#“Reminder to self: you are being watched.

[thenightling]

Dead boy Detectives review

I've watched all eight episodes of Dead Boy Detectives and it was a decent show. It's not something I may obsess over like The Sandman, or The Witcher, but it was decent.

Dead Boy Detectives is the story of Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland. Edwin was killed during a Satanic ritual in 1916. Charles died from hypothermia and internal bleeding after some bullies drove him into an ice-cold lake while throwing rocks at him.

(Note: That was not how Charles actually died in the source material. In the comics, Lucifer had quit and shut down Hell (the basis for the TV show Lucifer) so many evil souls returned to Earth, including the boys that sacrificed poor Edwin. They badly burnt Charles' back on a hot stove and Charles died from his injuries.)

The two ghosts decided to dedicate their afterlife solving mysteries to help other ghosts find peace. They are aided by psychic, Crystal Palace, who is haunted by her abusive ex-boyfriend who happens to be a demon.

Both Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland originated in Neil Gaiman's The Sandman: Season of Mists, The Sandman: Volume 4. Issue 25 of The Sandman comics, and within Act 2 of The Sandman audio drama.

The Dead Boy Detectives made their TV first appearance in Doom Patrol for HBO Max (now Max). During a shakeup at Max the show was moved over to Netflix as to better connect it with The Sandman since that is where they originated.

The show features different actors from the ones that played Charles and Edwin on Doom Patrol.

The Dead Boy Detectives is a decent show but ...it feels a bit like a CW teen drama. I had been told that some of the show's writers were originally writers for the CW... and it shows.

There are some deliberately surreal elements of the show that I think are a callback to their appearance in Doom Patrol.

I love the variety of supernatural entities in the show, including the appearance of two of Morpheus's siblings. Death and Despair. The things I don't like about the show can be considered CW tropes or cliches. The angsty romances and unrequited love. The ham-fisted abusive ex metaphor between Crystal and David The Demon.

And of course the most tedious of CW tropes, the end of the episode pining and angst while a sad pop song plays in the background.

If you look past the CW-ness of it, the show is enjoyable.

The only other things I can complain about is the "connecting thread" subplot of The Afterlife: Lost and Found feels like unnecessary filler. And I wish they would openly establish that Edwin, being an innocent, would NOT return to Hell if collected by Death now. I don't think that should be left hanging over his head. Especially since we're supposed to see Death as a kind entity. Also I think Charles says "Aces" a little too much. It's very distracting and makes me feel like the writers didn't know much late 80s English slang. It would be like if he was an American and they had him say "Radical" all the time. I get that it's kind of his catchphrase but it also got a bit annoying.

The parts I don't like are CW tropes and what I'd consider to be late 90s Vertigo edginess.

The thing I liked were plentiful though. The protagonists were and are likable. The ending is satisfying enough so that if there is only one season this was still good. I liked that it appears that one can ascend out of Hell after some self-reflection as is indicated by the boy Edwin confronted in Hell. The blue light was established to mean ascension, a good afterlife.

I also LOVE the opening credits theme music and animated sequence. It reminds me of the intro to Showtime's Creature Feature movies. (See the trailer for 2001's She Creature, not the 50s version. Watch the trailer at thirteen seconds in, on Youtube, and you'll see what I mean).

That's two Gothic themed shows from Netflix in the last two years with great opening credits sequences. The first being Wednesday. That one won Danny Elfman an Emmy.

It's funny, Wednesday and Dead Boy Detectives (which is a spin-off of The Sandman) have great opening credit intro sequences but The Sandman does not. Apparently Neil Gaiman was told people don't watch the opening credits anymore so The Sandman doesn't have them.

I feel we were cheated out of what could have been a great opening sequence for The Sandman.

Episodes 7 and 8 of Dead Boy Detectives were probably the best of the series. I liked it well enough that if Dead Boy Detectives gets renewed I'll happily watch season 2.

[callsign-relic]

What I wouldn't give to be held sososo gently, and carefully by Optimus. Like, almost every iteration of him is super kind, and nice. (Within reason haha.) I like to think it'd be nice for him to have a physical reminder of his efforts to save Earth, and his kind being appreciated. Just, cuddling up to his chassis, and telling him he's doing a good job. And also, that he needs to get some sleep, bc I KNOW he keeps himself up at night with worry that something bad's going to happen the second he closes his optics to recharge.

🥺 WAAAAA YESSSS

Optimus is so painfully aware of all of his movements around you. How massive he is compared to you, and how any small movement from him could jostle you around. Sometimes his thoughtfulness is so regular you barely take notice of it, but when you’re up close to him like this lying on his chassis, his self consciousness becomes all too clear.

You tell him to relax as he watches you closely, settling a hand over you but never fully resting it down for fear of crushing you. You might have been small, but you weren’t made of glass. You would be fine. And slowly, hesitantly, Optimus obliges you. He rests his gigantic metal hand gently over you like a big weighted blanket. You can feel the heat radiating off of his plating without him even having to try, just the natural emission from his warm, running engine inside him.

You cuddle up closer to him, lulled into security by the low thrum of his spark, buried deep inside of him. You tell him to close his eyes, to try and sleep, cause you would be there to protect him. Optimus almost chuckles at the notion— it was usually the other way around. But as you drifted off onto his chassis, he felt the matrix hum something within him. Like a reassurance, or a confirmation that the little human lying on his chest was right. It was okay to go to sleep tonight.

And so, with a breath and a thumb rubbing gently at your back, Optimus shuts his optics and falls asleep too.

[corruptedcaps]

Bitchy Besties: part 3

As Kate watched Tanya speed off around the corner and out of sight, she strutted confidently towards the school like she had seen Tanya do a hundred times. It wasn’t until she caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror that she realized what she was doing and finally dropped her bitchy facade. She had spent so much of the day as Kayleigh it was hard to shake her off entirely.

Retrieving the bag from her hiding spot she took one last look at Kayleigh in the mirror before stripping herself of all the elements that made her. The earrings, the necklace, the makeup, the clothes and finally the hair. The only thing she couldn’t take off were the new nails she had gotten but she made a mental note to at least file them down later.

All things that had previously felt odd and uncomfortable on her now gave her a pang of longing. She couldn't deny how much fun she had had with Tanya that day, having a friend who she was completely in sync with. But then she reminded herself that it wasn't Kate that Tanya was enamoured with, who she had found a kindred spirit in. No that was Kayleigh.

She should be happy to be back to being her normal self. And yet, getting home she threw herself onto her bed and began to feel conflicted and she couldn't understand why. She thought she hated girls like Tanya and before today the thoughts of being her friend was the last thing she wanted but something inside her was now pushing against that feeling, making her question herself.

Sitting up on the bed she looked at herself in her vanity mirror. She was at a crossroads. She could walk into school tomorrow as she had done for years being the same old Kate that others knew and ignored or she could strut in as Kayleigh, have a best friend and be popular and sought after. Looking down at her nails she had gotten with Tanya, the allure of the latter was obvious but she knew that she would be turning her back on the good part of herself and selling her soul to be a bitch. Could she do it?

The next morning Tanya sat into her seat in the back of her first class with her clique sitting around her. She should have felt like the queen she always felt like but for once she was feeling a little sad. She knew it had to do with Kayleigh. She had never clicked so easily and quickly with someone before and now surrounded by her betas she longed for the connection she had made with Kayleigh. Someone who upped her game. Another Alpha.

She looked around the class, considering for a moment the idea that any one of them could potentially be her bitchy bestie but her face quickly turned sour. The one silver lining was that the loser Kate who she loathed was apparently out sick as her seat was empty, although her creepy ex Cory was still here so maybe it wasn't all positive.

Tanya was daydreaming about transferring to Alpha Prep when their teacher called for attention.

"Now before we get started I have two quick announcements. First is that we have a new student starting today, so please give a warm welcome to Kayleigh." The teacher said starting an applause that was continued loudly by a now perked up Tanya.

Kayleigh strode into the class a vision in a tight black pants and even tighter black top outfit that she had bought yesterday with Tanya. Her steely gaze was only broken when she spotted Tanya and excitedly headed over to her.

"Rachel move over to that spare seat this instant! Kayleigh sits next to me from now on." Tanya said snapping at one of her insubordinates as Kayleigh arrived. Tanya stood up and embraced Kayleigh who returned the hug tightly.

"Oh babe I'm so glad you chose here, we are going to have the best senior year of all time." Tanya beamed as Kayleigh took her seat next to her.

"I just couldn't imagine having any fun anywhere else without a queen like you by my side." Kayleigh said.

"And now for the second announcement, I am sad to say that Kate, our highest GPA achiever, and her family have moved and so won't be joining us for her final year." The teacher said sadly before heading to his desk.

"This day just keeps getting better." Tanya said whispering to Kayleigh.

"Why? Who's Kate?" Kayleigh whispered back.

"Oh she was this loser nobody. As far as I'm concerned, this school got a massive upgrade with her gone and you in her place." Tanya said.

"I couldn't agree more." Kayleigh replied with a knowing smile.

As class was let out nearly an hour later, Tanya and Kayleigh were inseparable, walking together out of the classroom arm in arm while the rest of clique struggled to keep up. Kayleigh quickly asserted her dominance over the other girls and they fell in line loyally to their new co-Queen.

By noon the school was abuzz with gossip about the new girl Kayleigh. News quickly spread about her sexual history, her bitchy attitude and her beauty. The bullied lower class of the school had to know fear two mega babes.

“Tanya babes look at what this loser thinks passes for fashion these days, isn’t it tragic.” Kayleigh sneered at one unfortunate girl.

“Couldn’t agree more Kayleigh, her clothes, if you can come them that, are hurting my eyes.” Tanya replied coldly, shielding her eyes.

“You hear that dork, you’re physically hurting my Bestie, get lost before I physically hurt you.” Kayleigh said bearing down on the girl. Kayleigh felt her pussy tingle as she watched the girl flee. As soon as she was gone Kayleigh and Tanya giggled cruelly.

Before the end of the day the two of them could finish each other's sentences. Collectively they were soon known as 'Kayla', a two headed creature who was as formidable as they were beautiful.

However as connected to the hip as they were, Kayleigh excused herself near the end of the day for a moment and snuck into an empty classroom where inside she found Cory waiting.

"Alright loser you better have good news for me or I'll squeeze you puny dick into a cage. Although something tells me you'd only get off on that." Kayleigh snarled at Cory who had a strange mix of fear and arousal etched on his face.

"Y-yes of course. I hacked into the school system and added all of your, I mean, all of Kate's grades to yours. I also added you as a new transfer student and transferred Kate out of the school but you already know that." He said nervously awaiting her response.

"Good. Glad to see you're not entirely useless." She said distainfully as she turned to leave.

"A-aren't y-you going to t-thank me?" He said barely above a whisper but it was enough to stop her in her tracks.

"Excuse me?" She said wheeling around.

"W-well if it wasn't f-for me, you would h-have never p-put on the hair and b-become Kayleigh." He said, each word making him regret the last. In a flash she had her hand on his throat and was squeezing.

"Let's get on thing straight you pathetic worm, there is no magic hair, no transfer of power from Tanya to me or any bullshit like that. I just realised that I didn't want to be some loser nobody anymore, I didn't want to be an outcast freak like you. Kayleigh didn't take over Kate's body, Kate had stolen my body for 18 years. I just took it back, understand?" She said with genuine venom in her voice. Cory looked into her cold blue eyes and couldn't see Kate inside. He nodded feebly.

Dropping him to the floor, she walked slowly to the door still incensed, however she still needed him for one thing.

"Don't forget to hack into my father's workplace and give him that fat raise and promotion, I have a status to uphold." She said not even dignifying Cory with a look anymore but knew he was nodding intently. She couldn't waste anymore time, not when she had a school to run with her Bitchy Bestie.

THE END

[thesublemon]

best picture

For the first time in a long time, I watched all of the movies nominated for Best Picture at the Oscars this year. Partly on a whim, partly for a piece I’ve been working on for a while about what is going wrong in contemporary artmarking. I cannot say that the experience made me feel any better or worse about contemporary movies than I already felt, which was pretty bad. But sometimes to write about a hot stove, you gotta put your hand on one. So. The nominees for coldest stove are:

Poor Things. Did not like enough to finish. I always want to like something that is making an effort at originality, strangeness, or style. Unfortunately, the execution of those things in this movie felt somehow dull and thin. Hard to explain how. Maybe the movie’s motif of things mashed together (baby-woman, duck-dog, etc) is representative. People have been mashing things together since griffins, medleys, Avatar the Last Airbender’s animals, Nickelodeon’s Catdog, etc. Thing + thing is elementary-level weird. And while there’s nothing wrong with a simple, or well-worn premise, there is a greater burden on an artist to do something interesting with it, if they go that route. And Poor Things does not. Its themes are obvious and belabored (the difficulty of self-actualization in a world that violently infantilizes you) and do not elevate the premise. There’s a fine line between the archetypal and the hackish, and this movie falls on the wrong side of it. It made me miss Crimes of the Future (2022), a recent Cronenberg that was authentically original and strange, with the execution to match.

Anatomy of a Fall. Solid, but not stunning. The baseline level of what a ‘good’ movie should be. It was written coherently and economically, despite its length. It told a story that drew you along. I wanted to know what happened, which is the least you can ask from storytelling. It had some compelling scenes that required a command of character and drama to write—particularly the big argument scene. The cinematography was not interesting, but it was not annoying either. It did its job. This was not, however, a transcendent movie.

Oppenheimer. Did not like enough to finish. But later forced myself to, just so no one could accuse me of not knowing what I was talking about when I said I disliked it. I felt like I was being pranked. The Marvel idea of what a prestige biopic should be. Like Poor Things, it telegraphed its artsiness and themes and has raked in accolades for its trouble. But obviousness is not the same as goodness and this movie is not good. The imagery is painfully literal. A character mentions something? Cut to a shot of it! No irony or nuance added by such images—just the artistry of a book report. The dialogue pathologically tells instead of shows. It constantly, cutely references things you might have heard of, the kind of desperate audience fellation you see in soulless franchise movies. Which is a particularly jarring choice given the movie’s subject matter. ‘Why didn’t you get Einstein for the Manhattan project’ Strauss asks, as if he’s saying ‘Why didn’t you get Superman for the Avengers?’ If any of this referentiality was an attempt to say something about mythologization, it failed—badly. The movie is stuffed with famous and talented actors, but it might as well not have been, given how fake every word out of their mouths sounded. Every scene felt like it had been written to sound good in a trailer, rather than to tell a damn story. All climax and no cattle.

Barbie. Did not like enough to finish. It had slightly more solidity in its execution than I was afraid it would have, so I will give it that. If people want this to be their entertainment I will let them have it. But if they want this to be their high cinema I will have to kill myself. Barbie being on this list reminds me of the midcentury decades of annual movie musical nominations for Best Picture. Sometimes deservingly. Other times, less so. The Music Man is great, but it’s not better than 8 1/2  or The Great Escape, neither of which were nominated in 1963. Musicals tend to appeal to more popular emotions, which ticket-buyers and award-givers tend to like, and critics tend to dislike. I remember how much Pauline Kael and Joan Didion hated The Sound of Music (which won in 1966), and have to ask myself if in twenty years I’ll think of my reaction to Barbie the same way that I think of those reviews: justified, but perhaps beside the point of other merits. Thing is. Say what you want about musicals, but that genre was alive back then. It was vital. Bursting with creativity. For all Kael’s bile, even she acknowledged that The Sound of Music was “well done for what it is.” [1] Contemporary cinema lacks such vitality, and Barbie is laden with symptoms of the malaise. It repeatedly falls back on references to past aesthetic successes (2001: A Space Odyssey, Singin’ in the Rain, etc) in order to have aesthetic heft. It has a car commercial in the middle. It’s about a toy from 60 years ago and politics from 10 years ago. It tries to wring some energy and meaning from all of that but not enough to cover the stench of death. I’d prefer an old musical any day.

American Fiction. Was okay. It tried to be clever about politics, but ended up being clomping about politics. At the end of the day, it just wasn’t any more interesting than any other ‘intellectual has a mid-life crisis’ story, even with the ‘twist’ of it being from a black American perspective. Even with it being somewhat self-aware of this. But it could have been a worse mid-life crisis story. The cinematography was terrible. It was shot like a sitcom. Much of the dialogue was sitcom-y too. I liked the soundtrack, what I could hear of it. The attempts at style and meta (the characters coming to life, the multiple endings) felt underdeveloped. Mostly because they were only used a couple times. In all, it felt like a first draft of a potentially more interesting movie. 

The Zone of Interest.Wanted to like it more than I did. Unfortunately, you get the point within about five minutes. If you’ve seen the promotional image of the people in the garden, backgrounded by the walls of Auschwitz, then you’ve already seen the movie. Which means that all the rest of the movie ends up feeling like pretentious excess instead of moving elaboration. It seemed very aware of itself as an Important Movie and rested on those laurels, cinematically speaking, in a frustrating way. It reminded me of video art. I felt like I had stepped through a black velvet drape into the side room of a gallery, wondering at what point the video started over. And video art has its place, but it is a different medium. Moreover video art at its best, like a movie at its best, takes only the time it needs to say what it needs to say. 

Past Lives. I’m a human being, and I respond to romance. I appreciate the pathos of sweet yearning and missed chances. And I understand how the romance in this movie is a synecdoche for ambivalent feelings about many kinds of life choices, particularly the choice to be an immigrant and choose one culture over another. The immigrant experience framing literalizes the way any choice can make one foreign to a past version of oneself, or the people one used to know, even if in another sense one is still the same person. So, I appreciate the emotional core of what (I believe) this movie was going for, and do think it succeeded in some respects. And yet…I was very irritated by most of its artistic choices. I found the three principal characters bland and therefore difficult to care about, sketched with only basic traits besides things like Striving and Being In Love. Why care who they’d be in another life if they have no personalities in this one? It’s fine to make characters symbols instead of humans if the symbolic tapestry of a movie is interesting and rich, but the symbolic tapestry of this movie was quite simple and straightforward. Not that that last sentence even matters much, since the movie clearly wanted you to feel for the characters as human beings, not just symbols. Visually, the cinematography was dull and diffuse, with composition that was either boring or as subtle as a hammer to the head.

Maestro. Did not like enough to finish. Something strange and wrong about this movie. It attempts to perform aesthetic mimicry with impressive precision—age makeup, accents, period cinematography—but this does not make the movie a better movie. At most it creates spectacle, at worst it creates uncanny valleys. It puts one on the lookout for irregularities, instead of allowing one to disappear into whatever the movie is doing. Something amateurishly pretentious in the execution. And not in the fun, respectable way, like a good student film. (My go-to example for a movie that has an art-school vibe in a pleasant way is The Reflecting Skin). There’s something desperate about it instead. It has the same disease as Oppenheimer, of attempting to do a biopic in a ‘stylish’ way without working on the basics first. Fat Man and Little Boy is a less overtly stylish rendition of the same subject as Oppenheimer, but far more cinematically successful to me, because it understands those basics. I would prefer to see the Fat Man and Little Boy of Leonard Bernstein’s life unless a filmmaker proves that they can do something with style beyond mimicry and flash.

The Holdovers. Did not like enough to finish. It tries to be vintage, but outside of a few moments, it does not succeed either at capturing what was good about the aesthetic it references, or at using the aesthetic in some other interesting way. The cinematography apes the tropes of movies and TV from the story’s time period, but doesn't have interesting composition in its own right. It lacks the solidity that comes from original seeing. (Contrast with something like Planet Terror, in which joyous pastiche complements the original elements.) The acting is badly directed. Too much actorliness is permitted. Much fakeness in general between the acting, writing, and visual language. If a movie with this same premise was made in the UK in the 60’s or 70's it would probably be good. As-is the movie just serves to make me sad that the ability to make such movies is apparently lost and can only be hollowly gestured at. That said, the woman who won best supporting actress did a good job. She was the only one who seemed to be actually acting.

Killers of the Flower Moon. The only possible winner. It is not my favorite of Scorsese’s movies, but compared to the rest of the lineup it wins simply by virtue of being a movie at all. How to define ‘being a movie’? Lots of things I could say that Killers of the Flower Moon has and does would also be superficially true of other movies in this cohort. Things like: it tells a story, with developed characters who drive that story. Or: it uses its medium (visuals, sound) to support its story and its themes. The difference comes down to richness, specificity, control, and a je ne sais quois that is beyond me to describe at the moment. Compare the way Killers of the Flower Moon uses a bygone cinematic style (the silent movie) to the way that Maestro and The Holdovers do. Killers of the Flower Moon uses a newsreel in its opening briefly and specifically. The sequence sets the scene historically, and gives you the necessary background with the added panache of confident cuts and music. It’s useful to the story and it’s satisfying to watch. Basics. But the movie doesn’t limit itself to that, because it’s a good movie. The sequence also sets up ideas that will be continuously developed over the course of the movie.* And here’s the kicker—the movie doesn’t linger on this sequence. You get the idea, and it moves on to even more ideas. Also compare this kind of ideating to American Fiction’s. When I said that American Fiction’s moments of style felt underdeveloped, I was thinking of movies like Killers of the Flower Moon, which weave and evolve their stylistic ideas throughout the entire runtime.

*(Visually, it places the Osage within a historical medium that the audience probably does not associate with Native Americans, or the Osage in particular. Which has a couple of different effects. First, it acts as a continuation of the gushing oil from the previous scene. It’s an interruption. A false promise. Seeming belonging and power, but framed all the while by a foreign culture. Meanwhile potentially from the perspective of that culture, it’s an intrusion on ‘their’ medium. And of course, this promise quickly decays into tragedy and death. The energy of the sequence isn’t just for its own sake—it sets up a contrast. But on a second, meta level it establishes the movie’s complicated relationship to media and storytelling. Newsreels, photos, myths, histories, police interviews, and a radio play all occur over the course of the movie. And there’s the movie Killers of the Flower Moon itself. Other people’s frames are contrasted with Mollie’s narration. There’s a repeated tension between communication as a method of knowing others and a method of controlling them—or the narrative of them—which plays out in both history and personal relationships.)

Or here’s another example: When Mollie and Ernest meet and he drives her home for the first time, we see their conversation via the car’s rearview mirrors. This is a bit of cinematic language that has its origins in mystery and paranoia. You see it in things like Hitchcock or The X-Files or film noir. By framing the scene with this convention, the movie turns what is superficially a romantic meet-cute (to quote a friend) into something bubbling with uneasiness and dread. This is not nostalgia—this is just using visuals to create effects. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen anything that uses the convention before, although knowing the pedigree might add to your enjoyment. The watchfulness suggested by the mirrors and Ernest’s cut-off face will still add an ominous effect. It works for the same reason it works in those other things. Like the newsreel, it is a specific and concise stylistic choice, and it results in a scene that is doing more than just one thing.

In general, the common thread I noticed as I watched these nominees, was the tendency to have the ‘idea’ of theme or style, and then stop there. It’s not that the movies had nothing in them. There were ideas, there was use of the medium, there was meaning to extract. There were lots of individually good moments. But they tended to feel singular, or repetitive, or tacked on. Meanwhile contemporary viewers are apparently so impressed by the mere existence of theme or style, that being able to identify it in a movie is enough to convince many that the movie is also good at those things. The problem with this tendency—in both artists and audiences—is that theme and style are not actually some extra, remarkable, inherently rarifying property of art. Theme emerges naturally from a story with any kind of coherence or perspective. And style emerges naturally from any kind of artistic attitude. They are as native as script, or narrative, or character. A movie’s theme and style might not be interesting, just like its story or dialogue might not be interesting, but if the movie is at all decent, they should exist. What makes a movie good or bad, then, is how it executes its component parts—including theme and style—in service of the whole. When theme is well-executed it is well-developed. Contemporary movies, unfortunately, seem to have confused ‘well-developed’ with ‘screamingly obvious.’ A theme does not become well-developed by repetition. It becomes well-developed by iterationand integration. Theme is like a melody. Simply repeating a single melody over and over does not result in the song becoming more interesting or entertaining. It becomes tedious. However, if you modify the melody each time you play it, or diverge from the melody and then return to it, that can get exciting. It results in different angles on the same idea, such that the idea becomes more complex over time, instead of simply louder.

Oppenheimer wasprobably the worst offender in this regard. Just repeat your water drops, crescendoing noise, or a line about ‘destroying the world’, and that’s the same as nuance, right? Split scenes into color and black and white and that’s the same as structure, right? That’s the same as actually conveying a difference between objectivity and interiority (or another dichotomy) via the drama or visual composition contained in the scenes, right? When I watched many of these movies, I kept thinking of a behind-the-scenes story from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The story goes that Joss Whedon was directing Sarah Michelle Gellar in some scene, and when the take was over he told her how great she was, and that he could see right where the music would come in. And Gellar replied that if he was thinking about the music, he clearly wasn’t getting enough from her acting alone. This conversation then supposedly informed Whedon’s approach to “The Body,” a depiction of the immediate aftermath of death that is considered one of the best episodes of television ever made, and which has no non-diegetic music whatsoever. Not to imply that music is necessarily a crutch, or to pretend that “The Body” is lacking in other forms of stylization (it is a very style-ish episode). But more to illustrate the way that it is easy to forget to make the most of all aspects of a medium, particularly the most fundamental ones, once one has gotten used to what a final product is supposed to feel like. 

And that’s why most of these movies don’t feel like movies. They create the gestalt of a movie or a ‘cinematic’ moment—often literally through direct vintage imitation—without a sense of the first principles. Or demonstrating a sense of them, anyway. Who needs AI when the supposedly highest level of human filmmakers are already cannibalistically cargo-culting the medium just fine.

[1] “The Sound of Money (The Sound of Music and The Singing Nun).” The Pauline Kael Reader. (This book contains the full text of the original review, rather than the abbreviated review that I linked earlier.) 

[jimraisedmeup]

TICK // 11.1 - against all odds

Rating: mature (angst, language)

Word Count: 1500

☾

How can I just let you walk away? Just let you leave without a trace When I stand here taking every breath, with you You're the only one who really knew me at all

☾

February 14, 1984 - junior year

"Your room smells nice."

"Did you expect it to smell bad? Jesus."

Eddie stared at you, standing in his bedroom. You were looking around, your piercing gaze taking in every little detail, which suddenly made Eddie self-conscious.

"Do you have, like, multiple personalities or something, Buckley? I'm getting whiplash from your mood swings," he muttered, dropping the keys to his van on the dresser.

You scoffed, removing your jacket and scarf before laying them out on his bed. You sat on your jacket like it was some kind of protective barrier between yourself and his bedsheets. 

The strange action made Eddie roll his eyes.

Taking time to look at you, Eddie was sure now that you were going through some shit. Your hair was still pristine as always, but the bags under your eyes made you look like a goddamn ghoul.

"Hot chocolate?" you reminded him, running your hands over the tops of your thighs.

Eddie shifted awkwardly. "Uh, yeah, about that. I don't have any hot chocolate, I just said that to lure you in here."

"Again with the homicidal implications, huh, Munson?"

"I do love implications, sunshine," he snapped back with a quick wink. "Woah, woah!"

Standing up suddenly, you grabbed your jacket and made for the door. On your way out, you stopped in front of Eddie.

"Stop calling me sunshine. I don’t like pet names. I’m not your pet," you spat.

Ignoring the jab at his bruised heart, Eddie sneered at you, second-guessing why he even bothered to bring you there to talk. 

"At this point, I think the only thing I know about you is that you're a total asshole."

You paused in the hallway outside of his bedroom. You seemed defeated, like a car that ran out of gas, like a bird giving up after trying to fly with a broken wing.

"Look, I can tell you're not having a great time lately. Obviously," he said, gesturing towards you as a whole, "you're a little off your rocker."

When you didn't respond, Eddie continued. "Let me help you get back on your rocker. Talk to me, tell me things, anything. Tell me about your shitty parents, tell me about your dirty dreams. I care, you know. I'm not about to judge you."

He worried that his pleading would chase you out the door faster, which honestly could be the last straw for Eddie. There was a fine line between trying to help the girl who was hell bent on pushing everyone away and maintaining his own self-respect.

And then you nearly crumpled to the floor, rubbing your eyes with your fingertips.

"I'm sorry, Eddie. I'm sorry about ghosting you again, for leaving after what happened on New Years."

He hadn't expected an apology from you. Sure, he wanted one - but he sure as hell didn’t expect one. 

And then the very last thing he expected from you was the amount of emotion on your face. A mixture of confusion, exhaustion, just a sprinkle of anger.

Unsure of what to say, Eddie scooted towards you, taking a knee on the floor near where you leaned against the dingy wall.

"It's… it's okay. I can't be mad at you. We're both going through our own shit."

"That's no excuse for me to abandon you. Twice."

Eddie chuckled grimly. "Huh, yeah. You did ditch me twice, didn't you?"

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"You mean, besides being a typical teenage girl?" He tried to joke, but immediately felt bad. "Is it about your parents?"

And finally, after months of wondering what the hell you were hiding, the wall you were desperately holding up… fell down.

☾

How can you just walk away from me? When all I can do is watch you leave 'Cos we've shared the laughter and the pain and even shared the tears You're the only one who really knew me at all

☾

You told him about your family. You told him about your religion, or ex-religion at this point, and how much it affected the dynamic of you and your parent's relationship.

You had been so used to maintaining your stoic appearance even before you changed your mind about religion. Since you were a small girl, your parents scolded you for crying. If you even laughed too loudly in public, your mother would pinch your arm. You're embarrassing yourself, child.

Your parent's recent divorce was the talk of housewives all over Hawkins, but not necessarily as big as Eddie's father's arrest. More like the hottest gossip amongst adults since back when Hopper went off the rails and banged nearly every woman in town.

You felt responsible for the entire thing. You told Robin about your father's affair, who in turn told your mother. The whole situation was a complete cluster fuck, ending up with your mother moving to Indianapolis and now the Buckley sisters only had your shitty dad. Not that either of you really needed him, though.

Confiding in Eddie about Robin's sexuality and your parent's ridicule was the hardest part, a lone tear crawling down your cheek for the first time in years. You had never said the words out loud before, even to Robin herself. It had always been an unspoken thing between you two.

You were a girl with a lot of feelings built up inside of you, anger bubbling at the surface of your impassive image. 

After growing up in a vicious, judgemental household, Eddie could see exactly why you were so distrusting of others.

Especially new, unpredictable people. Like himself.

And Eddie sat in silence, sitting across the narrow hallway from you. He absorbed every word you spoke. He felt like he was receiving a precious gift, a priceless artifact, deserving of being protected inside of his heart forever. 

In your close proximity, the Munson boy wrapped his outstretched legs loosely around your own legs. You didn't seem to mind.

"Thank you for telling me. Thank you for telling me about your life, Buckley," he mumbled, after a long stretch of silence between them. 

"Are you okay?"

"What?" he questioned, puzzled. 

"About your dad…"

Your eyes lifted to meet his, and Eddie felt like he saw a new clarity there. Your fixed stare was lucid, like a dirty window that was cleaned after years of neglect. And hell, Eddie would cut off one of his limbs to become the worn out rag that cleaned that window forever.

It seemed like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. He admired you, not only for overcoming obstacles in life, but as a physical being. Sour conversation aside, Eddie wanted to hold you. He was still afraid you would run away, disappear for a third time.

"Eddie?"

He coughed, distracted, looking down the hallway. "Oh, um, well… my dad got locked up for dealing drugs. Now I live here. Not much to say about that."

"But are you okay?"

Thinking for a moment, he tapped his boot against your hip. "I'll be okay. I was planning to move here anyways, remember? No more drunken screaming fights, no more locking me out of the house on a weekly basis. No more broken guitars, either," he laughed. "I've actually been keeping my favorite guitar here at my uncle's for years because of that old angry bastard."

"Really?"

"Unfortunately, Buckley, you aren't the only one with dysfunctional parents. Hate to break it to you." He had one more question for you. "But, on a more personal note. Did I do something wrong?"

You fidgeted in your seat on the floor. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"I guess I know better by now than to take these last few months too personally. We're human, life has its ups and downs. But are we still friends? Why did our friendship, or whatever the hell it was, become collateral damage in all of this?"

No answer from you.

"Are you going to stick around this time? I'm developing abandonment issues over here," he smirked.

His grin grew wider as you actually smiled back at him. Your eyes seemed to glow at him from across the hallway.

"I don't know, you tell me. Can I stay?"

"I'll keep you forever if you let me."

The blush on your cheeks was displayed to him in an almost shameless way, like an offering. And then your next question would have knocked him off his feet if he hadn't already been seated on the floor.

"No, I mean can I stay here tonight?"

☾

Take a good look at me now, 'cos I'll still be standin' here And you coming back to me is against all odds It's the chance I've gotta take

☾

(song lyrics credit: "Against All Odds (Take a Look at Me Now)" by Phil Collins)

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[neet-elite]

↳ EVENT 05. Sebastian (Yandere)

Pairing: Sebastian / F!Reader Genre: Smut 18+ WC: 2,241 Warnings: yandere, blood play, knife play, pet name (bunny), implied self harm (not depicted!!!), blood drinking, dacryphilia Prompt(s): 18 — yandere Wanna take part in the event?: CLICK HERE!!

A/N: the bread and butter sebastian... tbh i think the yandere trope fits him so well. loner in the mountains? always fun to write sebastian being a bastard tysm for sending this prompt in !! mwah!!

All you had to do was follow some simple instructions. They're not even that hard to follow, made intentionally dumb for his pretty baby to understand. And only thee of them too! Isn't he kind? He doesn't expect much from you, because you're already perfect in his heart eyes. Three rules, that's all. Just keep quiet. Stay put. Don't try and open the door. And deep down, Sebastian knows that you're good. Such a good girl, aren't you? The idea that you'd be intentionally trying to disobey and attempting to leave him isn't even worth entertaining— because there's a much more understandable reason behind your mistrust, isn't there?

Plainly put, he imagines that you're trying to provoke him only to see if he's being serious about his love for you. Metaphorically poking the bear just to feel the sharp sting of its teeth on your neck, a sure reminder of his affections for you. And in that respect, he can understand why the locked basement door handle was jiggling around in spite of his clear cut rules, frantic in how even the wood shook against itself. In your quest for seeking his attention, you've in turn reminded him to buy more locks. See, you really are such a good girl, aren't you?

Walking down each step one at a time, he listens to the way the door slowly starts to stop squeaking. Every step down the sound of the handle grows quieter, softer, as if his presence alone was enough to whip you back into shape. Which is preferable, in all honesty. And so he finds himself smiling from ear to ear in pride as he gets to the door, pressing the side of his face to it to listen to you scurry around, waiting until you've eventually settled on some place to sit before digging the room key out of his back pocket to unlock the door.

"Bunny?" He affectionately calls out to you once he enters, quickly scanning the room before easily finding your fearful gaze. And oh how you wear fear well, how those big wide eyes look like pleading to him, especially as he takes a few steps forward only to close the door behind him, turning his back to you briefly to lock it again. Something he hates doing, y'know? Taking his eyes off of you for even a second— if he had it his way, you'd be glued to his hip. But he understands how impractical that would be, and so settles for captivity. "Did you need something?" He questions, tone sickeningly sweet in how fake he's being right now.

One step forward, and he watches as you cower from him on the bed. Another few steps forward, and he's privy to the sight of you huddling under his bed sheets, panic stricken expression going straight to his perverted cock from how cute you look when trying to hide from him. And then; how he hears you audibly gasp when he next speaks. Are you a little scared, bunny? It's okay, he won't be as savage as the bear. Because despite needing to punish you for misbehaving, he's doing so under the impression that you're asking for it. Going against his rather easy to follow rules in hopes of having him enact penalisation.

"Because, I seem to remember telling you not to leave this room, right?" He smiles when he reaches the edge of the bed, taking the opportunity to sit beside you as you remain stuck in place. Frozen in fear, which his cock likes very much so. Burning with greed right in the pit of his stomach, how it rises to tighten around his lungs when all you do is stare back at him. Cute, he thinks. So fucking cute when you're so scared, his fingers straining with want to pet your pretty little head.

For he's not stupid. He can read between the lines, see through your little victim act. Because he only ever wants what's best for you, remember? Which is why there are rules in the first place— it's all just to help you be as happy and as comfortable as possible, meaning he has to always keep an eye on you. Ah, just you wait till he tells you about the hidden camera surrounding his room, too! Allowing him to watch your every move even when he has to unfortunately leave the house, or even just to the kitchen. You need protection, and given your stunt over trying to knock the locked door down, he's convinced that you're just testing his limits. Wanting him to prove to you that he'll be at your beck and call— from anywhere. Even from within your own new four walls. Home.

A tut soon escapes him, but it's half hearted at best. It's difficult to be upset at your lack of verbal communication when you look so sweet when silent, and he considers himself an expert at understanding you regardless of whether you talk or not. Your silence, in his mind, is proof of such fact, and he takes a moment to consider your wants and needs. Head cocked to the side in thought, not attempting to get any closer to you in favour of simply thinking. Like watching an animal at the zoo, wondering what it must be thinking about.

"Ah, I know." He states apathetically, suddenly standing from his seated position and smiling warmly down at you when you jump back in fright. He's studied you for a while now, y'know. Creeping behind bushes, stalking late at night outside your bedroom window— your sleeping face is so pretty, God, the amount of times he's stroked himself silly to the sight, fogged up your thin windows like a bitch in heat. But now that he's finally got you in his room, tucked away under his bed sheets, locked safe and sound, he thinks you've never been prettier. In part because you suit the look of absolute despair as he walks towards his computer desk, digging through one of the old drawers to bring out a shiny item for you. A gift, if you will. A promise of his obsessive love, and how he'll never stop, even if you keep trying to escape. He'll happily prove himself to you over and over again if that's what it takes!

Lust pools in his tummy at the look you give him upon shining the knife in the dim light of his basement room. Barely held in his hand, spinning the item around a few times to inspect the sharpness. Could it be cleaned? Probably, but his cock twitches at the thought of sharing blood with you, even just a minimal amount. He always washes it after use, and accidentally making you sick by way of an unclean blade only gets him more excited. Instinctive cravings rolling down his spine at the thought of having you rely on him even more than you've already been forced to, shaking in his steps as he once again returns to the bed; only this time he follows your movements as you shuffle away from him and onto the corner of the sheets, prompting him to reach out to tightly grab at your arm so you can escape no further.

Maybe he's holding you a bit too tightly, but the tears that well in your eyes as your gaze flicks between his wide smile and the knife only serve to turn him on some more, tent in his pants just for you, oh you pretty thing, he's so hard because of how cute you are! Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't that what love is? A little pain for a lot of gain. Knife in hand, inching his body closer to your own and adjusting his grip until he's right before you, leaking precum all over himself to the way your eyes drop to his needy cock more than once.

He was right, you are after him, aren't you?

Lifting the knife to right in front of your face, unable to stop his smile from growing at the way you shield your view from it, he tells you a little secret. Letting you know exactly how he plans on showing his love for you, because you deserve some warning for letting him indulge like this. That, and his cock practically begs to scare you some more, to watch those tears roll over and stain your red cheeks in selfish satisfaction. Perverted gratification, would that he could start petting at his fat bulge before you, but you still need to be taught some bedside manners. Such as;

"Stay still." He says calmly, flipping your arm around with ease so as to have access to the inner side, locking his fist around your snappable wrist without much care.

"Wait— Sebastian, I'm sorry, just don't—"

Just looking at you is enough to shut you up, cold stare gawking as if he hadn't a single care about you; a stark contrast to his still yet trembling cock in his pants, repositioning his body and "accidentally" thrusting his cock more in your direction. Fuck, you shouldn't hand him such power over so easily, the sight of your eyes squeezed tightly shut, forcing a few tears to drip drop onto your cheeks, and eventually his bed, has his body positively thrumming with sadistic enjoyment.

Part of him wishes you'd continue begging, let him see just how desperate you can get when faced with your new toy. But more than that, he wants to remind you of his cruel love. It's what he came down here to do, isn't it? What you slammed the door for, right?

"Please be good for me and sit still," He repeats himself, adopting a softer look in the face of your clear fear. As cute as it is, he loves you, his heart pleading to comfort your frightened state. "It'll be over soon, promise. Don't wanna hurt you, kay?"

And before he has a chance to register your response, his knife comes into contact with your pretty wrist and the squeak the metal brings out of you is enough to leave him yearning. Eyes rolled back briefly in hedonistic pleasure, from a single fucking yelp. God, you're so perfect. So pretty and perfect that he can't wait to defile you with his dirty knife, to bare witness to your extreme vulnerability, stand up to the challenge of tending to your self imposed wounds. All in the name of love— it's his life purpose at this point.

It makes sense in his lust fuelled mind, anyway. Overflowing with love for you, brimming over and out into his trembling fist wrapped securely around the knife, all it'd take is a little more pressure. Just a small amount downwards, breach the first layer of your skin and—

Fuck, he's panting. Literally heaving over your quivering frame like some sort of twisted deviant. You know he's doing this out of love, right? That he just adores you way too much to let your actions go unpunished, taking a single shaky inhale before digging the tip of the knife into your soft, supple, skin.

Not too deep! No, this is more of a warning rather than anything more substantial, but it's enough. Enough to leave him drooling over your arm at the mere sight of bright red trickling down it, staining the metal dark for him to lick at later. A measly surface level scratch in his eyes, staring at the mark intensely as he drags the knife across the width of your arm, cock jumping in his pants with every grunt and sigh that escapes your pretty kissable lips with his violent movements.

Lovers meet eyes once he's done, the knife clumsily falling from his hand and onto the bed below, the way you flinch away from the offending item is what finally convinces him to give him cock a little more attention now that you've been properly punished. Pawing away at his jeans with heaving lungs, unable to decide whether to watch the blood trickle from your new cut, or to stare at the horrified expression you now wear as he effectively jerks off right in front of you.

He steals the illusion of choice away from you in one swift move anyway, grabbing at your arm and tugging it with a bruising grip to his lips. Immediately flattening his dirty tongue over the fresh wound, openly moaning against your skin at the taste of your sweet blood. Violence does not always take physical form, and he knows it to be true when he drips saliva along the cut, hoping to dribble parts of himself into you just as much as he's attempting to clean you all better. Or, perhaps more honestly, selfishly using your taste to get off to.

But there is so much love to be had in violence too, isn't there? The tender way his grip softens, now that he's drunk off your blood. How he's rushing to undress himself with one hand because he simply can't stand the thought of not showing you exactly what you do to him just by existing, by crying so prettily like that as he debases you in the secluded privacy of his basement room. With teeth and tongue, lapping with the intent of sucking you dry, huffing in your scent, mumbling over your taste— there is love, here.

Perhaps a little too much so.

[cardcaptorsakura96]

Finding Each Other-Chapter 3

Fandom: Superman, Batman, Shazam, and Wonder Woman

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Dick Grayson, Diana Prince, Billy Batson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Kara Zor El, Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Alfred Pennyworth, Lex Luthor, Jonathan Kent, Connor Kent

Summary: Clark Kent always knew he wanted a family. He just always thought it would be traditional like his parents. Little did he know that destiny had something different in store for him.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Clark followed B and Dick out to a white Rolls-Royce. B went to the passenger door and opened it for Clark and said, “After you.” 

Clark blushed and said, “You really didn’t have to do that.”

B smirked and said, “But I insist.”

Dick giggled as he got into the back seat of the car and said, “You guys are funny.”

Clark blushed harder as B chuckled as he went to the driver’s side and got in. The distance between the museum and Bruce home was short. They were only in the car for ten minutes chatting some more about Atlantis when Clark just stared at the scene before him with his mouth wide open. Bruce had initially stopped at a gate. Once he put in a code, it opened to the most beautiful scenery that Clark had ever seen. It was a mansion. The biggest mansion that Clark had ever seen. He wouldn’t be surprised if it had over 100 ones inside. While the outside had a dark gothic look, it was counterbalanced by the assortment of beautiful flowers on the outside as well. The flowers did make the mansion appear less threatening. 

B smirked and said, “You seemed surprised.”

Clark chuckled and said, “Well, I have never seen a mansion so big so far.”

B chuckled and said, “That is refreshing to know.”

Clark looked at B confused and asked, “How so?”

B smiled and said, “I am used to people either trying to play it cool when they come here or being self-important. However, you are different. You seemed to be very much in awe of the place.”

Clark chuckled and said, “It is not hard too. Not only is the size incredible, but the gothic feel combined with the flowers, make it appear welcoming.”

B chuckled and said, “That would be my mother’s doing. When she moved here, she hated the place because it reminded her of the TV show Dark Shadows.”

Clark chuckled and said, “That is a show I haven’t heard of in a long while.”

B looked at him startled and asked, “So you are familiar?” 

Clark smiled and said, “I used to watch the old episodes with my Pa. It had everything I liked in fantasy: vampires, witches, love, and death. It was quite thrilling.”

B looked at Clark impressed and said, “I haven’t met that many people my age that have seen it before.” 

Clark sighed and said, “I am not surprised. It is from a while ago. I wished the movie they did recently did it justice.”

B sighed and said, “I couldn’t agree more.” B shook his head with a wistful smile and said, “My mother used to joke that she thought that Barnabas Collins haunted the grounds and would come out to get her.”

Clark raised an eyebrow and asked, “Really?”

B nodded while smiling and said, “My dad thought it was funny at first, but seeing how scared out of her mind she was decided to redirect her focus to something positive. He suggested gardening which she took to like drinking water. She planted so many flowers of different colors to liven up the place.” B’s face fell a bit before wiping off a tear from her eyes and said, “I wish you could have met her. She was a very lovely and gentle soul.” 

Clark didn’t know what to say to that but decided to gently squeeze B’s hand who smiled back in appreciation. As they continued up the driveway, they finally got up to the front of the mansion after a couple of minutes. When Clark looked up, the front door was open with a man already standing there in a three-piece black suit. He seemed like an older gentleman either in his late 60s or early 70s. Dick instantly got out of the car and ran ahead of them to the older gentleman and instantly embraced him in a hug. 

The man smiled and said, “Master Dick, it is nice to see you too. I take it you and your dad had a good time?”

Dick looked up at the older gentleman, smiled, and said, “We had the best time, Alfie! We learned about Atlantis and I got cool stuff from the gift shop.” Dick instantly opened the bag and showed the older gentleman its contents. 

The older gentleman chuckled and said, “I see you are adding more to your Superman collection.”

Dick smiled and said, “Yup.” Dick looked back to Clark and B coming up right behind him on the stairs and then directed the older gentleman’s direction to Clark and said, “Oh! We made a new friend tonight too, Clark. He has a lot of awesome ideas about Atlantis.”

The older gentleman smiled at Clark and said, “I see.” He raised his hand to shake Clark’s and said, “My name is Alfred Pennyworth. It is nice to meet you.”

Clark shook Alfred’s hand and said, “It is nice to meet you.”

B smiled and said, “Alfred is my adopted father after my parents died.”

Clark smiled and said, “You raised a fine young man.”

Alfred chuckled and said, “Heavens know that it was a struggle, but I believe everything turned out good in the end.”

B chuckled and said, “Alfred is putting it mildly. I was a little hell raiser.”

Clark smirked and said, “I still can’t imagine that.”

Alfred smirked and said, “He used to get into a lot of mischief growing up. However, I wouldn’t trade it for anything for the world.”

B smiled softly and said, “Thanks, Alfred.”

Alfred placed a gentle hand on B and smiled. Clark's heart warmed at the sight of the love between the two. 

Alfred cleared his throat and said, “Well, let’s not keep you all outside.”

As they entered the foyer, Alfred asked, “Shall I get you guys anything?”

B shook his head and said, “I was just going to make us sandwiches. I thought we could have chips and ice cream with it for dessert.”

Alfred nodded and said, “Very well. I will be upstairs in my room reading if you need anything.”

Alfred proceeded to head up to the staircase a couple of feet in front of him while B and Dick started to head down the hall to the right with Clark following right behind them. After walking for a couple of minutes, they entered a brightly lit kitchen. B went to the fridge while Clark and Dick sat at the kitchen island. 

As B looked through the fridge, he said, “Clark, if you could have any sandwich right now, what would it be?”

Clark looked up thoughtfully and said, “A roast beef sandwich on white bread.”

B nodded and said, “Coming right up. Did you have any preferences for toppings?”

Clark smiled and said, “If you have mayo, cheddar cheese, and lettuce, that would be awesome! If not, the roast beef and bread will be fine.”

B chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, I got you covered. The best parts of the sandwich are the toppings. I tend to be more into honey mustard fan myself when it comes to toppings.”

B brought over all the ingredients to the kitchen island. 

B looked up at Dick and asked, “I assume that you are wanting your usual?”

Dick nodded enthusiastically and asked, “Can I have the sour cream and onion chips too?” 

B nodded and said, “They should be in the pantry. Do you mind getting them out and the BBQ flavored chips and…” B turned to Clark and asked, “Was there a particular flavor of chips you preferred?”

Clark smiled and said, “I am actually a big fan of sour creme and onion, especially the ones from Pringles.”

Dick smiled and said, “Those are my favorite too even though Lay’s sour creme and onion is a close second.”

Clark nodded and said, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

Dick beamed and said, “I’ll go get the chips. I’ll be right back.”

Read the rest on AO3

[holeodemony]

TMA has influenced my life more than I'd like to admit.

I carry around a tape recorder at all times.

I correlate every single thing with the fears.

I have a fashion sense sense which is literally a strange mix of Elias, Jon, Martin, and Gerry.

There's just so much of me that has become due to the archives.

It's wonderful and terrifying... which is appropriate when considering this topic.

[shannonsketches]

he's so important to me

[peapodsplace]

Hey Baba, it seems like you've been seeing a lot of yucky stuff online right now. A lot of people who aren't remembering their manners and are forgetting that there's people behind a screen. I know you like your screen time but please remember that the world isn't all like that okay? Some people are different online and forget their values and let's remember that these days, algorithms perpously show you things that'll make you upset. Yes, yes it's not very fair, is it sweetheart. Please remember to take some breaks and that the world isn't really like that. It's so important to protect yourself. Yes, silly even if you think you don't deserve it; because you do.

[rexscanonwife]

Against my better judgement I'm watching more of the 2016 ppg reboot and lemme tell you something. I HAAAAAAATE the way they write Utonium I HATE IT!!!

But sometimes there'll be a little moment here or there where he's kinda...cute > ^ <

[octoagentmiles]

octonauts ATLA au 🤲

Barnacles is an EXTREMELY powerful waterbender from the North Pole, with a strong love for icebending—he defaults to it most of the time. He can use all subforms of waterbending, but they're a bit harder.

Kwazii's the Avatar, but he's still a pirate AND he's a natural firebender, so he still has that "scary and dangerous" reputation. He's afraid of using his firebending, because he hates it. Barnacles is teaching him waterbending, and he's pretty good at it. So far he sucks at earthbending, and his airbending is okay, but if he gets worked up it can accidentally come out as fire... which, yeah.

Peso is an airbender, and the first one in his family. He's not very skilled at bending, and he can't fly very well, and sometimes wishes he was a waterbender, like Barnacles. That way he'd be "stronger", and could utilize its healing abilities. He has an epiphany later on in the middle of S3 that makes him realize how powerful he really is, and he learns to fly :)

Tweak is an earthbender, which she inherited from her dad (maybe*). Like Barnacles, she has a love and preference for a specific subtype—in her case it's metalbending. She's very good at it. It's how she builds GUPs so fast.

Shellington is a waterbender. He doesn't use it very much, mainly because he's Not Great at controlling it—so you'll either end up getting lightly spit on or completely drenched in a tsunami by accident.

Dashi is a non-bender (with water tribe ancestry), which puts her at a disadvantage during some missions. However! She has all of her skills from the Canon Universe, plus the extra adaptiveness seen in non-benders in ATLA (Sokka, Suki, etc).

Inkling is also a non-bender, but he has studied the elements and different bending techniques his whole life. He's Kwazii's Monk Gyatso but with less dying.

Octoagents! 👇

Calico Jack is Kwazii's Uncle Iroh. I needn't explain further. His main goal is to teach Kwazii to be less afraid of his firebending.

Natquik is a waterbender, who taught Barnacles everything he knows. He got his penchant for icebending from him. He pretty much invented it. He survived Antarctica by ✨ Becoming One With The Ice™ ✨. He doesn't just study icequakes, he can make them. He can probably spiritbend.

*I'm TORN between making Marsh be an earthbender or a waterbender. If he's an earthbender, then he can't metalbend like Tweak can, but he's still very strong. Like, scarily strong 👀. IF HE'S A WATERBENDER, then he's a swampbender, full stop.

Tracker is an airbender, mainly because of how he's clearly paralleling Peso's arc in AnB. He was the only airbender in his Polar Scouts troop, and he got picked on for it a bit—but Barnacles thought it was cool as heck, and that's how they became friends.

Do I need to explain Paani being a waterbender? No I do not. He's probably VERY powerful, but very chillax about it. He successfully freaks out everyone who witnesses him bend every time. He can part the seas like freaking Moses.

Pearl is a waterbender like Shellington; she's not super strong, but she has a LOT more control over it than he does. Peri will be a waterbender as well, but he hasn't unlocked it yet. He's trying very hard because he wants to be like his mum and uncle SO badly.

Min could easily be a bender of any kind and it would make sense, but I kinda wanna say she's a non-bender. Just cuz ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

Earthbender Ryla. That's all. It makes it a lot easier to get out of caves when she's stuck. She's very casual about it. So casual, that most people either forget or don't even realize she's a bender until it comes up. Then they're like "oh yeah." as she literally moves mountains.

Airbender Pinto, who has no clue how to control it. Whenever he gets frustrated with himself, he accidentally creates small tornadoes. He can also fly! He likes to brag about it. a lot. mainly to Peso.

Waterbender Koshi, who hasn't discovered that about herself yet. She's in for a fun time when she figures it out. Remember how happy she was when she got her Octowatch? Yeah :) 10x that. I also imagine their family is full of late bloomers, but because of Dashi she has pretty low expectations for herself right now.

[schnaf]

.

[trivial0ve]

you know what they say about you never forget your first love? yeah bts is my first love that I’ll never forget

[todayisafridaynight]

what do you like specifically about Kiryu?

the fact he has a laundry list of dumb things he's done throughout the games

[mrburnsnuclearpussy]

Can someone tell Emilia fart that eccentricity is only charming when a person is just being their authentic self and not when it is forced and she comes across as a deeply insecure individual and it is exhausting and sad to witness?