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absynthe--minded · 3 years

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Fëanor’s Appearances in HoME, Part 1: The Books of Lost Tales

This is a project I’m embarking on at the request of my Discord server, cataloguing every appearance Fëanor makes in the drafts of the Histories with a quote and a location in the text. I’m including mentions of his works if his name comes up, as well as his relationships with other people. This is probably going to be edited a lot, as I’m not perfect and I’m just one researcher, so if I miss something, let me know and I’ll add it in!

This is not intended to support or debunk any particular textual reading.

I was informed that a list of these quotes (particularly focusing on his ties to his family) would be helpful, and I’ve had some interest in posting it here. I am presenting exactly what the text says, drawing from searchable digitized ePub files. I’ll probably make a masterpost, but for now the tag to watch for is “#fëanorspotting”.

Below the cut for Length.

The Book of Lost Tales vol. 1:

V. The Coming of the Elves and the Making of Kôr:

“Then arose Fëanor of the Noldoli and fared to the Solosimpi and begged a great pearl, and he got moreover an urn full of the most luminous phosphor-light gathered of foam in dark places, and with these he came home, and he took all the other gems and did gather their glint by the light of white lamps and silver candles, and he took the sheen of pearls and the faint half-colours of opals, and he [?bathed] them in phosphorescence and the radiant dew of Silpion, and but a single tiny drop of the light of Laurelin did he let fall therein, and giving all those magic lights a body to dwell in of such perfect glass as he alone could make nor even Aulë compass, so great was the slender dexterity of the fingers of Fëanor, he made a jewel - and it shone of its own……… radiance in the uttermost dark; and he set it therein and sat a very long while and gazed at its beauty. Then he made two more, and had no more stuffs: and he fetched the others to behold his handiwork, and they were utterly amazed, and those jewels he called Silmarilli, or as we say the name in the speech of the Noldoli today Silubrilthin. Wherefore though the Solosimpi held ever that none of the gems of the Noldoli, not even that majestic shimmer of diamonds, overpassed their tender pearls, yet have all held who ever saw them that the Silmarils of Fëanor were the most beautiful jewels that ever shone or [?glowed].”

Commentary on V.:

“Features that remained are the generosity of the Noldor in the giving of their gems and the scattering of them on the shores (cf. The Silmarillion p. 61: ‘Many jewels the Noldor gave them [the Teleri], opals and diamonds and pale crystals, which they strewed upon the shores and scattered in the pools’); the pearls that the Teleri got from the sea (ibid.); the sapphires that the Noldor gave to Manwë (‘His sceptre was of sapphire, which the Noldor wrought for him’, ibid. p. 40); and, of course, Fëanor as the maker of the Silmarils—although, as will be seen in the next tale, Fëanor was not yet the son of Finwë (Nólemë).”

VI. The Theft of Melko and the Darkening of Valinor:

“The other Elves heeded these things not over much, and were at times sad and fearful at the lessened gladness of their kinsmen. Great mirth had Melko at this and wrought in patience biding his time, yet no nearer did he get to his end, for despite all his labours the glory of the Trees and the beauty of the gems and the memory of the dark ways from Palisor held back the Noldoli—and ever Nólemë spake against Melko, calming their restlessness and discontents. At length so great became [Nólemë’s] care that he took counsel with Fëanor, and even with Inwë and Ellu Melemno (who then led the Solosimpi), and took their rede that Manwë himself be told of the dark ways of Melko.”

“Now Melko knew that it was indeed war for ever between himself and all those other folk of Valinor, for he had slain the Noldoli—guests of the Valar—before the doors of their own homes. With his own hand indeed he slew Bruithwir father of Fëanor, and bursting into that rocky house that he defended laid hands upon those most glorious gems, even the Silmarils, shut in a casket of ivory. Now all that great treasury of gems he despoiled, and lading himself and all his companions to the utmost he seeks how he may escape.”

“At length that daytide of festival is over and the Gods are turned back towards Valmar, treading the white road from Kôr. The lights twinkle in the city of the Elves and peace dwells there, but the Noldoli fare over the plain to Sirnúmen sadly. Silpion is gleaming in that hour, and ere it wanes the first lament for the dead that was heard in Valinor rises from that rocky vale, for Fëanor laments the death of Bruithwir; and many of the Gnomes beside find that the spirits of their dead have winged their way to Vê. Then messengers ride hastily to Valmar bearing tidings of the deeds, and there they find Manwë, for he has not yet left that town for his abode upon Taniquetil. “Alas, O Manwë Súlimo,” they cry, “evil has pierced the Mountains of Valinor and fallen upon Sirnúmen of the Plain. There lies Bruithwir sire of Fëanor dead and many of the Noldoli beside, and all our treasury of gems and fair things and the loving travail of our hands and hearts through many years is stolen away. Whither O Manwë whose eyes see all things? Who has done this evil, for the Noldoli cry for vengeance, O most [?just] one!”

“Therefore does Manwë bid them now, an they will, go back to Kôr, and, if they so desire, busy themselves in fashioning gems and fabrics anew, and all things of beauty and cost that they may need in their labour shall be given to them even more lavishly than before. But when Fëanor heard this saying, he said: “Yea, but who shall give us back the joyous heart without which works of loveliness and magic cannot be?—and Bruithwir is dead, and my heart also.” Many nonetheless went then back to Kôr, and some semblance of old joy is then restored, though for the lessened happiness of their hearts their labours do not bring forth gems of the old lustre and glory. But Fëanor dwelt in sorrow with a few folk in Sirnúmen, and though he sought day and night to do so he could in no wise make other jewels like to the Silmarils of old, that Melko snatched away; nor indeed has any craftsman ever done so since. At length does he abandon the attempt, sitting rather beside the tomb of Bruithwir, that is called the Mound of the First Sorrow, and is well named for all the woe that came from the death of him who was laid there. There brooded Fëanor bitter thoughts, till his brain grew dazed by the black vapours of his heart, and he arose and went to Kôr. There did he speak to the Gnomes, dwelling on their wrongs and sorrows and their minished wealth and glory—bidding them leave this prison-house and get them into the world. “As cowards have the Valar become; but the hearts of the Eldar are not weak, and we will see what is our own, and if we may not get it by stealth we will do so by violence. There shall be war between the Children of Ilúvatar and Ainu Melko. What if we perish in our quest? The dark halls of Vê be little worse than this bright prison….” And he prevailed thus upon some to go before Manwë with himself and demand that the Noldoli be suffered to leave Valinor in peace and set safely by the Gods upon the shores of the world whence they had of old been ferried.”

“To this [Manwë] added many words concerning Men and their nature and the things that would befall them, and the Noldoli were amazed, for they had not heard the Valar speak of Men, save very seldom; and had not then heeded overmuch, deeming these creatures weak and blind and clumsy and beset with death, nor in any ways likely to match the glory of the Eldalië. Now therefore, although Manwë had unburdened his heart in this way hoping that the Noldoli, seeing that he did not labour without a purpose or a reason, would grow calmer and more trustful of his love, rather were they astonished to discover that the Ainur made the thought of Men so great a matter, and Manwë’s words achieved the opposite of his wish; for Fëanor in his misery twisted them into an evil semblance, when standing again before the throng of Kôr he spake these words: “Lo, now do we know the reason of our transportation hither as it were cargoes of fair slaves! Now at length are we told to what end we are guarded here, robbed of our heritage in the world, ruling not the wide lands, lest perchance we yield them not to a race unborn. To these foresooth—a sad folk, beset with swift mortality, a race of burrowers in the dark, clumsy of hand, untuned to songs or musics, who shall dully labour at the soil with their rude tools, to these whom still he says are of Ilúvatar would Manwë Súlimo lordling of the Ainur give the world and all the wonders of its land, all its hidden substances—give it to these, that is our inheritance. Or what is this talk of the dangers of the world? A trick to deceive us; a mask of words! O all ye children of the Noldoli, whomso will no longer be house-thralls of the Gods however softly held, arise I bid ye and get you from Valinor, for now is the hour come and the world awaits.” In sooth it is a matter for great wonder, the subtle cunning of Melko—for in those wild words who shall say that there lurked not a sting of the minutest truth, nor fail to marvel seeing the very words of Melko pouring from Fëanor his foe, who knew not nor remembered whence was the fountain of these thoughts; yet perchance the [?outmost] origin of these sad things was before Melko himself, and such things must be—and the mystery of the jealousy of Elves and Men is an unsolved riddle, one of the sorrows at the world’s dim roots. Howso these deep things be, the fierce words of Fëanor got him instantly a mighty following, for a veil there seemed before the hearts of the Gnomes—and mayhap even this was not without the knowledge of Ilúvatar. Yet would Melko have been rejoiced to hear it, seeing his evil giving fruit beyond his hopes.”

VII. The Flight of the Noldoli:

“But Fëanor standing in the square about Inwë’s house in topmost Kôr will not be silenced, and cries out that all the Noldoli shall gather about him and hearken, and many thousands of them come to hear his words bearing slender torches, so that that place is filled with a lurid light such as has never before shone on those white walls. Now when they are gathered there and Fëanor sees that far the most of the company is of the kin of the Noldor1 he exhorts them to seize now this darkness and confusion and the weariness of the Gods to cast off the yoke—for thus demented he called the days of bliss in Valinor—and get them hence carrying with them what they might or listed. “If all your hearts be too faint to follow, behold I Fëanor go now alone into the wide and magic world to seek the gems that are my own, and perchance many great and strange adventures will there befall me more worthy of a child of Ilúvatar than a servant of the Gods.” Then is there a great rush of those who will follow him at once, and though wise Nólemë speaks against this rashness they will not hear him, and ever the tumult groweth wilder. Again Nólemë pleads that at least they send an embassy to Manwë to take due farewell and maybe get his goodwill and counsel for their journeying, but Fëanor persuades them to cast away even such moderate wisdom, saying that to do so were but to court refusal, and that Manwë would forbid them and prevent them: “What is Valinor to us,” say they, “now that its light is come to little—as lief and liever would we have the untrammeled world.” Now then they arm themselves as best they may—for nor Elves nor Gods in those days bethought themselves overmuch of weapons—and store of jewels they took and stuffs of raiment; but all their books of their lore they left behind, and indeed there was not much therein that the wise men among them could not match from memory. But Nólemë seeing that his counsel prevailed not would not be separated from his folk, and went with them and aided them in all their preparations. Then did they get them down the hill of Kôr lit by the flame of torches, and so faring in haste along the creek and the shores of that arm of the Shadowy Sea that encroached here upon the hills they found the seaward dwellings of the Solosimpi.”

“Behold, the counsel of Fëanor is that by no means can that host hope to win swiftly along the coast save by the aid of ships; “and these,” said he, “an the shore-elves will not give them, we must take”. Wherefore going down to the harbour they essayed to go upon those ships that there lay, but the Solosimpi said them nay, yet for the great host of the Gnome-folk they did not as yet resist; but a new wrath awoke there between Eldar and Eldar.”

Commentary on VII.:

“Of the treachery of the Fëanorians, sailing away in the ships and leaving the host of Fingolfin on the shores of Araman, there is of course in the old story no trace; but the blaming of Fëanor was already present (‘the Tents of Murmuring’, p. 168). It is a remarkable aspect of the earliest version of the mythology that while so much of the narrative structure was firm and was to endure, the later ‘genealogical’ structure had scarcely emerged. Turgon existed as the son of (Finwë) Nólemë, but there is no suggestion that Fëanor was close akin to the lord of the Noldoli, and the other princes, Fingolfin, Finarfin, Fingon, Felagund, do not appear at all, in any form, or by any name.”

VIII. The Tale of the Sun and Moon:

“Now these revealed to [Aulë] much store of crystals and delicate glasses that Fëanor and his sons had laid up in secret places in Sirnúmen”

X. Gilfanon’s Tale: The Travail of the Noldoli and the Coming of Mankind

“Now appears for the first time Maidros son of Fëanor (previously, in the tale of The Theft of Melko, the name was given to Fëanor’s grandfather, p. 146, 158). Maidros, guided by Ilkorins, led a host into the hills, either ‘to seek for the jewels’ (A), or ‘to search the dwellings of Melko’ (B—this should perhaps read ‘search for the dwellings of Melko’, the reading of C), but they were driven back with slaughter from the doors of Angamandi; and Maidros himself was taken alive, tortured—because he would not reveal the secret arts of the Noldoli in the making of jewels—and sent back to the Gnomes maimed. (In A, which still had Nólemë rather than Fëanor die in the Waters of Asgon, it was Fëanor himself who led the host against Melko, and it was Fëanor who was captured, tortured, and maimed.) Then the Seven Sons of Fëanor swore an oath of enmity for ever against any that should hold the Silmarils. (This is the first appearance of the Seven Sons, and of the Oath, though that Fëanor had sons is mentioned in the Tale of the Sun and Moon, p. 192.)”

#silmarillion #tolkien #absynthe's meta #fëanorspotting #fëanor

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morosoro · 3 years

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So I know I asked for help continuing a Dark Forest Fic but...

I think I accidentally finished it while I was reading it over and editing it today? I feel like it’s already met a sort of natural end and stands alone perfectly as an alternative meeting short... of course I’m still going to post it and see if anyone wants to see it continued or can find any questions to ask so here it is! Also if anyone can think of a title I could use for it when I post in AO3 that would be great!

(Currently Untitled)

Rumplestiltskin wasn’t typically the type to go for long walks in the woods. Usually he was much too busy preparing one thing or another, making sure each step towards the future he wanted was successfully taken. However sometimes there was nothing more for him to do than wait for the next piece to fall into place.

That is why he found himself wandering through the Dark Forest today. He truly had nothing better to do and the wood that surrounded his home was vast. Change was bound to have happened since he last had the opportunity to meander throughout its winding labyrinth of trails. He thought the best use of his day would be to survey his land.

He’d been wandering most of the day, long hours having passed since he began early that morning. He’d come across several new groves of magical plant life, and spotted the occasional creature habitat in places where there hadn’t been in years previous and he took mental note. They may come in handy for potions and spells after all. You never knew when you needed a fresh sprig of something, or the still beating heart of another.

Unknown to him he’d managed to lead himself quite close to the easternmost edge of his property, near the border of a relatively new and small dukedom called Avonlea which extended off of King George’s land. That’s why the faint sound of a voice on the wind caused him to pause. Tuning his ears in on it he heard the noise again. It was the sound of a girl, one trying to keep down the sound of her cries.

Curious about what a girl might be doing whimpering in his woods he decided to find her. He moved quickly yet quietly, following the trail of sniffles and mumbled words until he caught sight of not a girl, per say, but a young woman. A lady, by the looks of her clothing. She was sitting on the forest floor under a large and imposing old oak on the very edge of a small clearing. He eyed her quietly from where he peaked out behind a few tall bushes.

He wondered what had her so upset, and why she’d run onto his lands. Perhaps she needed help of a dubious nature, or perhaps she simply didn’t know the dark woods belonged to him. Of course, it could be both and fate had merely guided her his way.

He looked above her, at the thick, gnarled branches of the tree and decided he could probably get closer. Maybe from such a vantage he could make out what had her in such a state of upset. With that though he disappeared from the bushes and in a small puff of reddish smoke he took up a position perched like a bird above her.

Despite how close his new position brought him he still couldn’t make out a thing. She whimpered and cried and muttered such things as “It wasn’t just! It isn’t fair!” But that didn’t tell him anything of the specifics that he wanted to know.

He sat and strained his ears for a few moments longer and grew impatient when he was still given no good context clues. Giving up, he decided to just be upfront. He cleared his throat and asked aloud in his typical showman’s tone “My, my… What has you in such a dismal state?”

She froze, startled and looked around frantically for the source of the voice. “W-who’s there?!”

“That’s not an answer to my question now is it, Dearie?”

Her head turned upwards and her gaze locked on him where he sat in the tree. Her eyes went wide in shock, or perhaps fright, he couldn’t quite tell, but his experience from when people first saw him told him it must be one of the two. It was never anything else. She hurried to stand and took a few steps back, away from the tree. For a moment he thought she might run, but to his surprise, she didn’t. Instead she merely straightened her spine, still dashing the stray tears from her under her eyes, and asked a firm “Who are you?”

He clicked his tongue, hating introductions, especially towards nobles, and hopped down from the tree to be back on even grounds with her. He swooped low into an almost mocking bow and gave her his name. “Rumplestiltskin. And you might be...?”

“What are you doing here?” She asked instead and it caught him, only slightly, off guard. Surely one would be curious, but he wouldn’t think a teary-eyed girl to be quite so demanding.

“That’s not how conversation works, Dearie.” He tutted with a waggling of his finger. “You see, you’re supposed to offer the other your name before you demand anything from him.”

She leveled him with an amused look… imagine that, somebody being genuinely amused by him? Such things didn’t happen often. “You asked my reason for crying before introducing yourself?”

He nodded, a broken grin spreading out across his crooked lips as he made a show of inspecting his dark coloured, almost claw-like nails. “Yes, well, I’m not typically one for following etiquette.”

“Well, perhaps neither am I. Ever think of that?” Looking up at her over his fingertips, he saw her standing with a hand on her jutted-out hip. Her head inclined slightly so she could look down the brim of her petite little tear-stained nose at him. Her newfound amusement still displayed with the upward tug of her lips.

Ooh! So she had a flavour to her, a hint of stubborness and bravery! That gave this interaction a bit more flair, a bit more potential. How exciting! He giggled in that high unsettling trill of his. “Touché, but now, how about you answer those questions for me, and then maybe…” a took a brief pause to wave a careless hand in her direction, wanting to appear more aloof than he was. “... I’ll answer yours.”

He watched her from the corner of his eye as she seemed to weigh him over, trying to decide whether or not he could be trusted. After a long moment, she relented any judgement and sighed. “I am Lady Belle of Avonlea, only child to the Duke, Sir Maurice. Perhaps that might answer your remaining question.”

He raised a brow. “Avonlea?” He’d never been there, hadn’t even heard of it. “I’m afraid that doesn’t answer anything for me.”

“You mustn't be from the area then.” He nearly snorted at her ignorance, they were In his woods afterall, but kept quiet to allow her to give her explanation. “You see, Avonlea was established only forty and some years ago, when my grandfather proved himself a great knight and was bestowed the dukedom by King George’s father, King Osmind.” She summarized.

Now that he thought about it he supposed he did remember hearing about it a lifetime ago. An expansion to the edge of his woods, not yet his territory but close. He hadn’t much cared as he wasn’t one to fight over unclaimed land. He only cared for the mountains and the DarkForest. It meant smaller villages and less people living within his boundaries.

“Though, I’m afraid it may not last much longer…” Lady Belle continued, sounding solemn once again, pulling him out of his thoughts. “There is a great war upon us. One seemingly impossible to win. The Ogres are attacking the southern townships, King George refuses to send us aid, considers it too big of an expense for one little dukedom, and things have gotten grim.” She deflated further then, a wave of fresh tears began to roll down her cheeks as she was reminded of her grief.

“My mother was killed whilst protecting me at the Summer Palace earlier this month…”

Ogre wars. That was something Rumplestiltskin knew almost too much about, what light was left in his dark little heart went out to her as he listened. He never knew his mother, but he imagined losing one in such a brutal way would be devastating to the young woman. He offered her reassuring look, for even he was not so heartless that he couldn’t offer condolences in some form, and with another minute wave of his hand prompted her to go on. He could tell that was not the end of her woe.

“And now my father, desperate as he is to end the wars, has decided to marry me off to a man I cannot stand. Reasoning being simply that his army is larger than ours.”

He had to fight to hold back a chuckle then. Now was not the time for laughter, but It was such a common ‘problem’ young ladies seemed to face, and yet it was entirely avoidable. He wondered why noble folk still felt the need to dictate who their children married when it seemed to only cause problems. It had happened with Queen Regina, and the predictability of her discontent in her marriage was the main reason she’d been perfect to help him out with his plans.

He thought about informing this ‘Lady Belle of Avonlea’ that sometimes ‘such is life’ and an unexpected betrothal was nothing to cry over and that if this man was willing to battle ogres for her hand, it may not be as bad as she thought. However she kept talking and her next words caught his attention.

“My betrothed is evil incarnate! I saw it in his eyes with the magic mirror, they were blood red!” She exclaimed, distressed. “It seems I’m left either to be eaten by a monster or married to one!”

Magic was, of course, his domain. He knew plenty about magic mirrors, and that it was far from impossible to believe that the daughter of a Duke could’ve gotten her hands on one with the power to show a man’s true nature. Red was often associated with darkness and anger, his own magic an example of such so he didn’t doubt her tale. Now, despite his own dark nature, Rumplestiltskin wasn’t the type to let an innocent truly suffer, especially desperation hung so thick in the air, and most definitely not at the hands of ogres. A deal could definitely be struck here.

“Perhaps I could help?” He offered, fingers steepled before him as he thought of all the things he could ask for and all the ways this could turn out.

“You?” She snuffled, calming herself again. “However could you help?”

“Well,” he began to walk, an arm extending, hand ghosting over the small of her back to guide her alongside him. They were headed down a trail he’d yet to go down on his venture, deeper into the dark woods. “I’m known far and wide for my,” he paused momentarily for dramatic effect. He continued with a flourish of his free hand, tendrils of reddish smoke puffing out from his fingertips. “Magical abilities. And for my penchant for making deals. I’m sure we could work something out.”

#ouat #once upon a time #fanfic #fanfiction #rumbelle #meet cute #kinda #its a first meeting thing #idk what to tag this as #asks are open

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flibbertigiblet · 5 years

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Jon x Sansa | Vampire AU

Jon Snow is haunted by his memories. For years he has been seeking the monster who drained and murdered his beloved wife Ygritte in a brutal attack which he somehow managed to survive.

Unbeknownst to Jon, he owed his life to another vampire who, upon finding his broken but still-breathing body, was moved to revive him by making him drink her blood. She does not drink of him in return, but even the one-sided exchange has granted him a portion of her immortal powers, imbuing him with strength and speed beyond those of a mere mortal.

Death, even near-death, changes a man.

Now, revenge is all he knows.

Like his prey, Jon Snow hunts by night, and woe to the demons who get in his way. Silent as a ghost and deadly as a wolf, his efforts have earned him the fear and respect of the creatures of the night, but he is no closer now to his goal than he was when he slew his first vampire.

When he meets the beautiful and mysterious woman who introduces herself to him as Sansa*, he feels inexplicably drawn to her, although he cannot say why. He does not trust her - he does not trust anybody anymore - but when she offers to aid him in his hunt for Ramsay Bolton, he finds himself agreeing...

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*Yes, Sansa is a vampire. The vampire.

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Check out my other stuff here: @flibbertigiblet-edits

#jonsa #jon x sansa #actuallyjonsa #jon snow #sansa stark #gotjonsnow #gotsansastark #gotedit #got fanart #got au #modern au #vampire au #my edit #flibbertigiblet

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geminimoonbeamx · 5 years

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Oh, Baby: Chapter One

A/N: Okay so I’ve literally had this in my drafts for the last...six months or so? And I figured I’d tweak it and edit and post it since I’ve been so AWOL on this site lately, and so that I can give you guys some new content from me.

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Heavy cursing. This chapter is pretty PG, talks of mental illness, unexpected pregnancy and contemplating abortion- but she doesnt go through with it. Smut to come. AND LOTS OF FLUFF TOO, I promise lol

Summary: After a drunken night, Y/N finds herself having to face the biggest decision of her life; is she ready for motherhood? And a better question, is Bucky Barnes, her long time friend and womanizer extraordinaire, ready for fatherhood? They’ll just have to go along for the ride and find out together. A Bucky Barnes x Plus Size Reader Story

Chapter 1/6: The Baby Woe’s and Oh No’s

You knew it.

You’d known something was off, different, changed.

You sit on your toilet, your world spinning as you attempt to wrap your mind around what was going on. Everything seems sludge like, too slow and too fast and not real.

You’re definitely going into shock, you point out to yourself. The catatonic kind. You’ve been staring at the bright, sunny lemon print of the shower curtain, your eyes focused but not seeing. Your elbows rest on your knees and your hands cover the entirety of your lower face.

At least you’re not crying anymore.

Nope, your body had moved past that-Maybe, it felt like the tears could start rolling again at anytime.

Oh god, what are you going to do?

Why, why, why?

Why you? You’d been a good person- well a decent person at least… You recycled and tipped more than twenty percent. Didnt vote for Trump and ate your vegetables.

And your life was just seeming to even out. You’d somehow landed your dream job a couple months back- every Wednesday night your voice could be heard on WNEX. You we’re making enough money to finally be comfortable- doing what you loved. Gaining a wide audience and wiggling your way into the industry. Your mind was so career oriented, so focused on your end goal that you’d never even considered something like this.

Throwing a big fat wrench in the gears.

One night, it had only been one stupid, drunken night. Hadn't you racked up enough karma coins to cover your ass for one fucking night?

Are you there god? It’s me, Y/N, and I really fucked up this time.

Wanda comes back into the tiled room a few minutes, her dark features soft and a colorful mug in her hand.

“Are you okay?” She gauges, gently, as she reaches out to you.

You snort and shrug, but accept the steaming cup from her anyway. You look down at the swirling, murky drink.

Wishing for just one moment that you could drown yourself in it.

“Look, babe, I know you’re dealing with some major shock right now- but maybe you should go lay down. We’ll figure it out later-” Wanda’s voice is even and you appreciate her being so calm and sure during all of this but you just can't process the situation enough to accept it.

You can't go lay down.

“Why not?” Wanda questions and you didn't realize you’d said that out loud, you hadn't even felt your mouth form the words.

Your head really is swimming. Disconnected from your body a little bit. You force yourself to take a drink of the tea as she gives you a more pointed look.

“Because I have to- I don't know. I have to figure all this out” You protest. You can't hear your voice, how spiked with anxiousness it is.

“There’s not much to figure out” Wanda supplies, unhelpfully as she leans against the counter, arms folded over her chest and you give her a look that’s half between a glare and a gape.

“Um, what the fuck do you mean? There’s so much to figure out, I don't even know where to start” You give a short, sharp, slightly hysterical laugh gripping the mug hard enough to hurt with one hand while cupping your forehead with the other.

“Okay, first things first. And this is the big one: do you want this?”

Well, that whole ‘I'm done crying’ thought you’d had before was a lie. You feel the tears well up once more and overflow, spill down your already swollen cheeks. Your face is hot. Your tummy is full of rocks.

You’d always hated crying. It never made you feel released or freed or lighter like it did for other people. It made you feel icky and stupid. And afterwards it always felt like you’d gotten punched in the nose.

Yes, you did have a therapist to work out those issues with, thanks.

Your mind doesn't know what to do with that question.

You look at Wanda, searching her face as though she might have the answers but she just shook her head and reached out her hand to rub your shoulder. That’s all she could offer. Her support in whatever path you we’re about to embark on.

And then you look down, at the countertop. That was usually littered with stray tubes of mascara or straightening irons. Bobby pins and half lit candles. All the things that resided in the bathrooms of girls in their mid twenties.

In place of those was now four pregnancy tests. All of which read positive.

The first two had been those double lined ones. Two bold lines- both times. Then you’d ran down to the bodega at the end of the block and gotten two more. And those we’re more straight to the point. They literally read the word pregnant- in a font that you don't think you’d ever forget.

Did you want this? Did you want a baby?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“I dont know- I’m not ready. The timing is all wrong” You croak.

“Okay” Wanda coo’s “well there's alternatives then-” you squeeze your eyes closed at that thought “Either way we should make a doctors appointment to make sure you’re actually pregnant. I’ve read so many stories about how unreliable these things are”

She holds up one of the tests and rambles on about all of the online articles she’d come across. How some woman had taken a dozen of ‘em, gotten all positive results and then went in and had an empty uterus.

“For one, ew. I peed on that” You nod your head at the test in her hand and she rolls her eyes.

“Other side of it- and I held your hair when you got food poisoning from that shrimp shack. I’ve come into contact with worse body fluids of yours”

“For two- I’m pregnant. I know it. I’ve known it for weeks. I knew something was wrong and I just tried to...think it away, you know? Out of sight, out of mind? I sound insane” saying the words out loud makes you realize how...ludicrous those thoughts had been. But still. It was the truth.

She just nods though “You don't”

There’s a moment of silence. Stretching, as you stew in your reality.

“I’d be doing it alone” you whisper into the mug as you sip on it “I really dont think he’d want a baby”

“You would never be alone, you know that. You have so many people in your life that would support you with this” Wanda protests, sad that you’d even say that.

“You know what I mean” You push on. Because having a good group of friends and family wouldn't change the fact that you were possibly looking at the possibility of being a single mother.

If you decided to keep it, that is.

“Yeah I do- and I don't know if I agree with that. Bucky's a lot of things, an arrogant asshole at that top of that list, but he’s a good guy and I think he’d want to be involved. He doesn't give off deadbeat dad vibes”

All of that was true. Bucky is a good guy, at the core of him.

He was kind and decent and the two of you had been friends for years upon years. He was charming, magnetic and women loved him- you’d found it amusing, before you we’re the one in his bed after a drunken night a month ago.

He’d left your messages mostly on seen since then. You’d only sent a few, but still that had stung. Him icing you out the moment he’d gotten into your pants pissed you off, not only because it was rude but because it was expected.

You knew how Bucky was with women, it had been such an idiot move to sleep with him.

It made it all the more complicated that you ran in the same social circles- had all the same friends. Sam’s small promotion dinner a couple weeks ago had been extremely awkward for you, to say the least.

He’d earned himself the cold shoulder from you and no matter how many times he’d try to broach a conversation with you, crack a joke in your direction, or single you out in a group conversation you pretended he didn't exist.

“Damn, re-jec-ted” It had been so obvious that Clint had of course pointed it out, which was uncomfortable but expected because Clint had no filter like that.

Bucky had stopped trying after that- and started flirting back with the waitress that had been throwing herself at him throughout the night. You cut out early, claiming tiredness. And upset stomach. Whatever to get you out of there.

To say it was a shitty night was a bit of an understatement and you hadn't spoken one word to him since.

“I haven't talked to him since that night- and now I’m what, supposed to call him up and tell him I’m carrying his child because he doesn't properly know how to operate a condom?

“I don't know, yeah? It doesn't mean you two need to get married, but if you choose to keep this baby, that’s going to be a conversation you’re going to have to have” Wanda is so annoying sometimes. She was such a sharp thinking human- always grounded and level headed. She claimed it was from always having to be the “good twin” growing up.

Of course she was rationalizing this whole thing while you we’re floundering about it like a fish.

“I think I should make a doctors appointment” You just mutter. You’d rather focus your attention there. It was easier, cleaner for you. A goal you could actually accomplish.

And so that’s what you did.

//////

They were able to get you in at the end of the week, which in overpopulated New York City was a godsend. And still, it felt like far too long. Like the reality of it couldn't sink in until you talked to a medical professional so you we’re left in some kind of fucked up long until then.

You tried to keep your anxious mind busy, throwing yourself into work. Talking to people over the static airways of the radio about their lives; about the world and all of its workings was so much easier than talking to anyone about what was going on with you.

The only person who knew was Wanda and you’d canceled all of your other plans during the week, not able to face anyone. Not yet.

Lots of sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling. Thinking until your brain physically hurt.

And then you’d turned to you journal- maybe if you wrote everything down it would make sense. If you could see it all, inked out, you could make a decision.

Did you want this child?

Wanda had suggested making a pro’s and con’s list and while it sounded crazy and unhelpful, and you rolled your eyes at it ‘As though that will help’, you ended up doing it anyways.

You start with Cons, naturally. Always had been too damn negative.

Cons:

-I have no fucking idea how to be a mom

-Bucky???

-My job. My career. Who’s going to watch the baby while I work?

-How in the fuck am I going to financially support a baby.

-No room in the apartment/My room is fucking tiny and where will we put a baby

(Wanda said we can turn half of the living room into a playroom/makeshift nursery. How fucked up though? Not even a real nursery)

-No car? A baby on the subway? No thank you.

-Weird to explain to people even if Bucky wants to co-parent. All our friends??

-PAIN

-Pregnancy looks so painful. Birth looks scary. My poor vagine.

-Life is basically over

-The baby will not have a grandmother from your side...

You could keep going on, but you decide to stop there. You could go on, make the list pages and pages long but you decide against it.

Pros:

-I’ve always wanted to be a mom. Always dreamed of babies and motherhood, baby fever crashes over me in waves.

-Me and Bucky’s baby is going to be cute AF(and that just pure facts)

-I have a great support system- amazing friends and family who I know will help

-Bucky could want to be involved. He probably will...maybe?

-He has a big family, i think. The baby would have lots of family

-I don't want to have an abortion. All about pro-choice, but I just...don't know if I can.

That had made you bite the end of your pen.

Adoption?

Could you give a child that you went through nine months of pregnancy up for adoption? Knowing yourself- probably not. You cant even get rid of the moth hole ridden clothes at the back of your closet. Not comparing a baby to a jean jacket- fuck, see how unequipped you were for this?

-I’d be a good mom(I think)

-I could swing it financially. Maybe get a second job

-At least I have a good insurance plan now

-My life might have more of a purpose?

You hide the lists away in one of your many journals. Stick it in the wicker basket under your night stand- and revisit it too many times in those days between.

You make a lot of other lists in that time, too.

//////

One of them sits tucked in your purse as you make your way to the eighth floor- Arms folded across your chest and the inside of your bottom lip speared between your teeth as the elevator takes you up.

Wanda stands beside you, of course. Sipping on her iced americano. You’d tried to tell her that she didn't need to come, that you were perfectly okay with going on your own. You’d gotten about two words out before she shut you down-

“I already took the afternoon off, don't be ridiculous”

You both know you wouldn't admit it, stubborn as you we’re, but you’d let out a big sigh of relief. You really didn't want to do this alone.

The waiting room is standard for this building, looks similar to the one that you sit in when you see your GP- save for a sign hanging about the door that labels it the OB-GYN.

Fake plants and those standard waiting room chairs that had that weird diagonal print on them TV’s that we’re playing the local news and tables stacked with months dated magazines. There was no windows though and it made the back of your neck feel hot.

The receptionists is nice. Middle aged with mild with droning, mellow voice. She checks you in fast and efficiently and tells you that you’ve got about a 15 minute wait on your hands.

Annoying, you think even though you give her a big grin and a sweet ‘thank you’. You’d been right on time. Why in all offices of all kinds is there always a fucking wait?

Wanda has plopped down on a chair in the corner and is fingering through an issue of LIFE, her long legs crossed at the knee. you sit next to her. The office air conditioner is blasting, it had been a muggy May in the city, but you feel overheated. You let the chunky cardigan you’d donned slip down one shoulder, exposing your skin to the chilly air.

You should feel the cold but you’re over heated. Nervous as hell. Why doesnt anyone else in this office seem nervous?

You tend to people watch when you get overly anxious like you are now. Tend to take in every little detail of every little thing around you.

There’s a black couple- the woman doesn't look pregnant but they’re holding hands tightly and they keep whispering to each other. He smiles and nudges her shoulder with his. Then there’s a Latina woman who looks just about ready to pop and is reading one of the kids book to a little boy with her eyes. A white lady, with twin carriers rocks them gently as she chats with a woman who looked to be related to her, maybe. Older and graying.

You feel like a creep but you can't stop looking at them all. Staring at each of the people who are at different stages of the same life-path you found yourself on.

Wanda clicks her tongue as her dark eyes focus on the magazine. Muttering, her accent thick, about how the lenses they used for the shoot on the page was all wrong.

Her photographers eye was snobby and elitist.

“Y/N?” The nurse calls you back, not butchering your name which is nice and look over at your best friend.

“Are you sure you don't want me to come back with you?” Wanda whispers, big gingerbread eyes searching yours and you shake your head quickly.

You had to do this, on your own. What if...what if you ended up having to do this whole thing alone? You had to be grown, had to face this solo. That’s just how you felt, even if it might not be true.

“It’s just another appointment- I can do it on my own. I’ll live” there's a reasoning lilt in your voice that she doesn't quite buy but she nods all the same. Tells you that she’ll be waiting right there for you as you muster up all your courage and train your face into a smile, following the nurse into the back offices, the door mechanically closing behind the two of you.

The OB’s office is...warmer then you’d thought it would be. Her desk has frames of all types and her walls are plastered with colorful posters, making the alabaster of the wallpaper less daunting. There was even a window in here.

You’re perched up on the exam table/ chair thingy, staring out at the tall buildings across the street, at the people moving fast below on the sidewalks. You wonder what all of them are doing? How many of the have kids?...

When there’s a soft knock at the door your attention snaps back to the present.

Doctor Helen Cho is a petite Asian woman. She has glossy dark hair that's tied up in a clip high on the back of her head, and her voice is friendly and her expression open as introduces herself to you and reaches out to shake your hand.

“I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you, too” You sound so much surer and more confident then you feel. It had always been your party trick- meeting new people and being able to talk to them. Leaving trails of barley there acquaintances in your wake.

“So it says here that you think you’re pregnant, yes?” She gets right to it, and your appreciative for it.

“Yeah, I know I am. I took four tests and they all came out positive and I...I feel really off” you try to explain it, poorly but she seems to understand.

“When you say off, do you mean like bad feeling off or?” She probes as she sits at her desk, swivels her chair to face you. Her chocolate almond eyes weren't piercing or clinical, just waiting.

“Not really bad? But I’ve just been so tired lately and I’ve had like, zero appetite. And my breasts have been so sensitive that it hurts to put on a bra” as you tell here these things you could slap your head for not assuming you were pregnant before you’d taken the tests.

Dr. Cho hums and nods as she looks over her tablet “Well from the look of these results from those blood and urine tests your nurse went ahead and gave you when you came in, I can tell you that you are definitely about nine weeks pregnant- so those symptoms are right on with where you are”

You inhale and exhale, bigly. It’s real. It’s been real, was a notion, a happening but now...it’s so freaking real.

And there's a real life changing decision to be made-

That you’d already made before you’d even walked into this office but now seemed even clearer. Crystal, in that moment of clarity.

“I want to keep it” Your confident as you say it. Your voice cracks with some kind of emotion you couldn't even begin to explain, but you’re confident. You’re sure.

Dr. Cho grins at you, and stands, congratulating you then, after she’s sure you even want a congratulations. You like her, think you might.

It’s hard to focus on her voice though because all your mind can think of is the next big obstacle, the next big step in all of this.

How were you going to tell Bucky?

Okay guys? I posted? Crazy right? lol give me some feedback! Comment and tell me what you thought of this. I absolutely love interacting with you guys, but I’m sure ya’ll know that.

Also- the taglist for this story is still OPEN, so if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters just ask!

@peacefulwriter88 @jaamesbbarnes @jalapenobarnes @brieannakeogh @gifsbysimplysonia @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @lostinspace33 @4theluvofall @plumfondler @tatathekissypotato @siren-kitten-his @skishenanigans @geekyweed @spidey-babe-parker @lastfallenstar @rachelle-on-the-run @prettybubblesintheair @dani-si

#Bucky Barnes #thick bucky #bucky barnes x plus size reader #bucky barnes x reader #pregnant!reader #pregnant reader #Modern AU #marvel #wanda maximoff #plus size reader #Steve Rogers #clint barton #avengers au #fluff #and angst #fluffy angst #unexpected pregnancy #Carol Danvers #MCU

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seekthemist · 5 years

Note

107 Nikandros ( saying it to Auguste?)

“Your ass is gonna be seven different shades of red after that little stunt”

Mist says Rare Pair Rights, 2.0, Captive Prince edition. Also known as: @linecrosser, @nikanndros, your Augandros anon escaped and came to get me, come and take them back. However, let’s show people how NOT fading sex scenes to black is done ( @niniblack called me out yesterday)Long, partially under the cut and E-rated!

From this prompt list!

The door of Nikandros’s quarters opened with that unique way that could only accompany Auguste in his entrance–never subdued like a servant or somewhat ready to fall in line, but still carefully analytical. Maybe, in another life before Nikandros had known him, he was the kind of man to walk into rooms like he own them regardless of who waited on the other side.

Nikandros turned around on his chair, away from the sunlight that bathed his desk crowded with papers. He was already smiling without being able to help it.

“Your ass is gonna be seven different shades of red after that little stunt”

Auguste moved even more carefully than usual in closing the door behind him, a little grimace on his face–considerably less gaunt than when Nikandros had found him, handsome in a distracted way.

“I’m aware of it…we can call it the price of raising the new generations.”

After having watched Auguste with a flock of children of soldiers, all aged between five and eight years old, for the best part of the last two hours, Nikandros could not help but laugh.

“Does that qualify as training in Vere?” he asked, without even trying to hide his amusement.

“That qualifies as mutiny,” Auguste replied, hard-suffering but not cross, as he divested most of his garments and his shoes to give himself a wash at the basin.

Nikandros laughed away, helplessly.

“Is that how you spent your time up here?” Auguste asked, “Laughing at my woes rather than working?”

“That’s mostly accurate, yes.”

At first it had been just the over-excited shrills of the children–entertained and delighted by this foreign man paying them attention. Then it had been the general commotion, brought upon by all the kids breaking any rank Auguste had tried to organise them in to gang up on him. Auguste had taken it with the same good humour that made Nikandros think he must have been a cherished older brother–one his family would want back at any cost, if only they knew he was alive. Still, “the mutiny” involved a whirlpool of tiny humans, reaching no higher than Auguste’s waist, all armed with with wooden swords and aiming them anywhere they could reach–a general area from the middle of Auguste’s thighs and his ass.

Auguste was going to be sore–and bruised.

“Let me give a look at you,” Nikandros said, beckoning Auguste with an outstretched hand.

Auguste folded the wet towel he had been using, neatly, next to the basing. “I’m sure it’s fine, it won’t be worse than days riding at forced pace during a campaign.”

Still, he came forward, fitting neatly between Nikandros’s spread legs–golden and bare-chested in the early afternoon light. Nikandros remained seated and placed a kiss at the centre of Auguste’s stomach–growing taut and strong by the weeks, health and nourishment giving strength back to his muscles. Those same muscles jumped under the touch of Nikandros’s lips, and it was nice to know that he had Auguste’s full, unchallenged attention.

“Better now than, regretfully, tomorrow,” Nikandros argued–knowing that he didn’t really need to–while undoing the laces of Auguste’s breeches.

He heard Auguste swallow a bit, a small ripple of sensitivity running all the way to his cock, making it twitch even under perfunctory touches. Nikandros guided him to turn around with a small nudge on his hips and Auguste went easily, with his trousers caught at knee-height and his ass in full display–but just for Nikandros to see.

There were, indeed, some red lines immediately evident on Auguste’s skin, crossing over in the clumsiest pattern. It all promised to swollen up quickly.

“They really put an effort into it,” Nikandros considered, with a low chuckle, running the back of his fingers up and down Auguste’s thighs with both hands. “If I hadn’t seen how they love you I would have thought this to be a malicious attack.”

“I told you it’s fine,” Auguste replied, two seconds later, without articulating as he usually would.

“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be better.”

Nikandros argued, picking up a jar of oil from his desk that came with the indistinct use of chapped hands in the winter and sharpening actual blades of paper cutter. He poured some on his hands, rubbing it together, and felt Auguste stiffening to stillness even before Nikandros went back at touching him–slippery, now, soothing.

It wasn’t a bad tension–more like anticipating.

Looking at Auguste all too intently–and feeling tighter in his own trousers by the minute–Nikandros commented inanely on the kids, what they knew of their families, what were his own memories with them if he had any. It was the type of chat Auguste enjoyed, normally. But now he mostly hummed back to Nikandros without any real meaning, agreeable sentences that had the feeling of a placeholder.

“Are you ignoring me?” Nikandros asked, suddenly, with the oil mostly absorbed on Auguste’s skin–looking less red already.

“No!” Auguste protested, but flinched minutely under Nikandros’s knuckles brushing at the curve of his cheeks. “You’re just…being very distracting.”

Nikandros felt himself smiling, feeling more smug than he did as a teenager at the King’s court, when the world had seemed at his disposal.

“I’m holding a leisured conversation,” he countered, in a clearly fake protest. “If I wanted to be distracting, I would do this.”

Before Auguste could reply, Nikandros took hold of both of his cheeks, spreading them wide enough to kiss between them–where Auguste was warm and a little bit giving, having taken Nikandros just the night before.

Auguste moaned brokenly, and pushed back against Nikandros’s mouth with that flattering brand of shamelessness that only a Veretian could have in the middle of the day. There was no need to reach around to know that Auguste was hard–the trembling on uncertain stance sufficed.

Nikandros licked at his entrance with more persistent than patience, feeling to eager in himself for the way he wiggled his index finger inside just so he could thrust his tongue alongside it.

“Nik!…”

The hitching sound was far from a protest, and so was the hand that reached back to grasp on Nikandros’s shoulder–a mixture between a gesture of passion and an attempt on balancing on trembling knees.

Taking it as the encouragement it was, Nikandros gave Auguste another finger, scissoring them lightly to lick deeper inside.

He wasn’t fluent enough in Veretian to know all of their convoluted, creative swearing, but Nikandros knew the tone of a profanity when he heard one. He smiled against Auguste’s body, hearing him running his mouth.

And yet there was sort of a tension, uncertain, that still refused to leave Auguste’s body.

“You’re very tense,” Nikandros murmured, kissing at Auguste’s tailbone and keeping his fingers knuckle deep. He sounded hoarse even at his own ears. “You can relax.”

Auguste laughed under a weavering breath. “Easier said than done, I’m facing some very official-looking papers and correspondence.”

The mental picture of Auguste holding himself carefully still to be licked without soiling Nikandros’s work burned the residual edge out of Nikandros’s control.

He unfolded his chiton, one-handedly, his own cock all too eagerly jutting up when freed.

“Come here, then.”

Nikandros took his fingers out and pulled Auguste back towards him, one arm circling his waist. And Auguste just went, without even questioning–the weight of him pressing Nikandros down on the chair when he seated on his knees.

“Oh f-…”

Auguste broke off with a moan, with Nikandros’s erection teasing his rim–not quite surprised, but shaking at the sensation of it. But he was spit-slick and open and it was all too easy for Nikandros to hold him tighter and thrust his cock in.

He was halfway in when Auguste clenched around him, nails digging in Nikandros’s forearm, mindlessly. Nikandros just held him tighter and guided Auguste to lean against his chest–his cock all the way inside him.

“Wait!…ah…waitwait…”

The mumbling was fairly incoherent but Nikandros stilled, catching all the signals of an overwhelmed Auguste. So sensitive to any contact, so close to orgasm. Nikandros wanted to touch him all over and see him go out of his mind with it, but he waited.

Auguste’s effort in rolling back from the edge was valiant, shivering on Nikandros’s lap and breathing shallowly. It was also partially pointless, because just nosing his head around to claim Nikandros’s mouth rose goosebumps all over.

When they moved, they moved at Auguste’s call, rocking back and for on Nikandros’s lap while Nikandros held him tight–then tighter–and dared kissing between Auguste’s shoulder blades even though the resulting choked wailing almost made him feel guilty.

“Oh, that’s so good,” Auguste hissed between clenched teeth.

“Yes?” Nikandros sighed, pulling Auguste’s back with more purpose and lodging exactly on that spot that made Auguste clench so deliciously.

Auguste moaned, nodding blindly, and came all over himself–quick to rail up and slow to calm down. It was all too easy to follow him, in plain light of day, releasing deep inside.

They stayed on that chair for all too long, disheveled like youngsters in their prime. Even when Nikandros slid out of Auguste, he still rearranged him on his lap, to catch his breath properly. Auguste’s forehead frowned, slightly, when the movement made him rub again against the fabric of the chiton, but then relaxed.

“I apologise, I hope I didn’t make it worse,” Nikandros admitted, a bit sheepishly.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Auguste replied, flopping down on Nikandros’s shoulders with his full weight and very little restriction–sore and bruised or not.

#Captive prince #Augandros #nikandros x auguste #My Writing #ALL THE PROMPTS

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chinatea · 5 years

Text

Tattoo/Christian, Superhero AU.

The one where Tattoo is a Superhero and Christian is a reporter who always ends up being saved by him.

(Tat is your generic superman - super strength, super vision, super speed, all that jazz.)

(A fun fact - I actually started writing this as Tattoo/Baby G, but ended up writing Christian, behavior-wise, so I changed the pairing to Tat/Chris. Although there is still a few Baby G-ish traits to him I decided not to edit out, cuz it’s just more fun that way, isn’t it.)

It’s Friday night and Jimin could think of a million ways how to spend it in style.

Like, having a hot bath with candles and a glass of Bordeaux. Classic. One could never go wrong with classic on a Friday night. And that was his plan for the day. Hell, he’s been looking towards it all week, but the plan has changed and that’s why Jimin is not currently soaking in himalayan salts, but instead soaking his ass in some dank-ass basement, all tied and gagged up like someone’s messed up idea of a Christmas present.

(Sadly, that wouldn’t even be the first time - the criminals around here lack both brains and originality, like, big time.)

Times like these, Jimin truly hates this city. Times like these, he swears as soon as he’s outta here, he will pack his shit and catch the first bus out of this hellhole, because he’s had enough of this bullshit.

Why him? Just...why?

A rhetorical question, mind you. He bloody knows why.

It all started with Mr. Titanium Glutes, or Tattoo, who spawned out of nowhere one day, like most superheros do, in his spanking new spandex briefs and has been stealing the front pages across editorials all over city ever since.

Meanwhile, Jimin was just a modest reporter (with awesome hair and scintillating smile) who did his job. And sometimes that job had him doing some footwork, sending him places no-sane-person-would-ever, putting his life at risk and other occupational hazards.

Running away from enraged crime mobs was nothing new to him. Little did he know, however, how much of a pesky menace Tattoo would become once they get to know each other a little better. Despite all Jimin’s attempts to minimize their contact as much as possible.

There is only so much he could do, however. He’s not a miracle worker, after all. His job is dangerous and dangerous spells Tattoo in big sparkling letters. The man would just turn up, whenever a shitstorm rolled in, to save those in need with his superhuman strength.

And yes, Jimin might have been a hair away from the imminent death, but was he in need? Hell no.

He never asked to be saved. Never asked to be held like he was made of glass. And he definitely didn’t ask Tattoo to look at him like a lovesick fool. (Must be the hair, dammit.) Naturally, it was exactly the moment when a million of stringers around the area chose to snap their best winning shot of the day - and ever since that day Jimin has gotten unfortunate notoriety and a new nickname...

Lois Fucking Lane.

Inevitably siccing every single villain who has beef with Tattoo on Jimin’s ass. Which is, like, the entirety of the criminal underworld by now.

Gee, thanks.

“Stupid rope,” Jimin mutters under his breath, struggling to loosen the knot holding his wrists together just enough to hopefully slip a hand out and undo the binds.

Whomever kidnapped him was stupid enough to leave him and his tiny hands unsupervised and is so going to suffer for it, because Jimin also has a superpower - in times of need, his tiny hands have the capacity to become even tinier. He’s a badass like that, obviously.

A few little huffs and puffs later, Jimin lets out a happy little squeal, wiggling his hands free and tackling the foot binds next. Followed by a nasty gag that smells like something Jimin doesn’t want to linger on too much to avoid a lifelong trauma.

Although free and unbounded, it still leaves him locked up inside a dimly lit basement, containing nothing but a rusty tankard left forgotten on a shoddy wooden chair in the corner.

Jimin has a mind to kick it in frustration when he makes out faint footsteps approaching from behind the door. In panic, he grabs the chair, the rusty tankard flying off with much racket.

Jimin cringes, cussing out loud, as he hurries to take point next to the door, readying the chair above his head. If he is to die tonight, at least he’ll take one of those motherfuckers with him.

He holds his breath as seconds stretch into long moments of waiting. Then, the door knob turns and Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, smashing the chair down on whomever glides right in.

The man doesn’t even flinch as the chair disintegrates into dust upon contact, raising a cloud of fine specks to float in the air. Jimin stumbles back by the sheer force of the impact, air caught in his lungs. He wheezes loudly, struggling to catch his breath. He feels a hundred years old, for some reason, utterly tuckered out. Who knew that holding that chair for two seconds could be so damn exhausting.

“W-what the hell are you doing here?” he finally stutters out, shooting a glower at Tattoo who just stands there, arms crossed over his massive chest, thoroughly amused by Jimin’s fumbling around.

“Oh c’mon, toots, you just jumped me with a chair. I don’t exactly expect a written apology, but a kiss would be nice, don’t you think?” Tattoo intones as he flicks away a few splinters off his bicep. “Besides, one would think you’d get the memo by now. Your knight in shining spandex has arrived. Now gimme my kiss.”

“Shut up,” Jimin grouses. “Where are the scumbags who kidnapped me?”

“Probably running for their lives now,” Tattoo shrugs. “I’ll deal with them later, don’t worry.”

“If you can find them, that is,” Jimin scoffs.

“Oh I will,” Tattoo adds smugly. “Just like I always find you, toots.”

It occurs to Jimin then that Tattoo indeed is infallible when it comes to tracking him down just in time before the heat. If only he hadn’t been too preoccupied being exasperated with the man half the time, he would have questioned it much sooner.

“Super hearing,” Tattoo explains then, tapping next to his ear, looking like he’s about to burst from smugness. “I always listen in if my toots is in trouble.”

“First, I’m not yours, second, excuse me??” Jimin seethes. “You can’t do that. This is violation of my privacy. I know my rights, dumbass.”

The look Tattoo gives him is far from remorseful. His unapologetic grin shines like a beacon of self-righteousness.

“Then go ahead and sue me, toots. I’d rather have you mad at me than hurt,” Tattoo says before adding in a voice that belongs in a bedroom with moody lighting. “Besides, I usually tune out for a while then you...ah, you know. Even if those are the prettiest little sounds I’ve ever heard anyone make with their mouth.”

Heat creeps onto Jimin’s cheeks as he gawks at Tattoo, feeling disarmed and stripped naked, metaphorically, of course.

“You didn’t...” he whispers.

Tattoo’s big stupid grin tells otherwise.

What a fucking sleazy bastard.

Mind gone black, Jimin turns on his heels and wobbles out of the creaky door and up the steep staircase, so steep in fact, he has to almost crawl up the steps, hating himself for choosing skintight jeans to wear today. As much as he loves how they hug his thighs, he hates the very idea of treating that douchebag to the dreamy panorama of his ass. He doesn’t even need to look over his shoulder to know that Tattoo is watching him go like a creep.

Because Tattoo is a creep, regardless of how many grannies he saves per day. And Jimin just happened to catch his fancy. Oh woe is him.

He pushes the heavy door and finds himself in a quiet back alley, heaps of trash bags and not a soul in the vicinity.

“Eh, toots?” Tattoo calls after him, hot on his heels, as always.

“I’m not talking to you. Ever.”

“Sure, but I think you’d still like to know that there is a huge damp spot on your ass that looks like you peed yourself, just saying,” Tattoo supplies helpfully. “Did you really pee yourself?”

Tattoo looks genuinely concerned for him while Jimin cranks his neck this way and that to access the damage done. His ass does feel wet to the touch.

“You know it’s okay if you did,” Tattoo continues, nodding to himself. “I won’t judge. We’ve all been there. Well, not me, obviously, but I still find you hot, don’t worry about th-”

“Jesus fuck, will you shut up?” Jimin barks at him. “I didn’t pee myself, you asshole. I sat in a fucking puddle for an hour, okay? And it’s all your damn fault.”

“I know.”

Tattoo sounds somber, for a change, all usual mirth gone, which makes Jimin eye him suspiciously. Did the bastard suddenly grow a conscience?

Then, Tattoo holds his hands out, squeezing the fingers in a grabbing motion, shamelessly lewd.

“Hop on,” he pipes, eyebrows wiggling. “C’mon, toots, you know the drill.”

(Or maybe not.)

A million curses later, Jimin finds himself successfully loaded into Tattoo’s arms. What choice does he have? Brave the streets with damp asscheeks? Hell no.

Arms wrapped around the bastard’s neck, Jimin tries to think happy thoughts - like choking Tattoo to death with his tiny hands which gradually translates into choking Tattoo with his thighs which ends up with Jimin power-riding Tattoo’s face, choking him with his ass.

His thoughts are weird, so what.

He just hopes that Tattoo doesn’t have a telepathic ability or anything of that sort, because…

(He’s totally fucked, isn’t he?)

Only the bastard doesn’t take him home as Jimin belatedly discovers. While in the air, Jimin keeps his eyes squeezed tight because Jimin and heights don’t mix well, so when he opens them, deeming it safe, what welcomes him is not his balcony with petunias from his mum.

“What in the frack is this?” he says, wobbly on his feet, soaking in the sight of a lonely tent on the roof of some apartment building. The inside of the tent, decorated with fairy lights, are layered cozily with blankets and throw pillows. Jimin spies a food basket and a bottle of wine, which leaves little room for misunderstanding - he knows what in the frack this is.

A romantic roof picnic set for two.

He faces Tattoo then, hands akimbo, and taps his foot impatiently, waiting for explanations.

“Well,” Tattoo starts. “I hope you like chicken, toots. It’s organic, I promise.”

“Did I ask you to do this for me?” Jimin asks, unamused.

“No, you didn’t,” Tattoo replies, looking too somber for comfort for the second time this night. His chest sinks with a sigh as he rubs the back of his neck, a touch sheepish. “Listen, I wanted to apologize. Better late than never, right? I’m sorry for making you a target even if it was not my intention, I just...I’ll be back in a second.”

Jimin has barely any time to blink as Tattoo flashes in and out of his sight, only this time, the spandex suit is gone and, in a way, Tattoo is gone, too. What Jimin sees in front of him is a guy in a hoodie, sweats and a pair of round glasses. What the..?

“My name is Jungkook,” the guy says. “Apart from doing, you know, superhero stuff, I’m an average student who majors in culinary arts with a minor in photography. I love video games and working out even though I break pretty much every gear I touch, so I don’t. I have a doting mum and a little brother. They’re normal, by the way, in case you wanted to know. I don’t know why I’m the way I am. My favorite color is yellow and hey, I’m single.”

The guy, Jungkook, wraps his speech up with a stupid wink and even a stupider grin and the only reason why Jimin doesn’t shove him off the roof is because of the major cognitive dissonance he’s experiencing right now.

So he lets it slide, just this once.

“You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” he says, quiet, hugging himself from the chill of the night. “Why would you expose yourself like that. That’s stupid.”

“Because I think it’s only fair after all I’ve put you through, besides I know that you won’t tell anybody,” Jungkook smiles cheekily. “And I don’t know how about you, but I’m starving, all this superpower can’t sustain itself on air, you know.”

Jimin stares at him as he shakes his head to himself.

“Fine, but only because I’m hungry too, okay? Don’t get any ideas now, brat. This is not a date!”

“Sure, toots. Here, I’ve brought some spare sweats for you.”

“The fuck I’m gonna do with them? Wear them as a dress?” Jimin gripes as he grabs the sweatpants offered, five times his size from the looks of it.

He quickly strips out of his skinnies and tugs those parachutes on as Jungkook crouches over the basket, unloading its contents. Jimin’s stomach grumbles at the mouth-watering smell of food and he mentally wills it to shut the fuck up - he’s been through a lot today and doesn’t need Jungkook being even more smug than he already is.

A total husband material he may be, but Jimin won’t give in.

Not on their first date, anyhow.

“Scooch, or something,” he gripes, settling down next to Jungkook who only scooches closer, unapologetic, and even if Jimin scrunches up his nose at that he doesn’t complain or move away - it’s warmer that way, okay?

(Yep, totally fucked, he is.)

#tattoo/christian #personas au

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magicmagikarp · 5 years

Photo

DAY 021: PARENTS || meme

TL;DR: He was born into a normal family, but a normal family has their own problems.

David Letterman and Isabella Letterman

David Letterman enlisted into the military when he was eighteen, just like any other young lad in America. He went to boot camp, rose in the ranks and got his degree in electrical engineering. A casual life of a soldier, he had a terrible love life as many soldiers did and would always be on tour. He traveled with Lieutenant Surge to Vermilion City in the Kanto region and met his future wife Isabella in the city.

He couldn’t tell you have he managed to woe the kind and caring Mrs. Isabella, but somehow she ended up walking down the aisle and exchanged vows with him. In Vermilion City, he lived the American dream. Working hard as an electrical engineer, had a beautiful wife who loved to spoil him and their son Michael. It was the picture perfect family...until their son went missing.

Their happy marriage always had fights. It was always about his drinking and how much he needed to be there for his son. It was about Isabella spoiling their son too much and didn’t warn Michael about the dangers of strangers, that the world isn’t that good. Their different points of view collided with each other, but that was what kept them together until they blamed each other for losing their son.

His drinking and smoking got to him and Isabella became hysterical. They mourned over their lost child, desperate to find their son. They went to couples therapy over the years since Isabella dragged him to the office. If When Michael came home then they would be the best parents for their son.

So here they are now, a broken family held together by duct tape. David sneaks out to bars and clubs at night with the boys while Isabella treats all her students like her own children and became very involved in the lives of the unfortunate. Their son Michael is twenty eight now and is a successful in his marine biology, even became a successful magikarp breeder.

They couldn’t be more proud of their son...that’s what they always tell their couples counselor.

▞▙▞▛▚▟▙▘ and ▚▛▟▞▙▚▜▘

He met her when he was being mugged by her in the streets of Hoenn. She wanted to steal his wallet and any cash on him, gave him a black eye and stole all his fancy watches. To say the least, he was completely smitten with her as she was the first person to not care who he was (...as the story goes).

He wouldn’t meet her again until he saw her at the club. He cornered her and of course got kneed in the balls and thrown out by her for sexual assault, but she “was flattered he thought she was pretty”. They would meet each other time and time again, at bars and at clubs, on the streets and eventually would meet up at some small hotels.

She showed him how to live the free life, or at least a life she called free. She was never soft nor did she care about his feelings towards her, but she liked that he gave her money every so often. And she couldn’t tell you why she said yes to a stupid diamond ring when he proposed.

Life wasn’t easy for them, especially when she had such a criminal record and he was a well known celebrity. Her name tarnished his good family name for a good couple of weeks - something he waved off as headline news and will pass in time. And he was right upon the birth of their beautiful son.

Headlines would run about their newest edition to their family and how there was a new heir. It is so tragic that the next headline about that family would be about their death...what a shame.

#.: { papers in the filing cabinet | 100 day headcanons ) :.

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cometoceantrenches · 6 years

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its for the extra credits

SUMMARY: Seventeen-year old Amaya Sloan didn’t really like this. The situation was just thrust upon her. What was it you ask? Well, its to tutor Hawkins’ resident Bad Boy: Billy Hargrove. Though things take a turn and it isn’t just about tutoring anymore... BILLY HARGROVE X OFC

CHAPTER SUMMARY: It was meant to be a good day, that was until Mr. Wallace tasked Amaya to do something.

A/N: Whoooooo- I’m sweating just typing this. So in case y’all haven’t had it figured out yet, this is a Billy Hargrove x OFC Series. WHAT??? Yes, you read it right. I know I’m trash for shipping her with Billy when I ship her and Steve but iDK. Dont hate me please Imma give credit to @masterkenobi for reading and editing my work as well as giving moi ideas. Thanks Leslie! <3 <3

FEEDBACK IS APPRECIATED. :D

The second the bell rang, the students packed up their things, ignoring the teacher’s announcements as his voice competed over the teenagers’ chatter. They all filed out of the classroom, relieved that the day was finally over. Although, Amaya wasn’t in so much of a hurry. She looked up to see Steve lingering around her seat as he ran a hand through his hair with an anxious look on his face.

Amaya sighed. “You can pick them up, Steve.” She said to ease his conscience.

The boy turned to her with a sigh of his own. “I’m really sorry, Maya.”

She waved her hand dismissively, brushing her jet black hair over her shoulder with it. “It’s fine. Just make sure Lili does all her homework and that you bring her home safely.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” The brunet shouldered his bag and stuck his hands into his jean pockets.

“Yup. Anyways, Mr. Wallace needs me for something.”

Steve sucked in a breath through his teeth as he weaved through the chairs and towards the doors. “Good luck.” He gave a nod over to the said teacher who was sat behind the desk before heading over to pick up the kids.

The Filipina slung her bag over her shoulder as she approached her class adviser’s table. The balding man looked up from his desk and gave his student a small smile. “Ms. Sloan, I actually thought that you forgot about my appointment with you.”

“Oh, I was just fixing my stuff, sir.”

Mr. Wallace gave a nod of approval before capping his pen and folding his hands together. “I have an important task for you, Ms. Sloan.” The girl shifted in her place and gave a nod for him to continue. He took a breath. “On behalf of Mrs. Drake, I am tasking you to tutor Mr. Hargrove on Chemistry.”

Amaya whole body tensed. Was he serious? She felt as if her shoulders sagged with a heavy weight placed upon them. Frowning she started to protest. “But sir, Hargrove? He’s as stubborn as an ass.”

“Exactly why I’m asking you to tutor him. Obviously, he doesn’t take my lessons seriously and maybe with the help of someone his age, he’ll listen. Besides, I let you off when you two were partnered for a project.”

Amaya ran a hand down her face, exasperated. Her hazel brown eyes scanned the room helplessly as she thought of an alternative or anything that would excuse her from this situation. “I’m flattered sir, really, but why not Kathy Wells or Bryan Reyes? They’re good tutors and I’m pretty sure Kathy will agree to it.”

“I asked you because, aside from the previous stated reasons, you’re a steadfast girl. You know your place. I’ve seen you debate before Ms. Sloan, you’re a tough cookie. It will only be every Thursday and Friday for the next month.” Mr. Wallace smiled up at her encouragingly.

The Filipina held back a whine as she bit her cheeks in thought. After what seemed like forever, she had no choice but to give in. “Will there be any extra credits sir?”

“There will be. And besides, if he does anything to trouble you, you let me know.” Amaya nodded. “Excellent!” Mr. Wallace stood to pack his things up. “The sessions take place after class and for an hour and forty minutes. I’ll have Mr. Hargrove notified soon. Thank you Ms. Sloan, you’re a real big help.”

With a half hearted smile, Amaya bowed her head before heading out to the parking lot. The minute she stepped out into the cold air, she couldn't help but let out a muffled yell of frustration, earning a few concerned glances towards her direction. Garnering attention caused her to silence her woes and go on towards her destination.

Usually, Steve and Amaya parked their cars together but with the loud clamoring the kids caused didn't make the red BMW hard to find. Amaya’s younger sister noticed her first, immediately sensing her stress.

“Why’re you so grouchy?” Lili asked as she pushed herself off the hood of her sister’s white Pontiac Catalina, passed down all the way from her step-grandpa from 1966.

“What'd Mr. Wallace ask you to do?” Steve inquired, trying to squeeze himself in the pair’s conversation.

“Two words. Tutor and Hargrove.” Amaya grumbled as she pulled out her car keys.

Lili audibly gasped and Steve frowned, placing a hand on her shoulder to comfort her somehow. One way or another, Max overheard the conversation and left the one (something about the science behind Back to the Future) going on between the rest of the boys and El.

“You have to tutor Billy?” The redhead asked to affirm what she had just heard.

“Yes, and I don't wanna talk about it. Just thinking about it makes my blood boil.” Amaya finally got the door to her Catalina open before turning to her sister. “You still going to the arcade?”

Lili pushed back the thick white headband on her head before nodding. “Unless you want me to come back home with you?”

With a shake of her head, the older Sloan slipped into her car and rolled down the window. “Make sure to be safe and have fun. And don't use up all your quarters like last time, alright?” Turning to Steve she instructed him to keep the kids safe and make sure they don't do anything that involves either her or Nancy being prostituted off to Keith (again).

“Yeah, yeah, just don't worry about it. You should worry about making cue cards and shit for Hargrove.” He received a groan from his friend. “Hey, if he bothering you, tell me okay? I'll deal with it.”

Amaya’s lips quirked a little. She started the car and started pulling out of the parking space. “And have your face beat up again? Thanks but no thanks, I'd rather see you in one piece.” She waved over to the rest of the party. “You guys have fun. Don't go too crazy though!”

“No promises!” Dustin replied with a smile.

The seventeen-year-old rolled her eyes at the kid’s antics and drove off from the parking lot, seeing them wave goodbye. Once her car was a speck that disappeared behind the buildings near the school, Lili dropped her hand and turned to Steve.

“I really hope Hargrove and *ate Maya don't get into fight…”

The brunette sighed and gave a gentle yet firm pat to her shoulder. “Me too kid.”

After sharing a few seconds of silence with her, he turned to the other kids and rounded them up, pushing them all in the car before driving off to the arcade.

*ate - term for older sister in Filipino

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x oc #billy hargrove x ofc #billy hargrove x amaya sloan #stranger things oc #st

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idiopathicsmile · 7 years

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ABOUT ME

I am allergic to sunflower seeds. My skin and brain cook so fast in the daylight, I’m pretty sure my ancestors were born underground and grew there in the dirt, like potatoes. I could live the rest of my life in celibacy, but if nobody snuggles with me in the next five years, I will scream.

At night, I tuck an arm around my own waist, trying to trust in my own existence. I can feel soft solid stomach down there but. Still not sure I’m buying it.

There is a language that my skin, blood, and flesh never learned how to speak. Words exist for this phenomenon, for what sliding my eyes over a naked body does for my pulse (which is to say: nothing at all) I used to squeeze onto dark dance floors, confused and amazed by the men who pressed up against me, shocked at myself for letting them —and also how dry and clinical my thoughts stayed, no matter where their hands went. But the first time my boyfriend kissed my neck, my whole vision sparkled, so I never felt like any one thing

(There are words for not feeling like any one thing, but what if I haven’t earned those, either?)

l have never touched my lips to another person’s out of hunger, but I once kissed a man in the hopes he might shut up about baseball. Overall, I’d say this ranks as the fifth-worst reason I’ve kissed someone.

(Number One: Because you are my boyfriend and maybe for the space of this breath at least, I can trick you into being careful with me. He was capable of showing me kindness. That said, he appeared to find it VERY draining. I go back and forth: how much of his cruelty was strategic, and how much genuinely could not be helped? I don’t even know what would frighten me more. Sometimes, though, by raising a question in the first place, you render the answer moot. I left him. Still, I can’t say “abuse” without puking out fifteen caveats. No no, I never feared for my body, he just kicked at the softest parts of my mind, taught me that I couldn’t need without taking, that my love was dense and sticky and foul, like wet tar. Then again: one time he did bake me a pie. I do know how it looks from the outside. I do know how I’d describe this if it happened to someone else.)

The last time a stranger danced with me, she kept smiling like she knew something I didn’t. I kept fretting over the ethics of leading a woman on, but couldn’t bring myself to stop moving. I liked her eyes on me, and her confidence was (oh god I’m sorry I don’t even I’m sorry I’m sorry) sexy. But I couldn’t imagine unzipping her dress in some quiet bedroom, couldn’t conceive of anything after that, which frankly, did not feel like a very bisexual problem to have Leaving me resigned at: straight, but bad at it Hard to demand a parade for that Except lately (be kind be kind be kind), I am wondering all over again.

Over and over and over and—

The gears of my brain grind sloppy and loud, like a garbage disposal. My second therapist tried to teach me how to say anxiety. I keep thinking I’ve almost got the hang of this Only, what if it’s not a matter of faulty synapses? Some nights, there’s a growling from the kitchen, noxious fumes rising, but maybe I did this to myself, mixed the poison myself, crossed the wires myself, because I wasn’t disciplined hard enough as a child, or because my teachers saw paranoia and said perceptive and it was easier to squat gibbering in the corner than learn to fit in.

Dad says that forgetting your keys is a sign of genius but I am forgetting the day of the week, and also how to work or wash my dishes or feed myself. My attention floats or burns, so pinpoint-sharp, I’m surprised I haven’t seared a hole through my computer screen. My memory is as pallid and eyeless as some deep-sea fish, a creature evolved for a bygone era. And then a new and different therapist says, anxiety AND attention deficit. Are we digging up disorders to excuse every flaw now, says my depression. How very convenient, says my depression. (If it even IS actual depressoh god I’m so tired)

Nobody can lift the hood and root around in there, so with Therapist #3, we embark upon the next best thing: Worksheets, all of which I ruin with scribbled nests of second-guessing Look, lady, if I KNEW to circle 1 2 3 4 or 5, I would not fucking be here, trying to fix my broken mind WITH my broken mind. Scores tallied, I keep landing right on the borderline of real or not. It’s (forgive the pun) maddening; I always tested so well in school. She keeps pointing out, politely, that I seem to be almost reverse-engineering it this way, that I seem unable to calm my brain enough to generate useful results.

These days, if I question the existence of my anxiety in her hearing, she just laughs. It’s very kind of her when you think about it.

Sometimes I pretend my meds are party drugs. Often, it’s hard to tell if they’re even working. Not much of a party I guess. I couldn’t say that I consistently believe in a future where I am “better.” I keep visiting the therapist and taking the pills, though, so I must believe in something.

(Let’s not even get into religion; we’ll be here all damn day.)

My family says writer and I think, You beautiful fools! Blinded by your unconditional love! My friend says writer and I think, No no not at all yes of course maybe? My resume says writer and I wait for the authorities to come and drag me to liar-jail

Most of my stories are about people being kind to each other, something I used to fret about because it did not feel like Art. O woe, I wept, the world needs heart surgery and here I am, churning out Band-Aids instead. If I could tell my younger self anything, I’d say, the world needs Band-Aids, too, kiddo.

I’ve been editing this poem all night. Believe me, I’m aware what a mess it is anyway. The harder I stare at a thought, the less it seems to exist. I’m trying so hard to tell you the truth I’m terrified that I still might somehow be lying

That said, every single time in my adult life that I have struggled to describe a feeling in words and dredged up something I was certain that nobody else could ever possibly connect to and spat out the whole awful tangle on a page where anybody could see, at least one person has asked, How did you read my mind?

For what it’s worth, I think this is less about talent than honesty, and honesty has never felt like a choice.

If I could pack everything deep inside and keep it there, I probably would.

More and more, I’m glad I can’t.

#cw emotional abuse #cw mental illness #it is very very rare for me that a poem feels like the most efficient way to explain something #but man here's...whatever this is #ETA: why yes i DID go back and revise this poem after posting it #an act so meta as to nearly constitute performance art

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inthepursuitofbooks · 7 years

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Joss Whedon is problematic

I love Buffy. It’s by far my favorite TV show. It’s my security blanket. When I’m sick, Buffy and mac & cheese. When I’m sad, Buffy. When I’m stressed, Buffy. That being said, as I get older I notice the more problematic points of the show, and later the comics (I stopped reading the comics when Xander and Dawn started having their weird thing). As I get older and the more I hang out with “woke” women and learn terms like “intersectional feminism,” the more I notice the problems I have with Joss Whedon. Don’t get me wrong, I will always love Buffy, but I’m slowly having to watch it in the mindset that I watch I Love Lucy and I Dream of Jeannie: for its time it was revolutionary, but is clearly dated in the handling of the relationships and the script. I mean, the show was the first mainstream usage of the word “google” as a verb. It was also one of the first to show a lesbian couple. The more research I do on the show, however, leads me to believe that a great many of those choices were not Whedon’s doing, but the other writers such as Jane Espenson, whose credits include “Husbands,” “Battlestar Galactica,” “Warehouse 13,” and “Once Upon a Time.”

One of the main problems I have with Whedon is his weird fascination with making “strong female characters” only show their strength when they’ve been broke, damaged, or struck with illness. Examples of this include the plans for Inara had Firefly gone beyond a single season (article can be found here), Anya’s entire arc from ruthless, badass vengeance demon to a somewhat simpering, bitter, sarcastic woman, Cordelia’s final storyline and the travesty of what happened to her character simply because Whedon got mad that Charisma had the gall to get pregnant (here is a great 2-part blog discussing the problems with Cordelia, there’s also this video where she discusses her return and official death to the show,) Fred’s final story arc, the handling of Natasha Romonoff in Age of Ultron and Loki’s calling her a “mewling quim” in Avengers, River Tam’s entire character, etc. Whedon seems to be obsessed with “break the pretty one” kind of trope.

Another problem I have is his inability to not self-insert. Xander’s entire character, from silly shirts to general nerd, is a giant self-insertion of Whedon into his creation. It’s saying something about how Whedon also views himself through Xander’s character. The more times I watch Buffy, the more I realize Xander is the “woe is me, I’m a nice guy why doesn’t anyone want me, I deserve credit for not raping her even though I was trying to force Cordelia to love with a spell, essentially raping her mind” kind of guy. Here is a great write-up on the problems of Xander. There’s also this write-up discussing the “Xander trope.” He also tried to say the reason he loved working on Avengers was getting to work with the Steve Rogers character because “we’re basically the same.” HA. NO. STAHP.

The entirety of Dollhouse. The whole show is a problem. The entire creeptastic thing.

Angel and the weird relationship of a 16-year-old and a 217-year-old. Don’t get me wrong, Spike and Buffy was weird too (yay for Spuffy shipping even though I’m aware of the issues), buy Spike and Buffy were together a few years after she turned 18. It’s still weird. Exactly what kind of mindset does a multi-century old creature have to be in to think “Oh hey. She’s a tasty morsel and she’s 16! Sixteen was grown in my day!” *bleh*

Whedon has a diversity issue starting with creation of the First Slayer through each of the Slayers killed on the show to Firefly and its entire Chinese/Western future world. This isn’t the problem, it’s inspired greatly by the anime Outlaw Star. The problem is THERE ARE LITTLE TO NO ASIAN PEOPLE IN THIS SHOW. Where are they? If, in this future the Chinese have taken over and melded with American Western Cowboys, where are they? Where are all the Asians? Summer Glau is amazing, but when asked why cast her and Sean Maher as the Tams, Whedon replied “They looked Asian.” I can’t find the interview, but if I do, I’ll link it. The First Slayer: a hyper-racist archetype of the most violent tribal black woman he could think of, the second slayer to die: a Chinese woman in the boxer rebellion, the third slayer to die: FUCKING KENDRA and her really strange Jamaican accent.

Moving away from Buffy (even though I could continuously discuss the problems I have with my fave) there’s the sterility issue with Natasha Romonoff. He took her from being a badass woman in her own right to be nothing more than the love interest of Dr. Banner/The Hulk in some weird Beauty and the Beast trope in Age of Ultron. He then also had her discuss why she considered herself a monster. It wasn’t because she was an assassin or because she had been trained to kill or any of that, it was because she was unable to bear children. Not taking into account how awful that monologue must have felt to women who have trouble conceiving, the entire speech stinks of misogynistic bullshit. What was, in the comics, a commentary on state-perpetrated robbing of a female’s body autonomy, is reduced to a soliloquy of regret. It could have been, and some do see it as, a moment where she is regretting her loss of choice. However, the fact that she refers to herself as monstrous, not because she killed a man in cold blood to “graduate” but because she can’t have children is a frightening commentary of the view of a woman’s place despite her skills or intelligence. There’s also, as I mentioned earlier, the moment in Avengers where Loki calls Natasha a “mewling quim.” He called her a cunt. Whedon thinks he’s being clever to get by the censors. For that reason, I’m terrified of how his handling of Batgirl is going to go.

Again, all of Dollhouse. That show is basically an ode of Whedon’s love of tough tiny women getting punched in the face.

The character of Drusilla and what Angelus did to her. However, kudos to the legit evilness that is Angelus. I can appreciate when a character is evil just to be an evil dick.

Another issue I have is that, yes, he was a feminist. Back in the 80s, 90s, and early 2000s. He hasn’t evolved with the times. He hasn’t grown with age. His feminism is one of strictly white females and has not changed since the first Buffy movie, however I am glad that the tv show evolved to not having the slayer sense when evil is near by way of CRAMPS. Seriously. His “strong female characters” sway more toward waif-like and skinny. The entirety of “Dr. Horrible’s Sing-a-long Blog” is an example of “I’m better for her so I should have her” thought process of the fedora-wearing nice-guy crowd. The choice of Felicia Day’s character to be with Captain Hammer is never considered. The language used in a lot of his writing leans toward ableist. He uses the word “retard” and “midget” several times across several of his creations.

Here’s another great discussion on feminism and Joss Whedon. I think I may have linked it earlier, but just in case I didn’t, there it is. There’s also an entire blog dedicated to discussing Joss Whedon which you can find here.

I rambled a bit, and I may add to edit this again later, but this was just a quick think and dump write-up for a friend. If you have more receipts of Joss Whedon’s lack of feminist growth, please feel free to add.

#Joss Whedon #feminism #Buffy #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #angel #angel the series #firefly #serenity

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ryanellisphoto · 5 years

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#155 — Saturday, March 26th, 2019 — Ryan Ellis Photography - Detroit Street Photography Session #155 — Nikon Nikkor Ai-S 35mm f/2 (ca. 1982-3)

Photograph or Flight Response Tested - Roy R. Rowlands - Flags Hart Plaza - Brush Street Study - Homeless Goat - Two Tents Equal A Fifth - Homeless Man Pitches At Tigers Stadium - Spring Loaded - Selfie By Hudson Site - Lines Looking Up And Lines Looking Down - Greektown Worm Moon Rising - Greektown After Morning Twilight - Greektown Homeless Man - Knowledge Is Power - Library Vs. School - David Bosco Willis - The Man With Three First Names - Happy Lass In Downtown - Self-Professed G.O.A.T. Meets Goat - Diptych - Triptych

Arrived @ 7:15 AM

Departed @ 3:30 PM

1,036 photos (and also 18 videos) taken in 8¼ hours with 56 “keepers” among them, rendering a pauper’s percentage with just a 5.4% “success” rate at a king-size pace of 121.88 shots per hour (I desire the most at least to achieve a 10% “success” rate and 100 shots per hour).

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PREFACE: A few years ago, I saw a CL listing for a camera gear lot that appeared to be from the non-Ai-era of Nikon’s camera line history. Included in this lot was a “Saligar” 35mm f/2.8 (ca. 1964) lens. The owner of it told me that if super glue had been invented in the early sixties, when he accidentally dropped the lens, he would have fastened it back together with that, but, instead, it was held together by masking tape. This same man in a past life headed the crash test dummy department at GM in the 1980′s, making his living by developing the safest cars possible (quite honorable). The lens makes issues with the shutter. It puts odd shadows across images. I would use it artistically if I could predict and/or control the obscurations better. This lens has taken some fantastic shots, but the mechanical pain of having to disconnect and reconnect it all the time keep it low on my roster. :—:— A couple years ago, I bought a Nikkor-S 35mm f/2.8 (ca. 1964) lens from a mysterious French woman in Royal Oak. I had the price readjusted when I examined it, finding hundreds of scratches on the front element glass. The lens blew out brighter parts and seemed a bit dull in the focus. I thought the thing might be useful for artistic, niche things, but it is only good for video some of the time and for photography hardly any of the time. :—:— This week, I found a Nikkor Ai-S 35mm f/2 (ca. 1982/3) lens used on CL and sprung for it. I wish the story of this second lens purchase were more interesting, but believer’s bias is no better than bias because of reality. :—:— I read on Ken Rockwell’s website that this particular lens was a trouble regarding lens flare and barrel distortion. I never shot a good 35mm lens, so this was my chance to shoot a good one yet be disappointed somewhat unavoidably by its persistent flaws in spite of all other circumstances being the veriest operative. :—:— I wanted to see how today might go with this newest (to me) 35mm lens.

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PATH TAKEN:

Greektown - It was 26° F with low winds outside when I arrived in Detroit. “Tergiversate” is a word that many times aptly describes me. I do it often. I did it often upon my arrival in Greektown. Saturdays (my habitual Detroit street photography day), I frequently get street side only to return to my vehicle for something I forgot. This happened about three (or [sadly] more) times when I arrived. I love the old pastor’s explanation as to why David brought with him five smooth stones from the river when there was just one Goliath of Gath to vanquish—in case Goliath had four brothers with him when David arrived to defeat Israel’s anthropic Apollyon. Likewise, when I go out shooting, I take only what I need—as well as more in case I need it as well (my incurable optimism and hopeless hoping binds me to such measures). All that said, I unhappily admit I felt a bit dazed in my focus; I felt early on the weight of the world upon me. I thought, “what am I doing here?” I was sad that I have had these three years (all my time doing photography seriously) of famine in my photographic pursuits, profits-wise. I hoped to crush the proverbial skull at Golgotha with the cross I bore upon its placement atop the mount of sorrow I climbed today (to slightly borrow another preacher’s extra-biblical tale). :—:— I am awful at posing folks. That is something I wish to learn by observing folks far, far better than myself at posing others doing just that. When I take a people shot, I take the shot. Haha. I have no instructions for the subject(s), though I tell groups to gather nearer to one another for my final shot. A homeless man approached me asking me to take his picture. He was insistent that I would do that, so I did. I did not know he was homeless until a few shots in, because he told me as much as most do, which is to say that he talked of his need to find a job and some money. He even said that he wanted me to photograph his struggle as a homeless man. With that, he laid on the ground and closed his eyes as if to sleep. I warily proceeded photographing him in this and other poses. Finally, I gave him my card with instructions on how to get the best shots, should he find himself with a phone or online, and I told him all that I knew regarding getting help and getting employment. I really need to learn what proper local resources there are for the homeless. I meet and converse with maybe a half-dozen or more every week.

Brush Street - Trying to do something novel in order to write off my woes, I turned left on Monroe Street before it exited Greektown (instead of following it up to Campus Martius Park). I thought the light made the scene I saw look nice, so I took a three-shot burst of it (I shot bracketed with a third of a stop between shots to minimize the need to edit out bad lighting in post-processing). Thinking of my study of the RenCen video from a couple months back ( https://www.instagram.com/p/Bq51gEvn25a/ ), I continued this three-shot burst of the same scene of Brush Street until I ended up inside of the RenCen itself! Mayhaps, I might make this into a mini-movie with music underneath on my ‘gram!

East Larned Street - I admit I have not the keenest eye for distortion. This lens I shot with today (Nikkor 35mm f/2 [ca 1982-3]) was put down by Ken Rockwell for having pretty bad distortion (it makes straight lines look curved as the image moves from the center to the edges). This annoyance was pronounced when I shot the brand new Plum Market’s dining room from outside. I could not satisfactorily get straight lines on the edges of my very boxy composition.

Spirit of Detroit Plaza - I struck up a conversation with a man carrying a large backpack with Iraq-War-style U.S. camouflage patterned throughout its sections. I jokingly asked if he had brought everything he needed, and he laughed and replied, “No, I do not have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!” I replied, “Some folks are deathly allergic to nuts, so maybe that was a good thing!” He said, “Well, I am not, so I would still take the sandwich!” :—:— From here, we went back and forth in conversation. I asked if he had served in the military, and he said that he came from a family with several sisters, and because he was the only man amongst his siblings, he was told and also decided to not serve in the military in order to carry on his family name. He added that he had several family members that had served. His father was a marine. His uncle served too (and others). He said that he was a firearms instructor and taught many current and former military folks over the years. He was an older gentleman, in his middle years by my estimation, so I asked if he was from Detroit. He said he was born and raised here and only spent a little while elsewhere. With that answer given, I asked if he remembered the 1967 Race Riots in Detroit. He said yes and gave a bird’s eye view recollection of it but confessed he was quite young when it happened. I asked him about Dan Gilbert and Mile Ilitch. He had broadly favorable thoughts on the former and selected favorable thoughts on the latter. I gave him my card, and he told me something I have heard hundreds tell me: “I will contact you!” He caught his bus, and I went on my own merry way as well.

Hart Plaza - A couple weeks ago, I emailed the office of the mayor of Detroit to file a formal (as much as I could find online at least) complaint that the American flags in the plaza were shredded at the ends or worse (and in dire need of respectful retirement and replacement). Upon sending the request, I received an automated response that I would get a reply within forty-eight hours. Remember, this is the city of Detroit—I never received a response. That said, the flags were all removed today (that is one step closer to a proper replacement). With or without my cue (perhaps, the flags are on a schedule [at least this is what Roy suggested when we later met up]), the government-perpetuated blight was partially fixed. I noticed that the Canadian flag across the Detroit River still flies (and is in immaculate condition as ever). Next, the city needs to raise up brand new American flags. That is not something I will file another formal complaint about, unless Memorial Day comes and goes with no U.S. flags in the plaza. :—:— Ken Rockwell’s review of the Nikkor 35mm f/2 lens (ais) was that it had bad lens flare, so, with the sun still rising and quite visible in the sky, I tested this assertion myself. There was a good bit of flare. I will hopefully make a lens review video with the shots and footage from today. It was pretty bad flare, but I could also see the artistic merits of using it at times. I guess if one was doing a paid gig that required a perfect representation of the world through the lens, the flare would be a huge issue. Fortunately (perhaps) for me, I am doing street photography in this context, and the flare is just wabi-sabi. :—:— In coursing through the different apertures in video mode on my camera (in order to see if the lens flare was helped or hurt depending on the aperture’s given width), I found that the sunstars that the lens made were just exquisite. Hahaha. I found it so funny that this lens that Mr. Rockwell said was not ever (if one wanted good results photographically) to be pointed at the sun was pretty bang-up precisely when it was pointed at the sun when stopped down. True, the flare was bad, but if you could get past that aesthetically, the sun looked marvelous! :—:— I filmed and did a time-lapse of the sun rising over the Detroit River. I was too impatient to wait for the sun to leave the frame, so I got it halving itself on the top of the composition by the end of the time-lapse that I took. It is a good thing I ducked out early, because I had my usual eleven AM meetup to make with Roy, and it was already nearly nine AM when I finally exited the plaza.

Campus Martius Park

Woodward Avenue (northeast side of the street) - Inspired by the change in my habitual path earlier (when I took Brush Street all the way to the RenCen), I decided to walk on the less-interesting side of Woodward Avenue all the way up to the Fisher Building (well, that was my ultimate plan at least).

The Hudson Site - Here I will admit it: I include self-portraits in my “top ten” shots often even if there may be an eleventh or twelfth shot in my own rankings that is better, because I want to not be forgotten as the person behind the work you experience here and elsewhere. Maybe the victors write the history. Well, the author certainly writes the history either way (though sometimes at the edge of a sword). I take my prerogative as the author, editor, and publisher of my own work to refer back to myself when it is not plain horrible-looking. :—:— The irony about this is that I strive to have a journalistic cleanness and honesty to my shots and write-ups (editorial opinions here and there notwithstanding). I do not edit my photos, except to straighten horizons and maybe crop slightly into the meat of the composition. This might be an excuse from one without photoshop or the like on his computer, but I also like the challenge of getting a photo right the first time. It keeps me striving for perfection (I hope in a healthy way).

Comerica Park - Keeping with my otherly path today, I turned right onto Adams Street from Woodward Avenue, headed in the direction of Comerica Park. I thought the angle of the sun at that time of the day made the park look lovely, and like a parched, lone vagabond traversing a desert and seeing an oasis (or at least the supposed image of one), I walked toward the park in search of my next picture. The light looked not as good up close as it did from further away (it was but a mirage of a good shot after all). I might have gotten the shot after all had I a longer lens on me or if I was willing to crop the shot taken with my Nikkor 35mm f/2 (ca. 1982/3) lens, but I decided to get super low to the ground (one of my favorite perspectives of all) and make the park look epic. The shots I got were not as inspiring as hoped, so I turned left onto Witherell Street (which runs directly along the side of the Detroit MLB stadium). :—:— Earlier in the day, I photographed a homeless man that I did not initially know was homeless. He asked to be pictured, and that is what I did. As I walked in the direction of Woodward Avenue (heading through the double parking lot for handicap folks), I spied a pair of tents illegally set up in the road that split the two handicap parking lots. The tents were placed atop manholes that leaked excess hot steam that was meant to heat buildings. There were other manholes leaking steam near the tents, and the sun lit the plumes a golden-whitish hue that was marvelous to behold alongside the bright colors of the tents. As I passed by the first tent, I saw a homeless man peak his head out from its entrance, and I jokingly asked if he was camping out already for Black Friday’s deals. He glared at me and said something hateful under his breath. :—:— It is my rule to not photograph someone when they are in an underhanded position, because I would not want the same done to me. It is the Golden Rule put to action, and I commend all photographers to follow it. Having had the rude awakening last week to seeing a homeless woman counting a wad of cash in big bills that amounted by its size to probably more than I make in a week at my day job, I was a bit wary of empathizing with the excuses the homeless made for their oftentimes (anecdotally-speaking) blatant disregard for the rule of law and basic decency and courtesy besides. I decided to break my own rule and photograph the tents at Tiger’s Stadium. My DSLR (Nikon D800) is not a quiet shooter, and so the clicks in three-shot bursts did not maintain a scene deprived of a person for long, as the homeless man rushed out of one of his tents and started shouting at me invectives for daring to photograph his broad-daylight, lawbreaking campsite. I did not say a word but kept shooting, thinking of the three-thousand-year-old proverb that a soft word turns away wrath. The man was clearly on something, because he worked himself (albeit with a clumsy gait) into a froth of anger and made physical threats against me. I was twenty-feet away crouched low to the ground taking pictures of this scene. I figured that if he rushed me, I could get out in a snap. :—:— The man went into his tent and came out with something in his hand. Before I knew it, he threw it at me, trying to hit me. It was a half-eaten orange. I retorted, “that was perfectly good food, man! Why are you wasting food?” I thought about leaving or staying (the classic fight or flight, or in my case, photograph or flight). I decided in a split second to stay. The man went back into his tent and ramped up his verbal threats as well as his threatening posture. Then, he wound up and threw a sandwich in a sandwich bag at me. It loudly thudded when it hit the ground right next to me. He was drunk, and so he missed. I had already made my point that he had wasted food. I saw the sandwich bag next to me, and I considered that it was probably a direct gift from a kind stranger to him. He did not care about that. He only cared about privacy in the middle of a major city (a contradiction in terms). I talk to homeless folks every week. One question I often ask is, “where are you staying?” Many answer, “Under a bridge” or “under a [public structure].” If this man wanted peace and quiet, camping in the middle of a parking lot in a busy side of town (and with two tents just for his single self!) was not a fitting decision. I thought later of this drunken vagrant: “Two tents equal a fifth,” because only the drunks among the homeless that I see are so ambitiously stupid. I said no grievous words to this homeless man, but I had grievous thoughts (borrowing from last week’s hypocritical spectacle). My presence was to him grievous, so, in keeping with the second half of the aforementioned three-thousand-year-old proverb, I fear I stirred up his anger and brought upon myself what befell me (and it could have been worse [I could have been hurt, and/or my gear could have been damaged]). :—:— One way or the other, I adore the triptych that resulted from this experience. It is a homeless man “pitching” in front of the major league baseball stadium in Detroit! I would love to hear from a baseball expert if his form was proper.

Woodward Avenue (northeast side of the street) - Forcing myself to stay on a different path than usual, I walked on the less-interesting side of Woodward Avenue.

Detroit Institute of Art - I clearly do not visit this art museum enough. I have not walked through it since last fall, when I went with my good pal, miss S.C. :—:— As proof of my lack of familiarity with this spot, I accidentally mistook the fountain in the front for a staircase, since it went up by steps. Hahahaha. I did not realize the error of my ways until I want almost to the top. I saw that there was a huge gap, and it only then struck me that it was a turned-off (for the cold season) fountain! No one said you had to have common sense to be a photographer. I just point and shoot what looks interesting to me, and sometimes I even think about what I am shooting! Haha. Photography is a little more than seeing and snapping, but only a little. Once all the distractions of knowing why you are doing what you are doing are assuaged, all you are left with is the meeting of preparation and opportunity (should you will to make something of your abundance [and hopefully with humility, grace, and thankfulness]).

Detroit Public Library

WSU Department of Mortuary Science - It did not smell like anything outside of this building, but the winds were low, and the temperature was no higher than 32° F outside.

The Fisher Building - I made it to the Fisher! I admit that (to me) the Nikkor 35mm f/2 (ca. 1982/3) lens is not the best for architectural photography. I had more pleasure shooting with my Nikkor 24mm f/2.8 (ca. 1971) lens that I did with the 35mm lens. It was just too zoom-y for me. Haha. That reminds me of a story I heard about Monty Python alum and thereafter director extraordinaire (on his own), Terry Gilliam. Mr. Gilliam is admittedly an odd fellow (see his body of work for proof). There is one area, where he and I may have pretty close similarities. The man prefers ultra-wide lenses for everything, and he considers a normal lens to be a “zoom” for him. I have to say that I like to get super close to my subjects, and so an ultra-wide is my friend. My 24mm lens is my go-to most weeks in the city (along with my Nikkor 55mm f/1.2 [ca. 1971] [these are my standard camera body companions on my outings]). :—:— Though I desired to use a 24mm or wider outside and inside the Fisher Building, I persisted with the 35mm (even though I brought along [and never used] my 55mm lens in a small camera bag on my side), because today was a day to review this lens, and I was going to use it even when it was not the best choice (as much as I could muster). Once inside the building, I found the folks at the front desk much more hospitable than the ones that occupied it a couple weeks prior

Woodward Avenue (southwest to northeast side of street)

East Warren Avenue - Instead of taking Mack Avenue from Woodward Avenue, I took a lesser-known path to Milano Bakery that ushered me past the DMC (Detroit Medical Center), which is the great hospital in Detroit (in my opinion). One day, I will find a neat angle with which to photograph it. Until then, I put my path near its perimeter and gaze at it with a discriminating eye.

St Antoine Street - A couple weeks back, I joked about the “Knowledge Is Power” phrase engraved into the Vermont marble on the edifice of the Detroit Public Library on Woodward Avenue (in light of the names on either side of the engraving). Well, I took a picture of that phrase at the library, and I saw it again at a school’s marquee, so I photographed it as well. I wonder if they put the phrase there for its own sake or as a nod to the Detroit Public Library (the library would not be a very long bus trip from the school, so perhaps the kids had just visited that same library [who knows?]). The diptych is on my “top ten” shots of the day.

Mack Avenue

Milano Bakery - Somehow, I arrived several minutes before Roy did. I used that edge in temporalness to walk up the long (on foot) parking lot to the end, where my security guard pal was parked and on patrol. I used the length of that walk to go back through my camera to find the three shots of the homeless man pitching at Comerica Park (the baseball stadium). We talked about this and that for a couple minutes, and then, I showed my friend the shots. At about that time, Roy pulled up and parked his red Mercedes convertible in the lot, and he walked up to the car to begin talking to the man as well, butting out my part of the conversation. The man is my elder, so I kept quiet and let him get out his complaints about life. He stopped a hair’s length from saying he wanted to off himself; he was in a mood. The security guard tried to paint a picture of rainbows and butterflies, stressing the good in life to instead focus on, but Roy brushed off his tenderness, doubling down on his assurance of his own awful life (and doing so in a dismissive, yet rattled, way). This should have portended a red flag in my mind, but I ignored the signal, focusing on the Roy I was used to dealing with (slightly less-acerbic than that [haha]). :—:— I showed Roy the future triptych of the homeless man chucking the sandwich at me, and he blew up at me in intense fury. We parted with the security guard and started walking in to the bakery. A few steps into our departure, a woman called out to us in the parking lot. She walked up to us and asked if we knew how to get to the pawn shop. Roy, wanting to be the know-it-all said he knew how to get there, but it was clear he was bloviating. Sensing the confusion, the security guard left this vehicle and walked up. “Do you mean Zimmerman’s?” the guard asked. “Yes! That’s the one!” the lady said. Roy butted in again, interrupting the security guard now that he had a place of reference. The guard was endlessly patient with this action, and he let Roy interrupt him again and again. Roy was determined to make himself useful as a power play. Haha. I just stood and watched in bemusement, hoping for a chance to give the guard some backup, should he get uncomfortable with the disrespect. The woman thanked the three of us (I just stood there and contributed nothing, but she was set in her heart to be universally generous), and we once more set out to span the lot to enter the bakery. :—:— Once inside, I plugged in my camera battery charger and my phone charger (in one outlet! [I use an Aluratech USB charger {sadly now discontinued} that leeches power from a plug to charge a device]). Set up and ready to go for a nice, long shoot-the-breeze conversation, I found myself dodging verbal volleys of invectives from a viper I thought was my “dear friend.” :—:— Roy used up the entire time at the bakery to hurl insults and accusations at me (all on account of the picture). He called the photo degrading. He called me disgraceful. And that is about the end of the non-explicit section of his tirade. I should have walked away, but Roy is my friend, and I wanted to get to the bottom of why he was so angry at me. I defended myself, yes, which likely sustained his wrath by giving him an opponent, but I did so in astonished pity for the man. His walls are tall and broad and thick and barbed at the edges—there was no getting through to the guy. I think of the pair of three-thousand-year-old proverbs “reprove a fool, and he will remit from his ways” and “do not reprove a fool, lest he attack you.” I think the contradictory advice from the same author is meant to say that you do not know how correction of another will result. You may be decimated by them, or you may, thankfully, get through to them. I took the chance that my friend was having a bad day (as he had begun the day exclaiming), and I went ahead in reproving him, as a friend. :—:— Maybe the biggest thing that kept me glued to my seat was the fact that I figured no one else would have stayed there through all the insults. To be a difference-maker, maybe one has to be different himself, so I set out to be the exception to his expected end (hoping all the while that I was not feeding abusive tendencies in his heart). :—:— Instead of walking away (I made the excuse in my mind that I wanted to let my camera battery charge yet longer), I finally told Roy, “You have made your point. There is nothing more that I need to hear from you,” and we both sat in profound silence for a long time. I checked the international headlines, reading several news articles as Roy stared through the window to the outside business in the city in his own outworking of quietude. :—:— I have been quoting proverbs from Proverbs in this write-up. The Bible is the greatest book of all time; I know that, because I went to a splendiferous school. It was small (including myself, there were fourteen kids in my graduating class), and it was strict (I joke it was like the movie “Footloose” [which I have never seen but loosely understand] for thirteen years), but it was very good. I credit it with any sort of brain function that goes on behind my babbling. Well, as Providence would have it, after many minutes of this silence, I heard, “Ryan?” Hahaha. Last week, I heard that from my pal, Devin. This week, I heard it from an alumna from my high school. I looked, and it was her and her mother, who was also our third-grade teacher. What a coincidence, and what timing! We got up and hugged and chatted for a hot second. It was a glorious reuniting, but I was uncomfortable because of what just happened with Roy. I kept wondering if they had heard our back and forth. I was embarrassed either way, because I did not go on to conquer the world, as many of my classmates have from our tiny but ambitious school. The two were doing well, and my schoolmate had had a son. I wish them the best. :—:— When we parted to return to our respective tables, I explained to Roy who the folks were, and I added, “Shall we make peace?” Roy stared at me, and I said, “You have said your peace, and there is nothing more to say.” He took this as a completionist’s challenge, and he proceeded to say racist things between curse words lobbed at me. Again, I thought about walking away, but this time it would have been in front of two people that knew me half of my present time on earth. Those folks knew me well. They knew me as a child. I grew up with them, and here I was, carousing (by the looks of it) with a thoroughly vulgar character. I probably do not respect myself enough (I do not respect myself enough). I stayed and faced the onslaught of evil from Roy’s lips. In retrospect, I should have left, but I made excuses and sat through the persecution needlessly. There should be a line in the sand in my heart. I should name my price in the beginning, dignity-wise. I had not considered my own honor enough when I let him continue without my exiting. I regret that. :—:— Roy was not interested in going to the oriental supermarket, suggesting the middle eastern one instead. I agreed, and I said goodbye to my old friends as I left.

Dearborn Fresh Supermarket - We rode in Roy’s red Mercedes convertible to the grocery store in Dearborn. On the way, I thought about exiting the vehicle at every stop. I thought about never talking to the dude again. I have a huge heart, but that should (if being healthy with oneself) be balanced by a huge sense of self-worth, which I need to work on developing in these areas of personal intrusion (I had too many bad characters reinforce the weakness I still feel). We walked around a bit before sitting in the dining area in the back. Roy’s acid tongue was in full force. I will stop here in my description of the events with Roy. There was a lot said by the man that is far beyond publication for reasons not even hinted at thusfar.

Greektown - Freedom! I was dropped off here, and I was on my own! I could breathe the polluted Detroit air in peace!

Donald “Sunn” Anderson’s Street Art Stand

David Bosco Willis’ Street Sax Spot - I asked my sax pal (with “three first names”) if he had gotten a rental saxophone to replace his broken one. He said no. He told me he had fixed the thing himself! :—:— In asking how he was able to repair the instrument, he decided to educate me in the origin of the saxophone. As he was explaining how Adolphe Sax invented it (hence the name) and how the mechanics of the instrument worked, a passerby finished his sentence! I laughed and exclaimed, “How many times does an expert walk by as you are having a conversation?” Continuing the lesson on the history of the saxophone, my pal David explained the history of the saxophone coming into its own and started being used as a more standout element in music. This was ten-seconds after the interruption, and a second man finished David’s sentence! I exclaimed once more, “This is amazing! Where are these people coming from? Band practice from their orchestra?” David and I laughed. The lesson continued. David was talking about his way of playing the saxophone, and then, a lady interrupted us, saying, “Why are you not playing your saxophone?” Then she turned to me and said, “It’s you! You are distracting him!” Hahaha. I laughed and apologized and said, “He will play his saxophone very soon!” Before parting, as David picked up and played his sax, I stayed a while longer, taking photos from many angles of Mr. Willis. One of those shots made this week’s “top ten.”

The Broadway (and Shoes) - That this place is closed is a sad thing.

The Belt

David Klein Gallery - Today was a three-o’clock final-day-of-the-exhibition gathering that including Andrew Kreiger, one of the three featured artists. I gave Mr. Kreiger my card and said hello to everyone. I thanked the nice folks that worked there for telling me about the street photography contest that they emailed me about over a week ago, and I added that I was having trouble picking my “top ten” (I always do ten, don’t I? Haha) for the contest. The gallery director told me I should go with my gut over what my friends suggested. I agreed. :—:— I am not the biggest schmoozer, so I left before the gathering kicked up. I would have sat in a corner otherwise the whole time awkwardly. I do not want to be a bump on a log nor a bother, but perhaps that can be remedied one day. I just need a better angle from which to approach these gatherings.

Woodward Avenue (southwest side of street)

The Hudson Site - I saw my hip-hop pal, “Shadow Klan” plying his trade to passersby. I exclaimed his name loudly, and we hugged. We chatted a bit, and I started photographing the man. I showed him the portrait and animated GIF that I took and made from seeing him last week. I said that I needed to get him in front of a more interesting backdrop to make an even better animated GIF. With that explanation received, he and I started looking for an interesting spot very near by to do this next GIF. We landed on being just in front of my favorite cafe in Detroit.

Urban Bean Co. - This is my favorite cafe in Detroit. Mr. “Shadow Klan” and I worked off one another as we found a rhythm between the camera and the character. I got him in front of the park, and I stood still and low, letting him go in and out of camera and go in and out of focus. It was magical. I look forward to making more of these every time I see him. We could have enough content for a sweet music video one day!

Campus Martius Park - Automatically interesting: a man with a goat in the middle of a major city. I have photographed this man before at DEMF 2018. I told him to send me a message to see his shots I took of him. I found it challenging to get the goat up close in focus manually focusing at f/2, and I was too stubborn to try for a narrower aperture. Haha. I failed to get an up-close shot of just the goat’s face, but I got a neat shot of a security guard (who explained that because he and his friends deemed him the Greatest Of All Time [G.O.A.T.], he had to stop and get a photo with the goat [”the G.O.A.T. with the goat”]). That shot is in my “top ten” as well. This serendipity made for a beautiful end to the day. It is good to end on a high note, and this seemed like mine!

Greektown

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WHAT WENT ON ON THIS DAY OUT IN DETROIT?

I shot with a new (to me) lens, the Nikkor Ai-S 35mm f/2 (ca. 1982/3). This was a pleasure (mostly) to use. The sun flare is apparent, as is the barrel distortion. This lens is not absolutely perfect, but it is still lots of fun to use. I love the f/2 maximum aperture for its low-light chops and bokeh fall-off. It magnifies my photographic modus. :—:— I photographed a triptych of a homeless man throwing a sandwich in a sandwich bag at me. I did not get hurt. I left right after. The man was deranged. I think this triptych can live on, though. I see some power in the triple-image I took. We will see over time, I suppose. :—:— I had a bad time with my friend, Roy. He was a grumpy oaf. The move is just a stressful time for Roy, and I wanted to be the light I hope I am in his life. His life has lots of darkness, and there is more oxygen in the air for the guy when I am around I think. :—:— It is always noteworthy to bump into a noteworthy (diligently, quite-successfully-working) artist. Andrew Kreiger was making an appearance at the David Klein Gallery for the last day of an exhibit there that among two other internationally-recognized artists, had his own work on display there. I always ponder if there is anything different about them or everything different about them (or something in between) from the rest of folks. I take pictures; I do not make images or shapes from scratch. I cannot understand (at this point) the mindset to create like these folks do. Going to the gallery to think on this (I hope) helps. :—:— I saw a goat in the heart of Downtown Detroit. I have seen this goat before. Its owner went to DEMF in 2018, and I photographed him and his goat (I called the shot, “Millennial Bohemian,” because that is just what the man appears to be going for [probably without conscious effort]).

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⋰B⋰U⋰Z⋰Z⋰W⋰O⋰R⋰D⋰S⋰

“Inside baseball” locations and concepts talked about in this Detroit Street Photography Session —

● Cotton Ball - This is my secret weapon on a cold day. A little piece torn off a cotton ball in each ear seems to keep my ears warmer and pain-free (provided I am also wearing a winter hat over the ears as well. I cannot recommend this enough. Yeah, it reduces my hearing, but I talk louder with them, so maybe I am heard better? Hahaha. I hope it is not obnoxious.

● RenCen - This is a nickname for the Renaissance Center (I would wager most Detroiters that know the presently-tallest building in Detroit’s name as this are also unable to spell the word “renaissance” without spellcheck or autocorrect aiding them). Then again, I just as much think most Millennials that know the current popular name of their own generation cannot spell the word “Millennial” without spellcheck or autocorrect aiding them. Is this more akin to a fish not knowing it is wet or to a bakeshop owner not knowing that the numbers on his toaster at home correspond to time (minutes) and not temperature?

● Plum Market - I heard years ago that of all of America’s major cities, Detroit had the least rats and mice in it (New York had the most at the time). The explanation for this aside from how barren the city is of people (compared to most major cities) was that there were no, or only a couple, grocery stores in the city, thus greatly reducing the ready, year-round food supply for the rodents. The Plum Market is an upscale grocer that just opened up on Woodward Avenue and East Larned Street in the heart of downtown across from the Spirit of Detroit Plaza (not far from Hart Plaza, which is where the city of Detroit itself was founded about three-hundred-and-eighteen years ago. I welcome the fresh produce. I shun the presumed coming influx of rats.

● Ken Rockwell - This man is the paterfamilias of online lens (and camera) reviews. He is detailed and fair and personally experienced and knowledgable in the industry as well as the art of photography. For one such as myself that uses and seeks “new” (to me) old glass, his website is a constant companion to my journey with photography. Should he not outlive me, I will be sad the day his site ends its updates. No one else does what he does as well and honorably as he does it. Maybe right-brained folks (which are many of the creatives that do photography) are given to more drama than most, but I have never heard a bad word about this man. He is trustworthy. His body of work will be sought and sourced by amateurs (on up to professionals) for as long as the internet (and whatever else down the line arrives) exists, I predict.

● Wabi-sabi - I despise woo-woo concepts. Taking the eastern mysticism angle out (which is there for those gullible-enough to even entertain it), this is the concept of finding beauty amidst (in fact on account of) imperfection.

● Sunstar - Imagine an adolescent’s crayon drawing of a diurnal outdoor scene in the summer with a clear sky. The sun would look (perhaps) like a yellow circle with an orange, jagged (saw blade-shaped) outline around its end. Minus the color, this is what a sunstar loosely resembles. So, yes, that was a pretty accurate drawing many kids (including yourself, possibly) produced after all (if you are looking at the sun through many stopped down lenses [not all produce this effect]).

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If you like what I do, consider supporting me on Patreon:

https://www.patreon.com/seedetroitlikeido

Check out my YouTube channel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCmWGEXMZfJn5tutCOgK_dtg

I have a Twitter that has unique content from the rest of my social media accounts:

https://twitter.com/prayforryan

I have an Instagram that I am proud of. It has neat write-ups for my different works that also appear on my YT versions of the same videos. It also has photos and videos that appear nowhere else:

https://www.instagram.com/rellish3214/

✦ If you ever have any questions, feel free to email me. I am here for you. Email: [email protected]

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| [__] /.”“”“.\ _ D800 |

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storyunrelated · 7 years

Text

Ga-Ga, Goo-Goo

Uh...

I think some of the wording in this is going to get me followed by some unsavoury bots but, you know, it is the way it had to be.

[Life is complicated, but the solution is standing right outside the door*]

*That description tells the poor people NOTHING about what they can expect...

‘Doom!’ said the newspaper in big, bold, scary letters. Jeremy tutted, clucking his tongue and rolling his eyes.

The newspaper had been saying the same sort of thing for a while, albeit in different ways. Today was a little less subtle than usual to be sure, but wasn’t far different in tone. Jeremy tutted again. It was all going to shit, apparently.

The world was in dire shape indeed if what he read was anything to go by, and he saw no reason not to believe it. Why would a newspaper that wanted him to buy it tell him lies? He could see no reason why that would ever be the case. Clearly what they were warning him about was one-hundred percent real and based on solid, sourceable evidence. It was all there in black and white (with pictures. Lots of pictures).

Foreigners were marauding across the country, pillaging and despoiling all and sundry. According to the paper it was happening in the street outside his house at that very instant. He looked, but could see nothing, so presumably it was happening a little further up and out of sight. Dreadful business, to be sure. Damn interlopers.

Some problems were homegrown, however. The poor frothed and seethed up from the gutters, wrongly claiming all the things that Jeremy knew only hard-working people like him deserved. Food. Shelter. Water. A life with the minimum of hardship. These vultures circled the carcass of a society that they were vaguely responsible for the decline of and for some reason expected a handout. Just because they were ‘human beings’ with ‘inherent value’. Jeremy couldn’t stand such malingerers. If he hadn’t been retired he would have done something about it.

And then there were the women! And the gays! And all the other disparate groups who were not like Jeremy. With their likes and dislikes that he did not share and so could not empathise with. How was he supposed to feel sympathy for the plight of those unlike himself? At what point did that make sense? Clearly they were beneath notice and their problems were mere distractions.

All these groups and more were the ones at fault. Clearly. Jeremy had had a sneaking suspicion this had been the case and he was happy to see reality - reported to him via the medium of a non-biased, objective and thoroughly honourable newspaper proprietor - coming out in support of his views.

It was oddly comforting to know that someone was to blame for all the woes assailing the nation. The alternative – that reality was a complex web of interactions oftentimes too intertwined to be easily unpicked and explained – was simply too horrifying to even bother contemplating. How could anyone live in such a world? Who would they point to accusingly when things went wrong?

Things happened and someone had to be at fault for them happening. Jeremy wanted it to be as simple as that, and whoever wrote the newspaper he liked buying was only too happy to oblige. ‘Blame is our game’ was, indeed, the motto they had proudly printed on their frontpage. It had been in Latin previously, but that had been deemed too elitist. Plans were in the works for the words to be replaced with pictures soon, as part of a push to simplify the paper even further.

The prototype for the new edition was two pages, one with a smiling face and the other with a frowny one so the reader could flip between the two at leisure. Tests were positive so far, with many reporting that the newer, slimmer, sleeker version gave the same news-reading experience as the old broadsheet with far less of the wasted space.

(In practise the two pages would be accompanied by seventy-four pages of advertisements. That was just a given.)

But Jeremy didn’t know about any of that. All he knew was that today was worse than yesterday.

In spite of everything that had been done to try and fix the country it still insisted on being broken. They’d stripped workers of their rights, forced the disabled into work they were often physically incapable of doing, made higher education impossible to enter for anyone below a certain level of class and wealth, thrown foreigners off cliffs (the White Cliffs, obviously), rolled back women’s right and also LGBT rights while they were at it, sold off every scrap of forest left, the land registry and indeed anything that stood still for too long. But for some reason society continued to suffer.

No-one could come up with an explanation to this, or at least no-one anyone wanted to really listen to. Whiners never had answers, only ‘explanations’, for whatever those were worth. Jeremy and his ilk wanted a solution, preferably one that looked like it was taking immediate effect even if it was doing absolutely nothing.

What good was a solution that took time to work? The problems plaguing them were plaguing them now, not in a few years time when sensible decisions taken in the present would start to bear fruit. How was that difficult to understand? Who wanted to have to wait to fix something? Where was the point in that? You might be dead by then! And you were all that mattered, so who would ever waste their time so?

And so Jeremy had made a decision. He was tired of living a life of constant worry, incessantly hounded by his brain nagging him to actually stop and think for a moment. It was exhausting. He could only fend off the thoughts for so long on his own. They scratched at the edges of his mind and threatened to make the full scope of events and the world clear to him. Terrifying.

Thankfully for Jeremy he had found just the remedy.

Leaping to his feet from his chair (or rather, lurching slowly) he allowed his newspaper to fall dramatically by his feet, startling the dog, who blinked. As far as the dog had been concerned today was just another lazy day of doing nothing and to see such a sudden burst of activity from Jeremy was unsettling to say the least. Jeremy strode towards the front door.

“What’s happening, Jer?” The dog asked, scampering along beside his master. Jeremy snapped his fingers.

“I’ve made a decision, Rufus! I need a change. The world is going to shit and it’s the only thing left open to me,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt as he moved towards the hallway.

“A decision, Jer? Sounds important,” Rufus panted, folloloping along.

“It is important, Rufus! There’s a solution to the plague of doubt and worry that weighs like a blanket across the land!” Jeremy said, shedding his shirt and hopping along as he removed first his shoes, then his socks. Trousers next as he moved towards the front door. Beyond the frosted glass, a figure loomed.

“A solution, Jer?” Rufus asked. As deep-rooted as trust in his master ran, Rufus did have to admit to a certain level of worry. This was all just sudden, and there was something about that looming figure that made Rufus uncomfortable.

“A solution, Rufus. Some might see it as a step backwards, as regression - but I assure you it is the right way to go.”

By now Jeremy was stark bollock naked. There was nothing attractive about this and the world had no pressing need to see it. This did not stop him opening the front door.

Standing on Jeremy’s front step was a man. A very large man. Something about him was just off. Maybe it was his distant, glassy stare. Maybe it was the way he looked to have been carved from a side of beef, coated in lard and then wrapped (too tightly) in skin. Maybe it was a combination of all of these factors.

Maybe it was how wide he smiled when he saw Jeremy.

“Come here,” the man said, spreading his arms wide.

“Daddy!” Jeremy bawled, leaping up and being caught by the man who pulled him in close, cradling him as one might cradle a baby. The giant man reached down with one hand and tore open his string vest, allowing Jeremy precious skin-on-skin contact.

“Comfort me, daddy!” Jeremy wailed, nestling into the man’s bosom, suckling warm ale from a raw teat. He grizzled as chubby, greasy fingers stroked his hair.

“It’s the foreigners’ fault,” the man said and Jeremy cooed, dribbling. Everything felt so much more simple, so much safer in the big, strong arms of the man.

“It’s the poor’s fault,” the man said and Jeremy cried tears of joy, soiling himself as every part of him relaxed. Not his fault. Someone else’s fault. And they knew who’s fault. They could fix it. They could punish the people who’d made his country bad. It wasn’t his fault.

If the giant man was unhappy about having just been urinated upon he showed no sign, continuing to gently rock Jeremy in his arms, cooing a hateful lullaby of blame.

“This doesn’t strike me as a practical, long-term solution, Jer,” Rufus said, cocking his head as wee pattered down. He was but a simple dog with simple dog thoughts, but his misgivings were strong.

“Silence, hound! Me and daddy are having a moment! He’s making me feel safe!” Jeremy snapped before sinking back into the enormous sense of comfort that came from surrendering all rational thought to someone nice and big and strong.

“We’ll go back to how things were at an indeterminate point in the past, when things were exactly how you’d like them to be and everything worked perfectly and the world was safe and simple.”

“Oh God yes Daddy yes please,” Jeremy babbled. He wished he could climb inside this wonderful man, just to be closer to him. Every word he said was the sweetest thing Jeremy had ever heard. He could almost feel his brain curdling in his skull. It was bliss.

“Well whatever you say, Jer,” Rufus said, padding back inside the house. He trusted his master knew what he was about. And if he wasn’t, he’d stick with him anyway. It was the dog thing to do.

Jeremy did not hear this. He didn’t hear anything other than the thudding heartbeat of the man cradling him and the words being poured into his ear.

“I’ll keep you safe and I’ll look after you. I’ll protect you from the big scary world by smashing it into chunks you can understand and eat as simple, easy morsels. You’ll never have to worry about anything else ever again,” the man said. Jeremy just nodded, feeling the man’s ruddy flesh rubbing against his face. It was like rubber, only turgid and room temperature.

“Oh that sounds good,” he said.

“And if you ever for one instant try to think for yourself I’ll rip your tongue out and nail it to the Cenotaph, because I am a patriot.”

“Of course you are Daddy that’s the only reasonable thing to do,” Jeremy yawned, falling asleep in the man’s arms as he was carried off and away and far from the concerns of the real world.

Rufus later starved to death waiting for him to come back.

What did you expect to happen?

END

#Ga-Ga Goo-Goo #Writing #Amwriting #Short story #Short #Writblr #Writeblr

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