#also was thinking that heart players hoods should be shaped more like hearts

[cringefail-clown]

concept: blood players god tier fits behaving more like liquid (moving slightly, droplets coming off and disappearing into nothingness). for example knights cape and seers hood + lower part of the overgarment would act like that. no idea how to clearly explain this i just think its neat

#homestuck #karkat vantas #kankri vantas #homestuck fanart #god tier #knight of blood #seer of blood #blood aspect #i have so many lil design ideas for how to individualise aspects from each other mmmgh #might do more in the future but this ones my favourite #also was thinking that heart players hoods should be shaped more like hearts

[felassan]

its that time again! 🍵 

Thoughts/wonderings on Dragon Age: The Missing #4, under a cut due to spoilers for The Missing -

I'm probably becoming a lil unhealthily obsessed with this building. what do we think it is? the Archon's Palace is the highest building in Minrathous (tho I guess not, as it has sewers and this is floating). A Circle? it has a similar shape to the logo for the Circle of Magi. the meeting place for the Magisterium senate, lording over everyone below from high above? whatever it is it looks cool and it must be important to be featured on the map. I wanna go there (๑*ᗜ*)

I love Neve Gallus' design. it's fresh and cool, and she just looks so cute and neat okay. also full of detail - the snake pattern on the headpiece, shoulder 'scales' and scales elsewhere, collar & jacket like one of those hooded snakes, snake-'tailcapped' footwear (rather than steel toe-capped), the serpent belt and of course most of all the beautiful snake design of her prosthetic limb. 10/10 character/costume design

this page had me on my knees basically. my heart.

surely this panel is a new meme format hh? same goes for the one where Varric is saying "Then perhaps all this is linked" and Harding says "And we've led them here"

you walked into the wrong neighborhood bro

I also liked this pair of illustrations, they had a nice 'bookend' feel and reminded me a lot of Lord of the Rings.

Other thoughts:

Minrathous looks kinda cyberpunk and (despite what Harding says in the opening panels) feels quite clean in this comic

Is that the person tailing them lurking in the doorway that Harding is catching sight of here?

These holes in Varric's ear seem to be new. What happened? Injury from the leopard attack?

confused a bit by the perspective flip in this issue. In issue 1, Varric was more like 'stop', and Harding was more like 'talk to him'. it's flipped around a bit here.

Varric smiled when he thought about Neve and then lit up when he saw her. she calls him an "old friend". I wonder how they met and how long they've known each other. something to do with varric's spy network?

This panel felt a bit meta hh.

When Neve says "Your friend is quite intense" is she referring to Solas or Harding?

Then we come to the two main things we learn in this issue:

We learn that Solas has been in Minrathous causing trouble. He's been attacking Venatori locations in the city, stealing artifacts from them and freeing elven slaves in the process, which has greatly angered the Venatori. The Venatori now want revenge and a "bunch of rebellious elves" are "causing trouble throughout the city, presumably in the name of the one who freed them". I wonder if the artifacts weaken the Veil, are connected to the idol somehow, or are simply sources of great power that Solas either needs for himself/his plans or that he simply thinks should be taken away from the Venatori so that they don't cause harm using them? Tevinter Nights showed agents of Fen'Harel seeking artifacts and referenced rumors of elven artifacts that strengthen the Veil, like the ones from DA:I. freeing folks also makes sense, "I am not a monster" and it's something he has a history of doing

In this issue we also learn that Neve works with a group called the Shadow Dragons, who have been trying to help the former slaves. indeed they're trying to help anyone who is held as slaves in Minrathous. this is our first time hearing about this new group. they make it their business to help those in need and Neve makes it her business to help them. I'm a bit ¿ about their name, just due to how it sounds, but it's exciting to learn about a new group/faction. Each issue of this DA:D prequel comic has shone a spotlight on a faction - Grey Wardens, Antivan Crows, the Veil Jumpers and the Shadow Dragons. two new, two old. it's a nice balance. and it brings to mind the common fan theory/speculation about the PC of DA:D having a different faction background depending on the player's choice. at the very least it feels like a way of saying 'these four groups [or characters from them] will feature in a significant way/be 'players on the board' in DA:D".

thinking about the Shadow Dragons' name in an in-world context, like thinking about why they may have chosen their name: dragons are emblematic of Tevinter. dragon imagery is everywhere there, dragons are a symbol of power and Tevinter heraldry shows a dragon. the Tevinter Imperium is a 'dragon', or several (metaphorically) - Magisters, ruling over the classes below. the "shadow dragons" feel like "the other side" of Tevinter, the side in shadow, the underside, the 'anti-Tevinter'. I'd guess that they are the "Tevinter you forgot", i.e. the Viper's faction. (and if you look at Tevinter heraldry, there is also a snake 'in opposition' to the dragon.) before Missing #4 I wondered if “the Tevinter you forgot” "means they are a group of folks who have fallen through the cracks in Tevinter society or who are the downtrodden in Tevinter society. is it some sort of uprising or anti-Magisterium movement?" - here we learn they're trying to help people Tevinter 'forgot' like slaves and former slaves. I also commented "from the story it sounds like the dark-clad card dealer is the Viper. the magister in the story is afraid of him and tries to claim that the Viper is just a tale, implying that the Viper’s name has become known as a sort of shadowy, stealthy urban legend in Minrathous and that it has a sort of bogeyman effect on magisters." Shadow indeed. Neve later comments that the Shadow Dragons are trying to "help anyone held as slaves in Minrathous". I think it was in the Dorian short story in Tevinter Nights that there's a reference to how there's now an anti-slavery movement in Tevinter. Is that the Shadow Dragons? you can see possible echoes of "the Tevinter you forgot" in later comic dialogue "The Shadow Dragons have vowed to help us restore our dignity. To get back the lives that were stolen from us by the Venatori. To make sure we don't have to scrabble in the dirt for food and warm", imo.

I wonder if Dorian, Mae and the Lucerni know anything about the Shadow Dragons? maybe they've done some work together?

and while the Viper/Viper's faction/the Shadow Dragons themselves didn't appear in issue 4, issue 4 still highlighted them, continuing the pattern I speculated about, of the DA Day short stories (Evka/Antoine/Wardens, Teia/Viago/Crows, Strife/Irelin/Veil Jumpers and Viper's faction/Shadow Dragons), one from each of those short stories per issue.

Varric is still having a bad time. also he was born in 9:1, and so if DA:D is set in 9:52, he's now over 50. from these comics, he's feeling old and tired. I don't expect that he'll be a companion in DA:D. more like an advisor (off-field), a contact or quest-giver, or the person that recruits us.

"But why? What did he get out of it? Surely, he wanted something in return" was an interesting line. because like on one hand "I am not a monster", he has a history of freeing people who were enslaved and he's shown as valuing freedom and not enjoying needless suffering. setting people free definitely is the only decent thing. but he's also smart and does things with purpose, always playing 4-D chess, and has been outwitting Varric and Harding at every turn throughout these comic issues, always one step ahead. it seems like a 'it's both' situation. like two birds, one stone. he would free people and it's the right thing to do, and he also gains from it strategically. Varric lampshades this in the final page: and it's three stones, actually. Solas freed people, dealt with the Venatori on his tail and slowed Varric/Harding down long enough to escape all in one move.

Also, at first I wondered if the brown-haired elf was sort've projecting his own perceptions on Solas (with the "his kin" lines). but look here. the leader of these Venatori has a pouch round their neck. the others don't, it's prominently placed and it's consistent on this Venatori in every panel they're in here. and where have we seen that before? around the neck of the Venatori stalker that saved Varric from the leopard in Issue 3. I think we're supposed to conclude that the ringleader of the Venatori that attack the elves in this issue is the Venatori person that's been tailing Varric and Harding all throughout these comic issues. the Venatori ringleader seems to recognize Varric in a later panel, with the "You!". They fight and Varric starts demanding answers from the Venatori leader. but then, just as he's about to get answers, the brown-haired elf intervenes and kills them at that very moment. they won't hurt their people anymore, and conveniently also (more than one purpose to things again..), now Varric and Harding won't get any answers. and also this:

another - not two, but - three stones. when the brown-haired elf kills the Venatori ringleader, A) preventing them from further harming his people and B) preventing them from giving any answers to Varric and Harding, C) the killing blow also cuts that pouch from their neck. a very specific thing to depict. presumably in the chaos of the Venatori leader's death (you can't see the elf's hands in the very next panel) the brown-haired elf has grabbed the pouch, and part of his goal all along was to take it. I think we're supposed to conclude that the pouch contained the crucious stone and that the brown-haired elf works for Solas. so the "You're too late, I already have the crucious stone" letter from issue 3 was a Solas fakeout, the Venatori at that point in time did in fact have the stone (having beaten Solas to the vault, and as-shown by the Venatori who saved Varric from the leopard having the pouch around their neck), and the events of issue 4 were part of Solas' plan to steal it/steal it back from them (and going by Neve's earlier dialogue, it's not the first artifact he's stolen from them). so two things here: one, Solas' 'three stones' are actually-actually four (free the slaves, deal with the Venatori on his tail, delay Varric/Harding long enough to escape, and steal the crucious stone artifact from the Venatori [my head hurts]). and two, the brown-haired elf was working for Solas after all. he'll give the pouch (and the contents, the stone) to Solas, "he set us, his kin, free" wasn't projection considering that he does work for him, and him being there in the alleyway when he was, with the information that he had, was part of Solas' plan to escape and get the stone. otherwise, it's pretty convenient that one of the former slaves at the place Neve's aware of where former slaves have been eating scraps, at the time when she takes Varric/Harding there, just happened to have helpful info about the meeting that Varric/Harding needed and also happened to kill the Venatori leader and in the process cut the pouch from their neck. idk if it means all the elves here were working for Solas or just the brownhaired one or the brownhaired one & the blond one, but yea. definitely the brownhaired elf is I think.

Neve fighting was cool: staff-less magic and then as a mage using a dagger or shortsword.

party combo-kill! ice spell + finishing blow - a comic depiction of Shattering :)

Brown-haired elf missing his elven ear here.

A cool panel. Also, you can't see his other hand..

just really liked these two panels :) also, they missed their chance, they missed this chance, in this, a comic called The Missing... is that why it's called that?

[clenches fist] vowing to protect Neve and her good heart at all costs

and he stole the crucious stone artifact from the Venatori.

I am not sure that I agree with the premise of this article that BioWare retweeted, that The Missing is required reading before DA:D. I enjoyed issues 2 & 3 a lot! I was hoping for a bit more from the end of issue 4, perhaps a small Solas appearance like at the end of Dark Fortress or just a bit more insight into his plans or things in/the setup for DA:D. finishing on the Dread Wolf mural from the DA:D TGA 2020 trailer as a reminder was neat but the highlight reveal from these comics as a whole was definitely the new mural depicted in issue 3.

"He knows us too well, we need to find/use people he doesn't know" is the same conclusion that was reached at the end of Trespasser (and Harding was present for that conversation). I guess the meta irl reasons for The Missing are: A] since it'll be almost 10 years irl between games, to refresh folks about that conclusion and the fact that it will be a new PC and why it has to be 'someone he doesn't know', since most new players to the franchise at DA:D aren't going to buy years old DA:I and DLC and play til it the end of Trespasser B] fill some irl time C] do some marketing/advertizing and D] highlight these four groups/factions and introduce the two new ones (Veil Jumpers and Shadow Dragons) in advance of DA:D, and possibly highlight these specific characters (Strife, Teia, Evka etc) the same way (though I speculate those characters are more like DA:D 'contact' cameos rather than that they will be companions themselves). Certainly if I was Varric at the moment when Harding asks "So who are you thinking?" at the end here, after the events I had experienced and people & groups I had met in recent weeks, with those being fresh in my mind, I would be thinking about the Grey Wardens, the Antivan Crows, the Veil Jumpers and the Shadow Dragons, both as groups and terms of the mental list of people that I had recently met who Solas doesn't know. again it makes you think about the popular speculation that the DA:D PC will have the background of being from one of these groups. also, those 4 groups aren't ones which were referenced in Tevinter Nights as keeping an eye on Solas/as Solas having some info on them in turn (unlike some other groups like the Mortalitasi, the Executors, the Ben-Hassrath etc).

#dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #dragon age: the missing #dragon age: the missing spoilers #bioware #video games #solas #late bc ive been working on other posts #long post #longpost #tevinter nights #strife

[innuendostudios]

Thoughts on: Criterion's Neo-Noir Collection

I have written up all 26 films* in the Criterion Channel's Neo-Noir Collection.

Legend: rw - rewatch; a movie I had seen before going through the collection dnrw - did not rewatch; if a movie met two criteria (a. I had seen it within the last 18 months, b. I actively dislike it) I wrote it up from memory.

* in September, Brick leaves the Criterion Channel and is replaced in the collection with Michael Mann's Thief. May add it to the list when that happens.

Note: These are very "what was on my mind after watching." No effort has been made to avoid spoilers, nor to make the plot clear for anyone who hasn't seen the movies in question. Decide for yourself if that's interesting to you.

Cotton Comes to Harlem I feel utterly unequipped to asses this movie. This and Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song the following year are regularly cited as the progenitors of the blaxploitation genre. (This is arguably unfair, since both were made by Black men and dealt much more substantively with race than the white-directed films that followed them.) Its heroes are a couple of Black cops who are treated with suspicion both by their white colleagues and by the Black community they're meant to police. I'm not 100% clear on whether they're the good guys? I mean, I think they are. But the community's suspicion of them seems, I dunno... well-founded? They are working for The Man. And there's interesting discussion to the had there - is the the problem that the law is carried out by racists, or is the law itself racist? Can Black cops make anything better? But it feels like the film stacks the deck in Gravedigger and Coffin Ed's favor; the local Black church is run by a conman, the Back-to-Africa movement is, itself, a con, and the local Black Power movement is treated as an obstacle. Black cops really are the only force for justice here. Movie portrays Harlem itself as a warm, thriving, cultured community, but the people that make up that community are disloyal and easily fooled. Felt, to me, like the message was "just because they're cops doesn't mean they don't have Black soul," which, nowadays, we would call copaganda. But, then, do I know what I'm talking about? Do I know how much this played into or off of or against stereotypes from 1970? Was this a radical departure I don't have the context to appreciate? Is there substance I'm too white and too many decades removed to pick up on? Am I wildly overthinking this? I dunno. Seems like everyone involved was having a lot of fun, at least. That bit is contagious.

Across 110th Street And here's the other side of the "race film" equation. Another movie set in Harlem with a Black cop pulled between the police, the criminals, and the public, but this time the film is made by white people. I like it both more and less. Pro: this time the difficult position of Black cop who's treated with suspicion by both white cops and Black Harlemites is interrogated. Con: the Black cop has basically no personality other than "honest cop." Pro: the racism of the police force is explicit and systemic, as opposed to comically ineffectual. Con: the movie is shaped around a racist white cop who beats the shit out of Black people but slowly forms a bond with his Black partner. Pro: the Black criminal at the heart of the movie talks openly about how the white world has stacked the deck against him, and he's soulful and relateable. Con: so of course he dies in the end, because the only way privileged people know to sympathetize with minorities is to make them tragic (see also: The Boys in the Band, Philadelphia, and Brokeback Mountain for gay men). Additional con: this time Harlem is portrayed as a hellhole. Barely any of the community is even seen. At least the shot at the end, where the criminal realizes he's going to die and throws the bag of money off a roof and into a playground so the Black kids can pick it up before the cops reclaim it was powerful. But overall... yech. Cotton Comes to Harlem felt like it wasn't for me; this feels like it was 100% for me and I respect it less for that.

The Long Goodbye (rw) The shaggiest dog. Like much Altman, more compelling than good, but very compelling. Raymond Chandler's story is now set in the 1970's, but Philip Marlowe is the same Philip Marlowe of the 1930's. I get the sense there was always something inherently sad about Marlowe. Classic noir always portrayed its detectives as strong-willed men living on the border between the straightlaced world and its seedy underbelly, crossing back and forth freely but belonging to neither. But Chandler stresses the loneliness of it - or, at least, the people who've adapted Chandler do. Marlowe is a decent man in an indecent world, sorting things out, refusing to profit from misery, but unable to set anything truly right. Being a man out of step is here literalized by putting him forty years from the era where he belongs. His hardboiled internal monologue is now the incessant mutterings of the weird guy across the street who never stops smoking. Like I said: compelling! Kael's observation was spot on: everyone in the movie knows more about the mystery than he does, but he's the only one who cares. The mystery is pretty threadbare - Marlowe doesn't detect so much as end up in places and have people explain things to him. But I've seen it two or three times now, and it does linger.

Chinatown (rw) I confess I've always been impressed by Chinatown more than I've liked it. Its story structure is impeccable, its atmosphere is gorgeous, its noirish fatalism is raw and real, its deconstruction of the noir hero is well-observed, and it's full of clever detective tricks (the pocket watches, the tail light, the ruler). I've just never connected with it. Maybe it's a little too perfectly crafted. (I feel similar about Miller's Crossing.) And I've always been ambivalent about the ending. In Towne's original ending, Evelyn shoots Noah Cross dead and get arrested, and neither she nor Jake can tell the truth of why she did it, so she goes to jail for murder and her daughter is in the wind. Polansky proposed the ending that exists now, where Evelyn just dies, Cross wins, and Jake walks away devastated. It communicates the same thing: Jake's attempt to get smart and play all the sides off each other instead of just helping Evelyn escape blows up in his face at the expense of the woman he cares about and any sense of real justice. And it does this more dramatically and efficiently than Towne's original ending. But it also treats Evelyn as narratively disposable, and hands the daughter over to the man who raped Evelyn and murdered her husband. It makes the women suffer more to punch up the ending. But can I honestly say that Towne's ending is the better one? It is thematically equal, dramatically inferior, but would distract me less. Not sure what the calculus comes out to there. Maybe there should be a third option. Anyway! A perfect little contraption. Belongs under a glass dome.

Night Moves (rw) Ah yeah, the good shit. This is my quintessential 70's noir. This is three movies in a row about detectives. Thing is, the classic era wasn't as chockablock with hardboiled detectives as we think; most of those movies starred criminals, cops, and boring dudes seduced to the darkness by a pair of legs. Gumshoes just left the strongest impressions. (The genre is said to begin with Maltese Falcon and end with Touch of Evil, after all.) So when the post-Code 70's decided to pick the genre back up while picking it apart, it makes sense that they went for the 'tecs first. The Long Goodbye dragged the 30's detective into the 70's, and Chinatown went back to the 30's with a 70's sensibility. But Night Moves was about detecting in the Watergate era, and how that changed the archetype. Harry Moseby is the detective so obsessed with finding the truth that he might just ruin his life looking for it, like the straight story will somehow fix everything that's broken, like it'll bring back a murdered teenager and repair his marriage and give him a reason to forgive the woman who fucked him just to distract him from some smuggling. When he's got time to kill, he takes out a little, magnetic chess set and recreates a famous old game, where three knight moves (get it?) would have led to a beautiful checkmate had the player just seen it. He keeps going, self-destructing, because he can't stand the idea that the perfect move is there if he can just find it. And, no matter how much we see it destroy him, we, the audience, want him to keep going; we expect a satisfying resolution to the mystery. That's what we need from a detective picture; one character flat-out compares Harry to Sam Spade. But what if the truth is just... Watergate? Just some prick ruining things for selfish reasons? Nothing grand, nothing satisfying. Nothing could be more noir, or more neo-, than that.

Farewell, My Lovely Sometimes the only thing that makes a noir neo- is that it's in color and all the blood, tits, and racism from the books they're based on get put back in. This second stab at Chandler is competant but not much more than that. Mitchum works as Philip Marlowe, but Chandler's dialogue feels off here, like lines that worked on the page don't work aloud, even though they did when Bogie said them. I'll chalk it up to workmanlike but uninspired direction. (Dang this looks bland so soon after Chinatown.) Moose Malloy is a great character, and perfectly cast. (Wasn't sure at first, but it's true.) Some other interesting cats show up and vanish - the tough brothel madam based on Brenda Allen comes to mind, though she's treated with oddly more disdain than most of the other hoods and is dispatched quicker. In general, the more overt racism and misogyny doesn't seem to do anything except make the movie "edgier" than earlier attempts at the same material, and it reads kinda try-hard. But it mostly holds together. *shrug*

The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (dnrw) Didn't care for this at all. Can't tell if the script was treated as a jumping-off point or if the dialogue is 100% improvised, but it just drags on forever and is never that interesting. Keeps treating us to scenes from the strip club like they're the opera scenes in Amadeus, and, whatever, I don't expect burlesque to be Mozart, but Cosmo keeps saying they're an artful, classy joint, and I keep waiting for the show to be more than cheap, lazy camp. How do you make gratuitious nudity boring? Mind you, none of this is bad as a rule - I love digressions and can enjoy good sleaze, and it's clear the filmmakers care about what they're making. They just did not sell it in a way I wanted to buy. Can't remember what edit I watched; I hope it was the 135 minute one, because I cannot imagine there being a longer edit out there.

The American Friend (dnrw) It's weird that this is Patricia Highsmith, right? That Dennis Hopper is playing Tom Ripley? In a cowboy hat? I gather that Minghella's version wasn't true to the source, but I do love that movie, and this is a long, long way from that. This Mr. Ripley isn't even particularly talented! Anyway, this has one really great sequence, where a regular guy has been coerced by crooks into murdering someone on a train platform, and, when the moment comes to shoot, he doesn't. And what follows is a prolonged sequence of an amateur trying to surreptitiously tail a guy across a train station and onto another train, and all the while you're not sure... is he going to do it? is he going to chicken out? is he going to do it so badly he gets caught? It's hard not to put yourself in the protagonist's shoes, wondering how you would handle the situation, whether you could do it, whether you could act on impulse before your conscience could catch up with you. It drags on a long while and this time it's a good thing. Didn't much like the rest of the movie, it's shapeless and often kind of corny, and the central plot hook is contrived. (It's also very weird that this is the only Wim Wenders I've seen.) But, hey, I got one excellent sequence, not gonna complain.

The Big Sleep Unlike the 1946 film, I can follow the plot of this Big Sleep. But, also unlike the 1946 version, this one isn't any damn fun. Mitchum is back as Marlowe (this is three Marlowes in five years, btw), and this time it's set in the 70's and in England, for some reason. I don't find this offensive, but neither do I see what it accomplishes? Most of the cast is still American. (Hi Jimmy!) Still holds together, but even less well than Farewell, My Lovely. But I do find it interesting that the neo-noir era keeps returning to Chandler while it's pretty much left Hammet behind (inasmuch as someone whose genes are spread wide through the whole genre can be left behind). Spade and the Continental Op, straightshooting tough guys who come out on top in the end, seem antiquated in the (post-)modern era. But Marlowe's goodness being out of sync with the world around him only seems more poignant the further you take him from his own time. Nowadays you can really only do Hammett as pastiche, but I sense that you could still play Chandler straight.

Eyes of Laura Mars The most De Palma movie I've seen not made by De Palma, complete with POV shots, paranormal hoodoo, and fixation with sex, death, and whether images of such are art or exploitation (or both). Laura Mars takes photographs of naked women in violent tableux, and has gotten quite famous doing so, but is it damaging to women? The movie has more than a superficial engagement with this topic, but only slightly more than superficial. Kept imagining a movie that is about 30% less serial killer story and 30% more art conversations. (But, then, I have an art degree and have never murdered anyone, so.) Like, museums are full of Biblical paintings full of nude women and slaughter, sometimes both at once, and they're called masterpieces. Most all of them were painted by men on commission from other men. Now Laura Mars makes similar images in modern trappings, and has models made of flesh and blood rather than paint, and it's scandalous? Why is it only controversial once women are getting paid for it? On the other hand, is this just the master's tools? Is she subverting or challenging the male gaze, or just profiting off of it? Or is a woman profiting off of it, itself, a subversion? Is it subversive enough to account for how it commodifies female bodies? These questions are pretty clearly relevant to the movie itself, and the movies in general, especially after the fall of the Hays Code when people were really unrestrained with the blood and boobies. And, heck, the lead is played by the star of Bonnie and Clyde! All this is to say: I wish the movie were as interested in these questions as I am. What's there is a mildly diverting B-picture. There's one great bit where Laura's seeing through the killer's eyes (that's the hook, she gets visions from the murderer's POV; no, this is never explained) and he's RIGHT BEHIND HER, so there's a chase where she charges across an empty room only able to see her own fleeing self from ten feet behind. That was pretty great! And her first kiss with the detective (because you could see a mile away that the detective and the woman he's supposed to protect are gonna fall in love) is immediately followed by the two freaking out about how nonsensical it is for them to fall in love with each other, because she's literally mourning multiple deaths and he's being wildly unprofessional, and then they go back to making out. That bit was great, too. The rest... enh.

The Onion Field What starts off as a seemingly not-that-noirish cops-vs-crooks procedural turns into an agonizingly protracted look at the legal system, with the ultimate argument that the very idea of the law ever resulting in justice is a lie. Hoo! I have to say, I'm impressed. There's a scene where a lawyer - whom I'm not sure is even named, he's like the seventh of thirteen we've met - literally quits the law over how long this court case about two guys shooting a cop has taken. He says the cop who was murdered has been forgotten, his partner has never gotten to move on because the case has lasted eight years, nothing has been accomplished, and they should let the two criminals walk and jail all the judges and lawyers instead. It's awesome! The script is loaded with digressions and unnecessary details, just the way I like it. Can't say I'm impressed with the execution. Nothing is wrong, exactly, but the performances all seem a tad melodramatic or a tad uninspired. Camerawork is, again, purely functional. It's no masterpiece. But that second half worked for me. (And it's Ted Danson's first movie! He did great.)

Body Heat (rw) Let's say up front that this is a handsomely-made movie. Probably the best looking thing on the list since Night Moves. Nothing I've seen better captures the swelter of an East Coast heatwave, or the lusty feeling of being too hot to bang and going at it regardless. Kathleen Turner sells the hell out of a femme fatale. There are a lot of good lines and good performances (Ted Danson is back and having the time of his life). I want to get all that out of the way, because this is a movie heavily modeled after Double Indemnity, and I wanted to discuss its merits before I get into why inviting that comparison doesn't help the movie out. In a lot of ways, it's the same rules as the Robert Mitchum Marlowe movies - do Double Indemnity but amp up the sex and violence. And, to a degree it works. (At least, the sex does, dunno that Double Indemnity was crying out for explosions.) But the plot is amped as well, and gets downright silly. Yeah, Mrs. Dietrichson seduces Walter Neff so he'll off her husband, but Neff clocks that pretty early and goes along with it anyway. Everything beyond that is two people keeping too big a secret and slowly turning on each other. But here? For the twists to work Matty has to be, from frame one, playing four-dimensional chess on the order of Senator Palpatine, and its about as plausible. (Exactly how did she know, after she rebuffed Ned, he would figure out her local bar and go looking for her at the exact hour she was there?) It's already kind of weird to be using the spider woman trope in 1981, but to make her MORE sexually conniving and mercenary than she was in the 40's is... not great. As lurid trash, it's pretty fun for a while, but some noir stuff can't just be updated, it needs to be subverted or it doesn't justify its existence.

Blow Out Brian De Palma has two categories of movie: he's got his mainstream, director-for-hire fare, where his voice is either reigned in or indulged in isolated sequences that don't always jive with the rest fo the film, and then there's his Brian De Palma movies. My mistake, it seems, is having seen several for-hires from throughout his career - The Untouchables (fine enough), Carlito's Way (ditto, but less), Mission: Impossible (enh) - but had only seen De Palma-ass movies from his late period (Femme Fatale and The Black Dahlia, both of which I think are garbage). All this to say: Blow Out was my first classic-era De Palma, and holy fucking shit dudes. This was (with caveats) my absolute and entire jam. I said I could enjoy good sleaze, and this is good friggin' sleaze. (Though far short of De Palma at his sleaziest, mercifully.) The splitscreens, the diopter shots, the canted angles, how does he make so many shlocky things work?! John Travolta's sound tech goes out to get fresh wind fx for the movie he's working on, and we get this wonderful sequence of visuals following sounds as he turns his attention and his microphone to various noises - a couple on a walk, a frog, an owl, a buzzing street lamp. Later, as he listens back to the footage, the same sequence plays again, but this time from his POV; we're seeing his memory as guided by the same sequence of sounds, now recreated with different shots, as he moves his pencil in the air mimicking the microphone. When he mixes and edits sounds, we hear the literal soundtrack of the movie we are watching get mixed and edited by the person on screen. And as he tries to unravel a murder mystery, he uses what's at hand: magnetic tape, flatbed editors, an animation camera to turn still photos from the crime scene into a film and sync it with the audio he recorded; it's forensics using only the tools of the editing room. As someone who's spent some time in college editing rooms, this is a hoot and a half. Loses a bit of steam as it goes on and the film nerd stuff gives way to a more traditional thriller, but rallies for a sound-tech-centered final setpiece, which steadily builds to such madcap heights you can feel the air thinning, before oddly cutting its own tension and then trying to build it back up again. It doesn't work as well the second time. But then, that shot right after the climax? Damn. Conflicted on how the movie treats the female lead. I get why feminist film theorists are so divided on De Palma. His stuff is full of things feminists (rightly) criticize, full of women getting naked when they're not getting stabbed, but he also clearly finds women fascinating and has them do empowered and unexpected things, and there are many feminist reads of his movies. Call it a mixed bag. But even when he's doing tropey shit, he explores the tropes in unexpected ways. Definitely the best movie so far that I hadn't already seen.

Cutter's Way (rw) Alex Cutter is pitched to us as an obnoxious-but-sympathetic son of a bitch, and, you know, two out of three ain't bad. Watched this during my 2020 neo-noir kick and considered skipping it this time because I really didn't enjoy it. Found it a little more compelling this go around, while being reminded of why my feelings were room temp before. Thematically, I'm onboard: it's about a guy, Cutter, getting it in his head that he's found a murderer and needs to bring him to justice, and his friend, Bone, who intermittently helps him because he feels bad that Cutter lost his arm, leg, and eye in Nam and he also feels guilty for being in love with Cutter's wife. The question of whether the guy they're trying to bring down actually did it is intentionally undefined, and arguably unimportant; they've got personal reasons to see this through. Postmodern and noirish, fixated with the inability to ever fully know the truth of anything, but starring people so broken by society that they're desperate for certainty. (Pretty obvious parallels to Vietnam.) Cutter's a drunk and kind of an asshole, but understandably so. Bone's shiftlessness is the other response to a lack of meaning in the world, to the point where making a decision, any decision, feels like character growth, even if it's maybe killing a guy whose guilt is entirely theoretical. So, yeah, I'm down with all of this! A- in outline form. It's just that Cutter is so uninterestingly unpleasant and no one else on screen is compelling enough to make up for it. His drunken windups are tedious and his sanctimonious speeches about what the war was like are, well, true and accurate but also obviously manipulative. It's two hours with two miserable people, and I think Cutter's constant chatter is supposed to be the comic relief but it's a little too accurate to drunken rambling, which isn't funny if you're not also drunk. He's just tedious, irritating, and periodically racist. Pass.

Blood Simple (rw) I'm pretty cool on the Coens - there are things I've liked, even loved, in every Coen film I've seen, but I always come away dissatisfied. For a while, I kept going to their movies because I was sure eventually I'd love one without qualification. No Country for Old Men came close, the first two acts being master classes in sustained tension. But then the third act is all about denying closure: the protagonist is murdered offscreen, the villain's motives are never explained, and it ends with an existentialist speech about the unfathomable cruelty of the world. And it just doesn't land for me. The archness of the Coen's dialogue, the fussiness of their set design, the kinda-intimate, kinda-awkward, kinda-funny closeness of the camera's singles, it cannot sell me on a devastating meditation about meaninglessness. It's only ever sold me on the Coens' own cleverness. And that archness, that distancing, has typified every one of their movies I've come close to loving. Which is a long-ass preamble to saying, holy heck, I was not prepared for their very first movie to be the one I'd been looking for! I watched it last year and it remains true on rewatch: Blood Simple works like gangbusters. It's kind of Double Indemnity (again) but played as a comedy of errors, minus the comedy: two people romantically involved feeling their trust unravel after a murder. And I think the first thing that works for me is that utter lack of comedy. It's loaded with the Coens' trademark ironies - mostly dramatic in this case - but it's all played straight. Unlike the usual lead/femme fatale relationship, where distrust brews as the movie goes on, the audience knows the two main characters can trust each other. There are no secret duplicitous motives waiting to be revealed. The audience also know why they don't trust each other. (And it's all communicated wordlessly, btw: a character enters a scene and we know, based on the information that character has, how it looks to them and what suspicions it would arouse, even as we know the truth of it). The second thing that works is, weirdly, that the characters aren't very interesting?! Ray and Abby have almost no characterization. Outside of a general likability, they are blank slates. This is a weakness in most films, but, given the agonizingly long, wordless sequences where they dispose of bodies or hide from gunfire, you're left thinking not "what will Ray/Abby do in this scenario," because Ray and Abby are relatively elemental and undefined, but "what would I do in this scenario?" Which creates an exquisite tension but also, weirdly, creates more empathy than I feel for the Coens' usual cast of personalities. It's supposed to work the other way around! Truly enjoyable throughout but absolutely wonderful in the suspenseful-as-hell climax. Good shit right here.

Body Double The thing about erotic thrillers is everything that matters is in the name. Is it thrilling? Is it erotic? Good; all else is secondary. De Palma set out to make the most lurid, voyeuristic, horny, violent, shocking, steamy movie he could come up with, and its success was not strictly dependent on the lead's acting ability or the verisimilitude of the plot. But what are we, the modern audience, to make of it once 37 years have passed and, by today's standards, the eroticism is quite tame and the twists are no longer shocking? Then we're left with a nonsensical riff on Vertigo, a specularization of women that is very hard to justify, and lead actor made of pulped wood. De Palma's obsessions don't cohere into anything more this time; the bits stolen from Hitchcock aren't repurposed to new ends, it really is just Hitch with more tits and less brains. (I mean, I still haven't seen Vertigo, but I feel 100% confident in that statement.) The diopter shots and rear-projections this time look cheap (literally so, apparently; this had 1/3 the budget of Blow Out). There are some mildly interesting setpieces, but nothing compared to Travolta's auditory reconstructions or car chase where he tries to tail a subway train from street level even if it means driving through a frickin parade like an inverted French Connection, goddamn Blow Out was a good movie! Anyway. Melanie Griffith seems to be having fun, at least. I guess I had a little as well, but it was, at best, diverting, and a real letdown.

The Hit Surprised by how much I enjoyed this one. Terrance Stamp flips on the mob and spends ten years living a life of ease in Spain, waiting for the day they find and kill him. Movie kicks off when they do find him, and what follows is a ramshackle road movie as John Hurt and a young Tim Roth attempt to drive him to Paris so they can shoot him in front of his old boss. Stamp is magnetic. He's spent a decade reading philosophy and seems utterly prepared for death, so he spends the trip humming, philosophizing, and being friendly with his captors when he's not winding them up. It remains unclear to the end whether the discord he sews between Roth and Hurt is part of some larger plan of escape or just for shits and giggles. There's also a decent amount of plot for a movie that's not terribly plot-driven - just about every part of the kidnapping has tiny hitches the kidnappers aren't prepared for, and each has film-long repercussions, drawing the cops closer and somehow sticking Laura del Sol in their backseat. The ongoing questions are when Stamp will die, whether del Sol will die, and whether Roth will be able to pull the trigger. In the end, it's actually a meditation on ethics and mortality, but in a quiet and often funny way. It's not going to go down as one of my new favs, but it was a nice way to spend a couple hours.

Trouble in Mind (dnrw) I fucking hated this movie. It's been many months since I watched it, do I remember what I hated most? Was it the bit where a couple of country bumpkins who've come to the city walk into a diner and Mr. Bumpkin clocks that the one Black guy in the back as obviously a criminal despite never having seen him before? Was it the part where Kris Kristofferson won't stop hounding Mrs. Bumpkin no matter how many times she demands to be left alone, and it's played as romantic because obviously he knows what she needs better than she does? Or is it the part where Mr. Bumpkin reluctantly takes a job from the Obvious Criminal (who is, in fact, a criminal, and the only named Black character in the movie if I remember correctly, draw your own conclusions) and, within a week, has become a full-blown hood, which is exemplified by a lot, like, a lot of queer-coding? The answer to all three questions is yes. It's also fucking boring. Even out-of-drag Divine's performance as the villain can't save it.

Manhunter 'sfine? I've still never seen Silence of the Lambs, nor any of the Hopkins Lecter movies, nor, indeed, any full episode of the show. So the unheimlich others get seeing Brian Cox play Hannibal didn't come into play. Cox does a good job with him, but he's barely there. Shame, cuz he's the most interesting part of the movie. Honestly, there's a lot of interesting stuff that's barely there. Will Graham being a guy who gets into the heads of serial killers is explored well enough, and Mann knows how to direct a police procedural such that it's both contemplative and propulsive. But all the other themes it points at? Will's fear that he understands murderers a little too well? Hannibal trying to nudge him towards becoming one? Whatever dance Hannibal and Tooth Fairy are doing? What Tooth Fairy's deal is, anyway? (Why does he wear fake teeth and bite things? Why is he fixated on the red dragon? Does the bit where he says "Francis is gone forever" mean he has DID?) None of it goes anywhere or amounts to anything. I mean, it's certainly more interesting with this stuff than without, but it has that feel of a book that's been pared of its interesting bits to fit the runtime (or, alternately, pulp that's been sloppily elevated). I still haven't made my mind up on Mann's cold, precise camera work, but at least it gives me something to look at. It's fine! This is fine.

Mona Lisa (rw) Gave this one another shot. Bob Hoskins is wonderful as a hood out of his depth in classy places, quick to anger but just as quick to let anger go (the opening sequence where he's screaming on his ex-wife's doorstep, hurling trash cans at her house, and one minute later thrilled to see his old car, is pretty nice). And Cathy Tyson's working girl is a subtler kind of fascinating, exuding a mixture of coldness and kindness. It's just... this is ultimately a story about how heartbreaking it is when the girl you like is gay, right? It's Weezer's Pink Triangle: The Movie. It's not homophobic, exactly - Simone isn't demonized for being a lesbian - but it's still, like, "man, this straight white guy's pain is so much more interesting than the Black queer sex worker's." And when he's yelling "you woulda done it!" at the end, I can't tell if we're supposed to agree with him. Seems pretty clear that she wouldn'ta done it, at least not without there being some reveal about her character that doesn't happen, but I don't think the ending works if we don't agree with him, so... I'm like 70% sure the movie does Simone dirty there. For the first half, their growing relationship feels genuine and natural, and, honestly, the story being about a real bond that unfortunately means different things to each party could work if it didn't end with a gun and a sock in the jaw. Shape feels jagged as well; what feels like the end of the second act or so turns out to be the climax. And some of the symbolism is... well, ok, Simone gives George money to buy more appropriate clothes for hanging out in high end hotels, and he gets a tan leather jacket and a Hawaiian shirt, and their first proper bonding moment is when she takes him out for actual clothes. For the rest of the movie he is rocking double-breasted suits (not sure I agree with the striped tie, but it was the eighties, whaddya gonna do?). Then, in the second half, she sends him off looking for her old streetwalker friend, and now he looks completely out of place in the strip clubs and bordellos. So far so good. But then they have this run-in where her old pimp pulls a knife and cuts George's arm, so, with his nice shirt torn and it not safe going home (I guess?) he starts wearing the Hawaiian shirt again. So around the time he's starting to realize he doesn't really belong in Simone's world or the lowlife world he came from anymore, he's running around with the classy double-breasted suit jacket over the garish Hawaiian shirt, and, yeah, bit on the nose guys. Anyway, it has good bits, I just feel like a movie that asks me to feel for the guy punching a gay, Black woman in the face needs to work harder to earn it. Bit of wasted talent.

The Bedroom Window Starts well. Man starts an affair with his boss' wife, their first night together she witnesses an attempted murder from his window, she worries going to the police will reveal the affair to her husband, so the man reports her testimony to the cops claiming he's the one who saw it. Young Isabelle Huppert is the perfect woman for a guy to risk his career on a crush over, and Young Steve Guttenberg is the perfect balance of affability and amorality. And it flows great - picks just the right media to res. So then he's talking to the cops, telling them what she told him, and they ask questions he forgot to ask her - was the perp's jacket a blazer or a windbreaker? - and he has to guess. Then he gets called into the police lineup, and one guy matches her description really well, but is it just because he's wearing his red hair the way she described it? He can't be sure, doesn't finger any of them. He finds out the cops were pretty certain about one of the guys, so he follows the one he thinks it was around, looking for more evidence, and another girl is attacked right outside a bar he knows the redhead was at. Now he's certain! But he shows the boss' wife the guy and she's not certain, and she reminds him they don't even know if the guy he followed is the same guy the police suspected! And as he feeds more evidence to the cops, he has to lie more, because he can't exactly say he was tailing the guy around the city. So, I'm all in now. Maybe it's because I'd so recently rewatched Night Moves and Cutter's Way, but this seems like another story about uncertainty. He's really certain about the guy because it fits narratively, and we, the audience, feel the same. But he's not actually a witness, he doesn't have actual evidence, he's fitting bits and pieces together like a conspiracy theorist. He's fixating on what he wants to be true. Sign me up! But then it turns out he's 100% correct about who the killer is but his lies are found out and now the cops think he's the killer and I realize, oh, no, this movie isn't nearly as smart as I thought it was. Egg on my face! What transpires for the remaining half of the runtime is goofy as hell, and someone with shlockier sensibilities could have made a meal of it, but Hanson, despite being a Corman protege, takes this silliness seriously in the all wrong ways. Next!

Homicide (rw? I think I saw most of this on TV one time) Homicide centers around the conflicted loyalties of a Jewish cop. It opens with the Jewish cop and his white gentile partner taking over a case with a Black perp from some Black FBI agents. The media is making a big thing about the racial implications of the mostly white cops chasing down a Black man in a Black neighborhood. And inside of 15 minutes the FBI agent is calling the lead a k*ke and the gentile cop is calling the FBI agent a f****t and there's all kinds of invective for Black people. The film is announcing its intentions out the gate: this movie is about race. But the issue here is David Mamet doesn't care about race as anything other than a dramatic device. He's the Ubisoft of filmmakers, having no coherent perspective on social issues but expecting accolades for even bringing them up. Mamet is Jewish (though lead actor Joe Mantegna definitely is not) but what is his position on the Jewish diaspora? The whole deal is Mantegna gets stuck with a petty homicide case instead of the big one they just pinched from the Feds, where a Jewish candy shop owner gets shot in what looks like a stickup. Her family tries to appeal to his Jewishness to get him to take the case seriously, and, after giving them the brush-off for a long time, finally starts following through out of guilt, finding bits and pieces of what may or may not be a conspiracy, with Zionist gun runners and underground neo-Nazis. But, again: all of these are just dramatic devices. Mantegna's Jewishness (those words will never not sound ridiculous together) has always been a liability for him as a cop (we are told, not shown), and taking the case seriously is a reclamation of identity. The Jews he finds community with sold tommyguns to revolutionaries during the founding of Israel. These Jews end up blackmailing him to get a document from the evidence room. So: what is the film's position on placing stock in one's Jewish identity? What is its position on Israel? What is its opinion on Palestine? Because all three come up! And the answer is: Mamet doesn't care. You can read it a lot of different ways. Someone with more context and more patience than me could probably deduce what the de facto message is, the way Chris Franklin deduced the de facto message of Far Cry V despite the game's efforts not to have one, but I'm not going to. Mantegna's attempt to reconnect with his Jewishness gets his partner killed, gets the guy he was supposed to bring in alive shot dead, gets him possibly permanent injuries, gets him on camera blowing up a store that's a front for white nationalists, and all for nothing because the "clues" he found (pretty much exclusively by coincidence) were unconnected nothings. The problem is either his Jewishness, or his lifelong failure to connect with his Jewishness until late in life. Mamet doesn't give a shit. (Like, Mamet canonically doesn't give a shit: he is on record saying social context is meaningless, characters only exist to serve the plot, and there are no deeper meanings in fiction.) Mamet's ping-pong dialogue is fun, as always, and there are some neat ideas and characters, but it's all in service of a big nothing that needed to be a something to work.

Swoon So much I could talk about, let's keep it to the most interesting bits. Hommes Fatales: a thing about classic noir that it was fascinated by the marginal but had to keep it in the margins. Liberated women, queer-coded killers, Black jazz players, broke thieves; they were the main event, they were what audiences wanted to see, they were what made the movies fun. But the ending always had to reassert straightlaced straight, white, middle-class male society as unshakeable. White supremacist capitalist patriarchy demanded, both ideologically and via the Hays Code, that anyone outside these norms be punished, reformed, or dead by the movie's end. The only way to make them the heroes was to play their deaths for tragedy. It is unsurprising that neo-noir would take the queer-coded villains and make them the protagonists. Implicature: This is the story of Leopold and Loeb, murderers famous for being queer, and what's interesting is how the queerness in the first half exists entirely outside of language. Like, it's kind of amazing for a movie from 1992 to be this gay - we watch Nathan and Dickie kiss, undress, masturbate, fuck; hell, they wear wedding rings when they're alone together. But it's never verbalized. Sex is referred to as "your reward" or "what you wanted" or "best time." Dickie says he's going to have "the girls over," and it turns out "the girls" are a bunch of drag queens, but this is never acknowledged. Nathan at one point lists off a bunch of famous men - Oscar Wild, E.M. Forster, Frederick the Great - but, though the commonality between them is obvious (they were all gay), it's left the the audience to recognize it. When their queerness is finally verbalized in the second half, it's first in the language of pathology - a psychiatrist describing their "perversions" and "misuse" of their "organs" before the court, which has to be cleared of women because it's so inappropriate - and then with slurs from the man who murders Dickie in jail (a murder which is written off with no investigation because the victim is a gay prisoner instead of a L&L's victim, a child of a wealthy family). I don't know if I'd have noticed this if I hadn't read Chip Delany describing his experience as a gay man in the 50's existing almost entirely outside of language, the only language at the time being that of heteronormativity. Murder as Love Story: L&L exchange sex as payment for the other commiting crimes; it's foreplay. Their statements to the police where they disagree over who's to blame is a lover's quarrel. Their sentencing is a marriage. Nathan performs his own funeral rites over Dickie's body after he dies on the operating table. They are, in their way, together til death did they part. This is the relationship they can have. That it does all this without romanticizing the murder itself or valorizing L&L as humans is frankly incredible.

Suture (rw) The pitch: at the funeral for his father, wealthy Vincent Towers meets his long lost half brother Clay Arlington. It is implied Clay is a child from out of wedlock, possibly an affair; no one knows Vincent has a half-brother but him and Clay. Vincent invites Clay out to his fancy-ass home in Arizona. Thing is, Vincent is suspected (correctly) by the police of having murdered his father, and, due to a striking family resemblence, he's brought Clay to his home to fake his own death. He finagles Clay into wearing his clothes and driving his car, and then blows the car up and flees the state, leaving the cops to think him dead. Thing is, Clay survives, but with amnesia. The doctors tell him he's Vincent, and he has no reason to disagree. Any discrepancy in the way he looks is dismissed as the result of reconstructive surgery after the explosion. So Clay Arlington resumes Vincent Towers' life, without knowing Clay Arlington even exists. The twist: Clay and Vincent are both white, but Vincent is played by Michael Harris, a white actor, and Clay is played by Dennis Haysbert, a Black actor. "Ian, if there's just the two of them, how do you know it's not Harris playing a Black character?" Glad you asked! It is most explicitly obvious during a scene where Vincent/Clay's surgeon-cum-girlfriend essentially bringing up phrenology to explain how Vincent/Clay couldn't possibly have murdered his father, describing straight hair, thin lips, and a Greco-Roman nose Haysbert very clearly doesn't have. But, let's be honest: we knew well beforehand that the rich-as-fuck asshole living in a huge, modern house and living it up in Arizona high society was white. Though Clay is, canonically, white, he lives an poor and underprivileged life common to Black men in America. Though the film's title officially refers to the many stitches holding Vincent/Clay's face together after the accident, "suture" is a film theory term, referring to the way a film audience gets wrapped up - sutured - in the world of the movie, choosing to forget the outside world and pretend the story is real. The usage is ironic, because the audience cannot be sutured in; we cannot, and are not expected to, suspend our disbelief that Clay is white. We are deliberately distanced. Consequently this is a movie to be thought about, not to to be felt. It has the shape of a Hitchcockian thriller but it can't evoke the emotions of one. You can see the scaffolding - "ah, yes, this is the part of a thriller where one man hides while another stalks him with a gun, clever." I feel ill-suited to comment on what the filmmakers are saying about race. I could venture a guess about the ending, where the psychiatrist, the only one who knows the truth about Clay, says he can never truly be happy living the lie of being Vincent Towers, while we see photographs of Clay/Vincent seemingly living an extremely happy life: society says white men simply belong at the top more than Black men do, but, if the roles could be reversed, the latter would slot in seamlessly. Maybe??? Of all the movies in this collection, this is the one I'd most want to read an essay on (followed by Swoon).

The Last Seduction (dnrw) No, no, no, I am not rewataching this piece of shit movie.

Brick (rw) Here's my weird contention: Brick is in color and in widescreen, but, besides that? There's nothing neo- about this noir. There's no swearing except "hell." (I always thought Tug said "goddamn" at one point but, no, he's calling The Pin "gothed-up.") There's a lot of discussion of sex, but always through implication, and the only deleted scene is the one that removed ambiguity about what Brendan and Laura get up to after kissing. There's nothing postmodern or subversive - yes, the hook is it's set in high school, but the big twist is that it takes this very seriously. It mines it for jokes, yes, but the drama is authentic. In fact, making the gumshoe a high school student, his jadedness an obvious front, still too young to be as hard as he tries to be, just makes the drama hit harder. Sam Spade if Sam Spade were allowed to cry. I've always found it an interesting counterpoint to The Good German, a movie that fastidiously mimics the aesthetics of classic noir - down to even using period-appropriate sound recording - but is wholly neo- in construction. Brick could get approved by the Hays Code. Its vibe, its plot about a detective playing a bunch of criminals against each other, even its slang ("bulls," "yegg," "flopped") are all taken directly from Hammett. It's not even stealing from noir, it's stealing from what noir stole from! It's a perfect curtain call for the collection: the final film is both the most contemporary and the most classic. It's also - but for the strong case you could make for Night Moves - the best movie on the list. It's even more appropriate for me, personally: this was where it all started for me and noir. I saw this in theaters when it came out and loved it. It was probably my favorite movie for some time. It gave me a taste for pulpy crime movies which I only, years later, realized were neo-noir. This is why I looked into Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang and In Bruges. I've seen it more times than any film on this list, by a factor of at least 3. It's why I will always adore Rian Johnson and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. It's the best-looking half-million-dollar movie I've ever seen. (Indie filmmakers, take fucking notes.) I even did a script analysis of this, and, yes, it follows the formula, but so tightly and with so much style. Did you notice that he says several of the sequence tensions out loud? ("I just want to find her." "Show of hands.") I notice new things each time I see it - this time it was how "brushing Brendan's hair out of his face" is Em's move, making him look more like he does in the flashback, and how Laura does the same to him as she's seducing him, in the moment when he misses Em the hardest. It isn't perfect. It's recreated noir so faithfully that the Innocent Girl dies, the Femme Fatale uses intimacy as a weapon, and none of the women ever appear in a scene together. 1940's gender politics maybe don't need to be revisited. They say be critical of the media you love, and it applies here most of all: it is a real criticism of something I love immensely.

#film noir #neo-noir #criterion channel

[mintytrifecta]

At Last I Can Finally Stop Suffering and Write That Symphony

Donald would like to say that as much as he's short-tempered, easily flustered, stubborn and upfront, he's at least sensible and reactive when something irrational occurs around him. Ever since the war with Organization XIII had ended and Sora returned from wherever in the universe he ended up in, things had been surprisingly calm and stable, at the very least in the worlds they most commonly travel to.

But seeing a startlingly human-esque black silhouette wash up on the shore on the edge of the castle at nearly 4-AM from seemingly nowhere is enough to give anyone a heart attack.

Donald throws his guitar back to it’s stand as soon as the wave rolls in and jumps through his window with an alarmed yelp and half-formed gravitational spell barely leaving his beak.

His webbed feet trample on the sandy ground as the salty wind brushes through his feathers and as he gets closer, the figure starts to take shape.

It's… not a black silhouette, it's a black outfit, a coat. One that looks suspiciously familiar.

His feet pound as he gets closer and closer until-

"Organization XIII!" He shouts, brandishing his staff and coming to a screeching halt.

Donald aims the staff at the person's body, circling it from a distance as he waits for a response, yet none comes.

Hesitantly, the duck prods the body and waits for movement.

Nothing.

With a hum Donald wills away his staff, kneeling beside the top of the head, his hand hovering slightly above the hood.

Slowly, he lifts the hood off, revealing the blue-ish figure of Demyx, face frozen in an unconscious sleep.

Donald gasps with a flinch, raising a feathered arm to the young adult's agape lips, anxiety pooling in his gut.

Air hits his knuckles, faintly, barely, but it’s enough.

Thank every kind of deity above, he’s breathing. Donald breathes out, relieved. Gazing across the open ocean and land between the castle, he can’t find anyone else out besides the guards sleeping on duty (he should really talk to Goofy about it, captain of the guard or not, nobody gives an effective stern fatherly-talking to like Goofy. Of course he’s also prone to sleeping on the job but a duck can dream, can’t he?) and the seagulls swimming in the early morning ocean breeze.

Weighing his options, Donald doesn't think he can call someone for help, given that Demyx doesn't really have the best track record but he can't leave the guy out here alone…

Well, good thing he was brushing up on transportation spells.

One quick incantation on him and the beached sitar player leads them back to his room, where he's dropped unceremoniously on the floor as Demyx crumbles on the bed.

Wet.

You know, it occurs to Donald that maybe he should have dried Demyx off before transporting him to his room.

Or at the very least cleaned up the sand…

No, no, he'll worry about that later. Now he has to see what happened with the boy and how he can fix it.

“Let’s see what happened.” Donald whispers, inching Demyx’s coat off, inspecting the-

Rows of gills lining his neck, illuminated just barely under his torn up white shirt, dark and unmoving chromatophores covering him from shoulder to shoulder and- holy shit he has tentacles?!

Donald curses in his head, trying desperately not to freak out enough to accidentally cast a sparking flame to the discarded coat and flinches away.

Okay so Demyx is a merman. That’s…. Something. Donald thinks, whispering a barrage of ‘okay’s as he paces the floor. What healing specifics does he know about merfolk? Any water-based healing should work if he's a euryhaline species but if he's only freshwater then half the spells he's got will do more harm than good.

Well if the tentacles and flickering bioluminescence is anything to go by, he's saltwater-based. Definitely squid-something, but Donald's not sure exactly what.

Nevertheless, saltwater is saltwater and white magic is just red magic's base and as the official court magician and head of wizardry in the castle, he's got at least ten spells just for investigating things like this.

A hum and silent incantation from his hand later, and Donald can see the injured mess of his kingdom's washed-up (and potentially) ex-enemy.

His lungs and gills seem pretty standard form. Two on the neck, right above siphons tucked away near the collarbone, semi-circular fins behind the ear that don't seem torn or rotting in any more way than exhausted.

His coloration, however….

In Atlantica (not that Demyx is definitively an Atlantean, but it’s a good start as any, especially when he can’t really ask him in his current state.) A good indicator of health was the color of a merperson’s tail. Whether it be muted colors or a sheen that appears way too dull, tails always reveal how a merman’s doing.

And Demyx’s iridescence is barely holding on, flickering in and out in dark shades of brown. Not to mention how weak and flake-y his scales seem across his forearms.

Curaga with a mix of watera would probably be his best bet, then. He thinks as he casts the spell on the unconscious man before falling asleep himself on the wooden floor, waiting for the next moment Demyx wakes up. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fortunately for Demyx, curaga heals fast even when unconscious, meaning waking up happens much quicker than it would have if he were naturally healed.

Unfortunately for Donald, it’s five in the morning and he’s only managed to sleep for thirty minutes before a yelp from his bed nearly pounds his heart out of his chest.

"Gah!" Donald yelps as a tentacle smacks the back of his head.

“W-where am I?!” Demyx shouts, shuffling around the bed in an attempt to scour out his location. “Whose… wet bed is this?!”

“Hey, hey it’s mine!” Donald says as he stands up garnering Demyx’s frenzied attention. “You were lying on the shore and I brought you here to heal you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Demyx stares at the duck in confusion, head tilting as if that’ll help him process what Donald just (very clearly) said.

Groaning and rolling his eyes, Donald tries again.

“I brought you in,” Donald points a finger at himself, then to Demyx and the window. “from the shore.” He says, creating a wave with his forearm. “You were knocked out,” he continues, making the motion of a hammer to his head. “so I healed you.” Donald concludes, miming the action of wrapping gauze around his arm and waving his staff.

Demyx eyes Donald, probably still not listening and instead piecing together a puzzle in his head completely unrelated to the question he himself had asked.

“You’re that duck! The one that dog guy and what’s-his-face travels with! You- you fought the Organization!” He exclaims as if it’s some big answer to the universe’s mysteries.

“Yes?” Donald drags out, not following.

Demyx looks at the confused duck as if what he said should’ve been obvious.

“You’ve… fought the Organization. I am- was part of it.” He stutters the tense change. “Why’d ya help me?”

“Well, I wasn’t just gonna leave a kid unconscious on the shore, especially not at this hour.” Donald chuckles lightly. If the hour wasn’t enough motive to bring him in, then the fact that anyone else, any one of the guards would have maimed him on sight. Demyx is lucky Donald’s an insomniac and that his portion of the castle faces the sea.

(Not that he’ll tell him that.)

Harrumphing with a cross of his arms, Demyx mumbles under his breath. “ ‘M not a kid, you know. I’m twenty-three.”

“And I’m thirty-six, Demyx, I’ve still got years on you.” Donald refutes. “Honestly, you should be more worried about the fact that I found you and your squid tail on the shore in the first place rather than my age.”

“My what?!”

Falling on his proverbial back in a mix of misplaced offense and confusion leads Demyx to looking at himself for what is apparently the first time that night (morning, really.)

“But- I thought my form would-” He cuts himself off with short gasps, the black spots on his shoulders expanding as he tenses.

Donald throws his hands out at the merman’s distress. “Hey, hey it’s fine! For a form to change you would have needed to be conscious and cast it yourself, it doesn’t just immediately shift to fit a world. There’s too many variables to unconscious form changes, which is why yours didn’t shift, it couldn’t tell what the world you were landing in was even if your conscious self did. ”

Demyx weighs the response before kneading his expression to a sleazy smile and an offhanded wave across his face, too calculated, too practiced.

“Ah geez, guess the cat’s out of the bag, huh?”

Donald, who’s been doing an exceptional job of not freaking out (he’s pretty sure his ability to feel surprise was lost years ago. He blames his nephews.) falters at Demyx’s blatant disregard of his circumstance and against his better judgment, decides to poke the bear.

“Guess so.” He shrugs, playing into Demyx’s game. “What a way to get discovered, isn’t it? Passed out on the shore of a distant shore at the barely-cracking dawn, discovered by a walking, talking duck.”

Demyx bristles, just slightly. Deflecting with a chuckle. “Ah, there are worse ways to go. If any of the Organization saw me I’d be sushi at this point.”

“Then again you could’ve just, I don’t know…. not ended up on the shore here? What even happened to you? Kid, you looked halfway close to death when I found you!”

“It was just an accident! I didn’t mean to end up in your world’s water, I just… swam wrong!” He says, regretting the words immediately as they leave his mouth.

“Swam wrong.” Donald echoes. “You swam wrong, with a black coat worn to ward off darkness through what I presume is a dark corridor, ended up injured and knocked out in a different world?!”

“.... yes?”

Donald stares at Demyx’s sheepish, totally unbelievable grin. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Even if it were an accident you never seemed reckless.”

“What do you know? We’ve interacted like… twice before, you don’t know me.” Demyx crosses his arms, sneering in Donald’s direction, his act slipping.

“No, I don’t. But I do know what it looks like after the commitment of a last resort. I know what it looks like when drastic measures are the only choice you have no place to run.” He watches the other tense up. “And you, Demyx? You seem way past drastic. You seem desperate.”

A pregnant pause fogs the room as Demyx’s hands slowly move from defense to comfort, rubbing his thumbs over his elbows.

“I ran away, alright?!"

Donald raises a brow.

"I ran away from Atlantica, from my home because I messed up! I cast a spell I shouldn’t know in a place I shouldn’t have and the next thing I know I have the entire Atlantican guard after me!"

So Donald's suspicions were right. Demyx is from Atlantica.

"I mean, I dunno if you've noticed but my water moves aren't exactly common to see anywhere but in a battle with keyblades, much less a normal atlantican day. But what was I supposed to do? Let that jerk of a heartless destroy the New Catfish Club? No way! But apparently one look at me casting waterga is enough to make everyone think I’m the next Ursula.” He explains with a roll of his eyes. “But then the guards start sending out houndfish and I think to myself ‘Oh hell no Edym is outta here’ and take the first dark portal out of the world."

Mentally filing Demyx’s real name away for later, Donald motions for the water mage to continue. (Trying to ignore how his beak is clenching.)

“ ‘Course by that point I’d already received enough of a beating that’d leave any person unconscious and trying to use magic definitely didn’t help my cause. I only managed to grab my cloak and open a portal before passing out. Honestly I had no idea this is where I’d end up.” He finishes with a sigh.

“Wow, Demyx.” Donald begins dryly. “That’s almost impressive.”

“Almost impressive?” Demyx asks.

“I would say impressive if not for the fact that you could’ve died! What were you thinking just opening a portal and hoping you land somewhere safe?! You’re lucky I was awake at this hour or you’d’ve been fried! For goodness sake, you’re just as bad as my kids! Always acting first and thinking later, I mean would it have been too hard to at least cast a healing spell before trying to go through a dark corridor?!” Donald finally spills out the stress of the night. Somewhere inside himself, under his concerned (and frankly just a little bit horrified) anxieties at what the other had been through he knows he should sound more gentle. But protective anger is anger no matter how twisted one might see it.

And Donald?

Donald is furious. Furious at Demyx for not thinking things through. Furious at the guards for chasing him after the well-known-to-be-a-coward protected and fought to preserve something. Furious at the fact that he could have died.

“And you had no way of knowing if it’d protect you after you’d returned to being a somebody! I can barely understand any of that jargon but becoming a nobody and somebody twice surely would’ve had some negative effect, hell I’m sure it did! Just look at you!”

Demyx takes offense and hastily moves the duck’s arms away from his face. “Hey this is after cura, buddy! I know I seem dumb but I’m not that dumb.” He defends with a roll of his eyes.

Sighing, Donald sits back down, collecting and debating his next move, both vocal and magic-wise.

“So… how’d you cast the corridor? I didn’t see your- sitar I think- washed up with you?”

Demyx, who Donald knows for a fact is only getting every half-word he says, perks up when he hears word of his instrument.

“Huh? My sitar? Arpeggio broke on me a while back. Sure, it sucked for a while and I had to make a bunch of changes to my spells without her but I managed just fine. I cast it with a makeshift one string unitar.” He replies and rubs the back of his head with a lazy smile wavezing just enough for Donald to notice.

"That must have hurt. I know how much an instrument means to somebody. Magic or no magic.”

Demyx quirks his head to the side. “You play too?”

Donald nods shortly and nudges his own head, pointing to the side of the bed facing the wall.

On a pedestal right below one of his plant shelves (that one specifically housing a jade plant that he received as a gift from Gladstone who told him he needs “all the luck he can get, cuz.”) hangs a light brown acoustic guitar. It’s littered with scratches and two of the strings are metal while the others seem to be made of natural material almost fraying. The soundhole was lined with arrows of chipped and faded painted and re-painted arrows pointing to the bottom of the instrument. It seemed old and worn to the blind eye, but to a musician, surviving and hanging with love.

“That’s your guitar?” Demyx breathes.

Donald hums in affirmation.

“Looks old.”

“It is,” he replies with a flashing grin as Demyx gently, softly raises an ungloved hand to brush against the lower bout, chromatophores expanding with interest. “I’ve had it since I was a duckling but it belonged to my dad first. I had to give it away to a friend for a couple of years but after a while of him insisting he return it, I took it back.”

Demyx falters, inching his hand off the guitar and gazes back at Donald with confusion. “You- you gave it away? Why?”

“He needed to play and I needed more space.” He shrugs. “My kids were toddlers at the time and they were more likely to break it than I was to play it. Of course it hurt to give away something like that but I didn’t really have much of a choice.”

Frowning, the merman twitches his fingers rhythmically and chuckles.

"I could never give away mine. Music's all I have, y'know? When I was turned into a nobody it was the only thing I really felt connected to. It was the only thing keeping me afloat.” He finishes with a sly smirk.

Donald stares unimpressed. “Alright, smart guy. Then let me ask you this: if you hated being a nobody in the first place why go back to it? Why do it again?”

“Again?” Demyx picks out from Donald’s sentence. “Aw man, do I hafta answer?” He whines.

Donald gives him a gaze that could only be described as ‘do as I say or you’re never being let out of this room.’

Sighing, Demyx mumbles. “I got lonely.”

Desperately trying not to clutch his shirt at the words the merman mumbles, Donald tries to keep going forward. Keyword being tries.

“Lonely, huh? And you thought going back to a criminal immortal society would be the best place to mingle? You said it yourself, Demyx, you hated it there and from the sounds of it, you like Atlantica! What in this world and the next could have convinced you that going back there to make friends would be a good idea?!”

“Come on, what would you do if you suddenly showed up a decade after you were presumed dead?! How would you explain to your family and friends just what you’ve been doing and that you’re not a ghost? How- how would you explain the strange new powers you’ve got and just how you got them?! I’m not exactly guiltless, dude! Any chance of a friendship there would have ended eventually after I somehow spilled the beans on what I’ve done!” He yells back, flaring his gills.

“Not like it matters now, anyways.” He continues after a pause. “I’m probably not ever gonna be allowed anywhere near Atlantica again.”

Donald…. Hadn’t really thought of that. It does make sense, he supposes. If the guards had really chased him as he described, then Demyx would probably be speared the instant somebody recognized him.

Donald squints a worried brow at the merman sitting across from him, his head resting on the palm of his hand, a mournful expression turned to the cold shores as the waves pull back and forth across the sand. Even with the close relations he, Goofy and Sora possess with Ariel it’ll still take a lot of convincing for regular merpeople to trust Demyx again.

“Well… the castle has an open position for a court composer. In case you’re interested.” He says.

Demyx’s face turns to him. Shock, gratefulness and inspiration dance in his eyes. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Six months later and Disney Castle opens its first orchestral performance in over a decade.

The symphony tells the story of Atlantica.

#okay now I can write that duck magic thing #jhvljvjl #just speedran the end real quick there #if you see me posting fanfic at 12 am no you don't #mind your business #Kingdom Hearts #Kingdom Hearts fanfiction #Demyx #Demyx kh #Donald Duck #Donald Duck kh #just two music water bros hanging out baby what could be better

[rouiyan]

𝘚𝘛𝘙𝘈𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛 𝘖𝘍𝘍 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘍𝘐𝘌𝘓𝘋 [ 𝘭.𝘥𝘩 ]

synopsis: we’re all sprinting towards one thing or another. the players to the ball, mark to his class, and haechan right to you.

✧ soccer player!haechan x (fem.) reader + best friend!mark ✧ high school au, best friends to loverz, inspired by heather (conan gray)

✧ genres : some fluff, some angst, some pining what’s new ✧ word count : 2.3k ✧ disclaimer : swearing

✧ author’s note — wrote this in ap stats, probably should have been paying attention instead bc i can't figure out how to do the hw for the life of me.

"did you see y/n today?" 

haechan thinks, by the sound of the voice, that it's mark who's speaking. he pulls the rest of the sweatshirt past his head, "no, did you?" haechan's grabbing for his socks, he swears he stuffed them in the front pocket of his backpack. "that's why i'm asking, idiot. she told me she would be here today." a tongue of frustration juts out from haechan's mouth, he hopes it just looks like he's agitated about his missing socks and not the fact that you always tell mark those things, always mark and never him. 

haechan is out of the locker room in seconds, sneakers slipped on without socks. he's adjusting the hood of the sweatshirt, tucking his locks under the material, when he sees you lingering by the bleachers. you smile sheepishly when you see the boy coming from the locker rooms, "somehow, i thought it started at four and i thought i got here early but your coach told me you guys just finished." haechan can't help but laugh, so that's why you weren't here, "and we won, too. did he tell you that?"

he's by your side now, seated, though his feet are planted on the ground while yours are swinging back and forth, "he did tell me that, congratulations haechan, wish i could've seen you score today." haechan tucks a lip under his teeth, now's not the time for him to be so obvious, not when it's just you and him. he thinks that yet, his stares linger on you for a little longer than normal, his fingers are fiddling with the ridges of the bleachers, and his cheeks host the brightest hue of cherry red. 

"hey, y/n, where were you today?" haechan's nose scrunches at an emerging mark, he really thought he could have the moment with you. mark approaches and sits on the other side of you. captain mark lee, haechan notes with shrewd annoyance, is wearing your sweater, his favorite of yours, the one with the worn polyester fabric that's pilling all over but still holds warmth snuggly. the one that haechan's been wanting to wear since day one. 

mark swings his legs as well and haechan watches as you point it out, giggling now that mark is trying to swing in sync to your own pace. "wanna come over? my mom's been asking you to come over for dinner," marks eyes are on you, haechan can see that much, but he also misses the way your own eyes shift to himself. and what haechan doesn't see, mark does, and his lip twitches into a knowing smile, "haechan, you should come too, my mom misses you."

the boy himself is already in over his head and passing up the offer is the only way he sees to escape the despair that comes with being a third wheel, "no thanks, i have a shit ton of homework to do today." your hum in response is mixed with an undertone of a sigh, one that haechan is too sidetracked to notice. he takes his leave, "well, i'll see you two tomorrow i guess."

you and mark sit in silence for the minutes after his leave, mark sneaking small glances at your ever-changing expression, an open book to all your thoughts. "next time, y/n, next time." 

well shit, maybe mark wasn't as clueless as you pegged him to be. 

in agitation, mark shoves the last of his books into his backpack, class is about to start soon and if he doesn't get going now, well then he might as well give up his perfect attendance, no tardy record. haechan leans against the locker next to his own, a seemingly bored expression on display to hide the inner rumblings of his thoughts.

"so how was dinner last night, did you guys miss me?" haechan's trying to come off as nonchalant, he hates it when he has to pry just to satiate his curiosities. mark shuts his locker, swinging his backpack across one shoulder, "uh, dinner didn't happen and no, i didn't miss you but i bet y/n did." haechan's left in confusion on all fronts, "what do you mean it didn't happen? why would she miss me- wait, why did you not miss me?"

"well y/n said she was busy all of a sudden, something like that. as for-" the bells rings, signaling the end of passing period, and effectively cutting off the answers to all of haechan's worries. marks eyes widen and before he can even catch the boy by his arms, to shake and spill the words out of him, he's already sprinting down the emptying halls. 

haechan sighs. he should be sprinting too but he's already late, might as well walk. the campus grounds are vast and he decides to take a stroll outside, the much longer way to his physics class. haechan is passing a few classes on his left, all of them filled with the chatter of students before a teacher begins their lectures, but there's one class that catches his eye. the window into the ceramics class reveals a clear view of you, eyebrows furrowed and trying to shape a little figure on the table before you. you've told him many times before that ceramics was your least enjoyed of all your courses, that you had taken it simply because you needed an art credit and while that might've been the reason you'd signed up, haechan can tell by the way you handle the little mold of clay, that you had stayed for much different reasons.

he thinks to tease you of it later but it's then during lunch where he stops himself because before he even so much as reaches the table your group frequents, there you are, showing the little figurine to mark, eyes glistening with pride and joy. "i think i did quite well this time, i even got praised." as haechan comes close, he sees the clay figure in full clarity for what it is, an ambiguous sitting shape with a heart cradled in its lap, lumpy in certain spots but emanating in the care and thoughtfulness with which it was made. 

haechan slides into the seat across from you. "look," you sound softly to him, holding out the little figure in both your hands, "do you like it?" haechan swallows thickly when he looks up from your hands to your eyes, he sees the way they light up, he hopes. wordlessly, he nods, a small smiles tugs at his lips. he likes it, he really does so he questions, "what inspired you to make it?" it's in the way that you immediately eye mark, and the way that mark immediately hides his oncoming giggle, that haechan relinquishes his hopes.

mark walks you to class after your lunch break that day, he's a grade higher but a thousand times dumber, you think. "are you insane? why would you laugh at that specific moment?" in between small giggles, mark does his best to provide a reply, "you should've just told him that he was the one that inspired you." smacking his elbow, you purse your lips, "but then he'd know!"

the older boy stops walking for a second and you're five steps ahead when you notice. you turn. "what now, mark?" he holds a mischievous glint in his eyes, "he'd know what?" now his eyebrows are making little squiggly lines by his hairline and you take a few steps back to drag him by the arm. flushing, you whisper, figuring he already knew as much, "he'd know i like him."

if mark is considered your best friend and potential crush, then what about him? possibly also a best friend, though he could only hope you would talk to him a bit more, spend a bit more time with him, make more conversation with him during breaks. potential crush was for sure out of the picture right? the way you look at mark, the way you share you everything with mark, objects and secrets and everything in between, haechan isn't sure he can say the same for himself. he texts mark anyways. tell y/n ur busy, something bout soccer.

haechan's out the door a minute and a half before the bell rings, his teacher yelling at him to come back. he doesn't give a shit. mark always walks you home, he always does and haechan is so fucking fed up with it because he himself lives closer to you so why should he get to walk you home. 

he arrives at the door to your last class just as the bell signals the end of the school day. there's only enough time for three deep breaths, panting breaths, before the door to your classroom is propped open and students begin filing out. 

"y/n, over here!" he calls. your eyes widen at the sound of his voice and you turn to it, a smile already lifting the corners of your mouth. you're walking side by side with him, and haechan starts leading in the direction of your locker, despite needing to go to his own. "i can walk you home today." you turn your head to him, "what do you mean? i usually walk with-"

"mark, i know," he says it with a disclosed derision, "he's busy, had to go talk to coach or something, i don't know. but i can walk you, plus my house is just two streets down, remember?" he watches in anticipation as you retrieve your phone from your bag. his eyes do their best to peer over and he sees your lockscreen light with a notification from mark. "oh, yeah he said he's busy with soccer stuff." haechan's lip quirk in victory, his plan unfolding itself into perfection. 

"can we go to my locker first though? i need to get some stuff, and we're on the way." he nods as if it wasn't in his intention to head in this direction and for that reason. he merely disregards the need to go to his locker. who cares if he has to bring a whole ass chemistry textbook home if he gets to go home with you. 

it isn't until he's at your front steps that he musters up the courage. you're in the middle of keying in the pin numbers to your door pad when he speaks up, "hey y/n?" you give a hum in response, messing up the last two digits after hearing him voice your name. you abandon your attempts, turning to look at the questioning boy. "would you like to come watch my match next week?"

you take a step down so that you're two above from where he's standing, now the same height as him. frowning, "of course. i'm going to see you and mar-"

it seems that haechan really doesn't want to hear that name come from your mouth today because he interrupts you yet again, "yeah, but i'm asking if you'd want to come to watch me." your lips part and shut in search of what to say. haechan nudges a little further, "i want you to come watch me play, would you want to?"

you release a breath, biting down a smile, you manage a nod within all your flusteredness. your voice, a bare peep, "i want to," gives haechan all the courage he needs to grab one of your hands to give it a little squeeze before muttering a, "see you," and taking his leave. haechan's turning the corner out of your driveway when he sneaks a glance before the fence blocks his view of you. his heart hurls at the sight of you, still on your front steps, face buried in your hands. even from all the way here, the bright red flush of your cheeks can be seen through your fingers. 

no one knows why that one boy on the field is scoring goals left and right. no one knows except you and him. from the moment haechan saw you on the bleachers, the other team was done for. it isn't even about impressing you anymore, it's not about making you proud. it's not a crush, it's these stupid feelings that never go away, never fade with time, or any amount of effort, at least, not in the knowledge that you are equally his as he is yours. it's not a crush, it's the sickening feeling in his gut when he sees you with someone other than himself, with mark, when he sees that sweater on mark instead of himself. it's not a crush, it's the way he feels the need to be with you all the damn time, the lingering feelings from whenever you leave his side that tell him that moments spent without you would be so much better if you were just there. haechan moves on the field with full conviction that it's not just a crush, it's love.

and so as the last whistle of the game blows, their team securing the win with haechan's last goal, he runs, no sprints, straight off the field to where you're seated in the stands. he brushes past all the people with hushed apologies and it's only when he's right in front of you does he realize how frenzied he likely seemed. he doesn't mind for more than a second though, because you've stood up and laced your arms around his shoulders, fingers on the back of his neck. he embraces you back and the kiss he gives to your cheek is something that just feels so natural and close to home. his forehead is on yours when he asks, his voice a bare minimum, "y/n, will you be my girlfriend?"

it isn't you that answers, rather it's a mark lee with a loud, "FUCK YEAH." 

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

✧ end note — hey anon babe who requested this. apologies for making it fem. reader, i know you didn't specify. if you would like me to reupload with gender neutral reader, then send an ask and i'll be more than happy to. ♡

#nct #nct haechan #nct haechan fics #nct scenarios #nct fics #haechan x reader #haechanxreader #haechan x y/n #haechan fluff #haechan angst #haechan imagine #haechan fic #requested #rouiyan fics #rouiyan writes

[dropsofletters]

love in a major key

title: love in a major key pairing: xiao dejun/reader genre: guitarist!au/tutor!au/first love!au summary: looking at him is a paradigm. his fingers constantly pluck at the strings in the guitar, one of his small smiles enough to create music in her heart. the caress of his calloused fingertips is a dream, one that she refrains from, until he actually believes in her talent. a guitar lover like dejun knows better than to teach the art of music to a tone deaf individual, but there is no way he can stop himself after stealing a glance at those dulcet eyes. type: fluff/romance word count: 11,569 ⚠️ disclaimer: this is part of the love diaries, my valentine’s day project with wayv, if you want to read the rest of the members’ stories, you can click here and find the masterlist for it.

The dull thud of a man’s fingertips against the wood of a desk create insufferable patterns in her head. It goes along with his voice: one, two, three, four—and it starts again, repetitive with the chords that she tries to play. Her fingers ache, fingertips going numb at the pressure she puts on the fingerboard. The sound of her favorite song becomes background noise, a reminder of the nights she spent practicing it just for this moment. Sweat pools at the back of her neck, the junction between her thumb and index finger growing painfully noticeable, and she still has to listen to the thudding.

One.

Two.

Three.

“You’re missing the tempo,” When she looks up from her guitar, her eyes briefly settle on her guitar teacher. Chubby cheeks tightened in a disappointed half-smile, tapping his fingers ever harsher against the desk. She tries to nod along to the beat, get lost in the amount of sounds surrounding the room. The accompanying guitar, way more perfect in technique than she will ever be, the sound of someone laughing in the near distance and then, even more tapping. At this point, she feels like her guitar teacher is digging straight through her skull with that noise. “And you lost it.”

Four.

The guitar weights on her hands, burning her skin with its mere touch, a reminder of the happiness she felt when it was gifted to her for her birthday, and now it simply reminds her of how incapable she is of connecting to music. By the time she puts the guitar to the side, sighing deeply at her own attempt of doing her favorite song justice, she feels like she is one step closer to giving up. When she’s young, the praise she would get for being a quick learner had, perhaps, engraved in her brain that the only way of being good at something is excelling at it from the very beginning. Guitar lessons are not the case of such success for her, as it seems.

On the other hand, there are people like the man that sits by her side, legs parted comfortably with the guitar on his lap. One with musical notes, watched by him like flares in the air, naturally painting the room with the simple caress of his fingertips against the freeboard. The guitar and Dejun became friends earlier in his life, she thinks she has heard from her guitar teacher, and she can’t imagine him any other way. This is his world, musical and deep, intelligent in its own way; not hers.

His eyes are daggers, crafted with fire and stone, brown with a wooden grip, enough to pierce through anyone’s soul. Soft are not the rest of his features, jaw sharp with his usual stoic expression, tight when he is exceptionally concentrated; she would get surprised if she ever sees him without a frown, if talking to him ever sounded less scary. Deep within her, her mind acknowledges that one of the few reasons why she keeps going to guitar lessons has the name and shape of Xiao Dejun. His gifted fingers drawing perfect patterns to create a melodic tune, a reminder of whom she could be if she tried hard enough, but also music to her stressed mindset whenever she is surrounded by that insufferable guitar teacher of hers.

And, there is also the fact that Dejun is outrageously cute, brown hair parted in the middle, denim jacket already a part of him, lips so soft she’d find herself looking at them, if only she didn’t have to look down at what she is doing with her guitar.

“Shit, you almost had it!” It would be more believable if only her guitar teacher was not looking down at his phone, scrolling through god-knows-what as he speaks to her. Ji, as he likes to call himself, is one of the most well-known guitar players around the country; so much so that it is impressive that he is even giving guitar lessons, for the amount of parties he ends up getting invited to for the sake of playing a potpourri of songs is impressive. Something about him is arrogant, tipping on the edge of annoyance, a perfectionist with judgement carved in his name. “...But that ear of yours is not going to help you play the guitar, darling. You need to listen. Practice a lot more, you’re not practicing.”

Maybe, she should listen to her heart when it tells her that this is not for her, that the music world is nice to look at from afar—glamorous, shining, even merging with excitement and attractiveness, but it is not for her. She lowers her head, merely nodding instead of complaining that she does practice, the strings of her guitar creating shadows on her fingers, calloused beyond reparation even when she buys as many hand-creams as she can. Music is pain, she had read somewhere once, but it never had to be this painful, tearing at the pride she used to have, at the dream that would have her smiling when she first touched her guitar—

“Hey,” The sound of a plastic chair dragging obnoxiously against the floor could have never done enough to take away the beauty in Dejun’s voice. He rarely talks to her, if she is being sincere, much too preoccupied in attending his guitar lessons to practice and in his music major to ever pay attention to any of the other, less knowledgeable students, but there have been certain occasions where they just had to talk to each other. Greetings, brief conversation starters about their love for music, and times in which they have to wait for Ji to arrive and it leaves them in awkward silence that needs to be filled. “You did great.” Dejun pulls the hood of his sweater down, still wearing that thick denim jacket. The heat is unbearable for her, but Dejun seems to give up in the name of fashion.

Instead, she rolls her eyes, leaning back on the uncomfortable plastic chair. “Yeah, right.”

“I mean it.” Dejun pushes, looking around the room to see that Ji is working on another student. A heavy metal enthusiast that thinks highly of herself for ‘having different tastes in music’. Music is more of a division, a war in between who is better and who is worse.

“Don’t even try,” Though, in any other occasion, she would have thanked him with a smile, but she’s not feeling it, much more when she has to speak over the music. “Even Ji’s help is worthless with me. I’m as tone deaf as a tone deaf person can get.” The term had come to light for her in the very first few months of her guitar lessons, a year before that. Ji had said so with a sigh, implying that there was nothing else they could do, but she kept going. Now, she is starting to regret it. “But thanks.”

Dejun rests his arms around his guitar, his lover for his loneliest moments. “Hey, you’ve come a long way. Your position in the chords is amazing, and your C major is executed perfectly.”

“That’s easy, though.” She complains, not wanting to give herself hope of getting better. Success is immediate, she had led herself to believe.

A smile quirks up on his features, too dulcet to be his. Dejun is one of those people that takes himself too seriously, she discovered during the first month she shared with him, and it exudes in his personality. Some people call it haughtiness, but she believes Dejun knows better than to be silly. “What you just said shows growth. If something becomes easy for you after it was hard, it means you’ve improved.” The words are heavy, much too knowledgeable and optimistic for her broken mind. Not to be misunderstood, Dejun is the farthest opposite of a light of sunshine at a first glance, but the caring side of him peaks through all the cold demeanor.

“...I guess.” She shrugs, biting on the inside of her cheek out of nervousness. Dejun is close, and he seems not to be bothered by it, but the room is much hotter now that he is nearer. “Still doesn’t help me with being tone-deaf.”

“That’s something you can improve.”

“Dejun, it’s been more than a year. I think I can’t—”

“We have to give it a different approach, maybe. The technique you’re using for learning may not be the best for you.” One would not think that Dejun is the optimistic kind, that his kindness bleeds through his words whenever he wants them to. He’s a paradigm, eyes too deep to find a grounding moment in them, for the world is tremendously filled with opportunities, reflected in his irises. “I could help you with the rhythm and tempo, if you want.” He adds. “I can tell you Ji is not the most patient of people...or the sweetest...or tactful with his words, but you don’t have to let him get to you.” It must have been noticeable through her gaze, the hatred she feels for Ji for ruining something for her. Music, her favorite songs, the enjoyment of being free through tunes and tones. Or maybe, Dejun just looks at her expressions closely. “I believe in you.”

She raises her eyebrows at that, scoffing in a way to push her nervousness away. “Dejun, that’s so sweet, but I think I’m a lost case.”

The man straightens his back, practicing an arpeggio on his guitar as he speaks. “Give me your saturday mornings and I’ll turn you into a guitarist.”

She chuckles at his words, shaking her head before picking up her phone. “If you think you can do it...sure.”

The truth falls on the fact that she doesn’t think Dejun will be able to change much.

🎸

Busy bodies bumping against one another go unnoticed in the morning, for they are nonexistent. In the far distance, the sound of doors sliding open catch her attention, too faint to be from any customer. Her feet glide skillfully against the squeaky clean flooring, holding her gig bag up on her shoulder. Any type of horror soundtrack could pretty much be in the background, and it would fit, given that Dejun thought it would have been a nice idea to organize his schedule to have their classes at eight in the morning on a Saturday. Two weeks ago it sounded like an excellent idea; right now, she is looking for the emergency exits just in case a headless murderer tries to turn this into the next Oscar winning horror film.

Step after step leads her down the stairs, holding her phone up to her face just to write a text to Dejun. The action makes her anxious, thinking that Dejun is probably too busy working or opening the shop to even care, but by the time she sends it, she hears the sound of a phone going off in the near distance.

Surely, the mall is kind of empty, but it’s not empty enough to have her listening to the ringtone of Dejun’s phone inside the guitar shop.

What she has learned about Dejun is that his eyes, tired or not, are his most powerful feature. Those and his strong eyebrows are enough to battle the concept of perfection. For that early morning, he is wearing a black hoodie—it needs to be ironed, and Dejun should probably show the top of his head a bit more, proud of his messy straight locks, but that is what makes him...him. Dejun likes layers after layers, a trait that radiates on his personality.

Layers after layers of him that no one really gets to take off, because Dejun knows better. People are thirsty for power, and it shows through their relationships. The concept of naturally built friendships and relationships is forgotten, or will be in the next few years.

“Were you waiting for me?”

A tint of pink rushes to Dejun’s cheeks, patchy on his skin and the blame is probably on the hoodie he is wearing, but she likes to believe it is embarrassment. Shyness, even. “I—I guess,” Dejun says seriously, cleaning his throat soon after. “I have been waiting for a bit.”

“Sorry,” She chuckles, pointing around the empty mall with her index finger. “I got too distracted with this vibe of me being in a horror film.”

Dejun’s eyes wrinkle with the weight of his smile, drawing lines on the edge of his eyes, softening the scowl of his eyebrows. She would be lying if she said she had not watched Dejun from far away before, in hopes that the man she has known for more than a year finally does something to establish a connection in between the two. It never happened, until now, but she is convinced Dejun is just trying to be nice. “Sorry to disappoint, the mall is not haunted.” He adds. “But it is scary—”

If she had been looking at Dejun for a second longer, she would have completely missed the sight of one of her classmates. The idea of an awkward conversation leading to possible silence is already not a thrilling idea, but this is Mei she is seeing. Mei, the same girl that looks over everyone’s shoulders while completing a test; the same woman that never does her homework but still manages to pass her classes; the one girl that stole her lunch when she left her backpack alone for a miniscule second.

Mei is a nightmare.

Without thinking straight, she grabs Dejun by the collar of his hoodie, pulling their bodies towards the nearest spot to hide in. It so happens that a hallway is by their side, leading to one of the many bathrooms in the spacious mall. Dejun serves her as a wall, protection at its finest when he stands in front of her, making sure to hold her breath so Mei won’t even be able to perceive her.

“What—?”

“Shh.” She shushes him, looking up at him to share a glance with the man. Instead of giving him an explanation just now, she mouths ‘just a second’ before standing on her tiptoes, trying to see if Mei is gone. Much to her delight, Mei is long gone and away from her sight—and her lunch—. However, once she stands back on the heels of his feet, she is welcomed by the closeness in between the two and the look of absolute confusion that masks Dejun’s face. Her hands are gripping too tightly, to the point their chests are pressed together, breathing controlled by what the other does. “Sorry, I saw a girl from my semester that I really don’t like.”

“You were hiding from someone?” Dejun questions, looking down at her palms just to see her spreading them to let go of him. The man sighs, a brief smile appearing on his face. “You’re not as good as I imagined, then.”

“I am good,” She argues, following after Dejun to go to the guitar shop—not without looking around to see if Mei really is gone—. “Just selective on who I am good to.”

The young man seems surprised by her words, the grin on his face practically plastered on him. “You’re far too good to Ji.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, I would have snapped so long ago.” With the way he says it, it falls upon her that Ji is the most selective of all. What he looks for is perfection, and in his eyes, she is far from that. Nonetheless, she tries to concentrate on Dejun, because seeing him pissed is probably not a rare occurrence. Eyebrows made to be in a frown, eyes soft yet enigmatic. “But that’s your charm, I guess. I’ve known you for a year and I’ve seen just how patient you are. That’s a nice trait to have.”

Whilst he pushes the glass doors of the guitar shop open, she scoffs rather loudly. In such a small place, she gets to see a wide variety of drums and guitars, even bass guitars of all shapes and colors. Gibson. Fender. Yamaha. All beautiful to look at, but difficult to touch. “You think I’m patient?” Dejun closes the door behind them, sending a wave to one of his coworkers before opening yet another door for her. Somewhere in there, she swears she sees a set of drums signed by Ringo Starr.

“You have to be.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Being tone-deaf is difficult, and you have improved so much. That is either because you work hard, or because you have the patience to sit down and practice.” He doesn’t realize that is a compliment to her, his back turned to the woman when he introduces her to the ‘classroom’ in which they were going to practice, when it reality it looks like a storage room. If Dejun wants to live his rockstar fantasy, she’ll let him be. “Welcome to my classroom, by the way. You’re my first student that is not a kid, or my relative, or annoying.”

Resting her gig bag in front of her body, she inspects the room. Far too small, to the point she smells Dejun’s deodorant and cologne, Good, old, classy, a little bit musky as well. Her eyes settle on the written words in a whiteboard, what seems to be a set of chords, and his collection of boost pedals. In the middle of the room, there is his infamous Gibson, his lover, one with him until the day of his death. “Thank you so much for offering to tutor me, too.” She starts. “I appreciate it.”

Dejun’s eyes gleam with something when he looks at her, mischief mixed with thankfulness, lingering with that relaxed vibe he gives. “What makes you think I’ll be a good teacher?”

“You’re going to be a thousand times better than Ji, I can tell you that much.”

“True.”

The man takes the gig bag from her hands, unzipping it open before taking her guitar out. His fingers caress the fabric of her guitar strap, passing it over her head, her shoulders until it rested sideways on her. The look of absolute pride on his eyes is different, even enough to make her feel shy when she holds on to her guitar, watching as he nods his head softly.

“Ready to turn into Hendrix?”

Once again, Dejun has so much confidence that it brings a huff up her lungs, out of her mouth. “If you can do that, I’ll be so thankful—”

“Trust me,” He says. “I can do that and so much more.”

And it is all a matter of faith.

🎸

If Dejun was ever to be described as a crafted creation, he would have to come with two things: his jackets and his notebook, too close to his being to ever be away from him.

Five weeks after the start of her classes with him and she has yet to see him without the infamous, torn at the edges, beige notebook. This time around, with the heat of summer clinging to their skins, she is far more concentrated on the complexity of Xiao Dejun. His legs lock behind him whilst his weight leans against the small desk in the storage room—or classroom, in his words—, His hair is pushed back by the hand that rests on his forehead, fingers splayed on the back of his phone when he presses it to his ear, ordering breakfast for the two hungry people in the room. He holds himself with such elegance, such poise that he hypnotizes her, weighting the possibilities of ever seeing the raw, sensitive side of Dejun. The one that hides behind music in hopes of outlining his difficulties with lyrics and rhymes.

Flirting a complexity, and though she wants to do such thing with Dejun in hopes of getting a blush from him and a date to look forward to, the only thing that ever flirts with her is the notebook he keeps twisting in between his fingertips. He writes in it, for the strokes he gives with his pencil are far too precise to be a picture or a drawing, but the contents are unknown to her. The notebook mocks her, because there are a hundred notebooks that look exactly the same, but none of them belong to Xiao Dejun, the same man that she has wanted to flirt with for the past year and she has never been able to thanks to the fear of rejection.

“Mhm, a croissant special. What are inside those croissants?”She should not peek inside the notebook, perfectly placed away from Dejun’s hands, but the curiousness is there. Dust in the tip of his eyelashes, coating her with the need of getting to know more about him. He may talk about subjects such as music, friendships and family life with her, but she wants to get to know the alive side of Xiao Dejun. The part where he talks about his love for the people surrounding him, the hate he has for his past friendships, what he dreams about and the goals he pushed away in the past.

Is that too much to ask? For him to show her a layer of him, when he has already seen her with every expression? Delighted, when he compliments her. Saddened, when Ji tells her that she can do better. Angered, when she doesn’t get a song on the first go. Happy, when she recognizes the chords in a song just from one listen. The smile on her face is everlasting with him, but it is as though she falls deeper into the ocean beneath his eyes. Not because of water, but because of their depth.

So the irrational part of her wins, bites at her curiosity and traces her skin along the expanse of the notebook. Dejun has written his name in the front, neat and small in one of the corners, and she runs the tip of her fingers over it. It looks old, as if Dejun has grown inside that book, from a kid to a young man. When she lets her fingers wrap on the edge of the notebook to open it, the swooshing sound that reaches her ear is almost surprising, looking up to be met by Dejun’s frown when he looks at her.

“Don’t do that!” He whines, but the moment he tries to reach her, his feet collide one against the other, almost making him slip, a yelp leaving his lips instead. “A—Ah, yes, I think that will be fine.” He speaks on the phone, cheeks tinting crimson thanks to his reactions. His fingers are wrapped around her wrist, half of his body leaning on the desk while he speaks on the phone. “How long until it is ready?” A pause. “Ten minutes? Alright, I’ll be there.” When he hangs up on the caller, both his hands wrap around her wrists, bringing them up chest-level. “You’re a sneaky one, aren’t you?” A short laugh leaves his lips, because he is definitely in an uncomfortable position and also because of the irony of the situation.

“I just wanted to see your notebook.”

“And that’s exactly what I don’t want you to do.”

She bawls her hands in fists, pushing her body off the desk and bringing Dejun with her. He stands in front of her, eyes filled with embarrassment and worry. Shyness is something she wanted to get out of him, but this is not the version she expected. “Why? You’re always writing stuff there. I thought it was just your songwriting notebook, but if it’s a diary...I’ll let it be?” The confusion in her voice is clear, making Dejun sigh as he looks up to seek for an answer.

Contrary to what one would believe, Dejun is easily annoyed, but not exactly an explosive person. He doesn’t bask on his anger for long, if he ever gets to that point of madness, really. “It’s not a diary.”

“So...”

When he looks down, his hands grip softly on her skin, moving her arms from side to side with that whiny tone on his voice. “Just don’t ask, don’t ask.” He repeats, childishly scrunching his face up. This is one of the sides of him people rarely get to see, foreshadowed by his usual frown. “...It’s embarrassing.”

She can’t help but laugh at his antics, the man joining with a pained smile of his own. “Why would songwriting be embarrassing?”

“It’s not the songwriting that makes me embarrassed. It’s what I write about.” He complains, letting go of her wrists to leave them with a pure tingling sensation. Dejun’s touch is a reminder of all the good in the world, like butterflies that fleet in the most precious of spring days. “So please, never open this notebook.” The request falls on deaf ears when he takes her by the shoulders to push her towards her guitar. “Now, play me that song from the top—”

“What do you even write there?!” They have known each other for over a year, and been working together against her tone-deafness for more than five weeks, practically in the peak of being called a month. “Songs about those anime girls from your videogames or something?”

The loud cackle he gives her brings a smile to her face, much more when she gets to see it from up close. Dejun always does the same routine of wrapping the guitar around her shoulders, securely put in place before he does anything else. “Valid assumption, but still not true.”

“How am I supposed to know when you didn’t let me look inside the notebook—?”

Pressing two of his fingers to her forehead, he shakes his head while laughing. “You’re never going to know.”

“Dejun!”

And when he mimics her tone but with her name instead, she knows Dejun has that stubborn side that leads him to be both the best man and a complete mystery.

She’ll get to know him fully one day, that is certain.

🎸

The pouring rain is the first thing that welcomes her when she gets off the bus.

The week is the absolute opposite of nice, with textbooks waiting for her in the depths of her apartment, with the most important parts highlighted just for when she gets home—the entire chapter, basically—and of course, it could only be worsened when she had to get an earful from Ji earlier this week, only to be defended by Dejun himself, the only reason why she keeps liking music as much as she does. Relaxation should come from playing the guitar, leaving the minor key songs for days exactly like this. For when she is feeling weakened, with her limbs barely lifting from the floor as she slouches. Right now, she is cursing the world for forgetting her umbrella at her apartment, dry and comfortable, just like how she should be.

“What are you doing? Don’t stand there!” Then, there comes the sunshine hidden behind an eclipse, a man like Dejun. The rain stops momentarily for her, feeling the warmth of his body pressed to the side of her body. Just over two months of talking to this man for the entirety of her weeks simply to meet him on Saturdays and share their knowledge of music, is enough for her to miss the sound of his voice when he is not there. When she looks over her shoulder, she sees Dejun’s arms sprawled on top of them, his hair sticking to his face, gray hoodie drenched by the rain.

“Sorry,” Soon after, she starts walking, matching her pace with Dejun’s. Now, tempos are easier to follow. One. Two. Three. Four. Even his steps match the rhythm of songs, always bleeding musical knowledge. She must look just as ruined by the rain as him, but not equally as captivating. When she looks up at what’s covering them, droplets of rain falling in thickness upon her shoulders, she realizes Dejun is using his favorite denim jacket to protect them from the tremendous weather. “Hey, you also didn’t bring an umbrella!”

“I never check the weather. Sue me.”

She smiles. Whilst her umbrella must be perfectly put in place, warm and candid, she feels warmth when she is with Dejun. Something within him must have broken at the sight of her, replacing his fashionable frowns for something sweeter, tastier to the sight. “Neither do I.” She says, gripping Dejun’s arm in between her fingers. “I think we should run.”

He sighs at that. “I’m wearing the boots my dad gave me for my birthday, I don’t think I should be running and risking splashing them with water.”

Nudging his side, she smiles at his words. “Okay, old man, we’ll walk very slowly.”

His fingers reach for her ear, gripping it softly and pulling it to tease her. “Be respectful.”

“I am!”

“You used to be,” He corrects her, raising his eyebrows at her antics. “Then something happened in this brain of yours and something changed.”

Something about him is playful that morning, long gone are his yawns and his focused eyes when listening to music, when hearing her technique. Instead, she takes the opportunity to cling to this eventful side of Dejun, pushing him softly until he stands away from the denim jacket that they are now holding together, seeking for that last bit of warmth that is left. Half of his face is hit by water, a gasp leaving his lips as he repeats the action.

Three seconds is all it takes before they start to continuously push one another.

“You’re a demon!” Dejun adds in between laughter, pushing the door of the mall open with his back as he looks at her. She rejoices in the sight of him, so happy that it could very much become the picture that accompanies the term in the dictionary. The sound of the drops of rain falling from the clothes and hitting the floor is the harmony to their laughter, clinging to the jacket that now is held in between the two.

“You were the one that told me something was wrong with my brain!” She argues, watching as Dejun runs his fingers through his dark hair, the locks staying behind and leaving his joyful face out for the world to enjoy.

“I just said you were disrespectful, and you proved it.”

“Damn it,” She says, snapping her fingers before walking beside Dejun, probably going towards a scolding session from Dejun’s coworker. The rain on the weak, wood-based flooring is definitely something he won’t be happy about. “Guess you were right.” The shrug she gives him has Dejun smiling, inspecting her face like he wants to remember the notes her lips give out. Something about him is softer, his lips or his eyes, when the clashing waves of his mind suddenly turn into a lake, portrayed through a gaze that could be the daydream of a romantic.

“Huh, I guess I was.” Though the meaning of the sentence goes undercover for her, hidden in the depth of the mind of a man she falls for every single time. On Mondays, she thinks she can forget him—Dejun is just a dream, just a paradox or an enigma she wants to solve, and then a text is enough to make him seem human. “You’re lucky you’re cute, though.”

Some people say that compliments freeze the world, but those words from him are enough to make time seem too fast for her liking, warming the weather from the bottom of her heart to the edge of her skin. “Am I?” She asks, voice too soft and breathy to even sound like her, but Dejun smiles, looking down before nodding his head. “Th—”

A sneeze interrupts her.

It doesn’t come from Dejun’s soft, rosy lips. Instead, it obnoxiously settles on her throat, leaving her nose tingling with an uncomfortable sensation. Another one comes soon after, her hands clasping her chest in order to stop it, because this is the cinematic moment she has been waiting for since she has met Dejun and it can’t be interrupted in such a way.

His eyes widen, taking her by the shoulders and basically dragging her inside the guitar shop as he rambles: “Oh, god, let me get you some warm clothes and help you out before you get sick.” Maybe, she is already halfway there, but she can’t tell him such thing, shaking her head in an attempt of saving the moment.

“I’m alright, Dejun—”

“Are you sure?” He asks, ignoring the sound of his co-worker complaining when he turns around to look at her. “I—”

Sneeze.

Huh, this doesn’t sound like she is ‘alright’.

The next hour is spent with Dejun dragging some cloth on her hair, making sure that it is fresh and dry. The lightness of the old band t-shirt she is wearing, along with a pair of jeans Dejun went out to buy at the mall, really does not make her feel better. Her heart is palpitating, wondering if Dejun thinks of her as adorable as he claimed earlier when she is like this, sneezing her heart out in a terrific tune.

For now, she tries to concentrate on the feel of his fingers drying her hair, silence and muffled apologies joining in a dance, for this is yet another side of Xiao Dejun. The caring but unknowing side of him.

🎸

When someone becomes a college student, it is a norm to have stacks of textbooks somewhere and anywhere, a shirt waiting for them in their couch in case they are late to class, a bag of snacks in the depths of their room for when that midnight, pre-test anxiousness hits and of course, how could she forget the necessary TV device, creator of all procrastination habits, the sweetest form of relaxation?

Well, Dejun’s apartment has all those things...multiplied by a hundred.

Truthfully, they have been friends for a while and she should have expected Dejun to be the messily organized type; in his own torn bedroom, he finds everything he needs and more, but it exudes the energy of every college student, compressed in the walls of a shared apartment. Even so, the man rests his legs on top of the coffee table, but also on top of one of his roommate’s textbooks—Yangyang, it’s his name, pretty sweet guy over all, but incredibly annoying in Dejun’s words. His guitar is resting on top of legs, leaned back on his couch so relaxedly one would never think Dejun has five tests to study for.

“Composing a song is easy,” The man flaunts as he plays an unknown song on his beloved acoustic guitar, closing his eyes for a brief moment to concentrate on the sound. Meanwhile, she should really be concentrating on the black notebook Dejun gave her as a gift, or her actual guitar, but Dejun’s eyelashes are too pretty, little satin stripes that connect to her favorite part of his face. They open at the time she thinks that, too. “You just have to think of something inspiring. An idea, a concept, even a person.”

“That’s the hard part, though.” She points out, lifting her fingers up to her guitar to play a tune of her own. Soft and barely audible, but uncertain in projection. “How does one write about all these things without making them sound cringe-worthy?”

Shaking his head at the reminder of something, Dejun hums at her words. “An artist always cringes at what they’ve done.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Certainly.”

She puckers her lips up at that, reaching for her notebook and looking through the empty pages. “...I have a question...” With Dejun, there comes the power of positivism and maybe, she is too far down dreamland to wake up. She believes that, behind his peaceful expression, the slightest possibility of having something in between them shines in its absence. Easy is to claim that she wants it to happen, to get a taste of Dejun’s lips, to hear the rhythm of his breathing when she lays her head on his chest. “Do you cringe at what you have written on your notebook?” The question has Dejun choking on his own saliva, her hand reaching over to pat him in the back.

“I get shy about it, but I wouldn’t necessarily say I cringe.”

Fluttering her eyelashes in a way of pushing him to even let her take a peek inside his songwriting notebook, she gives up when she realizes the only thing Dejun gives her is a smile. “...I really want to see what you’ve written there!”

But he continues with his stubborn ways. “Just the typical songs about youth and all that. Nothing serious.”

Mocking the tone of his voice when he says ‘nothing serious’, she takes her guitar in between her hands once again before starting over with the same tune she had tried to play earlier, but more certain this time. “Well, then,” Lifting her chin up in the air, she would never notice just how far she has gone. Now, she doesn’t have to look at the guitar the entire time to play a song and she is able to hold a conversation while playing. “I’m going to write songs in that notebook and I’m not letting you see them.”

The guitar tutor actually shrugs his shoulders and it should be offensive, and it downright is. “I don’t mind.”

“Aren’t you curious of what I write?”

Dejun turns in the couch so they are facing each other, their guitars standing in between their bodies. “I am,” He confesses, eyes a complete conundrum, but that is the magic of him, the reason why she keeps coming back in hopes of understanding what his gaze reads. “But I respect your privacy, unlike other people.” His fingers get away from his guitar to grab at her cheeks, pulling them softly and pinching them in a mocking manner. The serious expression on her face is enough of an answer for him.

“Ha-ha. I was just curious!”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“I’m not a cat. That’s enough of an excuse.”

“Oh my God, look how cute you two are. Now kiss!”

The sound of someone cooing immediately has the two pulling away from each other, burning on the face out of complete embarrassment. By the entrance of the apartment is the insufferable roommate Dejun has to share apartment with, Yangyang, with his hair hidden under a snapback and his fingers gripping the edge of his backpack. What he said is a reminder of how her friendship with Dejun has that ground of shyness, one that comes from the fact that she crushes on him and she is too scared of opening up to him to a point of no return. What if one day, simply because of her slurry mouth, she ends up confessing to him?

It would be a nightmare.

Instead, Dejun picks up the nearest cushion to throw it at Yangyang’s face, mumbling something along the lines of ‘shut up’, but the youngest is far too in his own world to care. “So, this is the girl you’ve been having your Saturday escapades with the past two months.” She tries to concentrate on her guitar, but she stopped playing a long time ago. Instead, she watches as Dejun rolls his eyes, terribly attractive in the way the annoyance beams through his gaze. “Look at you two—”

“Yangyang, is there anything you need?”

The roommate’s fingers wrap around Dejun’s foot, bringing it down the coffee table as he speaks: “One, don’t do that. This table is so cheap it could be made out of cardboard, for all I know.” The comment has her laughing, making the young man turn to look at her. Plump lips, straight nose and a set of expressive eyes, Yangyang is most definitely a face to remember, and a person with an annoyance level high enough to get an award. “Two, I need my math book. I have a test tomorrow.”

Dejun lifts his eyebrows at that. “You could have studied earlier.”

But Yangyang chuckles, joyful and in the name of youth. “Sure, Mom. I will next time.” But the sarcasm on his tone drips when he moves away from the living room, pointing at her with his finger. “What’s your name again? Dejun told me but I forgot.” She repeats it, a smile growing on his face. “Good, nice to meet ya.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“...But add Xiao to that last name. It’ll save you time,” With a waltz on his step, Yangyang rushes to his room just in time to lock himself after Dejun follows after him, knocking on his door once and trying to twist the doorknob to no avail. Worst of all, Yangyang is laughing loudly from the other side of the room.

“I don’t deserve such disrespect, you know?” Dejun sighs, turning around to look at her before hissing. “I’m so sorry for that—”

“No, it’s nothing, Dejun. He was only joking.” She tells him, only to hear the sound of Yangyang’s voice from his room once again.

“See? She gets my jokes!”

Well, Dejun was not wrong when he said his roommate is annoying.

The good thing is that he gifts her, and absentmindedly so, another eye-roll from Dejun. It damn right is impossible for someone to look that beautiful when doing something so miniscule, but maybe she is just that into Dejun, from the sound of his voice to the depths of his personality, to the jokes that no one gets but he laughs to. That is just the magic of Xiao Dejun.

🎸

Dejun is the blurred lines of a badly printed book, leaving her on edge, in the need to know more, but it only falls down to guessing what that line has to say. Sometimes, she feels like he really has shown her all of him and most specifically, she feels it when Dejun goes out of their Saturday classes to hang out with her outside that schedule, even risking a few hours to study simply to hang out with her. This is one of those occasions,

The avid way he speaks about the movie they just watched is as exciting as his way of eating the leftover pieces of popcorn, making her laugh at his overly enraged banter because ‘the movie just didn’t meet his expectations’. She agrees wholeheartedly, the movie was as bad as it could get, but bad movies are—in the majority of situations—just a source of laughter. This is their case, because a comment about the movie from her has Dejun throwing his head back with laughter, the sound melodious as they reach one of the many balconies at the mall. Their home, really, they have spent a big chunk of the last few months there, getting to know each other, opening up to the idea of a friendship.

He is the first one to lean against the railing, taking the box of popcorn in between his hands as he eats. The wind blows on his hair, parting the dark strands and letting her see his relaxed face as he stares at the city nearby. “I’m buying you dinner in a sec. What are you feeling?” His fingers pop another popcorn inside his mouth, and she reaches over to grab a bit more to try the buttery treat.

“Sushi sounds nice.” She tells him, standing by his side and looking at him. Not that he would notice, he is far too thrilled by the city lights. “But I’m paying half.”

“Deal.” He knows better than to argue, pushing his fingers in between the leftovers of popcorn to look for the ones that are the most buttery. Something is bothering him now, and it’s not exactly the movie, she knows it because Dejun’s frown plasters over his relaxed face—a mix of both a good moment and a bad one. When he turns to look at her, he opens his mouth to say: “Come on, open up.” And she does, welcoming the popcorn he gives her before he releases yet another sigh.

“Did the movie disappoint you that much?”

“Your commentary made it better.” Dejun confesses, leaving a smile on her face but he is unable to return it, his lips barely quirking up when he speaks. “I have something to tell you, though.”

Juvenile is the sight of his face, washed in disdain and bothersome fear. She touches his shoulder, telling that anything he tells her, she’ll be open to listen and that is enough to make him feel better. He would never be able to see what she sees in him; the depth that keeps pulling her back, the passion that he feels for music and how it merges in his life; the sweetness of his antics; the positivism of him and his listening skills. He would never see himself like she sees him, but she is there to prove that he is one of the best people she has met in her entire life, a gush of fresh air in the middle of copy-paste individuals.

“I won’t judge you. Just tell me anything.”

“I am trying out for an exchange program at my university.” The words weight, in proximity or in possibility, but they are an anchor in her chest, weighting her heart down with pride but at the same time fear. Fear of losing him, of not meaning the same to him, of simply having all those memories they made go completely forgotten by the man. Dejun looks over to her, sighing deeply when she doesn’t say a word. “You probably don’t care, but I wanted to tell you. You have been such a close friend lately, and I want you to know I’ll probably be leaving for a semester or two.” He bites down on his bottom lip, a thin layer of oil covering it. “And I’ll miss you.”

Dejun is a star, even when he doesn’t notice it, he shines on his own and will shine even brighter around a group of people who don’t know him. She knows what it’s like to be a student, for she is one, as well, and she recognizes how hard it is to get into an exchange program, so watching that star get away from her only fills her with pride. “What? Dejun...that is so cool!” She announces, though the fear of going forgotten once he leaves settles on her chest. “I’m so proud—uh, congratulations! Did you get into any of them yet?”

“I’m waiting for a response for a few of them, but I think I’m getting in.” His smile is shaky when he speaks and she clicks her tongue.

“Where are you trying to go to?”

His infamous eyes look up for a few seconds before lifting one of his hands up. “Japan, England or Canada. One of those three.” The thought of the excitement that must be bubbling inside Dejun’s chest is enough to have her clapping her hands, nodding her head to what he is saying.”I really hope I get in.”

“Oh, you will.”

“How are you so sure?”

“You’re Xiao Dejun!” The tone of her voice means business, basically giving a piece of her mind. “You’re one of the best students in the music major, I’m sure there is not a single university that would miss a chance like that.” His cheeks flush with heat, rosy just how she likes them, and that brings a swell of gratification to her chest. “Sure, I will miss you, but...I will also be very proud. You deserve it.”

He doesn’t know a lot of things and now the clock is mocking her, telling her to hurry up before Dejun goes anywhere else and her feelings die down in the back of her throat, an unreleased note for a singer to copy. Above everything, the fear of rejection is palpable, pulsing on her heart to speed through the beat. Part of her wants to take her chances and confess to Dejun, but the other part encourages being a coward. The second part wins, once again, when instead of giving him a hug to get a feel of him, trap him in a memory even for the slightest bit, she congratulates him further, for Dejun is made to be successful, made to be a star.

🎸

“Is this the name of the high school you went to? I just want to make sure before I send this e-mail.”

Jolting awake, Dejun’s weight almost falls on the floor if it was not for his grip on the sides of the computer chair. His eyes scan the room, lost for a brief moment, because this is definitely his room but he doesn’t recall ever inviting her over. Then, it downs upon him, his mind floating around the white walls that surround him—she is there because she is helping him send applications to different universities. His fingers go through his silky hair, moving his chair over to where she is to look over her shoulder, checking what she had written on his laptop.

In her defense, Dejun seemed incredibly tired from exams and she simply wants a distraction after working on a project for the entirety of two weeks, so helping him sounded delightful. Not better than the feeling of his chest pressed to her back, chin almost resting on her shoulder as his eyes scan over the e-mail. His eyes are surrounded by darkness, given that Dejun has had to study for both exams at his classes and the entering exams for other universities. His skin is a bit dry, one or two pimples appearing out of stress and of course, he completely forgot to wear cologne, for he is in his home. He is speaking in is normal tone, unaware that Yangyang is sleeping, or careless about it.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Dejun’s rough voice says before she hits the ‘send’ button, tearing her gaze away from her crush to concentrate on the task at hand. Absentmindedly, Dejun rests his cheek against her shoulder, dizzily talking through his sleep. “I’m so sleepy. I didn’t even know I fell asleep.” But she knew, of course. Dejun fell asleep only fifteen minutes before, taking up a fetal position in the uncomfortable office chair and he didn’t fall because life is always on his side, along with fate. A yawn escapes him, lifting his gaze to look at her through half-opened eyes. “Do you want me to take you home? It’s probably late and all...” Another yawn leaves his lips and it gets to her, yawning as well.

“Take a nap and then, take me home.” She indicates, cracking her fingers after writing for so long. “I don’t want you falling asleep behind the steering wheel.” Her heart softens at the sight of Dejun, pulling away from her to hum softly.

“But you wake me up, okay?”

“How long should I let you nap for?”

As he drags himself closer to the bed, fluffing out his pillows as he rests over his stomach, he whispers with his cheek pressed to the fabric of his pillow. “Thirty minutes.” Though, she can’t help but smile at his sleepy state, standing up from the chair she is seated on to take the blanket by Dejun’s feel, pulling it up his body to cover him from the cold. Her fingers make sure the blanket is clasped perfectly around his shoulders, her eyes making out the figure of Dejun’s fingers hiding under his pillow.

It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.

The night is boring without the sound of Dejun doing something, and she keeps looking through the pictures of the universities Dejun has tried for, praying silently for him to get, at the very least, one acceptance letter from one of them. It is when she reaches over for her lukewarm cup of coffee that she feels something else beneath her hands, looking to the side to see the ever-captivating, extremely interesting notebook that Dejun always carries around. The same one he would die for if he had to, the one he doesn’t even let her touch.

But hey, it’s there, blinking at her, telling her to read it, to just take a little peek inside now that Dejun is asleep, and the emotion is too much to push it to the back of her head, tracing the outline of the notebook and opening it to see the first few pages.

At first, she doesn’t know why Dejun is so embarrassed. They are simple songs, about youth and love, about whatever crosses his head, but soon after, the pages get newer, not so over-lined and instead, she is met with songs oddly specific, speaking about colors in a person’s eyes and the quirk of a smile. It is when she gets to a certain page, tainted with a heart at the corner, badly drawn by her friend, that she notices the title of the song is her name, though in parenthesis he had written to ‘change the name soon’.

He never did.

One would think the song talks about friendship, that is what she wants to believe, but the chords are in major keys—happy, bubbly, excited, and the lyrics are a prophecy of love. Then, she realizes Dejun is equally as shy as her, scared of the ‘what if’s’ of life, of not being loved in return and she has to close the notebook in a hassle just not to scream.

So...that’s why he didn’t want her to look at it.

But, that was months ago, so Dejun has had to feel this way for even more than a month. Once she turns over her shoulder to look at him, peacefully sleeping with his eyes half-open, she wishes she could read his mind, see what it is that is stopping him from saying those things out loud, but she can’t. Dejun is her enigma, and there is nothing she could do to change that.

🎸

“Huh, I don’t think I have this Nirvana record...”

Keeping a secret from Dejun is difficult, because he sees through everything and anything about her, she kind of expects him to, as well, for telling him that she has seen the notebook he always hides, but not only that, the contents inside of it. Instead, she tries to concentrate on being as natural as possible, for Dejun will leaving in a month from now, directly to another continent and away from her, and the least she wants is to lose him now, just for her prying ways and her curious mind.

Searching through the stacks of albums in the record store at the mall, everything is a blur for her. Everything but him. She has been looking at Dejun, hoping to engrave every single one of his habits in her head for when she misses him once he is gone, but another look is another wish to kiss him out of the plenty she already has, the bursting need to tell him the truth wanting to rip through her. If he feels such a  way and she feels just as strongly about him, then why did she have to wait? Why didn’t she sort it out by telling him ‘before you go, I want you to know I really feel like I have fallen for you’?

Dejun bites his bottom lip in uncertainty, picking up two albums before sighing. “Should I pick a Foo Fighters album or the Nirvana one? I’m torn.” Normally, she would have taken this chance to make her money worth it, even when she said that she was going to pay for anything Dejun picked, giving her opinion on what he should buy, but this time around, she is far too entranced in him. In the happiness he shows, wearing that damned denim jacket, holding two vinyl albums up to his face.

“Uh-huh.” She adds thoughtlessly, not even trying to mask the dumb smile that she has on her face.

“Are you even listening to me?” Dejun asks, putting the records down to frown at her, though the small grin he gave her said otherwise.

“Uh-huh.”

“How old are you?”

“Uh-huh.”

Looking around the record store, half-empty at this time of the morning, he takes a few steps forward to take her by the shoulders and shake her gently, earning a bigger smile from her. In his eyes, this must be the weirdest day of his life, or it is the weirdest day already. “You’re acting weird, and you never say ‘uh-huh’ to anything I say. Are you sure you’re alright?” Dejun’s eyes are filled with interest, watching as she rests her hands on top of his biceps, gripping to ground herself in her ecstatic train of thought.

“I am okay,” She mumbles, looking up and down his features, but letting her gaze rest on his lips. How could she go one more day without wanting to kiss those lips? “I really liked the song.” Her smile drops when she says those words, because she really wasn’t trying to out herself in what she did. Dejun is equally as confused, if not more, She lets go of him, licking the side of her mouth to stop it from running any more words.

“What song?” He asks, and when she tries to get away from him, Dejun grabs her by the wrists, pulling her closer to his chest. “What song did you like?”

It is now or never, she thinks when she glances at Dejun, so powerful in his own way. Something about him screams to tell the truth, a reminder that everything good in the world hides behind those eyes, emotionalism that he has only shown her. The least she wants is to break his heart, and he’ll be angered when she finally tells him that— “I looked through your songwriting notebook and saw the song you wrote for me.”

All the color drains from Dejun’s face, who now has finally had it. “I told you not to look! L—Listen, that’s invasion of privacy and I don’t like it.”

“I know it was wrong of me! I just...You were asleep, and I was curious and I thought I would find nothing interesting.”

“Well, you found...that.”

Sighing deeply, she takes her backpack off, taking her own songwriting notebook out to open it in front of Dejun’s eyes. At first, he is too betrayed to even look at her, so she softly speaks up. “Dejun, I am so sorry, but everything will be better if you look at this.”

His eyebrows furrow with anger, rolling his eyes to look at her notebook. Indeed, in the open pages he doesn’t see a song, per say, but he sees his name written in all types of fonts, followed by hearts, stars, whatever else she is doodling when she should be writing songs. “What—?”

“I can’t write songs for the life of me. It’s too hard, still. But you do, and this is my way of matching...that talent of yours.” She finally lowers her notebook, shy under his studious gaze when she looks anywhere but at him. Something in the atmosphere reminds her of flowers, soft yet enchanting, a memory of love, and it makes her feel stupid. So, this is what Dejun meant when he said all artists have their moments of cringe. “Ah...you said all artists do cringe-worthy stuff, and this is my try on that, I guess.”

Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, Dejun mumbles something along the lines of ‘shut up’ before grasping her jaw. Her eyes study his features, everything sharp about him, fierce and scary to anyone who doesn’t know him, how his eyes stare at her like she is the last person on Earth and he is looking for the humble moment of optimism that everything is going to turn out alright at the end. Dejun is the sickness, the vaccine; the reason behind her smile and the twisting feeling in her stomach because she is nervous.

Nervous until he kisses her, the same pair of lips she has fallen for the last year or so. The lines of a song he never sang to her show through the kiss he gives her, his body relaxed against the wall, her notebook tightly pressed in between the two when she rests her hands on his waist, wanting to feel more of him. What is she but a woman that wants for him to fall into her, to catch him in her arms. That certain stare is not there when she opens her eyes softly to look at him, for he is far too concentrated on kissing her, so she closes them again, because there is nothing to worry, nothing to hold on to when she has it all.

The sound of someone arranging vinyls beside them is not what makes them stop, but the sound of the worker’s voice—rough and rock-ish—when they say: “No making out in our shop.”

With a boyish chuckle, Dejun pulls away, warming her heart with the small kiss he gives to her forehead, a reminder of what just happened. “Never look through my stuff again, understood?”

“I will never.”

🎸

One day, visiting Dejun at the guitar shop is no longer a reason for her to learn the guitar, but their brief moment where they become the only people in the world, and she loves it.

The promise of a good time is always there with Dejun, for he is not a walking headache in any possible way. These days, she sees him smile more, even though he is studying harder and they barely get to see each other with their exams colliding annoyingly with each other’s schedules. It is on those perfect Saturday mornings that she gets to see him, half-asleep and ready to play the guitar. Today, he is playing a song she doesn’t recognize—her ears have gotten exponentially better in the past few months, enough for her to recognize notes—. All majors, in this case.

Two more weeks until he leaves, the blinking light of her phone mocks her for checking the day and feeling her heart stop at the reminder of Dejun leaving for an entire year before she gets to see him again. Part of her tells her to let it be; Dejun is going to be in a new campus, meeting new people, forgetting that he ever felt this happy with someone, that he ever wrote songs about the tone-deaf girl he met well over a year ago, closer to two years. But the egotistic, the needy part of her wants to have him for herself even when they are far away, being able to pride on the fact that Dejun may have fallen for her. Not that he has said it, the two silently know what the other is feeling by now.

He is at peace, playing the guitar while he rests his cheek against the wall, half asleep in the cramped room. She wonders if he is dreaming of what he has achieved, if he knows the difference between dreams and reality now that he has it all. His eyes close momentarily, basking in the sound of his guitar and if it wasn’t for the sound, she would guess he was asleep.

“Dejun?” The man simply hums at the sound of her voice, stopping his motions to open his eyes and look at her. Those eyes, that stare, all about him screams for her to do something. Dejun will never be hers, but his own, yet she wants to be able to tug him to her arms whenever she wants, kiss all the worries away from him and reassure him he’s fully capable of anything he puts his mind into. No, she needs to be the one at the airport when he arrives a year from now, making him feel like he is back home. “I want to ask you something.”

In the realm of this comfortable ‘thing’ they have, Dejun nods his head, putting his guitar away and dragging his seat closer to her to wrap his arms around her waist. “Okay, ask me anything.”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” The sound of her voice is uncertain, the heat of the room making her feel like she can barely breathe, and maybe she is holding her breath, too. Dejun is surprised, it shows through the gleam in his brown eyes and how his eyebrows raise to the point they may become one with his hairline. “I mean...sure, you’re leaving, but I would love to date you, even if it’s from far away—”

“You’re up for a long distance relationship?”

“Of course!” She confronts him, widening her eyes as if what he just said was nonsensical. “Dejun, I’ve fallen for you, and no type of distance is ever going to be able to change that.”

His lips quirk up at that, taking her hands in between his fingers to kiss on her knuckles, interlocking their calloused fingertips to feel the warmth of her skin. “You’ve fallen for me?”

“I have,” She whispers, rubbing her lips together out of nervousness. “Have...you?”

“I have.” Dejun confirms, a laugh leaving his lips when he kisses her hands once again, pecking them quickly to demonstrate his excitement. Actually, all sleepiness seems to be drained from his body when he stands up to give her one of those big, childish kisses he gives her when he is far too excited. “Let’s date, then.” The certainty in his voice has her giggling, hiding her face in his neck to stop the shyness that seeps through her.

So, this is what a major key would feel like if it was an emotion. Bubbly, happy, enamored by life. She only wishes a minor key never becomes part of their relationship.

🎸

Time-zones are a headache, she discovers on the first week after Dejun is gone and eleven months later, the ache of her eyes when she hears her phone softly going off is still annoying.

Leaning her head back, her fingertips press down on the taut skin of her eyes, wanting to get rid of the pain before patting her bedside table to unlock her phone before her roommate goes off with another complaint about her midnight calls. But, much to her surprise, this is not a call, instead, it is a message that Dejun has sent her. The morning sounds like more of an inviting time to read anything he has to say, but she misses him too much to even ignore him, ghosting her touch over the notification before pressing down on it, watching the screen-cap of a video he just sent her.

And he’s there, with his hair bleached blonde and those infamous rounded glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His denim jacket is gone, for it is hidden in the depths of her closet, coated in his scent and memories she would be damned to forget about (sometimes, she can still remember the feeling of the rain on top of their skins), and instead, Dejun is wearing black clothing. It takes her a second to reach for her earphones, plugging them inside her phone before getting underneath her sheets, as if to have more privacy with her boyfriend.

Still, her boyfriend.

She barely got two weeks of having a physically-there boyfriend, so she still gets giddy at the word.

The first thing she sees—and hears—is Dejun fixing the screen of his phone so it is facing properly, sighing when he gets the angle he desires. “Hey, sweetheart.” Long ago, she would have thought Dejun is the epitome of seriousness, but the giggle he gives is enough of an indication that she was wrong. His palm rests against his forehead, cringing at the sound of his voice when he leans back on his seat. With his arms crossed over his chest, he continues. “It’s super late for you, but I just got out of my classes and I wanted to remind you that we have one more month before we see each other.” He pauses for a moment, frowning at his train of thought. “We’ve been dating for almost a year and still, I haven’t taken you out on a date. Fuck—” He chuckles at what he just said and she can’t help but grin.

Burning with the need to see him, tipping at the edge of impatience, she wishes for the day they meet again to come sooner, just so she can fall in love with him yet another time.no

#xiaojun scenarios #xiaojun #wayv scenarios #wayv #nct scenarios #nct #kpop scenarios #writing #cpop scenarios #xiaojun fluff #xiaojun angst #xiaojun au #wayv fluff #wayv angst #wayv au #nct fluff #nct angst #nct au #guitarist!xiaojun #the love diaries #please do tell me what you think since this is the first part of my valentine's day special #and i really want it to be good!

[thecrowsjoker]

Before you read, major Persona 5 R spoilers so please just skip this if you don't want spoilers

Also please note the tags!

Please Enjoy these delicious pancakes and have a good day (spoilers below pancakes) 🥞

So Im probably putting my foot into it by saying that a relationship with Goro should have been tucked away near the end of the P5r.

And by that I mean you have to meet certain conditions.

Example list

You can't romance any of the girls

You must max out all confidents with Goro's being the last one

This will prompt Goro saying "I've noticed that your quite popular with the ladies (Last name), is there no one that catches your eye?) to which it prompts you to confess," I like Goro" or to simply just say" I'm not interested"

Option two- oh I see *disappointed sprite* game then resumes like normal.

Option One- *surprised sprite* wait, I dont quite understand

(Game prompt: this is an important decision. Your relationship with this confident might change depending on your answer)

Option 2- "I'm joking"

Goro- oh *fake smile sprite* very funny Joker

Option 1- I like you Goro, I want to be with you

Goro- *startled sprite quickly replaced by depressed sprite* why now, why after everything I've done, how can you just-

(player can move in to hold Goro or to simply listen to the rest of Goro's speech)

Uninterrupted- Goro- I hurt so many people I don't deserve this, you deserve someone who's not broken.

Prompt- I want you

Prompt--I love you

Protagonist moves in to embrace Goro

Goro- *flustered sprite* what is this feeling? *annoyed sprite with blush* damn you Joker...

(Loki and Robin Hood fuse)

Goro monlogue: I don't know if these feelings are mine or yours. But I do know that I want to fight with you till the end...

Afterwards- Akira moves closer to Goro

Goro-! Ah! Your really close...

Blackout screen

Goro- Joker... Thank you- I...

...

(you spent a long time with Goro)

Option with sudden hug

Goro-! Ah, hey your...

*sprite with clenched eyes*

Goro- how can you suddenly just bring down my walls like nothing

Prompt 1- it's because you love me

Prompt 2-...

Prompt 1- Goro- *cheerful sprite* who made you such a good detective? *wink sprite* I guess the roles are reversed now.

Prompt- Your pretty good at stealing hearts Crow

Prompt 2-...

Goro- *sigh* to think this would end like this.

Goro- *embraces Akira back* I want to choose my own destiny. The future with you... by my side.

(Loki and Robin Hood fuse)

Goros monologue- I understand now. Its not weak to rely on others, thank you.- ill use this power to shape my own destiny... Our destiny.

Goro- hey is it okay if you hold me just a little while longer?

...

You spent a long time with Akechi.

--------

Yea so I know it's a long example but this completely negates the fact that it's suddenly just an option. You'd have to jump through a few hoops in order to get with Goro. Also it gives you the option to stay single without any consequences to the story.

I know some people are against Goro x Akira and I can understand why people would be pissed if this was the only slash option.

But you got to understand that no other boy in P5 is used for gain more than Goro. His life was hell to begin with. His whole life up until he meets Akira is just built on the only emotion he knows hate.

And then comes Akira, and Goro is literally torn between hating him and wanting to be around him.

Akira brings out emotions Goro's never felt before, like flies, he tries to swat them away but they always reappear.

It shouldn't matter that they are both male.

Goro deserves to be loved and Akira very canonically loves him.

Love shouldn't just be exclusive to male and female, it should be just be accepted for what it is.

It's not for the sake of adding more options, its not celebrating diversity. People shouldnt be rewarded for just throwing scraps to an audience and give them a "maybe it's canon" because in WHAT way is it fair to add multiple girls to romance but do nothing about the actual relationship that is one of the core story points?

Goro and Akira are in love.

Akira is in love with the real Akechi Goro, not the plastic fake on TV. He's in love with the scarred boy who was used and abused for far to long.

Goro never had a forever home until he met Akira and despite the good, the bad and the ugly, Akira took Goro into his heart and gave him a home at long last.

Ps-I'm so sorry this has been such a long post but I'm just so emotionally drained with it all.

#shuake #persona 5 royal spoilers #akechi x akira #akeshu #love is love #atlus usa #goro akechi #ren amamiya #akira kusuru

[script-a-world]

hi! im having some trouble figuring out some things about my world. The main country of the story like a post calamity old west, filled with cowboy gangs that occupy turf. But there are also people in towns within the country that have nothing to do with the gangs. My issue is im having trouble figuring out how the two sides would interact, and how the people in the towns would avoid getting raided every day.

Tex: Ah. Well, cowboys... don't do the raiding thing, traditionally - it's actually a job as a cattle herder and sometimes horse wrangler that worked on a ranch. The original cowboys were vaqueros of the Iberian Peninsula. It's a very old cultural tradition, which is typified by doing cattle - and other animals as necessary - herding on horseback. Technically speaking, the Iberian roots refer to a dressage style of the region, known as doma vaquera (aka "Western dressage" or "cowherd style", DressageToday, which is different from the horsemanship style of doma clásica (aka haute école, Wikipedia in Spanish).

I find the phrase "post calamity old west" very interesting; what about the Old West drew you toward it for a post-calamity setting? It may not have looked like the US east of the Mississippi, but for the most part the frontier was highly oriented around entrepreneurialism, egalitarianism, and self-sufficiency - Manifest Destiny's impact on westward expansion is popularly said to have shaped the roots of American culture, distinct from European. Society in the frontier wasn't highly stratified like in the original colonies, but it was quick to develop in something that reflected the friction with the Native Americans, the aggressive politicking that was the developing legislative landscape, and the shift from financial modesty to the dream of wealth.

Cowboys were incredibly important to frontier culture, as cattleherding [and horse... everything ( 1  2  3  4  5 ) were a core component of the frontier economy. Settlers made up another core component, and between the two of them - under Manifest Destiny's set of goals - American law and government was further developed. The building of the railroads to connect east and west coasts had major help from cowboys and their ability to wrangle horses for use in railroad construction, something that helped put the US higher on the international stage in terms of their trading power. Being able to negotiate literally new trade routes, as well as govern them, is a potent draw for any society as it enables them to have a steady source of income to develop themselves further. Since cowboys were an integral part of this, the culture surrounding them was built up accordingly.

It's important to highlight that the Old West was planned, inasmuch as territorial expansion on other people's property can be. As the population of an area grew, and went through the formal procedures of becoming towns, cities, and states (there were some hiccups, as evidenced by the Kansas-Nebraska Act), the amount of law enforcers grew accordingly. In the beginning sheriffs and others were sparse compared to their big city relatives in the more developed regions of the US, and as such they were spread thin.

What was... maybe not unique to the era and region, but perhaps distinctive, is the fine line between "law-abiding" and "not law-abiding". Since the US was galloping toward expanding its territory and defending it (pun wholly intended), picking up the slack as a representative of the US government could be financially beneficial. Bounties could be put out on criminals - whose crimes were frequently theft of cattle and horses when not cash and other goods - and deals were frequently struck with not only cowboys but whichever criminal was currently in the good graces of the local sheriff/town as a whole.

Outlaws, also known as lawmen (sometimes law-abiding!), badmen, pistoleers, pistoleros, rustlers (a particular occupation), and gunslingers (the last one a post-era name suited for Hollywood), are the byproduct of westward expansion in the US. Like cowboys and law enforcement, they had a spot in their society as, literally, a criminal occupation that varied in how far from the law they operated (entrepreneurship, if technically of a different tone than homesteaders and other settlers). Because of the contemporary in situ development of law, criminals could be sheriffs and sheriffs could be criminals.

This lack of stratification that would typically define respectability is what made the American frontier the "Wild" West, not necessarily the lack of physical infrastructure. The US is big, and matching the technology of the East Coast and Europe took a lot of resources, both physical and financial, and many routes were taken to achieve the singular goal of fulfilling the US' vision of becoming a power player in the world stage.

Such an apparent lawlessness was dealt with by using a form of equality, something best said by the adage "if catapults are outlawed, then only outlaws shall have catapults". The multiple layers of politics - from Native Americans to war with other nations and neighbors to quite simply the wildlife - meant that firearms were a staple of settlers, ranchers, Pony Express riders, and stagecoach travelers that had to deal with "the wild" (something that notably wasn't allowed within town limits as a demarcation of civilization). If you want to talk about raiding, the Bleeding Kansas crisis is your best bet to see how the Old West handled such things.

Combining those two above aspects should give you greater perspective on social dynamics of law vs lawless, as well as how the social circles overlapped. The closest I could find to the modern gang war analogue would be range wars, with notable examples including the Johnson County War, Stuart's Stranglers, and Sheep Wars that fit the parameters of cowboys in territorial disputes during the Old West era and region.

I think you might be particularly interested in the Cochise County Cowboys, as a very early form of American crime syndicate during the time when "cowboy" and "rustler" were mostly interchangeable. They're a part of the family feuds in the United States, many of which occur during the time period and in the region of the Old West.

Below (Mod Miri Note: at the end of the post) is a list gives details of the minutiae I haven't covered, which round out the setting of the Old West, up to the completion of the First Transcontinental Railroad which effectively ended the era - but not quite to the American Civil War. 

Feral: Everything Tex said. Also...

Something else to consider about the real Old West and the sociopolitical dynamics that came with it is that the Old West was happening during a time of class warfare. And I do mean warfare. An incredible amount of the land was not owned by the people living there. It was owned by the railroad companies, banks, and absentee speculators. Most farmers in the 19th century were tenant farmers, who could be evicted for crop failure - evictions to be carried by the local sheriff. Over a thousand people died constructing the transcontinental railroads, and running the railroads was also a very dangerous occupation. Strikes were happening a lot and the Pinkertons were known to actually battle striking workers. The point of this is to say that the common people might not have had as much of an issue with bandits who targeted banks or trains or fought with sheriffs and security agents. Jesse James was a folk hero who is given attributes of a Robin Hood figure, even though there's no evidence he gave away any of his loot - he did, however, steal from the rich and that might have been good enough for some.

Now you ask how the bandits (or cowboys - is that meant as a reference to the Gunfight at OK Corral? if so, it's a proper noun - Cowboys was the name of the specific gang) would interact with the townspeople. I see 2 general models of this.

Model 1: the towns are part of the territories which are "protected" by the gangs that control the territories. So, gangs wouldn't be attacking their own towns; they'd be attacking each others. And likely trading with their own.

Model 2: the towns are no-man's land on the border of territories and trade equally with the bandits (this model would probably require a very strong law enforcement presence). And trade is a really important thing to consider - you can't eat money. Whatever the bandits steal from banks, train cars, etc, they need to get food with it. And given the very real poverty in the Old West, stealing food outright off farms was a very good way to get a huge posse out for your blood.

If you're not already familiar with Westerns, try some out. Tombstone is a favorite of mine (though it is absolutely completely historically inaccurate). Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid is a classic. For a more "modern" option, Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy is a must-read. Even when they're inaccurate, they capture the feeling that draws people to the mythology of the Old West, even when reimagined as post-apocalyptic.

And speaking of the post-apocalyptic West, you're probably very familiar with the Joss Whedon show Firefly and Stephen King's Gunslinger, but if you haven't taken the time, really study them. Because the world building, especially in terms of the balance of chaos and order, are wonderful, and again, they capture that feeling of Westerns that keep people coming back. "Train Job," "Bushwacked," and "Heart of Gold" may be particularly helpful episodes for you.

Tex’s Further Reading

American frontier  - Wikipedia Timeline of the American Old West  - Wikipedia Territorial evolution of the United States - WikipediaWestern wear  - WikipediaThe Evolution of Western Wear  - True West Magazine Western Economic Expansion: Railroads and Cattle  - US History II (American Yawp) by Lumen LearningHoofs and Wheels: Transportation in the West  - National Cowboy & Western Heritage MuseumLost Skills of Old West Stagecoach Travel  - American CowboyThe Pony Express  - Cowboy ShowcaseWild West Outlaws and Lawmen - The Wild WestJesse James - WikipediaJames Kirker, the King of New Mexico - "American Studies" of the University of VirginiaDunn Brothers (bounty hunters) - WikipediaKansas Gunfighters, KS Outlaws and KS LawmenList of Old West gunfighters - WikipediaCategory:Gunslingers of the American Old West - WikipediaList of Old West gunfighters - WikipediaCategory:Outlaws of the American Old West - WikipediaCattle raiding - WikipediaList of Old West gunfights - WikipediaCategory:Range wars and feuds of the American Old West - WikipediaThe Missouri Crisis   - Digital History from the University of HoustonCalifornia Gold Rush - WikipediaCalifornia Dream - WikipediaSutter's Mill - WikipediaFirst Transcontinental Railroad - Wikipedia

#pylons #old west #cowboys #raids #Anonymous

[a34trgv2]

In Defense of Black Panther

WARNING: There will be spoilers for the film Black Panther. If you haven’t seen the film, please watch it before reading this post.

Black Panther one of the MCU’s most well received films from a critical and financial standpoint (with 97% out of 455 critics giving an average rating of 8.3/10 on Rotten Tomatoes and making $1.3 billion dollars at the box office). It’s even made history as the first superhero film to be nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards. So, naturally there are a select few people that claim it’s “overrated” or “not worthy of all the hype” as is the case with every film that makes a splash with audiences, critics and film institutes like the Academy of Arts and Science. Full disclosure, if you dislike this film, that’s fine. It’s impossible for any one movie to please everyone. That said though, it’s still important to recognize why it resonated with so many people, including myself. Calling it (or anything, for that matter) “overrated” makes you sound jealous. With that out of the way, let’s talk about why Black Panther is not just a great film, but an important one. 

Despite being set in the ever expanding Marvel Cinematic Universe, Black Panther is very much a standalone picture with the only acknowledgement to the film T’Challa was introduced in, Captain America: Civil War, occurring in the beginning and post credits scene of the film. T’Challa’s father, T’Chaka, died in Civil War and Bucky is seen living in a hut now under a new moniker, White Wolf. The plot mainly revolves around T’Challa learning the difference between being a good man and a good king. If Peter Parker had to learn “with great power comes great responsibility” T’Challa has to learn what responsibility he must take for the good of his country. This plot reminds me of this quote Mufasa said in The Lion King to Simba: “...there’s more to being a king then getting your way all the time.” The film shows how T’Challa’s actions can make or break his country and if it were put in the wrong hands, it can lead to dangerous consequences. That’s where Erik “Killmonger” Stevens comes in and when he defeats T’Challa in combat and becomes the new king, his first order of business is to send weapons to blacks around the world, which would lead to genocide. Killmonger is who T’Challa would’ve became if he let his bitterness consume him, and the two of them actually learn alot from one another by the end.

Let’s talk about Killmonger and why he’s one of the best villains I’ve seen in a film, comic book or otherwise. Every minute he’s on screen we learn more and more about him and why he’s does what he does. At the start of the film, T’Chaka killed his brother, N’Jobu, for attempting to kill Zuri after it was revealed that he’s been stealing Vibranium and giving it to Ulysses Klaue. N’Jobu being Killmonger’s father, the young boy spent his entire life killing and getting stronger so that he could take his place as king and right the wrong that was done to him. Killmonger represents the anger and frustrations of many young black men who are oppressed and undermined on a daily basis and if they had the power, they’d make all the oppressors pay. During the final fight, T’Challa recognizes where his hate comes from and makes an effort to be a better king than his father. Killmonger is a good villain not because he wants power, but because he wants to help other people just like him but is going at it the same way Adolf Hitler did: not through peace, but genocide. Also he kills 5 people, beats T’Chaala to near death and burned all the heart shaped herbs that gives the Black Panther his powers.

Now Killmonger is a great villain, but it’s the hero we’re all here for. So let’s talk about T’Challa. What makes T’Challa such an interesting and well throughtout character is how calm and nice he is. He remains the better man even when he has every reason to be otherwise. Not to mention, he’s just so charming and has a good heart. Ultimately though, it’s how he deals with the fact that his father wasn’t a saint like he always thought he was that makes him so relatable. He goes through an array of different emotions when he’s in the Ancestral Plane: anger, disappointment, sadness, resentment. We spend our entire child hoods believing our parents to be the best in the world and when we learn they committed heinous acts such as murder, it turns our world upside down. But rather then spend time wallowing in his misery, T’Challa makes an effort to be better than his ancestors and ensure someone like Killmonger doesn’t happen again. Captain Logon of Geekvolution made the bold claim that T’Challa, Captain America and Luke Cage were better Supermen than the one in the DCEU and I think that’s true, considering the thought of giving up NEVER crossed T’Challa’s mind.

This film goes above and beyond when it comes to making strong supporting characters. Starting with Shuri, she has definitely become an audience favorite and is in my top 10 supporting characters. At just 16, her genius makes her on par with the likes of Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. Also, she has some of the funniest moments in the film, including the “What are those?” gag. I’m aware many people hate memes being used in popular media, but when it’s done well, it’s at the very least chuckle worthy. She is responsible for upgrading the Black Panther suit, controlling vehicles from her lab and having battle armor ready for Nakia during the final battle. Speaking of which, Nakia is very much a subverted love interest as despite showing good chemistry with T’Challa, they’re not an item in this film until the very end and by then it feels earned. Nakia is very much by T’Challa’s side the entire time an it feel natural like they’ve been friends since childhood as opposed to them just meeting at the start of the film. Then there’s Okoye, captain of the Dora Milaje and loyal to the thrown even if Killmonger’s in it. She see’s T’Challa not just as her king but also a friend. Her lover, W’Kabi, makes for a good friend turned foe and shares perfect chemistry with her. T’Challa’s mother, Ramonda, makes for a good supporting character, showing that she very much loves her son and is willing to anything she can for him. Zuri is a good adviser and key player in Killmonger’s arc. M’baku of the Jabari tribe was just so much fun, being a fierce rival for T’Challa and having some good jokes thrown in for good measure. Then we have Ulysses Klaue, the nasty but clever and funny thief who has a Vibranium arm since he was last seen in Avengers: Age of Ultron. He just steals the show every time he’s on screen until Killmonger kills him and drops him at the border of Wakanda.

Credit should really be given to the cast for bringing these characters to life. Chadwick Boseman gives what is quite possibly his most defining performance in his career, playing a compelling, charming, and so very human character with super human abilities. Michael B. Jordan made Killmonger his own, bringing out his humanity and bitterness towards the people who oppressed him. Letitia Wright very much sells the spunky Shuri is meant to have as well as being tech savy. Lupita Nyong’o, Danai Gurrea, Forrest Whitaker, Angela Basset, Winston Duke and Daniel Kaluuya are all good and very memorable as Nakia, Okoye, Zuri, Ramonda, M’Baku, and W’Kabi respectively. The one having the most fun in this film is Andy Serkis as Ulysses Klaue, taking full advantage of his onscreen presence with his eccentric and funny personality.

The soundtrack for the film is also very memorable, embracing the African atmosphere with sounds and music influenced by countries in the continent. Rapper Kendrick Lamar was brought on to produce music for the film and his single, All The Stars (featuring SZA) used in the end credits ties in to Killmonger’s arc perfectly. Not only does the music play a key part in bringing this film to life, but the costumes and visuals aesthetic make the it feel alive. The costumes feel like they belong in an African country, making use of various colors from the lower East side of the continent. People seem to have a problem with the CG used in the film, particularly in the final battle. I’m not sure what the problem is, the CG looks fine throughout the film. Wakanda feels lived in and looks like a real place you could visit. Practical effects such as really buildings and cooking stations were used for shots in the city, but for wide shots, the CG looks flawless. I guess they’re referring to how T’Challa and Killmonger fighting in the Vibranium minds “looks like a PS2 game.” If I may go on a side tangent, I really hate the “it looks like a video game” argument. I undermines the hard work and effort that went in to making games as well as the effort put into CG in movies. In this case, the CG looks exactly like what it’s showing: two guys in black cat suits (one purple, the other orange) duking it out in a dimly lit cave. I might not be a visual effects supervisor, but even I can tell the difference from a game that came out a decade and a half ago and a movie released in 2018.

The last thing I want to talk about is why this film resonated so much with people, particularly with people of color. Contrary to popular belief, the fact that this film has a black superhero is not the only reason why it resonated with black people. It’s actually has to do with timing and how that played a huge part in it’s success. Racism still thrives around the world, particularly here in America. Just 2 years before this film came out, Zootopia tackled racism in a way children could understand and that also resonated with people unlike most animated films have done. Black Panther tackles a different angel than Zootopia and yet gets it’s message across just as effectively. Deep down, we’re very much like Killmonger. Everybody is sick of racism and we all want to do something about it. However, as the film shows, genocide is NOT the answer. The reason why the Holocaust happened and terrorism exists is because people think that killing other people they don’t like is the best solution. This film ends with T’Challa learning the right lesson from Killmonger: by opening Wakanda to the rest of the world and offering to help people instead of hurt them, T’Challa proves to be the best king in Wakandan history. The film isn’t “just another superhero movie” as some would claim it to be. It’s the film we need now more than ever. We need to be told being angry at the oppressor isn’t going to stop him, but offering to help those who are being oppressed makes a big difference. To quote a young woman from a little movie about space ships, “That’s how we’re going to win. Not fighting what we hate. Saving what we love.”

Look, the film isn’t perfect by any means. Martian Freeman gives a good performance as Everett Ross, but the character is just there to be the “Phil Coulson-esqu” type of character. That and I was a little bummed we didn’t get to see more of Klaue in the film. That said, I have nothing but positive things to say about the film. As a film it’s got a strong story, excellent characters, impressive visual effects, a memorable sound track and great performances all around. And to top it all off, it’s message culturally significant and it’s delivered in an organic way that doesn’t come across as pretentious. To anyone who dubs this film “overrated” (looking at you Dishonoured Wolf -.-), please refrain from doing so. It’s fine if you don’t like it, but you can’t deny that it’s message isn’t important. I now leave you with a quote from T’Challa himself. 

#black panther #marvel cinematic universe #superhero #defense #academy awards #chadwick boseman #michael b jordan #cultural significant #racism #genocide #like #share #reblog #follow #quote

[nycttophilic-a]

Lia Michaelis~

=BASIC INFO= FULL NAME: Jezilia Michaelis NICKNAME(S)/ALIAS(ES): Jez (by her dad), Jezilia (by everyone in the Port Mafia), Lia (by her mom). Lia is NOT her nickname—yet—, but your muse can definitely give her that name. She starts all threads by only going by Jezilia. PRONUNCIATION(S): Jez-ee-lee-a AGE: 23, verse dependent GENDER: Female SPECIES: Human (ability user)  BIRTH DATE: October 31st SEXUALITY: Panromantic demisexual =PERSONALITY= PERSONALITY: Dark, dreary, mysterious, twisted, brilliant, cold EMBODYING QUALITY/IDEA: A really dark and mysterious introverted woman.  LIKES: Being alone, music, reading, writing music, sweets, darkness DISLIKES: People, crowds, bright lights, the outdoors, obnoxious people, the Port Mafia FEARS: Crowds, losing her loved ones WEAKNESSES: She has very little empathy, and expresses little to no emotion. It’s hard for her to show love to the people she cares about. She often struggles to convey her feelings to them, so she just doesn’t do anything about them and suffers in silence. Also has severe anxiety in crowds. STRENGTHS: determined, strong willed, musically talented SPECIAL/SIGNIFICANT BELONGINGS: She has a crystal necklace around her neck that belonged to her mother. She is always wearing it, but it’s not often seen. =PHYSICAL AND HEALTH INFO= HEIGHT: 5′10 WEIGHT: 122 lbs BODY TYPE: Tall and very slender as well as precise over every movement she makes. JEWELRY: Black earrings, a black choker, dark jewelry like that. Her mother’s necklace PIERCINGS/TATTOOS: Normal ear piercings, her left ear has a couple other piercings  SCARS/DISTINGUISHING MARKS: Her hair is raven black but her bangs are white as snow, so that’s an easy way to find her in a crowd. Body has scars from extensive training.  =RELATIONSHIP INFO= RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Verse dependent PARENTS: Kira Black (mother, supposedly deceased); William Michaelis (father, deceased) SIBLING(S): None (ability, Demona, is like a sister to her) – BEST FRIEND(S): Demona FRIENDS: N/A ACQUAINTANCES: N/A ASSISTANTS: her squad, the Shadow Demons GUARDS: N/A ALLIES: The Port Mafia PETS/SPECIAL ANIMALS: – ENEMIES: The ADA, the Guild, the Rats, the DoA (verse dependent) MAIN ENEMY(IES): ADA, Mori, her father MOST HATED: Her father, herself =STORY INFO= STORIES THAT THIS CHARACTER APPEARS IN: Bungou Stray Dogs STATUS: Alive BACKSTORY: Lia’s parents grew up together and lived on the streets together in London. Her father was secretly an executive in the Port Mafia, but her mom didn’t know this. One day, he left for work and never came back. Kira was pregnant with their child, which she didn’t realize before. She was sixteen. When Lia was 3, she and her mother were attacked in their apartment. The details are still unknown, and it’s believed that her mother died (which is what Lia believes as well). Her father, unaware that he had a child before hand, came and collected her. From then on he trained her under him in the Port Mafia. The training was brutal and what no child should go through, but he really did love her and want the best for her. He thought what he was doing was for the best. Lia hated what he did to her but had very mixed feelings about her father. When she was fifteen, she finally snapped and shot him in the chest, killing him. She thought that if she killed him she would be free from the mafia life, but she was sorely mistaken. Mori (who had just became the new boss at this point) allowed her to live despite the fact that she killed an executive, which is treason in the PM. This is because of how strong her ability is. Even though he allowed her to live, she’s still a prisoner without anyone realizing it. She’s more trapped than she ever was now, but her shackles are invisible. No one knows what happened to her father, and it’s said an enemy organization killed him. Mori wants to keep Lia’s little “slip up” a secret because if the PM ever learned that he allowed the murderer of an executive to live, they would want him dethroned. And we can’t have that.  – PLACE OF BIRTH: London, the United Kingdom PAST LIVING QUARTERS: London. CURRENT AND FUTURE HOMES: Yokohama. – NATIVE LANGUAGE(S): English  LANGUAGES SPOKEN: English, Japanese, French, a tiny bit of Russian (only from being exposed to it), some German, Japanese sign language  =TALENTS/OCCUPATION/EDUCATION= OCCUPATION/JOB: Mafioso—squad leader  BOSS: Mori TALENTS: Stealth, experience in combat, her ability.  YEARS OF EDUCATION: No formal education, taught some things by William.  LEVEL OF EDUCATION: N/A =COMBAT= SKILLS/TECHNIQUES: Prefers long range attacks. Has excellent agility and is pretty strong. Relies heavily on her ability, but is good at hand to hand anyway. Just in case. SPECIAL POWERS: Her ability, “Demon’s Embrace”. This allows Lia to manipulate and control shadows. She can use these shadows to do pretty much anything, like attack, hide her, transport her/other things and/or people, sense the area around her, give her night vison, and almost anything else. She can make the shadows solidify so that she can attack people and make tendrils that impale her victims, so in this sense her ability is similar to Akutagawa’s. HOWEVER, one major downfall to her ability is that she cannot make shadows. This means she’s basically ability-less during the day and in any sunlight, so she does most of her work at night. During the day the most she can do is create throwing knives from the shadows of her hood hat disappear in a matter of seconds. Her ability is the strongest at midnight with no moonlight.  WEAPON(S) OF CHOICE: Her ability. If she can’t use her ability, she often will just use a gun that’s hidden under her coat. Will use her own two fists if necessary.  STRENGTHS: Agile, fast, excellent at long range attacks at night, is basically undefeatable when in complete darkness, high pain tolerance  WEAKNESSES: Can’t use her ability in light and also become physically weaker and drained in light, especially daylight.  =VERSES= ~hσld чσur вrєαth αnd cσunt thє dαчѕ; wє‘rє grαduαtíng ѕσσn~ [High School Verse]—Lia, a human now, is quiet and dark and often can be found listening to music and not paying attention to class or those around her. She secretly works every day to provide for her adoptive sister and mother, since Kira is a single mom trying to become a doctor.

~ѕσund σf mч hєαrt; thє вєαt gσєѕ σn αnd σn~ [Band Verse]—Another Verse where Lia is human. In this one, she’s a quiet (erm, silent) electric guitar player who secretly has a few hundredsongs up her leather sleeves.

~í’m α crєαturє whσ‘ѕ up tσ nσ gσσd; í‘ll lσvє чσu líkє α vαmpírє wσuld~ [Vampire Verse]—This verse is very simple and the same for all of the muses that have it: the character is a vampire. This verse is very flexible, so if you have ideas please let me know so we can incorporate it into the thread!! But it’s nothing major, I just love vampires lol

~wє clαím thє lαnd αnd thєn thє hσrízσn; αnd σntσ thє wσrld íf wє ѕσ dєѕírє~ [BSD-Decay of Angels! Verse]—This is a side verse to Lia’s BSD verse. Here, Lia met Osamu Dazai in the Port Mafia and fell in love with him, only to have him leave her. At first, she believes him to be dead because that’s the easiest to believe. But when she learns he’s alive, she’s furious and destroyed to know that he would leave her in darkness after showing her this beautiful light. So, when a certain Russian approaches her and asks her if she wanted an escape from her dark and lonely life, who was she to say no? Thus, she joined the Decay of Angels...

~gσd dαmn ríght; чσu ѕhσuld вє ѕcαrєd σf mє~ [Tokyo Ghoul Verse]—In this verse, Lia is a half ghoul from birth. Kira was a human (died in childbirth) and Sebastian was a ghoul (whereabouts unknown). Lia is an incredibly strong ghoul, since she’s a one eyed ghoul, but no one would be able to tell. She lives her life as a human like Eto does, hiding her ghoulish nature. She’s also a member of the CGG, and an excellent one at that.

~íf í tσld чσu whαt í wαѕ wσuld чσu turn чσur вαck σn mє?~ [Monster! Verse]—An AU where the world is humans/monster hunters vs. monsters. Here, Lia is a wisp. She was created by the demon that protected a certain forest in order to lure humans in for him to devour. She isn’t alive and never was, so she doesn’t understand emotions and being alive. But she’s willing to learn. More information can be found here.

~í cαn вє hαppч wíth чσu; вut í cαn‘t вє hαppч íf í‘m dєαd~ [Simulation Verse]—Do you want to ship your muse with one of my four girls? Then this is the verse for you!! That is, if you’re prepared for some REALLY messed up shit and triggers like suicide, abuse, murder, blood, and many others. This verse is not at all for the faint of heart, and it’s best if you don’t really know what you’re in for. If you want to learn a bit more about this verse, you can find it here.

~tαkє mє thrσugh thє níght; fαll íntσ thє dαrk ѕídє~ [Villain! Verse]—A verse for My Hero Academia. Lia is just a normal human in this verse, and not related to Kira in any way. She works for the government as an investigator and uses her quirk—Hood: if she pulls her hood over her head she goes invisible—to investigate villains. However, she’s actually a villain in secret. She works for Anne and Leic at the Underworld (villain organization) to get info on other villains. She is loyal to them, not the government.

like this post if you have read it and agree to it, please.

#Lia Michaelis #~🥀I’m super bored (OOC)🥀~ #{ Lia’s Bio Page }

[rudra-writes]

Pallas and Telurin - Hot Springs (Part 9)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. Telurin considers his conflicted feelings about continuing to be Pallas’s guardian, indirectly putting the anchorite in danger from his own death knight compulsions. The following day on the road, Pallas suggests they stop at a natural hot springs. Pallas encourages Telurin to join him in the warm water, and their attraction to one another comes to light. (Advisory for some suggestive content.)

Telurin considers that. "It is true enough, that we have not known each other long. Even so, do you discount the trust it takes to be intimate with another? I assure you, I am not often found lazing on the banks of a hot spring, more than a dozen paces from my runeblade."

He continues his tracery even as he considers his next few words, though they're beginning to trail more southwards. "If you do not want to speak of it, I will not press. Tell me when you are ready, I will be content with taking you how I please in the meantime."

Pallas realizes what Telurin is saying must be true. From the scant knowledge he'd gleaned about runeblades, he understood them to be like an extension of a death knight's own body. For Telurin to be separate from his was surely a great extension of trust.

The priest raises his tail slightly at the touch of Telurin's fingertips as they pass southwards, enough to uncover his rump. His eyes lit up with understanding and thankfulness when the death knight says he will not press. "It is very intimate," Pallas promises, reaching a hand to caress Telurin's muttonchop. "Intimate, perhaps, even in ways you have never before considered were possible." He nods, "I will know when the right time presents itself."

Pallas strokes his fingers over Telurin's neck and the curious ring of steel around his throat. "Shall I sing to you?" he asks. He wanted to sing and try to lull his beautiful death knight to sleep. How trusting it would be for a death knight to allow such.

Telurin cups that obligingly offered rump, even as he relaxes into Pallas's touches. He raises an eyebrow at Pallas's question, however.

"Trying to lull me to sleep, Anchorite?" he asks, amusement in his voice. Until now he's been lounging languidly with the little priest curled up at his side, but with the question he's suddenly rolled over on top of the other man, bracing himself on his elbows and knees so that he's not putting his full weight on him, but enough to keep him pinned all the same. He looks into Pallas's eyes with a wicked gleam in his own, before he purrs, "Do not think you're getting off so easy.... This is only a brief respite before the second round." Indeed, with the change in position, Pallas should be able to feel that Tel is not boasting about being ready to go for another round.

Pallas blinks rapidly several times as Telurin decides in that moment to roll his massive, naked self on top of him. Suddenly, the Anchorite is pinned underneath Telurin. Pallas is very surprised, and it takes him a few moments to switch gears. He had had his loving lullaby song picked out, and had been fully prepared to serenade the death knight to sleep. Telurin... isn't going to sleep? He wants to go /another round/? Didn't the death knight already come inside of Pallas? What was happening?

Pallas's cheeks darkened to periwinkle blue as he realized Telurin was hard again. Oh... Oh dear. The Anchorite had really not expected this possibility. He swallows. "You don't... You don't feel like sleeping?"

"I had no intention of sleeping tonight." Telurin says with something of a lascivious smirk. "Even before you wore down my resolve and got me into the hot springs." But he also saw the slightly shocked expression that had flickered across Pallas's features, and he relents.

"Come back into the water with me." he says instead, letting the Anchorite go, "We'll call it a compromise."

Pallas sees Telurin backpedal a little - It makes his heart swell with compassion that this death knight, whom upon first glance is cold and terrifying, is so considerate to him.

He straightens up quickly, and takes Telurin's hand. "You surprised me, is all. If another round is what you want, then it is what you will have. I will not have it spoken that I am weak." He went blue in the face and the tips of his ears again. The knowledge that that Telurin could come repeatedly is shocking, but to Pallas, it's also erotic.

Then Pallas smiles playfully, "I don't think you had the intention of sleeping that other time either, back at the inn, and it still happened."

Telurin raises an eyebrow at that mention of weak. He's not forgotten how Pallas reacted, but he also didn't consider anything he'd said to suggest as much.

"An inn is a different matter entirely." He frowns down at the little Anchorite. "I'm hardly going to pass out when we're in the middle of nowhere." A slight gleam in his eye, his focus trailing down was the only indication he gave before he bent just enough to catch the slender priest about the waist and lift him over his shoulder, one steadying hand curled around the base of his tail.

"Don't tempt me, Pallas." He says, heading back toward the water, carrying the man in question as if he weighed nothing. "I might just take you up on it. For now, you and I are relaxing, and that's final."

It's true, Telurin had not actually implied anything towards Pallas being weak. It was more that Pallas liked Telurin enough to want to satisfy him, even if that meant copulating with the death knight repeatedly in one evening. The thought was... frightening, Pallas didn't know whether he actually had that kind of stamina, but it was also so erotic.

The Anchorite sighs as he's carried, unable to argue with the logic of Telurin's decision. Of course, his guardian is correct, they shouldn't sleep outdoors, it was hardly safe.

"All right, Telurin." Pallas mumbles as he's carried along like a sack of rice.

Telurin's response is a pleased rumble as he sets the little Anchorite down into the water. "There, was that so difficult?" He's amused, and his tail is swishing through the water. He lets his fingers trace down the front of his released captive, and goes back to where he settled the first time, against a rock that looked to be shaped just for that purpose.

"Besides, it is not so late yet that we don't have time to dally in the water for a while... Unless you are getting tired...?"

Pallas is grateful to be in the bathwater-temperature hot springs again. Truth be told, the night air was rather chilly otherwise, and unfortunately Telurin's body did not provide much in the way of warmth beyond the shelter he offered from breezes.

The priest blushes hotly again at the touch of Telurin's too-big fingers. "I'm not tired," he insists, moving himself through the water until he has returned to Tel's lap once again. He moves to settle himself, then lowers his eyelids, and places a hand underwater, stroking a single little finger along the death knight's length.

He wanted to ask if it was difficult to find a mate to satisfy himself with, as a death knight, but the Anchorite already knew the answer to that question. Of course it was difficult, if not near impossible. "We should think about how we will enter Karabor," Pallas murmurs, although he seems more interested in how Telurin's cock feels, and what it does. "How far inside the temple will you wish to accompany me?"

Telurin's cock is appreciative of the attention, going from moderately erect to fully hard with the attention. It twitches as Pallas trails over the frenulum, pushing up into the contact. Telurin himself is pleased with the attention, eyes going hooded as his own hand runs down and up the underside of Pallas's tail.

"Left to my own devices, I would not go past the outer walls." Telurin murmurs, using his free hand to catch Pallas's and demonstrate how he likes to be stroked, "I will go as far as the gardens, but I will not enter the Temple proper itself."

Pallas nods, his face going hot when he feels how Telurin's manhood responds - Even better, when the other man takes his own hand and demonstrates what he likes down there. It's still as thrilling as ever when Telurin decides to assert control. The priest nods, distantly registering what the death knight is saying. "I will miss having you around." Pallas says, then he pauses. He realizes he is going to miss Telurin more than he anticipated he would when they first set out on this journey.

Pallas raised himself up enough to kiss Telurin's cheek. "Where will you go, in the meanwhile?" His tail remains raised while the death knight plays with the underside of it.

"I have some responsibilities besides rescuing little Anchorites and having my way with them." He purrs, tracing the join of Pallas's tail to his rump. "Most of them right here in Shadowmoon, even. I will not be far, wherever my travels take me."

He goes back to stroking the underside of Pallas's tail, out to about a third of its length and back down to cup the man’s ass. "Besides, by the time we reach Karabor, you may be looking for a respite from my attentions." He lets go of Pallas's hand around his shaft to toy with the Anchorite some more.

"You are cryptic," Pallas murmurs, but he knows it's not his business whatever else Telurin gets up to. He breathes deeply at the touch of the death knight's fingers, his own two small hands coming to rest upon the other draenei's broad expanse of chest.

The Anchorite shakes his head faintly at Telurin's words. "I don't want us to reach Karabor... because I never want this to stop." He foresaw many long days of fasting, prayers, healing the sick, tending the herb gardens and fey dragons, aiding the elderly, and giving sermons, and then at night, he'd retreat to his small, ascetic room and masturbate in his little cot, thinking of this man.

"There's more to life than pleasure, Anchorite." Telurin laughs, and gives the Anchorite a few more strokes before releasing him to lean back against the rocks. "As it is, I wouldn't be surprised if the Karabor defenders try to charge me with kidnapping." He flicks one of Pallas's nipples with a nail, not quite ready to give up touching the man in a sexual way even though he knows the proper course would be to give him a break.

"I'm sure life at the temple is hard for you… You're certainly not built for the life of celibacy and strict adherence to the rules.....What will your fellows think when you tell them you've been bedded by a man'ari and liked every minute of it?"

#draenei #draenei death knight #Pallas #Telurin

[inkyardpress]

Celebrate Your Pride with 10 Great Queer Reads

Happy Pride! This month, we’re celebrating the LGBTQIAP+ community with the one thing we just can’t stop talking about: books, books and more books! There are lots of amazing novels out there repping queer voices, telling unique and impactful stories, and filing up bookshelves around the world. These are just a few of our favorite outstanding stories. What are you reading this month?

All Out: The No-Longer-Secret Stories of Queer Teens throughout the Ages edited by Saundra Mitchell 

Take a journey through time and genres and discover a past where queer figures live, love and shape the world around them. Seventeen of the best young adult authors across the queer spectrum have come together to create a collection of beautifully written diverse historical fiction for teens. 

From a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood set in war-torn 1870s Mexico featuring a transgender soldier, to two girls falling in love while mourning the death of Kurt Cobain, forbidden love in a sixteenth-century Spanish convent or an asexual girl discovering her identity amid the 1970s roller-disco scene, All Out tells a diverse range of stories across cultures, time periods and identities, shedding light on an area of history often ignored or forgotten. 

Featuring stories from: Dahlia Adler, Sara Farizan, Tess Sharpe, Shaun David Hutchinson, Kody Keplinger, Mackenzi Lee, Malinda Lo, Nilah Magruder, Anna-Marie McLemore, Tehlor Kay Mejia, Natalie C. Parker, Alex Sanchez, Kate Scelsa, Robin Talley, Scott Tracey and Elliot Wake. 

All Out is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

Our Own Private Universe by Robin Talley 

Fifteen-year-old Aki Simon has a theory. And it’s mostly about sex. 

No, it isn’t that kind of theory. Aki already knows she’s bisexual—even if, until now, it’s mostly been in the hypothetical sense. Aki has dated only guys so far, and her best friend, Lori, is the only person who knows she likes girls, too. 

Actually, Aki’s theory is that she’s got only one shot at living an interesting life—and that means she’s got to stop sitting around and thinking so much. It’s time for her to actually do something. Or at least try. 

So when Aki and Lori set off on a church youth-group trip to a small Mexican town for the summer and Aki meets Christa—slightly older, far more experienced—it seems her theory is prime for the testing. 

But it’s not going to be easy. For one thing, how exactly do two girls have sex, anyway? And more important, how can you tell if you’re in love? It’s going to be a summer of testing theories—and the result may just be love. 

Our Own Private Universe is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

The Sidekicks by Will Kostakis 

Ryan, Harley and Miles are very different people—the swimmer, the rebel and the nerd. All they’ve ever had in common is Isaac, their shared best friend. 

When Isaac dies unexpectedly, the three boys must come to terms with their grief and the impact Isaac had on each of their lives. In his absence, Ryan, Harley and Miles discover things about one another they never saw before, and realize there may be more tying them together than just Isaac. 

In this intricately woven story told in three parts, award-winning Australian author Will Kostakis makes his American debut with a heartwarming, masterfully written novel about grief, self-discovery and the connections that tie us all together. The Sidekicks is out now. 

Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

Runebinder by Alex R. Kahler 

When magic returned to the world, it could have saved humanity, but greed and thirst for power caused mankind's downfall instead. Now once-human monsters called Howls prowl abandoned streets, their hunger guided by corrupt necromancers and the all-powerful Kin. Only Hunters have the power to fight back in the unending war, using the same magic that ended civilization in the first place. 

But they are losing. 

Tenn is a Hunter, resigned to fight even though hope is nearly lost. When he is singled out by a seductive Kin named Tomás and the enigmatic Hunter Jarrett, Tenn realizes he’s become a pawn in a bigger game. One that could turn the tides of war. But if his mutinous magic and wayward heart get in the way, his power might not be used in favor of mankind. 

If Tenn fails to play his part, it could cost him his friends, his life…and the entire world. 

The action-packed follow up, Runebreaker, hits shelves November 27th, 2018. 

Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

What We Left Behind by Robin Talley 

Toni and Gretchen are the couple everyone envied in high school. They've been together forever. They never fight. They're deeply, hopelessly in love. When they separate for their first year at college—Toni to Harvard and Gretchen to NYU—they're sure they'll be fine. Where other long-distance relationships have fallen apart, theirs is bound to stay rock-solid. 

The reality of being apart, though, is very different than they expected. Toni, who identifies as genderqueer, meets a group of transgender upperclassmen and immediately finds a sense of belonging that has always been missing, but Gretchen struggles to remember who she is outside their relationship. 

While Toni worries that Gretchen won't understand Toni’s new world, Gretchen begins to wonder where she fits in this puzzle. As distance and Toni's shifting gender identity begin to wear on their relationship, the couple must decide—have they grown apart for good, or is love enough to keep them together? 

What We Left Behind is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

Toil & Trouble: 15 Tales of Women & Witchcraft edited by Jessica Spotswood and Tess Sharpe 

History is filled with stories of women accused of witchcraft, of fearsome girls with arcane knowledge. Toil & Trouble features fifteen stories of girls embracing their power, reclaiming their destinies and using their magic to create, to curse, to cure—and to kill. 

A young witch uses social media to connect with her astrology clients—and with a NASA-loving girl as cute as she is skeptical. A priestess of death investigates a ritualized murder. A bruja who cures lovesickness might need the remedy herself when she falls in love with an altar boy. A theater production is turned upside down by a visiting churel. In Reconstruction-era Texas, a water witch uses her magic to survive the soldiers who have invaded her desert oasis. And in the near future, a group of girls accused of witchcraft must find their collective power in order to destroy their captors. 

This collection reveals a universal truth: there’s nothing more powerful than a teenage girl who believes in herself. 

Toil & Trouble hits shelves August 28th, 2018. Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

The Diminished by Kaitlyn Sage Patterson 

 In the Alskad Empire, nearly all are born with a twin, two halves to form one whole…yet some face the world alone.

The singleborn: 

A rare few are singleborn in each generation, and therefore given the right to rule by the gods and goddesses. Bo Trousillion is one of these few, born into the royal line and destined to rule. Though he has been chosen to succeed his great-aunt, Queen Runa, as the leader of the Alskad Empire, Bo has never felt equal to the grand future before him. 

The diminished: 

When one twin dies, the other usually follows, unable to face the world without their other half. Those who survive are considered diminished, doomed to succumb to the violent grief that inevitably destroys everyone whose twin has died. Such is the fate of Vi Abernathy, whose twin sister died in infancy. Raised by the anchorites of the temple after her family cast her off, Vi has spent her whole life scheming for a way to escape and live out what’s left of her life in peace. 

As their sixteenth birthdays approach, Bo and Vi face very different futures—one a life of luxury as the heir to the throne, the other years of backbreaking work as a temple servant. But a long-held secret and the fate of the empire are destined to bring them together in a way they never could have imagined. 

The Diminished is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

Lies We Tell Ourselves by Robin Talley 

In 1959 Virginia, the lives of two girls on opposite sides of the battle for civil rights will be changed forever. 

Sarah Dunbar is one of the first black students to attend the previously all-white Jefferson High School. An honors student at her old school, she is put into remedial classes, spit on and tormented daily. 

Linda Hairston is the daughter of one of the town’s most vocal opponents of school integration. She has been taught all her life that the races should be kept “separate but equal.” 

Forced to work together on a school project, Sarah and Linda must confront harsh truths about race, power and how they really feel about one another. 

Lies We Tell Ourselves by Robin Talley is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

Ace of Shades by Amanda Foody 

Enne Salta was raised as a proper young lady, and no lady would willingly visit New Reynes, the so-called City of Sin. But when her mother goes missing, Enne must leave her finishing school—and her reputation—behind to follow her mother’s trail to the city where no one survives uncorrupted. 

Frightened and alone, Enne has only one lead: the name Levi Glaisyer. Unfortunately, Levi is not the gentleman she expected—he’s a street lord and con man. Levi is also only one payment away from cleaning up a rapidly unraveling investment scam, so he doesn't have time to investigate a woman leading a dangerous double life. Enne's offer of compensation, however, could be the solution to all his problems. 

Their search for clues leads them through glamorous casinos, illicit cabarets and into the clutches of a ruthless Mafia donna. As Enne unearths an impossible secret about her past, Levi's enemies catch up to them, ensnaring him in a vicious execution game where the players always lose. To save him, Enne will need to surrender herself to the city… And she’ll need to play. 

Ace of Shades is out now. Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

Pulp by Robin Talley 

As if we couldn’t pack any more of Robin Talley’s fantastic works into this list, we have one more than needs to be on your radar. Keep an eye out for Pulp in November 2018! 

In 1955, eighteen-year-old Janet Jones keeps the love she shares with her best friend Marie a secret, but when she discovers a series of books about women falling in love with other women, it awakens something in her. As she juggles her hidden romance with a newfound ambition to write her own story, she risks exposing herself—and Marie—to a danger all too real. 

Sixty-two years later, Abby Zimet can’t stop thinking about her senior project and its subject—classic 1950s lesbian pulp fiction. The stresses of her life fall away when she's reading her favorite book. She feels especially connected to one author, a woman who wrote under the pseudonym “Marian Love,” and becomes determined to track down her true identity. 

Pulp hits shelves November 13th, 2018. Add it to your Goodreads shelf! 

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#ya books #ya reads #bookworm #LGBT books #Book Recommendations

[imliterallypercyjackson]

A Snippet

To all nine of you that follow me, I just wanted to say thanks. To anyone else who sees this, I figured I might put this out there as a feeler so y’all can see my writing, if you want. This is the first chapter from a story I’m writing about the son of Lugh the Long-handed, the Celtic god of light, who is also a reincarnation of his son CuChullain, growing up in modern America and has to deal with mythical bullshit alla PJO/HOO but, like, adultier and angstier. So. Yeah.

Also, an important note. Please feel free to reblog if you want, comment, I don’t care, but THIS IS NOT A WRITING PROMPT and it would really hurt my feelings if one of y’all took my idea and used it and wrote a book off of my chapter or something and I’d probably cry and scream and break something and feel pretty stabby and I don’t like feeling stabby so please please please please please don’t do that kay thanks.

Chapter 1

I'm not here to tell you that your problems aren't valid, because everyone has issues. But, seriously, if you heard what was going on in my life, you'd agree: other issues seem easy. Because, you see, as hard as going through a layoff and a divorce and your dog dying are, you still probably don't have to deal with almost getting your head blown off on the regular, do you, George? No? Didn't think so.

It's kind of a long story, and parts of it will probably sound familiar. But for you to really understand what's going on, I'll have to start at the beginning. It was my senior year of high school. Yeah, already a bad start, I know.

I was on my way out of the building at the end of the school day. Normally, at the end of the day, I would meet up with my best friend and we'd drive home to pretend we were gonna do our homework and really just play video games.

So I walked out of the building and found Asim waiting by the car.

Asim Bahadur Qarim is one of the greatest men who ever lived and that's a fact. His parents came to America when he was young, so young he doesn't remember his home in Iran. But they ran from all of the political turmoil that befell basically the entire Middle East, and they already had friends and family in America. Luckily, Mr. Qarim made friends with some soldiers that were taking some time off from their deployment. One of them, who came to be known to us as Uncle Miles, put them up in his place until they could find work and a house.

Now, Asim was about to graduate high school and had been accepted into Julliard in the fall for his acting talents. He, in part, wanted to do what he loved and make his parents proud, but he also wanted to be a famous Muslim actor, something he didn't see a whole lot of.

Asim was a handsome guy, or so the girls we went to school with kept reminding us. He had coal black hair that fell in wavy locks about his head. He kept it long enough to fall to his neck but not enough to hit his collar if he was wearing a collared shirt. His eyes were like black coffee, and his skin more like a mocha. His frame was strong but thin, as his exercise included mostly running and hiking. He had thick stubble on his face, thicker on his lip and chin. He was leaning against the hood of my car, one of his black loafers up on the body, with his thick jacket on and a pair of black jeans, a scarf around his neck and a beanie on his head. He was smoking a cigarette, putting it out and putting it back in his pack when he saw me.

“Really, man?” I said walking up. “Right before we get in the car?”

“Roll the windows down,” he said with a shrug.

“It’s January you turd.”

We got into the car, a dumpy little station wagon that was pretty much all that my parents could afford. But it didn’t matter. It had four wheels and an engine, so I was happy. In addition, the heater worked, which was especially good since I would have to sit in the car with Smokey Bear.

“I’m so excited to go skiing this weekend!” Asim said.

“Me too!” Since my parents didn’t have a whole lot of money, they spent all year every year saving up so that we could go on a big trip for Christmas. This year, they were taking Asim and me to a ski resort out in the mountains. I had been looking forward to the trip since September. “You packed, right?”

“Yeah, if we can just swing by my place really quick.”

I nodded and started heading for Asim’s house. It was a short drive, and we were there in no time. He ran into the house and was back out in a few minutes. Neither of his parents were home yet, but they would be meeting us at the resort later. My parents didn’t pay for them, but of course they invited the Qarim family, who graciously accepted. They were even bringing Uncle Miles.

We went back to my house, a tiny little townhouse in the suburbs just a couple miles from school. I ran inside and to the second floor to grab my bag from my room. I started heading back downstairs and looked at the walls that were covered with pictures of the three of us. I stepped out into the living room to see our sparsely-furnished but well-loved home, covered in even more pictures, month old newspapers my dad hadn’t gotten rid of, and old files from projects my mom finished and never cleaned up. It felt like home.

I sighed and stepped back outside. The air was colder than I remembered, so I drew my scarf up further around my neck and walked back to the car. I got in and was glad to be in the heat again. I rolled up the windows, the smell of cigarettes now gone from the cabin of the vehicle.

So we made our way to the highway and off to the mountains. It was a while before either of us spoke, but neither of us needed to. We were both comfortable enough with each other that we could sit in silence for hours.

Inevitably, one of us broke the silence. “Did you pick a school yet?” Asim asked. This had been a topic of hot debate for quite some time. I wanted to go to college, but I had no idea what to study. I had no idea what school to go to. I was kinda falling off the back of the wagon.

“No, I haven’t,” I said.

“Gotta get on that if you want to go to college.”

“Well, there’s community college.”

“You wanna be a community college guy?”

I gave him a glare quickly, then looked back at the road. “What’s wrong with community college?”

Asim suddenly got an uncomfortable look on his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

Asim was suddenly confused, and looking flustered. His cheeks flushed and he lowered himself in his seat. “I’m suddenly feeling very attacked.”

I chuckled. “Asim, I’m fucking with you. I know what you mean, but I don’t care. Fuck the stigma associated with community college. I’ll be getting an education for a fraction of the cost of something like Juilliard.”

Asim relaxed a little, some of the color leaving his cheeks. “Dude, don’t do that to me.”

“Well, I’m not some super star, so it isn’t like I can get into Juilliard. I’m not an athlete, so I can’t get into a D1 school. I’m no super computer that could make Stanford, or an engineering prodigy to go to MIT, or a social demigod to get into Harvard. I’m just… me.”

“You know as well as I do that you could have done any one of those things if you actually wanted to.”

Asim was right, of course. My biggest issue was that I never applied myself. My grades were always rather lackluster. I got good enough grades that my parents wouldn’t be on my back about it all the time, but not good enough to warrant any awards or scholarships. I was in fantastic shape and could have easily been a star football player, or track star, or a wrestler, baseball player, whatever I wanted. I was capable of doing it all, but I didn’t care enough to try. I never wanted to be on a stage, either, unlike Asim. I could sing, dance, act, I even dabbled in poetry from time to time, but I had no desire to share that with anyone.

“That’s not the point,” I said quietly.

“Then what is, Seth?”

“Maybe I don’t want to be in the spotlight. Maybe I just want to be a background character, like a librarian or something.”

“So what will you do then? Do you want to be a librarian?”

“Well… no… but you’re missing the point. Not every job needs a bachelor’s degree.”

“Then find one, and get passionate about it. I haven’t seen you passionate about anything in a long time, man. I’m starting to get worried.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh, really? Name one thing.”

“I was really passionate about supporting you in The Sound of Music a couple months ago.”

“That doesn’t count, Seth! I mean your own stuff. The last time you were passionate about anything you did yourself was a long time ago! Ever since Becca—”

He winced, froze, and calmed down. He slunk down in his seat again, trying to make himself look smaller, almost like he wanted to hide from me.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “It’s been a year since she… well, yeah. I should be getting better by now.”

“It’s completely understandable, Seth. When Becca…”

“Died, Asim. She died. There’s no sense in hiding it, or denying it. She died.”

“Alright, when Becca… died… it was devastating. I mean, I lost my best friend. I can only imagine what it was like for you.”

I let out a deep sigh.

“Becca was everything to me, Asim. She was more than just my best friend, and my girlfriend. She was my muse. I wrote poetry because she inspired it. I sang because she made my heart sing. I danced because she made it hard for me to sit still. I worked out and got better grades because she inspired me to be better, and to make something of myself one day. When she died, she took it all with her. My love, my heart, my passion. It all faded.”

Asim put a hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t a lot, but I knew the intent behind it. I took one hand from the wheel so that I could cover his, holding tight for a second before letting go.

“Eventually you’ll have to do something, Seth. You’ll have to make some kind of decision, pick a path.”

“Eventually I will. But for now, I’ll survive.”

We sat in silence for a little while longer before I spoke again.

“For the record, I wanted to teach.”

Asim nodded. “That’s a noble pursuit there, Seth. For someone who says he doesn’t care, you sure seem to.”

“I always thought that the best teachers were the worst students,” I said.

“How does that make any sense?”

“Well, think about it this way. The teacher who was a bad student, who messed around with drugs and got in trouble, maybe got a girl pregnant or wrecked his dad’s car, that teacher understands the hardest parts of being a teenager because he succumbed to them. So, I didn’t necessarily do all of those things, but I have not been a great student and I would understand a kid who doesn’t like to do their school work. Maybe I could help them.”

Asim shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. I never thought about it that way.”

“Everyone has their own beasts to slay.”

We concluded our ride in silence. It was only another hour to the resort, so we arrived and found the house, going by the rental office to pick up the keys. Good thing my parents thought to put my name on the rental so I could sign for them.

We got up to the house, a nice little place up in the mountains. It was big enough for the six of us to fit comfortably, but not too big that we felt spaced out.

The first room we walked into was a kitchen, which opened out into a living and dining room beyond. None of the rooms had real walls separating them, just an island separating the kitchen from the living room. There was a staircase off in the back right corner of the living room that seemed to head down into a basement. Based on the placement of the house on the side of a hill, I figured that it would open out to the hill side.

We walked in and headed down the stairs. There was another open area with a television and a DVD player. There were a few doors off of the open room, indicating that they were the bedrooms. Two had queen beds, one had two twin beds, and one had a bunk bed and a twin bed. Asim and I moved our bags into the room with the bunk bed and set them down.

“Alright, now what?” Asim asked.

I shrugged. “We go shopping.”

I grabbed some paper out of a drawer and a pen and wrote a quick note:

Mom, dad,

Went out for groceries. Key under mat. See you soon.

Love,

Seth and Asim

Then Asim and I went on a very routine shopping trip. That was about the last part of our trip that was “routine” in any way.

#wip #original #oc #original piece #My writing #mine #all me #no touchy #Celtic #celtic mythology #cuchullain #irish mythology

[rinskiroo]

Uncanny SWTOR prompts: Person A has a job/assignment in the creepy Dark Temple on Dromund Kaas for Jasati and/or Theron :3

This got a bit wordy.  Thanks for the prompt, and Happy Hallowe’en!

“I think being a disavowed rogueagent has actually made him lose the rest of his marbles,”  Kira hissed at her fellow Jedi as theyskulked through the Temple grounds in the dead of night.  “They won’t kill us if they find us, youknow.  Just decades of the most horrifictorture you can imagine.  Like beingforced to watch overly cute children’s holovids.”

Jasquickly motioned for Kira to hide behind one of the large stones that litteredthe large area in front of Dromund Kaas’Sith Temple as a guard passed by.  Theycrouched and pressed themselves behind the stone and waited for the footstepscrunching on dried leaves and grass to fade away.  There were few guards wandering the area—andthat was the best descriptor either of them could think of.  They seemed to move without purpose, slow andunfocused.  It was rather unnerving howonce they were sure they had been spotted, but a dead-eyed guard paid them nomind.

“He says it’s a big Revanite meetand greet,”  Jas whispered.  “If we take down some of these major players,we could stop this whole mess right now.”

“Dromund Kaas.  Sith Temple.” Kira reiterated the great peril they were in, as if Jas couldforget.  “Can’t save the galaxy if we’redead, Master.”

TheTwi’lek’s shoulders shruggedslightly.  It was a true enoughstatement, but they had to take the chance. She trusted Theron’s intel, and knew the risks he would take if hethought they could be successful.  Theymoved again, quickly towards the opening carved into the front of theTemple.  There was a strange green glowemanating from inside, though once they were across the threshold, it was hardto tell where it was coming from.  Theair seemed to hum with a haunting whine—the Force itself was charged withterror and sorrow and pure rage.

“I have a—”

“Bad feeling.  Really bad feeling,”  Jas agreed, but it was too late to turn backnow.

Therewere slaves inside, still working at whatever they were doing.  Like the guards outside, they seemed to justmeander around the Temple, not really accomplishing anything.  They were hunched over to the side as theylumbered about and took no notice of the two Jedi that had walked into theplace they certainly shouldn’t havebeen.  They did, of course, take care tonot announce themselves as Jedi—taking a public transport under falseidentities, wearing clothing more suitable to tomb raiders, and putting all oftheir Force-masking skills to the test.

“Do you think there’s a significancewith the statues’ bowed heads?”  Jasasked as she looked on at the wide open Temple interior.  There were several large statues ofman-shape, all standing tall, but with their faces towards the ground.  A singular statue stood at the back, perhapsthe source of the ominous green glow: a Sith Pureblood flexing its arms widewith its face turned towards the sky.

“Uh, yeah.  But we’rehere for the evil cult, not art history.” Kira prodded Jas forward until they made it to the steps in the backleading up to the second level.  “Lovechild said they’re meeting upstairs, second alcove on the right side.”

Theypressed up against the wall at the sound of footfalls above them, slowly makingtheir way downward, one step at a time. Both had the hilts of their sabers gripped in their hands.  A confrontation now would be too soon—theenemy would be alerted to their presence and they’dhave to fight their way back to the extraction point.  Chances of surviving the mission went downsignificantly if they had to engage anything other than their intended targets.

Itwas a Zabrak woman, girl really.  Barelyeven a teenager, but with broken, rusted shackles still around her ankles andwrists.  She walked as the other slaveshad—slouched with seemingly no purpose. Jas’ pulse fluttered as she felt Kirawrap her hand around her wrist.  Theycouldn’t afford to try and save anyone here. They didn’t have the time, or the resources, and making the attempt wasanother thing that would greatly reduce their chance of survival.

Herheart ached for every poor being stuck in this Temple, on this world, in thisEmpire.  She was keenly aware that hadthe circumstances of her birth been even slightly different, she could haveeasily ended up in a similar situation, or worse.  Jas glanced at Kira, someone who did know worse circumstances.  She let out a sigh as she accepted that todaywasn’t the day she could liberate thesepeople.

TheZabrak girl had made it past them and was nearly out of view when the longexhale left the Jedi.  The girl stopped,and turned.  It wasn’t her body that turned, just her head, craning at anunnatural angle to look behind her and stare at the two women trying to hide inthe shadows.  Her eyes glowed with thesame ghastly bloom as the Sith statue.

Kira’s fingers squeezed tighter around her wrist.  Both swallowed their breath and held it.  A wall crept up in front of them—a barrier inthe Force that they could hide behind, where their brilliance could be hiddenfrom the Darkness around them.

Itas an agonizingly long minute, but the young slave’s head realigned with her body and she continued her waydown the steps.  When Kira opened hermouth to let out another obvious and sarcastic comment, Jas twisted her wristout of her grip and shook her head.  Theyneeded to get back on task.

Asthey got closer to the room where the meeting was supposed to take place, theycould hear hushed voices.

“Can you understand what they’resaying?”  Jas whispered.

“No, but…”  Kira trailed off like she was thinking, butnot liking where her thoughts ended up.  “I’mnot hearing them with my ears…”

Therewas a cold chill that ran up Jas’spine at Kira’s words.  She had felt it,too.  The whispers weren’t in the roomthey were seeking, but off in the corner of her mind.  It was in a language she almost understood,but just couldn’t quite—

Kiranudged her and moved from where she had been trying to peer into the room.  Wordlessly, they exchanged places and Jasglanced inside.  What she expected to seewas a group of possibly cloaked figures planning out their little clandestineaffair to overthrow both the Empire and Republic and resurrect a ghost.

Thewhispers definitely were not coming from in that room.

Savefor the intricately carved pillars encircling the room, the creepy glowing urnon a stone altar, and the numerous bones scattered around, the area was empty.

“Do you think wrong Temple or wrongdate?”

Jasdidn’t respond, just stared at the emptychamber.  But it wasn’t empty… There wasno Death, just the Force.  The spirits ofthe dead swirled around the Temple.  Allthe souls that had passed through here and had never left still churned throughthe air.  They had died in agony andterror, unfulfilled.  There were slaveswithout choice or hope and acolytes without enough fear or good sense.

“They came for something…”  Jas murmured, mostly to herself.  Slowly, her feet took tentative steps intothe room.  “A boon from their gods?  Knowledge?”

Thewhispers were getting louder.  Sheunderstood a few words now.  Power. Freedom.  Victory.  Not just words, but emotions.  Pure, strong, intoxicating emotions.  Things bottled up and pushed away so as notto overwhelm, but now here, raw and untapped.

“This doesn’t look like the cultistshindig you promised me.”

Herfingers had been mere centimeters away from the urn—she hadn’t even realized she’d been reaching for it when the voicepierced her ears.  Jas turned towards thehooded figure coming through the side door they hadn’t noticed before.  The cloaked figure was an oddity in theTemple.  Its own little pocket ofabsence—a void in the Force, if such a thing were possible.  It wasn’t until he pushed the hood backrevealing a familiar plume of stiff, dark hair and the telltale cyberneticscurved around his left eye.

“Hey, you’re the one who invited usto the creepy compound of death.”  Kiracarefully stepped around the bone piles towards Jas.  “You okay there, Master?”

“No…”  Theron said as he also moved closer into thecenter of the room, towards the two women. “You sent me a message about the Revanites meeting here.  I told you not to come, that I’d take care ofit.”

Jasglanced down at her hand.  It wasstrange; she didn’t remember walking this far intothe room, or reaching for the urn, but here she was with her handoutstretched.  Self-consciously, shepulled it back and wiped it on her jacket. “That’s troubling.  And yes, I’mfine, Kira.  Since it seems we were allmisled, perhaps we should leave.”

“Don’t you think we should find outwhy?  And by who?”  Theron asked. To him, it was now an interesting puzzle to solve that may offer moreclues about those they were after, but there was a jagged spike of fearsettling in her stomach and warnings bouncing around in her skull.

“A little mystery keeps thingsinteresting,”  Jas said, hoping theimpudent comment masked her fear.

Aroundthem, the ground rattled.  Aground-quake, maybe—

“I’m with you, Master.  I’m much happier not knowing what brought ushere.”

Oneof the skulls on the ground rotated. That damned green glow leaking out of the cracks and holes.  It faced the three of them and began skitteringto the side to find a reassembling spinal column.  A femur rolled across the floor along with acouple radiuses and a full set of phalanges.

“Quick vote then,”  Theron said as he started reaching for hisblaster.  “I say run.”

“Aye.”

“Aye!”

“Ayes have it.”

Theronlet the cloak fall to the ground and pulled out both his blasters.  The sound of two sabers igniting filled theroom as the hum of energy around them grew stronger.  Kira twisted her saber around and slicedthrough the forming skeleton, scattering its bones once more.  Several more sets of bones started rattlingaround them and rolling across the ground to reconstitute.  From the door leading out to the main part ofthe Temple, the lurching slaves started to pour in.  One and two at a time, sometimes gettingwedged together when more than two would try to squeeze through the opening.

“This way!”  Theron shouted and lead them towards the sideentrance he had come from.

Itwas a cramped stairwell winding downward to the back of the temple.  Jas took the lead with Kira covering theirretreat.  Once they were out of thebone-room, Kira collapsed the doorway behind them in the hopes that would stopany of the skeletons or possessed slaves from chasing after.

“Do you two have a way out of Impspace?”  Theron asked as he trailedbehind Jas, blaster trained over her shoulder to catch anything that might popout in front of them.

“You told us you had an extractionplan,”  Jas told him, saber raiseddefensively in front of her as they took the steps two and three at a timedown.

“I didn’t send the message,” he reiterated.

“I know that now!”

“Good thing I didn’t follow the planin the message you sent.  I’vegot a shuttle hidden out in the forest.”

“Our hero,”  Kira said dryly.  “Hopefully we make it out of this temple ofhorrors to get to that shuttle.”

“Inc—!”  Theron barely got the word out of his mouthbefore Jas leapt forward and landed with her saber slicing through a fleshymonstrosity that used to be a person—twisted and corrupted by the Dark Side.

Theyhad made it to the bottom of the steps and the small alcove just before theback entrance where several more of the creatures were waiting for them.  Theron fired several blasts from both of hisweapons while Kira used the Force to throw them backwards, away from theirparty.  Jas leapt from creature tocreature like bouncing ball of vengeance, cutting down the ghoulish monsters.

“Go go go!”  Theron shouted, propelling them out into thedarkness and away from the Temple.

[Uncanny SWTOR Prompts] [Masterlist]

#swtor #fanfiction #kira carsen #theron shan #jedi knight #spooky fic #jasati #theron x jas #not really but that's how i sort my tags #uncanny swtor prompts #gerdavonrinnlingen

[junker-town]

9 sports books to read while you’re in social isolation

“Games Without Frontiers” book cover via Penguin Books

You’ve probably got the time — so learn something! (Or just read a good story.)

There is truly no time like the present to slip into a good book. And with most sports suspended, sports books can serve as both a blissful offline distraction and a way to fill that sports-less void.

This is just a small, small sampling of the available offerings, selected by SB Nation staffers. Most of them are available as ebooks, and all are easily accessible via your online book retailer of choice. (Buy independent if you can!)

Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game (2003) by Michael Lewis

It turns out that the revolution Moneyball inspired across sports was not exactly a universal positive. But at the time, before the pitfalls became apparent, it felt like the dawn of a new, more thoughtful way of appreciating sports. More than anything else, Moneyball is what got me writing about baseball.

— Graham MacAree

Beartown (2016) by Fredrik Backman

My current frontrunner for favorite novel is one I think all hockey fans should read. Backman’s Beartown was originally published in Swedish in 2016 and was translated to English in 2017. In it, a small forest town in Sweden is preparing for its junior ice hockey team to compete in the national semifinals when an act of violence changes everything.

Backman uses hockey as a lens to look at violence, class and identity, and how they affect an entire community. He doesn’t shy away from the realities of how sports mirror the worst— and the best — parts of society, which means that this story can be graphic. Yet it still feels like something that could happen anywhere.

This is an especially good quarantine read because Backman also published a sequel titled Us Against You in 2017, and HBO Europe is currently producing a TV series based on the novel.

— Sydney Kuntz

Soccer in Sun and Shadow (1995) by Eduardo Galeano

One of the best, and one of the strangest. Eduardo Galeano’s wider reputation as a writer means this is one of the few soccer books admitted into the category of literature, but don’t let that put you off. Galeano loved football the way everybody does, but he wrote about it like nobody else: the assembled mini-chapters are lyrical and melancholic, weird and funny, passionate and wise. A full review of the book can be read here.

— Andi Thomas

The Breaks of the Game (1981) by David Halberstam

Halberstam’s classic deep dive inside the NBA at the dawn of the Larry Bird/Magic Johnson era through the eyes of the Portland Trail Blazers is the NBA book by which all others are measured. Halberstam talks to everyone — players, coaches, executives, television network presidents and commissioners — delivering an incomparable level of access and reportage.

What emerges is a poignant and intimate look at the people struggling to keep the sport relevant at the exact moment the NBA is posed to take flight into the ‘80s. Through Halberstam’s narrative, the Blazers feel like a family, albeit a dysfunctional family teetering on the edge following the painful breakup with Bill Walton. I’ve read it dozens of times and find something new in its pages with each reading.

— Paul Flannery

The Ball is Round (2006) by David Goldblatt

You could probably eat up an entire quarantine with just this book alone, and you wouldn’t feel like you’d wasted your time. Taking as his premise the question, “Is there any cultural practice more global than football?”, Goldblatt assembles a world-spanning, thousand-page history of soccer as it shapes and is shaped by society, money, politics and power.

— Andi Thomas

The Miracle of Castel di Sangro (1999) by Joe McGinniss

At the other end of the scale, this is a story of one season spent with a tiny club in Italy. McGinniss pulls off the fish-out-of-water American act brilliantly, and by the time the season approaches its conclusion, you’ll be in love with almost everybody in here. Which is why the ending will smash your heart into a million tiny pieces.

— Andi Thomas

Playing the Enemy (2008) by John Carlin

Enemy is about how Nelson Mandela used rugby to unify South Africa after his release. There’s always a lot of cheap talk about how sports can bring us together, but Mandela and that moment in time were proof it’s possible with the right leaders.

— John Ness

The Fifty-Year Seduction: How Television Manipulated College Football, from the Birth of the Modern NCAA to the Creation of the BCS (2004) by Keith Dunnavant

This is one of my absolute favorite sports books. It’s pretty hard to make the backroom mechanizations of college administrators sound like a riveting drama, but Keith Dunnavant does a great job making it not only accessible, but really interesting. No other book explains the real force behind college football as we know it today like this one, and it’s written in a way that you can knock it out in two days. Anybody who wants to peek under the hood and understand why bowl games, conference realignment and the NCAA itself work the way they do should read this book.

— Matt Brown

Games without Frontiers (2016) by Joe Kennedy

Half-travelogue, half-theoretical critique, this is a slim, rich, occasionally knotty, and often very funny book that investigates the development of football alongside modernity and capitalism. A lot of books that aim to “explain” sport intellectually end up sounding rather patronizing to their subject. Here, by contrast, Kennedy aims to find how “football and theory work on each other.” It’s great, and there’s nothing else quite like it.

— Andi Thomas