchlines because they are all just golden. I’ve always been fond of “I never travel without my diary: one should always have something sensational to read on the train” :’D

Also, I like his philosophy of life and the philosophy of the Decadent movement in general. The Victorians of the previous decade were all very uppity, all about manners and restraint, but the Decadents wanted to indulge in life’s beauty and pleasures. 1890s version of yolo, basically.

And he was also gay, and he wrote about it - in code. Characters in IoBE keep saying they’re going to the country to visit a dying friend named Bunbury. They call it “Bunburying”. Bun. Burying. It’s, uh. It’s gay slang. Also, one of the characters - Basil Hallward - in the Picture of Dorian Gray is a male artist in love with Dorian, and he’s supposed to be kind of a Wilde stand-in b/c of his philosophies about art and love. Wilde was tried for gross indecency (i.e. being gay) and during his trial famously dropped the line “the love that dare not speak its name”, which has become a euphemism for queer love ever since.

So basically, he’s one of the most talented Confirmed Gays to have ever lived, up there with Freddy Mercury and so forth as an artistic icon in the queer community, but also far beyond it. He’s also one of the few Classic Lit Must-Reads that’s actually just….insanely fun? Like you might hate reading Moby Dick or Charles Dickens because they’re boring and overrated, but Oscar Wilde’s works - particularly his plays - are extremely entertaining, hilarious, supremely critical of the rich and pretentious in ways that still ring true - gah, I love him! \o/ he’s just a real good egg.

#oscar wilde #long post #MAH BOI #I stole lots of Wilde symbolism for Gilmore in WMT :3c

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yeoldontknow · 7 years

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The Body Through Time

Author: @yeoldontknow Creative Content Contributor: @chillingkoo who made this utterly stunning banner for my birthday because she is an angel ;~; Pairing: Namjoon x Reader (oc; female) Summary: When you’re offered a job as the graduate assistant for the Art History department at Bangtan University, it is a requirement for the department to sign their approval on the paperwork. You have one signature left and, unfortunately, he doesn’t want to see you. At all. Rating: NC-17 Warning: explicit sex; explicit language; angst Word Count: 10,947 (end me)

Two hours. That’s how long you’ve been standing outside the building, staring at the glass doors as your warped reflection slides in and out of view.

Two hours spent in the warm sunshine, a slight sunburn starting to form on the tip of your nose.

Two hours reminding yourself that this is for your career. Reminding yourself that this choice is not about him, it was never about him. That even if he didn’t work here, you’d still pick this university because it’s the best and it’s the only place your career will thrive.

Two hours telling yourself you’re strong enough to see his face. That one look at his full lips and warm eyes won’t send your knees to the floor, collapsing beneath the weight of your desire, not like it used to.

Not anymore.

Pushing open the door to the lecture hall, immediately your senses are flooded with the sound of his voice. The room is dim, lights low making the amphitheatre look almost cinematic with pictures of sculptures on the large screen. Pressing yourself against the wall, you slide deeper into the room behind the back row of seats and under the cover of shadows from the balcony above. You hope he doesn’t get distracted by the disturbance. You hope he doesn’t see you. Not yet, at least.

From where you’re standing, the students look captivated - it’s impossible not to be when he’s teaching, talking wildly and quickly about the thing he’s most passionate about. Namjoon walks from side to side on the stage, right hand clutching the remote as he gesticulates his way through his lecture. For him, you know this feels almost like a sermon, feels that classical art and sculpture are something so pure and tangible and real he feels closest to holiness when looking at or discussing it. The students in the room feel it too. No one is laid back in their seats, no one’s attention meanders discretely through the internet on their open laptops. They all find him as riveting as you.

You thought you’d be immune to this, immune to him, after all this time, but with just one look at the gleam in his eyes and the way his dimples emerge every time he smiles, you’re back to being completely under his spell. When you look at him, you’re suddenly young again. You’re young and twitterpated, and no matter how many years you spend away from him your body will always recognize him as yours.

With one deep inhale, you close your eyes and try to focus. You want to hear him now, not think about him. You want to hear him because this was what he was always best at: giving art to the world.

‘….so for years we thought this was done by Pietro,’ he says excitedly, his voice filtering through speakers throughout the large room, ‘but only recently have we discovered that it was done by Bernini. It’s clear that this is a reference to yet another model from antiquity - which, really, says a lot about his patrons.’

A hand is raised somewhere in the room, though you can’t see it. He points to the person with a wide smile on his face, glad for the engagement.

‘Weren’t his patrons the Borghese?’ a male voice asks, though he sounds confident in his assumptions.

‘Right, yes, most famously they were!’ Namjoon exclaims, nodding and smiling in his encouragement. ‘At this time, the typical patrons would be Cardinals who collect from both ancient masters and contemporary artists, so contemporary Roman art had to stand up to the ancients. In a standard collection, the movement from one artist to the next had to appear seamless.’

On the screen, a picture of Cardinal Scipione Borghese appears. He allows the class to take the picture in, scanning the room with a placid, patient expression, before going back to the original sculpture.

‘Take a look at this again, knowing all that,’ he says, sitting on a table towards the side of the lecture stage. ‘And again, I’m doing all of us a disservice by showing you sculpture in a 2D medium. How fucking stupid, right?’

Laughter filters throughout the room, and he laughs with them, the casual energy making the lecture feel more like several hours with a friend than a class. It’s been years since you’ve seen him like this, all smiles and bright eyes behind the thick frame of his glasses. It’s been years since you’ve heard his voice like this, so full of kindness and energy and joy. You know it was you who made him into something less than this. You know it was you who turned him into a shadow, and now, seeing him look so whole and so happy you almost want to turn around and leave, never to look back.

But you know you can’t.

‘The anatomy is wrong,’ a female voice announces, pulling you from your thoughts.

‘Tell me about the anatomy.’

‘The proportions seem to be too,’ she continues, though she sounds hesitant as she puts her thoughts together. ‘….too contemporary.’

‘Well, what’s the math?’ Namjoon questions, jumping off the table. ‘Take 7.5 of your head and that should be the correct size of the model to scale down?’ He stands to his full height and begins to measure in the air. ‘Eight is more typical of antiquity, four is for an infant…I’m about 6, so that puts me somewhere between an infant and an adult.’ Again, laughter rings throughout the room and you cannot help the smile that spreads across your face. ‘So already we’re noticing there’s a shift in his mathematical context. Yeah, Dinah?’

‘I just don’t think a sculpture from antiquity would have this much movement,’ a girl, presumably Dinah, says with a somewhat authoritative tone. ‘Hellenistic sculpture doesn’t have this kind of dynamic action.’

‘Yes!’ Namjoon exclaims, clapping his hands together. ‘Exactly.’

‘Wasn’t there a moment during this time when sculpted motion became serpentine? Like…columns or pillars?’ another male voice questions from somewhere in the room.

Immediately, Namjoon springs to action, walking across the stage and pointing in the direction of the voice. ‘Thank you! I’m so glad you brought that up because the concept of serpentine was typically seen on works by a guy named Giambologna, a name we often forget when bringing up the great sculptors of Rome.’

The screen changes to a picture of another sculpture, one you recognize to be Samson Slaying a Philistine. Namjoon stands in front of it, arms spread wide like he’s about to embrace his lover and looking over his shoulder at the class. He’s an uncontainable force, one bursting with energy and light and love, and it pains you a little too much to see him this way.

It pains you to see him looking exactly the way you choose to remember him. It pains you to see him being himself, the Namjoon from before you brought everything to an end.

It hurts you, and so you turn to leave until the lecture is over.

‘But look at this. Look at these side by side. It’s clear that Bernini is looking at him, creating almost column-like…’

His voice fades away, the shutting of the door pulling you from him the way the night gradually pulls you from the sun.

You’re only brave enough to go back when the last person has left the room, the steady stream of students giving way to one final straggler with their pen between their teeth and their phone to their ear. For a few minutes, you wait to see if more students will follow and when they don’t, when even Namjoon doesn’t make his exit, you have to steel yourself some courage to push the door open again with a shaking inhale of breath.

When you enter this time, it takes all your willpower to walk down to the stage without tumbling or showing how terribly anxious you are, though you’re sure your shaking knees give you away. He’s shutting down his laptop and putting his notes back together with a small smile, filing them away in a brown messenger bag you recognize to be the one you got him for his birthday. You know the inside is monogrammed with his initials. You know there’s a coffee stain on the bottom side of the leather, but you don’t know why he’s still using it after all this time.

And when you reach him, when you find yourself standing on the lecture stage with only a wide, wooden table to separate you, you feel as though you are the tide being pulled towards its moon. At such close proximity, you see him clearly now, see how he hasn’t really changed. His thick hair is exactly as you remember it, styled the same way and even the same shade of honey brown he chose when he decided to leave the pink from undergrad behind. His skin is still soft, a warm glow radiating from underneath, and the wrinkles around his eyes are still as endearing as the day you met him.

At such close proximity, it’s easy to see him as your Namjoon. At such close proximity, it’s easy to pretend absolutely nothing has changed.

‘Hi.’

Your words are more breathless and awestruck than you’d have liked, but there’s no shake or tremble to your voice, and you think that’s good enough for such a rough, difficult start.

Looking up at the sound, his movements falter, all actions coming to an abrupt halt as the good, whole man you saw not thirty minutes previous crumbles away to leave you with the shell that’s burned in your memory.

Years ago, you could read him like a book. Years ago, every action and reaction of his mind, body, and soul was a scripture only you could translate but now, now he keeps his thoughts hidden away and you feel as though you’ve been left out in the cold.

He says nothing and returns to packing up his things.

Shifting awkwardly on your feet, you press your folder a little closer to your chest and clear your throat to speak up. ‘I always loved hearing you talk about Bernini. The man who made Rome…or the Rome that made the man.’

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks coolly, not bothering to look at you.

The emptiness and bitterness in his voice makes you feel scorned, even though you know you deserve it, and you can’t help but feel shafted out of a conversation you’ve spent years imagining.

‘Is that all you can say after three years?’ you ask, dejection lacing its way through your tone against your wishes.

Slapping his things against the table, he regards you now, cold and angry. ‘Considering we’re at my job, yeah, that’s all I have to say.’

His words are biting and they hurt you, hurt you in ways you didn’t think you could be hurt anymore, and you suddenly find it very hard to look at him.

‘Wow,’ you whisper, scanning the large room in an effort to keep your emotions from spilling onto your face. ‘Alright, well look I -’

‘Just tell me what you want.’

‘I need your signature,’ you announce in a rush, the words tumbling from your lips in a single breath.

‘My signature?’ he repeats, confused.

‘I’m going to be the new department assistant. I need all the signatures from the team…for approval.’

At this, he raises his eyebrows and you can see his mind racing with hundreds of thoughts. There’s a lot of information packed into that sentence, things about you that he never thought he’d be removed from. Things about your life and your education, things about you settling on a career and, most importantly, a statement that you are coming to work with him.

‘So you got your masters?’

It seems odd that he would latch onto this piece of information, and not the one you know is perhaps most upsetting both to him and to you. But he chooses this and, even though you try to stop it, a small pool of hope rises in your chest and makes you feel warm.

‘Finishing it, yeah,’ you explain, letting your voice relax into the conversation. ‘I’m trying to transfer over for the dissertation credit to work at the same time.’

‘Weren’t you in France, figuring out your creative sense?’

There it is, you think, the bitterness you were waiting for. You gave him a sentence filled with implication and he’s thrown one right back at you, except his is personal. He’s giving you the reason you left, giving you the distance, both physical and emotional, and he’s telling you how much it hurt.

He’s also, very clearly, though it takes you a second to realize it, telling you he knows you’re here for him and he doesn’t want you.

Releasing a small sigh, you fix him with what you hope is a comforting expression and attempt to explain yourself, even though the words come out weak. ‘This isn’t about you.’

‘Seems like it is,’ he says, putting one hand on his hip. Stern and cold, face and eyes empty of all the things that made him a comfort, you find him to be calculating in a way you didn’t know he could be.

He looks stern and cold, but he still looks beautiful and powerful, and you spend several seconds looking at the way his hand rests on his hip, remembering how it felt in yours. You remember holding that hand and kissing the fingers, and you remember the way that hand held you.

Shaking your head, you bring yourself back to reality and think that the best thing, for both you and him, is to end this particular conversation so you can both move on, this time in a different way.

This time, possibly together.

‘Look I just need you to sign the paper.’

Dropping his bag with a huff, he sticks out his hand and looks at his outstretched palm rather than your face. ‘Let me see it.’

For a moment, your eyes go wide, and you aren’t sure how long you stare at him like this. Eventually, he shakes his fingers to hurry you up and you scramble to pull the paper from your folder.

‘I thought you’d have more to say,’ you say, handing it to him quickly. ‘More of a fight or…something, I don’t know.’

Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, he reads over the page, going down the list of signatures from his colleagues until he sees that he’s the last signature you need. He keeps his expression neutral, but you can see the way his eyes scan the page twice before going back to the blank line for his name, and you count all the minute changes in his expression as all of this settles over him.

He’s the last signature. You’ve been to this campus many times without him knowing. You’ve met his colleagues and talked to them, you’ve interviewed without his knowledge and you’ve walked through his faculty lounge, shaken hands with people he knows and considers part of his personal life. They’ve all met you, seen you, touched you in some way, and he’s the last to know.

A moment of hurt flashes behind his eyes before he tucks it away, neatly and quickly, and regards you with a smile that makes your heart stop. Just like it always does.

‘I’m not signing this.’

All at once, everything collapses.

‘What?’ you exclaim loudly, your voice echoing throughout the room. It startles you, and as you look around to make sure you haven’t alerted anyone passing by, you adjust your shoulders and lower your voice. ‘Why?’

‘Do you think you can commit to this?’ he asks, handing the paper back to you.

Scowling at him, you take the paper quickly from his grasp and shove it back in your folder. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

He narrows his eyes at you over his glasses before he speaks, and you hate that it makes your heart sink with attraction.

‘You realize this department is first in the world for art history, right?’ he asks, gesturing to the lecture hall and, presumably, the entire university.

‘Why do you think I’m standing here?’ you reply, slightly irritated.

‘I’m department head,’ he says simply, returning to packing up his things and zipping his bag closed. ‘I’m not just going to let you walk into this university, into my team, and then skip out when you think it isn’t right or you get scared.’

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he walks around the table and you almost think he’s going to pause in front of you, close the distance and the physical separation but instead, he passes by and heads to the stairs at the edge of the stage, making to leave without turning back.

Narrowing your eyes, you follow after him.

‘I told you this wasn’t about you. This is my job -’

‘Yes, and now it’s my job on the line too.’ He spins to face you, every line on his face making him look desperate to be far away from you, and it sends you stumbling back a few steps. ‘So no, I’m not signing this paper. Not until you make me believe you are qualified and that you want this.’

‘How the hell do you expect me to do that if you won’t even look at my resume? Or talk to me, for that matter?’

Tipping his head back, revealing the smooth, long line of his neck, he releases a small chuckle before fixing you with a calm, almost empty stare that doesn’t match the cruel tone of his voice.

‘That’s not my problem is it? Figure it out.’

With this, he turns and continues out of the lecture hall leaving you still and motionless while you process his words.

He means to push you away, but now that you’ve seen him you refuse to let him go again. So you follow, the way you should have years ago.

Rushing out onto the campus, you see him walking down a path towards the parking lot and you run to catch up with him.

When you reach his side, he rolls his eyes with a groan and attempts to walk faster but you were always good at this, keeping pace with him. You were always used to his long legs and his speed, and it’s a habit you haven’t ever been able to break.

‘Look, I think we need to be professional about this.’ Willing yourself to stay calm and collected, you adopt your interview voice, your phone voice, and though it feels wrong to use it with him, it makes saying the words a little bit easier. ‘We’re letting our emotions get in the way of everything.’

‘I am being professional about this,’ he says, tone clipped as he continues to walk without looking at you.

Turning a slight corner, you see his car immediately. It’s the same one he’s had for years, the one he saved most of his graduation money for because he wanted it, said it felt like his the minute he saw it, and liked it for the wide back seats and the deep, hunter green colour. You went with him to buy this car. You fucked him in the back seat and got chafe marks on your knees from the leather. You took a roadtrip to a mountain in this car, where he taught you how to snowboard.

He’s kept these things, all of these things, and that makes it harder to separate your Namjoon from the angry one practically willing himself away from you, walking at a speed you aren’t used to.

‘No, you’re not!’ you grind out. ‘You’re withholding a signature just because, I don’t know, our history. We’re adults! We should put this behind us.’

‘I am being professional,’ he repeats, coming to an abrupt halt.

It takes you a second to realize he’s stopped and, seeing he isn’t next to you, you turn and find him pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose as you walk back.

‘I am being professional,’ he finally says once you reach him, ‘because you are forcing me to weigh the option of having to see you everyday.’

His voice comes at you, sharp and bitter, and you find yourself wrapping your arms tightly around your body, guarding yourself from his verbal deluge.

‘I’ll have to come into work and look at you, and pretend everything is fine. I’ll have to come in and greet you like I’ve never met you. I’ll have to look at you and pretend you’re just my colleague, pretend that I never touched you or kissed you, or fucked you.’

Choking out the words like he’s releasing years of hurt, they spill out of him, overflowing like a well, and now that’s he’s started he simply will never be able to regain control. He’s choking out the words and you can only stand in silence as he works his way through the pain.

‘I’ll have to look at you,’ he continues, not breaking eye contact and looking deep into you, lowering his voice until it’s little more than the vibration of danger your remember so well, ‘and act like I don’t know how you sound when you moan my name or how beautiful you look when you come. I’ll have to look at you and remember everything you put me through. You working for this department means I have to rely on you, again, and the last time I did that you broke me. So excuse me for not jumping back into that position because this time it’s my job I’ll be risking, and not just my fucking heart.’

A darkness spreads itself over the campus and the parking lot, a cloud coming to cover the sun and bringing with it a grey shadow to this new, hollow world you find yourself in. A darkness spreads itself over your heart as you realize, now more than ever before, that you destroyed him.

You ruined the man you loved most in the world. You ruined him so badly, the only person he knows how to be is the one that belonged to you. You ruined him in a way that forces him to wear pieces of his old self to feel whole, even if it means he doesn’t feel right.

And so it hits you. It hits you and it hurts, and you find yourself shattering.

‘I thought you moved on…’ you whisper.

‘Do you really think I could?’ he bites out, surprise mixing with his accusatory glare. ‘You fucking left! You just walked away without any real explanation!’

‘I left for you!’ you hiss, leaning forward with the force of your words. ‘So you could get ahead without me holding you back.’

Namjoon scoffs, laughing in disbelief. He’s heard this before, heard it and hated it just as much. ‘I know you like to tell yourself that, but can we just be honest and acknowledge that you were scared?’

‘Yes!’ you exclaim, agreeing in earnest. ‘I was terrified. I was terrified that you were going to stop your career because I didn’t know what to do with mine. I was terrified of wrecking everything you worked for -’

Stepping closer, he closes the distance between your bodies and leers above you. His hot breath cascades over your face and it takes all your strength not to press yourself against him, to lean into him like you used to and whisper baby, let’s not fight tonight.

‘You know damn well that’s not what you were scared of,’ he says, voice dangerously low.

‘Excuse me?’

Warm brown eyes search you, moving over your face to read and find what they’re looking for, but eventually settle back on yours looking hopeless and lost. It’s easy to drown in him, when he’s so close to you and you can feel him all over your skin. He’s close and yet still so far, but you’re falling into him, and it’s impossible not to look at his full, thick lips when they’re only inches from yours. It’s impossible not to fall, but he stops himself before he lets you in.

‘Jesus, you just won’t admit it to yourself. You will never admit it,’ he whispers, and then pulls himself from you to walk in a different direction.

Without him so near, the world snaps back into focus, and you find yourself struggling to catch your breath.

‘Now who’s the one leaving, huh?’ you call after him once you find your voice. ‘You’re just going to walk away before we finish this?’

He keeps walking without looking back.

With a huff, you roll your eyes at his childlike petulance, and shout after him again. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the goddamn bar,’ he yells, still walking.

‘So you’re just going to drink this away?’

‘Yes’ he hisses, finally coming to a halt to look at you, though he doesn’t look as angry as he did a second ago. Now, he simply looks tired and frustrated. ‘Are you coming?’

At this he continues onward, not bothering to see if you are following him. You suppose he assumes you are, because he knows you. He knows you well enough to know that you always drink after an argument, not enough to get drunk but enough to soothe the edge to your nerves. He knows you well enough to know that, if he offers you something, anything, you will always say yes.

The walk to the bar is short, though it feels like it lasts for hours. A silence has grown between you, one that feels both tense and, paradoxically, relaxed in its defeat. There’s nothing to say, really, not in public and not while you’re both huffing through the effort of being near one another. Part of you feels winded, like you’ve run for miles just to be next to him and another part of you feels empty, too scared to breathe because, again, you are next to him, and your uneven breath might disturb the air, sending you away from him once more.

When you arrive, you stifle a chuckle at the scenery. It’s clear why he picked this bar, clear why he seems to relax the moment he steps inside. It looks almost exactly like the dive you frequented throughout undergrad, looks familiar and comforting, and you have the passing sensation of slipping through time with him.

Pointing to a booth towards the back, he gestures for you to wait as he heads to the bar. Taking your seat, you watch him and feel a small wave of privilege wash over you. You get to see him now, just like in the lecture hall, moving through his life without knowing that you’re watching. You get to see him be Namjoon, not your Joon, but a new and different one. One that looks like yours, but had to build his life back up without you.

He’s made friends without you, likely went to weddings and baptisms without you. He’s moved house and gone through multiple jobs without you there to encourage him and now, now you get to see the Namjoon who learned to survive without knowing you’d be there to catch him.

He leans against the bar and almost instantly, a female bartender approaches him and reaches over to hug him. They exchange a few friendly pleasantries, a smile spreading across his features, though this particular shade looks to be a bit knowing or comforting as she works through whatever she tells him. You see him hold up one finger and then wink at her, and she laughs easily before turning to make the drinks.

It was always like this with him, women flocking to him and flirting openly, because he was handsome in the human sort of way, and brilliant, and charming. It was always like this but in the aftermath of every interaction his eyes would find yours, lock on you and fill you with warmth, lure you to him with just a smirk on his lips and dimples on his cheeks. It was always like this, but today he doesn’t look at you while he waits. Today, he looks everywhere but your booth, gnawing on his bottom lip in a tell tale sign of anxiety, a nervous habit that never failed to turn you on.

Today, it only makes you feel somber.

He returns moments later, drinks in hand, and slides you a negroni across the table. Hands clutching at it like a cross and letting the glass cool your hot skin, you can’t help but smile at the warm, orange shade.

‘You still know my order,’ you murmur.

‘I better,’ he chuckles, sipping his beer, and you’re surprised he heard you. ‘I ordered for you often enough.’

A moment of quiet passes between you, though it isn’t born of discomfort or forced neutrality, it is merely a silence in which there is too much to say and neither of you are brave enough to start.

‘Look,’ you begin eventually, heaving a heavy sigh. ‘I really did leave because I didn’t want to hold you back.’

Groaning, he places his drink on the table with a satisfying thud as he speaks to you in earnest. ‘Can you please stop saying that?’

‘It’s true,’ you affirm, voice strong and finally confident with your words. ‘When we graduated you had all these acceptance letters to masters programs, and they were waiting for you. You took a year off because I was with you and unsure of my own future, but you were talking everyday about summer lectures. You were buying books, and we were going to museums every weekend, and every time you looked at anything made of marble you looked at it with longing. And then, god, do you remember when we were in Chicago and we went to the Art Institute?’

‘Yeah,’ he chuckles, lowering his gaze to the table. He takes on an almost wistful tone as he speaks, getting lost in the memory. ‘That was a fun day, but I don’t know what it has to do with anything.’

‘I think we’d been there an hour,’ you explain, same wistful tone as he, ‘and, when we stood in front of False Start, a tour group came in.’

Namjoon snorts, and ripples of glee course through your chest. There he is, your body screams, this is your Joon! But you refuse to let yourself get distracted because now if you don’t say the words, you almost certainly never will.

‘The guide was talking about, I don’t even remember,’ you continue, chuckling at the thought. ‘Honestly, I don’t because you and I both knew everything she was saying was wrong.’

You don’t remember much of how it started, his hand in yours the only tangible piece at the beginning, but you remember the rest - you remember how it ended. And it’s the end that makes your voice become serious and infinitely less playful than before.

‘We started listening,’ you press on, brow furrowing as you work through the heartbreak, ‘mainly so we could laugh about it, but as we kept listening she just was more and more wrong, and you couldn’t even take it. You interrupted her and started asking questions you knew she wouldn’t be able to answer. I mean you went deep, and I was trying not to laugh the whole time, but you kept going. You kept going and suddenly the group’s attention was yours, and you led them around the entire room like you were taking them through time and culture, and showing them the goddamn world, and that was the day I knew.’

It’s hard to keep going when he looks at you with such concern in his eyes, a worry that’s both pensive and accusational, and it makes your skin burn with the need to be near him, to clutch at him and find comfort.

‘That you were going to leave me?’ he asks, the question managing to sound both cruel and confused.

You shake your head slowly. ‘No,’ you state, firmly. ‘That you were going to leave me.’

Namjoon stills. ‘What -’

‘Let me finish,’ you say, chest suddenly too tight to hold back your words. ‘Every day that I spent not entirely knowing what to do with my life was a day keeping you from your dream. You didn’t see you, maybe you felt it - but you always felt it, you know? You always felt that way about art, but you didn’t see how you looked when you took eleven strangers around a room in a random city and showed them everything there was to know about the world. I knew I couldn’t keep you from it, and I knew that I wouldn’t, but I also knew that eventually I wouldn’t be enough for you. Even if I stayed with you, even if I did odd jobs and helped you with papers and cooked you dinner when you were too tired to even move, I knew eventually you’d find someone better. You took eleven strangers through a room, and it was the first time you didn’t take me with you.’

It takes him a minute to process all this, his fingers gliding up and down on his glass as he works through your version of the story, comparing it against his own. It takes him a minute but, eventually, he looks at you and you’re surprised to find warmth, a lost sort of warmth, that makes you feel like you’re slowly being pulled out of the dark.

‘You’re forgetting the most important part of that story,’ he says, softly.

His voice is gentle and kind, and it’s not what you expect. It isn’t what you expect and you think you deserve worse, and so you lash out if only at yourself.

‘What?’ you ask, sarcasm betraying your sincerity. ‘That we were so wound up we fucked in an alley by the Navy Pier?’

‘No, although that was important and incredible,’ he says with a slightly sad chuckle before becoming quite serious once more. ‘You’re forgetting that it wasn’t me who interrupted the guide. It was you.’

‘Oh come on, I didn’t -’

‘You did.’ In this, he is firm, unwavering in his truth. ‘I don’t know why you erase yourself from everything like this, but it was you who interrupted her speech about Map. You said “tell me why a map would be considered art.”’

‘Yeah, but then you took over.’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ he asserts, pressing his finger into the table. ‘She started talking about the thickness of the paint and you started talking about the references to cartography of antiquity and how map making used to be both an art and a political institution. You traced every inch of history in that single sentence.’

‘Okay,’ you admit, slightly exasperated, ‘but that set you up.’

‘Yes, it set me up,’ he agrees, vigorously nodding his head. ‘Don’t you see? How can you not remember?’

‘I don’t know what you’re asking me to remember, is the problem,’ you state plainly with a defeated shrug of your shoulders.

‘You started the whole thing. You started everything!’ he exclaims, voice steadily rising. ‘You interrupted her first and you were already waiting by every painting I took that group to. You lead me on the journey, I was just the one who did the talking.’

‘I was just walking!’

‘You’re missing the fucking point!’ he hisses. ‘You lead me on that journey. Everywhere I went with that group, you were already there. I could only have done all that because you were with me, my partner. You said that was the day you realized you were going to leave, but, for me, that was the day I realized I wanted to make you my wife.’

‘What?’

‘You were waiting for me to leave and I was…I was waiting to ask you to stay.’

Speaking in the wake of his words, too soon and too quickly, feels like a betrayal, so you don’t. Speaking at all feels like it will kill you, so you remain silent and work yourself through everything he’s said.

You think back to the day at the museum, think about the tour group and the guide’s wide, shocked, and slightly offended eyes as you both took her patrons away from her. You think about her weak protests and the way a woman at the front shushed her while Namjoon was talking. You think about the way you walked around the room and Namjoon followed, and how you didn’t really think much of it, just watched him with an ache in your chest and a throb at your core as he passionately taught his new charges. You think about the future you could have had, were meant to have, had you just stayed.

You think about him proposing and how you wouldn’t even have had to think before saying yes.

You think about a ring on his finger and how it would easily have made you want him more, a possessive sense of desire telling you and the world that he is yours, legally and for all time.

You think about how you belonged to him the moment you met him, sitting next to him in your intro to art class and how you had to share a textbook because the bookstore sold out before he could buy his.

You think about your first date and your last date. You think about your wedding, the one that never existed and the one you planned mentally, without telling him, after your one year anniversary when you were young and hopeful about your future.

You think about how you had him.

You think about how you lost him

You think about how you ruined everything because you were scared, and you were selfish.

And now you see why he wanted you to admit, so badly, that you were wrong.

‘I’m so stupid,’ you whisper, voice impossibly small.

‘In a way, we’re both to blame.’ There’s a sadness to his words, one full of mutual regret, one that tells you he’s lived in this memory just as often as you.

You’re not sure what to say for a long time after, merely taking slow, shallow sips of your drink and humming absentmindedly as you process his words. You’re not even sure how to feel, if you’re honest, and so you latch on to what you know, the only truth you have left.

The only thing you know to be real.

Coughing slightly to raise your voice back to its former strength, you keep your eyes trained on the table as you speak.

‘It hurt me too, you know.’

‘What did?’ he asks gently.

‘Leaving you,’ you state, though for some reason you sound cold and distant. You aren’t sure why, but you think it’s because you’re still roaming around the Chicago Art Institute, looking for a husband that should have been yours and stroking desperately at the phrase what if. ‘It nearly killed me.’

‘And you think it was a cakewalk for me?’

His hard voice brings you back to reality, and your gaze snaps back to him, causing you to feel slightly winded from catching up to the present.

‘No, but at least you got to see me as the bad guy.’ You hold your drink just a little bit tighter as you keep speaking, grounding yourself and keeping your mind present. ‘I walked away from the only perfect thing I ever had. I thought about you everyday. I ached for you everyday.’

‘I never washed the pillowcase,’ he blurts out in a rush, eyes wide and cheeks tinted with a shy blush.

‘What?’

‘The night before you left…remember?’ he asks, shifting awkwardly in his seat as he works through his own confession. ‘I fucked you after dinner, and you buried your face in the pillow. I thought you were fucked out, but after you left I realized you had been crying. It had your lipstick stains and smelled like you for months; all of your sweat. I woke up next to it like that, in an empty bed, for weeks. I never washed it. It doesn’t smell like you anymore…obviously I don’t use it but…it still has your lipstick.’

And then something in you breaks.

Grabbing your things, you rush quickly out of the bar feeling like the air inside the building had become too thick, too heavy with all your pining and yearning and remembering, and it hurt. It made your chest feel heavy and constricted, made your lungs burn and your hands shake and so you had to run, had to push yourself out into the night where there would be space and distance and room to move throughout the world you broke with your bare hands.

You knew you never stopped loving him, knew with every fibre of your being you could never love another person because you needed him on an almost cosmic level. Your heart was nothing but a cauldron that made a love for him. It spilled out and over from your skin daily, constantly, and you were okay knowing this was your fate, accepted it because you had to be strong for him. But now, now you knew he never stopped loving you either.

He kept the bag, kept the car, kept the damn pillowcase because they were all he had left of you. At the end of the day, after the bed stopped smelling of you and the kitchen no longer held the scent of your overuse of garlic, and your cushion on the couch reverted back to its original shape, all he had left were the objects you left behind because property considered them his. But his heart, his beautiful, kind heart claimed them as ours.

It’s easier to breathe outside, easier to accept all of this in public where you feel small and alone and not like your tether to reality is snapping. It’s easier to breathe, but harder to see. And only now, after several minutes of trying to catch your breath do you realize it’s raining.

‘What happened?’ Namjoon asks, rushing out to stand beside you. Taking a gentle, reassuring hold of your elbow he flashes you a look of worry, concern painting his features the way you remember it - without all the disdain he’s carried with him.

‘I -’ you begin, but aren’t sure what you mean to say. ‘I - it’s raining,’ you finish, weakly although you can’t help but smile as you squint through the rain.

‘I know,’ he laughs, and this time it’s genuine. This time, it’s Joon, and your heart sings.

‘My car is back on campus.’ You don’t know why, but it’s the happiest thing you’ve said all day.

‘My apartment isn’t far from here,’ he says, pointing down the street in some ambiguous direction.

You nod as he takes your folder and places it in his bag, zipping it up and looking at you with a suddenly mischievous smile.

‘Race you?’

And then he’s gone, running away from you with a childish howl of glee as he sprints, footsteps splashing on the wet concrete.

And you chase after him, laughing and shouting, ‘I don’t know where I’m going!’

But it doesn’t matter, because he’s not far from you, not really. You were always good at this, keeping up with him, and you keep pace just fine until you’re in the lobby of his building and he’s laughing.

He’s laughing the way you remember him laughing. He’s looking at you the way he always looked at you, with that special, warm, heated gaze he only ever reserved for you, and you don’t know when he let his guard down. You don’t know when your problems were solved enough for it to be this way, not really because there’s so much left to say. But he pushes you into his elevator with a delight you remember seeing on a much younger version of him, and simply no longer have it in you to question it or complain.

After the elevator passes the fourth floor, you realize you’re shivering. You think it’s partly because your body hasn’t adjusted to the cool air of the building as it dries the water on your hot skin, and, if he asked, you would say it’s this, but you know it’s mostly because you’re trembling with relief. Trembling with relief and joy and desire, because he’s standing next to you and smiling down at you, and you’re close enough to see the water as it glides down his nose and drips onto your dress.

You’re close enough to see the way he bites his lip now, in the slow way, the charming way, when he’s too full of desire to speak so he bites his lip to keep himself in check. Close enough to realize his eyes are lowering down, gliding along your neck and finding your chest, widening as he releases a soft, almost silent gasp. And so you look down and you see too.

Your dress is see through from the rain.

There’s not much you can do, really. You have no change of clothes and, before you can laugh about this or reach out and press your body against his, the elevator dings signaling your destination. You’re about to walk out when you feel him drape his coat over you, and you glance up to see his face.

He’s stoic but calm, that kind of possessive look you remember him getting when your skirt was too short and he caught someone staring. Or, most famously, the time buttons of your blouse came undone and a man asked you for your number when he was sitting right next to you. He seethed and you laughed, but the sex that night kept you from laughing for weeks and instead had you moaning in delight every time you saw the palm of his right hand.

When you push through his apartment door, it takes you a moment to register how very him the space is. The kitchen is large and clean, pots and pans hanging on a ceiling rack, giving way to a large and comfortable living room. The couch, you notice quickly, is different, wider than the one you shared with him and this time, it’s made of tan fabric rather than the black leather you adamantly championed. There’s blankets and books strewn about the room, the coffee table is littered with papers filled with highlighter streaks, and a mug half-full with coffee rests forgotten and abandoned on the corner.

But all of these, all of these very personal things, pale in comparison to the view. The back wall of the living room is one large floor to ceiling window with a view overlooking the city. Beneath his apartment, the lights glow and the streets bustle with life, but inside, the house is silent and Namjoon has left you, gone to some other room as he talks to you but you aren’t listening. You’re pulled to it like a moth to the flame and you think this, this large piece of glass is the single most important thing you’ve ever encountered.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, admiring the view or the glass, or even your reflection as your focus moves in and out from the world to your chest as it struggles to contain your beating heart. It’s mesmerizing, the way the rain drops on the window seem to glow from the city street lights and how your breath, hot and warm, makes the glass fog with every shaking exhale you release.

You aren’t sure how long you stand there, but eventually you see his reflection come into view behind you and, this time, you let yourself sound breathless and awestruck.

‘You always wanted a window like this.’

Lingering behind you, he’s close enough to feel the heat from his chest radiate into your back but enough to feel him, to really feel him and the hard muscle of his broad shoulders you always loved.

‘To see the world -’ he begins, but you cut him off before he can go any further.

‘And not be envious of the clouds.’

His smile, offered to both you and the fond memory, is soft and pensive. ‘Still my favourite thing you ever wrote.’

‘That was seven years ago,’ you tease, turning to face him.

‘And it only got more meaningful with time, baby.’ Tapping the red tip of your nose gently, he offers you a white towel. ‘I brought you this.’

Draping it over your head, he rustles your hair and laughs at the way you happily hum at the feeling. The cloth is warm, luxurious in its softness, but his hands are finally on you, finally caressing you the way you remember. Thousands of memories flood your mind, memories of how he would dry your hair after showering together, memories of how he would watch you brush your hair in the morning only to run his fingers through the strands hours later staying it felt like silk. Mostly, you remember how one, light touch of his hand on your skin could tilt you on your axis, shift your perspective of the world, and fill spaces within you that you didn’t know were empty.

It felt like this before, and it feels like this again.

The warmth in his eyes that emerged outside the bar remains, only now it’s growing dark, blowing out his pupils and turning his expression into one of desire. Languidly, he moves the towel through your hair but slowly, slowly, he releases it from his grip and lets it drop unceremoniously to the floor. It was never enough for him, you know, to feel you with any sort of barrier in the way, and you find it beautiful the way he releases the firm binds of his control.

After years of separation, you’re surprised to find the pull towards his body to be so natural. You know he feels it too. The small, tentative steps towards you, the minute movements of his body that push you against the window come from someplace primal, someplace he’s kept locked away. It’s natural that your body calls to him, and natural that he responds, because always and forever, you have belonged to each other, cut from the same fabric of the universe.

With your back pressed against the window and your breath becoming something hot, something that burns as you take it in, you reach your hands up to stroke his face, grazing the tips of your fingers against his cheeks in the hopes of finding relief. Starting at his cheeks, they’re delicate and gentle, and relishing the way the softness of his skin feels like home. Increasing their force to continue their exploration, this recharting of territory, your fingers meander towards his ears, making a gentle path of affection along his cheekbones and jaw. As you stroke the shell of his ears, he releases a low hiss that makes you feel a selfish kind of pride, a pride born from knowing this sound exists because of you and belongs only to you.

Hunger travels through your fingertips and your skin, ravenous in its need to be close to him, to bind yourself to him so completely not even air can separate you. You’re hungry to be close to him so you fist your hands in his hair, head tipping back with a sigh as you revel in the feeling of his the strands between your fingers. His hands, dragging gradually up your waist, deliberately press along your skin and bunch of the fabric of your dress together, causing the skirt to lift and lift before his hands come to splay across your back.

Pressing a knee between your thighs, he hums happily as he traces the side of your face with his nose, lips parted in awe. The contact of his hands, the sheer nearness of him, and the ache in your center creates a moan that bubbles out of your chest, keening around him in a high pitched gasp comprised entirely of need.

Namjoon’s forehead drops against yours at the sound, his eyes fluttering for a moment as he attempts to catch his breath. Sliding your hands down his neck, you grip his shoulders and squeeze the muscle that lies beneath his shirt. There’s a weightlessness in your heart and stomach that makes your core start to throb with want, and suddenly you are very aware of the wetness that pools in the cotton of your underwear.

With one hand grasping at the fabric of your dress, he slides the other between your shoulder blades to the base of your neck, tilting your head up so to look at him and bringing his lips to hover tantalizingly against yours.

‘Tell me to stop,’ he whispers, strained and low, against your mouth. He rocks his knee against your mound, movement almost imperceptible, in a torturous massage.

‘Don’t,’ you breathe, savoring the way your lips graze as you speak, raising goosebumps along your flesh at the contact.

He holds you so close and so tight, you almost feel as though you’re being lifted from the ground and the earth, sliding up the wall by the sheer force of your desire.

‘Tell me what you want.’

‘You.’ The words sound almost pained as they fall from your mouth, and you know it’s because you’re too distracted. You’re relishing the way you’re sharing his air, taking what he releases into the atmosphere in greedy mouthfuls.

‘You never lost me, baby,’ he coos, and you can’t help but moan as the wet tip of of his tongue teases your bottom lip. ‘Tell me what you really want.’ The words slide down your skin as he moves his lips to your jaw, hovering there only for a moment before moving to your neck.

‘You,’ you gasp, involuntarily thrusting against him. ‘Inside me. So deep I think I might choke.’

‘Tell me that you mean it,’ he says, voice vibrating through you as he plants a wet kiss on the tendon of your throat, making you shiver. ‘Once I start, I won’t stop.’ He accentuates this point with another kiss that sucks the skin around your pulse. ‘ I won’t stop until you’re mine.’ At this, he bites down on the spot he just sucked, squeezing the skin between his teeth to bruise.

Surprised and unable to contain yourself, you wrap one of your legs around his waist, and drag his face to yours. For a moment, you remain quiet, just looking at him with only the sound of the rain outside to filter through the tension. But he brings his tongue out to stroke over your thumb and it’s this simple thing that breaks you.

‘I belong to you,’ you say, boldly and clearly, as you look him fiercely in the eyes. You know exactly what to say to make him crumble, exactly what to say to make his blood burn.

‘Damn right you do.’

And he finally kisses you, relief flooding your system and making you cry out in joy at the taste of his tongue against yours. His mouth is hard, all teeth and tongue, but purposeful in the way he massages the caverns of your mouth. You feel him grow hard against you, his cock pressing into you as your hips rhythmically collide.

Normally, he would take his time. Normally, he’d be dominating and commanding, riling you up until you were absolutely begging to be fucked and claimed by his dick. Tonight, though, he’s just as desperate as you. Tonight, his resolve disappeared the moment he felt your skin, and neither of you have any interest in taking your time.

Peeling your hands from his body, releasing the material of his shirt you didn’t know you were clasping, you drag them down his body to tease along the waistline of his trousers. He releases a growl into your mouth, and you swallow it with glee, hands fumbling as they try to undo his belt with such little space between your bodies.

And he is just as eager.

His right hand drops between your arms and reaches to the apex of your thighs. Pushing your underwear to the side, he slides a finger between your folds and groans deeply at the feel of your slick wetness. Your breath halts for a moment at the intrusion, but only because you remember the way his fingers could work you, worked you well and knew you, learned all the ways to unmake you with the sweetest of touches.

‘You’re so wet baby, and I’ve barely touched you.’

To prove his point, he quickly adds a second finger and spreads them as he thrusts, scissoring his fingers to prepare you for something larger and better. He drags his thumb over your clit, rubbing it in circles and hums with pride as he feels your walls clench around him in pleasure.

‘Stop teasing, Joon, I need you inside me,’ you keen, biting your lip as you finally bury your hands beneath his briefs to grasp his member.

It’s hard velvet in your hands, hot and aching with need, and you stroke him quickly a few times before running your thumb along his tip to collect the precome that’s gathered there. Namjoon jerks forward at the sensation, head dropping to the crook of your neck and moans, deep and into your skin, at the way your hand squeezes him just how he likes.

It should be impossible to love a person this much, impossible and illogical but here you are, the love you have for him incinerating your soul and becoming the fuel in your blood that keeps you alive.

‘Now who’s the fucking tease,’ he groans, rocking into your hand before regaining his focus. He pulls his fingers from your pussy, and you whine at the loss, only to giggle in surprise as he tears your underwear away. Shoving your hands from his pants, he hoists your other leg around his waist and lifts you, standing between your spread legs with his hands on your hips.

Positioning himself at your entrance, teasing his tip against your clit and rocking back towards your slit, he cradles you to him, pressing himself against you and looking at you as though he worships you. You spend several seconds like this, just looking into one another, panting and breathing in unison, until he buries himself inside you to the hilt in one fluid motion.

‘Holy fuck,’ he moans, biting his lip as he feels your searing heat take him in.

He stills for a moment, giving you time to adjust to his size. It’s been years since you’ve felt this whole, this full, and you find yourself trembling just from the shock of feeling so complete.

‘Joon, please -’ you cry, squeezing around him, smiling as he slaps the window behind you. ‘I need you to move.’

Needing no encouragement, he pulls out and thrusts back in with force. He sets a steady, piercing rhythm, one that’s not entirely precise due to the angle but one that’s hard and deep enough to hit you, making you quake around him in pleasure.

‘God, you’re so fucking tight.’

Hands clutching at his back in a desperate attempt to pull him closer, you don’t have it in you to speak, instead you simply nod and close your eyes, feeling the pressure build in your belly as he moves.

Bruises will form on your hips from his grip, and you imagine his fingers to be burying into your skin like those of the famous Bernini statue, turning the way he fucks you into art. Your eyes roll back in your head at the image, at the same time he executes a deep thrust that as you crying out in unison.

‘I’m not gonna last,’ he cries into your shoulder. ‘Fuck, you take me so well.’

There will be time for savoring and adoring each other later. Now, you just want to feel one another, want to reunite like a solar flare and burn out just as quickly in each other’s arms.

Namjoon catches onto the way you clench around him, feeling your walls tighten with every thrust and the way your breathing has increased to little more than a whine. Lowering a hand between you, his fingers brush over your clit in time with his thrusts, and you cry out, the coil inside you wound tight enough to break.

‘Are you gonna come for me, baby?’ he murmurs, voice dry, as he pulls his head up to watch you with a proud smirk on his face.

‘Joon, I -’ you breathe, but can’t finish. Your body is too desperate for release, standing on the edge the precipice of euphoria and anxious to surrender.

‘Let go, baby,’ he says, sweetly. ‘Come for me. I want to hear you scream my name, just like you used to.’

And you do. His name careens off your tongue as you shudder through your orgasm, every muscle in your body tensing and tightening, forcing you to arch into him, before unwinding and leaving you feeling weightless.

Namjoon follows you immediately after, and you’re glad you didn’t come together. This was always your favourite part of sex with him, the way he wholly, completely, delivers himself to pleasure within your body. You feel warmth bloom inside you, and you ride the last waves of your orgasm with him, coming down together with fluttering muscles and soft breaths.

‘Shit, I -’ he says frantically, but it’s in vain. His legs give out beneath you, exhausted from the force of his orgasm and from holding you against him, both of you collapsing to the floor in a heap of limbs.

After the initial shock, you feel him start to laugh against you, the movement small but jovial, and the sound makes you laugh too. There’s happiness here, in a room that holds no trace of you except smears of your sweat against the window. There’s happiness here, with him.

And so you laugh.

You really, truly, laugh.

Two hours. That’s how long it took you to get out of bed, to peel yourself away from his arms.

Two hours spent in the light of the morning, in bliss, stroking skin and clasping hands; remembering that this is what love feels like when it’s yours and enthralled just from being held by you.

Two hours reminding yourself that he was there, not a dream, not a wish, not a memory, but tangible and warm and breathing into your hair. Reminding yourself that you had a morning routine with him, that he learned to wake up without you, and understanding that now you get to relearn life with him. You get to feel everything all over again as if for the first time.

It took you two hours to remove yourself from the comfortable bubble you’d made together of bedsheets, affectionate whispers, and the smell of sex. It took you two hours and, now, you are running late.

Speed walking along the path to the administration office, you fight the urge to stop and admire the world around you. Colours seem brighter today, the sky a bolder shade of blue, your dress a deeper shade of purple, and, perhaps, your soul a better, cleaner version of itself. You want to admire and ponder these things, but you have a meeting with the man who will be confirming your employment and you’ve never been one for tardiness.

Picking up the pace of your steps, you run the name of the university dean over in your mind, preparing the words of gratitude you want to offer him for the opportunity. Your paperwork has all been signed, Namjoon’s signature coming over a cup of morning coffee and with a wink, saying I was always going to sign this, baby, I just needed to make you beg.

As if on cue, your phone dings with a text message.

Joonie [1:33 PM]: What are you wearing?

Y/N [1:35 PM]: aren’t you teaching a class?

Joonie [1:37 PM]: They’re taking a test. What are you wearing baby?

Y/N [1:39 PM]: you will see me in two hours, can you not wait?

Joonie [1:42 PM]: I waited three years to send you dirty texts. I’m tired of waiting.

Y/N [1:44 PM]: jesus christ, write a book or something while you wait

Joonie [1: 47 PM]: Just tell me what you’re wearing. Please.

Y/N [2: 20 PM]: it doesn’t matter what i’m wearing because you’re going to take it off anyway

Joonie [2:25 PM]: You made me wait. Whatever you’re wearing better look as good as my dick in your pussy

Y/N [2:28 PM]: i had a meeting with the Dean, can you at least feign a sense of professionalism??

Joonie [2:30 PM]: Not when I keep picturing my tie binding your wrists to my headboard, no.

Y/N [2:34 PM]: i just knocked into some poor girl because of you. i hope you’re happy

Joonie [2:36 PM]: I won’t be happy until my dick is buried in your cunt and my hand print bruises your ass

Y/N [2:36 PM]: can your TAs take over?

Joonie [2:37 PM]: Thank fuck. See you in 5.

#namjoon x reader #namjoon smut #kwriterskollection #kpoptrashtag #bts smut #bangtan university #bts fanfiction #bts fic #bta au #namjoon au #bangtan au #bangtan fanfiction #rap monster smut #rap monster #rap monster au #rap monster x reader

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faithfulnews · 4 years

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Work, Play, Poetry

By Anthony Domestico

March 4, 2020

The life of the late novelist Robert Stone was filled with improbabilities. As Madison Smartt Bell puts it in his new biography, Stone, whose globe-spanning novels took on American history and the American soul, had “a taste for marijuana and alcohol (and for quaaludes and opiates).” In the 1960s, Stone was friends with Ken Kesey; you can imagine how much imbibing that entailed. While in Vietnam on a reporting trip, he experimented with heroin. (He “snorted, smoked, [and] possibly drank it on one occasion,” Bell writes.) Yet Stone lived to the ripe age of seventy-seven, writing a strong novel, Death of the Black-Haired Girl, two years before he died in 2015. “A connoisseur of women of all varieties,” Bell writes, perhaps a little too forgivingly, “Bob was far from above the occasional fling.” He had an open marriage—so open that he had a child with a family friend in the 1960s and a tempestuous affair with a younger writer three decades later. Yet he stayed with his wife Janice for fifty-five years. By Bell’s reckoning, and it seems accurate, theirs was a happy marriage.

But the most pleasant surprise, for me at least, was the decades-long friendship Stone had with Marilynne Robinson. What a literary odd couple they make: Robinson the proud Calvinist and Stone the lapsed Catholic; Robinson known best for her quiet, lovely novels about mid-century Iowa and Stone known best for his wild, prophetic novels—A Hall of Mirrors (1967), A Flag for Sunrise (1981), and others—all probing the manic brain and corrupted heart of American empire. What must the two writers have talked about? The nature of God, I’m sure. (Stone in an interview: “As a result of having been a Catholic, I’m acutely aware of the difference between a world in which there’s a God and a world in which there isn’t.”) The nature of craft, I imagine. (Stone taught at Johns Hopkins and Yale, among other places.)

Bell was friends with Stone, and his affection for his subject comes through. Writing in the first person, Bell recreates trips the two took to Haiti and conversations they had about fiction’s moral purpose. Despite this love, though, Bell doesn’t hold back, especially when it comes to the suffering brought on by Stone’s addictions. The last hundred or so pages are difficult to read, an onslaught of car crashes—Stone was a terrible driver, even when sober—narcotic dependence, increasingly frequent falls, and an attempted suicide. Stone was charismatic, everyone agrees. He was also destructive, to others occasionally and to himself consistently.

Bell is an accomplished novelist in his own right, and Child of Light, like a good work of fiction, lives through its details. Stone “huffed as much oxygen as possible in a back room of Politics and Prose” before giving a reading. David Milch, the producer of Deadwood, put Stone on the payroll at his production company to give him something to do, and some money, after a stint in rehab. Annie Dillard and Joy Williams vacationed with Stone in the 1990s. (Dillard and Stone went white-water tubing in Missoula and saw a brown bear.)

Stone’s writing offers an imaginative record of America’s political and spiritual dimensions: “That is my subject,” Stone wrote, “America and Americans.” Bell reads this wild life and lasting achievement with grace and sympathy.

Child of Light: A Biography of Robert Stone Madison Smartt Bell Doubleday, $35, 608 pp.

Baseball here is a business, and Nemens gives it to us from all angles

Robert Coover’s The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waugh, Prop. is the best baseball novel ever written, and I won’t hear otherwise. But The Cactus League, the first novel by Paris Review editor Emily Nemens, is also very good.

If Nemens’s debut is not quite in the same league as The Universal Baseball Association, that’s partly because it’s playing a different game. Coover’s is a postmodern novel about the postmodernism of America’s pastime. (We often care less about the game itself than about its statistical representations—batting averages and win shares.) Nemens’s is a work of straightforward realism. Baseball here is a business, and Nemens gives it to us from all angles: superstar outfielders losing fortunes at the gambling table; groupies hanging out by the bullpen; agents hushing up scandals; elderly stadium organists whose stiff hands can’t hit the keys they once could.

The Cactus League takes place in Arizona during spring training. Each chapter, nine in all, follows a different figure associated with the imaginary Los Angeles Lions franchise. Most of the particulars are right. Nemens knows that Notre Dame’s baseball team is in the ACC, and she nicely skewers the increasing encroachment of hot tubs and goofy sound effects in new ballparks. A lovely small detail: Jason Goodyear, the book’s self-sabotaging superstar, gets a signature sneaker—“the first time they’d named a shoe after a ballplayer since Griffey.”

Not everything works. No fan would call a pitcher a “fastballer,” as one character does. (At least it’s not “speedballer,” à la Bruce Springsteen.) No partial owner could demand that a prominent outfielder be traded because of sexual jealousy—and then have it happen within days. (Partial owners don’t have that much power; star players don’t get traded overnight, especially when their replacement has only played college ball.) Such details wouldn’t much matter in a postmodernist romp. They do here.

But the pacing is good and the prose generally strong. Nemens refuses to engage in the romanticizing many fall into when spring comes around. Bartlett Giamatti famously and poetically said that baseball “is designed to break your heart.” After all, Giamatti rhapsodizes, “the game begins in spring…blossoms in the summer…[and] leaves you to face the fall alone.” Fair enough. But Nemens shows how baseball also breaks your heart for more prosaic reasons: because rotator cuffs fray, because spring-training towns are depressing, and because billion-dollar franchises don’t give a fig about poetry.

The Cactus League Emily Nemens Farrar, Straus and Giroux, $27, 288 pp.

In baseball, there can come a point when you’ve so often been described as underrated that you cease to be underrated. Trot Nixon, for example: a decent right fielder in the early 2000s who Red Sox fans so often dubbed underrated that he became overrated. Charles Portis, the Arkansas-born novelist who was famous for being underrated and who died on February 17, never suffered this fate. There’s a certain kind of greatness that, no matter how many times we remark upon it, will always be underrecognized.

People who know Portis, whose out-of-print novels were reissued in the 1990s, probably know him as the author of True Grit. It’s a great novel, and it’s been made into two great movies. But every shaggy-dog story he wrote, every picaresque comedy of American naiveté and dreaminess, was great. His sentences display a funny, poetic, loose yet disciplined, absolutely American prose style. Since his death, fans have been passing around some of their favorite passages. Here are a few of my own. From The Dogs of the South: “I don’t believe we’ve ever had a President, unless it was tiny James Madison with his short arms, who couldn’t have handled Dupree in a fair fight.” From Masters of Atlantis: “It’s not healthy, locking yourself away in here so you can eat pies and read all these monstrous books with f’s for s’s.”

Rest in peace, Charles Portis.

The Dogs of the South and Masters of Atlantis

For decades, the poet and critic Paul Mariani has been a shining light for those interested in the Catholic imagination. We can hear Gerard Manley Hopkins, that great poet of the dark night, when Mariani laments no longer being able to see the “greengold grass, / glistening the bright skin of the copper beeches.” And we can hear Hopkins again, that great poet of the shining day, when Mariani describes “know[ing] that somewhere, now as then, the wind keeps whispering still”—the Holy Spirit moving and transfiguring always, even when we can’t sense it.

Mariani’s new work of criticism, The Mystery of It All, is a twilight book. Its epigraph, addressed to his wife of more than fifty years, begins, “Moon, old moon, dear moon, I beg you / answer when I call out to you.” Its final sentences read, “‘In His Will Is Our Peace.’ The very words I have etched into our gravestone.” In recent years, the eighty-year-old Mariani has been diagnosed and treated for brain cancer. This gives his epilogue, titled “On the Work Still to Be Done,” particular force.

Yet what is most striking about this book is how buoyant it is, how joyful is its account of a life of reading and writing. Hopkins, Stevens, Berryman, O’Connor: they’re all here, and Mariani attends both to their smallest formal decisions and their most expansive metaphysical concerns. “I have read and taught Stevens for over fifty years,” he remarks. “He is someone who never ceases to delight.” Great critics are able to turn the readerly delight they experience transitive: to explain it, yes, but also to pass it on to the reader. By this and many other standards, Mariani is a strong critic.

Here he is on Hopkins’s darkness: “All is unselved, untuned, and, just as violin or catgut strings go slack, all clear voweling lost, so do we, the words themselves as if swallowed, until ‘all is enormous dark / Drowned.’” And here he is on Hopkins’s sacramental, perceptual joy: “Look at the Welsh farmers with their horses in the countryside about him, breaking up the moist clods of earth: how the light shines upon them, catching the quartz glints, in an instant turning them into diamondlike shards of light—‘sheer plod’ itself doing this, allowing the plow and the sillion both to shine in God’s light.”

Even and especially in twilight, Mariani shows us the light.

The Mystery of It All Paul Mariani Paraclete Press, $25, 240 pp.

Even and especially in twilight, Mariani shows us the light.

Hopkins, who broke and remade form in almost everything he wrote, would have loved the poet Jericho Brown. The Tradition is Brown’s third collection of poetry. It’s also his best—the most interesting in form, the most wide-ranging in reference, the most daring in its wedding of the private and public, the spiritual and the sexual.

Brown has talked about reading T. S. Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent” obsessively while working on this book. Eliot’s influence can be felt in this collection’s sense of tradition speaking to, and being changed by, the present. Eliot’s ghost is here. So too are the ghosts of James Baldwin, Lucille Clifton, and Essex Hemphill.

Brown writes several poems in a new form he calls the duplex: a combination of the sonnet, the ghazal, and the blues. “Though I may not be, I do feel like a bit of a mutt in the world,” Brown has said. Queer, black, and Southern, he wanted to create a form that felt as unlikely as himself. These duplexes work by repetition and reconfiguration. Here’s a snippet:

My first love drove a burgundy car. He was fast and awful, tall as my father.

Steadfast and awful, my tall father Hit hard as a hailstorm. He’d leave marks.

Light rain hits easy but leaves its own mark Like the sound of a mother weeping again.

As seen here, Brown often writes about trauma: the trauma of being a hurt child or a hurt lover; the trauma of being black in America (“I promise if you hear / Of me dead anywhere near / A cop, then that cop killed me”) and the trauma of being queer in America (“My man swears his HIV is better than mine”).

But The Tradition also gives witness to joy—in sex and language, in the traditions of black art and the black church. Brown was raised Baptist, and you can hear this legacy in his imagery and music:

Forgive me, I do not wish to sing Like Tramaine Hawkins, but Lord if I could Become the note she belts halfway into The fifth minute of “The Potter’s House”

When black vocabulary heralds home- Made belief: For any kind of havoc, there is Deliverance!

That duplex I quoted from above begins and ends with the same line: “A poem is a gesture toward home.” Brown finds a temporary home, a form of deliverance, in and through tradition in its many forms.

The Tradition Jericho Brown Copper Canyon Press, $17, 110 pp.

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sweetsandloveforall · 7 years

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Redemption: Hellsing fanfic

WARNING: Explicit content. I do not own anything from the creators/producers of the Hellsing or Hellsing Ultimate manga/anime. Alucard x femOC. Enjoy!

Previous chapter summary:

Integra nodded in understanding and debriefed Seras and Alucard on their next mission, "Alucard and Seras, we need information on rumors of a boat being deployed by Millennium. No killing unless absolutely necessary, just scout for information. You both have three days to figure out what is going on. Starting tomorrow, understand? There are rumors of some men from Millennium going through London, doing who knows what, find them and figure it out. Alucard, I want you to take my sister this time. Both of you together is less conspicuous on the streets of London, especially since she blends right in and knows that city like the back of her hand. And she is a great conversationalist to strangers when she needs to be. If you could debrief her on that, I would appreciate it. Seras, take Pip with you as well, since you two get along famously. if you need any help with knowing special spots where gossip happens, just text Jane on your cell."

CHAPTER 6: REUNION

The quartet were making themselves acquainted with the luxurious rooms, Seras was so happy to be sharing her room with Jane. Jane made sure everything was neat and in its place before changing into another set of clothes. Alucard and Pip were staying in the next room, they had their own separate bedrooms of course but Alucard was less than pleased to share a room with the mortal. Pip was also hoping to share a room with someone else but free room and food was nice enough for him to shrug the feeling off. Jane knew that this trip was for business only so with that in mind, she slipped her trench coat on and a scarf. Seras handed Jane a cozy slouch beanie for her to wear due to the cold winter weather in England, "Thank you, it matches perfectly." Seras was going in cute, sweats and a long sweater with a pink beanie, "No problem, master!" "Just call me, Jane...I don't like the name "master", just sounds wrong," Jane scrunched up her nose and slipped her mittens on. Seras gave her an enthusiatic thumbs up then left with her to meet Alucard and Pip in the lobby. Pip was sitting on a lounge chair, smoking his cigarette and whined, "What is taking them so long? Just put on a jacket and walk out." Alucard peeked at Pip in the corner of his eye, not entertaining him then saw Jane and Seras walking down from the stairs. Pip stared at Seras's outfit, it ws adorable and made him flustered. He quickly stood up and chuckled with embarrassment, "You two ladies look quite cozy!" Jane and Seras looked at each other in mutual thought, thinking about what he said in distaste. Alucard rolled his eyes at Pip, kissing Jane's soft mitten covered hand, "Jane, you look wonderful. Very womanly, if I might be so bold." Jane smiled cutely, all flustered over his smooth talk and hooked her arm around his when he offered, "Thank you, Alucard." Pip squinted at Alucard, knowing what he just did and scoffed, "Come on, Seras. Before we get forgotten by those two." Jane felt so happy to be out of the manor and back into the city she loved, London. It has been so long since he last visited and couldn't help but take advantage of the time being spent here. While walking around London, Jane gave directions to a favorite coffee place and tourist spot for Seras and Pip to go informational hunting then proceeded with Alucard down towards Westminster Abbey. The two looked so natural with each other as if they were meant to be close, meant to know each other in every universe. Although they were walking in silence, it was a comforting silence. Just the company they were sharing was enough to fuel their desire for one another at the moment. It was peaceful....almost normal. Alucard quickly pulled Jane towards hm by her waist gently when someone was about to bump into her, "Careful now, Jane." Jane glanced up at the tall vampire and saw normality, he also seemed peaceful and content with just walking. She smiled and kept close to him the whole time after he pulled her close. Alucard examined Jane's behavior, she was such a curious creature, wanting to experience everything and enjoy life. It was obvious that she wanted to spend some quality time in London but Integra gave orders...the vampire made a decision. He was loyal to Integra, there was no doubt but some things are more powerful, more justified than loyalty. Jane pulled his sleeve towards a bench in a grassy area near the abbey then made her way towards a food stand and bought them both Hot Toddies. She handed him is Toddy then sat down next to the vampire, leaning back and sipping her drink. With the benefits of being a vampire, Alucard had amazing hearing and was able to just sit while listening for information about Millennium or something related. Seras and Pip finally made it into this huge coffee shop and sat down at a table for two, drinking their ordered beverages, "Jane knows her stuff." Seras shrugged at Pip's comment, sipping her coffee and saw a suspicious man then subtly jerked her chin in that direction. Without Pip turning his head, he knew what she meant. The two calmly talked about random stuff and finished their drinks, Seras heard some key words muttered out of that man's mouth while talking to his colleague and nodded to Pip, "He knows something alright." Pip cleared his throat, quickly messaging Jane then slipped his phone back into his pocket, "Right. Here is what we are going to do, you ready?" Seras smiled with confidence and nodded, "Yes, I am ready." "We are going to follow this guy until we can grab him alone somewhere and take him to the hotel. You can use your super vampire speed to just run in the hotel quickly with him over your shoulder so no one can see. Sounds good?" Pip put out his cigarette in the ash tray and normally stood up with Seras, placing his arm around her shoulder to seem more normal. Seras tripped over a small piece of trash and quicly looked up to find the man they were stalking to have seen them. The man in the dark coat began to run, Pip let go of Seras and pointed towards the side, "Flank him! I'll run after him straight on!" The two had to make their move fast, Seras risked the chance of being seen and ran as fast as she could. The man pulled out his semi-automatic, aiming towards Seras but that didn't matter for her. She tackled the middle aged man and Pip cuffed him, acting as if he was a policeman to have folks around them not freak out as much. The man grunted, trying to wiggle free of Seras's strong hold, "We got him!" Pip smiled and nodded, lighting his cigarette while signalling for a cab, "Yes we did. Nice work, police girl." Jane took out her phone and saw Pip's text, "They caught someone." The vampire looked over at the text and smirked, "As expected. Well done, Jane. It seems as if you do know where the meeting places are. Let's rendezvous at the hotel in a few hours. I am going to go off on my own for scouting," Alucard stood up from the wooden bench and discreetly tapped the left side of his ribs, "I placed a weapon in your coat just in case something happens. I will be checking on you from time to time but this is just a precaution." Jane furrowed her brows and abruptly felt the tiny pistol in her coat, "....you know how I feel about violence and weapons." "And you know what its like to be in danger. We cannot risk your safety for your own morality. You will have this weapon on you, do you understand?" Alucard's tone became more firm and harsh but Jane knew it was from a place of caring so she complied with his order. "Very well. I shall see you in a few hours...don't be late," Jane exhaled deeply, knowing that he will be leaving her-despite being a short amount of time-it made her heart sick. Alucard stroked her pale cheek as if he was examining her then left in the opposite direction, disappearing in the crowd of tourists. One man in a huge black trench coat sat right next to Jane with his hands in his pockets. Jane took a peak from her peripheral vision and recognized the man's facial features, that silver hair. It was the Captain!! Her heart began to pound, feeling her muscles tense greatly and finished the rest of her toddy like a shot. This man almost killed her, without her happening to find a phone to call her sister, she would have been dead or worse. "You misunderstand me..." a low whispered voice came to her ear and she squinted at the Captain, his red eyes piercing her soul. His eyes were so intense, it reminded her of Alucard somewhat but he wasn't Alucard. Not at all. If it was Alucard hunting her, she wouldn't live one minute more. Knowing that he was not too far away, she felt a little more relaxed and cleared her throat, "How can I misunderstand you? You almost killed me. You're a murderer." The Captain frowned, seeing that she was not backing away from his dead eye stare, "You are safer with us." Jane suddenly started laughing loudly and shook her head, "As thick as you are, you should pay attention to what I am about to say. I was tortured, force-fed, sexually harassed, chained up like a piece of livestock and almost drowned by your hand, I might add. And you say that I am safer with you nazis?" The Captain stood up, she was right but he still persevered, "You think you are safe with that monster that has you wrapped around his conniving finger? Have you ever stopped to think that you will be his next meal? You are a Hellsing. Part of a family that has him tamed like a dog rather than being free. They almost killed him as well. You think a monster like him doesn't have a sense of vengeance left? Think about how many times he probably wanted to drink your blood...he is a vampire, Miss Hellsing. Call him tame if you will, but all wild animals are never truly chained." Before the Captain could walk away, Jane got up on her feet, feeling anger in her heart, "You're wrong. He is a vampire, yes. But he has saved my life a number of times to count and has had patience with me. He took care of me when I was sick, he kept me company when I had no one during my young years of living. He might be a monster but I still have hope in his humanity." The silver haired man turned to face Jane with a look of pity, "I see that there is no sense in trying. You're deeply in love that monster, deny it if you will but it is the truth. He will kill you eventually. You have a lot of potential and I hate to see a life be wasted like so. If you cannot wiggle out of that vampire's grasp then I shall be the one to silence you instead of him. Remember that. I will kill you, Jane Hellsing." Jane felt panic and terror surge within her, this man is insane. To save Jane, he will kill her? Just out of spite? Instead of following him secretly, she slowly took a seat back on the wooden bench with silence. Time seemed to have slowed down, staring at her ankle boots in deep thought. She sighed heavily into her hands and leaned on her knees with her elbows, "God help us." Forgetting to notify Alucard, she hopped onto a bus towards St. Paul's Cathedral, she needed the advice of a priest. "Master, we got the man in your room, tied up onto a chair. What shall we do with him?" Seras was on her phone, sitting on the table while Pip puffed his cigarette. Alucard shook his head in annoyance, on a random rooftop, still searching for clues, "What do you think, you foolish police girl? Interrogate him. Get him on record." Seras hung up on Alucard when he started to lecture and shoved her phone back into her pocket, " Let's interrogate him, Pip. I got master's approval to do so." Alucard grit his teeth when realizing that Seras hung up and slipped his phone into his pocket, "Stupid police girl. Better check up on Jane." "Father, thank you for taking the time to help me with my burdens," Jane curtsied and followed the priest to his office. The priest gestured to the chair for her to sit on then smiled kindly, "No matter, my child. When I heard that one of the Hellsings was here for advice, I admit, I could not believe it. I always thought that your family belonged to the protestant church." Jane chuckled softly and shrugged, "They are just not me. My allegiance is to God and the Holy Roman Catholic Church." The priest nodded and sat into his chair, "What can I do for you, my child?" Jane bit her bottom lip, not sure how to phrase what happened but took a risk, "Well, father, I am in love with this man but...he is not the most holy man. Someone just told me that I was safer to not be around him and I think he may be right.." The priest locked his hands together and furrowed his brows, thinking, "My child, we do not choose who we love. Maybe it is doubt that is plaguing your soul. Maybe this doubt is a sign for you to be on your guard. Or..maybe you're afraid of something else entirely? Pardon me for saying so but, you are keeping information from me, correct?" Jane felt anxiety punch her swiftly, her thumbs twiddled and she averted her gaze but then decided to be honest, "Father...I am afraid that...that..he--" The priest called over to Jane and held her hands in his kindly while sitting on the corner of the table, "Miss Hellsing...have you lost your faith?" Jane looked up at the priest as if he uncovered everything in her life and broke down, sobbing into their entwined hands, "Father...I am not a bad woman...I have tried to keep true and tried to be the best person I can be for our Lord but all I got in return were horrible situations that I was put in. Father, how can I believe when there are horrible things happening to innocent people?" The priest inhaled deeply through his nose and let out a heavy sigh, "Miss Hellsing, everyone who follows God has thought about that very question. We are curious, knowledge seeking hunters, we crave to know more. No, we need to know more. Everyone wants a sense or purpose in life, why am I still here? What was I meant to be? Will my life be so flat forever? What is missing? These questions, we cannot answer. Too little is known. God...likes to test us. Far more than the Devil. God likes to see us push through obstacles and get stronger in body and mind so we don't be overcome by the Devil and his forces. We need to be strong to prepare for the next life. Strong in heart. He wants us to be perfect and we will never achieve that in this life. He knows that. But we can achieve perfection in the next and when we do, we will all be wholesomely happy. This is a test, Jane. Whether you stay by this man you speak of is entirely up to you. Do you choose love or fear? God will not help you when it comes to life changing situations, he only nudges us towards the big tests but lets us decide. He loves us so much that he lets us decide whether to believe in Him or not, gives us the will to choose to grow. Which is the most powerful thing in this world. To grow, to change. Do you understand, Jane?" Jane was astonished at this wise man's lecture and felt a warmth hugging her heart, a warm hug. As if God himself was comforting her soul with a gentle touch. She smiled, drying her tears with her tissues and sighed in relief, "Father, I was right to come here. You have restored my confidence. I have chosen." The priest smiled, patting her hands and saw her out of the cathedral, "I am happy as well that you have came. Earlier today, I had a feeling that I was going to needed sorely. God prepared me for you, young lady. I am delighted that you took my words with such trust. God be with you, Miss Jane." Jane smiled and gave the priest a warm hug, "And God be with you, Father." The priest happily waved to the blonde woman before she jumped onto the bus back to Westminster Abbey. Alucard was pacing madly in front of the bench he left her in, calling her number on the phone, "Damn woman. Answer the phone."The buzzing eluded Jane's hearing as she was helping a child find their mother on the bus, "Come, child. We will find your mother. Is she at Westminster Abbey?" The child was sobbing and nodded, "Last time I thought I saw my mama was when it looked like she got on the bus..." Jane smiled kindly and helped the child get off of the bus, "Your mother is probably here somewhere." After a few minutes of walking, the mother rushed to her child and thanked Jane. Alucard spotted Jane talking to another woman, he was furious but kept calm and made his way up to Jane after her conversation, "Where were you, Jane? I called." Jane jolted and exhaled, "Alucard! I didn't even hear my phone buzz. I am so sorry to have worried you." Despite the vampire's best attempts to stay angry, he felt nostalgic of the times where Jane would always end up lost in the manor then huffed, "Just. Notify me when you are walking somewhere else. Even, if it's close by, got it? Let's head back to the room now." Because of the insane traffic of people coming back from work, Jane and Alucard decided to walk back since it would be faster. Nighttime was beginning to rule the sky, the clouds turned a magnificent pink and the sun's rays lit through the alleyways. Lights began to flicker on and shops closing, it was peaceful. Jane couldn't help but feel the need to tell Alucard what happened between her and the Captain. She lanced over at Alucard, clearly thinking then back on the road. "....is there something on your mind, Jane?" Alucard stopped in his tracks, staring at the fidgety woman. Jane exhaled deeply, she has been caught but nonetheless, she grabbed Alucard's sleeve and pulled him along with her, "We shall talk when we get to the room, I promise." Deciding not to go against her wishes, he kept along her side until they reached Alucard's and Pip's room where the hostage was tied up on a wooden chair. The man was grunting, trying to unravel himself then stopped when Alucard stood right in front of him, "You already interrogated him, Seras?" Seras made a disappointing face and nodded, "We tried but he won't speak." The vampire made a gesture for Seras to take Jane out of the room, "No matter. His blood will do the talking." Seras gently pushed Jane into Alucard's bedroom and had her listen to music while her master was sucking the man dry. Jane, despite being censored off from the bloody scene, knew what was happening and couldn't help but feel terror of Alucard once more. The Captain was right. He is a monster. But... "Jane, it's over. We got the information luckily. This stupid dog needed to pass along a message and stupidly wrote his plans down on a paper hidden in his shoe. What a foolish human.." Jane remained silent, knowing that the man died but refused to give Alucard a hard time about it due to the fact that Integra probably issued it out. She sighed deeply, twiddling her thumbs and cleared her throat, looking to Seras, "Seras, can you give us a moment?" Seras eyes widened slightly then bowed, "Yes! Of course, Master!" After she left the room, closing the door behind her, it was time. Alucard knelled down in front of the distraught woman, waiting for her to be ready to speak. Jane gulped in her nervous accumulation of saliva and exhaled deeply, "I saw a chief officer of Millennium today. While you were gone." The vampire frowned deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Why didn't you tell me?" "It's not like I didn't want to, Alucard. He decided to sit right next to me, I couldn't exactly reach my phone since he would have killed me," Jane pleaded innocence but Alucard wasn't mad at her, he felt disappointed in himself. He let the enemy get close to Jane again, luckily she was around people. If she wasn't he probably--no, he would've kidnapped her. Damn, he is making mistakes. Jane leaned over and took Alucard's gloved hand into her hands, stroking the symbol curiously, "Dear, sweet Count, I only have one question. Should I be cautious and fearful of you?" Jane was clearly conflicted, should she be more careful? The vampire gave her the kindest smile and kissed the back of her hand softly, "No, my dearest Jane. I have saved your life numerous times and i shall continue to do so. I keep making mistakes with you, Jane. It infuriates me to no bounds." The vampire gazed up at the concerned woman and chuckled with amusement, "Jane." Jane averted her gaze, knowing her cheeks were a bright red with embarrassment. The way he said her name felt like she had the shivers running up and down her spine, her stomach was in knots and her heart pounding, "Count...I--" Alucard was fascinated by Jane's reaction to being flustered, her emotion was overwhelmingly intoxicating. Hearing her heart pound, blood pumping vigorously, and smelling the scent of her sweet rosemary aroma was orgasmic to his senses. They both influenced each other's emotions greatly, heightening their sense of closeness. Jane rested her hands on the sides of his neck and gently rubbed relaxing pressure points, smiling fondly, "Despite how long I was gone, I have never stopped caring for you. I apologize if you have thought that." The gentle massaging she was giving was heaven, it was intimate and loving. "Jane, you have never offended me. As you know, it is quite hard to," Alucard playfully jested, feeling himself sink into her touch. Jane laughed lightly at his remark, still admiring the vampire. Her expression could sway anyone if she willed it, "I've got a better idea. Come on, Alucard." Alucard followed Jane to a cushioned chair and sat him down, "What is this, Jane?" The blonde woman pulled bac whatever hair she could into a tiny ponytail and shook her head with a smile, "Nothing sexual, let's put it at that. You have saved my life a lot of times, I shall relieve as much tension from your back and shoulders as I can as something I can do for saving me." The vampire smiled and shrugged, "I will not argue. The tension of my back has been killing me, I miss being given massages for free." Jane smiled, she was happy he accepted. While rolling down her sleeves, Alucard also slipped his coast and vest off, leaving his dress shirt on, "How does dinner at 7 sound?" Jane noticed his sarcastic tone and laughed joyously, knowing he was making fun of Walter, "Don't be unkindly, now! He was a gentleman." Jane began to massage his shoulders slowly but firmly, he was very tense and Jane couldn't help but notice he has a sculpted back. Her cheeks became hot once more and muttered to herself angrily, saying the Lord's prayer. Alucard smirked and looked over smugly, "Everything alri-?" "Y-you hush now! Just think of how funny Walter is or something! I am praying, do not bother me," Jane's face was red mixed with embarrassment and annoyance but it was rather ironic her muttering prayer while she was fully interested in his back. Seras barged in with tears in her eyes, "MASTER! KILL IT! SPI--" Jane intentionally fell onto her back as soon as she heard the door open, hoping Seras didn't see her but it was too late. Alucard grit his teeth and threw his gun at her, "Kill it with that and do not bother me until I say so." Seras's face turned into an ugly smug expression, "Ooooookkaaayy, master. I'll leave you two alone." Jane hissed, still on the ground, "It's not like that!" Seras giggled with smug slowly closing the door to cause more emphasis on the fact that she caught them having a moment until Alucard shot the door closed. Seras yelped when the door smashed into her nose and rubbed her face, "That hurt!" Jane got up slowly, checking to see if the door was shut then grabbed her lower back, "Agh! Ohh, my back...this is what signals the first signs of old age." Alucard laughed at Jane, she was so adorable, he got up and examined her lower back, "Allow me." Jane was slightly starled when he touched her waist and slowly made her stand up straight with pressured applied to her back, "Better?" "Yea, a lot better. Thank you, Alucard," Jane inhaled a huge puff of air through her nose and cleared her throat. "I should go to bed, now," Jane chuckled awkwardly but was stopped by Alucard gripping onto her arm lustfully. The woman gazed up at the vampire with rosy cheeks and mumbled, "Yes?" He held her shoulders gingerly while leaning closer to her, seeing how close he could get, "Jane, I will be shamelessly blunt. I wish to have your whole being. Your heart and body. What say you?" Can this be happening? The man she has loved for nearly a decade has confessed, she had a blank stare of bewilderment and couldn't speak for the life of her. The vampire lifted her chin up, making her look into his eyes, "Jane, you strange and fragile little thing. I have never known more kindness in this world. We morally are very different and always will be. I cannot promise a normal relationship. We will not be walking down the streets, window shopping or having random dates in restaurants. But I can give you my commitment and care." Jane gulped, her bottom lip quivering, she was nervous. She couldn't help but think that this was a lie for him to gain something from her. She couldn't move either, she was frozen in her thoughts, "Let me go, Alucard." The vampire snapped, she kept denying him and it drove him mad that all these years, he had let her get away, "No, Jane. Not anymore. You can lie straight to my face if you will but you know that I know how you feel. I can sense it everytime you get close. Your heart flutters, your breathing becomes heavier, your skin warmer, you get nervous as a mouse. Jane, I love you as my own flesh and blood. What more do you want from me?" Tears began to stream down Jane's cheeks, these words full of power and affection struck her like an arrow to the heart, "I'm so sorry, my sweet Count. I should have never trailed you on as I did...you're right. I love you just as much, I just never had the courage to say so, ple--" A most passionate kiss given from Alucard interrupted Jane's plead for forgiveness. This was surreal but beautiful, Jane rested her arms on Alucard's shoulders, still deep into their kiss full of longing and deprivation. This moment was perfect and unforgettable, but as soon as they were about to go further, the landline rang furiously, "This is for the best. I will answer, Jane. Get some rest, we will head back to Hellsing manor in the morning. You will need your strength. As much as I would love to join you in slumber, my want for you is too overreaching. Have pleasant dreams, my dear." Jane stroked his cheek tenderly before taking her leave, "You as well, Count." "Master?" Alucard answered he phone call and indeed, it was Integra. Ready with her notepad and a pen in hand, she began to ask Alucard questions, "Did you find anything?" The vampire made sure the door was closed after Jane left and turned his attention back to Integra, "Yes. There is a boat going to London very soon with one of Millennium's chief officers just like the rumors we have heard. I have also gained information that there will be an attack on London but when is unknown. I will give you the location of the boat when we arrive tomorrow." Integra put out her cigar, written everything down and cleared her throat, "Good work, Alucard. We will meet the Queen tomorrow as well, in the late afternoon then you will seek that boat a day after that. So two days time before you leave Hellsing manor once more." Alucard frowned, placing his hand on his hip in thought, "Can we send Jane somewhere else when that happens? Maybe back to New Zealand just until this foolish war is done?" Integra squinted at the phone and leaned back into her chair, "There will be no need. Seras will be behind to make sure this place is stationary. She will be safe with Seras. I got to get back to work now. See you all tomorrow." Before the vampire could argue, Integra hung up, now that he made a move with Jane, she will be in even more danger. He cannot bring her with him to seize the battleship nor is he alright with her being so far away...thinking about a solution for this would have to wait till morning.

#hellsing #alucard #integra #seras victoria #pip bernadotte #female oc #fanfic

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perfectisme-georgette · 7 years

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Summary: All about Georgette pretty much ahaha I had started this when I was trying to figure out who in the world I was going to end up with and finally finished it completely todayyy!!!!

Trigger Warnings: Rape

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Name: Georgette Ryelyn Midler

Nickname: Close friends call her Georgie and are the only ones who are allowed to do so (she’s very particular with who can give her a nickname). Her dad calls her his Princess.

Reason for name: She was named after her paternal grandmother, who passed away when her father was very young

Birthday: October 25th, 1993

Age: Twenty-Three

Gender: Female

Place of birth: New York City, New York (Manhattan specifically)

Places lived since: Up until now that she lives in Swynlake, Georgette has only lived in NYC. She has vacationed and traveled practically every where though.

Parents’ names, backgrounds, occupations: William and Addison Midler. William is a famously known news anchor in NYC and Addison is currently a stay-at-home mother/wife. Addison was in the pageantry life and had won Miss America two years straight. It was in an interview about her win that William and Addison met and they had hit it off since then. On top of their careers, both of Georgette’s parents hail from old money.

Number of siblings: None, Georgette is the only princess

Relationship with family (close? estranged?): In the beginning, Georgette was very close, especially with her father (she was such a daddy’s little girl). Now, however, with making her stay quiet about her trauma and then practically shipping her off after their master plan of keeping quiet severely screwed their daughter up, Georgette has no relationship with either one of them.

Happiest memory: Her happiest memory was her very first pageant win because after that very first win Georgette practically took the pageant world by storm and even broke the record for the most wins to date.

Childhood trauma: Georgette’s childhood was absolutely beautiful. It was full of glamour, luxury, everything. There really wasn’t any kind of trauma in sight. That came later in life.

Children of his/her own?: None

If so, relationship with their mother/father?: N/A

Age he/she gave birth/became a father: N/A

PHYSICAL

Height: 5’ 7” (wow she’s actually pretty tall)

Weight: 120 lbs

Build: Slim

Nationality: American since she was born in the states.

Disabilities (physical or mental, including mental illnesses): Georgette is currently suffering from PTSD, but she’s not exactly aware of it since she’s never been formally diagnosed with it. She is unstable as far as her spiraling is concerned haha. She’s taking into drinking, wouldn’t say she is an alcoholic, but the drinking does help her forget about her trauma.

Complexion (freckles, acne, skin tone, birth marks): Georgette has clear and clean skin, currently without acne or any blemishes. She’s very into skin care and keeping on top of her own skin.

Distinguishing facial features: Her eyes!!!!!!! Ughhh Georgette has gorgeous, and beautiful ocean blue eyes!!!!!

Hair color: Blonde

Usual hair style: Georgette’s hair is usually up, most of the time in a very pristine ponytail, but lately it’s been down and loose in waves which is her natural hair.

Eye color: Blueeeee

Glasses? Contacts?: None

Style of dress/typical outfit(s): Georgette always dresses to impress. Never has anything less than designer clothing on. She has a very clean-cut, classy look to her. Comfortable for her means a pair of heels. She’s very into skirts and dresses prefers those over pants, but is definitely not oppose to jeans as you’ll see her wear them when she goes out, that or a cocktail dress.

Typical style of shoes: Heels!!! Louboutins, stilettos, pumps, you guys get the deal haha

Health (is this person usually sick? or very resilient?): Physical wise, Georgette is very healthy. She’s extremely into keeping fit, and goes to the gym daily. She has a gymnastics history on her. A talent is needed for pageants and she has been doing gymnastics since very young.

Grooming (does she/he wear makeup? shower daily? wear only clean clothes? pluck her eyebrows?): Georgette never steps out of her place without looking completely immaculate from head to toe. She is hugely into make-up. In fact, she does her own make-up, rarely did she like when make-up artist had to do it for her during photoshoots and/or commercials. There is never a hair out of place or a nail undone. Her clothes are pristine and Georgette showers a lot!!!! Ever since the trauma she can’t find herself clean enough.

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: The standard two piercings on her ears. Her parents disapproved of anything else. Now, she does have a long dream catcher tattoo that covers her entire right torso. It’s covering a scar she had gotten during the night of the rape. She got it done much to her parents disapproval when she began her spiral. She actually really likes it and ended up getting another tattoo, a star, on her left foot that could sometimes be seen depending on the heel she’s wearing.

Accent?: A New York accent if that counts for anything? But she’s really good at turning it off.

Unique mannerisms/physical habits (bites nails, talks with hands, taps feet when restless): Georgette is very expressive with her hands and talks with them a lot especially when angry. She’s very horrible with having patience (we are working on that haha) and you can tell when she’s reaching her limits because she starts tapping her fingers on the nearest counter. If she’s very nervous, aside from the normal body tensing, Georgette tends to incessantly turn whatever bracelet she has on on her wrist.

Athletic?: Actually, yeah she kind of is haha. Georgette makes an effort to hit the gym daily because she does believe in keeping her body fit. She also has a long gymnastics history behind her. After the trauma, she took up kick-boxing and self-defense classes.

INTELLECT

Level of education (high school drop out, undergrad BA/BS, PhD, MD, etc.): Georgette graduated from Columbia University in New York. She has a bachelor’s degree in Business and Chemistry. Business was more so for her parents who pushed towards making sure she had something such as that under her belt. Chemistry was her own personal choice. Georgette is very into make-up so she became interested in the properties involved with it. She needs to make sure whatever she puts on her skin is healthy and would not cause her damage!!!!!

Level of self esteem: To the public eye, Georgette appears to have an extremely high self esteem. She always has her head up and exudes confidence. She can have a cutting bite to her words when necessary and could appear very full of herself. Inside, however, Georgette feels like extremely used goods, and basically hates herself.

Gifts/talents: Georgette can singggg. Shocker hidden talent there haha. She took singing lessons around the same time she started her gymnastics because she didn’t want to have just one talent to present while doing her pageants. She can actually sing pretty damn good!!!

Shortcomings: Homegirl doesn’t exactly have the best of patience. She can also have quite the temper and be very feisty. She has no problem barking back when the temper hits and Georgette can be pretty spoiled. (It’s some thing that is also being worked on haha)

Style of speech (loud, mumbler, articulate, etc.): Georgette is articulate with her manner of speech, at the same time though when that temper gets spiked the woman can get loud. Rarely does she curse, but again get her angry at just the right angle and she’ll give two flying shits about cursing not being lady-like.

“Left brain” or “right brain” thinker?: Ummm, she’s probably a bit more of a left brain person, but not all the way, so maybe sort of a mix.

Artistic?: Aside from her musical talents in singing, nope not at all. She can appreciate all forms of art, but she can’t draw for shit or do anything along those realms.

Mathematical?: Now math she is very good at, probably ten times better then me!!!! Which means I’m screwed, but like she majored in Chemistry so that sharpened her math skills tremendously.

Languages? Georgette can fluently speak French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian. She knows Latin as well, but you know that’s a dead language soooo. Her parents thought it was very important for her daughter to have a variety of languages under her belt.

Makes decisions based mostly on emotions, or on logic?: Emotions. I really wanted to say logic because she has been raised to do so, so like it’s second nature to her, but Georgette can be very impulsive and will react to emotions in a heartbeat.

Neuroses: None

Life philosophy: If you want something done perfectly, you have to do it yourself.

Religious stance: She doesn’t have a particular stand

Cautious or daring?: Daring. Maybe in the beginning she might have been a little more cautious because she had the media constantly behind her tail, but not really anymore.

Optimist or pessimist?: Probably a bit of both. She’s more so of a realist than anything, at least now she is.

Extrovert or introvert?: Extrovert!!!!

Level of comfort with technology: Very comfortable!!! Georgette basically grew up around technology.

RELATIONSHIPS

Current marital/relationship status: Single

Sexual orientation: Heterosexual

Past relationships: Georgette has been in a couple of relationships here and there. None lasted super long. She definitely had her flingsss. Her last relationship was her longest and she thought that her ex would be like the #one and yeahhhh umm things went bad haha.

A social person? (popular, loner, some close friends, makes friends and then quickly drops them): Georgette is like a social butterfly. She does love talking to people, especially those that giver her attention hahaha. She’s not so much like that now. She’ll talk to people, yeah, but she keeps a little distant too because of the trauma that she has been through. Plus, she use to be heavy in the media and now that she ran off she’s not trying to have that many people know her.

Most comfortable around (person): Right now she doesn’t know a whole of a lot of people in Swynlake, so she’s probably the most comfortable around Perdita since they were close childhood friends.

Oldest friend: Tiffany is her oldest friend and her best-friend who funnily enough she isn’t speaking too right now haha. Aside from her, her oldest friend would have to be Perdita.

SECRETS

Life goals: Ummmmmmm right now she’s in the process of trying to figure out what exactly that issssss since her life has been turned COMPLETELY upside down. Before though, she wanted to be successful in her pageantry career and then settle down with like the perfect husband and all that jazz. Now she barely believes that there is such a thing as a healthy and sweet, genuine relationship and she finds love to be all bullshit.

Dreams: Georgette’s biggest dream was to become Miss America and even beat her own mother’s run, but it doesn’t seem like that dream will be happening what with everything that has occurred.

Greatest fears: That would currently be that what had happened to her could end up happening again.

Most ashamed of: Georgette’s the most ashamed of the fact that she had listened to her parents when she had returned home after the rape had occurred. She’s ashamed of the fact that she never reported it, never went to the police and essentially allowed a criminal a free card to what had happened to her.

Compulsions: Every time Georgette drinks wine or even champagne, she needs to gently twirl her glass cup three times, or she won’t drink it.

Obsessions: Chocolate, she loves chocolate. Any kind makes her very happy. Georgette is a chocolate addict okay, just like shower her in chocolate!!!!

Secret hobbies: Georgette actually loves scrapbooking!!!!! And she looovvessss dancing.

Secret skills: Georgette is extremely flexible. It stemmed from her gymnastic background, but she’s also double jointed on her arms and legs since she was young. It was the reason her mother had placed her in gymnastics, since Addison realized the potential that could bring for her daughter.

Crimes committed (and was he/she caught? charged?): Let’s seeeeee, well she was never charged for anything. Mommy and daddy Midler were good at paying off who ever needed to get paid to keep things under wraps. She really only started going cray cray after what happened to her. She has driven while drunk, gone skinny dipping, has tried prescription drugs, and ummm anything really stupid that a person would do while being very drunk Georgette has most likely done. Yeeaappp.

What he/she most wants to change about his/her current life: That the night of the rape had never occurred!!!! It ruined her life and Georgette wishes for nothing more then it to be erased from existence.

What he/she most wants to change about his/her physical appearance:Nothing actually, Georgette loves her physical appearance. She finds herself to be divinely beautiful. Errr well we’re having issues with that right now because presently she hates herself and can hardly even look at herself in the mirror because of it, BUTTTTTT before hand pffttt Georgette was like in love with herself hahaha.

DETAILS/QUIRKS

Night owl or early bird?: Night Owl

Light or heavy sleeper?: Heavy

Favorite food: Italian food, anything Italian she loves. She kind of has a guilty pleasure for pizza. I mean NYC does make the best pizza aroundddd, but you know for a rich girl who’s suppose to be eating healthy and whatnot, Georgette would stuff down a pizza asap. Screw eating ettiquteeee.

Least favorite food: Sea food. She does like shrimp though, but other then that Georgette isn’t a fan of any sea type food.

Favorite book: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Least favorite book: The Great Expectations by Charles Dickinson.

Favorite movie: Mean Girls hahahaha I am so mad too that that is her favorite movie

Least favorite movie: She’s not that much of a fan for comedy movies. They hardly ever make her laugh, and half of the time she finds them more pointless then anything.

Favorite song: I Wanna Dance With Somebody by Whitney Houston. Georgette is such 80′s trash when it comes to music.

Least favorite song: Anything that’s basically Heavy Metal. She just has never been able to get into that she feels like it’s all basically screaming.

Coffee or tea?: Coffee annnddd of course Georgette always has some complicated ass order when she asks for a coffee.

Crunchy or smooth peanut butter?: Smooth

Lefty or righty?: Righty

Favorite color: Pink!!!!!!!!!! That shouldn’t even be a question for Georgette hahaha

Cusser?: Georgette was brought up to be an absolute lady hahahaha sighhhhh, buttttt get her angry enough and she’ll forget all of that and will start cursing.

Smoker? Drinker? Drug user?: Never smoked, but she does drink. Drinking has sadly become like a medicine of sorts for Georgette. She isn’t a drug user, but she can’t say she hasn’t tried some prescriptions during parties she has hopped into. Wow Georgette you are a mess…..

Biggest regret: Georgette’s biggest regret is the same as her biggest shame. She wishes that she would’ve reported her rape, spoken up, ANYTHING. She feels like it’s too late to do anything about it now and it’s a guilt that eats at her a lot!!!

Pets?: She has a POODLE!!!!!! hahahaha I couldn’t resist I’m so sorry!!!!! Her name is Peaches, you know like Georgia peach hahahahahaha sighh I think I’m funny xDD

#knowing georgette #this thing is soo long idk why I found such a long character sheet #let's seee if I actually go around doing this with any of my othersss hahaha

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