#after he gets his champions of the continent art

[ballbustervideo]

hey i learned to make custom 3ds themes

[gascon-en-exil]

What kind of build do you picture Osvald and Partitio having? Any images for reference?

Unlike a lot of other gay guys apparently, I don't keep a portfolio on hand of naked and nearly-naked men. I need to save room for my explicit selfies. Also, I know now that Tumblr can be weird about censoring posts that show too much skin.

Fortunately, text is fine.

Osvald's a bear, period. I think his Champions of the Continent art captures that best.

Very tall - tallest of the travelers - broad-shouldered, strong jawline, stocky, and a ton of muscle from an extensive workout regimen. He's also extremely hairy: chest, back, ass, all of it. All that natural insulation served him well on Frigit Isle, but it's bound to kill him if he ever spends much time on Toto'haha unless he gets creative with ice magic. He will, of course.

Has especially well-defined and squeezable pectorals with prominent - and sensitive! - nipples, so that the fiery breasts/juicy, fuzzy peaches jokes can flow unabated. Now that he's pushing forty and has a sugar daddy determined to make sure he eats well, Osvald will be getting a bit softer all over. Partitio likes this, in part because it's nicer to cuddle with but mostly because it's a sign that his lover is comfortable and well-treated.

Also per my own canon and likely actual canon as well, has an abundance of poorly-managed scars from his time in prison. I have them all over his chest, back, and arms, as well as small but visible scars on his cheeks from the muzzle that were hidden beneath his full beard but can be seen now that he's gone for a more fashionably trimmed look as in his ending CG.

(Beginning with Chapter 12 of What Burns Between Us, where he's dumped the prison clothes and gets his glow-up, that one official piece has been my most consistent visual reference for him. He's so unexpectedly dapper!)

His teeth are noticeably worn, as expected from someone who'd gone five years with no ability to practice oral hygiene of any kind. Osvald is uncomfortable about letting anyone other than Partitio see his scars; if these two ever do get around to a threesome, he'll probably be keeping his shirt on unless the circumstances are perfect.

Has a comically-oversized cock and equally large and heavy balls; Osvald manspreads with purpose, and when he's hard everyone knows it even when he's fully clothed. The fascination with large penises is a relatively recent development in history, so Osvald being surrounded by horny size queens might come off as slightly anachronistic...but he takes it all in stride. Roque has some especially interesting thoughts on Osvald's endowment that I'll be delving into in my next fic re: historical perceptions of penis size and his own insecure, classist snobbery. Partitio however is not a size queen, and while he might be inclined to brag (in select company) about his ability to take the biggest dick in Solistia it's not something he especially prizes about his lover. Still, if anyone could knock him up through sheer willpower and an ungodly amount of semen, it would be Osvald. (I have absolutely no intentions of ever writing mpreg...but we may all enjoy the image of an enraged Papp chasing after Osvald and attempting to castrate him while Partitio and Roque look on in horror, for very different reasons: Partitio because he hates when his family fights and doesn't want Osvald to be maimed, Roque because Osvald's equipment is an unprecedented miracle and deserves to be studied...preferably by him.)

Oh, and both men are uncut per the norm for the time period. This does present some issues when doing sex scenes since I mostly handle circumcised men (as is currently standard in the US) in my offline work, but nonetheless I have enough experience with foreskins to manage.

On to Partitio - I've spent less time physically describing him because most of my first two fics are from his PoV, although points where his build/appearance would deviate from canon have forced me to think of that somewhat.

In general: lean, long legs, second-tallest of the travelers. It's hard to say for sure, but in the group ending CG it looks like the top of Partitio's head would come about up to Osvald's cheeks so he's not quite a full head shorter. It'd be easier to tell if Partitio weren't leaning on Osvald in that pic...but I'll gladly take the incidental gay in exchange.

Several of his pics give off the impression that Partitio's yellow longcoat make him look larger than he really is:

Let's also enjoy him get casually handsy with another man in an illustration meant to showcase a game mechanic.

This helped contribute to my perception of Partitio being big on performative masculinity, possibly to mask his insecurities about being gay, and that if he were in a situation that allowed him to step out of that role, as in Wooing that Drifting Imagery, he'd take to it well and even come to enjoy it.

Per canon he doesn't exercise but stays fit through his work, presumably manual labor and combat. As such his build might be closer to a farmer's or miner's compared to Osvald's developed gym bod (very gradually sliding into dad bod). Later in life, and taking Partitio's wealthy lifestyle and his father's build into account, this may translate into Partitio developing a gut which he won't be very happy about. I've had nothing to say about any body hair Partitio might have aside from Osvald getting a hair while rimming him...although that says very little since even smooth guys tend to have some hair around their assholes. With as moderately hairy as I've made Papp, it's likely that Partitio has some modest amount of chest hair that's just never been worth remarking on. He's also capable of growing a "patchy" beard, as he did in prison before he shaved it off. Papp has a full beard, so I assume Partitio has the genes for it.

Haven't had much occasion to comment on Partitio's junk either. It's presumably average. He does precum quite a bit which has manifested in several sex scenes and allowed Osvald to roleplay Partitio getting "wet" as part of their feminization bit, though.

Partitio's hair color is a little hard to define. It looks black in-game, but some pieces of art give more of a dark brown tinge. I've dodged around this by simply calling it "dark" and thereby suggesting it could be either or both. I've also split the difference with his parents: Papp obviously has black hair, while his wife (who's a recurring character in my third fic) was a brunette.

The question of Partitio's skin tone is an uncommonly interesting one. Some early concept art depicts him with darker skin and features compared to what appears in the finished product.

This is why you'll sometime see fanart more along the lines of how he appears in these sketches.

While I don't have a problem with that and can even appreciate the variation, when it came time for me to stick him in drag in my second fic I had to actually think about that for a bit. My stories already layer in a bunch of homophobia and occasionally sexism and classism into the world of OT2...so trying to work through how (human) race works in Solistia on top of all that just seemed like entirely too much. It's already a bit of an odd sell since no one in-game seems to make much of a distinction between the people of Hinouema (obviously East Asian) and humans elsewhere in the world (Europeans/Euro-Americans). Of course there's also the beastlings...but that's a whole other mess that I really don't want to start reading real-world 19th century analogues into even though the material absolutely is there if someone wanted to do it.

So I settled on Partitio having his in-game skin tone, with the Yellowils being faux-Anglo-American or something along those lines. They still code as foreign in the Brightlands on account of their accents (as seen in canon with Agnea), and Partitio thinks he looks paler than usual with powder on his face, but no one's making any concrete racial or ethnic distinctions.

(Somewhat unrelated final point: I think another incredibly petty contributing factor to my latching onto these guys for my first ever fanfics is that they, as well as Papp and Roque, all have natural hair colors so I don't have to think about blue/purple/white etc. pubes. The most headcanon-y I have to get there is with Roque; I have him having been blond before he went grey, with a lot of insecurities surrounding twink death and such to match.)

[unreadpoppy]

LET'S DO IT. Care to share some info about your OC? Or a Raph headcanon?

One of the 2 headcanons i have of Raph is that he has a breeding kink. Like i don't care that he is ALLEGEDLY bad at sex in canon, you cannot tell me that once he got his hands on that sweet sweet crown and conquered all 9 hells he wouldn't be like "damn i gotta make a legacy off my own" and just.... try to get as many people as possible pregnant. Would he raise the children? Probably not, but i do think he would be intent on having like a lineage of tieflings that can all the traced back to him

My other headcanon is that he likes going to the theater, to watch like an opera, a play or a ballet. He just seems to me like someone who would appreciate the arts.

As for my OC's, at this point is so many I'll just give a quick run down of some of them (important to note, they were/are my dnd characters, although i've only been able to play with 2 of them)(also you'll quickly notice i have a thing for tieflings).

Gwendolyn "Gwen" Gray is a tiefling warlock/sorcerer whose mom had made a deal with a devil in the past and resulted in Gwen being born. She was raised by her mom in the middle of the woods and she was always very creative and hyperactive, and she wanted to see the world. At some point she discovers the truth about her dad and she makes a deal with him so that she'll be able to leave her mom (basically like hey dad gimme some powers so i don't die while adventuring and i'll do whatever you want). She has a pseudodragon familiar named Pendragon. When I played with her, Gwen was known for making very questionable decisions and throwing caution to the wind, and also taking/buying stuff she didn't need. I've played with her for like a year and a half until me and the other players quit the campaign due to some issues and if i get the chance, i'll probably play with her again in the future if i'm able to.

Elizabeth Adawolf is a human blood hunter who grew up as the second oldest child of an important duke, but on the day of her wedding with another noble, the church caught on fire and she was the only one who made it out alive (which is why half of her face is covered in burn scars and she doesn't have sight in one eye). The person who saved her was a tiefling blood hunter named Kallista and Elizabeth ended up staying with the blood hunters, and becoming part of the order of the lycan. She and Kallista fell in love and they had plans of leaving one day but were found out and during a confrontation, Elizabeth had to flee while kallista almost died. Elizabeth also discovered that the fire wasn't a random accident and when the campagin begun, she was being hunter down by the same person who killed her family. She is the only character I currently play with so she got even more traumatized during the campaign. She's a leader and the champion of the sun goddess, even thought she didn't ask for either of those, she's very anxious and also she loves swords and beheading an assholes. Also, I have written like 3 fanfics involving her (is it a fanfic if it is your own character?).

Also, Elizabeth's campaign is on hiatus but it's cause the DM decided to do a smaller campagin in the same world but in another part of the continent and in that one I'm playing as Kallista(who is a barbarian).

Galatea von DeWilde is, you guessed it, a tiefling whose parents were nobles who had trouble conceiving so they were told by this witch to do a certain ritual and 9 months later, a tiefling was born (even though her dad is human and her mom is an elf). Even thought her parents loved her, she was ostracized by her grandmother and some other family members but she didn't care much. When she was 5, her parents managed to have another child, this one being a regular half-elf. Galatea loved her sister but it did hurt her that some people seemed to care more about the new baby then her and after hearing her grandma say some hurtful things about her, Galatea starts manifesting some magic and also this shadow guy (who she saw as an imaginary friend) starts talking to her. She kept both of those things to herself. Also, when she began to use magic, a black spot appeared on one of her arms, and the more she uses it, the more is grows and at this point, her whole hand up to her wrist is pitch black. Anyways, she eventually runs away from home when her sister tells her that she overheard their mother and grandmother talking about marrying Galatea to some random guy so she would be far away. I haven't been able to play with this character yet and at this point i doubt I will but oh well.

Nyx Lenoir was a tielfing born on a cold winter's night to human parents. They were a happy little family and she was a sorcerer like her mom. Because the place they lived was very hostile towards tieflings, her paretns tried to keep her hidden but one day they had to go to a nearby town and this man discovered that she had magic by accident. The following day her home gets invaded and she is separated from her parents and taken to this magic school that is really shitty but she makes some friends and a rival. Eventually, she drops out of the school and goes to live on her own, while also trying to figure out what happened to her parents. She is a sorcerer/divination wizard, she likes mapping the stars and because i wrote this character while i had a hyperfixation on bears, she studied bears for a long time. She has a familiar named Griffin, and she's infamous in my dnd group because her background is a 24 page document, out of which 17 pages are just writing (the rest are reference pics). Also, I haven't played with her yet bu the DM promised that he would begin the campagin next year.

And as a bonus, shout out to my first OC, Solana Starfury, who was a high elf necromancer, who came from a warrior family and was kicked out of her home cause she couldn't lift a sword to help herself. First dnd character I ever made and played with, her campagin ended abruptly due to the DM having some IRL problems. I miss her.

Anyways, I skipped physical appearences description because this answer is already way too long so feel free to ask away.

[ashmcgivern]

Aiben: The Great Hunt (Context)

HELLO and welcome to the segment where I summarize the D&D campaign I play in on Saturdays to the best of my ability. Actually, after this post, I plan on posting my PC Zeal's journal instead, since it's already written out and it'll be less work for me.

It's worth noting that the DM aims to create a sourcebook for the setting! Our campaign is heavily modified to suit our PCs needs and so the final sourcebook will be pretty different, but I've got his blessing to share a certain amount of info. Some information will be left vague our out entirely to keep the ~mystery~ of the campaign's "answers"

The wall of text is below the cut - this first one is gonna be mostly PC descriptions so we can get that context out of the way. Enjoy!

Also, if you'd like to see all content relating to this campaign/world, including art, be sure to look at my Aiben tag.

The adventure starts in the continent of Aiben in the capitol of Averias, where a hunt for an ancient and powerful metal known as Morphirium is being sponsored by the current king, Swesdon Wolfram. The Morphirium, once on display as an "art piece" 499 years ago, is the largest singular piece of the element currently known to humanoid kind, and is absolutely filled to the brim with arcane power and magical potential. The event is huge, requiring prior registration and paperwork, for a total of 100 teams participating in this hunt. The winners of this event take home 1 million gold pieces.

The last team to slip into registration, Team 100, consists of Eddisar of the Long Sight, his two grandchildren Makera Flintbreaker and Zeal Eddison, their friend Peanut, and two employees of some of Edd's old friends - Ursa Ironsand and Traverse. Later in the adventure, Atache, Slythe, and one other secret (for now) PC joins the party.

Player Characters

Eddisar of the Long Sight - Tiefling, M, ?? (Lore Bard)

A kind old man, an archeologist and historian. Long winded, gets lost in himself and his thoughts fairly often. Has seen most of the world and has an infinite number of stories to tell. He dresses plainly with no armor or weapons. His most peculiar feature is his right arm, which is clearly replaced by a branch he can control like a normal hand.

Edd is the de facto leader of the group, having signed everyone up for the contest, but takes a very relaxed approach to directing the group. He's keen on being more a resource to the party than being a hard and fast leader.

Makera Flintbreaker - Tiefling, F, 22 (Champion Fighter)

A tough young woman who's hard to impress. She is blunt and doesn't like to get caught up in details, opting for simpler solutions to complex problems. She is a boxer in a local league, and is hoping to go nationally pro someday like her mother, Bulana, was. She has an insane sweet tooth, an addiction to puzzles, and is inseparable from her cousin, Zeal.

Zeal Eddison - Tiefling, M, 23 (Celestial Warlock)

A bright-eyed enthusiastic young man with a headlong, heart-first sort of personality. He's a school teacher, but wants to go to university to study Planar Physics. In the absence of money to go to school, he consumes just about every book he can get his hands on. He endured an intense tragedy as a child where he met Xanthanel, a Solar that looks after him like a son. He's inseparable from his cousin, Makera.

Peanut - Tabaxi, M, 50s (Open Sea Paladin)

A HUGE, gruff, well built Tabaxi sailor. He is a gentle soul trapped in a war tank of a body. Spent a lot of his life in the Collesian Islands working as a boatswain, where some of the best sailors in the world exist. He's a tank and a force to be reckoned with, but also gives the best big kitty hugs. He has a taste for cheese, and collects/consumes wheels at an alarming rate. He is looking for his uncle, Sherbert, who went missing recently and left behind a puzzle box Peanut believes will lead them to him.

Ursa Ironsand - Desert Stormfolk, F, 16 (Sanity Cleric)

A short, kind and mellow elemental. Always stressed, but wears it well, keeps a level head and exudes "mom energy." She comes from a long family line of smiths, but isn't a very skilled one herself. She used to work at the "Forbidden Pit" in the middle of the desert, where nothing really happened, until one day she started having crazy dreams. Her boss suggested going on this this trip as a 'working vacation.' She is, well and truly, a disaster lesbian.

*Stormfolk are a custom race and Sanity Clerics are a custom class, making Ursa 100% homebrew material. Stormfolk commonly only live to be about 35, maxing out at about 45, making Ursa well and firmly an adult.

Traverse - Half Elf, M, 30s (Battle Master Fighter)

A slightly unkempt half elf, with chains around his wrist dressed in ratted armor. Once a guard for Agaras, became disenchanted with the world and realized he really only liked being a guard for the thrill of the fight. He's since gotten himself in a myriad of trouble and was sentenced to prison, but on his mentor's good word he's been given one last chance to redeem himself - help Eddisar on this quest, and he can go free on good behavior.

Atache - Warforged, NB/M, ??? (Eloquence Bard)

A flamboyant as FUCK warforged, a bit thin and gangly, absolutely not built for battle. Always ready to meet with the upper crust even though they've been long removed from their previous station. Enjoys fashion, but cant afford the newest things, so he makes do and calls it ~vintage~. They enjoy the finer things in life, and is a phenomenal cook. The party met up with them when they first visit the Wintering Isles.

Slythe - Yuan-Ti, M, 20s?? (Armorer Artificer)

Sassy as hell and not one for niceties, Slythe is a no-nonsense fashion designer. He aims to create articles of clothing that are both highly fashionable and highly functional for adventurers. He takes incredible pride in his work and is always looking for new sources of inspiration, and new people to model his designs. An NPC named Elana stole a dress he was working on with her, and in a fit of rage joined our party to get it back, take revenge, and also field test some fashionable armor he made for the party.

Mystery Character - COMING SOON

[probablygoodrpgideas]

Fuck, Marry, Kill: Random male NPCs that I have artwork of (that I can morally use) and that are somewhat conventionally attractive edition

Don't want to exclude the people only attracted to men from the polling fun

Al'A'Ark

(art, once again, by safirasart. Gonna stop tagging her because I can't imagine she wants to constantly get notifications)

An adventurer and former politician who is as arrogant as he is smart. He is always convinced that his idea of how to do things is the best one and the worst thing is that 90% of the time he's right.

Gerrard Pulzik

(Created in Baldur's Gate 3)

Grandson of a rich investor/property owner/merchant. His home continent of Piticul saw its monarchy collapse a couple of centuries ago and no other government had replaced it so now it was run by the rich doing whatever they wanted, including owning slaves. The Pulzik family was one of the few rich families to not own slaves.

Gerrard studied chronomancy out of a fascination with magic combined with a disdain for anything that can be used to harm people.

After returning to Piticul, Gerrard joined the Fighters of Noks, a paramilitary group dedicated to eradicating slavery.

Turiel

(Based on the character of the same name from Idle Champions)

Turiel's mother was an adventurer who made a pact with Bahamut for her powers. Turiel and his sibling Irael continued the family tradition.

After Irael managed to redeem a succubus, they got permission from Bahamut to turn into an angel and live in heaven immediatly. So now Turiel was alone.

That didn't bother him too much (or at least he didn't let anyone see him being bothered by it). He continues adventuring despite his old age and also likes to help run various churches and temples for Bahamut (even though they keep trying to elect him as their high priest, which he always refuses). He says he wants nothing more than to travel the world and make it a better place while doing so.

[leam1983]

I posted 3,296 times in 2022

That's 1,163 more posts than 2021!

478 posts created (15%)

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My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Rummaging Things Around

I have a thing in mind. A vaguely Lovecraftian thing, inspired by my re-reading Champion of the Worms, by Mignola and McEown. The early stretches are basically a pastiche of a pastiche, but that's never stopped me before...

So we have this guy - sort of a failed academic with something like a decent brain to call his own, that gets pulled out of a life of relative non-ambition by a more successful relative. The uncle's long been a curator for a bunch of obscure exhibits and more or less lives like the Dieselpunk Forties never ended and Eldritch Horror were real. He's the type who speaks six languages, unearths remote tribes the world over and somehow finds ways to show even the people of the 21st century that yes, here sometimes be dragons anyway.

Dropout is brought in to help his uncle with the curation of his new exhibit in an obscure little New England town, and it's through piecing things together that our main guy realizes the object of the exhibit-to-be is Hyperborea, also known as Ultima Thule - the very continent Nazi occult weirdos spent years chasing in the hopes of anchoring their theories about the Aryan race to anything at all. Hyperborea is Antarctica, of course, and briefly consisted of a few landmasses that weren't yet covered in ice, several million years ago. The story goes that the archipelago was colonized by an extant Hominid species, a forgotten branch of Humanity that has strengths and weaknesses altogether different from the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon species that both preceded and followed them. They grew in secret, mastered art, language and philosophy - even dove into the mysteries lying beyond mere intellect and intuition.

Then, they vanished. No fossil records, no bones, no traces of their civilization - nothing except what our Uncle character finds.

And what does he find? Two burial sites that would make Tutankhamen absolutely green with envy. The catch is is laden in dark portents and the other one has an almost messianic undertone - as if opening this particular tomb would somehow usher in Mankind's next stage in History.

It's a small museum, Uncle's on the frail side, and his wing's curator isn't exactly on-the-level... Things get leaked, pictures are taken, and thieves get involved. As greedy as you'd expect and far too confident after overpowering an older man, an out-of-shape thirtysomething and a dumpy idiot in his sixties, they crack open the bigger, more festooned sarcophagus.

Things... take a turn for the worse. The Hyperboreans, as it turns out, owe their disappearance to their falling under the insane sway of a death cult. A Great Old One-esque monstrosity more than likely claimed them so completely it erased Hyperborean civilization from the map, leaving its priest to serve as the hierophant of things to come if anyone were to awaken him again. If an entire culture's drank the Kool-Aid, it follows that someone hell-bent on spreading destruction would receive Grade-A Messiah treatment, complete with a beatific burial site that just so happened to send the wrong impressions to a bunch of credulous grave robbers, millions of years ago.

Fighting back against zombies, spirits and other monstrosities, Uncle and Dropout lose the curator. Eventually, Uncle dies. Dropout is alone, barricaded in the same room as the second stone coffin, one that's etched out of crude limestone and that's had every carving and identifying marker chipped away by chisel. Someone did not want anyone else to find thar second tomb, and did not want anyone to open it.

With the world slowly succumbing to chaos outside and with nothing else to do, Dropout opens the second sarcophagus. What he finds inside is a... different kind of undeath, one that feels less like a perversion of life and more like one heck of an obstinate man that absolutely, positively refused to give in to death. The dessicated mummy reaches out with a dusty moan, grabs ahold of Dropout's neck - and pulls him in for a kiss.

When he finally breaks away, gagging and heaving, Dropout somehow instinctively knows that this contact served as a means to copy his thoughts, linguistic and situational skills, and awareness of the situation. As for the mummy, it's sitting up in its sarcophagus and lounging in it for a few moments, stroking its beard for a few breaths.

"Six million years, eh?" it says, its voice going from sepulchral croaks to a precisely-toned and conversational King's English over the next minute or so. "Well, I have to give you credit - you lot at least look like you never went snooping about in places where sane men aren't expected..."

It catches itself. "Ah, well, there was this one chunk of you with a thing for portents brought about by sulfurous fumes - Athenians and the Pythia, hm? Overall, however, if we're generous? Barring brief moments of potential concern like MKULTRA or some of your Feds keeping an eye on the Ayahuasca fad? I guess you could call yourselves blessedly ignorant."

The second mummy grins, which isn't a pretty sight. It scoffs. "I know - I look horrendous. Past a certain point, it really doesn't matter who or what your keeper is, man-flesh is as man-flesh does - but you're not here to listen to me ramble, are you? The Serpent is loose, the world will be devoured, End of Times, yadda yadda - unless you help me climb out of this thing."

The dropout screams. Shenanigans ensue.

21 notes - Posted June 14, 2022

#4

On Revengeance

I agree with Jacob Geller. Metal Gear Solid: Revengeance is prescient not only in how it's more or less become immortalized as a meme vector - which Monsoon would find ironic - but also in how it gave us something that should have triggered shirt-tearing and pearl-clutching Republicans and Conservatives, if they only gave a shit about video games.

See, Senator Armstrong is a stroke of genius. We spend most of the game piecing his agenda together, and eventually fight him head-on. At first, he spouts very on-the-nose rhetoric, as if Raiden were a CSPAN interviewer in need of a few conciliatory buzzwords. And yes, in 2013, a video game character shouted that he intended to make America great again. That's long before Trump would unabashedly take that zinger and plaster it on crimson caps manufactured in China.

So you wear Armstrong down and force him to not just ditch his well-pressed suit, but also all pretense. You realize that his America is basically a Libertarian's coyly-assumed ideal and a Fascist's wet dream, where policy is dictated by the strong and the weak only have two choices: tow the party line or die - either literally or socially. It's hard not to draw parallels with several politicians who embrace similar notions, out of the sociopathic conviction that what's really holding the Western world back is empathy.

It's strange to look at Putin and then reflect back on Armstrong - and to realize that Absolutist, do-or-die rhetoric can plausibly leave the mouth of an IRL politician. It makes you wonder where Putin, Trump or Bolsonaro would consider pushing their agenda, if they'd overdosed on Nietzsche.

Of course, it's also a setting where the Good Guys push Combat Maximalism and pure aggression, where lyrics land in the most appropriate spots in order to take already absurd moments and elevate them to the status of quoted maxims (see Rules of Nature) and where a franchise normally known for its extremely ponderous stealth mechanics effectively has a psychotic breakdown and spends five hours Wrecking Shit while wearing too much eyeliner.

In short, it's glorious, and it's probably the most ponderous and, I daresay, intellectual entry in Platinum Games' oeuvre. It's dumb, happy to be dumb, and also follows along with KojiPro's focus on anchoring its mechs-and-soldiers nonsense in real-world ethics. It's like catching one of Volodymyr Zelynsky's skits before he gained Ukraine's presidency, and realizing that this dude who was typically known for playing half-wits has one heck of a serious noggin on his shoulders.

22 notes - Posted May 2, 2022

#3

Your Average Soulsborne Opening

"Shit's fucked, man. The Important Twelve-Feet-Tall Big Guy ghosted on us. World's gone to shit. People are, like, fucked out of their minds! The Big Guy's Helpers could hold an intervention and force Him to come back, but they've all hit Snooze on their alarm clock. The only one who's Woken Up and Who Knows It's Monday is the Useful Idiot. That's you.

Your job: to get your massive buddies to get out of bed, either by slapping them a few hundred times or by slapping whatever it is that's keeping them down. You won't succeed, though: you're a Scrawny Shit, and Scrawny Shits get nothing done. Telling ya, man: we're doomed."

The narrator leans to the side. "What? We still have thirty seconds of intro left on this thing? Um... I'll just, uh, dramatically name-drop the Big Guy's Helpers! There's Bitch-Fucker the Unloveable! Asshole-Face! Weird Fucked-Up Dog Thing! That one female part of the gang with a slightly skeevy thing that makes you go 'Yeah, this is Japanese for sure!' Then there's the most important of them all, um... Steve!"

"You, though? You're a Scrawny Shit. You're so lowly even Steve doesn't know you. It all rests on you, though: wake up the Posse, bring the Big Guy back, and we just might move on to call you... A Player-Directed Plot Device."

22 notes - Posted April 11, 2022

#2

On Difficulty

"Hey, why are you so psyched for Elden Ring? You've never finished the Souls games or Bloodborne!"

To that, I've been replying that what I especially like about From Software releases is how granular things are. The total challenge is immense in all cases, yes, but the moment-to-moment gameplay is very piecemeal in design. You're rarely forced to do-si-do against four or five simultaneous enemies and you're typically given all the tools you need to do what obviously needs doing. The two catches are that boss fights have life bars the size of Siberia, and that they hit you like two angry trucks meeting again on the set of Jerry Springer. They're easily telegraphed, simple to read and uncomplicated in their tactics - the challenge-related aspect is only punitive in design.

Considering, every encounter is self-contained and it doesn't really make much of a difference to wonder if that incoming boss fight is going to feel different from the last mobs you wiped out.

Approaching the game like this means I never felt narrative or situational pressure, and that I'm more compelled by exploratory concerns than by the need to end up with a Pure White World Tendency or whatever else. I'm not really given to yeet myself across enemy-infested courtyards because I'm tired and this is my -nth corpse run. I'll be as cautious going back for that corpse as I was during the run that got me killed - and eventually, timing and luck are going to meet my mediocre Soulsborne skills and will let me wipe the floor with a boss I previously found impossible to face.

In that respect, Elden Ring is exactly what I hoped to see out of From in the murky depths of the future: a Soulsborne with transitional spaces approchable by any character of any skill level, thereby providing me with a safe space in which to develop my skills and farm without feeling like my gathered Souls are constantly on the line and in the care of my dubious skillset.

That means I'll be able to venture around Limgrave and beyond in the Lands Between without wondering if the Legacy Dungeons are part of my overall progression. I'll be free to backtrack as needed and to workshop angles of approach in wider spaces than were previously accessible. That's without mentioning stealth, around which I don't doubt you could build a frighteningly effective build that's less focused on pattern recognition. The designers' comments do suggest that while Elden Ring isn't easier than the previous titles per se, the player has more options - and some of them are effective at mitigating the perceived challenge.

To me, that's smart design. If difficulty is such a core aspect of your ethos, it makes sense that you'd want to forego gameplay menus and player-adjustable variables. However, tweaks can be dispersed in-game, and left to the player's discretion. Both this and the level design seem to combine into what's probably the most accessible Soulsborne title to date, all the while never disparaging the studio's reputation as a creator of punishing titles.

This is why I'm especially interested in this one, even if I'm expecting it to kick my ass for several weeks, before things start to click.

39 notes - Posted February 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Cult of the Lamb - Quickie

Cornelius Agrippa's Formula for Making Fucked-Up Shit

One part "Aww, the artstyle looks a lot like Gumball's!"

Two parts of "Should I be amused or disturbed?"

A dash of "Well, someone knows their Lovecraft... Me likey!"

One Animal Crossing: New Horizons cartridge, chopped up in your choice of power blender

One USB stick containing a full playthrough of The Binding of Isaac. Any edition will do.

A grab-bag's worth of normally-throwaway secondary mechanics. Be sure to give them pride of place in your mixture, just to be sure the bigwigs at the Big Three discredit your design doc.

One cup of the blackest cynicism imaginable.

Two large handfuls of cake sprinkles. Empty your entire tub in there for extra awkward cuteness.

Shake, bake and deliver to Devolver Digital for publishing, because nobody else was going to touch this with a ten-foot pole

Actually make this motherfucker addictive and rewarding.

Plus - hey! The game's a complete offering! There's a roadmap planned, but what we get is a full game! The DLC's only cosmetic!

Buy it. This is highly, highly reccomended.

54 notes - Posted August 12, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[thekingofwinterblog]

So, i just wanted to do a quick deep dive into Mrs Boonchuy's stress room, find some smaller details, and figure out which of these are actually important, and which are just Anne's Mom's desperate dreams for how she wanted Anne to turn out.

1. So, first thing first there is the numbers on the door. Anne away 89 days. Anne was gone from Earth for 150 days or so, so judging by that number, and the way the 88 just lies forgotten and uncollected from the floor, Mrs Boonchuy gave her daughter up for dead two months before she came home, and hasn't set foot in this room since.

2. Mr Boonchuy is looking at the plant head with a smile, so presumably he's been keeping it trimmed and watered since his wife abandoned the room.

3. There is a picture on the bottom left where Mrs Boonchuy has drawn Anne holding a baby, so presumably she wants her daughter to have children of her own. Assuming that Anne does stay in Amphibia permanently at the end of the series, I think that outcome is highly unlikely for a variety of reasons.

4. Anne plant head, which is incidentally not only is there to highlight the natural aspects of her powers, and the iconic branches stuck in her hair, but is also by far the best likeness of these, to illustrate that it's the most important of these "Statues".

5. While the walls are covered with completely unrealistic score results that Anne has no realistic chance to pull off, there is another one, where Anne is a queen, with a crown, a scepter, a fur cloak, and a modern business suit. Foreshadowing for her becoming the next Monarch of Amphibia after Andrias?

6. The one with the diplomas is nonsense thats never gonna happen, but the other one that is made up of Anne's iconic tennis racket is all about Anne being a champion of the environment, and surrounded by happy animals, including a frog and a bird, both native to Amphibia.

The symbolic meaning is clear. Anne is the one that has the job of fixing and cleaning up the mess that Andrias has made of Amphibia, and becoming beloved across the continent for defeating the tyrant.

Also, one hand seems to be nearly falling off, and the soda that was once inside has stained the black(The Core's color) bag. Foreshadowing for a severed limb, or just a bit of mundane realism? You make the call.

7. Upper corner is a picture referencing E.T, which was Anne's situation with he Plantars after getting stranded on an alien world.

8. One interesting fact I realised about the room, is that despite being all about Mrs Boonchuys dreams of Anne succeeding, there is one thing that is completely missing here, and that is sports trophies.

There are only 2 that "might" be related to sports(The yellow medal with blue sash in the corner in picture one, and the picture with a trophy in the upper left corner of picture 2), and neither is clearly that. They might be meant to be some other school reward.

Clearly, Mrs Boonchuy has a dream in her head of her daughter making it big through being a good academic student, seemingly intentionally ignoring that Anne by all accounts was destined for a sports career, given it was there where she seems to have been one of the best in school.

That has some interesting implications, especially given it was her who introduced her to martial arts. Did she come to regret it later, as Anne grew up to become a picture book idiot Jock?

Or did she simply think her pride and joy should make something better of herself than a sports jock? Or is she just refusing to give up on her old dreams for Anne, or even wants to live vicariously through her?

All open to personal interpretation.

[tchallasbabymama]

All For Us Chapter 9

Hey y’all, thanks for being patient with me on this one, but it’s finally done! Not to be the bearer of bad news or anything, but there’s only one chapter left (and maybe an epilogue) on our journey with Mira, Erik, and Cupcake. If you’re just here for Killmonger, I have a couple Erik oneshots heading y’all’s way in the next few weeks. Also, check out The Temple. 😉

As always, don’t forget to look at my masterlist to read my other stories and oneshots, and let me know if you want to be tagged in anything. Like, comment, and reblog away! 🥰

CW: a little smut

Word Count: 6,481

Erik’s eyes flew open as he bolted upright through the sand that covered his body in his temporary grave. He was in the heart of the temple where the Black Panther ceremony took place, the City of the Dead. The lost prince pulled himself from the sand and brushed the clay-colored sediment from around his eyes as he climbed the stone staircase leading up into the garden of the heart-shaped herb. When he made it to the top, Erik took a deep breath before stepping into the garden. To his surprise, nothing caught on fire like in his previous dreams. His shoulders relaxed as he took another step into the garden, and another, and another until he was face to face with Bast’s statue. A smile took over his face as he knelt at her feet.

“Took you long enough, Jaguar.”

Erik lifted his head, and her celestial glow nearly blinded him as he laid his eyes on the panther goddess once more.

“Long enough for what?”

“For your senses to come back, obviously.” Bast circled him and laid down, licking her paw. “Pretty soon, you won’t have to be asleep to talk to me.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“Oh, I had nothing to do with it.”

Erik turned to face her and sat back on his heels.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I never took them away. You did.”

“I’m not following.”

“Your guilt blocked your senses, Erik,” she sighed. “You had been holding onto pieces of it, but you finally let it go.”

“I felt guilty for ruining our marriage,” Erik mused aloud.

“But you didn’t, so congratulations,” she said nonchalantly. “That’s not why you’re here, though.”

“Ok, what’s up?”

Bast chuckled at his informality.

“Last time we spoke, I said I would need you to do something for me. I’ve finally made up my mind as to what that is.”

Erik sat with bated breath as he waited for his assignment. For a moment, he was reminded of his military and mercenary days, except this time, he was being given a mission from a goddess. His goddess.

“As you know, Wakanda has never had a Golden Jaguar before. You are an anomaly, but that is a good thing.” She stood up and started walking, making him rush to his feet to follow after her.

“It is?”

“Yes. You know, the good thing about cycles is that with destruction comes rebirth…change. You’ve forced Wakanda to change, and you’ve forced me to think some things over. Truthfully, after the little stunt you almost pulled, I did think about removing your powers. I don’t need to preach about it, though, since you already know all about your wrongdoings, but I heard what you said about your people. We have neglected them, and for that, I have no words of apology that would adequately ease your pain. The Lost Tribe, as my people have come to call you, needs a champion. Wakanda already has theirs, but since you seem to rather enjoy toying with colonizers, I have an assignment for you.”

Erik’s ears were trained on Bast as he hung on every word she said. He walked next to her as they made their way through the catacombs towards the temple’s entrance.

“Before you came to Wakanda, you were involved with Klaue and his hunt for vibranium. Your vast knowledge of African and diasporic artifacts combined with your training makes a great equation for what I need you to do.”

“Which is?”

“I want you to act as the Golden Jaguar on the Lost Tribe’s behalf. I recognize that as just one person, you can only do so much, which is why I will talk to T’Challa about you heading his Wardog program. I would like for you to have an army of spies at your disposal to act instead of just watch and report as they have done in the past.”

“So basically what I wanted to do before but without the world domination?”

“Precisely,” Bast chuckled and stopped walking at the door to the temple.

“Ok,” Erik thought on it as a smile crept up his cheeks. “I’ll do it.”

“I knew you would. I think you’ll like my first assignment. Well, second. First, you need to stop avoiding the City of the Dead in your waking life. You need to go visit the garden.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Erik said, his nerves twisting in his gut at the thought of actually stepping back onto the sacred land.

“Now, my second assignment: artifact reclamation. Instead of searching for vibranium, which you might find, I want you to return items to their rightful owners.”

“So, stealing,” Erik deadpanned.

“Yes, but for a good cause. I will let you work out the details, but the point is to return the power to the people by building them back up, brick by brick. They were separated from their gods, so the Ancestors and the Orishas are working on bringing them back to us spiritually. They are still working on getting other spirits and pantheons on board...alas, my brother and sisters are choosing to take a more passive approach.” She sighed. “The Lost Tribe was taken from the land, so T’Challa has already spearheaded initiatives to build up other African countries that need his assistance and bring the Lost home to the continent. Now, I need you to bring our belongings home. Our thrones, our art, our history. Take it back. Bring it back to its rightful place.”

“I’m with it, but, um...how am I supposed to do this without getting caught? If shit just starts disappearing en masse, somebody’s gonna notice.”

“They won’t disappear. The colonizers won’t even know they’re gone.” Bast flicked her tail mischievously. “Your wife designs kimoyo beads, does she not?”

“Well, yeah-”

“And your cousins are scientific geniuses, correct?”

“Yes…”

“Then I’m sure that between all of your big beautiful brains, you can figure out a way to make replicas of the artifacts.”

“Why does that compliment feel like an insult?”

“I like you, Jaguar,” The goddess chuckled. “Now go enjoy your time with your wife.” She winked at Erik as she nudged him out into the brightness shining from outside the wide-open temple doors. Erik returned to consciousness, and he was shocked by the feeling of Mira’s mouth traveling up and down his shaft.

“Fuck, girl. This how you waking Big Daddy up now?”

She popped her head off his tip, and he groaned at the sight of a bridge of spit still connecting her to him.

“Good morning, baby.”

“Mmmm, good morning to you, too,” he grabbed her loose curls that she had forgotten to tie up the night before. The silk sheets kept her hair soft and bouncy as her hair spilled over his fist while it rested at the back of her head. He pulled her in for a kiss, and then she went right back to taking him down her throat. “You’re gonna make me nut all down that throat, Princess.”

Mira’s hand cupped and massaged his ballsack while she sucked on his bulbous head. Her tongue swirled around the tip, and her other hand traveled up and down his length, making his toes curl.

“Fuuuuck, you remember just what Big Daddy likes. Imma bust a fat ass nut, girl,” Erik groaned through gritted teeth. Mira giggled at her control over him and continued to work his dick. Her nose reached his pelvis as she took him down her throat, and he came with such force that she almost choked. Almost.

When she pulled off of him, she tongue-kissed his tip before sitting back on her haunches and wiping her mouth. “How’d you sleep?”

Erik let out a breathy laugh, “Like the dead.”

“Yeah, I’m surprised you didn’t feel me moving. You were out cold.”

“That’s because I was talking to Bast.”

“What’d she say this time?”

Erik sat up against the headboard and motioned for her to come to him. Mira crawled up his body and straddled him, sliding down on his dick so that they were connected as deep as they could be. They had always been like this; whenever they needed to have a serious conversation, Erik would set her in his lap and have her take all of him. They both reveled in the connection they had in that moment, and even in their stillness, their united bodies responded to each other as the words fell from his lips.

“She wants me to be the Golden Jaguar officially,” he said as he kissed down from Mira’s ear to her shoulder.

“What does that mean?” Mira asked, barely above a whisper.

“She wants me to be a champion for us, the Lost Tribe. Wakandans have T, so I’ll be protecting the rest of us with the Wardogs.”

“How, though? That’s so many people.”

He came up from kissing between her breasts to look her in the eyes. “Well, remember how I told you about the museum heist to get the vibranium?”

Mira nodded.

“She wants me to steal artifacts from museums and shit and return them to where they were stolen from.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” Mira snarked, and he tickled her sides, making her pussy clench around him, and he let out a groan at the feeling. He grabbed her hips and moved them back and forth.

“It is. I can’t do anything until I visit the garden of the heart-shaped herb, though.”

“Why?” she moaned.

“I’ve been avoiding it,” he sighed.

Mira pulled him into a kiss and cycloned her hips as she wound on him. “Do you need to go alone, or do you want me to come with you?”

He connected their foreheads as he pushed his hips forward into her, and she called out his name.

“I need to go alone.”

Their hips ground into each other as the sexual energy inside them built up slowly and erupted through their bodies. Erik placed kisses all over Mira’s face and neck as she caught her breath from the intensity of her orgasm.

“How about I make breakfast?” Erik asked, and Mira simply nodded and kissed him. She moved to get up, but he held her down. “Nah, I didn’t say right now.”

After another round, the two of them separated from each other, if only because of the rumbling of their bellies. They showered together, and Erik couldn’t help himself from bending her over and eating her pussy and ass from the back. Pretty soon, he was balls deep inside her again, and when he came all over her cheeks, he about keeled over from the way the orgasm shook through his body.

“Aight, I need a break,” Erik said, and the two of them shared a laugh as they finished their shower without any more funny business.

“Can I have one of your t-shirts?” Mira asked as they slathered themselves in shea butter.

“You can have anything you want, Princess. MIT or Navy?”

“MIT please,” she cheesed at him.

“Coming right up.”

Erik left the room and returned with his maroon-colored MIT t-shirt. The same one she wore the first time she stayed over at his apartment back in the day. He knew it was her favorite and the look on her face when he handed it to her was priceless. She quickly shimmied into it while he slid on a pair of sweatpants that left little to the imagination.

The two of them relocated to the kitchen, and Mira toyed around with her latest kimoyo design on her tablet while Erik got to work on breakfast.

“That a new one?” he asked, nodding towards the design hovering over the counter.

“Yeah, I haven’t gotten it to work right, though,” she grumbled as she stared at it. “I want it to be able to apply cloaking tech to whatever it touches, but so far, I can only get the bead to disappear.”

Erik listened to her complain about her failed design for a little while, and when she was done, she turned off the tablet and hopped up on the counter.

“Anything I can do?” Mira asked

“Mhm,” he came over and stood between her legs, placing a sloppy kiss on her lips. “Just sit there looking fine as hell.”

“I’m serious,” she smiled.

“So am I,” he said incredulously with a hand over his heart, making her chuckle at his dramatics.

“Fine, I’ll be your muse.”

“And my guinea pig. Here, try this.”

Erik lifted the spoon to her lips so she could taste the yam hash he had been working on, and her eyes bugged out of her head.

“I forgot you turn into Top Chef after sex.”

“Gotta feed my woman,” he kissed her cheek and cracked a couple of eggs sunny-side up in the skillet.

Mira giggled, and an idea struck her. She reached back for her tablet again and pulled up her latest work in progress, a story about a decades-long whirlwind romance that she had gotten stuck on. All she needed was a little inspiration, and Erik ended up being just what she needed.

He watched his wife type away with a smile on his face. Erik loved watching her work; the look of determination on her face was always so endearing to him. She’d bite her lip and squint her eyes as she tried her best to focus on the task at hand. Erik always thought it was adorable.

The smell of fresh vegetables coming in contact with hot oil filled the air, and Mira’s mouth started to water. She looked up from her work to see what Erik was doing but got distracted by his body. She watched his sinewy muscles moving beneath his textured skin, and a chill went down her spine.

“What the fuck is that?” Erik sniffed the air, following the sweet scent that had just wafted from out of nowhere.

“What’s what?” Mira asked, swinging her legs back and forth.

He turned to face her, and his pupils blew wide as the smell hit him again.

“It’s you,” he turned off the burner and stalked over to her, standing between her legs again and placing his nose in the crook of her neck. He inhaled her scent and let out a growl.

“What is that?”

“My bodywash?”

“Nah, it’s you. What-” he cut himself off when it dawned on him. When he was king for a day, he only smelled fear from those around him. Fear smelled like decay, it smelled rotten, but this was the exact opposite. It was enticing, like the most beautiful forbidden garden, and Erik knew exactly what it was. Her arousal. He bit into her neck, making her moan out as he ground his hips into hers. The aroma grew, and Erik’s composure slipped away the more he inhaled it.

“E-erik, the food.”

He took a deep breath as he stood to his full height. “I can smell when you want me.”

“What?!”

“I wonder if it’s different for every person...shit, I wonder if I can smell other people. I hope not-”

“What are you saying? You can tell when I’m horny?”

“I guess so. I only smelled fear before, but it makes sense. I’m just caught off guard because it hit me out of nowhere, like last night.”

“What happened last night?”

“I could hear your heartbeat.”

Mira’s face lit up, “That’s good, though, right? It means your senses are coming back!”

“Yeah, I’m just surprised by that one. I wasn’t expecting all that,” he laughed.

“So...I smell good?”

“You don’t know how good, Princess,” he grumbled as he finished cooking. Mira crossed her legs, making him chuckle. “That’s not helping. It’s all over you.”

“Damn...what else can you do?”

“I need to test out my strength and speed, but my sight was different, too. Everything was brighter, more vibrant. And my brain moved faster...I don’t know how to explain it. Bast said my guilt was the blockage, so they’ll probably slowly come back over time. After they’re back, I’m supposed to start on my mission.”

“You still felt guilty?”

“I thought I broke us. I mean, I did, but I felt like it was unfixable, you know?”

Mira nodded, “Yeah, it felt like that sometimes.”

Erik pulled the dishes out of the cabinet and set them down next to her.

“Mira, I’m-”

“Erik, if you say you’re sorry one more time, so help me, Bast,” Mira said, making a dimpled smile appear on Erik’s face.

“Yes, ma’am.”

They fell into a comfortable silence while Erik plated the food, and when he handed Mira hers, he left a kiss on her cheek. She smiled and hopped down from the counter to sit at the table. When she sat down, she couldn’t help but stare at Erik as he walked over. Her man, her formerly violent man was really chosen by a goddess to protect Black people around the globe.

He noticed the look on her face and couldn’t quite place it. “What?”

“Nothing, just...look at you, doing the work of gods now.”

“I bet you never thought you’d say that about your mercenary husband,” Erik winked at her.

“Sure didn’t,” Mira laughed, “but it fits. You always had it in you. You know, I’m glad I came out here. I wouldn’t get to see this new side of you otherwise, and so far, I like it.”

--------

A couple of hours later, Erik found himself in front of the City of the Dead with his palms sweating and his breath shaking. He wasn’t sure why the temple unnerved him so much, but it did. Erik knew he had to do what Bast told him, though, and took a step forward. He climbed the stairs to the ornate stone doors and waited as they slowly opened for him. Erik was met with the sight of a surprisingly calm woman in purple robes. He recognized her as the woman he had choked out, the new head priestess.

“My prince,” she saluted him. “Welcome. I have been expecting you.”

“You have?”

“Of course. Come in.”

He hesitantly stepped forward again and entered the temple. A chill went down his spine as the doors shut behind them, and he looked around the space. He had only been there once before in his waking life, but this time it felt different. It probably had something to do with the fact that she wasn’t scared of him this time around.

“What’s your name?” he asked nervously.

“I am Zaya, my prince.”

“You don’t have to do the whole ‘my prince’ thing. Especially since I...you know.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I’m sorry about that. I should’ve never put my hands on you.”

“I have spoken to Bast about it, and I forgive you. Just don’t let it happen again,” she warned.

Erik put his hands up in defense, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. Now, you are here to see the herb, no?” She started walking, and he followed behind her.

“How’d you know?”

“I spoke to Bast, remember?” She quipped with an eyebrow raised.

“Heh, yeah,” he chuckled nervously and cleared his throat. “I don’t know why I’m so anxious.”

“I assume that is a normal reaction when reckoning with your past.”

The two of them traveled deeper into the temple, and when they reached the door that led to the garden of the heart-shaped herb, he froze. Zaya looked back when she no longer heard his footsteps and smiled warmly, reaching out her hand to him. He took it, and she led him through the doors. Erik almost wanted to close his eyes, but he knew he had to face his past actions head-on.

He looked around, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw there were dozens of tiny glowing purple buds just begging to become full-grown flowers. He laughed in disbelief at what he was seeing. He had burnt the garden to ashes, but now here it was, thriving in spite of him.

“It took us a while to get them to grow again, but thankfully we were able to put out the fire before the roots were harmed,” Zaya spoke as he wandered through the garden in awe.

“And these...they still work?”

“The princess took a sample and tested it in her lab. According to her, this new batch might be a little different, but they should still work. Bast has given them her blessing, so that is enough for me.”

“So, I didn’t ruin Wakanda’s future like I thought...”

“No, just a bump in the road,” she smiled.

Just as he was about to respond, the strangest thing happened. His eyes were trained on one of the buds, and suddenly he could see every little vein in the leaves and the detail of the curled-up petals. The color became brighter and even more purple than most people could comprehend, and a tear rolled down his cheek as he smiled.

He could see again.

“Are you ok?” Zaya asked tentatively.

Erik cleared his throat, “Yeah, I’m good. It’s just my senses are coming back, and...they’re beautiful.”

“And resilient.”

He laughed and wiped the tear from his face.

“How about I give you some time alone?”

“Thanks, Zaya, that’d be great.”

She bowed her head in deference and went back the way they came. When she was gone, Erik let out a sigh as he took in the sight before him.

“They really made it…”

“Of course, they did. Did you think I would leave my people defenseless?” Bast’s silky voice rang out through the temple, and he turned around to see her standing there in her mostly-human form. She was a statuesque and curvaceous woman with the head of a panther and locs that spilled over her ebony shoulders. Erik dropped to his knees as she walked towards him. “No need for all of that. Stand up, Jaguar.”

He laid eyes on her once more as he rose from the ground. Her glow was almost blinding, but his eyes adjusted quickly.

“I can’t believe I’m seeing you in person.”

“Get used to it. I like to pop in on my champions every now and again. Sometimes in dreams, sometimes in your thoughts, and sometimes in person. It all depends.”

“On what?”

“On you and what you need, or what I need from you.”

“Ok, so what do you need from me?”

Bast chuckled. “Truthfully, nothing this time. I just needed to see you face-to-face.”

“You don’t have an assignment for me?”

“Not yet. I know how much you enjoy the sanctuary, so I’ll let you stay there a little whille longer. Plus, you are just now mending your marriage and need time to spend with your wife and child before I call you away.”

“How much time?”

“Enough,” she winked.

“You’re so cryptic,” Erik chuckled.

“Yes, your cousin thinks so, too. However, I prefer ‘mysterious.’”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he smirked.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you long,” she sighed. “You have some party planning to do. They grow up fast, don’t they?”

“Especially when you miss a couple of years,” he murmured.

“Which is why I’m giving you at least a year before I call on you. Make good use of it, Erik.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will.”

“Good. Oh, and one more thing, Erik.”

“Yeah?”

“Try running back to the palace,” she winked again as she shimmered away, leaving him alone in the temple.

Erik tried to contain himself as he left the garden and ran into Zaya.

“Was your ‘alone’ time fruitful?” she asked knowingly.

All he could do was beam at her with his megawatt dimpled smile.

“Very.”

Erik said goodbye and ran back through the forest to the city, his heart beating out of his chest in excitement. His superhuman speed carried him back in no time as the wind whipped against his body. A smile was plastered on his face the whole time, even when he slowed down as he reached the outskirts of Birnin Zana. He hurried to the palace as inconspicuously as he could and happened to run into Mira just as she was leaving. When she saw the look on his face, she couldn’t help the grin that took over hers.

“So, how did- Erik!” She squealed as he picked her up and twirled her around with barely any effort.

“They’re back!”

“Your powers?”

“Well, yeah, but the heart shaped herb is coming back!” he peppered kisses all over her face and neck while she giggled. “You’re more beautiful than I ever imagined you could be.”

“So I take it your vision came back, and you’re super strong again?”

“And fast. I ran here in like twenty minutes.”

“From the CIty of the Dead?!”

“Mhm,” he nodded as he set her back on the ground.

“Damn, baby, that’s...that’s amazing.”

“I need to test them out some more, so I’m gonna see if T has some time to spar. You going to the lab?”

“Shopping, actually. Okoye and Ayo took Imani so I could get some last-minute party stuff.”

“Need someone to carry your bags?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Especially since you got that jaguar strength again.”

“Lead the way, beautiful.”

--------

Early that Saturday morning, as the sun crested over the trees, Mira and Erik stood on the tarmac watching as the Royal Talon descended from the sky. Mira was almost shaking with excitement as the doors opened and T’Challa stepped out, followed by some of her favorite people in the whole world.

“Titi!”

SJ ran down the ramp past the king and flung himself into his auntie’s arms. She held him tight and rocked him from side to side as Stef and Ana approached, with Daveed teetering between the two of them.

She looked up at them and gasped, “Oh my god, he can walk now? How long have I been gone?”

“Girl, too long,” Havana complained as she wrapped her arms around her sister-in-law.

Stefan was next to greet her, and his eyes stayed glued to Erik the whole time as he enveloped his sister in a bear hug, “We missed you, Sammy.”

“No, you miss my cooking,” she laughed as she crouched down to say hi to her littlest nephew.

“You remember Titi Mira?” Ana asked him, and he shook his head, hiding behind his dad’s leg.

“That’s ok, we can get to know each other while you’re here,” Mira smiled at him and stood back up.

“Who are you?” SJ asked when he finally noticed the man standing behind his aunt.

“SJ, this is your Uncle Erik. You might not remember him but-“

He thought about it for a moment before it dawned on him. “Do you still have all those bumps on you?”

Stefan tried to hold in his snickering, and Havana hit him in his chest.

“Uh, yeah, I do.”

“That’s so cool!”

“Heh, thanks, lil man.”

“So, brother in law…It’s good to see you,” Stef deadpanned. He was clearly not feeling Erik anymore.

“You, too, man,” Erik went to dap him up, and he stared at his hand in contempt.

“Stefan, behave,” Havana said with a roll of her eyes. “Hi Erik, how are you?”

“Much better since I’ve been here.”

“Good, good…”

T’Challa had been standing to the side while the family reunited but decided to intervene when things got awkward.

“Stefan, Havana, let us show you to your quarters.”

“Oooh, our ‘quarters,’” Ana sang excitedly. “Sounds so fancy.”

“It’s a palace, Ana. Of course it’s fancy,” Stef grumbled.

She cut her eyes at him. “Don’t act out in front of company.”

Mira chuckled. She hadn’t realized how much she missed hearing their playful bickering.

As they made their way through the place, Stef and Ana stared slack-jawed at their surroundings while SJ ran ahead of the group.

“You live here?” Ana asked.

“Mhm. It’s gorgeous, right?!” Mira bragged.

“That’s not even the word…”

T’Challa smirked as he listened to them compliment his home.

“So, where’s the birthday girl?” Stefan asked.

“She is with my mother and Ororo.”

“Ororo?” Stef stopped in his tracks. “Munroe?!”

“The one and only,” T’Challa grinned proudly.

“Holy shit…”

“Language,” Havana chided her husband as she covered SJ’s ears.

“What is it with these men and cursing around children?” Mira shook her head at her brother.

“Girl, I don’t know, but let’s get back to Storm. How’d y’all meet?”

“She’s his girlfriend,” Erik nodded towards his cousin.

“Dang, how’d you get her? I mean, I know you’re a king and all, but- Wait, are you a mutant, too?” Stef asked.

T’Challa and Mira made eye contact, and she nodded for him to continue. They were family and would most likely be seeing a lot of Wakanda, so they’d find out eventually.

“I am enhanced, yes.”

“Like Steve Rogers?” SJ chimed in excitedly from a few feet ahead.

“He wishes,” T’Challa complained under his breath as they stopped in front of the door across from Erik and Mira. Both of them chuckled at the king’s arrogance.

“So...you’re enhanced. Why, though?” Stef asked.

They entered the suite, and the interrogation was cut short when the Greenwoods saw how beautiful their temporary home was.

“Holy shit…” Ana mused as she covered SJ’s ears.

Mira gave them a quick tour while T’Challa and Erik hung back in the living area.

“So, you and Stefan-”

“He never liked me, and I made things worse by disappearing,” he shrugged.

T’Challa nodded as he changed into his suit.

“Oh, so you’re coming all the way out?”

“They will find out eventually, so I might as well get it over with.”

Erik nodded as Mira rounded the corner and saw T’Challa in his suit. She smirked and called SJ. He ran back into the room and froze when he saw Black Panther standing there next to his uncle. Ana was next to round the corner and looked at her son questioningly before she looked up and saw what he was staring at with his mouth open.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said with a hand on her hip.

“About what?” Stef came next, and T’Challa’s mask disappeared into his necklace. “This place is insane.”

SJ couldn’t move. He was looking at his favorite hero in the entire world, right there in the place he’d call home for the next week. His mind could barely wrap around what he was seeing, and he couldn’t process his emotions. Tears started flowing down his face, and a sob wracked his body.

“Hey, hey. It’s ok, baby,” Ana crouched down and wiped his tears as Stef came over with Daveed on his hip.

“You’re not excited to see Black Panther?” He asked his eldest son.

SJ shook his head, and T’Challa deflated. Erik kept his snickering to himself, but Mira shot him a look anyway.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“He’s just in shock. It’ll wear off eventually,” Ana said as she brushed SJ’s locs out of his face.

————

It took way longer to wear off than they thought, and by the time they arrived at the party venue in the palace’s botanical gardens that afternoon, he still hadn’t said a word. T’Challa tried to speak to him a couple of times, but he shied away behind Mira or his parents. Eventually, Erik convinced him to give the kid some space and pulled the dejected king away to the other side of the garden. While the other kids and their parents arrived, SJ kept looking at T’Challa out of the corner of his eye.

“You know, he doesn’t bite...or scratch,” Mira leaned in and said to her nephew as she sat down next to him at the kid’s table. “In fact, he’s pretty cool once you get to know him.”

“Does Imani know?” he spoke up for the first time in hours, and Mira was happy to hear his voice again.

“Oh, yeah. He told us when we got here, but it’s a secret so she pinky promised not to tell. You know, I screamed when I saw him.”

“You did?!”

“Mhm. He really needs to learn how to ease people into it, huh?” she asked as she poked at his side, making him giggle. Stef and Ana watched from a few yards away and smiled with him while they kept a watchful eye on Daveed as he waddled around the flowers.

SJ nodded in response, and Mira kissed his temple before getting up and leaving him to ponder her words. Right when he had worked up the courage to speak to his hero, Erik announced that Imani was on her way with Ororo and Ramonda.

“I can’t wait to see my baby girl!” Ana squealed.

Mira excitedly grabbed Erik’s hand, and he kissed her knuckles, making Stef narrow his eyes as he and his family hid behind a mango tree.

Imani appeared with her auntie and future cousin, and T’Challa recorded as she squealed excitedly at seeing everybody. A’Kidi, Kofi, Sanaa, A’Sami, Ade, and all her other friends from school greeted her with a loud “Happy birthday!” The newly five-year-old’s tunnel vision made her almost ignore her parents and other adults completely until Erik picked her up and gave her a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“Happy birthday, Cupcake!”

“We have a surprise for you,” Mira sang.

“What is it?” Imani asked excitedly.

Erik set her down and turned her around as Mira motioned for her family to reveal themselves. SJ ran out from behind the tree and nearly tackled his cousin to the ground while her aunt, uncle, and baby cousin took a calmer approach.

“There’s the birthday girl!” Stef exclaimed while his eldest son continued to squeeze her tight. SJ let her go, and she ran into her uncle’s arms. Ana crouched down next to him, and Imani threw her arms around her neck.

“We’ve missed you so much!” Ana said as she fought tears.

“I missed you too. Wakanda is so cool! I can’t wait to show you everything,” Imani babbled.

“Did you know about Black Panther?” SJ asked, still a little nervous about meeting his hero.

Imani nodded, “I promised to keep it a secret, or I would’ve told you. It’s so cool, right?”

SJ nodded, and Imani dragged him off to meet her friends.

Erik couldn’t keep the smile off his face if he tried as he watched his little social butterfly play with her friends and cousin. It wasn’t until Mira came up and nudged him that he even realized he was staring.

“You ok?” she asked.

“Hm? Yeah, I’m fine,” he said as he put his arm around her and kissed her temple. “Just reliving some things.”

Mira looked at him curiously and he continued, “One of the few good memories I have from childhood that we talked about in therapy was my seventh birthday party. This kind of reminds me of that.”

Mira smiled as they stood there and watched Shuri, Ororo, and T’Challa play with the kids. The king regaled them with stories of his adventures, and Shuri let them ride on very slow hoverbikes while Ororo harnessed the wind to lift them up and let them fly a couple of feet off of the ground. The kids were having a ball, and their parents seemed to enjoy themselves as well. Okoye, M’Baku, and a couple other people gravitated towards each other and fell into conversation about being single parents. However, the rest of them spent most of their time ogling the royal family.

Eventually, it was time to eat and the parents were able to corral the kids into sitting down at the table. After stuffing their faces with an array of Imani’s favorite foods, Mira led the “happy birthday” song as she and Ayo carried out a huge Doc McStuffins birthday cake. Imani and SJ were the only kids who knew who she was, but everyone enjoyed the cake nonetheless. Erik couldn’t help the tear that almost came to his eye as he listened to his wife sing to their daughter, just like his mother had done to him. Loudly and slightly off key. Next, Shuri led the group in a Wakandan birthday song, and Imani blew out the huge number five candle in the center of the cake.

Mira kept stealing glances at Erik as he sliced it up and handed out pieces to everyone. He looked so happy. Even when one of the kids tripped and got icing all over his pants leg, he just kept on smiling.

Even Stef noticed the change in his brother-in-law’s demeanor and brought it up to Ana, “He smiles too much now. It’s weird.”

“It’s weird that he’s happy?”

“No, it’s just weird to see. He used to be so…”

“Surly and unapproachable.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Maybe you should get to know him?”

“Hmph,” he grunted in response. Ana decided to leave it alone for the time being and left his side to go talk to Erik.

“You think you can handle the sleepover?” she asked him.

“Thank Bast it’s not all of them.”

“It’s not?”

“Hell no, just her little crew,” he pointed to A’Kidi, Kofi, Sanaa, A’Sami, and Ade. “I’m not taking care of all these kids.”

Ana laughed, “Understood.”

“So...your husband still doesn’t like me, huh?”

“Can you blame him?” Ana deadpanned.

“Nah, I’d be the same way in his shoes.”

“He’ll come around eventually...maybe,” she said as she placed a comforting hand on his arm before being pulled away by her son to watch the Black Panther and Storm show off their powers some more. SJ still couldn’t bring himself to speak to T’Challa, but it was a start.

As the party wound down and most of Imani’s classmates went home, the few that stuck around relocated inside to the Stevens’ suite in the palace. Even with a handful of screaming children in his home, Erik was on cloud nine. He loved to see a smile on his Cupcake’s face, and he wondered if he looked that happy when he was a kid. He concluded he probably did, and as the kids watched an animated movie, he and Mira curled up on the couch behind them. While the rugrats were distracted, he pulled her chin up to plant a kiss on her lips.

“What was that for?” she smiled.

“I’ve just been thinking…”

“About what?”

“About making more good memories, you know? Some of the happiest times in my life were times just like this…and time spent with you.”

Mira looked down with a smile on her face and he brought it back up to look in her eyes.

“Marry me again.”

Her eyebrows damn near reached her hairline and a Grinch-like smile crept up her face as she nodded.

“I’d love to.” Next Chapter

Taglist: @ladymac82, @kitesatforestp, @harleycativy, @raysunshine78, @maddeningmayhem, @theblulife, @motheroffae, @love-mesome-me, @toni9, @bribrisback

[pathofcomet]

look at what you taught me

fandom: bridgerton series

pairing: colin/penelope

summary: Colin and Penelope have never been awkward with one another. Except for this one time.  (AO3) (book spoiler ahead)

In the beginning, when he travels, Colin can think of nothing else but the present moment: a ship under his feet, the lull of a carriage, the wide expanse of the world all around him. Whatever destination is coming next, if he is certain enough – if not, he’ll just make it up as he goes. The furious scribbling of his quill against paper, as he races to put down in words all his eyes take not but a second to admire. It feels like everything he never knew he wanted to do so desperately. It feels right.

Then, it becomes more difficult to return home, the more he travels. But soon enough, the travel starts to wear him down. He begins to look forward to when he’ll return home: despite his own mother’s incessant remarks, despite the brotherly arguments, despite having to see another sister married off. Even the most loving mamas trying to marry off their daughters to him seem somewhat adorable, if he is gone long enough. But the need to travel comes back, like an itch that won’t go away unless he scratches it away. He makes promises to his sisters – so that he can stay as much as possible, but he goes insane with anything more than a couple of months. He likes to believe that by now his family simply made peace with his many eccentricities, and simply paid the cook more when he was around.

He treasures the pockets of familiarity he gets when in London as much as the breathes of fresh air he gets when he’s away. He imagines he drives his mother wild, with all his coming and going across the continent. He knows what Lady Whistledown writes about him as well, and he’d strangle the woman himself, for alerting everyone of his return so punctually. Ambitious mamas are hard to fend off when you’re a young man, and it only gets worse the older he becomes, because the expectation of marriage dawns ever closer.

***

“You must agree, Colin,” his mother says, and at the mention of his name, he straightens in his chair, because it’s a terrible thing to be singled out in a conversation by Violet. “Penelope is quite an agreeable young lady.”

Colin agrees, both because he truly believes so, and because while his mother doesn’t need his confirmation, she’s kinder when she has it. Benedict, from the other side of the room, leans closer in his chair, so he can hear better whatever commentary their dear mother is about to impart with them.

“I dare say she’d make quite a suitable bride for you, really.”

All hell breaks loose. Benedict drops his foot to the floor with a loud thud, while Colin drops his sandwich, eliciting a swear for which he’s reprimanded by three of his sisters. And then.

“Mother!” Eloise shrieks, quite offended – which Colin finds surprising, considering that the two of them are best friends. “That is entirely too daring!”

Colin agrees, but he is too busy desperately trying to cough away the piece of sandwich stuck in his throat. Eloise, though still quite shocked, pushes her cup of tea in his hands, just to get him to make less noise. He downs it in one go, grateful to not have died of this particular cause. His heart, quite in override still, might provoke a heart attack soon enough if his mother does not change the subject.

“I believe you misremember your ABCs, dear mother,” he jests, because he does not want to take the idea seriously. “There’s one son for whom you haven’t found a bride quite yet.”

Benedict shifts in his seat, suddenly finding his newspaper way more interesting. But this time around, Violet doesn’t rise to the so delicious bait of teasing her second, not when her brain is so set on match-making her third.

“I don’t see why not. Isn’t she a friend to all of us?”

She stops, waits for a nod from each one of her children currently engaged in eaves-dropping on the topic.

“She’s polite, witty,” she continues listing reason after reason, all to which Colin is entirely familiar and now that he thinks about, has noticed himself, several times over, in Penelope. “And quite darling.”

He imagines darling is what girls who aren’t called beautiful get stuck with by kind mothers. He never actually stopped to even consider Penelope in any of these ways: she’s always been there, ever since he was in short pants – and that’s almost already half their lives. A fixed presence by the side of his younger sister, and a favourite of his mother, despite all the awkward wallflower tendencies in Penelope. But he doesn’t recall ever trying to pick apart her character, find her individual traits, even consider her as a… woman.

Colin is suddenly shamed by his wilful, manly indifference. Violet arches her eyebrow at him, clearly still expecting an answer.

“Mother,” he adds with a sigh. “I can promise you most certainly that I am not marrying any time soon.”

“One never knows,” she murmurs, though she allows him his momentary peace, and returns to her embroidery.

***

Only that his mother doesn’t stop with her comments, and they seem to grow in number each time she meets Penelope, which unfortunate for him, is often enough. The next morning, as she returns from shopping, she comments on how nice she looked in a dress of her own picking, and not her mother’s own distasteful choices. Each time any married sibling sends a letter, or comes visit, her efforts in getting Colin to marry are reinforced. She jabs at him with comments: morning, afternoon and evening.

And suddenly, Colin can find that there’s nothing else much that he can think about, but Penelope, and how exactly this insane idea came to live in his mother’s mind. So he starts paying attention.

He supposes parties would be generally more enjoyable if he didn’t have to attend them with his family, as much as he loves them. He can physically feel Violet’s eyes drawing across the room, and then settling, decisively, on his back, a list of eligible ladies for marriage already compiled in her mind, alongside one for dancing partners. Colin can already guess what her mother is about to tell him.

And he is right. She pokes at his elbow with her fan, nodding to the edge of the ballroom, where Penelope Featheringston stands, card empty and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. Well, at least they do have that in common.

“Colin, darling,” and really, that’s all that Mrs. Bridgerton has to say to any of her children for them to do her bidding.

He makes his way across the room, trying his best to avoid getting roped into introductions by mothers or old friends alike. The faster he’s getting this over with, the faster he can return to the appetizers, and to a reconnaissance of the room of his own.

“Pen,” he says, and she startles, turning around to him with the widest of eyes, and the shyest of smiles. Huh, maybe she does look quite darling.

“Colin!” she exclaims, smoothing down a hand over her dress, and while it’s a gesture driven by nerves, it looks quite adorable.

“Would you do me the honour of a dance?”

He extends out his arm, which she takes – an answer without needing one. And it’s quite a shame, to all the other men in the room, because Penelope is a wonderful dancer, and a most attentive conversationalist during them. She asks him of his most recent travels, destination known through the letters he sent to Eloise, most likely. He’s received his fair share of foot stepping and the occasional elbow in his side, but never with Penelope.

She animates with each step, blushing at his hand around her back, smiling at a spin. He never considered how soft her body feels under his fingers, underneath the thin material of her dress, but now he is acutely aware of her warmth seeping through. He asks of the books she’s been reading, which he knows are plenty.

And at the end of the dance, he finds that maybe dancing with Penelope Featherington is not such a tedious task, after all. And at the end of the night, he’s quite certain she’s been his best partner.

***

Art exhibitions are not really Colin’s thing, really. His interest lays in a world painted in words, not in colours. But considering the fact that one of Benedict’s pieces is to be exposed to the world for the first time, of course his entire family must be present. He is proud of his brother, for having found a path in life, having chased it so full of determination.

Colin’s good at chasing as well. He’s just been proven, more and more lately, that he chases only things that cannot last, which displeases him greatly. It doesn’t mean he is not entirely supportive of his older brother. What other reason he’d have to be present here, at all?

“Penelope!” Eloise shouts, gathering the attention of her friend.

Penelope spins around, red curls jumping with the movement, and she blushes. Colin is pretty sure she’s done this every single time he’s seen her, though maybe he now begins to understand why. She nods her head in their direction, all Bridgertons replying in kind. Eloise lets go of his arm, rushing instead by her best friend’s side, hands entangled in a most obvious display of friendship and affection.

Colin knows Penelope’s family – and so he knows there’s no such camaraderie between her and her sisters, as it can be so easily observed between himself and his own siblings. He’s glad these two have each other then: a friend is one’s most fearful champion.

He walks by his mother’s side, going through the gallery, the two girls just a few feet ahead. Eloise is the taller one, yet both their heads are bent together as they discuss, such an air of ease and comfort about them. His sister says something, and suddenly Penelope turns a bit more to the side, laughing: a sparkle of mischief in her eyes and the loveliest pull at her mouth. Now, Colin finds himself quite taken with her mouth, staring because he finds it impossible not to. The soft pink of her lips, as she’s worried at them trying to come up with a comment about this and that painting. The white of her teeth, as she smiles. Her tongue, wetting her lips, from time to time, as the rooms grow hotter, with all the people passing around.

He’s lucky that the art pieces all around are distracting enough that Penelope herself doesn’t notice. His mother does, though.

“Quite darling, no?”

And she looks at the exact same person that he is, and most certainly not at the painting of a fruit basket in front of them.

“Mother,” he warns, a slight squeeze around her arm.

“Oh,” she sighs. “You can’t blame me for caring enough to try.”

Maybe not. But he can blame her for opening his eyes to something that he, like everyone else – he begins to realize - didn’t really know was right there.

***

So Colin Bridgerton, like a true hero of his days, leaves for Wales. And like the caring gentleman that he also is, he uses one of his friends as his excuse. It helps – it’s quite a useful distraction, for a while, walking over the hills, staring out at the sea, spending evenings eating hearty meals with someone that knows him well enough, but not too much. And he writes in his journal, of his quiet passing days.

By contrast, the nights are not so quiet. While he tries so hard to forget the society back in London, at night there are no distractions: and even so, while asleep, he cannot really control his unconscious mind.

So Colin dreams: at first, the most innocent of shadows, people that he can vaguely make out. Then the visions get clearer, and longer, and more tormenting. It starts with Penelope’s smile, and that mouth of hers, which in a dream he can admit to wanting to desperately kiss. Which, in a dream, he has leave to do. He knows, upon waking, that whatever taste lingers on his tongue from his haze, it certainly has nothing on the reality, and hates himself all the more for it. Then her body, close to his, the press of her bosom hard against his chest, the roundness of her bottom in his palms. The next morning, he is in need of a change of bedsheets, like he is nothing but a horny teenager.

He is sure his mother must have cursed him. The dreams continue, sweet haunting that only makes the guilt rise in his throat. She’s his sister’s best friend, for heaven’s sake, and here he is, conjuring her up in his dreams with no respite! It’s like his body has decided to take an entirely different path from his mind.

Colin is miserable on a travel, for the first time in way too long.

***

Maybe that’s his excuse. He lacks sleep, and for him, the most pressing issue is, obviously, still the one of his marriage. Violet Bridgerton is popular for many things between her children, but her cutting words and sharp mind are not necessarily one of those, especially if used against one of them. Colin has found himself at the receiving end of exactly that for weeks and months now, so he is apprehensive when he is summoned back to London.

But if his mother has need of him, then he must make haste. Of course, the real reason is simply the news of Daphne’s new pregnancy, which is incredibly happy. Colin loves to be an uncle way better than he likes being a younger brother.

Especially since right now, Anthony and Benedict have taken the liberty to pick up with the teasing where their mother stopped.

“You left in the middle of the season,” Benedict remarks, and Anthony clasps his back in a way that only eldest brothers can do, when they require an immediate answer.

“Oh, very well,” and Colin actually scowls. “I needed to get away. Mother has been incessant with this bloody marriage thing.”

And because they’re his brothers, of course they joke and jest more, at his own expense. Everyone in their house knows that his mother has her eyes set on Penelope, and everyone in their house is already tired of her insinuations, Colin most of all. That doesn’t mean that Anthony, or Benedict are going to pass up the opportunity to rile him up on the subject. It’s been a while, after all, since they’ve had reason to laugh at him in particular.

It’s the damn lack of sleep, and all of these comments, which are entirely unwarranted and so overwhelming, despite his protests, that make him throw all decorum out the window.

“I am not going to marry soon, and I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington!”

“Oh!”

The softest sound, really – feminine and delicate and belonging to the single person that he didn’t want to see right this moment. With much slowness, burning red with shame, Colin turns around to look at Penelope Featherington. And he knows: by the expression on her face, the haggard breathing with the desperate rise and fall of her chest, and her eyes, that he just broke her heart.

What he says right there on the spot, he cannot truly recall. A fumbling of stupid, empty nothings, apology too small, too unfulfilling, because Penelope draws herself up and protects the little bit of her dignity left.

And she leaves, so fast that he doesn’t have the time to do what he wants: follow her to clear up things.

Benedict punches him in the arm, quite terribly hard. It still doesn’t feel as bad as the gut-wrenching guilt building up inside himself, or the self-loathe that he so much deserves. Because just as he was beginning to make up his mind regarding how dear, truly, she has grown to be for him, he has done the worst thing a person who cares about another can do: hurt her.

***

He shows up at the doorsteps of her house the following day, surprised to find Penelope alone in the drawing room.

“As you might suspect, Mr. Bridgerton,” she says, when he inquires after her mother and sisters. “Many men before you have made the same declaration, though maybe in more private settings. I am afraid any hope of marriage left in this household falls upon my sisters.”

It is the fact that she doesn’t use his name that stings the worst, and makes him understand exactly how much harm he’s done with his extremely horrifying comment.

“Penelope, I am so entirely sorry for the way I behaved yesterday. You must believe me when I say I did not mean to offend you in any way.”

“Must I?”

He stops, opens his mouth: no words come out. She looks the picture perfect of peace, and maybe this is what should worry him the most. It is his first time seeing her as more than a blushing young woman, and suddenly maybe he realizes why she is Eloise’s best friend: she’s made of tougher stuff than what he’s been led to believe so far.

“What I said, the way I’ve said it. I’ve hurt you… It’s entirely intolerable and I apologize for the situation you’ve been put in because of me being an ass.”

Situation that she handled entirely fine, given the fact that he so singled her out in a market of numerous others undesirable young ladies. She sighs at his curse, something that sounds like Colin, that has the tiniest of fondness in the tone. Something in his chest tightens with fondness of its own, for this woman in front of him, who has been nothing but a most beloved friend, to his entire family – and to him, as well.

“I…” she stops, taking in a deep breath, her hands shaking. “I already told you, no feelings were hurt. You’ve made no remark that wasn’t already obvious to everybody in the ton,” she says, and she waves in the air the latest number of Lady Whistledown.

Of course, even when he misses it, his sisters and his dear mama are quick to fill him up on the happenings of the season. In today’s fresh paper, Whistledown has written down that were the two of them ever to get married, she’d have to give up writing altogether – such an unfitting match never having been seen before.

“You can’t possibly believe those writings,” he says, suddenly offended at the paper, though he’s not quite certain on whose behalf anymore.

“I didn’t, until –”

Until he has reinforced them all the more, with his declaration. Colin suddenly feels himself flush from head to toes, at being so openly chastised. His brother Benedict has already told him, that he has cruelly overstepped most demands of polite society when he lost his temper in that way, in such a public place.

“I really do apologize, Penelope.”

He hadn’t realize how much he enjoys saying her name until now, when he so desperately wants her, needs her to say his own. A sign that things between them can be mended, move from the terrible awkwardness between them.

“Pity doesn’t feel that nice to those who already know how pitiful they are, Colin.” His gaze snaps up at her, and finds her already smiling at him – quite charming, even if so utterly self-depreciating. “Though you are forgiven.”

He bows at her in thanks, lower than he’s gone in months, if not years, just to show how entirely grateful he is. Of course, Colin is yet too young, rich, handsome and charismatic to know the meaning of her words, and too stupid of a man to try and understand where she is coming from.

But he will, in due time.

For now, maybe his favourite sight to see during his travels becomes the shores of England, when returning home. Because home has just started to mean just a tiny bit more.

[a-few-of-my-favorite-mangas]

Knight of the Ice

by Yayoi Ogawa

Manga Volume 06

Shoujo, Romance, Drama, Sports

Story  ★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆   ||   ★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆   Art

Summary

Thanks to a magical last-minute kiss with Chitose, Kokoro defends his title as Japan's National Champion, and afterward, the two of them meet up for a short date to work out their relationship issues. Just as the couple gets a moment to catch their breath, Team Kokoro sets off for both the Four Continents Championships and Worlds. But instead of being focused on the ice, Kokoro's focus is on Louis and Kyle... after he catches them in an intimate moment! Meanwhile, Chitose finds herself still worried over Kokoro's rumored fiancée... With all these new developments, will the Japanese skaters still be able to secure enough points to guarantee Japan's entry into the Olympics?

Review

More drama... I feel like other than the manager, everyone lacks a distinct personality that really stands out. Too many average, normal people with little sparks of an interesting personality here and there, but no one really interesting... this feels like a slow plodding dragged out romance, there isn’t an interesting story line developing either, so not sure if I’m up for continuing this series, it is just missing points of interest for me to stay interested and invested. I often forget what happened before because none of it seems that important memorable - still working on remembering names.

[nextwarden]

Age of the Sun

He was of the Sun. Literally. They'd eventually explained what that meant. His powers came from many things: his will, his control over his aura, the world around him, but, fundamentally, they were powers of light, powers of the Sun. Of course that didn't define his abilities, it simply categorized them along the axis of the Wills. He answered to the will of the World, and the World was of light, which in turn gave him strength. It felt weird at first, his affinity was entirely other, after all, something removed from light as he imaged it. Fire would have been more appropriate, in all its blazing glory, warming the souls of those around him and showing them the way by reducing enemies to scattering ashes. But he was of cold and clear, of calm and steady, of that which melted under the power of the beams of sunlight that invariably rose after every night. Ice was fluid, much like fire but differently. Where fire was volatile and explosive, ice was slow and patient, running slower yet than water itself, and keeping etched in its eons old memory all the woes around. It calculated and creeped on you soundlessly and once you noticed it it was too late, in a crack it would have you numb and ready to sink into a long slumber. How it could have been of light he did not grasp for a long time. Only when the Axes were revealed, truly revealed, not simply explained, but revealed to him in a vision during one of the longest fights yet in the middle of a heavy winter night, only then had he understood. Axes were alignment dependent on the divinities they belonged to, they had sway over one'sactions and heart but no true thing to say on the matter, at least not forcefully. As he'd seen in Serom and Simin, the mistresses of poisons and venoms, as he'd seen in Vanesh, keeper of shadow puppets and occasional wielder of the somber arts, the appearance of one's power didn't determine one's worth.

Then there had been the matter of his name, bound to him during the second ceremony to confirm his identity. An old word associated with many meanings and layers - which was quite quite ironic as in it designated light in its most primal form, that which hone upon the world to show in its truest form. A bearer of light, of truth, of virtue and righteousness. They'd made him to be that. Not that he wasn't interested in fairness and doing the right thing, he'd gone that far to follow up on his beliefs after all; he'd never asked for it however, never really wanted it. He'd taken on that role partially by sheer curiosity, partly in boredom, maybe even a little bit to surrender some sort of wild hope?

It had taken him time to truly understand what it meant to be of the light. That night in the ancient woods, engulfed in hail and snow with no true grasp on either direction or orientation, and a band of fellow soldiers trying their best to simply stay alive until the morn to come. He'd never actually quite believed in the power night held over human hearts, nor the surprising depth of the meaning of "longest night" before. It wasn't a casual burden or one of the usual hardships to overcome, there was a nameless terror in a cold, starless night which never seemed to plan on ending. He found himself at the foot of a wall of dark snow, literally as much as figuratively, how to get out of that situation? How to believe? In himself and in others?

…

Despair had been creeping upon him all night, deeper and deeper as it went. Waiting and waiting, not quite hoping anymore, for the sun to shine its first light on the desolate snowy decor. The harsh wind and dark night had not stopped eroding his patience and his will. His companions were in a similar condition if not worse. Little time, little hope. How he missed the sweet days of the Capital, the scent of flowers in the spring and the heat of bread in his hand. That was when he understood, when, somehow, in the midst of the tempest, within and without, being of the Sun bordered over the precipice of logic and began to make sense to him. Hoping was one thing but believing was the step he had to take. Belief in himself and the  worth of his mission, the strength of his comrades and their bond, belief that after night would come day again and a new beginning. Belief could lead to foolish actions and visions of the world, but if mastered right, it could also open new doors. If one could believe, then one would know, and knowledge was power. Perhaps he was not the hero of this story, but he could help write it.

He'd felt it long before the first rays of the sun pierced the deep blackness. Within him. It stirred, slow and steady, weightless yet sluggish, as if asleep for too long. It roused and shook, shivered and yawned, before spreading all over. He was One. With himself and with others, with purpose and with power, with strength yet no desire to take, only to give. Communion, he had realized later. A feeling akin to a little death, some had said, giving up what one was to become part of more, becoming less to become more. It was strange, he realized, yet it had always been, he realized too. On days of sun he would feel good, and on grey days he would feel faint, rain would give him peace while the Sun would warm his soul. A cycle had been long growing within it, repeating each day and each night. It was not all, however, he'd learned to see what before was hidden, to see the Will and the Sun here nothing had been before, where too few or too faint, where others looked not long enough.

He saw flickers of light, somewhere between halos, fireflies and flares, it rarely surrounded, more often than not simply dancing lightly around. Always shimmering, faintly one beat, bright the other, growing and receding, coming and going. That was the Will, yet it was no order, it was a path, many paths, offered most generously to any who would borrow them. Yet it was never so brighter than when he laid eyes on them. They hued in golds and honey and sand, melting into every colour conceivable as the day went by, and found he could not look away. Enveloping their whole figure, as if walking out of the light itself. He could never put the words on what exactly it was he saw - or felt, yet he knew. He felt, so he knew. It wasn't truth. Truth was absolute. It was verity, his own voice and his own path, his to choose, and, by god, he chose it.

***

"As the ashes of morning settle and night is cast back into the shadows, a new champion rises, my friends! Listen to the Will of the World as it sings the hope reborn and rejoice for the age of Light is upon us once more! May his name be honoured by all and may his blade cut true, Vytus Yggdrasil. Freedom in blood and peace in light!"

The archpriest of the holy Order of the Storm had addressed the crowd in such words, fervour in his demeanor and absolute belief in his words. Such began a new cycle of hope and reclaiming, he had assured, the darkness would be quelled again, fought back to the confines of the lands and they would prevail. The ceremony on the whole had been coated in such tones, that of destiny and inevitability. After all, a new Hero had appeared and made themselves known both to the Alliance and to their enemies by shining brilliantly on the battlefield and pushing back against the oppression of the Ashen Legions. A new dawn to the night.

Born to unknown parents, orphaned since his youngest age, Vytus had never expected in his wildest dreams to become entwined with the Will of the World. His own path had always been to be by Zema's side. The proud knight and protector of the soul with the ever wilting flowers in their hair and freckles on their arms, the one who had shared everything with them since the fragile child had learned to dance under the rain, falling prey to cold fevers each time they repeated the feat yet unrelenting in their desire for Vytus to accompany them outside when the skies darkened. The one who shared still, now a grown adult still sporting flowers in their flowing sunset mane - still wilting, although they did tend to last longer -, with a smile far stronger than their body had become and an undying desire to dance to the world's beautiful symphony whenever. Their soul had not dimmed despite skin now covered in galaxies of tears and cuts, earned with pride over the years. The fight had been harrowing and he knew that had Zema not been there, he'd never have managed to come so far. Yet he'd always believe it would be them who would rise to fame, with their innate talent for natural magic, a rare and precious gift of the Will if the witch which had confirmed this during their first ceremony had spoken true. Zema had the aura, the talent and the ability to make it shine, and he was ready to follow, protect and support wherever they wished to go. Yet, despite it all, he had revealed himself as the next chosen.

It had happened a cold winter night, as the stars shone dim in the sky and their expedition had faltered in the crossing of the Perynos, the mountains separating the northern arm of the continent from the rest. They had been seeking an old relic and the guidance of ancient spirits in an abandoned forest when a pack of direfoxes had apparently taken a liking to their scent. Sent running into the deeps of the woods they'd managed to find shelter in a small grotto. Six they were, Zema and him, Michael of the order of the Storm, Kal, a travelling musician they had met a few weeks prior and who had insisted on accompanying them, and two of the local lord's men who served as guides as best as they could.

…

"Much like the Hero of the past, as legend says."

The quiet discussion between the two soldiers had caught his ear and he had listened. They'd partly turned to include them when they'd noticed.

"He'd gotten lost in such forest too. Almost passed on, but they got saved by his revelation," said the older of the two, bearded with a single spiky line of hair in the center of his head.

His colleague, a more reserved lad spoke in turn.

"A shining beacon from within, legend says. Not dissimilar to what you've described. I can't see it but I can feel the warmth of the light within. My bad eye is sensitive and I can feel it, I see the colours unknown," he pointed to his bad eye.

"Torn by a nölger a few years back, he says he can perceive things others can't, since."

The spike-haired proceeded to mime a mauling.

"I can too!"

"Yeah, yeah, I believe," the other scoffed gently, "but it does resemble that of the previous Hero. They say it was in a forest like this, not this one but a sister, another part of the ancient  that once covered the whole of the lands, further to the east."

"I…", he hadn't quite known what to say.

In truth he had felt the surge of power within him, as if a potential had revealed itself behind a now open door. A new path that would lead him to something more. He couldn't quite grasp it still, he couldn't even be sure it was what it meant.

"I cannot say if it is such, I mean, it would be hard to believe that for myself…"

Their eyes had been true and so had been Zema's. Michael and Kal had been more reserved and curious, but Zema had believed from the moment they'd felt his aura surge and coil. They'd always been the more sensitive of the two, alway the one to see beyond, and so they had known. It had taken him a few more weeks to truly begin to believe, but Vytus had had to resign himself to the surprising truth: he had awakened in himself the mark of the Hero. Not by power or worthiness, more as a response to a need, or perhaps a want. He'd known what it had meant, perhaps that was why he'd been so reluctant to accept the change… For change it was, a change of destiny, of fate, and, more unnervingly, of himself. His greatest fear had not come to pass, however, as Zema had remained by his side all the way and he'd remained by theirs, each acting as the other's sword and shield when needed, each other's pillar, each other's rock. They were two but they were one, in a much deeper sense than anyone else might have agreed to believe, deeper than the lords and their sons and daughters of marrying age had been inclined to hear, deeper than the teachers and wisemen and trainers had chosen to accept at first. Still they had all seen in the end - had they not, he had made them see - that one without the other would not do, they were them or they were not at all. The mark of a true hero, a strange dwarven woman has chuckled in such a meeting they had had to live through many variations of, a strange almost knowing glint in her eye.

…

They'd risen and fought. He had had to learn the way of the sword, which had come quite surprisingly naturally to him, flowing along his liquid aura in almost perfect and instantaneous synchronicity. It complemented well with Zema's more reserved yet unyielding shieldborn tactics. And, as times passed, supported efficiently by Michael's all-rounding aura and Kal's strange ways with curses and illusions. They'd made their way to the top, recognition raining on them as all but him had believed he deserved.

He had not truly wanted it, however. Being recognized was good, pleasant too. Offering his abilities for the sake of others had always been his call in life, Zema had been the first recipient of that. No, the problem was the reason he was. Were the reasons for this war truly what they could be? What they should be? He'd learned more as the years had passed, more about himself, about his beliefs and their origins, his imperfect knowledge of the world, of himself and those around him, of what truly mattered and what didn't. An attempt to separate them by a band of local nobles in the hopes of making him their pawn had gone down in the lands history as a very bad decision. Zema was his and he was theirs, not a voice more had a say in that.

…

Perhaps that is what had driven him and, almost immediately so, Zema, to turn away from what they had always been told they were destined to accomplish. They had accomplished much, quelling tensions and fighting in remote regions, finding ways to defend against the Ashen Legions yet also coming to understand where they came from. Such that they had welcomed one of their enemies into their ranks. It had surprised all of them when Michael himself, the vanguard of the Order, had insisted on helping the gravely wounded and abandoned harpie. They'd found the feathered woman torn and bleeding on the side of the road in the aftermath of a long and difficult battle. Sueh-lissa, as they'd eventually learned she was called, had somehow become their companion of travel and of questing, teaching them the ways of the land in ways they had not known existed before and teaching them about the Ashen as much as she learned about them. It had opened new horizons, too many it seemed, as it had also turned questions back into their minds, questions they'd known they had possessed since long before yet had never wanted to actually pull from the depths of their mind and ask. Uncomfortable. They'd asked and found answers, reflected, and eventually decided that seeing things for themselves would actually be of service, insisting on a questing chain away and in travels, pretexting one of the utmost importance, given by oracles in the uncertain smoke of the future.

They'd travelled east and west, north and south, all over, to the deepest reaches and the dangerous lands, crossed over the seas and walked the continent and its myriad of surrounding iles in the hopes of finding a truth which seemed to elude them. It had taken a stop in a small, remote village, a refuge for beasts and halfling Sueh had heard about in passing and a fateful meeting with a soul who had died once and another who had not to gain an inkling of understanding as to what the Will of the World truly represented. They had not been the first. Long ago another had chosen a similar road, armed with a lance and a heart full of love. He too had not been alone, and such had begun the conquest of peace over the land, peace that had endured and stretched for so long, much of what had been forgotten had been recalled...

---

PREVIOUSLY | NEXTLY

A Hero’s Retirement

[bensakindofmagic]

Chapter Seventeen

A/N: here we go again, enjoy :)

Warning: pure, unadulterated fluff

w/c: 2.3k+

Chapter Seventeen

“So he said he loves you?” Savannah asked. You were sat in the middle of a bustling, hipster coffee shop in West London, nursing your mismatching mugs with stupidly small handles. You nodded. 

“Have you talked about it since?” 

You winced, “I tried to bring it up the other day but I chickened out. I knew he’d ask me if I loved him too.”

“And you don’t?”

“I definitely don’t not love him,” you pondered. 

She scoffed, “That sounds promising. You two are so shit at communicating.” You began to protest but she just laughed, “You know I’m right! Look at how long it took for you two to get together ‘cause you couldn’t bloody talk to each other.” 

Your face was heavy as you frowned, “This isn’t helping.” 

“I’m sorry,” she conceded, “Tell me what you’re worried about.”

“I don’t know. I keep thinking about how I thought I was in love with Matteo, but when things got tough we fell apart, how do I know the same won’t happen with Ben? The shoot’s about to end, we’ve only got a week left and then everything’s going to change. I’ll be off on another project and Ben’s going to be back and forth to LA for a little while.” You sighed, “It’s just been so easy up ’til now, since we got together I mean. Even when it came out we were dating everyone was fine with it.”

“Apart from that arsehole Josh, right?”

“Yeah, well he’s shut right up now. I don’t know what Graham said but it worked. Anyway, I feel like we’re getting to the hard bit now. It’s gonna make it so much harder if I decide I love him.”

“That’s not exactly how it works, I don’t think you get to decide.” 

You rolled your eyes, “You know what I mean.”

“You’ve got commitment jitters, that’s all.”

“How can I be scared of committing to Ben when I basically fell in love with him the second I saw him?”

She placed a comforting hand on yours, “You just need to give yourself time. It sounds like once you two finally got going everything moved pretty fast. It’s been a while since you did the whole ‘serious relationship’ thing, cut yourself some slack.”

“Ugh Savvy, how do you always know what to say? You’re so wise.”

“I know,” she smiled kindly, “Besides, you think you’ve got commitment problems, Chris keeps talking about having babies!”

The last week of filming went by frighteningly quickly, and all too soon it was the last day and you were at the wrap party, drink in hand and talking far too loudly. Ben had his arm around your waist, announcing to everyone that you were his. He had been delighted since it had come out that you were dating and despite your nerves, it had been a relief to you too. A few people had been skeptical at first, throwing judging looks at you, but as soon as they’d seen you together they could tell you were serious about each other. You were grateful that you didn’t have to hide, and even more so that Josh ignored you apart from throwing you the odd bitter stare. 

“Can you believe that only four months ago we were playing ‘Never Have I Ever’ to get to know each other?”

“I know, it’s been the longest four months of my life,”  you said with a grin. “I can’t wait to get rid of you lot,”

“No way, you’re gonna miss us. I bet you’ll wake up every morning and cry at the thought of me being on the other side of the Atlantic,” Joe protested.

You sighed dreamily, “There’ll be a whole ocean between me and your dad jokes.”

“I’m gonna text you one every morning.”

“Then I’ll definitely cry,” you scoffed. 

As much as you joked and bantered with the guys, your heart was heavy. In fact, the teasing was mostly to keep the mood light because you sensed that you were in danger of getting far too emotional about the whole thing and breaking down into tears at the thought of not coming into work every day and seeing their idiot faces. 

“Well it’s fine for you and Ben,” Gwil interjected, “You guys will see each other all the time.” 

“Actually I’ve only got three weeks until I’m off to Scotland for nearly four months for a film I’m doing up there. And then we have just over a month before Ben goes to Italy to start on his next film.”

“Ouch, I don’t envy you guys. It’s hard enough being in a relationship when one of you travels, but both is going to be tough!”

You didn’t need the reminder. “Plenty of couples do it.”

“You guys are basically going to be long distance for most of the year.”

You muttered under your breath, “Yeah, and who knows for how long after that.”

From the way Ben’s arm tightened around you you guessed he had heard, but made no mention of it.  

“I’m more worried about me and you, buddy,” Ben interjected. “How’re we going to continue our bromance across continents?”

“It isn’t a bromance, it’s a full-on love affair,” you laughed. 

“You’re the lucky one Y/N/N, at least you’ll be in the same country for a while.”

You challenged, “Babe, Scotland is a different country.”

“What?” cried Joe, “I thought it was like different states.”

“Christ, I hope you’ve never said that to a Scot.”

Through the course of the evening you danced a little and drank a lot, and cheered with your whole body when Rami and Joe dueted ‘Under Pressure’, but mostly you soaked up every second of all being together. The job had been such a joy and you could hardly bear the thought of it being over, so mostly you drank and joked to distract yourself, but you couldn’t help getting a bit contemplative as you and Lucy watched the guys play beer pong — Brits versus Americans. 

You leant against a counter, glass in hand, as Lucy sighed, “God they’re idiots, the lot of them, but I am going to miss them.”

Joe had just performed a particularly distressing celebration after getting the ball in Ben’s cup.

“Are you worried?” you said suddenly, turning to face her. “Rami’s going back to the States, you’ll be in London…”

“No,” she said lightly, “I’ll be over there a lot for work anyway and Rami’s going to visit me here when he can. Anyway, We care so much about each other, we’ll find a way to make it work.” 

“God, I wish I was that confident.” You turned back to see Gwil miss.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, darling. If both of you want to be together, which you do, then you will. Ben adores you, we can all see it. You just need to have a little faith.”

You smiled and nodded, conceding that she was probably right and that fifth glass of prosecco was making you paranoid. 

Once the game finished Ben came up to you and pulled you close, linking his fingers behind your back and pressing a firm kiss to your lips.

“Congratulations on winning,” you grinned.

“Thank god, hey? Otherwise Joe would have been insufferable.”

“Oi Y/N,” Joe shouted, “Stop hogging my boyfriend!” 

You laughed loudly, “I could say the same to you!”

Ben nudged his nose against yours before nuzzling into your neck. “You’ll always be my number one, angel.” 

By the end of the night you were all singing ‘I’ll Never Forget You’ by the Noisettes at the top of your lungs, holding back tears (some of you more successfully than others), and finished on ‘We Are the Champions’ just in case there was still a dry eye in the room. It was with great reluctance that you parted in the small hours of the morning and when you got into bed with Ben you held onto him tightly, determined to make the most of him while he was still at your fingertips.

———

Those three weeks you had together were bliss: with neither of you having too much work — just a few bits of research and the occasional meeting between you — you seemed to have the world at your feet. Days passed in lazy contentment, waking up late, spending an hour or two in bed (morning sex was usually involved, it being a new practice since the early starts had not previously allowed for it), taking Frankie for a walk in the crisp winter air, then cuddles, tea, Netflix, often more sex. Dinner dates, coffee dates, cultural dates dragging Ben around art galleries (despite his being an actor, you didn’t believe him for a second when he assured you that he loved it). You spent most of your time at Ben’s, only going home when you needed clean clothes and to wash your hair. You took it in turns to make dinner, and occasionally Ben would walk to the nearest bakery to buy you fresh pastries for breakfast before you woke up. You wasted time watching Ben play with Frankie, your heart swelling as you saw how much he loved her, and daydreamed about what a great dad he would make. It felt like bliss, like your life was a movie with every detail perfectly executed; you were in heaven. 

As excited as you were to start your new job, by the time you were due to leave the next morning, the thought of tearing yourself away from Ben all but broke your heart.

“Can’t you stay?” he whined, ignoring the old rom-com that was playing on the telly, mostly just serving as background noise by then. “I’m sure they’ll manage without you.”

You scoffed, “What a rousing indictment of the value of my work.”

He glanced at you from where he lay on the sofa, Frankie curled up on his chest, snoring softly.

“Come on, it’ll break Frankie’s little heart if you go,” he whispered, covering her ears to shield her from the truth.

“When. Not if,” you said firmly. “She’ll be sad for a day and then forget all about me.”

He became distant as he whispered, “It’ll break mine.”

You snuggled down the sofa, squeeing yourself between him and the cushions and cooed, “No, it won’t. I’ll text you everyday and we’ll FaceTime and send each other dumb memes. And I’ll come home whenever I can.”

He cocked his eyebrow, “Home? Does that mean here?”

You smiled, “I guess it does.”

You turned back to the film but could tell Ben was distracted by the way his eyes roamed about the room, and he kept taking a deep breath in as if to speak, only to release it and retain his silence. Eventually you reached over to the remote and pressed pause.

“What’s up, Benny?”

For a while he was silent, composing his thoughts, and when he spoke he didn’t meet your eye. 

“You know that thing I said a while ago,” he ventured, “when we were talking to Graham…”

You knew exactly what he was talking about and instantly felt your heart rise to your throat. You were nervous, partly because you feared he would be upset that you hadn’t said it back, and partly to hear him say it again. But mostly you felt adrenaline rushing through your veins; the rush of love. “Yeah,” you hesitated, your chest swelling like a ballon, full of anticipation.

“I meant it.” He distracted himself scratching behind Frankie’s ear. “I’ve been trying to bring it up over the last few weeks but it never felt like the right time. You always seemed so happy and I didn’t want to ruin it in case you weren’t ready to say it back. And don’t feel like you have to, I don’t want to rush you but I just need to say it, you know-”

You interrupted his rambling by placing you hand gently on his cheek. 

He sighed, finally meeting your gaze. “I’m in love with you.”

His eyes were so round, so wide, so full of innocence and fear and hope. You could see the whole world in those eyes.

And all of a sudden it felt like you were floating, a balloon carrying you high above yourself. You smiled, a laugh bubbling sweetly from you. “I love you, too.”

Then you were both grinning like naughty children and he kissed you with absolute certainty.

He dropped you off at the airport the next morning and you were close to tears as you said goodbye. 

“Text me when you land, okay?” he asserted and you assured him you would. In return he promised to give Frankie a kiss for you. 

You thought you saw a watery hue in the green of Ben’s eyes but you blinked and it was gone. He held you closely, resting your cheek on his chest and his face buried in your hair. He kissed the top of your head, then your forehead, and you sighed heavily. You tried to take in every detail of his face — you almost felt silly, really, because it wasn’t like you were off to war and might never see him again. In fact you had already arranged to come back in six week’s time and you knew you’d FaceTime him almost everyday. Still, you absorbed the curve of his jaw, the roundness of his nose, his big lips, dimpled on each end, green eyes so pale in the morning light, the few golden curls peeking out from below his beanie. You memorised every detail as best you could.

“I’ll see you soon. I love you,” he purred, his tone soft but strong.

You smiled; it felt right hearing those words. It felt right to say them. “I love you, Ben.”

With one last kiss you turned away from him, stealing a glance before you headed to security only to see him watching you leave. You waved, and he raised his hand in reply, subdued, resigned. And you rounded the corner and he was gone.

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[acrostical]

Safe Haven

On December 8, 1941—the day after “a date which will live in infamy”—then-president Aurelia Henry Reinhardt wrote a letter to all Mills families. With the hindsight of nearly 80 years, it’s a surreal read; the main point of the letter was not to offer solace or organize war efforts, but to reassure parents that the Mills campus was unlikely to face any danger from a Japanese attack. “The English Channel is 26 miles wide; New York is 3,500 miles from Europe; California is 5,500 miles from Japan and 2,500 miles from our nearest possession in the Hawaiian group,” she wrote. “May I assure you that there exists no reason to change in any way the schedule and curriculum of this college in the spring term which begins Monday, January 5.”

At that point, no one knew that many students of Japanese descent would soon opt to leave Mills, hoping to avoid separation from their families as they were forced into internment camps across the United States. In the years leading up to World War II, President Reinhardt had approached a number of European artists and intellectuals to offer them a place at Mills as the Third Reich marched across the continent and sent to concentration camps anyone it deemed a threat, including Darius Milhaud and other notable figures in the College’s history, but that welcoming spirit couldn’t protect some of her own students.

When it comes to political and cultural forces outside the campus gates, the College has historically been limited in what it can do to protect its students. But as an institution, Mills has long welcomed members of marginalized communities, and outside restrictions have not altered the campus culture of acceptance.

In recent years, the term “sanctuary” has become a buzzword in our charged political environment. But in a historical sense, the concept originated with the sacred. In ancient Greece, spaces that honored the gods provided some measure of immunity to individuals escaping laws of the state (with limited success), and in Rome, Romulus established a zone on Capitoline Hill where asylum seekers from other places could find refuge. For centuries, places of worship have operated as spaces where people could take shelter, and it’s still happening today—churches around the world house migrants seeking to avoid deportation back to war-torn homelands.

The idea of sanctuary gained popularity in the United States in the 1980s when Central Americans began to flee their home countries in the wake of civil unrest, but Mills took on the responsibility of offering it 60 years earlier in the early days of World War II. In the 1961 book Aurelia Henry Reinhardt: Portrait of a Whole Woman, Chaplain George Hedley wrote that President Reinhardt contacted the Emergency Committee in Aid of Displaced German Scholars (later Foreign Scholars) to invite intellectuals to Mills as soon as Hitler took power in Germany in 1933. Hedley noted that legends were told of Reinhardt physically transporting those scholars to campus herself.

A number of professors soon made their way to Oakland, including Alfred Neumeyer, who taught art history and directed what was then the Art Gallery, and the married couple Bernhard Blume and Carlotta Rosenberg. A German playwright, Bernhard headed up the German Department at Mills until 1945, and Rosenberg was a proponent of educating workers and women.

Of course, the most well-known Mills expats were the musician Darius Milhaud and his wife, Madeleine. In speaking with the author Roger Nichols in 1991, Madeleine detailed her family’s reaction when the Nazis entered Paris in June 1940: “We knew… that Milhaud was among the first on a list of intellectuals to be arrested because he was well known in Germany as a Jewish composer, and also because he did not share their right-wing ideals.”

The Milhauds made their way to Lisbon with plans to fly to New York, using an invitation from the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to obtain visas. But upon arrival in Portugal, their plane tickets were declared invalid because they had been bought with French francs. The three—Darius, Madeleine, and their son—were just about to board an American freighter to cross the Atlantic when a telegram arrived with an offer to teach at Mills. The San Francisco-based French conductor Pierre Monteux had contacted President Reinhardt after learning that Milhaud was fleeing to America and connected the two.

Milhaud cabled his acceptance of the position and, a few months after arriving on campus, Dean of Faculty Dean Rusk (later US Secretary of State during the Vietnam War) wrote to the State Department to plead his case for Milhaud’s continued residency in the United States, which hinged on his history of contribution to the arts. Milhaud taught on and off at Mills from 1940 until 1971.

Milhaud’s influence on the Music Department (and the rest of the College) is well known, though he was not the only academic who molded Mills in indelible ways during this time. Helene Mayer, a champion German fencer at the 1928 Olympics, was studying at Scripps College when Hitler rose to power in her home country. She then enrolled at Mills for a master’s in French. While on campus studying for her MA and, later, teaching German literature, she founded the Mills College Fencing Club, jump-starting an organization that lasted for decades. And it’s to the credit of these scholars that the German Department at Mills built a strong enough foundation to eventually send many of its students abroad as Fulbright scholars.

The situation with students of Japanese descent was not nearly as easy to solve, however, with President Franklin D. Roosevelt establishing internment camps less than three months after the Pearl Harbor attack.

Alumnae who were at Mills during the attack remember that day as a sunny one, with word of the incident filtering in as they arrived back in their residence halls after Sunday chapel service. Japanese American students soon found their freedoms curtailed bit by bit, starting with an Army-ordered curfew that restricted their movement even on the Mills campus.

May Ohmura Watanabe ’44, who was born in California to American citizens, wrote about her experiences in multiple issues of the Quarterly. “I remember Dr. Hedley, the chaplain, was very upset and angry. I can still feel his hand tightly holding mine, his body slightly bent forward as he hurried to look at the curfew proclamation posted on the telephone pole just outside the campus,” she wrote in 1985. “He even took me to the Army’s headquarters in San Francisco to protest and to state his disbelief. All in vain.”

Watanabe soon left Mills and returned home to Chico so that she wouldn’t be sent to a different internment camp than her parents and brother. She spent a year at the Tule Lake Relocation Center near the Oregon border, then was released as part of a program allowing some detainees to work or attend school in special approved zones. Watanabe was allowed to transfer her credits to Syracuse University, where she studied nursing. “I remember the special arrangements Mills made for me before evacuation to take my exams in Chico supervised by my high school dean,” she wrote.

The late Grace Fujii Kikuchi ’42 made a similar choice to leave Mills to avoid separation from her family. As a senior, she was more easily able to bring her time at Mills to a close, though it wasn’t a happy time. “My professors at Mills had arranged for me to take my [exam] at a nearby high school,” she wrote in the same Quarterly issue. “All I know is that I was graduated in absentia with my class. Not to be able to attend my commencement after four hard years of work was a bitter disappointment to me.”

The frustrations of the Mills administration during this era were captured in a play by Catherine Ladnier ’70, which she based on actual letters President Reinhardt received from students who left the College due to World War II, including Japanese American students in internment camps. Titled A Future Day of Radiant Peace, the play details the personal turmoil these students experienced as they abandoned their bustling lives at Mills for the uncertainty of the camps. It also demonstrates what little power anyone on campus had to prevent the exodus.

In the aftermath of the war, however, Mills was able to provide sanctuary to several students whose home countries were suffering. Catherine Cambessedes Colburn ’47 and Noramah Sumakno Peksopoetranto ’56 traveled to the College from France and Indonesia, respectively. In the spring 1997 issue of the Quarterly, Colburn wrote about the strangeness of going from a country recovering from war to a land of plenty.

“Mills had sent a list of what I would need, and I owned next to none of the items, nor could I get them. Coupons, given out rarely, were required to buy anything. Besides, the stores were next to empty,” she wrote. “I exchanged my wine ration with a friend for her fabric coupon and my cigarette ration with another for hers, and got enough material for two clothing items.”

Peksopoetranto earned her opportunity to attend Mills through a one-year scholarship from the Edward H. Hazen Foundation. At the end of the year, Dean Anna Hawkes offered her room and board for a bachelor’s degree in education; she spent that summer staying in the home of Librarian Elizabeth Reynolds.

On October 29, 2018—two days after 11 were killed in a shooting at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania—President Elizabeth L. Hillman sent an email to the Mills community. In it, she harkened back to the College’s history of providing sanctuary to Jewish scholars during World War II and the inspiration they provided to generations of students. “Higher education institutions like Mills have a special role to play in creating and sharing knowledge across boundaries of faith, race, gender, and background,” she wrote. “We can only fulfill our mission when everyone in our community is safe, respected, and able to grow and learn.”

In the last few years, President Hillman has sent a number of similar emails to the campus community after attacks, in the United States and abroad, that have targeted historically marginalized groups. According to Dean of Students Chicora Martin, the typical campus response finds its roots in Mills history. “Whenever an incident happens, we’re among a community where people may not always know what to do, but they are prepared to do something,” they said. “It’s part of our culture.”

“In times of immense crisis and identity-based violence, there is this depth of emotion and despair, but also a desire to be in community,” says Dara Olandt, campus chaplain and director of spiritual and religious life. “It has been very moving for me to see the ways in which students have offered leadership and shown up for each other.”

Olandt attributes the campus-wide attitude of acceptance and protection to the College’s past religiosity—in particular, President Reinhardt was the first woman moderator of the American Unitarian Association. (Olandt herself was ordained by the Unitarian Universalist church.) The chapel “is a refuge, and a place of deep hospitality. That’s what the forebears [who created] this chapel were really about,” Olandt says. “There’s power in this symbolic place where people are welcome in the fullness of their lives, no matter their identities.”

She also counsels those who travel to Mills from outside the country and hail from distinctly different societal and religious backgrounds than their US-born peers. That demographic has naturally been part of the student body for decades, but provides a different set of challenges due to the requirements of F-1 and J-1 student entry visas. Dean Martin serves as the principal designated school official on the Mills campus, so they are the first point of contact for the US government. “Every year, we have someone who can’t make it here because they can’t get a visa,” they say. “There are lots of restrictions with international students, and there’s a lot of documentation that you have to provide just for them to do normal-ish things, like getting a Social Security card or a driver’s license.”

Over the last four years, the legal status of undocumented students has been called into question across the country, and as a Hispanic Serving Institution, Mills has been prompted to respond. Under the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program, which began in 2012, undocumented immigrants who arrived in the US before they turned 18 could be granted renewable two-year periods where they would not be deported. When Donald Trump was elected to the presidency, he pledged to end the program—and set off a chain reaction at colleges and universities across the country, which became known as the “sanctuary campus” movement.

On November 16, 2016, President Hillman was one of hundreds of signatories to the Statement in Support of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) Program, which underscored the contributions that its recipients have made to college communities across the country. “America needs talent—and these students, who have been raised and educated in the United States, are already part of our national community,” the statement reads. “They represent what is best about America, and as scholars and leaders they are essential to the future.”

Hillman also joined with more than two dozen college leaders in December 2017 as founding members of the Presidents’ Alliance on Higher Education and Immigration, which advocates for fair treatment of DACA and international students, and she continues to contribute to amicus briefs compiled by the alliance on behalf of DACA students.

In practical terms, Martin says that Mills provides grants to affected DACA students to cover the legal paperwork required to renew their statuses, and the College will provide financial assistance to any undocumented student in the same amount the student would have received from a Pell Grant, which is a federal program and therefore off-limits to non-citizens.

But in terms of sanctuary? If immigration officials asked Mills to turn over student records, the College is theoretically protected by the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act (FERPA), which prohibits the disclosure of student information, including immigration status, to parties beyond those that need to know for the purposes of that student’s education. Nothing like that has happened yet, but administrators say that it’s really not the point. The last few years have, in the end, cemented the kind of institution Mills wants to be.

“We were asking questions about our own values. The government’s now actively not supporting [these] students, so we have to come out very strongly with concrete statements and actions that clarify for our community where our values lie,” Martin says.

“Aurelia Reinhardt was deeply motivated by her values, which had roots in her religious and spiritual background,” Olandt adds. “She was very much anchored in a spirit of service and what we call today solidarity with marginalized folks. How can we uphold the best of humanity and live a moral and ethical life in the face of challenge?”

[theangrypokemaniac]

Then Ambipom showed up, and the little miss wasn't half so bad in retrospect.

I never felt too keen on Aipom. It was okay but that inane grin possessed a sinister edge, like Tony Blair after the '97 election.

Bloody hell, what's that?

Yer tail's got more fingers than you!

Nasty thing this freak:

• Teeth like bathroom tiles.

• Grimace about as reassuring as an escaped mental patient peering in the window.

• Chevron nose implying a porcine snout.

• Tail ends like silicon knockers, each sporting a trio of red-raw teats.

• Screechy, gurgling cackle.

• Bobbing up and down, heaving, like a Steamboat Willie reject.

It's the voice mainly. The cheap attempt rolled out by The Pokémon Company ruins much of it for me.

Aipom began Sinnoh as Ash's Pokémon, but so enamoured was she of the whole Contest palaver, and with no chance of joining whilst still in his custody, the decision was made to trade her for Buizel.

I repeat: she left Ash, whom she clearly cared about, given the hat antics, because Contests were a wondrous jewel in her eyes.

It did then anyway. The boss-eyed ugliness is more of an issue now.

It was all going so swimmingly. Dawn and Ambipom made a grand team, sticking it to Ursula and Gabite good and proper.

That is, until she made the mistake of entering a table tennis event.

Really? To this we are reduced?

Remember that. It's important for later.

His name is O.

It is not. That's blatantly an alias for ulterior motives.

What's he up to, sneaking about under a pseudonym of evident fabrication?

O? Yer couldn't even think up a proper sobriquet for this devilish creep?

It's all Barry's fault, the bitch.

I consider folk who fanny hither and thither, referring to themselves by initials only, to be insufferably pretentious.

T.A.P. won't have it on this blog.

Dawn progresses with ease, thoroughly thrashing opponents, for Ambipom reveals herself to be quite the skilled operator.

With no fingers, no wrists, and no joints. Just the palms.

As if!

How can Shiftry be a champion? Look at it, man!

Alright, it's not so severe a drawback as Oddish, who had No Bloody Arms, but it ain't much of an improvement.

It's got no bloody hands!

Yet they come up against real competition at the close, for O and Shiftry are legends of the art.

It's a master ping-pong player... with No Bloody Hands?!

You're 'avin me on here!

What's it meant to do, slap away with a frond?

How?! There's no bloody bones in them there leaves!

Can't have a cup of tea with them, can yer?!

What a surprise, Dawn loses in the final.

Something else to fail at then?

Oh come on love, can't you do anything right?

Then O guilt trips her. Apparently the shrieking simian is a natural talent, but her deadweight presence is cramping its style.

Charming.

Ambipom is given the choice: spotlight and seals or bats and balls. She picks the latter.

Each time the ball approaches, either it'll just bend the foliage, or, when aflame, burn a hole right through, and Shiftry would go up like a woollen nightgown!

Of course she does. The compelling story arc of twenty minutes could lead only to this conclusion.

Aipom gives up entering Contests, a career she adored, in preference for a thing no one knew existed before this single episode, even if it means parting from all of her friends forever.

Perfectly logical thought process there.

Two options:

1. Contests are crap. They look all flash at a distance but it's a soulless procedure.

Ambipom twigged this early on, jumping ship at the first opportunity to escape a lifetime of feudal drudgery under Dawn's baronial whip hand.

O claims to run his own ping-pong school, because in these parts that's how people fill the empty hours waiting for death.

Bizarrely it's situated in Vermilion City.

I know. It's on a entirely different continent to Dawn, as if they don't want her visiting.

Back in day Ash and Brock almost died trying to reach said settlement. It ain't easy even for them.

Oh Vermilion City! Of course it is! I remember it so well now from Electric Shock Showdown.

Lieutenant Surge loves a game of ping-pong! Him and Raichu batter fragile Pidgey and Rattata all day then unwind with a bit of back-and-forth paddle-whacking.

He's at every hour under the sun with the Fishing Guru and Fan Club Chairman.

2. The writers responsible are baggy-arsed oafs and this is the most inept exit in the show.

Yeah, and I bet O's vehicle is the one hiding Mew.

Ah! That's the explanation I've waited for!

Disembarking from the Saint Anne? It's the first place you go when in town.

Captain, calm thy sick, and Sailors, put down those women of ill repute. There's pongs to be pinged.

A likely scenario as ever I did see.

Or is it?

Well, well, well. This tissue of lies is unravelling before me.

• Calls himself O?

• Has such a mundane, yet ludicrous profession?

• Works with a disabled Pokémon incapable of the very action for which it is famed?

• Professes to own an establishment we know from past experience isn't there?

• Enters the aforesaid competition, immediately targeting his favoured prey?

• Grooms Ambipom with flattery, adding a reduction in status by beating her, inspiring a useful hunger for better?

• Emotionally manipulates a young girl into surrendering her Pokémon?

• Shows no remorse in removing an animal from her family?

• Travels thousands of miles from home, keen to avoid recognition by fellow countrymen?

• Supposed base happens to be in a city difficult to access for Dawn?

• Oh, and a port town to boot, stamping ground of smugglers passing illegal goods, like exotic pets and contraband?

• Disappears on a bus, never to be seen again?

The evidence is piling up!

He ain't no ping-pong player! He's scouting for specimens for his animal research lab!

Ambipom's gonna get stuffed and placed in a cabinet for snotty students to study!

Hey, science man. Anything's justified in its name. The future's now thanks to it.

Thumbs up from Pope Clemont.

Could be worse. Could be talentless twat Damien Hirst picking up creatures to bisect in a vat of formaldehyde for the pleasure of a lot of beard-stroking bourgeoisie.

If I were Ash I'd be well aggrieved at the entire situation.

You give away yer best chimp, assuming it'll be safe with a friend, and she gifts it to the vivisectionist!

Oi bitch, yer wanna take the shirt off his back too?

You should've handed it to Jessie when asked. She never would've done such a thing.

She cares.

She just dumps all hers in the tender embrace of H.Q. and forgets.

Might be dead now. Much better.

What is it about Sinnoh? Chimchar gets grief, and Aipom's headed for China's cruelty-free wet markets.

From Poffin to coffin: aye-aye-aye.

Mmm-mmm: Mashed Ape coming to a dinner plate near you.

I tell yer, shameless spanking of monkeys going on all over.

But lo, the somewhat misnamed Galar region is set in Vermilion City!

Obviously Ambipom will be at Chloë's for a cup of tea and a banana on a regular basis.

Yep, definitely will happen. No doubt about it. We're due a remake of Diamond and Pearl after all.

Should that come to fruition, any old excuse to promote it on screen will do.

I'm handing yer that loose story strand, Game Freak!

Any time now. The first day Ash was in town he raced to the famous ping-pong school round the corner.

He couldn't resist, not when he hadn't bothered to visit in three previous generations.

It's coming. It will. Just wait a minute.

...

That's right, you wave goodbye. That's the last we'll be seeing of 'er outside of a packed lunch with mustard.

No? Again I give you two options:

1. What choo expecting canon coherence from this shower for?

I keep telling yer: when a new era begins it erases all that has gone before. That's why they explain the concept of Pokémon EVERY SINGLE BLOODY TIME.

2. It is consistent, and Ambipom can't return as her skin's decorating a fine Gucci handbag.

Plus the rest of her made a top-notch tin of dog food.

[joan-frias]

Ressurection

A Gohan x Videl Fanfiction

Author’s Note: I continued using the name Shin for the Supreme Kai because it's shorter to type. Yeah, there's no other reason for that.

BABIDI'S SHIP, SOUTHERN CONTINENT

The three Saiyans continue to fight Babidi's henchmen. This time, it's Gohan's turn to fight Dabura.

DABURA: Do you dare mock me? You?

GOHAN: I'm more than enough to fight you, and you'll understand that once we start.

DABURA: (sneers) Let's start, then.

Everyone is transported outside the ship. Gohan smiles confidently at Dabura. The evil king sneers back.

Gohan attacks Dabura. He was able to hold himself out against the King of Evilness, who has his own tricks up his sleeves, too. He can fight, use magic and even energy attacks making Gohan lose his gi and his temper as well.

GOKU: Was that magic?

SHIN: Yes. Dabura can use magic as well, although I suspect he got some help from Babidi.

GOKU: He's stronger than I thought.

VEGETA: He's not strong enough that we can't beat him. Gohan's just lost his touch. He's way stronger than the time with Cell.

GOKU: I guess he stopped training, that's why.

VEGETA: This is starting to piss me off!

Dabura can sense the discussion that's happening with Goku and Vegeta. He looks at their direction, and that's the opening that Gohan was looking for. He attacks, but Dabura was able to counter. Since he is slightly distracted, he just did the best attack he could at the moment, and that is to spit at Gohan.

SHIN: Watch out!

Gohan was able to dodge, but not entirely. His left glove caught the spit, slowly turning into a stone. He immediately removes it.

Dabura then attacks with a sword, which Gohan catches with his hands. After some resistance Gohan was able to break it.

VEGETA: That's it! I'm not waiting for this foolish game anymore! I'm going to end this once and for all!

GOKU: Stop it, Vegeta! Gohan is holding himself up.

VEGETA: I'm losing my patience, Kakarot! Your son is not doing what should be done!

Once again, Dabura senses Vegeta's ire at that moment. He stops fighting, leaving Gohan hanging.

VEGETA: I'm going to finish that Dabura so we can move on with our fight. That is the only reason why I came here in this stupid tournament in the first place.

DABURA: (on his mind) Lord Babidi, I know a better way to revive Majin Buu. Bring me back in immediately.

In an instant, the group was brought back inside the ship. Dabura immediately proceeds to the lone door in the room.

GOHAN: Hey! Where are you going?

DABURA: We've found an ideal opponent for you. He'll be fighting you instead.

GOHAN: Huh?

Dabura enters the door, leaving the group in shock.

GOHAN: What does he mean by that?

GOKU: It seems like they have found another warrior.

GOHAN: Found?

The Supreme Kai suddenly has a realization.

SHIN: (on his mind) Oh no! Please let my guess be wrong...

He glances back at Vegeta, who at the moment is becoming more pissed.

SHIN: (on his mind) If I am right, then these two must fight their own friend. This is getting worse than I have planned!

GOKU: Maybe they were searching while you were fighting Dabura.

VEGETA: So they have an arsenal of warriors that they can just pull out whenever they want? Why did they bring out Dabura at first, then?

GOKU: Maybe the other fighter is not yet ready?

VEGETA: That is stupid, Kakarot! These people are obviously planning something.

GOKU: Will you calm down a little? Your impatience will not solve anything.

VEGETA: Your son made me lose my temper! Did you see how he fought? He's not even close to what he was when he's a kid. That's what happens when you stop training.

GOKU: It's not like he needs to train at all. The world's at peace.

VEGETA: And why are we here now?

GOKU: This is something unexpected.

VEGETA: Kakarot, don't be foolish! Not all catastrophes can be predicted. That is why they are called emergencies. It's not every day that we have some warning from the future. We have to be ready all the time.

GOKU: I understand your concern, but Gohan just lived the way his mother wants.

VEGETA: So you're saying that this is your wife's fault?

GOKU: No! Chi-Chi has her reasons. Gohan leaves here on Earth and it's just normal for a kid like him to go to school and study.

VEGETA: He's not an ordinary kid and your wife should understand that. He's the only one who could help the Earth in case something like this appears because unfortunately, you chose to be dead.

GOKU: I did not choose to die! It was the best solution at the time. You might not understand because you don't have the weight of being responsible for the people of the world! And that is because all you can think off is yourself!

VEGETA: What did you just say?

Vegeta is about to attack Goku, and the latter is ready to counter. The Supreme Kai goes in between to pacify them.

SHIN: That's enough! The last thing we need now is to argue with each other. You can settle your differences after we're done here, but for now let's focus on the problem that's in front of us.

GOHAN: I'm sorry...

The three looks at Gohan.

GOHAN: Vegeta's right... I've gone useless.

GOKU: That's not true.

GOHAN: I've been messing up since that moment that I refused to kill Cell because I let my pride take over me. If only I have been smarter that time, then Dad... you might not have died.

Goku goes to Gohan and holds him by his shoulders.

GOKU: You were a kid. Even grownups like me make wrong decisions sometimes. Don't blame yourself for everything.

Shin once again glances at Vegeta.

SHIN: (on his mind) His temper is still rising. That anger of him will get us in trouble.

GOKU: What we need to think right now is how we can-

VEGETA: Ugh!

Vegeta starts screaming while holding his head. It's like he's having a bad headache.

SHIN: Vegeta! (on his mind) Just as I've expected.

GOKU: What's happening?

SHIN: Vegeta! Keep hold of yourself! Babidi is trying to control your mind!

GOKU: What?

SHIN: Don't let him totally get inside your head! Clear your mind, Vegeta! Don't let him possess you!

VEGETA: Shut! Up!

Vegeta continues to struggle. The force is too great he turns into a Super Saiyan. Until he screams the loudest, then stops struggling. He is panting as he slowly looks into them.

The three is shocked. Vegeta's face is now changed to a more evil appearance. His eyes got more sharp, and there's a letter M written on his forehead symbolizing the total control of Babidi over him.

GOKU: Vegeta!

SHIN: This is bad!

Suddenly, the group was transported to a place that was meant to be Goku and Vegeta's fighting arena. They were brought back to the World Martial Arts Tournament. Mr. Satan is being awarded with the champion prize, when Goku, Gohan, Shin and Vegeta suddenly pops out of nowhere.

GOHAN: This is...

GOKU: We're back at the tournament!

The audience were shocked to see the sudden appearance of the four individuals.

ANNOUNCER: Excuse me, but where have you been? The competition has ended.

MR. SATAN: Yeah! You've been gone too long you were disqualified.

Up in the bleachers, Videl and the group notice Goku and the others.

YAMCHA: Look guys! They're back!

MASTER ROSHI: Hmn... Why does it feel like something is happening?

VEGETA: (to himself) Shut up! My only concern is to fight Kakarot! No one else matters!

GOHAN: Huh?

GOKU: Vegeta... who are you talking to?

SHIN: (on his mind) Huh? Could it be... Vegeta is disobeying Babidi?

Mr. Satan sees Vegeta, and he suddenly freezes as realization hits him.

MR. SATAN: (on his mind) Wait! Those people... they are those men during the Cell Games!

Vegeta suddenly blasts off an area of the bleachers.

GOKU: Hey!

Vegeta looks at Goku, then blasts off another energy attack. Goku tries to hold the blast, but it was too powerful he loses control. It goes to another area of the bleachers, blasting it off as well.

GOKU: Vegeta! Stop it!

Vegeta just sneers. The audience starts running, fearing they might end up just like the others who died because of those two blasts.

BULMA: (to herself) What is he doing? (shouts out) Vegeta! What in the world are you doing?

Vegeta hears Bulma. He suddenly becomes quiet.

GOHAN: Vegeta! What do you think you're doing? Those are innocent people out there.

VEGETA: Kakarot, fight me. Or else, the others will die as well.

Goku assesses Vegeta.

GOKU: Vegeta... did you let Babidi possess you on purpose?

Instead of answering, Vegeta just blasts the bleachers once again, nearly missing Bulma and the others. Goku and Gohan see their families and friends almost getting hit. It made Goku flare up he suddenly turns into a Super Saiyan.

SHIN: Goku! Don't do it! This is actually what Babidi wants to happen. He'll harness your energies while you fight each other and use it to wake up Majin Buu.

But no one is listening to the Supreme Kai.

GOKU: (to Vegeta) You wanted to get stronger to push me to my own limits. Am I right?

GOHAN: What?

VEGETA: You're only here for a day. If I don't do this then we won't get a chance to fight.

SHIN: That's just it? You did all this stupid thing for your crazy whim?

VEGETA: It's everything to me! I don't care about that Majin Buu or anything! I live to defeat Kakarot! (points at Goku) He always surpass me! Even though we're both Saiyans, he always leaves me in the dust. Me, the prince, is being defeated by a mere low ranking warrior! Do you think that's just nothing to me? It's unforgivable! I'll fight until I make him pay for always hurting my pride, and I won't stop even if it means this world will end and the people will die because of that stupid monster you're trying to stop from reviving!

Goku looks at Vegeta, and thinking he cannot do anything anymore, he finally makes his decision. He powers up into Super Saiyan 2.

GOKU: Babidi! Take us out of here! I'm going to fight Vegeta, but only if you take us where no one will get hurt!

The Supreme Kai goes between Goku and Vegeta.

SHIN: Do you think I'll let that happen just like that?

Goku looks at the Supreme Kai.

SHIN: If you want to fight him, then you have to kill me first.

Goku looks at the Supreme Kai, as if considering his threat. Suddenly, he extends his arms towards him ready to fire an energy attack. Everyone is dumbfounded.

GOHAN: D-Dad...

Goku starts to gather energy on his hand as he looks fiercely at Supreme Kai, not backing out. In the end it's the god who surrendered.

SHIN: Fine... Do as you wish...

GOKU: I'm sorry, Supreme Kai.

In that instant, the four of them are transported back to another location.

VIDEL: They disappeared again.

CHI-CHI: Oh Goku... Gohan...

BULMA: (on her mind) Vegeta... what have you done?

SOMEWHERE ON EARTH

The four were transported to a place where there are no people or any living creature around. Surprisingly, the tunnel to Babidi's ship can be seen on the ground as well.

SHIN: Alright, you two. Since nothing can stop you, then do as you wish. Fight as hard as you want. Me and Gohan will try to fight Dabura and Babidi and stop the egg from hatching. There's nothing else we can do as of this moment. It's better this way than letting it reach it's full power before hatching. If we're lucky then we'll be able to stop Majin Buu from being resurrected.

Vegeta suddenly struggles again.

GOHAN: What's happening?

VEGETA: (to himself) No! I don't care about the Supreme Kai! I only want to fight Kakarot!

Then he seems to be struggling again.

VEGETA: Ngahh... Arrghh... I said I only want to fight Kakarot! I'm the prince of all Saiyans! I won't be your slave! Even though you've taken over my body and soul, you won't be able to take my pride!

SHIN: (on him mind) I can't believe it! Vegeta can hold off against Babidi's control.

The circular door on the floor suddenly opens.

GOHAN: It's open!

SHIN: It seems they want us to face them.

GOHAN: Okay, let's go... Bye Dad.

GOKU: Okay, do your best... By the way, I still have two senzu beans. Eat one. You used a lot of energy during your last fight.

GOHAN: Thanks Dad.

Gohan eats the senzu bean.

GOKU: Gohan, remember how you unleash your strength. Get angry. Think of that time you fought Cell. If you do that again, then no one can beat you.

GOHAN: Ok, Dad... It's too bad things turn out like this. We've waited for this day to come and then...

Goku smiles sadly.

GOHAN: Bye, Dad.

Gohan and the Supreme Kai jumps into the hole on the floor. They were transported back inside Babidi's ship. All the doors going down are opened, so they just continued jumping down. Until they are faced with Babidi and Dabura.

BABIDI: You finally arrived.

Gohan looks at the pink orb behind Babidi and Dabura.

GOHAN: Is that...

SHIN: Yes.

BABIDI: I always looked forward to meeting the killer of my father. Welcome, Supreme Kai.

SHIN: We're here to stop you from resurrecting Majin Buu.

BABIDI: I figured that already. Unfortunately for you two, I have Dabura.

SHIN: Gohan... let's hurry. We have to destroy the sphere before they are able to absorb Goku's energy and implant it to Buu. I'll take Babidi.

GOHAN: Okay.

BABIDI: Buu is about to come out once he reached full power. I don't want to destroy my ship so let's get outside.

SHIN: Whatever you want.

The four were transported to an open area, including the sphere where Majin Buu is sealed.

Gohan remembers his father's advice.

GOKU: (voice over) Gohan, remember how you unleash your strength. Get angry. Think of that time you fought Cell. If you do that again, then no one can beat you.

GOHAN: (on his mind) I'm angry... but... it's not like before...

He turns into a Super Saiyan.

BABIDI: Supreme Kai, may I just inform you that I'm not like my father. My magical powers are stronger than him. And aside from that I have Dabura.

The sphere suddenly creates a weird noise.

BABIDI: What is that? (goes to the sphere) It can't be! It's too soon for it to hatch.

SHIN: Huh?

GOHAN: What's he saying?

BABIDI: He's in full power! Buu's at full power! Buu... is going to be resurrected!

GOHAN: What?

SHIN: It can't be... How can Goku's damage energy get that high immediately?

GOHAN: Damage energy?

SHIN: Babidi feeds Majin Buu with damage energy emanating from Goku fighting Vegeta.

GOHAN: Then that is why!

SHIN: What do you mean?

GOHAN: Dad and Vegeta might be fighting now on a level beyond Super Saiyan. With such power comes greater damage. That is the reason why Babidi was able to harness that much damage energy on a short period of time.

SHIN: Oh no! I made a mistake! I shouldn't have let them!

Around the sphere are small holes, and steam suddenly comes out of those holes.

BABIDI: He's coming out! Buu's coming out!

The holes around the sphere continues to give out pink steam. The ground is already shaking.

SHIN: Gohan, this is not good! Let's run while we still can!

GOHAN: And then, what? We can't just leave like this.

SHIN: Even if we stay here, it will be useless! No one can beat Buu, not even you!

GOHAN: But, Supreme Kai...

BABIDI: He's here! I can see him! He's coming out!

SHIN: Gohan! Let's go!

GOHAN: (on his mind) I was given such power... I can't just run away and do nothing!

Gohan powers up.

SHIN: What are you doing?

GOHAN: Supreme Kai! I can't just leave doing nothing!

Gohan blasts off an energy attack on the sphere, sending it up in the air. When the blast disappears, the sphere falls into the ground. It rolled around as if nothing happens. Then it breaks into two.

BABIDI: He's coming out!

Faint smoke comes out of the sphere, but there's no sign of Majin Buu or any creature on it.

BABIDI: It's empty... it shouldn't be!

SHIN: Ha... ha! It seems we're still lucky. It seems that Buu has been sealed away for too long, he was not ready for that attack. He was destroyed!

BABIDI: No... come out, Buu! I order you to come out!

DABURA: It's okay, Lord Babidi. You still have me, and let's not forget Vegeta. Though he seems to be stubborn we'll find a way to get around him.

SHIN: Gohan, let's go as planned. You take Dabura and I'll take Babidi. Now's the time for you to get angry. Show them what your true strength is!

GOHAN: (agitated) You're... you're wrong...

SHIN: What?

GOHAN: There's... there's an incredible amount of ki... and it's still increasing... that must be...

Gohan looks up, and he becomes more worried.

SHIN: What do you mean? Gohan!

GOHAN: That smoke! That smoke that came from the sphere!

The Supreme Kai looks up, too. He sees the smoke, and finally understands what Gohan is saying.

BABIDI: What are they looking at?

Babidi and Dabura look up, too.

DABURA: It's just the smoke... Wait, it's coming together.

SHIN: This is... unbelievable!

The pink smoke comes together, and to Gohan's horror, it forms a figure.

BABIDI: That's...

A pink fat being emerges from the cloud. It has an antenna on the head and is wearing white baggy pants with purple cape tied to his neck.

MAJIN BUU: Buu!

Majin Buu goes down to the ground, then looks around innocently.

DABURA: Lord Babidi, is that Majin Buu?

BABIDI: Yeah... I guess. The only one here who have seen him is the Supreme Kai.

GOHAN: Supreme Kai, is that... Majin Buu?

SHIN: He is... I'll never forget that terrifying face.

BABIDI: So it's really him!

DABURA: That's... him?

BABIDI: Hey Buu!

Babidi and Dabura approach Buu.

GOHAN: I thought he might be bigger.

SHIN: It's too late. We can't get away now.

GOHAN: You're probably right... But if my calculations are right, I think I might have a chance.

SHIN: Are you sure?

GOHAN: But only... if I unleash my true strength.

Babidi and Dabura tries to talk to Majin Buu, but it seems like they can't make him cooperate to them. He does not even seem to listen. He just plays around like he's an innocent child.

GOHAN: Supreme Kai, I think you're mistaken.

SHIN: There's no mistake, Gohan. That really is Buu.

GOHAN: But... why does he act like that?

Gohan's doubts has been cleared when Majin Buu suddenly exterminate Dabura.

BABIDI: That was magnificent! Buu, you're spectacular! You easily defeated Dabura!

GOHAN: Buu's ki... it increased so suddenly! He's strong... too strong! I can't believe it!

Babidi continues to talk to Majin Buu, who continues to fool around also.

GOHAN: Supreme Kai, it seems like Buu is still on its child-like phase. If we kill Babidi, then maybe he won't turn so bad.

SHIN: If we do that, then we won't be able to seal again Buu. Babidi's the only one who knows how. You're right, Majin Buu is just too strong. Eventually, Babidi will lose control of him and the last resort is for him to seal him away again.

GOHAN: But for how long? How much damage can they make before that happens?

SHIN: I'm not sure... I'm the Supreme Kai but I myself can do nothing! I loathe myself, especially that all my calculations about defeating Babidi and preventing Buu's resurrection are all wrong. If only I have known you humans possess such great power, I could have thought of another way.

GOHAN: Another way?

SHIN: It's too late. We can't escape now. Neither of us can survive.

GOHAN: We still can get away!

Babidi was able to divert Buu's attention to Gohan and the Supreme Kai. Sensing that, Gohan pulls the Supreme Kai's hand and takes him flying. He accelerates as fast as he can.

SHIN: Gohan!

GOHAN: I'm fast enough to take us out of here!

But to Gohan's horror, and the Supreme Kai as well, Majin Buu was able to keep up to them. Gohan halts upon seeing Majin Buu in front of them.

GOHAN: ... Impossible!

MAJIN BUU: You die!

Majin Buu slaps Gohan. The Saiyan hybrid falls to the ground hard, acquiring great damage. Majin Buu attacks the Supreme Kai next, beating him up.

But before he could kill the god, Gohan was able to come back and with one kick, he was able to free the Supreme Kai from Majin Buu's attacks. But the pink monster seems unaffected.

GOHAN: (to himself) What? He's not hurt at all!

MAJIN BUU: You! I don't like you!

GOHAN: Huh!

MAJIN BUU: Go away!

Gohan tries to punch Buu, but the pink monster releases an energy attack on him. It was so powerful that it sends Gohan to a far forest.

Gohan is still conscious when he landed on lush grassland. He feels too damaged, too weak he knows he will pass out any moment.

GOHAN: (on his mind) How... how did it get to this?

He suddenly remembers the events that led to this. The tournament. His father coming back. His mother pouring her heart out. Goten finally meeting their father. The preliminary round for the Senior Division. Goten and Trunks fighting. Trunks winning. Trunks fighting Mr. Satan. The lunch before the fight. Krillin fighting on the first match. Piccolo forfeiting his match. Videl fighting Spopovich.

GOHAN: (on his mind) Videl...

Videl being beaten up by Spopovich very badly. Videl eating senzu beans his father took from Korin. Videl going to him when he's almost unconscious because almost all his energy was taken by Spopovich and Yamu. Videl flying with him in pursuit of his father and the others. Videl saying goodbye, telling him she likes different.

GOHAN: (on his mind) Videl...

He totally passes out.

PAPAYA ISLAND, EAST OF SOUTHERN CONTINENT

Videl is leaving the World Martial Arts Tournament venue, as with the other people who came to watch and join the tournament. She is about to go inside the airship with Chi-Chi and the others who are friends to Gohan and his family, when she felt like someone is calling her.

Felt, because she heard no sound. She just feels like someone might have called her. He turns to look behind her.

VIDEL: (on her mind) That's...

CHI-CHI: Videl?

Videl looks at Chi-Chi.

CHI-CHI: Is there something wrong?

VIDEL: Nothing... I just... felt something.

CHI-CHI: Are you sure you're coming with us?

VIDEL: Yes.

CHI-CHI: But your father... He might be looking for you.

VIDEL: I wanna be there when Gohan comes back.

Chi-Chi looks at Videl and sensing her determination she finally assents.

CHI-CHI: Okay. Let's go then.

Videl nods at her. Chi-Chi goes into the airship and joins the others. Videl continues climbing the stairs, but before she comes inside, she takes another glance behind her.

VIDEL: (on her mind) Gohan...

As she sits inside the airship, Videl suddenly feels something weird. She puts her hand on her chest, holding the spot near her heart.

VIDEL: (on her mind) Gohan... please come back alive.

[oscopelabs]

The Murder Artist: Alfred Hitchcock At The End Of His Rope by Alice Stoehr

“Rope was an interesting technical experiment that I was lucky and happy to be a part of, but I don’t think it was one of Hitchcock’s better films.” So wrote Farley Granger, one of its two stars, in his memoir Include Me Out. The actor was in his early twenties when the Master of Suspense plucked him from Samuel Goldwyn’s roster. He’d star in the first production from the director’s new Transatlantic Pictures as Phillip Morgan, a pianist and co-conspirator in murder. John Dall would play his partner, homicidal mastermind Brandon Shaw. Granger had the stiff pout to Dall’s trembling smirk.

The “interesting technical experiment” was Hitchcock’s decision to shoot the film, adapted from a twenty-year-old English play, as a series of 10-minute shots stitched together into a simulated feature-length take. This allowed him to retain the stage’s spatial and temporal unities while guiding the audience with the camera’s eye. In the process, he’d embed a host of meta-textual and erotic nuances within the sinister mise-en-scène. Screenwriter Arthur Laurents (Granger’s boyfriend, for a time) updated the play’s fictionalized account of Chicagoan thrill killers Leopold and Loeb to a penthouse in late ‘40s Manhattan. There, Phillip strangles the duo’s friend David—his scream behind a curtain opens the film—immediately prior to a dinner party where they’ll serve pâté atop the box that serves as his coffin. It’s a morbid premise for a comedy of manners, and Brandon taunts his guests throughout the evening. (Asked if it’s someone’s birthday, he coyly replies, “It’s, uh, really almost the opposite.”)

Granger deemed the film lesser Hitchcock due to two limitations. One was the sheer repetition and exact blocking demanded by its formal conceit, the other the Production Code’s blanket ban on “sex perversion,” which meant tiptoeing around the fact that Brandon and Phillip—like their real-life inspirations and, to some degree, Rope’s leading men—were gay. That stringent homophobia forced Hitchcock and Laurents to convey their sexuality through ambiguity and implication; the director would use similar tactics to adapt queer writers like Daphne du Maurier and Patricia Highsmith. (“Hitchcock confessed that he actually enjoyed his negotiations with [Code honcho Joseph] Breen,” notes Thomas Doherty in the book Hollywood’s Censor. “The spirited give-and-take, said Hitchcock, possessed all the thrill of competitive horse trading.”) The nature of the characters’ relationship is hardly subtext: Rope starts with their orgasmic shudder over David’s death, then labored panting after which Brandon pulls out a cigarette and lets in some light. A few minutes later, Brandon strokes the neck of a champagne bottle; Phillip asks how he felt during the act, and he gasps “tremendously exhilarated.”

Like Brandon’s hints about the murder, the homosexuality on display is surprisingly explicit if an audience can decode it. The whole film pivots around their partnership, both criminal and domestic. In an impish bit of conflation, their scheme even stands in for “the love that dare not speak its name,” with David’s body acting as a fetish object in a sexual game no one else can perceive. The guests, as Brandon puts it, are “a dull crew,” “those idiots” who include David’s father and aunt, played by London theater veterans Cedric Hardwicke and Constance Collier. Joan Chandler and Douglas Dick, both a couple years into what would be modest careers, play David’s fiancée Janet and her ex Kenneth. Character actress Edith Evanson appears as housekeeper Mrs. Wilson, a prototype for Thelma Ritter’s Stella in Rear Window, and a top-billed James Stewart is Rupert Cadell, who once mentored the murderers in arcane philosophy.

This was the first of Stewart’s four collaborations with Hitchcock. It cast the actor against type not as a romantic hero but as an observer and provocateur, his gaze shrewd, his dialogue heavy with irony. The role presaged his work in the ‘50s, with Mann rather than Capra, emphasizing psychology over ideology. Rupert, like L.B. Jeffries or Scottie Ferguson, is rooting out a crime, and in so doing comes to seem more loathsome than the villains themselves. “Murder is—or should be—an art,” he lectures midway through Rope, eyebrow arched, martini glass in hand. “Not one of the seven lively perhaps, but an art nevertheless.” Half an hour in real time later, having seen David’s body, he flies into a moralizing monologue: “You’ve given my words a meaning that I never dreamed of!” It takes up the last several minutes of the film, with Rupert snarling from deep in his righteous indignation, “Did you think you were God, Brandon?”

Stewart was a master of sputtering, impassioned oratory, and his facility for it renders Rupert’s hypocrisy especially stark. He taught these murderers; he can’t just shrug off his culpability. The Code decreed that “the sympathy of the audience shall never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, or sin.” Every transgression reaps a punishment. The ending of Rope abides by the letter of this law, as Rupert fires several shots into the night, drawing a police siren toward the building. He sits, deflated, while Phillip plays piano and Brandon has one last drink. But none of David’s loved ones get to excoriate his killers. The one man here with no integrity, no moral authority, is the one who gets the final, self-flagellating word.

The Code forbade throwing sympathy to the side of sin, but if Hitchcock meant any character in Rope as his stand-in, it was Brandon, not Rupert. The top to Phillip’s bottom, he’s the director of the play within a film. He’s storyboarded it to perfection. Janet, realizing he’s toying with her, cries that he’s incapable of just throwing a party. “No, you’d have to add something that appealed to your warped sense of humor!” Hitchcock, who’d built a corpus of corpses, must have gotten a chuckle from that line. Whereas Phillip fears discovery, Brandon puts symbolism above pragmatism, prioritizing what Phillip dubs his “neat little touches.” He needs to have dinner on the chest, the murder weapon tied around antique books, and his surrogate father Rupert in attendance, much as the film’s director needed to shoot in long takes—not because it’s pragmatic, but because it’s beautiful. He went to great lengths for verisimilar beauty here, as Steven Jacobs details in The Wrong House: The Architecture of Alfred Hitchcock. Miniatures in the three-dimensional cyclorama seen through the broad penthouse window were wired and connected to a ‘light organ’ that allowed for the gradual activation of the skyline’s thousands of lights and hundreds of neon signs. Meanwhile, spun-glass clouds were shifted by technicians from right to left during moments when the camera turned away from the window.

Jacobs notes as well that a painting by Fidelio Ponce de León hanging on Brandon and Phillip’s wall actually belonged to the director and had previously hung in his own home. Rope is avant-garde art wrapped in a bourgeois thriller, about avant-garde art wrapped in a dinner party, pushing moral and aesthetic boundaries while collapsing any distinction between the two. In this nested construction, Brandon the murder artist becomes a figure of auto-critique or perhaps apologia. Did you think you were God, Alfred? By 1948, he’d already made dozens of films, often obliquely about sex and violence, across decades and continents. He’d become the world champion sick joke raconteur. Rope is a reckoning with the ethics of his genre.

By 1948, the world had changed. A few years earlier, Hitchcock’s friend (and Rope co-producer) Sidney Bernstein had asked him to advise on a film about Germany’s newly liberated concentration camps. As Kay Gladstone writes in Holocaust and the Moving Image, Hitchcock worried that “tricky editing” would let skeptics read its footage as fraudulent and asked the editors “to use as far as possible long shots and panning shots with no cuts.” The director took his own counsel to heart.

Rope was also his first color film, the start of his fascination with dull palettes. (A quarter-century later he’d limn Frenzy’s London with every shade of beige.) Genteel browns and grays dominate the penthouse, the hues of men’s suits. Only after nightfall does the apartment glow with, in Jacobs’ phrasing, “the expressive possibilities of urban neon light.” The dinner party takes place at the crest of postwar modernity, a world away from the camps. Here, among the East Coast intelligentsia, murder’s merely a thought experiment. When David’s father mentions Hitler, Brandon dismisses him as “a paranoiac savage.” Yet even in polite society, the evening can begin with a secret killing and end with that iniquity brought to light. “Perhaps what is called civilization is hypocrisy,” says Brandon. “Perhaps,” David’s father concedes.

In 1948, the world was changing. That year saw the publication of Gore Vidal’s landmark gay novel The City and the Pillar and the first of the Kinsey Reports. Antonioni was a documentarian about to make his first feature; Truffaut was a delinquent catching Hitchcock movies at the Cinémathèque. Rope’s amorality and pitch-black humor augur a world and a cinema that were yet to come. It’s thorny gay art through a straight auteur. The film’s last thirty seconds show Rupert’s back to the camera while Brandon sips his cocktail and Phillip plays a tune, the trio lit by flashing neon. In this denouement lie decadence and damnation, art and death, the Code-closeted past and a disaffected future.