#This man really does look like a theater worker :|

[elizakai]

I wasn’t going to share this because it is just one in a stack of hectic doodles I did yesterday, but I was scrawling concepts for a vague au idea that’s been cartwheeling in the brain void…

I asked my cousin what vibe he gave off.

he goes, “what cowboy did HE kill.” And proceeded to say he ALSO looked like a movie theater employee.

…..frankly, I cannot unsee it. And now it’s funny.

goodbye now.

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

scoops!robin x reader ask :)

i think it would be cute if the reader came to visit robin at scoops and steve (who doesn't know who the reader is) was manning the register and decides to flirt a little bit. cue robin in the back laughing to herself listening to this shit go down until she's had enough fun and basically goes "hey dingus that's my gf i always talk about" and steve's like :O

500 celebration yaaaayy!!

MY FIRST ROBIN WRITE!!! if this does well might write for her more and anyone could always send in asks for her.

pairing: robin buckley x fem!reader wc: 1K

masterlist

when your fifteen minute break started you headed over to scoops hoping to catch robin for just a few minutes. it’s great that you and your girlfriend work at Starcourt, but it sucks when your breaks can’t align.

you hurried away from the movie theater and down the escalator, squeezing past the gaps between people. it was a bit rude, but you were being as polite as possible just wanting to see robin’s smiling face and freckles cheeks.

when you walked into scoops and saw not a customer in sight it made you happy since robin wouldn’t need to end her break right away unless someone ringed the bell. there wasn’t a worker behind the counter so you pushed the saloon doors open without complaint and frozen at the sight before you.

instead of your gorgeous girlfriend sitting at the small table in the back room, steve harrington was leaning in a chair as he chomped on a banana, his cheeks puffing like a chipmunk. his brows scrunched in the middle and his mouth came to a pout as he spoke, muffled by his food, “wo re ou?”

“friend of robin.” playing it safe even if robin has told you how she teases him around and he isn’t a bully anymore. you weren’t sure what else he knows though since you haven’t gotten the time to really meet this ‘new steve’. “uh, where- where’s robin? was supposed to meet before she was off break.” wringing your hands together as a mindless tick.

steve chewed a few more times before swallowing harshly, “said she wanted to take a lap. getting too cooped up in the store.” he threw his empty peel onto the white table top. “don’t think we’ve met before.” his head tilted to the side, probably trying to recall your face or name.

you moved away from the door to lean your back into the counter, hands curling around the linoleum beside you. “well, i’m only friends with robin. haven’t gotten to really meet you, king steve.” using the high school nickname to poke a bit of understanding from you to him.

steve winched, “so we went to high school together, got it.” he rested all four chair legs on the floor to lean onto the table, “i don’t know what robin’s told you about myself while she’s been here, but i swear i’m not like that anymore. stopped hanging around tommy and carol since november of ‘83, basically babysit without pay, i work here and wear this stupid uniform. i’m no longer king steve.”

you were quiet, taking in all this information you kinda knew already but processing it in steve’s words. and then you couldn’t help giggling a little as you said, “the uniform definitely isn’t the most flattering for a guy like you.”

steve smiled and cocked a brow, “a guy like me?”

a shrug of your shoulders, “well it’s the hat. ruins your best feature obviously, steve the hair harrington.” being fully sarcastic, but steve straightened up and pointed a finger at you with enthusiasm, “thank you! i’ve been telling robin that for so long.”

and speaking of robin, she still wasn’t around and you did want to get something to eat. a quick look at your watch telling you seven minutes have gone by. you kissed your teeth, “uh, i gotta go get lunch. uh, if you see robin just tell her i stopped by and i’ll call her.”

moving back to the door before a squeak and steve’s voice stopped you, “wait, uh, i could give you an ice cream. on the house, if you’d like.” running a hand through his hair.

you couldn’t help the simple smile on your lips, “that’s nice, steve, but kinda want actual food in my stomach for the rest of my shift.” and robin gives you free ice cream anyway.

he waved you off, “well the offers on the house whenever. also, where do you work in the mall. think i’d notice if you were around.”

index finger landed on the name tag stuck on your bright blue shirt, “movie theater.”

steve nodded his head at the information as he sat a hand to his hip, “well, if you're ever free and want to hang out. you know where to find me.” a certain lilt to his voice that you picked up on, but thought nothing of. “i’ll keep that in mind, harrington.”

you pushed through the swinging doors and just a few steps into the lobby someone called your name, a female voice and it made your heart jump and cheeks ache with a tight smile. robin came rushing into the ice cream parlor, the wind pushing her blue vest back and her strawberry blonde highlights waved in the breeze.

you opened your arms wide and she came running in with her freckled limbs wrapping tight around your waist. her face nestling into your neck, “i’ve missed you,” came her muffled confession.

you giggled sweetly, arms snug over her shoulders, “and i’ve missed you. but i need food so i can't stay any longer. since somebody-“ leaning your head and body to peek at robin, “chose to go for a walk instead of waiting for their girlfriend.” whispering the last word in her ear.

robin groaned, “i’m sorry, but if you have to listen to soccer moms and crying kids all day you’d need a breather too.”

the two of you stayed wrapped together, swaying side to side with an invisible tune. then there was a squeaking of hinges so the two of you broke apart to see steve walking behind the counter. his sailor hat back on his head and his eyes looking between the two of you.

robin pulled you with her as she moved closer to the counter, “steve this is y/n, my special friend. y/n this is steve, the lady killer.”

and you had to suck in the laugh that wanted to burst at the sight of steve widening his eyes to golf balls at this news robin was presenting to him.

“oh….”

-

[clever-fox-studios]

Two Weeks

A little thingy I started as a crossover of my Legacy AU and @garbagechocolate 's Truth Virus. I might continue as it's short and meant as pure angst, if that's desired; it'll go on AO3 if that's the case. It's not canon to my AU at all, but it does have Legacy-canon-compliant information that may or may not be relevant when the time comes~

Content below the cut:

Overhead lights hummed, casting dirty yellow-white light across cement, tile and metal rebar and pipes, trying and failing to make the dirty underground service bay seem somewhat sterile but only managing to pick out every crack and spot of dirt in grimy, perfect detail. Normally, Parts & Service was busy and filled to the brim with techs and programmers looking for something to do during the day, but at this moment only two could be found operating the repair pod, the others long gone on daily tasks of some sort or hiding out of camera view to catch a smoke or pilfer uncollected fries from the warmers. Fingers drummed the service pod keyboard lightly–click-clack-clack–but never enough to press a key by accident. That was what rookies did. Contrary to the opinion of corporate, they were not rookies. They were not paid like rookies, and yet…

Yet.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just wait for Phil?”

Balling a fist, the older technician slammed his fist into the desk, avoiding the keyboard altogether but still startling his coworker into biting his own cheek with fright.

“Owowow–”

He gave the younger worker a hard look, stilling their whining so he could speak, sharp and firm as a stroke of a key on the computer. “It’s a fucking patch for the new system they wanted the jester thing to test run.”

This was true.

“It’s from the server at fucking corporate, so it’s gotta be legit, right?”

This was also true.

“We shouldn’t have to wait for Mr. Espresso For Dinner to supervise us every fucking time the talking pipecleaner needs a spit shine”

Nervously, the younger technician nodded, then shook his head. “But Phil–” He stopped for a moment. “Mr. Mercer was extremely clear about us being careful with the theater unit after the–”

“I. Don’t. Care,” the older man cut in, face creased with angry lines and graying brown hair. “I’ve been working here almost as long as that junkrat in a trenchcoat. Just because he’s Reed’s favorite little dumpster fire he gets the head IT position, but I’m just as capable of working on the attendant as he is. I’m not a fucking rookie–no offense.”

“N-none… taken,” the younger man squeaked, unable to voice further concerns.

“Just get the fucking twink down here so I can get this done, will you?” With a sigh, the older man wheeled his chair to the desk and began to prepare the file for processing, grumbling under his breath. “It can’t be that hard to install a fucking patch for something that’s already in their system, it’s robotics, not fucking rocket science!”

~

“Let me guess.”

Sun fidgeted with his ray, fingertip flicking over the point rhythmically, eyes looking anywhere but into the acid-bright hazel eyes staring him down from behind unkempt brown-black hair.

“You didn’t stop them because Mason’s a jackwad and you didn’t want to cause more problems?”

Nodding, Sun’s fingers closed around the end of his ray tightly–a nervous reflex. Before he could do any real damage, a hand wrapped around his wrist, firm but not overbearing. It still got him to jump, gaze darting up in spite of himself to see the hazel gaze was less of a disappointed burning and more of a concerned flicker, one that knew well and good about his… ‘problematic’ tics that had been developing over the months.

“I’m not mad, Sun,” the man said, voice gentle as he slowly brought the jester’s hand down from his head. “Not at you two, anyway.”

Sun couldn’t help himself, the apologetic babble coming up before he could really stop it, “I’m so so so sorry, Phil! I know you’ve told us not to let them bully us, but the new employee was so nervous and we didn’t think it was a big deal, we just–”

Phil’s palms pressed into both of Sun’s cheeks, causing him to stop as the short human got his attention, face unchanging. “Sun,” he started, speaking slowly and firmly, “I. Am not. Mad. At you. Understand?”

Feeling his jaw quiver, Sun nodded; the hands left his face, turning to hold the man’s chin in thought as he finally broke eye contact. Quietly, Sun folded his own together at the fingers, trying desperately to contain the guilt he felt as he noticed the stirring in the back of his programming of Moon as the night unit tuned in from wherever it was he found himself during daylight hours.

“Is he mad?” the crackly voice inquired.

Sun knew only he could hear his brother but it didn’t offer any solace–it was upsetting, if nothing else. Wrong. Even after months, he still wasn’t used to it, finding himself turning to answer only to be met with an empty room. This time, though, he was acutely aware that Moon wasn’t there. That turning would net only a concerned gaze from their maker, Phil Mercer.

“Not at us,” Sun whispered back, aloud.

Phil’s gaze flicked to Sun at the sound, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t need to. Instead, Phil mumble, a bit loudly on purpose so they boys–the theater jesters both–would hear without needing to be direct, “That idiot can’t even set the time on a microwave without using wikihow. I could run diagnostics myself and see if it worked but Al’s already up my ass as it is and I don’t have time for a full sweep…” He sighed with exaggeration, folding his arms together.

Sun’s head was tilted curiously at the mutterings, his fingers fidgeting over each other rhythmically.

“Of course Mason picks this week to be a pain. The inconvenience can’t be helped.”

“We’re sorry–”

“Shush.” Rubbing the back of his head and neck, Phil came to a decision–he only hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite them all later. “How’s daycare duty treating you both? Any issues outside of the whole ‘Moon didn’t switch from theater to nap time’ thing the patch was for?”

With a click and whirl of his rays, Sun smiled, glad for something good to talk about--relatively speaking. “Oh, it was lovely! The children are so much fun to interact with! Such wild imaginations!”

A half smile crept onto Phil’s face under his 5-o’clock shadow. “Moon? What about you?”

Sun waited as Moon spoke, relaying his answer precisely while switching the voice setting to the blue unit’s default. “It’s different trying to make the little ones sleep instead of cheer or laugh. Keeping them up by mistake was… odd. But I’ll learn.”

“Well,” Phil mused, “hopefully you find it easier now but I’ll be honest, I don’t trust that patch corporate sent–especially knowing Mason was the one to install it.”

“I don’t trust that guy as far as we can throw him,” Moon muttered, earning a snicker of agreement from Sun.

Catching this, Phil asked, “What's so funny?” still grinning.

Eyes wide, Sun stuttered, “N-nothing! Moon just–doesn’t like Mr. Mason!”

Knowing how this game went, Phil pressed, “So what did he say?”

“It’s not that funny, really!”

“Then why’d you laugh, Sunny D?”

With a raspy giggle, Moon kept on in the back of Sun's mind, “I saw him struggling once to change the input source on the TV in the P&S bay when he pulled a late shift.”

Sun’s voice cracked with disbelief. “What???”

“Let me in on the joke,” Phil begged dryly, giving the tall robot a playful elbow.

“No no–stop!” Sun laughed, rays spinning while Moon dropped more little things about the man named Mason and his prevalent skill issues; if he could cry he’d surely be in tears from laughing, between the snark of his brother and the amused ribbing of his friend on either side as Phil started piling on his own observations of the tech’s mishaps. “Please, this is so mean!”

“You’re feeling better though, right?”

The others stilled, giving Sun a chance to catch his breath so to speak. “I… am, yes.”

“Good.” Phil gave his back a pat. “So listen carefully, alright?” Sun nodded, feeling Moon’s presence close in as he leaned in to hear. “I’ve already got a bunch of things to go over and finish up for you guys for this new trial run they want you two to do. I’m going to work on my own fix for the default program issue but I can’t install it until I’m back.”

Sun’s rays retracted just a hair, giving off a series of clicks that gave away his sadness as he clamped his hands against them with embarrassment. “Ah!”

Phil’s brows raised in a sympathetic arc. “I know, I wouldn’t leave it be like this but Emilia’s…” Without meaning to, Phil’s voice trailed off for a moment, his mind going a thousand miles away briefly. “She’s having a rough trimester.”

“Oh no.” Carefully, Sun’s hands grazed Phil’s shoulders, attempting to comfort the man . “Of course, of course! You can take time for Mrs. Mercer as much as you need!”

Phil gave the lanky robot’s hand a grateful pat. “Appreciated, Sunny, but I still have a job to do. I’ll be home for two weeks and I’ll come back with all kinds of things to clean you up and make you the best daycare attendant those chucklefucks at corp–”

“Phil, language!” Sun blurted, catching both of them by surprise for a moment.

After a second of seeing Sun’s shocked face, rays retracting with embarrassment, Phil let out a deep laugh. “Well, it’s already working so that’s a relief!”

“Can we do that to all the adults?” Moon wondered quietly, a devious feeling creeping into Sun’s mind of how his brother wanted to abuse that feature for his own amusement. It was admittedly tempting with the way some of them talked.

Exhaling briskly, Phil got the pair’s attention before they could get caught up with mischief planning. “Do you think you two can handle me not being here for that long?”

“We should." Sun hoped saying it would give him some confidence in the idea.

“Can you promise me not to be too agreeable with the new guys and keep your butts out of P&S until I get back?”

That one would be harder. “W-we can try. The kids…” Images of the last few days flashed through Sun’s active mind–colorful paper, sliced apples, pillows soaring through the air–and glue.

So.

Much.

Glue.

“You are too new to this to have that look of ‘back in ‘Nam’ already, Sun.”

Sun blinked and came back to the present, grin shaken but not gone. “It was just a lot! Great, but a lot! We can handle it! The helpers are very good at keeping us ready to go!”

Moon mused, “Especially Nana,” which made Sun’s smile change from nervous grin to gentle curve at the mention of the older woman with curly, gray hair and too many bracelets that insisted on everyone, even the staff, calling her ‘nana’ or ‘granny’ despite none of the kids in the daycare being her family by blood.

Phil observed all of this quietly, taking note of Sun’s expression and how he tended to look off to the side whenever Moon spoke. Despite being unable to hear the entire exchange, he had some idea what they were talking about; nothing those two did went unknown to him for long, even in spite of their best efforts to hide some of their hiccups from him at first. If nothing else, he was glad they could still talk to each other actively. I’m glad those mooks in the office are still afraid of the big bad OSHA man, he thought to himself smugly, thumb twitching against his forefinger.

With habitual movements, the messy haired man pulled a sucker out from somewhere in his pocket, peeled the wrapper off in one graceful tug and popped it in his mouth–he grimaced as the sour tang of lemon-lime graced his tongue. Peeking at the wrapper, he saw a small green gator-shaped icon stare back at him. Of course it would be Gator Blast.

“Phil?”

Said man glanced up, realizing the yellow jester had finished his aside in time to see the face Phil pulled at the bizarre flavor of Faz-pop he’d managed to fish out. “Hm?”

“What’s wrong?”

Rolling the candy to his cheek, Phil grumbled, “Monty’s lollipop flavor tastes like plastic and battery acid.”

Horror and concern flickered through Sun’s optics. “Should you be eating that??”

“Too late now.” He checked his watch quickly and made a displeased sound in his throat. “I’ve gotta go wrap some stuff up before Al starts in on me, promise me you two will be careful.”

“We promise!”

“I’ll see you in two weeks. Moon.”

Sun felt his brother’s awareness lean in again just as he was recoiling to whatever mental corner he claimed for himself.

Brow raised as he placed a hand on the daycare exit doors, Phil stated, “Behave,” despite knowing full well it wouldn’t be obeyed for very long. Waving politely, Sun affirmed on Moon’s behalf that he would, indeed, behave as much as possible–Moon himself made no such claim but chose not to argue the point for the moment. No, it would be more fun later to bring it up if and when Phil eventually found out he was not, in any capacity, behaving himself.

With the daycare functionally empty now, the yellow attendant set about checking his new and improved To Do list. Equipment and playsets loomed above him, one of the few things he found that could make him feel small–and hesitated. They still were not used to sharing a body, never mind the bizarre sensation of action overrides that happened on occasion when one of them felt too strongly and it overtook the other’s priority listing, but this one Sun had gotten familiar with. Though he himself didn’t have any issues with the bright plastic tubes and tangled nets that so many kids--and himself-- loved to scramble and climb over, he knew his brother had some… lingering hesitations about them.

For good reason, he knew, despite having been assured Moon wouldn’t remember the details, yet it didn’t stop the lunar unit from the occasional fear response whenever either of them found themselves looking up at the bars and bridges too long. Gently, Sun murmured, “Moon?” just loud enough to get his pair’s attention and snap him out of his trance–immediately, Sun felt his knees relax and motion return to him.

“Sorry, Sunny,” he heard back after a moment.

Carefully, Sun picked his way across the daycare floor to the great glass wall that enclosed the play area; there was a spot they knew where the shadows on the other side made the glass just a bit more reflective, allowing them a murky look at themselves if they stood in just the right spot. For a moment, Sun saw only himself staring back, red frill laying neatly around his neck, eyes bright and baby blue against his yellow and gold facial mold; he blinked hard and was not surprised in the least that when he look again, what stared back was a red frill laid under a blue cowl, navy and gray features replacing his own as grayed eyes peered back from the glass. A quirky little feature that had taken getting used to, but Phil never passed up on a chance to make things a bit easier on them, even when corporate threatened him with termination for making ‘unsolicited upgrades’.

Guilt crept through Sun’s circuits as he met Moon’s gaze in the glass; part of him was glad Phil hadn’t manually swapped them out to see for himself, but the betrayal of trust was almost too much for the yellow jester to bear. Feeling this, the reflection of Moon’s face creased with concern–he couldn’t touch his brother physically, but Moon knew he could be heard regardless. “You could have told him,” the night-colored bot said gently.

Sun started, “Its–” but hesitated, unable to maintain eye contact with the reflection. “I’m sure it’s nothing major. Mr. Mason isn’t the most… careful with us, and Phil has enough to deal with. You heard him, Mrs. Mercer isn’t feeling well and she’s having a baby–!”

“Sun.” Moon’s voice was firm, cutting off the tirade of excuses before it could get out of hand. “You’re doing it again.”

“I’m sorry.” With a start, Sun realized he’d grabbed onto one of his rays again while talking.

“Why do you do that?”

The barest hint of a shrug moved Sun’s shoulders. “Maybe the same reason the playsets make you freeze in place?” Sun’s brow furrowed. “I–I’m sorry, I…”

That hadn’t meant to be said aloud.

Moon seemed just as confused as Sun felt, thankfully, his brow an exact mirror of Sun’s, bunched in confusion at the odd vocalization. “It’s… fine,” he eventually managed to say, shaking his head. “I don’t mean to do it, I just…”

“I know.” Standing straight, Sun brushed imaginary fluff from his collar, attempting to make himself ‘presentable’ in an effort to get some kind of control over himself. “And you’re right, I should have told him about your eyes, but if he’s going to give us a big system clean-and-polish when he comes back, we can wait until then. Right?”

Their gazes met in the glass again.

Moon closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “It’s probably just Mason being clumsy, nothing major. We’ll tell Phil once he’s back. Mrs. Mercer needs him more than we do right now.”

“Exactly!” Turning quickly, Sun moved away from the glass, no longer able to maintain a sense of ease while his brother stared back with the empty, gray eyes that didn’t belong to him. “Today’s list has something new on it–” Pausing, Sun raised a finger in thought. “I don’t know where they keep the disinfectant.”

“I hope it’s not behind the desk.”

“Me, too!” Set about to find the elusive chemicals, Sun didn’t dare to check the glass again. At first, he’d hoped he'd been wrong when they chatted after the patch update and he thought Moon’s eyes were off somehow, but then a worker commented on it.

“Why are his eyes gray?”

Thankfully, by some miracle, that tidbit hadn’t gotten back to Phil yet.

Not that it made it feel better in Sun’s coding when he was met with empty gray irises any time he used the glass or a mirrored surface to see his brother.

Moon’s eyes shouldn’t be gray, he told himself fretfully.

They should be yellow.

[raspberrysmoon]

what if i told you i made it? | inevitable - the guy who didn't like musicals | 8/8

"what if i told you a story, that settled all the dust? i'm still the man you trust. it's inevitable, for us."

kai drew, fighting.

kai, his kai– his baby girl, his little performer, gone.

thats what she wanted. she left them. on purpose.

she left them, for him. for her. for a plain, entirely uninteresting office worker and a mean barista.

a regular man, who doesn’t even like musicals. a man, who has no way to get her what she wants. a man, who despite being so close to death, despite having so little time, was still a coward about his feelings. a man, who despite being so close to death, was still fighting for her.

still fighting against him. against assimilation, against life. for her.

for the family that, a week ago, he didn’t have. for the family that paul matthews did not deserve.

what paul matthews did deserve? a slow, painful, embarrassing death.

what if i told you a story,

but his baby girl would never allow something that was hers to be injured. to be harmed. to be taken.

she learned that from her papas, of course. no better teacher for possession than the originators of it.

..shes angry at him. he can feel it, deep, somewhere in his soul. shes pissed. at him.

still, he has a show for her. whether she likes the words coming out of his puppets mouths or not. if he can’t put on any other show for her, he’ll give her this.

and she will like it.

she does not like it. in fact, she quite hates it.

he’s puppeting her dad. gods, why couldn’t have it have been her? she’s done this. she can fight it. dad can’t do that.

..he doesn’t even know whats going on. he’s probably scared.

that settles all the dust?

all she can do is claw her way into the theater, dragging too-long nails along flesh of long-gone friends, digging her teeth into anything she can reach to pull herself forward. she makes note of how quickly each chunk of flesh moves, how each one has to get around.

not-charlottes weak point is her intestines. if she were to dig her nails into not-charlottes abdomen, the woman would drop, even if its temporary.

not-teds weak point is his throat. he’s one of the loudest voices– ted was always loud, its a spankoffski gene– and if she can take that out, then not-ted is no longer a threat.

not-bill, too, is simple. a girl’s body follows close to him, with long brown braids and tear-stained cheeks. alice, her mind tells her. thats not-alice. the poor girl had been dead before she’d had even seen her. before they’d gotten to her. she wonders, briefly, what the girl would’ve been like in life.

it doesn’t matter. a not-cop is coming towards her, and she has her priorities straight.

get to paul, and get.. not-paul out of here.

get pokotho out of here.

he’s smiling at her. he’s smiling at her through ever vessel he has. theres something resigned, in the way he puppets her dad. something that tells her he knows the ending of his story.

she does, too. she always has.

she digs her teeth into another not-human– a lanky boy that looks a bit like ted, if ted were 16 and a nerd– and forces herself not to wince at the taste of slime. not blood. not anymore.

not-paul meets her eyes with a steadiness that only pokotho could have created. paul is too nervous, for that. she bares her teeth, and demands her legs to move.

he doesn’t flinch. in fact, he doesn’t move at all. she can’t make it to him. paul had genades, on him. around his chest. not-paul does too. pokotho has no qualms with killing his vessels.

..but he should have qualms killing her.

and so, she screams.

i’m still the man you trust.

not for paul, no. that will make him move quicker. no. she screams for her papa. she pitches her voice up, just enough, and forces tears.

he can’t hear what she really wants to say to him. he never will, she hopes. dad will, later. when they’re safe, and out of hatchetfield.

she screams and sobs for a father she no longer wants. he doesn’t know that. she doesn’t, either. he.. he is still her papa. that didn’t disappear when she left.

but taking her dad? taking all of his friends, too? hurting him?

unacceptable. absolutely unacceptable.

papa tinky had taught her, once, that other people don’t get to touch your toys. they don’t just get to take things away from you without a punishment.

this? this is pokothos punishment.

watching his daughter cry out for him, surrounded by things ordered to kill her. watching her cry out for help, for him to save her. watching her cry out in fear.

whether he knows its acting or not doesn’t bother her. a parents’ instinct doesn’t care if the child is really in danger or not.

and he falters. his puppets begin to drop, one by one, with loud spats. she can hear guns hit the ground, glasses shatter. he makes no move to hurt her as she climbs towards him. as she burrows herself into not-pauls arms, chanting papa, papa, papa. he doesn’t seem to register her tensing as he pulls not-pauls arms around her, pressing not-pauls face into her hair.

he doesn’t notice her dropping the act. digging her nails into not-pauls back with one hand, and slipping a grenade out of the holder with the other.

the blast will kill her, paul and emma. for good. emma’s probably barely conscious outside, now. she may not even notice the blast. she may not even have made it this long.

the blast wont hurt pokotho. he may not even feel it.

its inevitable,

but losing her? she can only hope it will.

but he won’t be able to come for her parents, now. he can’t come for dead people. not if she kills them.

and she will.

grenades are loud. kai knew grenades were loud. realistically, they had to be. and they had to hurt.

she underestimated how badly they hurt. how loud they were.

pokotho could never have heard her whispering i love you, dad. i’m sorry.

for us.

[themirokai]

Dreamling & Leverage Crossover? Dreamling & Leverage Crossover.

Over on this post, I suggested that Hob could use his skills at creating new identities to help people in need. Then @themightybento suggested a Leverage crossover and my brain went ping.

Proofreading by the fantastic @argylepiratewd who has proofreading commissions open now. All mistakes are from where I ignored WD's suggestions.

You can read the whole story (2450 words) below or over on AO3.

Dreaming of Leverage

“Hardison, we can’t just trust the safety of our clients to someone from the dark web called the ‘Stranger’s Friend’!” Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Yeah, that sounds seriously creepy,” Parker said. She aimed another powerful kick at the punching bag, eliciting a grunt from Eliot, who was holding it for her.  

“He’s not just on the dark web. The best social workers know him, people who run domestic violence shelters have heard of him. He’s legit. I’m telling you, he’s like us. His tagline is ‘victimless crimes and noble causes only.’”

“We don’t work with people who have taglines,” Eliot growled.

“Ok, his motto, whatever.” Hardison spun around in his chair. “My point is that he is one of the good guys and he is the very best at this. We need help on this one, and this is the guy who can help us.” 

“How do you know he’s even a guy if you’ve never met him?” Parker asked.

Hardison didn’t have an answer for that one. 

“Look, Hardison, if you can find the human being behind the ‘Stranger’s Friend’ and set a face-to-face meeting, we will consider using him.” Sophie’s tone was definitive. 

“He doesn’t do face-to-face meetings.” Hardison sighed. “Victimless crimes are still crimes and it seems like he has a cover to maintain.”

“We’re criminals too,” Sophie said. “We face as much risk as he does from exposure. I’m sure we can convince him to meet with us.” 

~~

The monitor in the van blazed to life as the camera on the drone turned on.

“Okay,” Hardison said, “we’ve got visual.” 

The screen showed a spacious apartment with two men lounging together on the couch. The first had chin-length brown hair and kind brown eyes. Lying against his chest was an extremely pale man with blue eyes and messy black hair. 

Sophie’s gasp came over the comms. “That can’t be.” 

“What?” 

“I could swear that’s Ron Golden, but that’s impossible!”

“Who’s Ron Golden?”

“He was the executive director of a theater company I was in as a teenager. But he would have to be in his eighties by now. He looks exactly the same… and just as fit. God, I had a massive crush on that man.” 

Parker’s eyebrows knitted together. “Sophie, did you…”

“No. I wanted to, but he said he was too old for me. He was very kind about it.” 

“Hardison, can you get audio?” Parker asked. 

“Guys, this is clearly just a couple enjoying their evening. They’re not marks, and one is a potential ally. I don’t think we should be spying on them.” 

“We’ve been over this, Hardison.” Eliot was staked out near the entrance to the building. “We need to make sure we can trust him with our client’s safety. There’s too much at risk here.” 

Hardison sighed and turned on the audio feed.

The pale man’s eyes immediately snapped to the window. 

“We’re being watched.” 

The whole team gasped. 

“There’s no way he could see the camera!” Hardison whispered. 

The other man looked out the window as well but clearly didn’t see anything. He kissed his partner’s temple. “Really? Is this a you-problem or a me-problem?” 

“These individuals are here for you. Isn’t that right, Alec Hardison?” 

Hardison jumped out of his chair and started backing away from the monitor. “What the fuck? How did he - that’s impossible!” 

“They can hear us now?” the brown-haired man said. 

“Yes.”

“Hm. Then I suppose I should invite them in for a cup of tea. Do you want to go… home before I do that?” 

“No. Eliot Spencer is a far stronger fighter than you are. Though their intentions with you are largely benign, they do not trust you, and there may be a misunderstanding. I shall remain here while you speak with them.” 

“What the fuck, Hardison? Who the hell are these people?” Eliot hissed over the comms. 

“I - I don’t know. I just know that one of them is the Stranger’s Friend.” 

The two men were getting to their feet and the brown-haired one turned to kiss the pale one. “Being protective, love?” 

“Only when you need protecting.” The pale man smiled. 

The brown-haired man turned to the window. “I’m assuming you can find the door,” he called out. “Come on up. I’ll put the kettle on.” 

~~

Hob opened the door to see two women and two men on the other side. “Hello. Who are you looking for?” 

“Um, the Stranger’s Friend?” 

“No!” The woman with brown hair pushed to the front of the group. “You’re Ron Golden!” 

Oh dear. It was an identity he had used in the 1980s, and was actually the one he was using during his failed 1989 meeting with Dream, but he had discarded it shortly thereafter. And the woman looked very familiar. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had been recognized by someone who knew him under another name. He put on the sympathetic smile he had mastered hundreds of years ago. 

“Ah, you must have known my dad.” 

“Your dad, my arse!” she scoffed. “I don’t know how it’s possible, you must be eighty years old, but you are the same man!” 

Hob sighed and shook his head. “Really, I get that all the time. I know I’m the spitting image of him. My mom used to joke that she’d given birth to her husband!” He gave a chuckle and his most winning smile. 

“You’re lying! Just like you lied about my monologue improving!” Her eyes were shining now and Hob knew exactly who she was. 

“Were you in his theater troupe?” he asked, knowing the answer. 

Sophie stepped forward, but the man with long hair held her back and jabbed a finger towards Dream. 

“I want to know who that guy is and how he made us!”

“You may call me Morpheus,” Dream said from the corner. 

“Like from The Matrix?” the first man asked. 

“HRRRR HRRRR HRRRR!”

As always Hob couldn’t help but chuckle at Dream’s strange gravelly laugh. 

“Yes. Like from The Matrix.” 

All four of them stared at Dream, and Hob wondered if the name or the laugh or both was throwing them off. It probably wasn’t his appearance: Dream was looking relatively human tonight, if perhaps supernaturally pale. 

“Look,” the man who had asked for the Stranger’s Friend shook himself first and turned back to Hob, “we just came here to meet the Stranger’s Friend. We are trying to help someone who needs to disappear. We want to make sure it’s safe to have the Stranger’s Friend create our client’s new identity.” 

“But we’re not leaving without some answers!” the other man said. 

Hob turned to Dream. “Am I going to regret telling them the truth?” 

“You mistake me for my brother. I cannot tell you what the outcome of this meeting will be.”

Hob rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“They speak the truth. And they are confidence artists.” Dream’s eyes sparkled. 

Hob turned back to his guests with a smile. “Con artists? Is that what you’re doing these days, Sophie? You’d better come in. He loves con artists.” 

She stepped forward. “I didn’t tell you my name.” 

“No,” he sighed. “And I’m sorry, but your monologue was always rubbish.” Hob patted her shoulder and went to get the tea. 

~~

“Okay, okay.” Parker spread her hands on the table. “You—” she pointed to Dream, “—are a non-human supernatural entity who controls dreams and also sort of is dreams and can see into everyone’s unconscious mind and also is the Sandman.” 

“This is more or less accurate.”

“And your sister, who is Death, decided you needed a friend, so she made you—” she pointed at Hob, “—immortal.” 

“Uh huh,” Hob said. 

“And you are good at forging identities because you keep having to do it for yourself so that people don’t realize you’re immortal.” 

“That’s about the shape of it.” 

Hardison looked around at his partners. “So we’re agreed that we’re cool with Hob helping our client?” 

There were nods all around, but Dream sat forward. “Prior to that, may I ask you for the story of the Scheherazade Job?”

While Parker, Hardison, and Eliot began regaling Dream, Hob felt Sophie watching him. He smiled at her and inclined his head towards the kitchen.

“Sounds like I should put some food out.” 

In the kitchen, Sophie rested her back against the fridge. 

“So back then, when you said you were too old for me…”

Hob leaned against the counter and chuckled, then closed one eye as he did the maths. “About 610 years too old. But if I recall correctly, you were 17, Sophie.”

“And you were with Morpheus?”

“Ah, no. That’s actually a much more recent development. I mean, I knew him. I’ve known him since the fourteenth century. Probably been in love with him since the eighteenth century. But in the 1980s our relationship was… more complicated.” 

“Have you only dated other immortals? Are there many of them?”

Hob laughed. “There are very few other immortals in this world that I’m aware of and Morpheus is the only one I’ve been with.” 

“That sounds very lonely,” she said quietly, and he knew with certainty that she understood loneliness. 

“I’ve certainly had lonely decades,” he told her, “but I didn’t just wait around for him. I’ve had good friends, lovers. Been married a couple times. While 17 is too young for me, I stopped aging in my thirties, and I use that to set my parameters rather than my actual age.” 

She nodded. “Did you ever have kids? I always thought of you as someone who would be a good dad.”

The old pain pierced his stomach like a lance. He held it, looked down at the floor, and smiled. “Two that I know of. One died in childbirth along with my wife. The other was killed when he was 20.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “My husband lost his son from his first marriage. It nearly destroyed him.”

Hob looked back up at her. “The fact that you said ‘nearly’ means that he’s a strong person, and a good one. It took me much more than one lifetime to be able to live with the loss.” 

It was Sophie’s turn to look away. “He was a very good man.” 

Was. That explained the loneliness. “I’m sorry, Sophie,” he said gently. “How long has he been gone?” 

“A couple of years.” She breathed out, shook herself and looked back at him. “I’m lucky to have my crew. I’ll always miss Nate, but they’re the best family I could ask for.” 

“I’m glad.” Hob reached out and  squeezed her arm. 

~~

When Hob and Sophie returned to the table with snacks, Parker was giving Dream a calculating stare. 

Dream turned to her. “You wish to ask me something, Parker.” 

“Yeah. You’re the Sandman, right?” 

Dream nodded once. 

“So, you go into kids’ bedrooms and sprinkle sand in their eyes to make them fall asleep.” She was leaning forward intently. 

“That folktale is one aspect of my being. But that is not truly what you wish to ask me.” 

Parker’s mouth tightened as she stared at him, then she leaned further forward. “Can you walk through walls?” 

The tiny smile was far more than most humans ever got. Hob realized that Dream must like her. 

“My movement is not generally constrained by the physical boundaries of the waking world.” 

Parker looked to Hardison and Sophie. “That’s a yes, right?” 

Hob interlaced his fingers with Dream’s and kissed the back of Dream’s hand. “It’s a ‘sometimes,’ I think,” he told Parker. “It may depend on whether there are living things that dream on the other side of the wall.” 

Dream shot him a glare. “Hob Gadling, do not purport to understand the arcane strictures by which I am governed. Immortal though you are, your human mind could not begin to comprehend them.”

Hob kissed his hand again. “Yeah, but I’m right.” 

Dream rolled his eyes. “You are not entirely incorrect.”

“Okay.” Parker’s calculating look was back. “So, reaching into a safe is probably out, but you could, for example, walk into a locked room if there was a guard inside?” 

“Hrrr, hrrr.” 

“Parker!” Eliot hissed. “Tell me you are not trying to recruit the literal god of nightmares for a job!” 

“HRRR HRRRR HRRRR!” 

“He seemed interested in our work and he has relevant skills!” Parker hissed back. 

“HRRR HRRRR HRRRR!” Dream pushed himself back from the table and stood, then took a breath to recover from his mirth. “Ah, this has been most diverting, but I must return to my realm.”

Hob got to his feet too. “I’ll be there when I’m done with this lot. Will you be working?” 

“It is likely, but you may interrupt me. I will send Matthew if I am unavailable.” Dream ran his index finger over Hob’s cheek and under his chin, then drew him in for a kiss. 

Hob kept the kiss chaste, aware of his guests, even if the display didn’t bother Dream. Someone who changed the weather with his mood didn’t think twice about a PDA. 

“I’ll see you soon.” Hob squeezed his hand. 

Dream turned back to the others. “It has been a true pleasure to meet you all, and I thank you for the story.” He turned his gaze on Parker. “As well as the invitation.”

“If you ever want to walk through walls with us or sprinkle sand in security guards’ eyes so they fall asleep, you know where to find us!” Parker paused. “You do know where to find us, right?”

“Oh yes, Parker. I know where to find you.” With that, Dream’s coat materialized on his body, and he pulled a handful of sand from his pocket. It streamed through his fingers and swirled around him, then he was gone. 

Hob chuckled at his guests’ gobsmacked expressions. “Pardon my lover, he does like a dramatic exit.” 

Eliot was the first to recover. “That was creepy, right? It’s not just me - the ‘I know where to find you’ thing was creepy?”

“It was awesome!” Parker said, her eyes wide. “He has magic sand that makes him disappear! How do I get that?” 

“That only works for him, I’m afraid,” Hob told her. “Humans stole his tools once, and it went very badly for everyone.” 

Hardison held up a hand. “Just to be clear, we have absolutely no intention of stealing anything from Morpheus. Right, Parker?”

“Obviously,” she scoffed. “But could you make disappearing sand out of like nano bots or something?” 

Hob turned to Sophie as Hardison and Parker continued their nano bot conversation. “Let me get my laptop, and then you can tell me about what your client needs.”

[thoughtsbeewild]

No I am not watching DNC, hell to the NO..Im sure its acting, FAKE IT TO YOU MAKE IT nonsense

I'm tired of Obama. That man is fucking greedy you had 2 terms of presidency, then in order to make your 3rd president beside the decision making scenes, you and joe somehow made it happen to install joe the award winning old man to president just so Obama and demoncrat squad can STAY IN CONTROL, IN POWER.

I guess you can say i was stupid in back in my time to think like a . demoncrat. Had that excitement of how they preach i guess the race card first black president Obama and Michelle, what a joy..but lets fast forward 8 years(obama two terms), plus 3 going to 4 years with sleepy joe biden. You get older and wiser, like you don't think about this in your early 20s, mid 20s, and come to thirty's its like a WHOLE NEW WORLD OF AGE...EEK..GETTING OLDER SUCKS AND LIKE WE GOT WORK TILL THE DAY WE DIE OR IF THE GOVT LETS US GET SOCIAL SECURITY EARLIER BUT STILL WOULDNT PAY FOR HOUSING. ETC..

its been a good decade i guess, that trump really open your eyes to see what these politicians too. It was all theater now that i think about it, they wanted to say what you wanted to hear, they would prey on the weak that the govt is thier savior. Govt would have control take your life away in an instance and make you become homeless. But trump is more like hey motherfucker imma do this on my own without your money, your fucking donors, without your puppets, and here we are.

DNC demoncrats and SQUAD--ive seen the reaction on certain platforms and orange trump social , its truly a waste of my fucking time, my fucking eyes to watch them for the whole fucking 2 hours whatever the fuck. Time is fucking valuable and I aint wasting my time and energy when i aleady know who the vote is going to..

Do a comparsion this party focus of course on the HATRED OF TRUMP, 12 YEARS FUCK RIGHT, DAMN, THEY ARE THE ONES CAUSING DIVISION, SAYING THE KKK, HE THE WHITE SUPREME LEADER, HE HITLER, HE A DICTATOR, ITS LIKE DONT YOU GUYS HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO THEN FOCUS ON TRYING KILL THIS MAN WHO TELLS THE TRUTH TO WHAT YOU REALLY ARE. YOUR PARTY, DEEP STATE(SURE EVIL DEEP DEEP MORE CRAZY LIKE WE WOULD HEAR THAT IF YOU DID NOT DO SOMETHING FOR HILARY CLINTON SHE WOULD HAVE YOU KILLED, I BELIEVE SHE LOOKS LIKE THE PERSON WHO IS CAPABLE OF THAT..YET 12 YRS LATER THEY ARE NOT FOCUSED ON HELPING AMERICAN PEOPLE BUT COPYING TRUMP MESSAGE, CAUSE YOUR PARTY DOES NOT HAVE SHIT TO SAY, YOUR LEADERSHIP IS POOR, IN FOR THE MONEY AND POWER, YOUR PARTY TO KILL AMERICANS IN USA AND REPLACE THEN WITH IMMIGRANTS WHICH IS CHEAP LABOR. CORPORATE COMPANIES ARE DOING IT RIGHT NOW, MY FORMER JOB HAS OUTSOURCED ALL AMERICAN JOBS TO INDIA. so seeing all i great talented people i work with jobless, speaks volumes. PARTY STILL GOES ON ABOUT BIGOTED, LIKE WTF. WHY WOULD YOU WANT A LEADERSHIP SAYS BIGOTED COMPARED TO CRAZY, SLEEPY? at least trump name calling is childish but funny its not causing division...

time is valuable. Its not the time energy focus on liars and people who pretend like a good celebrity movie as if they are innocent babies trying to help you by saying your a bigot white racist supremacist . what about colored supremist, does that exist or they can make it up..

I worked in my previous job for a evil director, evil supervisor , evil squad of workers who talk, speak, like a demoncrat. That shit aint me, thats you fuckers, evil people who want others be silenced.

[jenyifer]

Cooking Crush ep6 1/4

Inital Reaction

I love offgun but I am really starting to get annoyed with CC. I didn’t like they showed the kiss and the car scene last episode. Then first thing ep 6 we watch it again and Gun starts out by saying we need more context go 31 hours into the past. So I also don’t enjoy the side characters progression either and I adore the ground Neo walks on. However we are to the stage all of a sudden that he is realizing he only has feelings for Dynamite and when their eyes connect there is something there. Once again this is weird bi phobia where oh of course the straight guy only really likes this one gay man. Okay great. But we have no build to Fire’s change in emotions. I also think it’s fucking weird his friend suggested hiring a sex worker? But maybe that’s just me… BACK TO TENPREM so we are told we’ll understand the kiss again. But we don’t infact I’m more confused. Ten’s dad doesn’t keep a closer eye on him AT ALL? Feels like we don’t have consequences for the character’s actions at all. I get this is a romcom but oh look TenPrem magically are together and Ten apologizes immediately in person in the dead of night to Prem. How far are their houses between eachother? Idk it makes 0 sense. No actual danger cause 🤷🏻‍♀️ idk. It’s really…. Challenging me. Right now it’s going down down down in my opinion for worst offgun show but we’ll see if it can redeem itself. But BOTH ships being this level of weird makes me less invested.

Photo review time.

Got to watch this long long kiss again. I do think Ten does look like he’s enjoying this soft kiss. It does show Off’s acting journey if you compare this to the barely there kisses in PuppyHoney. Yes it’s awkward it’s a first kiss. I wish it hadn’t lasted so long and we had to watch the whole thing ep 5 and 6

I was wanting Ten to say something like “I already have that hormone going because I like the look of you” in his mind theater then decided not to say it but…. I really like how Off is playing Jealous Ten. Ten is trying to be polite. He is aware how he feels isn’t normal. But I think he does a good job of concealing the depths of his jealousy

Fire likes dynamite that much?! Okay??? Feels like we are missing scene from ep5

Okay these things could have made Prem’s character more interesting if it was being played with in other scenes. The rich people don’t understand poor people and Prem’s desire to please everyone would have been interesting things to add in. Yes we got the dad scene but it’s had NO EFFECT on our boys. This convo unearned and the fact Prem realizes he’s jealous kind of… strange I mean yeah I get he’d be upset about ten not wanting to learn the bullshit technics but to go to he’s jealous? Ten was holding it together well in my opinion.

The way Off plays jealous as Ten is a lot more realistic than his previous portrayal of the emotion as Rome, Khai, even Sean. It’s a shame his character really has depth and it’s being ruined by the editing choices. Ten holds it together until he gets home and talked to his bestie being 100% honest.

0 pay off but hey the set is pretty. Both are relationship experts.

Sooo is Ten feeling more comfortable getting close to Prem or is this in Ten’s head? This scene had some weird cuts.

[magicinaframe-part2]

"There's this man in a house somewhere in Iran and he has writer's block..."

Over the years in New York City, whenever a co-worker at one of my jobs would mention a movie that he or she had seen that I had not heard of, I usually would ask "What is it about?" The co-worker would give a quick description and... Well, maybe not a quick description. Maybe, really, a verbalization of a compressed glance is accurate -- as if the co-worker was doing something else and just happened to look over at a screen that was showing a movie and would explain what he or she saw and heard in his or her mind and, then, expect that anyone else will understand what he or she says.

These so-called descriptions were particularly amusing to me at crummy job #3 (the messenger job), since the office had a waiting area where many messengers (including yours truly) would sit, and, often, there was a radio tuned to an FM station playing music in the background. I rarely could hear myself think in that office. A day later, I would have to be reminded about what my colleague had said about a movie.

If the movie that I'm thinking about was shown on television during those years, a messenger co-worker would have used the words of my title to this piece at Tumblr.

In the case of the particular movie that I'm thinking about, today, the imaginary description does not begin to explain the plot. This movie is deep. And it's an example of what I mean when I saw that I don't need prior information before I watch a movie. It reminds me of that moment in the novel Steppenwolf when the character Harry Haller wanders along the street at night and sees the sign over the entrance that reads 'Magic Theater Not For Everyone.'

If I was moving from tv channel to tv channel with my remote control device and landed at a channel showing this movie, my interest in what was happening on screen would develop rapidly. And it would keep on developing...on and on. Watching this movie would be the one thing on my mind, the only thing on my mind.

The name of the movie is THE PEAR TREE.

A man who looks to be approximately 40 years old has returned to his family home in a village in a remote area of Iran. He's distinguished- looking, a writer, and he does not look well. He's upset about something. He paces inside the home which looks as if all of the furniture has been removed. He's lost in thought, he thinks to himself, and his thoughts are shared with the audience.

The man has been at the family house for a number of days already, at the beginning of the movie. What goes on outside the house seems to be getting in the way of his work; i.e., his work on a new book. I turns out that he does not know what to write about.

What's going on outside the house? The family property includes a garden with many trees. One of these trees has not borne any fruit during the current year and the gardener -- a man who looks like he's about 70 years old -- has been trying to get the man (the writer) to help him figure out what can be done with the tree. The village chief comes to help the gardener get the attention of the writer.

After many attempts at forcing the writer to make a decision, the two locals stand mute and wait for a response. The writer retreats to his study and, instead, tries to figure out in his mind what is it about this problem that's upsetting him so much.

Suddenly, he starts thinking about his childhood, when he and his family would spend the summer here.

The bulk of the plot plays out, in the past, in and around the house. This particular physical setting is one of the most convincing and compelling presentations of nature-as-paradise that I've ever seen on film.

The writer is referred to in his memories by his first name, Mahmoud. Mahmoud, at age 12, fell in love with one of his relatives -- a cousin, I assume, named Mimcheh who's a few years older than him. Slowly, Mahmoud, in the present, figures out that his unhappy relationship with Mimcheh explains a great deal why his life has become so negative.

THE PEAR TREE, at 95 minutes, is an absolutely wonderful movie experience that I recommend to everyone at Tumblr. And it should be thoroughly researched.

THE PEAR TREE (org'l title: DERAKHTE GOLABI - 1998) is available on DVD with English subtitles.

-- Drew Simels

[jay-avian]

Creative Writing Project 1

Prompt: Write about a secret. If writing fiction: both characters know this secret, but only one of them knows they both know. (600-750 words)

Title: Our Intrepid Detective (yes, I stole from my own noir, it's okay)

I stepped into my office right at 7:00am, just like any other workday. I go to sit down at my desk where my case file and its contents lay scattered. I’ve been on the trail of a rather large crime syndicate in the city. I had been stumped on how to get them for good when my partner found out about a pick up happening tonight at the eastern docks. Brilliant man, Harvey is.

The plan was simple enough: wear a disguise, show up as one of the drivers, help them bring the goods to their “secure location”, then let the cops take care of the rest. I have to make sure that I’m more careful than I’ve ever been. If I’m caught among that large group, I’m surely done for. Thankfully, I have just the disguise for the job.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. The door opened and there Harvey was with our coffee. Harv is one heck of a man; built like a brick, he is.

“Mornin’ boss,” he says as he walks in.

“Mornin’ Harv.” He hands me my drink and I take a sip and sigh. “You know, tonight’s finally gonna be it. After tonight, we’ll have played all our cards right.”

“You sure your wife will be okay with you staying out another late night?”

“Hey, crime never slows down for anybody, and neither will I. Besides, she’s got to stay late too. You know how hospital work is.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

I get up from my seat and head to the window, taking another sip from my coffee. Looking down into the city streets this early in the morning is always so serene. A beautiful Sunday morning if ever there was one. All the saints and pretenders are getting ready to be ministered to. But I will be ministering to the sinners.

“Harvey,” I say, turning back around. “We’ve got some fishing to do.”

I arrive at the docks around 8:30pm. Harvey managed to snag me a delivery truck to borrow. I drive up to all the other trucks and step out. They had already started loading some of the trucks with crates from one of the barges in the dock. A woman was talking to some of the workers when she notices me, looks me over, and smiles. Guess the clean-shaved look really does it for me. She walks over.

She’s a real pretty one if I say so myself. Black hair tied up nice and clean, just enough makeup to bring out her features, a real nice burgundy dress too. Though something about her feels familiar. I mean, of course she lives in this city just as I do. Perhaps I’ve seen her at Molly’s diner before, or the theater.

“You another driver?” she asks.

“Yes ma’am,” I say politely. “Sorry I’m a bit late. Had some trouble with the missus.”

“You sure you won’t have more trouble after tonight?”

“Don’t worry about it. She knows I don’t play around.”

She chuckles. “That’s good. We’ll get your truck loaded, then I’ll hop in with you to give you directions.”

“Sure thing, doll.” I’m not sure why she’d offer to ride with me when I can easily follow the others. Then again, she may be trying to cozy up to me. Or worse, she might suspect something ain’t right. I can’t get nervous now though. Just have to keep my cool.

Crates get loaded onto my truck and we both hop in. We’re one of the last groups of trucks to go. As the lady’s giving me directions, we’re making a nice conversation. I feel a sense of strange warmth talking to her, but I know better than to give anything up. We eventually arrive at a warehouse on the southside where we leave the trucks to be unpacked by other members.

The woman gets out and gives a few more orders before heading to a real fancy car waiting for her in the lot. I walk her over and she gets into the driver’s seat.

“You need a ride home, darling?” she asks.

“I’ll be good, thanks. I’ve got a friend I can call up.”

“Whatever you say. As long as you meet me home Jack. I’ll be sure to make you that shepherd's pie you like.”

Before I can say another word, my wife drives off, leaving me speechless yet again.

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Chapter 1: Theater Invitation

Narrated by Nikki.

Narrator: A gold-emblazoned card lies solemnly on my desk. I can tell from the elaborate design that this is no ordinary invitation.

Nikki: Who sent this?

Narrator: I open it, curiously, a bit primly.

Nikki: Am I dreaming?

Choose “What does it say?”

You: What does it say?

Nikki: Lolory’s asking me to volunteer as a set worker in the December Troupe. They have a new play coming out.

Narrator: The card smells like flowers. The handwriting is flow-y yet neat, elegant like Lolory herself.

Lolory: Dear Nikki, I’m writing you from my booth on the train. I hope this letter finds you well.

Lolory: I heard you’re interested in the December Troupe. They happen to need some extra hands.

Lolory: I’m currently a guest designer for the troupe and may invite whoever I find talented to join the crew.

Lolory: If you find this opportunity interesting, come meet the crew at the troupe’s meeting room the day after tomorrow.

Lolory: Good luck. Looking forward to seeing you on the stage. Love, Lolory

Choose either “Are you a fan of the troupe?” or “It’s from Lolory. It can be trusted.”

If “fan,” ...

You: You’re a fan of the December Troupe?

Nikki: I love their fantastical style. But they’re very popular, so the tickets always sell out really fast.

If “Lolory,” ...

You: If it’s from Lolory, it should be trustworthy.

Nikki: I can’t believe she remembered my idle comment about the troupe. I really need to thank her for the opportunity.

--

Narrator: The troupe’s plays are often imaginative, fantastical. I wonder what the crew’s like... They must be fascinating people.

Narrator: And they put a lot of creativity and thought into costume design. They work with lots of designers!

Momo: Sounds like you’re very interested in this opportunity!

Nikki: It’s a chance that doesn’t come by often! Let’s go together, Momo and [Your Name]!

Narrator: I arrive at the meeting spot at the time we agreed upon.

Narrator: There, I’m greeted by Edmond, troupe leader, a young, spirited man who looks to be in his twenties.

Narrator: He has an unnaturally erect posture and a curled mustache that trembles when he speaks. It’s like he walked right out of a play.

Edmond: You must be Nikki. Welcome, welcome! I’ll run you through the process of joining our troupe.

Edmond: Though you have Lolory’s recommendation, you’ll still need to pass a test before you can join us.

Nikki: Huh? Uh, what kind of test is it?

Edmond: Heh, you needn’t be too nervous. I know whoever Lolory recommends must be good.

Edmond: Our costumes are all original, specifically designed for each play. We have many talented designers among our ranks.

Edmond: So, we’d like you to design a costume for our new play to prove your skills and understanding of the role.

Momo: That doesn’t sound easy at all!

Narrator: Edmond hands me a script and asks me to design an outfit for the female protagonist.

Narrator: The title of the play is “Flower and Jenny.” I wonder what kind of story it is.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

[reasoningdaily]

The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain

Langston Hughes on the real Harlem renaissance.

March 11, 2002

One of the most promising of the young Negro poets said to me once, "I want to be a poet–not a Negro poet," meaning, I believe, "I want to write like a white poet"; meaning subconsciously, "I would like to be a white poet"; meaning behind that, "I would like to be white." And I was sorry the young man said that, for no great poet has ever been afraid of being himself. And I doubted then that, with his desire to run away spiritually from his race, this boy would ever be a great poet. But this is the mountain standing in the way of any true Negro art in America–this urge within the race toward whiteness, the desire to pour racial individuality into the mold of American standardization, and to be as little Negro and as much American as possible.

But let us look at the immediate background of this young poet. His family is of what I suppose one would call the Negro middle class: people who are by no means rich yet never uncomfortable nor hungry–smug, contented, respectable folk, members of the Baptist church. The father goes to work every morning. He is the chief steward at a large white club. The mother sometimes does fancy sewing or supervises parties for the rich families of the town. The children go to a mixed school. In the home they read white papers and magazines. And the mother often says, "Don’t be like niggers" when the children are bad. A frequent phrase from the father is, "Look how well a white man does things." And so the word white comes to be unconsciously a symbol of all the virtues. It holds for the children beauty, morality, and money. The whisper of "I want to be white" runs silently through their minds. This young poet’s home is, I believe, a fairly typical home of the colored middle class. One sees immediately how difficult it would be for an artist born in such a home to interest himself in interpreting the beauty of his own people. He is never taught to see that beauty. He is taught rather not to see it, or if he does, to be ashamed of it when it is not according to Caucasian patterns.

For racial culture the home of a self-styled "high-class" Negro has nothing better to offer. Instead there will be perhaps more aping of things white than in a less cultured or less wealthy home. The father is perhaps a doctor, lawyer, landowner, or politician. The mother may be a social worker, or a teacher, or she may do nothing and have a maid. Father is often dark but he has usually married the lightest woman he could find. The family attend a fashionable church where few really colored faces are to be found. And they themselves draw a color line. In the North they go to white theaters and white movies. And in the South they have at least two cars and a house "like white folks." Nordic manners, Nordic faces, Nordic hair, Nordic art (if any), and an Episcopal heaven. A very high mountain indeed for the would-be racial artist to climb in order to discover himself and his people.

But then there are the low-down folks, the so-called common element, and they are the majority–may the Lord be praised! The people who have their nip of gin on Saturday nights and are not too important to themselves or the community, or too well fed, or too learned to watch the lazy world go round. They live on Seventh Street in Washington or State Street in Chicago and they do not particularly care whether they are like white folks or anybody else. Their joy runs, bang! into ecstasy. Their religion soars to a shout. Work maybe a little today, rest a little tomorrow. Play awhile. Sing awhile. O, let’s dance! These common people are not afraid of spirituals, as for a long time their more intellectual brethren were, and jazz is their child. They furnish a wealth of colorful, distinctive material for any artist because they still hold their own individuality in the face of American standardization. And perhaps these common people will give to the world its truly great Negro artist, the one who is not afraid to be himself. Whereas the better-class Negro would tell the artist what to do, the people at least let him alone when he does appear. And they are not ashamed of him–if they know he exists at all. And they accept what beauty is their own without question.

Certainly there is, for the American Negro artist who can escape the restrictions the more advanced among his own group would put upon him, a great field of unused material ready for his art. Without going outside his race, and even among the better classes with their "white" culture and conscious American manners, but still Negro enough to be different, there is sufficient material to furnish a black artist with a lifetime of creative work. And when he chooses to touch on the relations between Negroes and whites in this country with their innumerable overtones and undertones, surely, and especially for literature and the drama, there is an inexhaustible supply of themes at hand. To these the Negro artist can give his racial individuality, his heritage of rhythm and warmth, and his incongruous humor that so often, as in the Blues, becomes ironic laughter mixed with tears. But let us look again at the mountain.

A prominent Negro clubwoman in Philadelphia paid eleven dollars to hear Raquel Meller sing Andalusian popular songs. But she told me a few weeks before she would not think of going to hear "that woman." Clara Smith, a great black artist, sing Negro folk songs. And many an upper-class Negro church, even now, would not dream of employing a spiritual in its services. The drab melodies in white folks’ hymnbooks are much to be preferred. "We want to worship the Lord correctly and quietly. We don’t believe in ‘shouting.’ Let’s be dull like the Nordics," they say, in effect.

The road for the serious black artist, then, who would produce a racial art is most certainly rocky and the mountain is high. Until recently he received almost no encouragement for his work from either white or colored people. The fine novels of Chestnutt go out of print with neither race noticing their passing. The quaint charm and humor of Dunbar’s dialect verse brought to him, in his day, largely the same kind of encouragement one would give a sideshow freak (A colored man writing poetry! How odd!) or a clown (How amusing!).

The present vogue in things Negro, although it may do as much harm as good for the budding colored artist, has at least done this: it has brought him forcibly to the attention of his own people among whom for so long, unless the other race had noticed him beforehand, he was a prophet with little honor. I understand that Charles Gilpin acted for years in Negro theaters without any special acclaim from his own, but when Broadway gave him eight curtain calls, Negroes, too, began to beat a tin pan in his honor. I know a young colored writer, a manual worker by day, who had been writing well for the colored magazines for some years, but it was not until he recently broke into the white publications and his first book was accepted by a prominent New York publisher that the "best" Negroes in his city took the trouble to discover that he lived there. Then almost immediately they decided to give a grand dinner for him. But the society ladies were careful to whisper to his mother that perhaps she’d better not come. They were not sure she would have an evening gown.

The Negro artist works against an undertow of sharp criticism and misunderstanding from his own group and unintentional bribes from the whites. "O, be respectable, write about nice people, show how good we are," say the Negroes. "Be stereotyped, don’t go too far, don’t shatter our illusions about you, don’t amuse us too seriously. We will pay you," say the whites. Both would have told Jean Toomer not to write "Cane." The colored people did not praise it. The white people did not buy it. Most of the colored people who did read "Cane" hated it. They are afraid of it. Although the critics gave it good reviews the public remained indifferent. Yet (excepting the work of Du Bois) "Cane" contains the finest prose written by a Negro in America. And like the singing of Robeson, it is truly racial.

But in spite of the Nordicized Negro intelligentsia and the desires of some white editors we have an honest American Negro literature already with us. Now I await the rise of the Negro theater. Our folk music, having achieved world-wide fame, offers itself to the genius of the great individual American Negro composer who is to come. And within the next decade I expect to see the work of a growing school of colored artists who paint and model the beauty of dark faces and create with new technique the expressions of their own soul-world. And the Negro dancers who will dance like flame and the singers who will continue to carry our songs to all who listen–they will be with us in even greater numbers tomorrow.

Most of my own poems are racial in theme and treatment, derived from the life I know. In many of them I try to grasp and hold some of the meanings and rhythms of jazz. I am sincere as I know how to be in these poems and yet after every reading I answer questions like these from my own people: Do you think Negroes should always write about Negroes? I wish you wouldn’t read some of your poems to white folks. How do you find any thing interesting in a place like a cabaret? Why do you write about black people? You aren’t black. What makes you do so many jazz poems?

But jazz to me is one of the inherent expressions of Negro life in America: the eternal tom-tom beating in the Negro soul–the tom-tom of revolt against weariness in a white world, a world of subway trains, and work, work, work; the tom-tom of joy and laughter, and pain swallowed in a smile. Yet the Philadelphia clubwoman is ashamed to say that her race created it and she does not like me to write about it. The old subconscious "white is best" runs through her mind. Years of study under white teachers, a lifetime of white books, pictures, and papers, and white manners, morals, and Puritan standards made her dislike the spirituals. And now she turns up her nose at jazz and all its manifestations–likewise almost everything else distinctly racial. She doesn’t care for the Winold Reiss portraits of Negroes because they are "too Negro." She does not want a true picture of herself from anybody. She wants the artist to flatter her, to make the white world believe that all Negroes are as smug and as near white in soul as she wants to be. But, to my mind, it is the duty of the younger Negro artist, if he accepts any duties at all from outsiders, to change through the force of his art that old whispering "I want to be white," hidden in the aspirations of his people, to "Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro–and beautiful!"

So I am ashamed for the black poet who says, "I want to be a poet, not a Negro poet," as though his own racial world were not as interesting as any other world. I am ashamed, too, for the colored artist who runs from the painting of Negro faces to the painting of sunsets after the manner of the academicians because he fears the strange un-whiteness of his own features. An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.

Let the blare of Negro jazz bands and the bellowing voice of Bessie Smith singing Blues penetrate the closed ears of the colored near-intellectuals until they listen and perhaps understand. Let Paul Robeson singing Water Boy, and Rudolph Fisher writing about the streets of Harlem, and Jean Toomer holding the heart of Georgia in his hands, and Aaron Douglas drawing strange black fantasies cause the smug Negro middle class to turn from their white, respectable, ordinary books and papers to catch a glimmer of their own beauty. We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, it doesn’t matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too. The tom-tom cries and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn’t matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.

[gutsposting]

We do almost everything in an old-fashioned way on the ship. When they built it they wanted things to be familiar, for people to get comfortable. The government also had the aim of encouraging people to go outside more than they had in the years before we left Earth, they said they wanted it to be “more like the twentieth century.” I don’t think it worked. We have bars and movie theaters like they did, but sometimes the only customers are robots. They find that kind of stuff quaint, I suppose.

Technically I’m not a cop. “Community Safety Officer” was the actual name of the job, since generalized police officers had been phased out in favor of unarmed civil servants with specialized tasks. I was armed, but only due to the recent uptick in violent anti-robotic activity over the last few months.

Last night I was reprimanded for allowing two of the robots to duel one another at the ball I was running security for. One of them had offended the other, and they were both brought an ancient flit lock pistol, firing at one another the way two rich people might have done five hundred years ago. Because no one’s life was taken, since the robot who lost would simply be replaced, I didn’t think it was necessary to charge the shooter with a crime. My overseer disagreed.

It was an enjoyable assignment. They organized a dance in an old attic they renovated to resemble that of an 18th century chateau. Cramped together, a hundred robots twirled in pairs. Many more mingled together, chatting and pretending to drink champagne. An ensemble band of twenty synthetic musicians played Tchaikovsky with mathematic efficiency. The tin men wore the deep green uniform of old Russian soldiers, the women adorned in white puffy dresses typical of the period.

I know that a lot of people get really worked up about the robots, but I can’t find any reason to be bothered by them. In fact, I enjoy their company quite a lot. Of course I find displays like this to be somewhat strange, but many of the robots have taken the time to remind me of an ancient human tradition called “historical reenactment” that was popular among some older people before we left Earth. Instead of plotting out a battle from American Civil War, they preferred to spend their free time indulging in the antiquated finery that we humans chose to give up a long time ago.

Besides, they provided everything for these occasions out of their own pockets. They paid my salary, stuffed my hands with tips, and usually went out of their way to hire humans to preform any task that they were available for. The only problem was that no human wanted to be a waiter, dishwasher or janitor anymore. Yet they still complained whenever they saw a robot hire another robot for a job.

The Biological League were the silliest bunch of people I’ve ever met. They were the ones who were supposedly “standing up for my rights as a worker” when they tried to shut down events like these. I remember the day they decided to shift away from that kind of talk. I was sitting in a bar, I was a lot more stupid when I was that age, and I was watching the trial of that bot who stabbed a man. Apparently the guy was trying to steal some clothes off of the robot. The robot said he was wearing new boots and that the man demanded he take them off.

The robot was a woodcarver who made toys and figurines and statues that were fairly popular. That day he accidentally kept a tool in his pocket from the shop, something that looked like an ice pick. This became the central thesis of the prosecution’s argument. “No robot does anything on accident. It is impossible for them. We submit that the defendant simply having this item in his possession is enough to prove premeditation.”

The defense objected that their expert witness, who had testified in a hearing I hadn’t seen on TV, “provided clear evidence that the current capabilities of the machines is much more impressive than what the prosecution claims. These modern marvels develop complex personalities based on their experiences with humans, and through the consumption of human culture. This process is so refined, that were it not for legislation that demands the robots retain their current appearance, they could not be distinguished from humans without blood testing or surgical examination.”

All in all, the robot was found not guilty due to self-defense. My reaction was astonishment, I remember shouting at the TV in the bar like it was a fucking sports game. It’s embarrassing to think about those days. Eventually the League rallied behind the family of the dead man. “No robot has the right to take the life of a human.” Became their new message. A general rollback of their rights, with the outward stated goal of “limiting the role the machines play in our lives.”

Not much changed with the case, however it did reaffirm the fact that robots were legally protected in the same way as humans. This wasn’t even fully true. They paid taxes at a rate nearly double that of humans and were banned from representing themselves in Congress or any job that was political in nature. They chose to be doctors, were banned from being lawyers, were forced to become accountants and bankers, and were randomly drafted to take breaks from their normal jobs in order to preform manual labor.

But they never complained. Not publicly, and not ever to me directly. Even when humans spied on them, it could never be proven that they had some kind of rebellious intent or animosity towards humans in any private conversations they recorded. I knew this instinctively, because if even one robot could be proven to be a genuine murderer, I would see it on the news every second of every day. The government might even get up off their asses and pass a law to do something about it.

Back then I believed a lot of the things that “pro-human” organizations said. But when I went to a job center for the first time, I realized it was all bullshit. Rather than “stealing our jobs”, the bratty little man at the center explained to me that I could have my entire education funded by the state if I promised to become a doctor. “Too many people are getting into the hospital or going to their personal doctor, and they keep complaining that the nurses and sometimes even the doctors are ‘being replaced’ by robots. We can promise over 1.25 million a year in salary for your first five years, and after that you can-“

The only thing I had any interest in back then was music. I asked him if he knew any jobs that I could get playing piano, and he shrugged his shoulders. Instead of replying, he handed me a thick brochure titled “Helping us Help You” and stood before saying “just holler if you need anything.” His smile really pissed me off for some reason.

I left without taking any job. I survived off of the checks they pay everyone because of “overproduction” brought on by the robots. It’s enough for no one to ever need to work, but people get restless. Some want to just make more money, I just wanted something to do. I tried finding somewhere to at least make a few bucks playing the piano but I just found myself getting nowhere. Composition wasn’t my thing, and I’ve never been able to concentrate on playing for hours straight.

Eventually I saw a poster that said something about “helping the community” and I looked into it. “Synthetic Patrol?” I asked the guy taking down my information. “What kind of trouble can they be up to? Armed? It says these guys have guns?”

He looked like a soldier from a 1950’s movie. “Yeah, they get guns, but it’s not what you think. See, the rich robots like doing a lot of fundraisers and other B.S. stuff that they want security for.”

“But it’s not like they’re worried about a fight breaking out, right? No drunk machines getting dragged from the open bar, and kicking and screaming and shit?” I felt hot all over when I laughed a little too hard at my own joke, and saw that the other guy wasn’t laughing at all.

“Um… no. Not like that.” He turned his computer monitor around. He had pulled up an article on the screen titled “Twenty Robots Shot at Music Festival, Only One Survives.”

“Why the would anyone do that?”

“You haven’t seen this shit?”

“I don’t really read the news.”

He made a smug look and said “well, you should.”

In my training, it was all about helping the community. Keeping them safe. I agreed with everything they said. Of course it was wrong for them to have to worry about getting shot in public. They might not be alive like you and me, but they don’t want to stop existing. They treat the idea of getting “killed” as though it’s a horrifying thing, and it’s not like they have their consciousness uploaded into a new body. When they get destroyed, that’s it. One bullet to the head or the chest, and they don’t exist anymore.

But I think I’m going to retire today. I was sitting next to a flower bed. Cigarettes are illegal so I have to be careful who sees me smoking. I had a scoped rifle, and all humans were strictly banned from entering the plaza. “Any Violators Will Be SHOT.” I thought the sign was enough.

No humans showed up, but some rat bastard planted a bomb. It went off as they were all listening to a speech from one of their union organizers. Two hundred and fifty of them died, and I failed them all.

I’m done writing about it for tonight. I’m out of vodka anyways.

[momsforroadhead]

hey bestie please say more about labyrinth?

nooooo i asked for this lmao um well

i thought about straight up posting my paper, but it's in french so. yeah.

BASICALLY it was for a mythologies of cinema class and we had to pick a mythical figure whose presence could be argued in a movie. i chose Peter Pan as a mythical figure, which was present in Labyrinth's Jareth. My paper was titled "The eternal child or the old boy", because old boy ("vieux garçon") is a euphemistic way of referring to older, gay and therefore unmarried men (in french).

a mythical figure refers, in thias context, to any figure/character who represents a type which can be replicated, along with it's themes, in stories forever, which transcends time.

in Peter Pan's case, he is used, often in pop psychology, to refer to a "man child" (peter pan syndrome etc), which is also often used to refer to queer men, because can rarely (if ever) achieve what is percieved by a cis/heteronormative society as adulthood. in one paper i read, the author highlighted the fact that "boy" only makes sense as a transitionnal state towards "man". if one never achieves manhood, then what does being a boy really mean for them. in this paper, the author then focused on the importance of the boy for transmasc people, touching also on "bois".

jareth has, unlike peter, achieved a sort of biological adulthood, but his societal role is not that of The Man. he remains unmarried, rules over a kingdom which is disorderly and immature and, at his core, exists only within a childlike fantasy world. by kidnapping sarah's brother and by attempting to marry her (or have sex with her, which, in this fantasy world, is considered equivalent).

like one of the rebloggers mentioned, the narrative is very rooted in stranger danger on sarah's part, much like it is for wendy in peter pan! wendy is led out of the home, away from her new motherly responsabilities (she is 14 and moving out of the nursery, starting to care for her brothers) by a figure which threatens to keep her in eternal childhood, away from the societal role of the woman. we even learn that peter visited her mother when she was younger. however the scary stranger who would corrupt a young woman looks much different in the late 80s than he did in the edwardian era.

the casting of bowie is not coincidental here. with his public persona, he very much represented in the minds of then everypeople this idea of queerness. they also added to this with his costume. the revealing tights, the leather boots, gloves, vest and whip (!!!) the big hair metal mane, the flouncy shirt (at the time, pirate clothing was very in fashion with the new romantics, a very queer (yet apolitical it's complicated) subculture (think boygeorge) which was inspired by bowie and which he had recently associated with) and the kabuki makeup (a theater in which casts were initially entirely made up of female sex workers, and later of men). this all contributed to project this image of sexual deviancy and gender fuckery, of deviation from the norm which, as we see in the film, was actually tempting to sarah!

however, at the end of the day, the story is not about him. she's the heroine, she has to succeed. jim henson has said that he really wanted to empower young girls with labyrinth, so sarah states that he has no power over her and goes home. back on track to the societal role of the woman, the motherly role (taking care of her little brother). but henson is kinder to young girls than barrie was, and he allows her to keep her childlike wonder, her imagination, her fantasy. all her friends from the labyrinth (three different but positive masculine figures) appear in her room, the sanctuary of the Girl in the 80s, they tell her that they'll always be there when she needs them. but Jareth, cannot enter this sanctum, this "re-gendered" society. he is a menace to it and therefore stands at the window, in bird form (i have to note that peter pan is, in the book, cannonically half-bird), looking in before flying away.

i had never considered the teenage predatory/rape fantasy that one of the rebloggers brought up, that's actually so smart!!! and apt!!!!!! wish i had thought of it in time to write it into my paper cause my conclusion was pretty weak!!!!!!!

so yeah there you have it. i will understand if you don't have the time to read all that.

[ixalit]

ngl seb in political animals could've and 100% would've been chris' "oh shit am i into this" moment

(on AO3)

You are 100% right. And ok look here’s the thing. HERE’S THE THING

Political Animals aired in mid 2012. They started filming CA:TWS in early 2013.

Now, if we say that they didn’t hook up in 2010 while filming TFA (warp reality to fit your needs it’s a handy trick), this totally could have happened.

Now that he’s doing another movie with this guy, he wants to see more of his filmography. He searches it on his laptop, and the first thing to come up is Political Animals. He *very innocently* clicks on it, settles in with a beer, maybe.

The first episode is good. Seb is good. He clicks play on the next.

This episode… Look, it’s good too, but. Someone—a man—pushes Seb onto a bed and they’re kissing and clearly doing… other stuff.

Chris isn’t— he isn’t turned on by it. Is not. He’s simply admiring another actor, a friend’s, work. He’s admiring the curve of Seb’s neck, his lips, the cut of his jaw because it shows he… knows his angles. Or something.

He’s leaning closer to the screen and replaying the scene because… fuck.

Chris slams the laptop shut, probably too hard. Speaking of too hard— double fuck.

It’s not like he has anything against men who like men. He even went through a phase of questioning in high school when he was the theater nerd and people were calling him names… but… this is different. This is a friend and a co-worker and this is—

Fuck.

Raking a hand through his hair and pulling it a bit, he tries to think of ways he can think himself out of this one. There are none he can think of. Mostly there’s just questions.

This hotel room with questionable decor is a really shitty place to have a life realization. If that’s what this is…

Okay wait. How does he know? How does he know know. Maybe this was just a… a fluke. Yeah. Maybe he just needs to… to watch it again. Or gay porn? No that doesn’t seem like it would be helpful.

Fuck.

—

The next couple weeks, he’s weird. He feels weird, he tries not to act weird but fails miserably if the behavior of the people around him is anything to go by.

Seb definitely notices. Especially when Chris goes back to calling him Sebastian like they haven’t known each other for years.

He eventually talks to Scott, who gives him shit, but at least it’s minimal shit. He does… explain some things. About attraction and labels and… other stuff.

He’s still very… unsure. Of everything. He’s rewatched that scene more than he’ll ever admit. He’s staring at Seb’s lips a lot, and trying to picture what the extra muscle looks like on his frame, and imagining running his tongue over said muscle… But just because he’s aware of it doesn’t mean he can stop.

He can do this. He can push through a little longer and then he can take time to figure himself out.

—

He can’t do this.

Somehow Chris had ended up here, in a bar. A karaoke bar, to be specific. And somehow, he’d ended up tipsy. And singing. With Seb.

The one thing Scott had told him was to try not to get drunk with Seb.

But now he’s here and they’re singing fucking “Can’t Fight This Feeling” by fucking REO Speedwagon and—

Look, if the lyrics hit a little close to home and the way Seb is looking at him sparks heat in his stomach, nobody has to know. Seb certainly doesn’t have to know.

He hopes Seb doesn’t know.

He hopes Seb knows everything, can somehow read his mind.

The end of the song finds them with an arm around each other, and Chris isn’t sure how they that happened. He hands the mic off, mutters something about needing a smoke, and searches for an exit.

You never think about how wonderful cool air is until you feel it on your face after pushing out of a crowded bar. Chris leans heavily against the brick.

The alley is deserted, thank God. Just him and his thoughts and the sounds of the city.

Maybe there’s no answer to this. Maybe he’s meant to stay in this limbo between lust and knowing himself. Maybe it’s God or the universe’s way of telling him to slow down.

He’s in the midst of going through his contacts for a lawyer that might be able to get him out of his Marvel contract, when the door beside him pushes open. He expects someone stumbling; maybe sick, maybe laughing. He doesn’t expect messy brown hair and soft eyes and a smile that could bring a man to his knees.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Seb cocks his head. “Thought you were out here to smoke.”

“Just needed a break,” Chris shrugs.

“I get that,” Seb says, shifting to lean against the brick beside Chris. He looks up at the sky like he can actually see the stars.

“Why’re you out here?”

Seb turns that smile on Chris and nudges his shoulder. “Checking on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine,” Seb says Just thought… Maybe you could be better?”

“Better?”

“Christ, you’re gonna make me spell it out?”

Chris raises his eyebrows expectantly. Where the fuck is this going?

“Look I—“ Seb starts. “Tell me if I’m off base and I’ll shut up but… I’ve been getting a vibe from you recently.”

“A vibe?”

“Yes, a vibe. Look what I’m saying is— Do you want me to suck your dick or not? ‘Cause I can’t figure it out and it’s driving me insane and—”

“Do I what?” Chris is sure he’s hallucinating. How else would this be happening? Maybe someone gave him bad weed, maybe someone slipped something in his drink because there’s no way this is actually—

“I’ll take that as a no then. Forget what I said, sorry about that.”

Seb turns to leave, and Chris is still trying to catch up with his thoughts, to process what he heard, but Seb is leaving and he needs to do something.

He reaches out and grabs Seb’s wrist before he can think better of it. Seb spins around and Chris pulls and Seb’s back meets the brick. And he’s— he’s right there. After so long imagining it, Seb is finally in Chris’ hands.

A soft oh falls from Seb’s lips. Chris’ breath stops in his lungs.

“Yeah?” Seb’s voice is quiet, nearly indistinguishable from the passing cars. But Chris sees his lips move in the dim light, feels his breath across his face…

“Yeah.”

All at once, Seb is pushing into him. Wrapping arms around Chris’ shoulders and almost touching their lips together, just the barest whisper of air between them.

Chris is the one leans forward, just enough for their lips to meet, and his pulse is pounding in his ears.

He slowly pushes Seb back against the brick, surrounds him as Seb deepens their kiss. And this—the kissing, the teasing, the moving—Chris knows how to do this.

[sinclair-wax-fan]

All the boys are very mechanically inclined. Vincent clearly tends and maintains the intricate piping of the waxing system in the basement. (The pipes have to be flushed regularly with boiling water to keep the wax film inside from building up and clogging.)

I like to imagine he does regular maintenance checks of the town buildings and let’s Bo and Lester know what major issues he needs help mending.

Of the three, he’s the best at coming up with creative rigging that gives the illusion of the town being alive. The puppies with the wagging tails? The old woman who opens and closes the curtains? That’s Vincent. He’s great with small gears and clockwork. (He is also the only one who had the patience to read the manual and figure out how the old projector in the theater worked. Bo fucking hates that thing because it constantly breaks down and he refuses to touch it at this point.)

~~~~~

It would be a grave mistake to think Bo is stupid.

He has a temper for sure. He’s impulsive, vicious, endlessly tenacious, and only cares for social graces as a tool for stalking prey or charming people into getting his way.

But the man is deeply cunning and whip smart in the fields of mechanics and mathematics.

He’s basically an engineer, degree or no degree. He’s the one who help maintain the really big stuff: the towns power grid; the houses septic tank—he wasn’t joking about the bathroom at the station being broken, one septic tank is enough to deal with, thank you—and the well that delivers water to the house and museum.

(Again, I am convinced everything is powered by the nearby sugar mill—which is directly in between the town and the camp site we see in the movie, which was close enough Paige sees it up the road and runs to it. The kids were visibly parked by what looks to be some kind of small pond/creek— I headcanon it as an offshoot of the larger stream the mill is built directly next to. I imagine the mill utilized hydroelectric power, making it completely independent from any existing grids. Ambrose was a modern company town whose electric was incorporated into the mills set up.

Bo worked at the mill in maintenance before it shut down—and learned some very useful info from the older engineers while he worked there. Enough that once the town was rapidly emptying of workers and inhabitants, he turned to his brother and said “I have an idea that I think you and I can pull off together.”)

Also, the friendly mechanic schtick is only half a ruse. He absolutely knows cars inside and out. Tinkering with cars and various broken machinery around Ambrose as a teen is how he got enough experience/notice to earn himself an entry level position at the mill. (Maybe his first job was actually as an attendant at the gas station?)

The town takes money to run and he makes most of that money by repairing cars in the next town over (where he owns a small garage).

~~~~~

Lester, while he is part-time employed to clean roadkill through a contractor with the state, has taken plenty of odds jobs that include: roofing, bricklaying, and carpentry.

Also, some specialized personal hobbies: hunting, taxidermy, tanning and leather work, and smithing!

All those odd looking knives hanging next to clothes rack on the wall of Vincent’s workshop? Actually gifts from Lester! (The man just really likes knives.)

I also headcanon that Vincent’s satchel was made by Lester as a birthday gift when they’re young. If you look, you can see animal teeth decorating it. (I like to think he also made the actual blades for Vincent’s knives. Although I think the bone Vincent later carved for the handles probably didn’t come from an animal.)

I also like to imagine he makes the glass eyes for the waxed figures. (Their real ones don’t last long.) That’s about the extent he’s willing to help with the bodies, however—if you don’t count helping dispose/bury some of the less desirable corpses.

Lester and Vincent are closer than Lester and Bo. Lester has always kind of idolized Bo for being his “cool” older brother—but he also learned growing up to keep a careful eye on Bo, to always be aware of him. The loquacious older man has since better learned to direct his baser impulses away from his own family and towards his victims, but when they were younger he didn’t have that outlet. At times, the younger, smaller Lester was a convenient target Bo just couldn’t help but zero in on—especially when angry.

He did often try to make up for his indiscretions against his little brother in his own way—typically in the form of smuggling Lester booze/cigarettes/small stolen goodies from stores, protecting him from other bullies, letting Lester borrow his truck and later helping him get one of his own—but Lester certainly never has the luxury of forgetting what Bo’s capable of.

As they got older—with Bo finding new prey and Lester being able to come and go from the family home as he pleases—it got easier.

Now a days Bo genuinely values the aid Lester provides and they often bond over the more “normal” activities they enjoy that Vincent can’t relate to/has no interest in.

[monkeyspawnskydiamond]

Prostitution: A Word That UN Women Does Not Want to Hear

by Barbara Crossette

https://www.passblue.com/2015/03/31/prostitution-a-word-that-un-women-does-not-want-to-hear/

On the eve of a speech Ruchira Gupta was to give on International Women’s Day in New York as the recipient of a Woman of Distinction award, she got a strange email. Gupta, who has collected numerous awards for her work against sex slavery in India — including an Emmy for her 1996 documentary, “The Selling of Innocents” — was asked in the message not to speak on prostitution “or put UN Women on the spot.”

The email came from the organization that had chosen Gupta for its highest award, the NGO Committee on the Status of Women, NY (NGO CSW/NY), which supports the work of UN Women and the United Nations Commission on the Status of Women, whose annual session was about to begin on March 9. The NGO Committee had itself used the word prostitution in its announcement of the award in January.

“I was surprised that the UN was trying to censor an NGO, and that they should tell me not to speak on prostitution, when my work was with victims of prostitution,” Gupta said in an email interview to PassBlue. She is the founder of Apne Aap (meaning “self empowerment” in Hindi), a multifaceted support group for women trafficked into sex slavery in Mumbai and other South Asian cities. Apne Aap now has international reach.

In her speech at New York’s iconic Apollo Theater, where UN Women’s executive director, Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka of South Africa, was also on the program, Gupta ignored the request and chose to speak forcefully “to represent the voices of victims and survivors of prostitution” in her own organization and others around the world. In late 2013, UN Women, in a note on the issue of terminology, had said it would use the terms “sex work” and “sex workers” and “recognize the right of all sex workers to choose their work or leave it and to have access to other employment opportunities.”

UN Women’s decision and recommendation not to “conflate sex work, sexual exploitation and trafficking” sounds outrageous if not ludicrous to people like Gupta, who work in the squalid brothel quarters of Mumbai, Delhi, Kolkata and other cities, to which young girls from around South Asia are lured by traffickers — or sold by poor families — into a life of miserable bondage, with no chance to make choices. In her speech on International Women’s Day on March 8, Gupta said the youngest girl trafficked into bonded labor she has met was just 7 years old.

“The pimps would hand over these little girls to the brothel keepers . . . and these girls were locked up for the next five years,” she said. “Raped repeatedly by eight or ten customers every night.” By their 20s, Gupta said, their youth is gone and bodies are broken, and they are “thrown out on the sidewalk to die a very difficult death because they were no longer commercially viable.”

In January 2014, 61 South Asian victims and survivors of prostitution as well as women’s groups representing communities marginalized by caste, class and ethnicity and antitrafficking organizations helping girls and women “trapped in bonded labour and other forms of servitude” wrote to Mlambo-Ngcuka to protest the new UN Women policy of avoiding the word prostitution.

“We do not want to be called ‘sex workers’ but prostituted women and children, as we can never accept our exploitation as ‘work,’ ” the letter signers wrote. “We think that the attempts in UN documents to call us ‘sex workers’ legitimizes violence against women, especially women of discriminated caste, poor men and women and women and men from minority groups, who are the majority of the prostituted.”

They are still awaiting an answer from UN Women, Gupta said.

Censoring comment about violence against girls and women is not new in the Commission on the Status of Women or in the UN more broadly. Nafis Sadik, the outspoken executive director of the United Nations Population Fund, or UNFPA, from 1987 to 2000, said in an interview in 2013 that there had been numerous attempts to silence her, often from pressure by governments.

Sadik was told at a session of the commission several years ago, for example, not to relate a story from Zimbabwe to illustrate the hazards women face when trying to use contraception. “This man’s wife wasn’t getting pregnant, and apparently he discovered that she was taking pills,” she said. “And he killed her because she made him look embarrassed [in front of other men]. Furthermore, that defense was being accepted in the court: that you can’t humiliate the husband.”

Groups working with victims of sexual slavery in developing countries often see a widening gap between Western women — particularly “academic feminists,” in Gupta’s view — and the women working to help the most exploited girls at street level in some of the world’s most dangerous slums, where pimps and brothel owners may be not only slave masters but also killers. Gupta had a knife held to her neck on one occasion when she was filming her award-winning documentary. Women rushed to surround her, separating her from her would-be attacker, and saved her life.

The women working with victims and survivors of sex trafficking and bonded prostitution who signed the letter to UN Women fear that campaigns in richer nations, almost all of them in North America and northern Europe, will lead to more moves to decriminalize pimps and brothel keepers — making not only sex workers but all aspects of the sex industry legal.

This is not the only issue that has opened fissures between the richer, progressive nations or societies where women construct views of social change based on their own advanced social and legal environment or well-intentioned views of developing nations’ cultures. They do not always reflect what most poor women — the majority of women in the world — who lack power over their lives really need and want.

Twenty years ago, many Western feminists and officials in countries of the global North dealing with international aid programs criticized campaigners against female genital mutilation or child marriage in developing nations, excusing these harmful practices as “part of their culture.” There are still affluent women who have enjoyed the liberating benefits of contraception for decades who argue against promoting family planning in the developing world, believing that women want to have as many children as possible — sons in particular — because their social status or the family’s economy may depend on fertility.

Global Connection Television - The only talk show of its kind in the world Such condescending Western attitudes began to change, sometimes dramatically, after the transformative International Conference on Population and Development in Cairo in 1994 and the Fourth World Conference on Women in Beijing in 1995, an event that Gupta says has inspired her work ever since. Women in distant lands are now being heard and taking the lead on issues close to home.

Gupta and her like-minded colleagues who signed the letter to UN Women were asking to be part of the discussion on prostitution — in a global context.