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usergreenpixel · 4 years ago

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JACOBIN FICTION CONVENTION MEETING 1: La Seine no Hoshi (1975)

1. Introduction

Well, dear reader, here it is. My first ever official review. And, as promised, this is one of the pieces of Frev media that you have likely never heard of before.

So, without further ado, sit down, relax, grab drinks and snacks and allow me to tell you about an anime called “La Seine no Hoshi” (The Star of the Seine).

“La Seine no Hoshi” is a children’s anime series made by Studio Sunrise. It consists of 39 episodes and was originally broadcast in Japan from April 4th to December 26th of 1975.

Unlike its more famous contemporary, a manga called “Rose of Versailles” that had begun being released in 1972 and is considered a classic to this day, “La Seine no Hoshi” has stayed relatively obscure both in the world of anime and among other Frev pop culture.

Personally, the only reason why I found out about its existence was the fact that I actively seek out everything Frev-related and I just happened to stumble upon the title on an anime forum several years ago.

So far, the anime has been dubbed into Italian, French, German and Korean but there is no English or even Spanish dub so, unfortunately, people who do not speak fluent Japanese or any other aforementioned language are out of luck ( if anyone decides to make a fandub of the series, call me). That being said, the series is readily available in dubs and the original version on YouTube, which is where I ended up watching it. The French dub calls the anime “La Tulipe Noire” (The Black Tulip), which could be an homage to the movie with the same name that takes place in the same time period.

Unfortunately, while I do speak Japanese well enough to maintain a basic conversation and interact with people in casual daily situations, I’m far from fluent in the language so the version I watched was the French dub, seeing as I am majoring in French.

So, with all of this info in mind, let’s find out what the story is about and proceed to the actual review.

2. The Summary

(Note: Names of the characters in the French dub and the original version differ so I will use names from the former since that’s what I watched)

The story of “La Seine no Hoshi” revolves around a 15-year old girl called Mathilde Pasquier - a daughter of two Parisian florists who helps her parents run their flower shop and has a generally happy life.

But things begin to change when Comte de Vaudreuil, an elderly Parisian noble to whom Mathilde delivers flowers in the second episode, takes her under his wing and starts teaching her fencing for an unknown reason and generally seems to know more about her than he lets on.

Little does Mathilde know, those fencing lessons will end up coming in handy sooner than she expected. When her parents are killed by corrupt nobles, the girl teams up with Comte de Vaudreuil’s son, François, to fight against corruption as heroes of the people, all while the revolution keeps drawing near day by day and tensions in the city are at an all time high.

This is the gist of the story, dear readers, so with that out of the way, here’s the actual review:

3. The Story

Honestly, I kind of like the plot. It has a certain charm to it, like an old swashbuckling novel, of which I’ve read a lot as a kid.

The narrative of a “hero of the common folk” has been a staple in literature for centuries so some might consider the premise to be unoriginal, but I personally like this narrative more than “champion of the rich” (Looking at you, Scarlet Pimpernel) because, historically, it really was a difficult time for commoners and when times are hard people tend to need such heroes the most.

People need hope, so it’s no surprise that Mathilde and François (who already moonlights as a folk hero, The Black Tulip) become living legends thanks to their escapades.

Interestingly enough, the series also subverts a common trope of a hero seeking revenge for the death of his family. Mathilde is deeply affected by the death of her parents but she doesn’t actively seek revenge. Instead, this tragedy makes the fight and the upcoming revolution a personal matter to her and motivates her to fight corruption because she is not the only person who ended up on its receiving end.

The pacing is generally pretty good but I do wish there were less filler episodes and more of the overarching story that’s dedicated to the secret that Comte de Vaudreuil and Mathilde’s parents seem to be hiding from her and maybe it would be better if the secret in question was revealed to the audience a bit later than episode 7 or so.

However, revealing the twist early on is still an interesting narrative choice because then the main question is not what the secret itself is but rather when and how Mathilde will find out and how she will react, not to mention how it will affect the story.

That being said, even the filler episodes do drive home the point that a hero like Mathilde is needed, that nobles are generally corrupt and that something needs to change. Plus, those episodes were still enjoyable and entertaining enough for me to keep watching, which is good because usually I don’t like filler episodes much and it’s pretty easy to make them too boring.

Unfortunately, the show is affected by the common trope of the characters not growing up but I don’t usually mind that much. It also has the cliché of heroes being unrecognizable in costumes and masks, but that’s a bit of a staple in the superhero stories even today so it’s not that bothersome.

4. The Characters

It was admittedly pretty rare for a children’s show to have characters who were fleshed out enough to seem realistic and flawed, but I think this series gives its characters more development than most shows for kids did at the time.

I especially like Mathilde as a character. Sure, at first glance she seems like a typical Nice Pretty Ordinary Girl ™️ but that was a part of the appeal for me.

I am a strong believer in that a character does not need to be a blank slate or a troubled jerk to be interesting and Mathilde is neither of the above. She is essentially an ordinary girl with her own life, family, friends, personality and dreams and, unfortunately, all of that is taken away from her when her parents are killed.

Her initial reluctance to participate in the revolution is also pretty realistic as she is still trying to live her own life in peace and she made a promise to her parents to stay safe so there’s that too.

I really like the fact that the show did not give her magic powers and that she was not immediately good at fencing. François does remark that her fencing is not bad for a beginner but in those same episodes she is clearly shown making mistakes and it takes her time to upgrade from essentially François’s assistant in the heroic shenanigans to a teammate he can rely on and sees as an equal. Heck, later there’s a moment when Mathilde saves François, which is a nice tidbit of her development.

Mathilde also doesn’t have any romantic subplots, which is really rare for a female lead.

She has a childhood friend, Florent, but the two are not close romantically and they even begin to drift apart somewhat once Florent becomes invested in the revolution. François de Vaudreuil does not qualify for a love interest either - his father does take Mathilde in and adopts her after her parents are killed so François is more of an older brother than anything else.

Now, I’m not saying that romance is necessarily a bad thing but I do think that not having them is refreshing than shoehorning a romance into a story that’s not even about it. Plus most kids don’t care that much for romance to begin with so I’d say that the show only benefits from the creative decision of not setting Mathilde up with anyone.

Another interesting narrative choice I’d like to point out is the nearly complete absence of historical characters, like the revolutionaries. They do not make an appearance at all, save for Saint-Just’s cameo in one of the last episodes and, fortunately, he doesn’t get demonized. Instead, the revolutionary ideas are represented by Florent, who even joins the Jacobin Club during the story and is the one who tries to get Mathilde to become a revolutionary. Other real people, like young Napoleon and Mozart, do appear but they are also cameo characters, which does not count.

Marie-Antoinette and Louis XVI are exceptions to the rule.

(Spoiler alert!)

Marie-Antoinette is portrayed as kind of spoiled and out of touch. Her spending habits get touched on too but she is not a malicious person at heart. She is simply flawed. She becomes especially important to the story later on when Mathilde finds out the secret that has been hidden from her for her entire life.

As it turns out, Marie- Antoinette, the same queen Mathilde hated so much, is the girl’s older half-sister and Mathilde is an illegitimate daughter of the Austrian king and an opera singer, given to a childless couple of florists to be raised in secret so that her identity can be protected.

The way Marie-Antoinette and Mathilde are related and their further interactions end up providing an interesting inner conflict for Mathilde as now she needs to reconcile this relationship with her sister and her hatred for the corruption filling Versailles.

The characters are not actively glorified or demonized for the most part and each side has a fair share of sympathetic characters but the anime doesn’t shy away from showing the dark sides of the revolution either, unlike some other shows that tackle history (*cough* Liberty’s Kids comes to mind *cough*).

All in all, pretty interesting characters and the way they develop is quite realistic too, even if they could’ve been more fleshed out in my opinion.

5. The Voice Acting

Pretty solid. No real complaints here. I’d say that the dub actors did a good job.

6. The Setting

I really like the pastel and simple color scheme of Paris and its contrast with the brighter palette of Versailles. It really drives home the contrast between these two worlds.

The character designs are pretty realistic, simple and pleasant to watch. No eyesores like neon colors and overly cutesy anime girls with giant tiddies here and that’s a big plus in my book.

7. The Conclusion

Like I said, the show is not available in English and those who are able to watch it might find it a bit cliché but, while it’s definitely not perfect. I actually quite like it for its interesting concept, fairly realistic characters and a complex view of the French Revolution. I can definitely recommend this show, if only to see what it’s all about.

Some people might find this show too childish and idealistic, but I’m not one of them.

I’m almost 21 but I still enjoy cartoons and I’m fairly idealistic because cynicism and nihilism do not equal maturity and, if not for the “silly” idealism, Frev itself wouldn’t happen so I think shows like that are necessary too, even if it’s just for escapism.

If you’re interested and want to check it out, more power to you.

Anyway, thank you for attending the first ever official meeting of the Jacobin Fiction Convention. Second meeting is coming soon so stay tuned for updates.

Have a good day, Citizens! I love you!

- Citizen Green Pixel

#review #french revolution #anime #history #television #frev media #Jacobin Fiction Convention #marie antoinette #French Revolution anime #la seine ni hoshi #la tulipe noire dessin animé #la tulipe noire

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joshslater · 5 years ago

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Beached

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

It's really amazing how the beaches can be so empty when the weather is this good. It's technically winter or spring or whatever, but that just means you can spend all day on the beach without getting heatstroke or sunburn. No one else appears to agree with me though. Someone is walking a dog in the distance in one direction, and some surfers are ignoring the warnings of big waves in the distance in the other direction. Like that would be bad thing in their minds, though just right now it isn't as windy as in the morning. Volatile weather is another drawback of spring weather.

I don't think it is the weather that is keeping people away though. This whole plague thing is really messing with people. The hotel was almost deserted and the room dirt cheap. Flight was cheap too. The plan was to go here with Will, but he chickened out at the last moment. Probably the positivity rates of their "second wave" or whatever. The tickets were refundable, only way they can sell anything these days, but I had already made up my mind to go here. Spring in Rio is better than summer at home, and the summer is decidedly over now, where you are never sure in the morning if you need jeans and hoodie. Here it is shorts and T-shirt every day, and the water is really nice when the waves aren't fatal. I really thought it would be colder the way the ocean looks.

As I walk along the beach in solitude I spot a gaudy, cheap beach chair also alone in the sand. I look up towards the road that goes along the beach. Sometimes there is a bunch of chairs or stuff chained together, waiting for busy days when the owner can charge a coin for a tourist to sit on it, but I don't see anything up there. I take a seat and look out over the crashing waves. There is a zen-like quality sitting on a lone chair on a vast beach, alone in a different country, watching the waves while the warm spring sun smiles down on you. No birds or animals around either, so you just have the white noise of the ocean keeping you at peace. I had fernet and coke in the lobby bar last night and evening has been going slow even before this, but somehow I felt I deserved a break from doing nothing.

I lost track of how long I was sitting there. I have all week after all. I'm taken out of my trance by someone behind me talking agitated in Spanish. No, Portuguese probably, as that's what they speak here. I turn my head and a stereotypical Brazilian beach greaser steps into my view. He wears a loose, pink tank top with Copacabana printed on the front. It reaches almost far enough to hide his green speedos that peeks out every step he takes. Brazilian tan, white teeth, black, slick hair, and a swagger that comes equally from acting macho and years of bodybuilding that prioritized looks over range of motion. "What?" I ask him, mostly just to tell him to speak English.

"This is your chair?" he asks. "Yeah," I say tentatively. At least I'm using it right now. It really was calming to look at the ocean like this. "No. No, it is not your chair," he says in an accusing tone, visibly upset. "You want to sit?" I don't need any trouble. It's soon time for lunch anyway. I start to raise myself from the chair. "No, you sit! You sit!" he almost screams at me, and I fall back into the chair.

I'm confused. Did I sit down again, or did something push me down? He steps towards me, and I again try to get out of the chair, but I'm somehow not strong enough to lift myself. He grabs the front neck of my T-shirt and pulls it up over my head. My arms do nothing to stop him. He then grabs hold of the legs of my shorts and pulls them sharply forward. Again, I can't do anything to stop him. I can move my body, sort of, but it's sapped of all strength.

If things were weird up until now, it just turned impossible. Instead of my Hanes underwear I wear black speedos with yellow print "ca-rio-ca" in front. How the fuck did they end up on me. He doesn't waste any time, but just bunches my clothes together in his hand and angrily marches off towards the road behind me. "Hey! HEY! I don't want this fucking chair." I shout at him while making another failed effort to get out of the chair as he disappears out of view. It's like being stuck with your ass in a big bean bag. I just can't get up somehow. I try to rock sideways to knock the chair on its side so I can roll out of it, but again with no success. Exhausted I fall back into the chair.

It's a cheap-looking foldable beach chair. Some green tubes as a frame with some blue and yellow nylon fabric as a seat, suspended between the tubes. I could see how someone would pick it out for its "Brazilian" colors, but all the shades were totally off compared to the flag. It couldn't be more than $10, probably much less down here. Why would anyone make such a fuss over it? I touch my magically appearing speedos. They appear completely normal. Some type of high tech stretchy fabric with yellow print on top. As I touch the print on the front of the speedos there is like a shock wave through me, like I rubbed the exposed head of my dick. I quickly move my hand back to the dainty armrests, but the damage is already done, at least for now. I can feel the blood inflating my dick, at least partially.

I look back at the ocean, trying to distract myself. I still see the surfers way off in the distance to one side, but I don't see anyone in the other. I'm a bit limited in my field of view though, reclined in the beach chair. Dammit, and I was about to have lunch. Fuck! My wallet is in the shorts. My phone, my credit cards, my cash, my hotel room key, all in the hands of some dude made of muscles and STDs. If he doesn't come back I'd have to walk back to the hotel, wearing only speedos like a fucking douche, tell the lobby staff to get my passport from the room to identify me, and issue a new key card. Then I have to take the laptop and block the credit cards and the phone SIM. I hope you can do that online. If nothing else you can call 800 numbers from Skype, I think. But first I need to get out of this fucking chair.

I make another failed attempt to get up. How can this be happening? Did he poison me somehow? Perhaps I just need to relax for a bit and regain my strength. That doesn't explain how my underwear was swapped out. Perhaps I'm making this more complicated than it has to be. These could be two unrelated events. Perhaps the speedos were somehow in my room, and somehow I put them on this morning without thinking about it. I think I've seen something similar in a store back home. "CA" could just as well mean California. This pair could have been forgotten by someone and then mixed into my laundry somehow, packed in my travel bag by mistake, and then ended up on me without me thinking about it because of the fernet. No, that doesn't make a lot of sense either. If you remove all impossible explanations, the remaining one, however improbable is the right one. It's just so very fucking improbable.

I want to drop it. Thinking about it more won't solve anything, and my current problems notwithstanding the day is still very nice. The slow burn of the spring sun, the smell of sand and salt, the soothing white noise of the ocean, and the wide visuals to go with it all. If I just let go of my predicament it was easy to relax again. That's what I needed to do, right? Just look out and feel the sun rejuvenate me. Despite it being essentially just indoor temperature, I've managed to get a tan. I trace the skin from my knees and up with my eyes. No, this is wrong. I should have tan lines where the shorts and T-shirt ended. I've only been sitting here topless for ten minutes, twenty at the most. There's nothing to tell time. The surfers are gone.

And I really shouldn't look this good sitting down. I don't sit down with a flat belly. I can't remember that I ever did, not that I really paid a lot of attention to how I looked. I try to stand up to have a better look, but only manage to lift a few inches before falling back. "Merda!" I say out loud. Not only did I fall back into the chair, but I managed to pull something. There's a cramp in the abdominal muscles that hurts like hell. I squirm in the unyielding chair and arch my back to make it stop, which results in both my legs cramping at the same time. I let go and fall back into the chair, and raise my legs up and try to shake them. I tense and relax the muscles over and over to make the feeling go away.

When it finally goes away I feel exhausted. I certainly don't want to feel that again. It's like a cosmic force doing everything to keep me in place, docile, and watching the ocean. While I want this to all be over I don't feel like I want to put up a fight. I scratch an itch on my face and feel my beard. I know I shaved less than... I know I shaved this morning, whenever that was. I've done that every morning from when I started to grow facial hair. I know nothing that looks worse. Nothing that looks more like you are taking a shortcut, or don't care. Yet I could clearly feel strands of hair all around my mouth and up the sides of my face. Not just stubble either, but fingertip length beard. The kind that doesn't look like a planned and neatly maintained beard either, but an accidental one. I didn't think I could freak out more when my hand touched the hair behind my ear, and I frantically felt the rest of my head. It was clearly a curly mess, and not just wavy but a tight curl. My hair is straight.

"Olá!" one of the two young surfers greet me. I'd been too preoccupied and had completely missed them walking across the beach towards me. They looked very similar, same height, same short cropped pitch-black hair, handsome white smiles, black and blue Mormaii wetsuit. My startled mind feels blank. I have no idea what to say to them. Somehow, inappropriately I can feel my dick stirring again. "Você quer foder?" I shout back at them. I have no idea what it means. They just keep walking, shaking their heads and ignoring me. What the fuck is going on? Can't I control myself anymore? I haven't since I sat down, I realize. This fucking chair is ruining everything.

I'm angry with it. I start hitting it. At first I'm just feebly pounding the armrests, but then work myself up to start hitting anything I can find. I'm banging the tubes, I'm pulling the synthetic fabric of the seat, I'm trying to pry the joints free. I'm only hurting myself of course, though not bad enough for any visible bruises. After some minutes someone has had enough of my tantrums and I feel a searing pain across my chest, back, and right ribs. I cry out in pain. My noise is met by the constant noise of the ocean. When it stops, just as suddenly as it started I look to either side and all I see is empty beach in both directions.

I'm almost afraid to look, and it is difficult to see well, but the skin has discolored where I felt the pain. On the right side of me is a sentence tattooed in cursive. I can't tell what it says. On my front chest is another large tattoo saying something almost as difficult to read upside down, just below my chin, also in cursive. "Live fast, die young" I think. I can only imagine what platitudes are on my back. "Carpe Diem?"

My legs are hairy. They've been that for years, but now they are black pubes kind of hairy. Did that happen just now as well? What's with the slow walking? Just do all the things to me and be over with. Arms are hairy too. I'm not even going to be upset anymore. I'll just sit here until it ends, whatever that means. Listen to the ocean and let the sun do its thing. Holy shit, that isn't suntan. I have a different skin color for sure. No. Not upset, just listen to nature and come what may. Let the sun sparkle in the water.

I can also see a sparkle from my right nipple. I feel drained, dazed, and dumb. Did the nipple piercing come with the tattoos and I had just missed it, or did it sneak up on me somehow? I don't really care. I slowly reach for it with my left hand. It feel an explosion of sensations as soon as the vibrations of my touch reverberate into the nipple. It shoots right into my balls, into my spine, into my brain, into my dick. Not quite an orgasm, but definitely not not an orgasm. I can feel the cramp again. The muscles on my front all contracts, but this time it isn't really painful. It's more like when you exert yourself during sports.

As before I arch my back to flex the chest and abs differently to make it go away, but the cramps just spreads. I can feel it in my back as well, and my arms, then finally in my legs. It's like those youtube videos where you can see the muscles moving under the skin all on its own. I just turned to the side and rolled in the sand, unable to control anything. It wasn't pain, but definitely not not pain.

When it finally stops I'm on my back in the spring warm sand, exhausted, panting, looking into the blue sky, hearing the waves crash down at the edge of the beach. I somehow know before I see it. My arms are almost twice as muscular as this morning, my chest and abs chiseled, and my legs are massive.

The sun is getting low. It is probably getting close to dinner time, though it sets early. I sit up in the sand, looking in both directions down the beach. There's nothing but sand. I know how to walk back to the hotel, though I can't remember the name of it, and I think I know what my name is, but I'm pretty sure nothing on that passport will match me. I don't feel like going there though. I really, really need to find someone to fuck. Or be fucked by. I don't care.

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captain-barnes-writes · 5 years ago

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Someone Like You [5/6]

Summary: In which Sebastian tries to win you back a year and a half after your relationship’s rupture, but only because there’s a new man in your life. [Part 5]

(Mini-series)

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Latina

Warning: Angst (LOTS) , language, 18+.

NOT PROOFREAD so watch out for lots of errors.

Word count: 4.5k

You’d avoided thinking of Sebastian for a good portion of the morning, but he was creeping back into your head forbidding you from forgetting what had happened just last night. Upon arriving at your hotel room the night before, you had turned into a weeping mess while still clad in your beautiful satin dress, a huge contrast to the ugly emotions that were seeping out of you. Sobs had wracked through your body to the point it had become hard to breathe.

The strong smell of him lingered on your body as if taunting you that he still owned every part of your being. Despite everything, despite the many months apart and despite the very reason why things had not worked out he still had an effect on you. Even after you’d jumped into the shower to wash the night away, especially to rid of his scent and the smell of sex that had followed you, you could still feel his lingering hands on you, the wet trail his lips would leave on your skin. As if taunting you, his scent was still present even in your room. You couldn’t escape him.

He still managed to pull at your every heartstring. It was the silky locks, the azure eyes with the crinkles on each end and that toothy grin of his. It was the way a single glance your way and you were a puddle at his feet, melting for him. But whatever happened last night had been a mistake, he was a part of your past and had to stay there. Yet you still found yourself pondering over how after so much time he could hold such a part of you, tight and permanent. The fluttering sensation in your belly, and pressure on your chest weighing heavy and electric that he induced with just one glance let you know that he was still very much a part of you. And when he looked at you, kissed you, let alone put his hands anywhere on you? It was a magnetic force so strong it left you breathless.

With a heavy chest and an even heavier heart, you thought of how you’d become pathetic and submissive all over again with just a mere touch of his. So puddy in his hands, holding onto every word that fell from his lips. His hands had been so greedy, wanting to hold you and kiss you all at once. He’d been everywhere, placed his large hands on every single part of your body. And you couldn’t lie to yourself, couldn’t deny the deep attraction that was clearly still present.

The magnetic pull, the sexual tension and desperation that had surrounded both your glistening bodies the night before was an engraved image in your head; pinned to your mind not letting you forget how he’d felt inside you. How he took you with such force, kissed you as if your lips were his only mean of survival. It was memorable what you’d both shared. Raw and emotional and in its wake left a gaping hole in your heart.

Despite how good it had felt while it happened, once it ended everything felt as if it had come crashing down. Like shattering glass around you, falling, breaking and so very loud, your mind had woken you from the bliss that had been shared in that stuffy closet. Like an alarm that rang and rang and the only way of shutting it off was the very act of leaving. Again. And so you did, you ran off once again from the man who’d held your heart almost two years ago and had refused to care for it. Refused to hold only you and you alone. He’d been valiant enough to corner you and take you again with such confidence, then you were valiant enough of walking away too.

But this time it felt different. Horribly different because there was pain growing inside, building up and tormenting you. You had been unfaithful. It didn’t matter that the relationship with Romeo was not yet serious or that he was away in a different country at the moment, none of that mattered because your desire for Sebastian shouldn’t have clouded what reality was in the first place. Nothing should have made you forget your morals and had you commit such a sinful act. It felt as if the guilt was diminishing you if you didn’t come clean or at least put pause on the budding relationship.

As if he had an extra sense, your phone rang next to you breaking you from the torturous thoughts that had been clawing at you. Romeo’s name appeared on the screen, his contact picture blank. Swallowing loudly with tears already brimming your eyes, you took a hold of your phone with shaky hands. God, what the hell were you going to say?

“Hi.” Was all you managed to choke out when you finally answered. Voice low and dull, nothing compared to the usual silkiness and cheerfulness that laced it.

“What is going on, Y/N?” Romeo’s boomed through the phone. The background noise was distracting, loud chattering in Spanish could be heard.

“What?” You felt slightly shaken at the tone of his voice, he didn’t sound like the sweet Romeo you’d grown used to hearing. He sounded different and, dare say, impolite without even a simple greeting to start the conversation off.

“I’m not a fool, Y/N. What the fuck happened yesterday? What are all these pictures of you and that damn actor from those Marvel movies?” He paused, the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard and the background noise was slowly disappearing. “They’re circulating everywhere to the point that people keep tagging me on that shit.”

You shouldn’t have, but a wave of relief washed through you. He was referring to Chris and at the mention of him you wanted to laugh. Even he thought the same as the media and besides the relief, you also felt upset.

“Oh, that...I got really anxious during the red carpet and he was nice enough to help me out. Walked me inside the venue and all. After the awards, we were just chatting.”

“You’re making me look like a fool. My whole team thinks so too.” It was apparent that he was only concerned about his image and the way people perceived him. It was disappointing to hear the roughness of his voice, accusatory and unkind. Though deep inside you were telling yourself that you deserved this type of treatment. You deserved it because even though he was upset about something that had not even happened, there was still something to be upset about. He just didn’t know what.

“I can’t befriend people because it makes you look bad? That makes no sense.” The words had flown past your lips before you could even think. You wanted to take the accusations, forgive them because you’d done something awful, but you weren’t that type of person anymore. You didn’t let men walk all over you.

“That looked more than friendly to me.”

“Yes, to you. My line of job has me meeting people constantly, as does yours, so either you get used to it or you don’t.” You had no filter. The words were just coming out without much thought. You wanted to be calm and let him continue accusing you using the harsh edge in his voice because you deserved it. You felt like he had every right to treat you this way, to denounce your behavior because he was right it had been more than friendly. It had become more than friendly just not with Chris, but with a different man he didn’t even know about.

“¿Qué estás diciendo? Se clara conmigo.” What are you saying? Be clear with me.

“You heard me. I’m not going to sit here and let you accuse me of anything. ” You responded, voice somewhat shaky. You were pleading with yourself to let you be firm and to keep an even voice, but your eyes were already welling up with tears for the second time in less than a day.

“Don’t embarrass me anymore, that’s all I’m asking.” He couldn’t be serious, you thought. The world didn’t revolve around him.

“Vete a la verga.” Go to hell.

And you hung up the phone. You didn’t know what had come over you. You wanted so badly to take the treatment and the accusations because you were worthy of them. Despite Romeo’s true colors that were coming to light, you had still done him wrong. You’d slept with another man and now you had probably just ended a relationship not even over that, but because of another man whom you had nothing to do with. You were an awful person.

Although you were an emotional mess and felt like one too your mind drifted to what Romeo had said about being tagged in certain pictures. You became curious and despite the state of being you were in, curiosity always overrode anything.

Grabbing your phone again you did the one thing you were advised to never do, google yourself. Upon typing your name in the search bar and hitting the search button, instead of it being about you it was about none other than Chris Evans. High quality pictures had surfaced the web the moment your anxiety fiasco happened last evening and it had become an even bigger deal today.

Y/N flirts with Chris Evans.

Romeo who? Y/N cuddles up to Chris Evans.

You pressed your face back into the pillow and groaned loudly. The sound echoed in the empty room as the city of Angels boomed below you. You were upset that even the sweet interaction such as yours and Chris could be taken so out of context. The man was no doubt an Adonis, you weren’t blind and you’d be a liar if you said your heart hadn’t beat faster at the sight of him yesterday. But it had all been so innocent and his gentlemanly actions had been genuine and with no underlying intentions. It was nothing but friendly. He’d been gallant, extending his arm so you could hook yours through it to get you out of the dramatic disaster that had been your red carpet experience. That was it. People were insatiable with their yearning for new information on people’s personal lives, wanting every little detail.

You’d taken pictures with other people at the after party and those pictures were out there too, but the media had clawed at those images that included Chris and ran with them. Of course, he was single and any woman who crossed his path was apparently dating him. You hated that now you were rumored to be one of them.

You were now a fuse of different emotions. Sadness because your relationship had just ended through a phone call, guilt because you’d been unfaithful and a flare of anger because you couldn’t believe your interaction with Chris had been taken as otherwise.

You saved one of the images to your camera roll. You were upset because many things in your life had come tumbling down in a matter of hours, but you knew that only you could discredit rumors that had no foundation. You didn’t want to become a victim of the media and knew just how to fix this.

Just letting y’all know that @ChrisEvans noticed me become extremely anxious in the middle of the red carpet & was kind enough to walk me the rest of the way. That is all. Please don’t believe these dating rumors, men and women CAN be friends��

You typed on twitter and attached a picture of him being the perfect gentleman, your arm hooked to his, bearded face smiling while he led you down the carpet. The real fixture of the picture was the clearly agitated face expression you wore. Lips formed into a nervous smile, anxious with knitted brows, forehead creased.

Pleased with the words and image, you pressed send to your tweet and dropped your phone back onto the bed. It bounced on the very edge of the very edge of the bed, any sudden movements and it would fall to the floor but you didn’t care.

Your cheeks were still wet with tears. Eyes dull, saddened and you felt exhausted. Chest so heavy it felt as if a weight was on top of it. Crawling under the covers you decided that the only way to forget about everything at least for a few hours was to doze off into a deep sleep.

-------

When you arrived back in New York a few days later after having concluded with a packed schedule, the weather had significantly dropped. You noticed the way the trees were still continuing to change in colors and drop their foliage on the wet floor. The holiday season was commencing and the vibrant colors of lights and many christmas decorations were already up throughout the city. It was such a divine sight and provided a serene feeling throughout your body. It felt like such a contrast from the way life had been playing out for you the last few days. Everything had changed in such a short time.

Your apartment was exactly as you’d left it and because the temperature had dropped even being in the comfort of it you felt as if you were freezing so you’d turned on the heater. You’d spent the last few hours trying to forget what the reality of your personal life was by taking the christmas decorations from storage and beginning the process of decorating that you loved so much. The holiday season was one of your favorites and despite the emotional state you were in, bits of happiness had oozed into your aura.

Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon was rudely interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. You hadn’t contacted anybody in the last few days so nobody knew you were back in New York so you felt a little puzzled as to who it could be. You looked down at yourself in a haste noting that you were decent enough with your cozy oversized clothing. With a huff, you opened the door.

“Sebastian.” You sputtered out at the sight of the disheveled man. Like you, he was clad in comfortable clothing. Black sweats and a large jacket. With a shocked expression you noted how he looked so tired with dark undereye circles and he looked awfully cold standing in the hallway of your apartment complex.

“Hey.” Was all he said. His hands in his pockets.

“What are you doing here?”

He remained quiet for a few seconds, his teeth biting the plushiness of his bottom lip. Sebastian was just standing there looking at you as if you were the one standing in his apartment. As if you’d been the one to show up to his place unannounced.

“I know you probably don’t want to see me, Y/N. But I really have to talk to you. Can I please come inside?” His azure eyes were almost pleading, gazing at you. Even in the situation you found yourself in you couldn’t help but take notice of how blue his eyes were in the light, gleaming and so pretty. It was inappropriate to even be thinking of him this way when he’d just asked you a question and you seemed to be stalling.

“Uh. I don’t know, Sebastian.” You were unsure if to let him in. You’d been so weak for him at a venue filled with hundreds of people that you didn’t trust yourself to be alone with him in your apartment.

“I just really have to talk to you. Please.” He was begging and looked so desperate for you to say yes. He looked so cold just standing there in the freezing hallway that his lips seemed chapped too. You were pitying him despite everything and thought how this was the exact reason why sometimes you were taken advantage of. You were too kind.

Regardless of how much internal battle was taking place within you, you nodded and pushed the door ajar to let him in. He walked into your living room, taking a seat on the love seat opposite you when you did too. The atmosphere felt a little awkward.

“I can’t stop thinking about that night, Y/N. I know I shouldn’t have initiated it, but it felt so right at the time. And even now, it still feels right.” Sebastian started.

“That night wasn’t supposed to happen, Sebastian. I did something awful to someone I was in a relationship with by being unfaithful. And guess what?” You paused, slightly chucking at yourself and the way life seemed to be playing with you. “Not even a day after I cheated and we broke up. Not even because of us, by the way, but because of something completely unrelated. And now here you are in my living room almost a week after we had sex and I’m...lost.”

Sebastian’s gaze was glued on you, he looked desperate. But you didn’t know what he was desperate for. You were confused as to why he was in your apartment in the first place.

“I’m sorry about your relationship.”

“No you’re not.” Was your response. He wasn’t sorry at all, why would he be?

“My relationship just recently ended too. But this was a little bit before the awards show.” God, what did he want from you. You wanted to know why he was at your apartment but he was beating around the bush.

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry about that.” You unconsciously took your lip in between your teeth while looking down at your clasped hands. Your apartment was warmer now with the heater having been on for a few hours and you made a mental note to turn it off soon.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. And this has been going on for a long time, Y/N. It’s not a recent thing. I think what triggered it even more was when I saw those music videos of you and...Well I felt extremely jealous. And I felt so angry with myself at having let you go and not treated you the way you deserved.” Sebastian stopped himself as he broke his gaze from you to look down at his hands. “And God, he just couldn’t even keep his hands off you...fuck, it was like you were a piece of meat to him and you just let him touch you like that.” His blue eyes were wide, mouth slightly ajar while he ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He had no right to be telling you off like this, especially not when you were witness to his many escapades with other women after you called it quits with him. No matter how hard you tried to avoid any news on him, it always came up somehow. It had been a nightmare.

“Who do you think you are, Sebastian?” You retorted, loud enough to alert him but not loud enough for your neighbors to hear. You didn’t let him answer as you continued spewing your rage. “So what’s it to you now? It seems like you suddenly want me again only because you saw me with another man. Was it because it wasn’t you?” You spat, doe eyes furious. Even with the gushing hot anger pulsing through you, this whole scenario was somewhat satisfying to you. After so long, he was the one in a jealous fit.

“Because that should be me. I feel like it’ll always be me.” His face had perked up at your questions, face still red with anger but slightly softening his hardened expression. He’d gotten to his feet, rounded the coffee table and started walking to you in a slow manner, careful not to push you away. You were on your feet then too, watching his movements and not at all knowing what to expect next from him.

“I don’t belong to you, Sebastian.” He hated the way his name seethed out of your mouth because you used to call him adoring names or whenever his name flew past your lips it wasn’t out of anger.

“Did you think I was going to sit around and wait for you? You refused to commit to me. I mean we weren’t even in a relationship according to you. You didn’t have time for one, didn’t have the type of commitment it took to be in one. Even the thought of being in that type of situation again makes me sick now.” Your voice was wavering, but your newfound confidence had not. He was going to hear what you had to say and he was going to hear it loud and clear. “You never did much for me. We were always holed up in my apartment because it seemed as if you didn’t want to be seen with me.”

“No, that was not it at all. Don’t think I was ashamed of you because that’s not it.” Sebastian was grabbing at his hair again, and this time he was pacing your living room back and forth. He couldn’t believe you thought he’d been ashamed of you.

“I was stupid. I was a fucking idiot who didn’t appreciate you and had commitment issues. That’s it, but I was never ashamed of you. I don’t want you to think that.” He exclaimed, eyes meeting your teary ones. He didn’t want to make you cry, and the sight of your pretty face with fresh tears falling down your cheeks was eating him alive.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” You cried out, hands wailing in the air in exasperation.

“To be with you.” Sebastian choked out. He was coming to terms with his feelings again, he’d pushed them aside for too long.

“Fuck, that’s all I want baby. To be with you. A chance to make it right by you and treat you the way I should have done before. I’m sorry for not appreciating you before and for taking you for granted. I’m sorry for being a blind asshole. I’m sorry for everything. You deserve the whole world and I’m willing to do anything to give you just that.” He was walking closer to you, hands stretched in front of him to grab hold of your arms. Your heart was beating erratically and eyes searched your living room, looking everywhere but him.

“Look me at me, doll.” He whispered as he stood in front of you now. He was so close. Too close that you could feel his breath fanning down at your face. He was taller than you and your eyes peered up at him through long dark lashes .

“I can’t, Seb…” Your voice was wavering, the confidence it oozed earlier was diminishing. You were internally screaming at the fact that he still had an effect on you. A heavy deep seated effect that pulled waves of electricity through you as his hand traveled up to caress your tense jaw.

“Fuck, yes you can. We can. Don’t you feel this?” He was inching ever closer if it was possible. His body plush against yours.

“No. ” You said, eyes breaking contact with his and hands pushing at his chest to move him away. He slightly stumbled backwards, not expecting the harsh refusal from your part.

“And you need to leave right now.” You pointed at the door. His shoulders had dropped at the sound of your words and he felt so dejected at your refusal to be with him now. He knew exactly how he had made you feel now because he felt devastated. Chest tight and his breathing uneven. You were tearing him apart.

“Is that really what you want?” His voice was low, eyes downcast as his hand slipped from your arm.

“Yes.” You whispered, your eyes looking forward trying so hard to focus on the tan lamp at the far end of the room. Even though it tore him apart, he walked his way back to the front door. He turned again just to take a quick glance at you as if expecting you to change your mind. When you didn’t even budge, didn’t even offer a single look at him, his demeanor faltered and he sauntered past the door managing to shut it behind him.

A sudden pang of excessive emotion allocated itself in your chest. So heavy it almost had you gasping. Cheeks wet with fresh tears and lips quivering, you were in such disarray not even a minute after he’d walked out the door. Even after so long, this is what you’d wanted. Him finally confessing how he felt about you, showing you the very emotions you so deeply felt for him.

You were unable to move as if glued to the spot near the sofa staring into space as cries wracked through your body. The man you thought you had stopped loving and had seemingly forgotten had just left and instead of feeling relief or a gust of calmness, you felt desolate. You were being forced to face the very reality that you didn’t just desire Sebastian, you were undoubtedly still in love with him. It didn’t matter that you’d been apart for so long, none of that mattered because what you felt for him was otherworldly.

And maybe you were the most ludicrous person in the world and maybe you deserved to get your heart broken many times again, but your feet dashed to the front door. You swiftly pulled it open, expecting to find the hallway empty. But Sebastian was still cemented there, back against the wall of the narrow hallway, with teary eyes. He pushed himself off the wall as your figure planted itself in front of him.

“Y/N.” He gently whispered your name. Frantic eyes meeting, both swollen and red, and his hands had moved to touch you in a desperate manner but they moved back as if scared you’d stalk back inside your apartment and leave him.

“When you walked out, I felt—I felt everything was closing in on me and this sudden rush of sadness washed over me. I don’t know why I feel this way about you, Sebastian. You know, maybe I’ll never be able to understand why after everything that’s happened between us we still have this strong connection. And I’m probably stupid for even contemplating this…”

Sebastian was holding onto every word you were uttering. Waiting for you to say the words he wanted to hear the most. He watched you pause, trying to gather your thoughts with your lip between your teeth.

“You get one chance, Sebastian. One chance and you better not fuck it up.” You finally finished. Sebastian’s mouth had fallen agape first before a large smile began to form on his handsome face. He immediately moved his body to reach out to yours, but you backed away.

“Not so fast. We’re going to do things differently this time.” You pursed your lips. He was still beaming at you and you tried so hard to fight off the same expression from your face.

“I’m going to take you on a date. That’s the first thing I’m going to do.”

“What?”

“I’m going to do things differently this time, Y/N.” Sebastian was looking at you with gleaming eyes as if they were reserved just for you. His smile hadn’t faded away.

“Tomorrow we’re going on our first date.”

----------

Good god this took me so long to write lol I feel like this is a horrible chapter! Next chapter will be the final one. Lee Bodecker is next on my list🥴

Thanks for reading y’all ♥️

@jeremyrennerfanxxxx123

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alliterative-albatross · 4 years ago

Note

So, I sent you (@disgruntledspacedad) a pretty long ask a while ago (back when you had anon on) and I'm decently sure Tumblr ate it (or maybe you ignored it, in which case, feel free to ignore this one as well). But then I saw one of those "writers appreciate feedback no matter how long" posts, so I'm back here. Here is my mediocre attempt to rewrite my original review of your work. Bear in mind that English is not my first language, so if at any point my phrasing sounds weird to you, you know why. Mandatory disclaimer/apology: this might get a little too long 😅

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

I remember being SO mad at myself for not finding this sooner. I binge read it one afternoon with no thoughts for any real life responsibilities I might have had (and no regrets). Javiears is one hell of an unconventional relationship in the beginning, and I really love what you did with them. The whole premise of your story is quite refreshing, and you somehow manage to convey the trust and mutual respect there two feel for one another without explicitly showing us the beginning of their "entanglement".

Also, fuck you for what you did to poor Emilio, that man was a saint and he deserved better! I honestly can't believe that I got so attached to a character that appeared so little in the story, but it happened, and his death kind of broke my heart.

But the Javiears reunion + mild confession was lovely, and felt completely deserved. And of course the sex scene. I won't lie, I expected a bit better from Javi there, but I did like how utterly /human/ it was. Capturing that humanity, the imperfections in each character is something you're really good at (more on that later).

AFTERSHOCKS

Ah, my emotionally constipated babies who really need to work out their communication issues. I do love them, though. And this short series did a really good job of delving a bit deeper into Ears's and Javi's psyche. Kudos to you for dealing with the medical "aftershocks" of living through an explosion AND using that experience to move your emotional plot forward. These two need to grow a lot before they can get to a stable point in their relationship, and you really manage to convey their insecurity and fear of commitment/intimacy while making it clear that they're in it for the long run and that theirs is a relationship that WILL work out so help them God.

IF I FALL

Ouch. Punch me in the gut while you're at it, why don't you?

But seriously, "If I Fall" is SO FUCKING GOOD. Don't get me wrong, it's angstier than an image of Jesus on the cross (don't judge me, it's Holy Week and I just got home from accompanying my grandma to church), but it somehow works beautifully. You, my dear, play heartstrings like they're a fucking guitar and I AM HERE FOR IT.

You're doing an amazing job at making me feel everything these characters are feeling, which is both awful (bc pain) and impressive.

Also, if anything happens to Ana I will cry, because she is adorable and wonderful and has suffered way too much already and really deserves a break and some cookies.

Also also, if anything happens to Ears I will cry, because she is badass and wonderful and has suffered way too much already and really deserves a break and some cookies.

Also also also, if anything happens to Javi I will cry, because he is loving and wonderful and has suffered way too much already and really deserves a break and some cookies.

Basically, I am really invested in the well-being of these characters and can't wait until they're happy and safe again (please tell me they will be, my heart can't handle much more pain).

A quick note on the angst complaints: yes, this story is way angstier than most other fics out there and it can be a bit too much at times, especially considering how many chapters of pain it's been. BUT it's obvious that "If I Fall" NEEDS this amount of angst to get where it's going, to send the message it wants to and to properly develop its characters. The pain is as important to this story as flour is to bread. You may not like eating flour on its own (I don't think anyone does), but you love bread (because bread is amazing) and you must recognize that bread NEEDS flour to work. It wouldn't be bread otherwise. And eating the flour as part of the bread even makes you like the flour because the bread is just DELICIOUS.

I fully understand and sympathize with the people who have elected to table "If I Fall" until it's completed so they can binge read it knowing there's a happy ending in sight, but in case you're feeling a bit self conscious about all the angst, please know that your story is beautiful not in spite of the pain, but rather /because of it/.

PS: No, I'm not high/drunk, I just really like bread

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Silly thing to comment on, I know, but I do feel like it's important that you know how useful your ANs have been. There are many details in the story that I simply wouldn't fully get without reading your comments at the end of each chapter, and I appreciate your writing a hell of a lot more knowing how deeply you understand and care for each one of your characters. Plus, it is obvious how much work you've put into researching a country and a time period that are (from what I gather) unfamiliar to you, and I really do believe you've done an amazing job of it.

JAVIER PEÑA

My boy. I love your characterization of this complicated character, and I have eagerly read each and every one of your headcanons about him. I can't really say if your version is fully faithful to the source material because it's been a while since I saw Narcos, but your Javi most definitely reads like a real person. He's fairly consistent as a character, and I feel like everything he does is perfectly natural for him to do as a character. He makes for an unconventional yet deeply interesting romantic lead, and so far I have thoroughly enjoyed all his POV chapters/scenes.

OCs

I know you've gotten some flack for making her into an OC halfway into the story, and while I get why the sudden change may have felt like a disappointment for some, I don't share that sentiment. I firmly believe that this fandom is unfairly harsh towards Original Characters and their creators, and I don't really understand why. Listen, I love Reader fics, and consume many Reader fics. I have read dozens, maybe even hundreds, and I can safely say that I've only ever "inserted" myself in approximately 10% of those stories. Reader characters are not as blank as their writers may want them to be. They can't be. They're characters, and character have personalities and moral values and senses of humor and a bunch of other things. Reader characters may not have a backstory or a physical description attached (and even that's not guaranteed), but they're still characters.

And on a more personal note, pretending they're actual blank slates is naive at best and insensitive at worst. Reader characters are American coded 99% of the time, and white coded 95% of the time. Not every readers is white nor American, even if that's the predominant demographic on Tumblr. When I read a JavixReader fic about a woman who speaks exactly zero Spanish, I know she's not me. The story may be beautifully written and have an amazing plot and character development, but the Reader *isn't me*. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that, and some of my favorite xReader stories feature a "reader" who couldn't be more different from me, but it's something that enemies of OC fics should take into account. Particularly if they are white and/or American. But I digress.

HANNAH AARONS

Your character is amazing. She's strong, smart, confident, independent and an all-around badass. She gets kidnapped while pregnant and still focuses on problem solving and survival. But she's also overly guarded and mistrustful, and really needs to work on her communication skills. There are times when I absolutely love her and even admire her, and other times when I want to whack her with a slipper. She's no Mary Sue, but remains interesting and likeable throughout the story. She feels wholly human and real, and that's no easy task. I like her, I am invested in her, and I can't wait to see what's next for her. She's a compelling and three dimensional protagonist in a complex story who never fails to draw me in. I love her. She's your baby, and you should be proud of her.

Also, quick question about personality types: I know you've typed Javi as ESFP and Ears as ENTP (100% agree on both, btw), but have you given any thought to their enneagram types? I personally have always seen Ears as being somewhere on the thinking triad, maybe a 7 or even a 6w7, but I'm not too sure about Javi. 9w8 maybe? He could also be a 6w5 🤔

PARTING THOUGHTS

Basically, I love your story, your characters and your writing in general. You are a fantastic storyteller and wordsmith. You get into the heads of incredibly different characters personality-wise (Ears, Javi, Berna...) and manage to capture all of their complexities and quirks every single time. And it doesn't feel like it's something innate for you either. To me, it seems that you have put a lot of work and effort into understanding each and every one of your characters, who they are, why they do what they do and what they want. And let me tell you, all that effort has been more than worth it. "Better Love" is a fanfic, but it wouldn't be out of place in a regular bookstore, if I'm honest. I don't know what you do for a living or if you've ever considered writing professionally, but you clearly have the skills and the drive to create some masterpieces.

You are amazing and your writing is a gift. Thank you for sharing it with us, and have a nice day! ~ 🍪

My friend, I apologize for hoarding your first ask. I’ve been sitting on it because I’m not gonna lie, I enjoy going back and rereading it. It gave me a lot of comfort when I was in a pretty dark place, both personally and in regards to my writing, and I was reluctant to send it out into the the abyss of Tumblr where I might never see it again.

That’s not fair, though. You put just as much effort into sending me that review as I put into my writing, and I apologize for never responding to you.

Okay, anyway, so twice now, you’ve made me cry. In a good way, I promise!

I absolutely love your bread/flour metaphor. It made perfect sense. I want the emotional release of Javi and Hannah’s reunion to be earned, and in order to do that, the angst has to come first (there are also a few plot “ingredients” that have yet to make their appearances). Thank you very much for understanding that, and for voicing it so eloquently.

I appreciate your comments on my research and characterization. You’re correct that I’ve put a lot of time and effort into crafting a universe. In a lot of ways, I’m doing my best to stay true to the source material (regarding culture and timelines in particular), and in others, I’m branching into my own territory.

On that note, I’ve never once regretted fully embracing Hannah Aarons’ identity as an OC. She’s stayed consistent in my mind from the beginning, and it was a relief to finally share my vision of her with the audience. And for the record, I totally agree with you regarding “reader” characters. Every reader insert echoes the perspective of their author, no matter how vague the physical description. I can only imagine how grating that must be from the perspective of a non-white, non-american reader. Thank you so much for sharing your insight! I will certainly keep it in mind the next time I write a “reader insert” fic.

Okay, enneagrams! I am much less familiar with enneagram than I am MBTI, but I agree 110% that Javi is a 9 with a strong 8 wing. I waffled back and forth on Ears a little, but eventually landed on 8w7 for her. It came down to the eight’s deepest fear, which is being controlled. That’s Ears all over, and the fact that she and Javi share that eight willfulness means that they might butt heads a little, which also seems very appropriate for them. Big thanks to @remusstark for her insight into the eight frame of mind - our conversations helped solidify my decision on this. :)

Anyway, I’m just rambling now. The big take-away point that I want you to get is that I am so, so grateful to you, both for your insightful feedback and your dedication in making sure that I actually saw it. You are an absolute gem and a deep thinker, Cookie-Anon, and if you ever feel like sliding into my DM’s, I’d welcome the opportunity to get to know you better.

Mad love and soft hugs,

~ Jay

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maticide666 · 4 years ago

Text

my eurovision top 39 songs (finally)

anyway i finally got my top 39 completed. under a read more because it can get kinda long with the commentary i added klfdja;sflk (and by that i mean VERY long, maybe a wall of text if i have a lot to say about the song.)

none of this takes rehearsals into account.

basically, 39-37 i don't like, 36-35 are meh, 34-25 are decent, 24-18 are good, 17-12 i enjoy listening to a lot, 11-4 i love, and I would pay for votes for top 3 if i could.

39. Azerbaijan - Efendi - Mata Hari - Honestly, I kinda want to like this song. The instrumentation is nice, especially with the Azeri instruments. Efendi's vocals are ok during the verses. However, her vocals during the MA-MA-MA-MATA HARI part makes this song utterly unlistenable for me. It is just so distracting and ear-grating. Not great for my sensitive ears. And that is without taking anything else into account.

38. Estonia - Uku Suviste - The Lucky One - For some reason reminds me of a boring modern country song. Bland af. At least the melody of the chorus is nice.

37. Cyprus - Elena Tsagrinou - El Diablo - Discount Lady Gaga at the best points of this song. Feels like three songs at once. Also, the lyrics seem like they just went all "What Spanish-sounding words sound spicy? Taco? Tamale? Mamacita?" As a Spanish speaker and as someone of Mexican descent who enjoys those foods, this annoys the living shit out of me. At least I can make El Diablo/Fallen Angel memes out of this. (Honestly, I don't mind the gratuitous Spanish with the words El Diablo.) Also, this song got real old real quick.

36. Slovenia - Ana Soklič - Amen - The gospel vibe is nice, but there is just too much Christianity in it for me to enjoy this song. Sorry, Ana.

35. Moldova - Natalia Gordienko - Sugar - Sounds like a sugary version of Siren Song by MARUV. Kinda boring, but enjoyable in the right circumstances.

34. Georgia - Tornike Kipiani - You - Good to listen to when mind feels blank. At first I kinda liked this song, but nowadays this song has lost its charm. This won't sound out of place alongside boring 70s slow classic rock songs.

33. Austria - Vincent Bueno - Amen - Not something I would listen to regularly, but still nice. For me, easily the biggest downgrade from 2020.

32. Greece - Stefania - Last Dance - Pleasant to listen to, not much else.

31. Portugal - The Black Mamba - Love Is On My Side - Good song, but not my cup of tea. Unfortunately, some great songs have to be near the bottom of my ranking.

30. Germany - Jendrik - I Don't Feel Hate - A fun song to listen to. The novelty wears off after a while. The feel good vibes and ukulele are nice.

29. Israel - Eden Alene - Set Me Free - the song release version was bland and boring, but the revamp. Now THAT is good stuff. The song doesn't seem so empty anymore. I miss the key change from the original, though.

28. Spain - Blas Cantó - Voy A Quedarme - A very emotional and beautiful song from Spain. Again, not usually my cup of tea. However, the melody somehow gives me a nostalgic vibe.

27. North Macedonia - Vasil - Here I Stand - DAMN Vasil has a lovely voice. Nice that he's showing it off here. Too slow of a song for me to enjoy regularly, though.

26. Albania - Anxhela Peristeri - Karma - I don't have much to say other than this song is nice.

25. Bulgaria - VICTORIA - Growing Up Is Getting Old - Pleasant to listen to, but depending on my mood I think this is a beautiful song but not my cup of tea or a complete snoozefest.

24. Serbia - Hurricane - Loco Loco - Fun song, but it feels like something is lacking, and I can't quite put my finger on it.

23. San Marino - Senhit - Adrenalina - Once the initial hype from Flo Rida being on the song died down, this became another typical Eurovision bop.

22. Sweden - Tusse - Voices - At first I thought the song was completely unremarkable and couldn't understand how this won Melodifestivalen. Nowadays it's a nice song to chill to. I gotta respect a perfect televote score from the national final.

21. Ireland - Lesley Roy - MAPS - nice.

20. Croatia - Albina - Tick Tock - Grew on me slightly. Shoutout for including a verse in Croatian.

19. Switzerland - Gjon's Tears - Tout l'Univers - Another grower for me. Doesn't hit as hard as his song from last year, but I dig it.

18. France - Barbara Pravi - Voilà - Lovely chanson right here. I wish it didn't take forever to pick up, though. I was about to completely give up on this song in the middle of my first listen. I'm glad I didn't.

17. Belgium - Hooverphonic - The Wrong Place - Classy. Not much else to say.

16. Ukraine - Go-A - Shum - I'd definitely go rave to this song. I kept finding this song hard to rank due to the white voice. I couldn't decide if I absolutely adored it or if I found it grating. Maybe I just wasn't feeling well when I first thought about it.

15. Lithuania - The Roop - Discoteque - Lots of fun, doesn't have the charm that On Fire had last year. I would dance to this song.

14. Poland - RAFAŁ - The Ride - I actually kinda like this song???? Even with Rafal's vocals??? I know he has political controversies, but I can't help but think this song is nice. A better, less controversial singer would benefit this song, though. I'm not counting the revamp just yet since it was released too recently.

13. Latvia - Samanta Tīna - The Moon Is Rising - This song gives me nostalgic mid to late 2000s hip hop vibes. The guitars in this song are lovely.

12. Romania - ROXEN - Amnesia - Definitely something that can put me in a trance if I'm in the right mood.

11. Czechia - Benny Cristo - omaga - Nice, catchy, I would dance to this.

10. Malta - Destiny - Je Me Casse - Damn, Destiny has a lovely voice! And the song itself is wonderful. I'm not a fan of the amount of Swedish talent being used instead of Maltese talent, but I really do enjoy listening to this.

9. Denmark - Fyr og Flamme - Øve Os På Hinanden - another really fun song! This really grew on me. Nowadays if I want to listen to a Eurovision song, this is one of the first songs I think of.

8. The Netherlands - Jeangu Macrooy - Birth of a New Age - I can vibe with this. You can hear the passion in this song. I wish I could let my body do the talking right now, but y'all can't see that with just a tumblr text post.

7. Russia - Manizha - Russian Woman - I was NOT expecting this to come out of Russia when it won the national final. I wasn't expecting to like this either. The message is great, the instrumental is great, everything about this is brilliant.

6. United Kingdom - James Newman - Embers - A funky song. I LOVE James's voice. Massive upgrade from last year in my opinion. I'm a sucker for brass in an upbeat song. Unfortunately, I have had the staging kinda spoiled and I am VERY skeptical about this coming out of bottom five. I'm done with the BBC.

5. Australia - Montaigne - Technicolour - There is a Lot happening in this song and I am all in for it. I'm kinda terrible at parsing lyrics, but it's a non-issue when I can follow Montaigne's voice and forget about the lyrics. Ironically enough, it's Montaigne's voice that also worries me this Eurovision season - mostly whether she was able to pull off her live on tape performance off.

4. Iceland - Daði og Gagnamagnið - 10 Years - I didn't think Daði could pull it off against this year, but he did it. I like this just a little more than Think About Things, which was my favorite song last year. I'm still a little gutted that this pandemic robbed him of a probable victory, but I've made peace with it. I still need to learn the dance moves, though.

3. Italy - Måneskin - Zitti E Buoni - FUCK YEAH A KICKASS ROCK SONG IN EUROVISION! This song gave me massive rock en español vibes on my fist listen, and honestly this is something I would bang my head to if I had the same body I did when I was 15.

2. Norway - TIX - Fallen Angel - I was not expecting to like this song much, let alone becoming THIS obsessed with TIX. In fact, he wasn't even on my radar for winning MGP. I listened to Ut Av Mørket for the first time and thought something like 'this is boring af, but at least it's in Norwegian'. And then he changed it to English, which I wasn't a fan of at first. And then one day the lyrics clicked - especially with my own struggles with mental illness. To this day this is one of only two Eurovision songs to actually make me cry. Even now he still isn't my MGP winner (that honor goes to JORN), but he has definitely won my heart.

1. Finland - Blind Channel - Dark Side - To say that this song kicks ass would be an understatement for me. This song has just the right mix of rock, pop, and even metal. Ever since I found out that this song would be in the national final, I knew that it would be my favorite this whole Eurovision season regardless of who won UMK. Yes, my jaw dropped when I saw the lead Blind Channel had in UMK. I literally cancelled my plans to watch the MGP final live because of these guys. I am not disappointed. Even Måneskin couldn't bring these guys down in my ranking. And while the lyrics might be a bit iffy, they did get me through rough times. I hope these guys are able to bring rock music back like they want to. But for now, I will give them my (useless tbh) douze points.

#eurovision #esc #this post took me two days #and even longer to actually rank everything #mostly because half the time i couldn't decide which song i liked more #so something gerbear's sorter couldn't help with #i'm tired rn #of course my top 3 is predictable

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dorminchu · 5 years ago

Text

Entr’acte

Fandom: James Bond Genre: Drama/Romance (burdgeoning) Characters: Lyutsifer Safin, Madeleine Swann Rating: M/E Warnings: Mildly dubious consent ft. assertive shower sex. Also witness my first attempt to emulate Ian Fleming’s prose directly??? Summary: "It was a rare instance where he could let his guard down; or so one would think."

NOTE: Deleted scene for Insult to Injury that was too spicy to make the cut. Takes place directly after Chapter Four.

Translations are in the notes at the end. If there's a mistake somewhere, feel free to bring it to my attention; I'm admittedly more fluent in Spanish than French.

He had left Swann asleep and the door ajar. Upon his return she could be heard conversing quietly on the phone, presumably with White. At a glance she had thrown her shirt back on and her posture was tense. As he was still waiting for a verdict, Safin went to take a shower.

The body wash smelt artificial, some lemony concoction, but the bar soap was workable. He let the warm water rush over him and his mind go blank.

It was a rare instance where he could let his guard down; or so one would think.

He did not hear Swann come in after him. He only saw the door move and the indistinct shape in motion against the fogged glass. Safin made himself very still. He waited until he determined the gait and build were in fact Swann's.

Now, Safin knew she'd been carrying a handgun in her bag when she was first collected from the clinic in Paris. He knew also that she had expressed a fair amount of contempt towards him up until several days ago. Either she fancied herself an assassin or she was simply vying for a second go. Regardless of her intent, there were three bathrooms in the house and no justifiable reason for her to be in here.

Still, he did not move until the figure drew close enough to be recognisable. Then he opened the door and looked down at the blue eyes. Her hands were empty. He did not request a motive. She had made herself clear. He let her step into the stall alongside him without further acknowledgement. The new proximity left enough room to manoeuvre as in a holding cell. The light threw her features into relief; soft, unmarred, like a fawn that had recently grown into its body, devoid of justifiable fear and instead given way to an arrogant complacency that often occurs within captivity.

She took up the body wash and paid him no mind while she lathered her skin, rinsed off. Safin took note of her nudity but did not linger on the idea, assessing the figure as one that lacked an appreciation of its mortality. The jet-stream of the water hissed around them like blood in the ears.

Initially, she'd seemed a bit more demure. Now she turned to him with a challenging light in the blue eyes. She closed the distance in a step and touched his face. Well, he thought, why not? One marred hand fell to rest on her spine and the other curled loose on the back of her head in contemplation.

Then the hand on her spine went to her buttocks and he hauled her completely to his breast. Swann sucked in a breath. The skin smelt like artificial lemon. There was nowhere for her to go but she didn't seem particularly concerned. The golden hair was wet and had a pleasant weight to it in-hand.

Really, he only needed his wrist.

He worked over the sinuous body in his arms with quiet, pointed efficiency. Once she was suitably engrossed he parted her legs. With the other hand, he made a fist in her hair and tugged her head up to bare the white throat. Swann rolled her hips to meet him, gasping sharply. He squeezed her hair in acknowledgement, or some vestige of affection.

He could feel her pulse fluttering against his fingers and considered once more the subject of her mortality. He turned so the nape of her neck was away from the falling water. Swann was anchored by the heels and one hand on his neck. He felt the other hand sleight on his hip and kissed her taciturn mouth. Swann groaned, turned away. He asked: what, Madeleine?

She caught him in her fist and pumped once. With a muted groan, like laughter but not quite the same, he took that arm, put it around his waist, crushed her to the wall and fucked her with his hand until she was shaking.

Then all at once he stopped. Swann gasped, trembling, unsated. Steam flooded his lungs. He looked down at her in consideration. Then it was the same as before, starting and stopping, watching her writhe between lineoleum and his wrist, not helpless but indignant. It was not for lack of want but to see how much she could take before she understood what he was up to.

She got very quiet. The eyes fluttered, wide without terror and the blonde hair hung lank around the face.

By the third impediment she'd had enough. Her brows knitted, her face screwed up. She reared back and hissed: Va te faire foutre.

He dragged his mouth down her throat, at her breasts. She was perhaps trembling more from the effort of her affront than desire alone. He continued until he was on his knees and she put her hand to the back of his neck with a longing behind the eyes.

So he went to her. Madeleine surged forth, gasping, slick off herself. He felt the pulse flutter wildly against his mouth like a heartbeat. He turned his head and opened her up.

The moan resounded, hushed. All the tension was in her fist on his nape and trembling legs.

The first go with her had been an educated risk for the sake of the job. This was not so different.

Swann tugged at his hair once and rasped: Venez ici.

So he went up to her and made good on his teasing. It was a vicious finish that left them both discombobulated but he didn't show. The hiss of the shower came back to him first as did the pinpricks of water on his skin. Swann's coquettish smile did not escape his attention. He did not return the sentiment.

Va te faire foutre - "Screw you/Fuck off." Venez ici - "Come here." (informal?)

#madeleine swann #lyutsifer safin #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #but classy smut #:D #I'll probably write more #but it has to be appropriate for the time and place #post skyfall #pre spectre #no time to die #I... guess?#deleted scene

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mikeisthricedeceased · 5 years ago

Text

You’re My Home

Catfish x OC

Part 1: Winds Change

Word Count: ~1.9k

Part 2 Part 3

A/N: This is an idea I’ve had for a bit, and it’s been a little easier to actually type out than the Mando fic I’ve been working on. It’s probably because I’m planning for this to be some sappy, smutty fun while the Mando fic is a bit more involved.

Edit: replaced some Spanish lines because I’m nowhere near fluent and have no way of knowing how well they actually translate

Summary: Frankie has had a rough year since the whole heist shit show. It’s been one bad thing after another, leaving him all alone in a dingy apartment and steadily slipping back into old habits. He’s more than a little surprised when a pretty stranger approaches him at a bar and coaxes him into having an actual conversation. Nita guides him into a whole new world that might be just what he needs.

(The last sentence of the summary is more of a hint to the series as a whole.)

~*~*~*~

Frankie sat alone at the bar, nursing his third beer of the night. He could’ve been drinking at his place for cheaper, but the empty apartment just served as a reminder of how alone he’d become in the past year. He’d been able to meet up with the guys a few times since the divorce, but they all had lives. Pope was always traveling to see Yovanna. Will and Benny had each other, even with how often they butted heads. He just had himself, and the few days that he got to spend with little Isabella. He and his ex technically had shared custody, but she kept their daughter most days, afraid of what could happen since he clearly still clung to old habits. He couldn’t really fault her for that, as much as it tore him apart.

He was trying. He really was. But, with all that had happened, it was just so easy to find himself sliding back into shit. And going out to drink on his own so he wouldn’t have to sit in an empty apartment where most of the boxes still sat unpacked because it wasn’t home didn’t come close to his worst night, but fuck, was it sad.

He pulled his hat off and dropped it onto the bar top, running his fingers through his too-long hair. He knew he looked just as much the mess that he felt.

~*~*~*~

“Oh, Boss.”

Nita raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking across the table. “Oh, Ryan,” she said, mimicking his sing-song tone.

He smirked, gesturing toward the bar. “You’re staring.”

“And?” she asked.

He scrunched his nose. “Little rough around the edges, don’t you think?”

Tiff nudged him with an elbow. “Careful, bucko, she’s paying for our drinks.”

Nita leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms with a small smile. “You should listen to her, pretty boy. You wanna insult my taste, you can buy your own shots.”

He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just trying to bring you back to the table.”

She hummed, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Honest,” he insisted, a grin breaking through.

“You couldn’t kiss ass to save your life, could you?”

Tiff snorted at that and Ryan sighed, clasping his hands behind his head.

“I wouldn’t have the job you gave me if I could, Boss,” he said, giving a quick wink.

Nita rolled her eyes. “Switches exist. You can just go ask Jorge or Monique,” she waved a hand toward the small group of their coworkers on the dance floor. “At least they don’t insult their employer.” She jabbed a finger at him “And fair warning, I am wearing a belt that I’m not afraid to use.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

She slid off of her chair, straightening her shirt before grabbing her glass.

“Where are you going?” asked Tiff.

Nita held up what was left of her bushwacker. “Grabbing another one of these,” she said. A quick glance at the figure at the bar and she smiled back at Tiff. “And testing my luck.”

~*~*~*~

She appeared next to him, a hand on the back of the stool beside him.

“Hey, is it okay if I sit here?”

He looked over at her. A soft smile and warm eyes greeted him. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he told her, looking back down at his beer.

“Thanks.”

She set an almost empty glass on the bar and slid onto the seat.

The bartender came over immediately, a broad smile on his face. “Hey, boss. Need another one?” He tapped near her glass.

She nodded and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “And I think los idiotas in the back need another round, if you don’t mind.”

He pointed to her and grinned. “Claro.”

“Gracias, señor.”

Frankie glanced over at the woman beside him as she rested her elbows on the bar and looked up at the lone tv on the wall.

Her eyes flicked to him and he had the decency to feel embarrassed about being caught, face warming.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat a bit, offering a polite, if awkward, smile.

“Hi,” she said softly, gaze now fixed on him.

He sat up a little and met her eyes. “Hey.”

There was a beat of silence before she spoke again. “I’m sorry if this is too forward, but I really just came over here to talk to you,” she told him, lips pulling into a small smile.

His brows shot up. “Oh.”

The bartender breezed past, smoothly placing a new bushwacker in front of Nita before lifting a tray laden with tequila shots and small bowls of lime wedges.

“Just ‘oh’?” she asked, eyes alive with amusement.

Frankie found himself smiling back at her, even as he looked down sheepishly. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting that.”

She shrugged, stirring the chocolate syrup in her drink around. “I do like being unpredictable sometimes. Keeps things fun.”

He turned toward her a little more. “Does it? Probably makes planning a little hard.”

She wagged a finger. “That’s why I said sometimes. I have responsibilities that require forethought on occasion.”

“Like owning a bar?” he asked, gesturing around them.

She laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t, actually. This just happens to be one of my go-to places to bring out-of-towners and colleagues who want to get tipsy on my dime. Lorenzo there has seen me drag a few of my friends outside with the help of a bouncer,” she said, grinning at the bartender.

“¿Los idiotas?” Frankie asked, nodding to the group in the back.

Nita smiled into her drink. “A few of them, yeah.” She took a sip and set the glass down, turning in her seat a bit to look at them. “I’ll probably be doing that again tonight.”

“Someone has to make sure everyone gets home alright,” he reasoned.

She nodded in agreement, focusing back on him. “It’s honest work.”

He almost wanted her to stop looking at him like that. So warm, so inviting. It didn’t feel like the sort of thing that should be happening to him, especially with how life had been treating him recently. He couldn’t believe that he was actually managing to hold a conversation either. He’d been communicating almost exclusively through grunts and monosyllabic words for the past few months.

But, sitting there with her eyes on him, it just made the words a little easier.

“So, what do you do, if you don’t own a bar?” he asked before taking a sip of his beer.

She shifted, eyes sliding to her friends in the back again. “I own a few clubs. One of them is local, that’s where all of them work. There are a few more spread out across the States. I also have a business with an old friend of mine in New York.”

He nodded, eyes dancing over her face as she spoke. “A pretty successful business woman, then?”

She smiled. “Something like that. Being your own boss has its pros and cons.” She lightly bumped his arm with the back of her hand. “What about you?”

It felt like his chest was going to burst with that small touch. It finally clicked that this woman was really, honest to God flirting with him, and he might’ve been losing his mind about it.

“I’m a pilot. Been working some odd jobs recently, though, waiting for my recertification to go through.” He tried not to wince as he thought about it. “Some old buddies of mine have an MMA gig that I help out with sometimes. Adds a little bit of excitement to my weeknights.”

“Sounds like it would,” she said, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “They have some amateur kickboxing tournaments at the gym my business partner’s husband works at. Always a fun time.” She swirled the straw in her drink absently. “Do you fly commercially?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. Mostly private stuff. Helicopter tours or cargo transport.”

“Ah, a chopper guy,” she said, pressing her lips together to hide a grin as she nodded.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What? Do I seem like the kind of guy who wears a suit everyday?”

She bit the inside of her cheek lightly and ran a finger through the condensation on her glass. “You just seem like the kind of guy who’d look really good in one,” she said, tilting her head at him.

He blinked at her, mind going a little blank. He looked down, grinning like an idiot as he picked at the label on his beer. “I don’t— I don’t know about that.”

She waved a hand, her broad smile making his face hot. “Oh, you’d probably look great in all kinds of stuff. Gotta love a uniform.” She studied him as she lifted her drink. “You’d make a good cowboy, too.”

He let out a surprised laugh, a little louder than he’d meant to. “A cowboy?”

She sipped her drink, humming affirmatively, and gestured at his head as she narrowed her eyes. “I’m picturing the hat. It works for you.”

They just laughed for a moment, gazing at each other. At some point in the conversation, they’d both fully turned, each of them resting a single elbow on the bar as they faced one another.

Frankie sighed, lips still turned up in a smirk. “I’ll try to keep that in mind. In the meantime,” he grabbed his old ball cap off the bar and slipped it on, “I think I’ll stick with this.”

“That’s a good look, too,” she said, smiling softly with her chin in her palm.

“You think so?”

“It’s definitely working for me.”

He bit his lip. “Y’know, I feel like an ass, sitting here and getting compliments from a beautiful woman without coming up with a way to return them that won’t embarrass the shit out of me.”

She dropped the hand she’d been leaning on, letting the tips of her fingers brush where his elbow rested on the bar. “I think that one was pretty good.”

It took everything in him not to look down at her hand. “I’ll take your word for it.”

A hand appeared at her shoulder and they both turned to face the newcomer.

Tiff looked between them apologetically. “Sorry,” she said before directing a frown at Nita. “Matt’s had about six too many shots and he’s gonna break his neck trying to backflip off the stage.”

Nita gave a long-suffering sigh, pinching the space between her brows. “And that means that Ryan is two shots behind him and everyone needs to be taken home before more chaos starts.” She shook her head and set her glass back on the bar, gaze lingering on the clear condensation ring it had left on her jeans. “I’ll be back there in a second.”

Tiff scurried off and Nita met Frankie’s eyes again.

She offered a half-hearted shrug. “Idiotas.”

He chuckled softly, hoping that she couldn’t tell just how disappointed he was to see her go.

Her gaze shifted to something over his shoulder. “Lorenzo! Do you have a pen?” she called, making a writing gesture in the air.

Frankie could only watch as she thanked the bartender for the pen and pulled her wallet out of her back pocket.

“All I have are business cards,” she told him, biting her lip sheepishly. She slipped one out of her wallet and started writing across the back. Then, she was handing it to him. “This is my cell number. And I don’t think I ever got your name.”

He took the card in a daze. “It’s Frankie,” he said softly.

“Nita,” she said, gesturing to herself with one hand as she returned her wallet with the other. “Maybe we can do this again sometime, Frankie. Sin los idiotas.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

She offered him one last breathtaking smile. “Have a good night.”

“Night. And good luck with the carpool,” he said as she started walking away.

He heard her laugh.

He turned to face the bar again, a smile plastered across his face.

A few moments later, he saw some of her group walk out the door. A few stumbled. The woman who had brought an end to their conversation stopped to talk to the bartender before moving to hold the door open. Then, Nita was half-carrying, half-dragging a chattering man out of the bar, a bouncer following close behind.

Frankie chuckled to himself, shaking his head. It was probably time for him to head out, too. The beer in his hand was beyond lukewarm and it wasn’t going to help him feel any better than he already did.

He waved down the bartender as he reached for his own wallet, carefully tucking Nita’s business card away before thumbing through his cash.

“How much?” he asked.

Lorenzo shook his head, holding up a hand. “You’re covered.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“Boss took care of it,” said the bartender, nodding to the door and offering him a shrug.

“Oh.” Frankie let that process as he slowly put his wallet away. “Gracias, señor.”

He felt a little light-headed as he made his way out of the bar. So much had happened so quickly. He’d started the night determined to wallow in self pity, only to end it with a warm feeling in his chest and the promise of a date in the near future.

~*~*~*~

If anyone wants to be tagged, send me a message and I’ll add you!

Taglist: @zeldasayer @tarrevizslas

~ Mike

#catfish x oc #catfish x ofc #frankie morales #francisco morales #catfish fanfic #fucken triple frontier #you're my home fanfic #frankie morales fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #catfish fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales fanfiction

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venezolanoanimations1 · 5 years ago

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Legoshi´s stand (JJBA x beastars) ACT 1,2 & 3

I haven´t seen jojo, i mean, not a full episode but some clips, a few wikis and fan made content, but i have seen beastars (the anime, and few parts part the manga) and i was wonder what if legoshi was a stand user, with the idea that the shadow of his savage tendencys was actually his stand.

Information: the STAND born from the instints of legoshi, he unlock it when he was a pre-teenager, Posses diferent Acts that legoshi can select and switch through the battle. This is a dynamical stand meaning that it requires the user to fight by themself with the enemy user ( i mean againts the person, not the stand) and each Act have its onw abilitys

Name: Wild Side (localization name: Savage Side or primal tendency)

Stats:

Power: Unknow

Speed: Unknow

Range: Unknow

Durability:Unknow

Precision: Unknow

Potencial:Unknow

Abilitys (general):

Predator: this can turn the tide of the battle real quick and make a [Wilde Side] one of the most powerfull stands. It allow to change the stats of [Wilde side] specific way, turnig it into the best counter for the enemy stando, and either making the user inmune to the enemy stand ability, counter the ablity, interfer or just stop the ablity. But legoshi need to know the name of the stand and have a small idea of the ability.

Well, there´s the option of leave this to the hunting instincs of the stand with the promise of have 100% correct guess but is a huge gamble cuz it leave a big fat oportunity to the stand get out of control and go complete apeshit (like purple haze).

Example: it make legoshi and the stand able to move in the stop time world or be fast enough to outrun made in heaven and it slow down to cancel the universe reset.

However it can only preying on one stand at a time

Animality: Allows legoshi to gain any ability of any animal he do desire and multiply it by 50 (like speed of cheetah, strength of gorilla, etc.), and if he say a specific part of his body, only that part it going to be power up, being able so use more abilities from anothers animals and combine them. but he has to know the animal not only by name but species, and it not have to be a real animal, but it has to be considerate as one. It doesn´t changes the physical appearance, only change either the resistance, strength, density, etc.

Example: The tough back of a turtle and the ablity to fly of the eagle by using his arms. (something similar of kars ablity but with no need of grow up wings)

Stand´s User Card:

ACT 1:

Mostly for combat

It is base in the shadow that hunts legoshi mind. having the idea that is something than just escaped from a heavy containment, wearing a prison looking pants qiht the number 18 on it and classic fetter-ball, have many rusty prison chains made of combination of iron and silver. This chains represent the will, determination and struggle of legoshi to keep this side of him under lock

I added some things like the lines of legoshi beast mode, and dog-prison-collar with the word ACT and the number 1 on it.

This ACT try often to take over control of legoshi mind to make him puppet of his instins and go in rampage, being controled by Act1 makes legoshi mostly invecible, almost inmortal, like if Lobo and Deadpool have a bab, but this is not good thing, he have no control of his actions in that stade, only able to see the horror from a loony place of his - now- controled brain and heart.

To give a idea of how screw up this situation would be: imagine if legoshi have Cartoon cat´s personality and evilness, and mulplied for 50.

Unique abilitys:

Wild instincs: power up user´s sences, to levels that he can see the essence of the prey (enemys) throuhg walls, can hear sounds in 700 metros radio and say what makes that sound, the same thing with the smell.

Beast mode: it give to legoshi his iconic beast mode. As simple as it is, but this time - being aware of his stando- come with a insanely high pain toleracen ( can even being injured like Kakyoin and still fighting like hell) and light self-healing factor.

Act II

This one comes after legoshi meet Gohin and build a more deep relationship wiht him, since he is a doctor and help legoshi with instinct issues, making him to take control of his strengh, showing him that he can use his inner beast to protect and help others ( or in this case, his love one) but it do not mean that he accept that part of him yet, and still thinking that it must be under look and locked, but now, teh containment is less heavy that the previus one. It wear straitjacket with a gohin logo in the back, a light chains and the keys hanging in the belt of it, the sign of act II in the rigth arm and a ¨love one¨ sticker in the left arm (Lousi haru and jack)

Unique abilitys:

Containment belt: can tie up enemys (stands or users) with the belts that come out of the straitjacket with limit of 8 belts, wiht a range of 10 meters, it also can transfer information from the user mind to digital divices of any kind and to other person by using said belt.

Lobotomia or brainwash: By a deep look into the enemys eyes, allow to go inside of their minds and screw it up, making them a sorta of zombie-slave for a period of 10 minutes, this can be inflected by legoshi or act 2, but the conditions are that if stand do it, It have to look into the enemy stand eyes to be efective, meaning that i need to get the stand closer; like point blank, it takes 2 minutes to complete (givin the enemy space for try ro escape or for legoshi to being interrupted)

Bioquimical engaged: since legoshi is the grandson of a komodo dragon his front fangs have small hole in them, but legoshi posses not bag of venom (this is not canon as far as i know, is just a thing that pop my head) well, this ability allows to uses his hybrid reptilian-canine to infelct a hard bite to inject any kind of substance into targets veins. (something like harvest)

Act 3

The strongest version of the stand when it comes to abilities, but the most difficult to summon, cuz it need to be a complete balance and domination between act 1 & 2. Legoshi need be focus and calm to use it and keep through the battle.

It appears when he ate the foot of louis to save their butts, accepting that he cannot denied or ignore his carnivore status, either the upsides and downsides of being a carnivore, and he can’t change it, but it doesn´t mean than that part of him can be used for good, or to protect his friends in his full capacity at least.

Now completely free and balance, this ACT of [WILD SIDE] has total loyal at his master commands.

It has written in the back the names of the people, that mean something to legoshi, the ones that he sees as friends or care about, wears the same pants that legoshi have in that part of the manga - when he unlocks it- and it was design to look like a function between act1 & act 2

Unique abilities:

Wolfpack: this is a very but VERY unique ability, is simple, it can bring to the battlefield the other to ACTs, in cases to fight multiples enemies, allow them to use predator in two more enemies. but in need a big concentration and mind strength from the user, cuz now, it is like he was controlling 3 stand a once.

Legoshi must to be careful in his choice of abilities to use, to which enemy send the ACT and which one use, the strategy to follow, to which act pay more attention, or just let go the other two ACT on free run with the gamble of lose control over them. A least, it minimizes very much the harm that legoshi get from stands injures by distribute the pain.

Catarino spit: its more for support stuff, in a few word is like have [Crazy diamond´s] ability but it only can use through saliva, and in a limited amount with a cooldown of 30 seconds.

The name is reference to a Mexican song - I’m from Venezuela by the way- called ¨el paciente¨ on the line that said ¨quisiera ser catarino pa´ curarme con saliva¨ translated something like: I would want to be a ladybug to heal myself with saliva -yeah, do not attempt to find any sense on that- which is another reference to other Mexican musician called Erasmo Catrino.

Catarino= male version of the word Catarina, which´s mean ladybug in Spanish.

Lone wolf´s call: this is for when the satiation turns ant color (very hard) Act 3 shout a big noise howl, so high, that can kill a person with it; if them no cover their ears. This not only can alert the alleys of legoshi about unseen dangers, but also give them – the allies- the localization of the wolf by showing his aura through the walls.

it can bring for 15 minutes the essence of any stand (Even enemies) that was in that area the last 10 minutes and give them just specific command either to defend legoshi, attack the enemies or just distract them and take the user out there. The thing with this is that make legoshi very tired, so it is an only-emergency-move.

(the command cannot be changed and the stand that show up go complete auto mode and half of capacity)

Example: Legoshi is outnumber, heavy hurt and bleeding, surrounded by enemies, unable to fight any longer, take deed breath and realized ACT3 and it call the cavalry, so, Stands starts to appear from the floor, looking at legoshi, the wofl has no ideads that what shit guys do, so he choice the buy time by make a divercion.

Meanwhile in the distance: The Cherrintong gang run as faster as they can, cuz they hear and see the backup call of legoshi, they know what that means, he is in trouble and big ones.}

And in the end but not less important.

The Stand User Card:

So what ya think guys, did you like it, lads? i hope so.

Well, i have another ideas to make a gang of stand users with the characters of beastars, like the stardust crusaders, Mama bruno squad (passione) or Josuke´s friends.

What ya think,did i should make it?

#beastars #legoshi #jojos bizarre adventure #my oc art #oc tag #jojo #jojo stands #fanart

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archiveddvrpg · 5 years ago

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Congratulations, BRIDGET! You’ve been accepted for the role of POMPEY. Admin Minnie: I had some trouble writing Piero in the beginning; in fact, I rewrote him a few times because I couldn’t find the right words to describe the core of him. But you, Bridget, nailed it exactly in ways that I had not even seen myself. You made him utter real — sometimes uncomfortably so, all of that feeling and pride, As I was reading your application, I immediately felt like he was already yours. I really tried to pick out my favorite line in your application, the detail that really drove it home for me — but the truth is, Bridget, you won me over so thoroughly that I love it all. I cannot wait to see you on our dash again, Bridget, and I’m so happy you’re back! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Bridget

Age | Twenty-two

Preferred Pronouns | She/they

Activity Level | I’m either gonna be on every three minutes or three days apart, there is no in between, but I promise to keep my activity constant and in line with your standards and let it be known if I am having any struggles with meeting them.

Timezone | EST

How did you find the rp? | Hazel

IN CHARACTER

Character | Pompey ; Piero Montrelle Ruiz

Piero ; italian: rock

Montrelle ; italian: mountain

Ruiz ; spanish: famous ruler

What drew you to this character? |

Listen, I made a meme when I was apping Hazel, Imma show y’all right now:

It’s a dumb meme and I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but share it.

I honestly play characters like Piero more than I play nicer, more morally-sound characters like Hazel, but I wanted to try something new, so ultimately I decided to pursue Hazel at the time. That said, as much as I love Hazel and would love to write her again, I kept thinking about Piero and his youth and ambition, and so now here we are, me obsessed and wanting to write him.

Okay, rambling ? Done. Let’s do this.

Something about Piero just screamed to me boy king, and that’s just my style. It was in the way he put himself above other children, his pride and his ego. He was born to be something and, in his youth, before he knew of his parents’ empire, before they told him who he was meant to be, he was searching for it. He couldn’t find in it eager kiddy games, he couldn’t find it in chit chat or childhood experiences. But there was something that rushed through him when he saw them stumble, he found satisfaction in figuring things out ages before them. It was in feeling better than them, feeling stronger and superior, and — simply, just being better. He had no time for laughter, for foolishness. What was the point of that, if not to waste time ? ( He was a mean boy, but his parents never pushed him not to be. If he caused another to bleed, it was their fault for not defending themselves. If his whispers of cruel words caused them to weep, they needed to strengthen their mental fortitude. No fault was to be found in Piero ).

I also want to pinpoint there’s something about Piero that also reads naivety to me. He considers himself wise and intelligent, and to some point I do agree ( books and tutors can teach, and they do ) but there are other notions that bring out his youth. It’s in his eavesdropping on his parents — yes, he was young when it happened, but still someone wiser would have understood that some secrets are such for a reason. Instead, he lusted for the unknown, something bigger than himself ( this — as well, is something I’d like to focus on, but I’ll come back to this later. ) and he found himself frenzied until he was finally privy to the family secrets. I see him as being inexperienced, someone who doesn’t have quite the worldliness as someone twice his age or even someone who had to struggle for basic needs during their childhood.

( Also, there is the fact his parents groomed him as being special. He never earned the title, instead it was bequeathed unto him from the very start. His parents claimed he walked younger than most, talked younger than most. He excelled in classes, he excelled in his physical ability. Again and again, his parents claimed him remarkable. I think, amongst the Veronesi, it might be time for him to realize that maybe he isn’t more than his name. This probably should go under plotting but I’m imagining him seeing others with skills he was never taught, maybe those his mother would have considered barbaric and uncouth. Piero wouldn’t see that, though. He would see force and deadly talent and he would see the areas in which he holds deficits. Also, just the ability and skill that comes with time and practice beyond natural talent. I keep reminding myself that, although a little bit weary with a lot of trauma, Piero is still nineteen. I used to think that was so old and so mature, but he’s barely more than a kid. Fun Science Fact: brains aren’t developed fully until their mid-20s !!! Some studies suggest early 30s !!!! Piero hasn’t even reached 20s !!!! He’s still baby !!!!! He’s going to make mistakes and learn and he might be reluctant and angry to do ( please see trauma re: parent death and assassination attempts ) so but he’s gonna do it to better himself which is what he wants to do !!! )

Piero learned so much from his parents, from tutors and teachers alike, but there is something more about experiencing things for himself and not just from the words of others and that’s where his youth shows. The first time he fought, really fought, not for practice or for fun ( something about him just coded him as a bully in my mind, one who’d pick a fight with someone who, one, would fight back, and, two, someone he would definitely beat, but I digress ), in my mind, was when Tiberius came to kill him. There was a fight or flight reaction and he was proud and cocky and pumped up on adrenaline because — this — this was what it was all for. He fought with a flurry of fists, frenzied, wild. In that moment, he knew this for certain: Ruizes were powerful and forceful and they would not flee. If he died right then, so be it, but he wouldn’t have looked death in the face and accepted it.

Okay, so this has turned into a rambling character analysis, and I apologize because I said I was done rambling, and clearly not. That said, I don’t regret it. I just have so much passion and fervor for Piero and I could write a ton more. I might. Later. We’ll see.

I just can’t help but be captured by how striking he is. He’s new to Verona, new to this scene of criminal seediness because this is when he’s finally beginning to get his hands dirty, beyond the basics of opening his eyes. His parents were introducing him to this life, but they didn’t let him delve too deep. They were bringing him in slowly, and then they died. He had nothing right then, nothing but his name and its weight. That wasn’t enough, but his brutality was. When death came for him, it made a mark on Tiberius for him — maybe all of the Capulets, too — and now he’s determined to leave a stain on all of Verona, perhaps Spain and the rest of the world, too.

I originally saw him as something of a blank slate when it came to his being in Verona, but after thinking it through a tad more, he isn’t. His parents wrote his future for him with the very incident of his birth, and now he is filling in the blanks that have been left for him after their deaths. Verona — the Capulets — they are a step in his path to power. Here, he could find allies — he already has enemies — and he learned at a young age the value others could be in company. Over time, maybe they will see that he is someone with a bright future, someone who should be watched carefully because blink and you’ll miss his grab for something better.

He should not be overlooked and that is something I think people might do. Sure, his family had a reputation, one that might cause some pause, but they might think he isn’t them. He is young and inexperienced, but there’s a chip on his shoulder and in his mouth is a taste for blood. He won’t go down quietly or without a fight. He is watching and waiting for chance and opportunity. He’ll prove any doubter wrong, he’s sure of it with all the self-confidence and egotism a princeling could have.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

1. Emotional Motion Sickness: Something that struck me about Piero is how he once wore his emotions on his sleeve. He fought for his life, fueled by loss and grief. He has a practiced void in his eyes and locked tears away. In my mind, this is not him, it is not in his nature. He was the sort to be fueled by idle amusements, wanting satisfaction, his eagerness knowing no bounds. He feels, and he feels immensely. It could be said it’s what he does best. But now? He is quiet, showing little. It’s vacant and a little numbing, and the void in his eyes is cold and distant. What his cards are and what he intends to play are known to him and him only. I can’t help but think that maybe, one day, he is going to break, the facade dropping, eyes blazing. Anyone caught in the crossfire surely would regret their taunts and jeers.

1. I just have this vision of him snapping. It would take a lot — honestly, a lot — because he’s created this solid version of himself, almost patient, somewhat mostly obedient ( I do imagine he chafes under rules a little — more than a little bit actually, but he bites it back time and time again ) but unfeeling. Jibs and jabs don’t get to him. They seemingly roll off of his back. I have to say that isn’t the case. He’s proud and he can only take so many insults. If — actually, when — he breaks, it’s going to have been a long time coming. The facade will start to break, cracks showing in the twitch of his fingers, the tension in his jaw. Maybe it will earn him respect from those around him when he snaps and demands more for him — he’s more than just the last of the Ruizes, living off of the faded glory of their name, and he’ll be damned if he’s not allowed to show it — but maybe it will only be a reminder that he was a loose end, and he was meant to be dead to begin with.

2. Who Am I? You Decide: He comes to Verona and what’s most obvious is that he has offered himself wholly to the Capulets. It’s not what his parents did — they were owed power for their allyship while Piero is now owed nothing. At the beginning, he is dutiful and obedient. He’s got nothing to lose but he has everything to gain here. He has to prove himself, really it’s his main goal. To do this, he finally understands words his parents told him so many years ago. Detener la marea y esperarar al momento adecuado: Hold back the tide and wait for the right time. He’s trying to listen and be quiet and wait and watch, but he’s never known patience well. He acted and reacted in his youth — power and privilege granted that ability — and this restraint is taking a lot of effort.

1. The facade crumbles and falls slowly, piece by piece. It starts with remarks and quips that are a touch too dry and that have too jagged an edge to people who don’t matter. It then escalates. He tries to manipulate situations where he sees a chance to take hold. He bites when he should be muzzled ; he acts of his own accord. I have no doubt that his own desires and whims to take action will get him in trouble. He is a wicked boy and always has been, soul stained black by birthright and only darkened with time. He found thrill in other people getting hurt, whether by his hand or not. He found glee in twisting his words to twist knives in others’ hearts. Maybe he learned it from watching his parents — they were by no means good people — but maybe it was part nurture, part nature. It was fate to be bad, or at the very least unkind.

2. His true nature shows in these ways: he speaks when he shouldn’t, he becomes too comfortable around Tiberius, a man who is like a friend and a brother, but ultimately was the man who was meant to kill him. It shows in his interactions with Vivianne, charm oozing, frenetic words of grandeur and idyllic plans slipping from his lips in eager commentaries about Verona and Spain and the whole world further. He speaks to them as if they are not his betters — as if he is more than even an equal — and soon it is not only them. It will become everyone.

3. Throwing Rocks Around Your Room: Everything in his life has been destroyed or taken from him in irreparable ways. This new life, this new existence, a part of him wonders how long it will last ( there is, of course, a certainty that this has to last. It’s this life in the mobs, or death. No middle, no escape. All or nothing. Black or white ). He seems so neutral, so unmoveable, but his head is a wrecking ball. He thinks of ways to destroy not only himself but all those around him. A part of him thinks the Capulets are to blame for the ruination of his family and their name — exceedingly childish, for sure — but he wonders what it would be like to see them crumble, perhaps making a martyr of himself in the process. The one flaw to this is that he does not want to die. For what use was him surviving this long if it comes not to a head ? He needs to make a mark. He needs to be known not just by a few Capulets and other Veronesi — but by everyone. He wants parents to shiver when their babes utter his name. He wants his name in history books, imprinted on pages that will survive longer than their maker.

1. Destruction has followed Piero. At first, it was only others, starting with children who crossed him, and then it turned to the enemies of his family. He did well when it was his hand casting the stone. And then, it turned on him. His family’s empire turned from masterpiece to rubble. Another turn took and his family was whittled down to one. The idea of erupting and destroying who he thinks hurt him ? Somewhat appealing. But he can’t do it. He wants more. He’s hungry to become bigger than he is. I want him to find a way to do it ( and while he’d consider acting Brutus within the Capulets, his own pride and ambition would be champ at the bit, rendering him unable ) or at least consider his options. He’s restless as part of the Capulets. He feels like they are keeping him down, not letting him be enough.

4. I Don��t Have a Fancy Title for This One I’m Sorry: When it comes to Tiberius, Piero wants to impress him, to prove him right, that sparing him was the right choice. But at the same time, bitterness remains and finds itself seeping into his blood, the feeling intensifying, every time Piero finds himself being held back by the scruff. With his … befriending ( that isn’t the right word, and it doesn’t convey what I want to say ? Admiring ? Infatuation — not romantically, of course ) of Vivianne, he wonders if impressing her over Tiberius is the way to go. He considers ignoring Tiberius, going off on his own and making his own choices. Maybe that’s what he needs to do to shake off the status of initiate, to become a soldier.

1. tl;dr: Eventually, if Tiberius doesn’t let Piero have a little more responsibility and things to do, he’ll find someone else who will grant him that.

Current State of Being

→ Piero is trying to stay in line, keep quiet, and do what’s asked of him. But he’s antsy and he’s simmering. There’s so much he has to say ; he’s so not used to being at the bottom of the pecking order. It’s not going to last. He’s got a lot to say, he wants to do things. Sooner or later, he’s going to stop waiting for permission ( and, in turn, he’ll beg for forgiveness if need-be )

Character Goals

→ Have Piero use his voice. He stops listening to the jeers and taunts of everyone who thinks they know all there is to know about them, and he tells them off. He’s no longer silent and maybe people will look at him in a different light. Or maybe he gets in trouble. Either way would further. I’m leaning towards having him react and get angry, raising his voice in a way he shouldn’t.

→ His true nature shows. Wicked is as wicked does. He gets comfortable in Verona. He acts on instinct, he lashes out. Maybe someone gets hurt — maybe it’s him, maybe not. He starts to abuse his ability to talk to people, twisting words and twisting hearts and feelings. Manipulation is in his blood. He acts out, he steps out of line and does something for people to see him as more than just a little initiate in the Capulet’s gang.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? |

Don’t kill baby jk do it i dare you

IN DEPTH

( i’m replying to some of the questions & i did a para sample )

What is your favorite place in Verona?

He gets lost more often than he’d like. He wanders down streets he’s never gone down and through alleys with unknown endings. A part of him would be delighted if it wasn’t overtaken by the idea that he needed to know these streets better than he did. There was no time to be idle, no time to do anything with purpose. Most of the Capulets, surely the Montagues, knew this city like the back of their hands.

He wanted to know it better than they did, better than those naturally Verona-born. It was more than a want, it was a need that burned within him.

Still, the streets were beautiful.

It was different than home, than Spain. There, his family had resided just outside one of its largest city. From his room, he could hear the sounds of cars whizzing by on nearby highways. If he didn’t close the curtains, he would be bombarded with the lights of the city, no stars to be seen.

Here, despite its age and all of its magnitudes, Verona seemed infinitely smaller to him. He was refusing to allow himself to like it, to find a home.

It’s a long time before he finally answers the question, and his response can hardly be considered an answer. He only gives a shrug of his shoulders, absent, vague, and his gaze turns towards the window. His eyes are dead and shark-like as people pass by.

That’s not an answer, Piero.

He sighs, a loud and exasperated sound. There’s another pause on his part, this one longer and emphasized by his ability to not look at the asker once. This person — the soldato — means nothing to him. He’s sure they’ve already passed their prime. They’re as likely to ascend further as he is to fall flat — which is to say unlikely. And because of this, he cares little for them. He waits to say something poised and clever until perfect ears are listening.

Finally, there comes an answer, the barest bones of respect he’ll give, one with a little more substance to it. That doesn’t mean his voice has an affect that is more than flat. It doesn’t mean he seems to care. “ There’s a little flower shop that I can see from the window of my flat. I’ve never — “ his nose wrinkles at the thought “ — I’ve never bought anything from it, but it reminds me of when I was living another life. ”

It reminds him of the day his parents died and he was left standing alone to face their destruction, his shoes sticking to the hardwood floors as blood dried on their soles.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

“ Ambition is my folly. ”

It’s said lightly, airily, as if it doesn’t matter. Look closer, see how the muscle clenches in his cheek, how there’s a sparkle momentarily flashing in his eyes before it fades to dullness. He wants to do something that has weight ( — like the heft of a gun in his hand, the feeling of his body atop another’s as his fists bear down ) and yet he is relegated to simple tasks only. He feels like a page, or perhaps worse, a pawn, unimportant and oh-so-easily replaceable.

Maybe his mistake has been living.

It shouldn’t seem like that.

But he hates being an underling. He hates being told what to do and when to do it. His life is now dictated by another, not even a Ruiz. When it was his parents instructing him, it felt different, less like someone was making all of his choices for him and more like — more like he mattered ? There is no need to convince himself that he did matter to his parents — he was next in line, preened and primed, being readied to take the throne his family had been sitting on for generations — because he knows it’s true. Here ? One wrong move can cost everything.

Perhaps he should have allowed himself to have been martyred, killed in cold blood despite fighting to prevent it. He would have been the last of the Ruizes ; they’d have been remembered for not going down easily. Now ? He thinks a wrong glance cast could mean his throat will be slit.

You don’t seem so ambitious to me.

He supposes most won't have seen it. Tiberius knows — Tiberius has heard him ask over and over for something to do, something bigger and better, with meaning, and so has Vivianne, he would be remiss to forget her — but everyone else ? He doesn’t suppose it’s important enough information for his sponsor to pass along that he wants to do more, so he rationalizes that most think he’s just a good little soldier-to-be, keeping his head down and toes in line. It’s not time for people to fear him, not just yet. That time will come.

“ Then maybe my biggest mistake was that lie. ”

Para Sample

He has been being followed for sometime now. It is always a shadow in the periphery of his vision, disappearing when he turns to see, a jacket billowing behind someone who had just walked out of frame. Piero wonders if this should make him nervous. He’s considered it, the idea that someone must want him dead to end the Ruiz family once and for all. They came for his parents, now it’s his turn. It’s a horrifying thought at first light, but there is something dangerously satisfying to him within it, at the idea of someone considering him that necessary to end. Perhaps it’s dark and twisted, but not all boys born to wear a crown come out golden.

Nearly a week passes, and by now he’s on edge. Every knock on the door of the shitty motel he’s staying in, every blow of wind against the glass windows, sets him on edge. There are purple circles under his eyes, dark as can be. He hasn’t been sleeping well. He tosses and turns, his deepest worries allowed to fester and grow in unguarded dreams, until he wakes unrested. He can’t go on like this much longer. He’s wondered if it’s worth it to flee Spain, to call on distant relatives, begging on bent knees for salvation and charity. His own pride sets him straight. Cowardice is not an option. Ruiz blood has reigned over Spain for generations. He will not be the one to bring that to an end, bringing shame to his name and the memory of his parents.

It’s just past three in the morning when he hears the turn of the doorknob. He sits up straight in the rickety armchair in the corner, his eyes adjusting to the darkened room, and he stares and he waits. He considers running. There’s a window in the bathroom, already open. He’s slender enough to squeeze through it if he really wants to, he’s given thought to it already — the doorknob rattles again, a thump echoes through the room as something hits the wood of the door — but he thinks to himself he doesn’t have the time. If he tries it, he’ll be caught halfway out. He cannot flee if it will lead inevitably to his demise. It’s embarrassing and shameful and wouldn’t do. Even in the face of death, Piero is as proud as ever.

The moments before the door cracks open, broken by the weight of another’s body, seem to last forever. He thinks of himself. He thinks of all the things he has yet to do. He thinks about his parents, their dreams and expectations for him. This becomes painfully clear: he cannot die without a fight. This is his moment. No matter the outcome, someone will remember the Ruizes. They were once noble and strong, but they didn’t allow their fire to go out so easily. It’s all he can do.

The door breaks, and he’s on his feet finally. The room is still dark but he can see motion in the darkness. He will let his attacker come to him. To tire himself out, to make all motion, seems like it’d be a mistake. Though he’s expecting it, the first hit knocks all of the air out of his lungs. Another hit lands, then another. Finally, something snaps within him. Elbows in, chin down. That’s what his mother taught him. He’s wild and frenzied, suddenly hits aren’t met with pause, and he begins throwing blow after blow, some hitting, some not. He’s all in. There is no hesitation, not anymore. It’s become apparent, right then, after this week of waiting, that perhaps another motivation is a fear of death.

It’s not an unreasonable thing. He is barely nineteen, hardly an adult, barely lived. He thinks there is so much more for him to do, to see and to experience. In his head, his mantra becomes I will not die today. Over and over, he says it to himself, despite blows hitting his body, his own strikes meeting their targets, muscles pounding against flesh.

Thoughts continue to rush through his mind. Why is he fighting ? For his parents. Why does he need to ? They’re dead. There are tears welled up in his eyes, out of pain and anger and grief. They shouldn’t be dead. They should be here. He shouldn’t be fighting. A choke sob escapes through swelling lips, but he doesn’t let himself falter. This is life or death, and he is doing everything he can to choose life.

His mouth tastes of iron and salt, but it isn’t from his own body. A fist met his lips, teeth scraped against gentle flesh, and Piero had drawn first blood. Though there were bruises forming on his own body already, though his muscles ache and scream, there is something satisfying about that. All he can do is manage to stay standing, quick on his feet, landing in jabs where he can.

The sounds in the room are heavy breathing and the noise of flesh hitting flesh. He wonders if the neighbors have been disturbed. He wonders if they care.

He isn’t sure how long has passed. He isn’t sure how much longer he can last. This fight, this rush of adrenaline coursing through him, it’s all new. Before this, it had always been fights that ended when someone hit the ground or time was up. Never had stakes been so high. A part of him is screaming for it to stop ; another wonders why this is only the first time. There’s something fulfilling in it, and maybe that’s monstrous, but Piero thinks that maybe he was born to be brutal and bloodthirsty. For so long, he had been charming and a pseudo-intellectual, clever and cunning. There had been merit to that, yes, but this ? Every fist that connects with skin sends a rush through him, a thrill like never before.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed when the man takes a step back from him, a thrown swing causing him to fall off balance. For a second, his heart leaps to his throat and he thinks this is it. But the man doesn’t take the misstep as an opportunity. Instead, he’s looking at him, interest crossing his features. Piero doesn’t let his fists fall to his side, he doesn’t know why the man has stopped, and he is too in the moment to care. He takes the chance the man doesn’t and swings, his fist meeting the man’s jaw. It lands with a satisfying thwack, but again the man doesn’t retaliate.

“ That’s enough. ”

Piero can’t help but flinch under the tone of resolve and authority, but when he looks up again, the man is still staring at him. No, he is studying. Piero can’t fathom what he can be looking for or why their fight has stopped. His body is screaming, surely if he wakes tomorrow the pain will have increased tenfold, and his most basic reaction is still fight, fight, fight.

He’s winding up his fist again but again the man speaks. “ I said, enough. ”

Piero knows when words spoken are no longer suggestions — when instead they become commands. His fists fall, his shoulders do, too. His expression turns petulant, childlike in its quick and open displeasure.

He is silent, waiting — for what ? He wonders briefly. It could be death and damnation that awaits him. A part of him, however, thinks differently. He has never been idyllic, seeing the world through rose-colored glasses with glee and a grin, but something inside him is waiting not for death’s hand to grip him.

Instead, he waits. Blood is rushing through his ears still, his pulse is throbbing. Finally, finally —

“ Sit down, boy. Let’s talk. ”

Extras:

FAST FACTS

( i looked up spanish naming customs for this and i might have gotten it right but i might not have i need to do more reading to be 100% sure but i still wanted to include it )

→ Full Name: Piero Ruiz Lorca

→ Mother: Marcella Blanca Lorca de Ruiz

→ Father: Piero Ruiz Zapatero

→ Siblings: None

→ Birthday: July 12th ; this makes him a Cancer

→ Hometown: Cordoba, Spain

→ Dominant Character Traits: harsh, ambitious, bloodthirsty, rash, driven,

HEADCANONS

001. For generations now, men wore the name Piero, his grandfather the third, Piero the fifth. There were expectations to meet, legacies to exceed. Live up to your namesake. Piero’s father was speaking of his own father at the time and, while this weight of that bore heavily down, the young boy could only think of becoming instead like his father. His grandfather died before memories of him solidified in a young child’s head, and so he only knew of him through tales and rumors. For his father, though, he watched as all stood when he walked into a room, his presence commanding respect, his reputation demanding it. While his hands were stained bloodied red, he was a beacon of light that people looked to, he captured attention easily. Once he understood, Piero craved that same state of existence. The children he grew up around, he had their attention, but in a different way. They whispered about him when his back was turned, they ducked their heads and left the room once he entered. It was a shame, really, but he was sure he would grow into his father’s shoes, filling the role the elder Ruiz did easily. For some time, he believed he was doing exactly that. And then, his parents were slaughtered, and the role he had to fill was that of a ghost. Now that he is human once more, as part of the Capulets and their crew, he feels like he once did as a child, unliked and not very seen. It’s digging at him, shoving splinters under already broken nails, causing him to grit his teeth and try a thousand times harder to earn a little bit of the damned respect he so desperately craves. It’s one of the few things that his father told him to do, this living up to his namesake. His father might be dead, rotting in the ground, with most of his words forgotten to time and space, but his spectral voice lives on in Piero’s head.

002. I have this image of Piero, maybe no older than fifteen, sixteen, at a table surrounded by compatriots of his parents. An older man, in his fifties, or perhaps, his sixties, is chewing tobacco. It’s disgusting. His gums are coated in black spit and when he smiles there are specks on his teeth. Piero cannot hide his disdain. But he’s chewing something, too. With all of his egotism, his thoughts that he is better than those before, he’s found a better option. Mint. It’s fresh and better and — the adults around him, most find him insufferable. For good reason. Anyway, it’s stupid and dumb, but god, I imagine it’s a habit he hasn’t broken. It also means mojitos are his favorite cocktail. No, I won’t elaborate on this or give any good reason for it besides please, I want it, and it’s just youthful arrogance, you know ? Before Verona, before his parents died, I feel like he had just come into himself — he felt sure and he was certain that life was grand. Era una vida tan buena. He was cocky and a little … I don’t know. Smarmy ? That’s not quite the word I want, but god, Piero was living each day as it came. Nothing could faze him. He lived under the shield of his parents and their name, of his own youth. There was privilege in that. He had seen the taste of power and luxe that his parents’ world — the one he was set to inherit once he was of age — and it delighted him. He revelled in it. He wouldn’t have to unlearn his innate cruelties, his hubris. He was a prince set to ascend, his crown was never askew.

003. As a child, he was raised not only to be smart, wisened by words of the experiences and the words in books, but to be cultured as well. His mother took him to parties with him on her arm, where his smiles never quite reached his eyes under the coos and remarks of her friends. He talked when spoken to, he never raised his voice. He could be charming when he needed to be, grins and chubby-cheeked, with words uttered that they desperately wanted to hear. He never enjoyed them, especially not when his parents would slip away into back rooms to have their own meetings. He would wait resting under the doorknob, eyes desperately seeking for some revelation under the door’s crack, ears yearning for words through the keyhole. The door would open at midnight, if not later, and he would fall into the room because of how he’d been leaning against the door. On the rainiest of days with no other plans, they would find themselves lost in museums all over the continent ( they had money, and while they didn’t quite flaunt it, they didn’t have qualms about traveling ). Beautiful things never caught his eye. They were nice, sure; but they were idle and dull and fleeting in his mind. Were his mother not guiding him ( in another life, one without bloodlust and bloodshed, she would have been a curator — a stunning one, establishing beautiful collections that many would travel to. alas, this is not our story ), he would have been lost in statues of gore, in paintings of wars and hatred. There was something about them that caught his attention and never let go. Is there beauty in being brutal ? Piero would say so.

004. The Ruiz home was decorated with exorbitant quantities of flowers while Piero lived there with his parents — why wouldn’t it be that way ? Their front for their operations was a massive floral establishment, it was only fitting for their home to be decorated accordingly. As a child, he loved their scent filling the halls and rooms — roses and lilies and all sorts of magnificent blooms. They were pretty and they weren’t long-lasting, but they were always something that represented his family, and he would be remiss to say a part of him wasn’t fond of them. However, from the day his parents died, all he can remember besides their shouts in frantic Spanish is the scent of blood and flowers. Now, any breath of anything floral makes him gag. It’s unfortunate.

005. The first time he held a gun — the first time he did so with meaning, it loaded, intended to be used against another — he was fourteen. He followed behind his mother, into a meeting with a man who owed the Capulets money. She knew he was unlikely to run or cause a fuss ( he had pride and character, his mother told him, and though he had wronged them, only a coward would have fled or refused his fate ) and thought it perfect for Piero’s first attendance. He stood behind his mother, just beside her shoulder, and listened as she talked. He stood on the balls of his feet, eager and ready for his chance to do something — anything. It never came, much to his disappointment. His mother said everything she needed to. She demanded payment. The man refused, citing he couldn’t. His mother nodded, then she fired one shot into the middle of his head. They left quickly after that, someone would be coming to clean up the mess, and the weight of Piero’s gun felt heavy in his hands having gone unfired.

006. He has nightmares. Nobody knows — he refuses to tell anyone for fear of it being seen as weakness or a vulnerability — but surviving two assassination attempts ? It should come as no surprise that it’s affected his psyche. But there are nights, more often than he’d like, that he wakes up, thrashing, sweat-coated legs and arms tangled up in bedsheets, and his heart is beating in frantic panic. It takes a moment for Piero to realize that his life is in no danger ( at least, not at that specific point in time ) and then he lets his head fall back to the pillow. The days after, he finds himself more on edge than normal, dark-circled eyes narrowed and angry.

PINTEREST BOARD

Rambly Bits That Didn’t Fit Anywhere Nicely But Still Provide Notion Of Character And I Didn’t Want To Delete Permanently For Fear Of Regretting That Decision Later

2. His parents were not good people. They never had hope of cleaning the blood off of their hands and fingers, but they never had desire to burn them clean. At his birth, he was blessed by aunts and uncles in hopes he’d have a fraction of his parents’ abilities — their cruelty, their decisiveness, their skill with gun and blade. He grew up in a home that never knew weak submission ; it was eat or be eaten, and he learned that quickly. He watched friends of his parents cry for mercy after failures — ones he didn’t understand in the moment, not until years later, when he crept downstairs in the midnight hours to watch their meetings through stair railings — and he watched as they were met with slaps to cheeks and sometimes worse. He was too young to understand the permanence of death, but he understood that a hole in a man’s temple meant he was never getting up. He saw the cool poise his father wore as he held a smoking gun — he imagined himself, older, in the same position. He echoed the steely edges his parents’ voices took ; he repeated the words they said that meant nothing to him until his cadence and tone matched theirs.

3. His parents praised him while he was in school when teachers and tutors reported that he was harsh in the face of sadness or whining and unable to handle the wrong answers of others. It only worsened ( bettered ? ) as he grew older. His harshness seemed less precocious and began to unsettle others. Tutors and teachers began to dislike being in the same room as him. He wore a smile that said let me do as I please and his temper echoed I mean it. He asked them questions about things they didn’t know, baiting them with their insufficiencies until they had no other option but to quit. His parents would only hire someone new with no question. No one was spared. He asked personal and probing questions until they shifted in their seats. He was like a needle under their skin, sharp and uncomfortable. )

4. Being a part of something bigger than himself. Isn’t that what a king does — or in Piero’s case, a princeling ? They are a large part of their kingdom, surely, and, though they might be its head, it cannot exist without its body. There needs to be support. When he was young, being a god amongst the other children wasn’t enough. He wanted something more. He wanted to be something more. He knew his parents did something that made them special, and their dis-including him ( for whatever reason it could be, he wondered night after night, staring up at the stucco ceiling, sleepless and agonizing ) just wouldn’t work for him. He needed to be involved, he needed to know. His knowing parts of their secrets, the whispers he overhead, was enough to build up his patience until it came to know more.

5. He has his eyes set on the crown his family once wore ; he was born and bred into a vicious line.

6. It’s a game of chess. Where once he was perhaps a knight or a bishop aside his parents’ queenhood, someone who could advise and assist, he feels now hardly more than a pawn. There are others in charge and he acts in their stead to do their bidding. He knows it’s what he must do. He must build his power back up, but gods above, the wait is agonizing. He wants to feel the rush of adrenaline that power brings surge through him again. He wants to make his own choices and decisions.

7. His peers had it worse. Unlike teachers whose authority he undermined, he knew he was better and above his cohort — a king amongst sheep. He ruled conversations even when no word slipped from his mouth. They needed to entertain him or he’d find another way to spend his time. ( A brief interlude: his “ friends ” didn’t like him but were scared of telling him no — also, they were most likely the children of his parents’ friends and associates, so there was need to make good with Piero. ) He’d pit them against each other with lies and rumors he’d overheard or made up. It was interesting to see them scramble, like ants under a magnifying glass. So long as he was amused, where was the harm ?

#accepted #accepted: pompey

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glittergummicandypeach · 5 years ago

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A Link to Jewish History, RBG’s Iconic Collars Were a Beacon for the Marginalized | Religion Dispatches

Sometimes, the only way forward in life is to take it stitch by stitch.

Last winter, the Masorot chapter of the Pomegranate Guild of Judaic Needlework took a field trip. This convivial group of women visited the Notorious R.B.G. exhibit, honoring Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, at the National Museum of American Jewish History in Philadelphia. But they didn’t go alone.

They brought a framed needlepoint with them, designed and stitched by member Bonnie Bacich. It depicted Justice Ginsburg against a vivid blue background. Behind her glasses, her eyes were blank—like the bound eyes of Lady Justice. Around the edges, Bacich’s friend Arlene Spector added a biblical quote to the design: “She speaks with wisdom and the law of compassion is upon her tongue.” (Proverbs 31:26). When the museum posted a picture of it on social media, what drew my eye was Ginsburg’s signature lace collar, jutting up and out of the flat canvas, a separate piece of sewn-on lace, studded with small pearls.

That collar tells you why Ginsburg means so much to so many Americans. Lace takes time. Whether it’s bobbin lace or needle lace or crochet openwork that resembles lace: each bit builds upon another. The stitches mirror Ginsburg’s layered pursuit of progress. Ginsburg’s jabot collection was composed through methods akin to her litigation strategies. Her incremental approach to the law was, in the end, her legacy: a wide fabric of justice, studded with silken threads.

“The more I learned about her, the more I adored her,” Bacich told me this week. “She found ways to tackle problems that nobody else thought about.” Though she’s not Jewish herself, Bacich married a Jew, and raised Jewish children and grandchildren. A self-identified “women’s libber” who was the first in her family to go to college, Bacich said the other Pomegranate Guild members were thrilled when she created RBG needlepoint kits for each woman to make. “They felt she was a role model, such a strong woman.” They expressed that admiration in thread.

Matter matters in Justice Ginsburg’s memorialization and emerging hagiography. When you see a white lace collar over a black robe, she is the first person who comes to mind. As Americans mourned her death, memorials popped up all over the country. Of all the votives offered in her memory—candles, flowers, rocks—the white jabot stands out most starkly in photographs. A collar graced the neck of the Fearless Girl in Lower Manhattan. Other young girls, made of flesh, not bronze, wore collars as they paid tribute to her on the steps of the Supreme Court. If you want to get in on the crafting, then you too can download and cut out a paper dissent collar to wear, or knit up this Dissent sweater pattern on Ravelry.

Lace and yarn and fabric are also a link to Jewish history. In Europe, the Middle East, and North America, Jews created and traded in textiles: by hand, in factories, across borders and oceans. Italian Jews, steeped in an economy rich in textiles, created elaborate synagogue furnishings. In the industrial age, the Jews of Kalisz, Poland, worked in the lace-making capital of the Russian empire.

Ginsburg’s own ancestors immigrated from Eastern Europe at a time when “shpanyer arbeit”—translated as either “spun” or “Spanish” work—was at its height in that region, adorning prayer shawls, caps, and other Jewish objects, for those who could afford it. Beyond lace, Jews did so much sewing, cloth production, and gathering of used fabric that they were sometimes called “the rag race.”

Long before her death, Justice Ginsburg’s fans used the language of craft to express their admiration for her and to bestow her with gifts. Some gifts had a Jewish theme. In 2019, Moment Magazine presented her with a special collar, created by Michigan artist Marcy Epstein. Known as the “Tzedek collar,” it incorporated the Hebrew letters tsade, dalet, and kuf, which spell the Hebrew word for justice—tzedek. A quote from the Hebrew Bible “tzedek, tzedek, tirdof”—justice, justice, you shall pursue—featured prominently on the wall of Justice Ginsburg’s chambers. Justice Ginsburg wore that collar during the October 2019 opening of the court… the last October she would sit on the bench.

RBG’s collar donated to Museum of the Jewish People in Tel Aviv.

In the wake of her death, the Museum of the Jewish People in Tel Aviv announced that Ginsburg had donated one of her collars to the museum last March; it will appear in the new core exhibit opening there this winter. ““She was a righteous person,” Shula Bahat, a museum representative, told NPR. “She was totally dedicated to the values of Judaism.”

Justice is indeed the Jewish value with which Ginsburg, the first woman and first Jewish American to lie in state in the U.S. Capitol, was known. Another Jewish value—less known to the general public—is called hiddur mitzvah: the enhancement of a commandment. Jews can light candles in any old candlesticks on Shabbat—but if the candlesticks are carefully engraved with a floral pattern, or they are glass jars your child has painted at school, it adds beauty and meaning to the experience.

Ginsburg enhanced justice for millions of Americans. Her brilliant legal mind got her to the Supreme Court and shaped her judgements and her famous dissents. But her collars, and the signals they delivered—dissent and approval, femininity and righteousness and pleasure—encoded the proceedings with a special kind of attention, another layer to Supreme Court ritual. Those fabric beacons shone powerfully for those of us who have experienced marginalization, had to code switch from setting to setting, or learned to express ourselves through subtle cues beyond formal language.

While it’s not a huge surprise that some of Ginsburg’s collars will rest in museums—like holy relics, the objects touched by our heroes often end up behind glass, visited by modern pilgrims—it’s also unusual for such a textile to endure for generations. Fabric and lace don’t always survive.

Yes, you can find astounding Jewish textiles in many museums. But cloth and thread are fragile. They fray, they disintegrate, they burn. When I interviewed Jewish crafters around the country, Gerry Weichman, a Pomegranate Guild member in California, told me that she began making Jewish textiles in the 1970s because so many Jewish pieces were “burned out during the Holocaust.” Putting new objects into the world is an affirmation of survival, a form of resilience, a grasping of the chaos of the universe with a needle and thread.

Threads, like our bodies, are impermanent. But Ginsburg’s collars will endure. Even when the fabric degrades, their white-on-black iconicity will linger in our minds, like the photographic negative of an ebony Victorian silhouette.

This content was originally published here.

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inmyarmswrappedin · 6 years ago

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Thoughts on each even, you don’t have to answer. You just have some of the better skam opinions on this site.

Hi 🤩💫 First off, flattery will get you absolutely everywhere with me, anon, thank you so much haha.

I took a few days to think about how best to answer this ask because most of the Evens don’t feel so different to me that I could think of many things to say about each one. But then I thought I’d approach the Evens through their art style.

I was a bit of an Even in high school— liked 90s hip hop, fell in love a lot, was a bit of a dreamer and a romantic, doodled and tried my hand at different art projects with mixed results, etc. So in talking about the Evens, I’m also going to talk a bit about myself if you don’t mind!

I’m also not going to rank them this time, let me know if you want me to rank them (or to rank anything else about Skams, idc).

Even - I like Even’s drawing style and I feel it suits him very well. He never had an insta, but Isak’s season banner features a good amount of his drawings, plus the ones we saw on the show. He’s obviously influenced by American hip hop and comic culture, what with the COOLCAT, the weed, the crown, the diamonds… and the dicks. I’m very fond of Even’s Illuminati eye surrounded by boners, lol. It really feels like the kind of things a boy like Even (who loves Romeo + Juliet and Pretty Woman and Gabrielle, but also Nas and Lars von Trier and Stjerner uden hjerner and FIFA) would draw. I like that Even felt inspired by his conversations with Isak and pushed through his own fears to make art directly referencing things Isak said. Even felt scared by the possibility of parallel universes, but in order to show Isak how much he cared, his drawings for Isak all referenced parallel universes. I also like that Even’s art style is not stereotypically cute. It reminds me of the borderline gross style of Daniel Clowes and Peter Bagge.

Niccolò - Okay, so at this point I think we’re all aware that Skam Italia didn’t even have the budget for insta content, and they clearly didn’t have the budget to hire an artist specifically to create Niccolò’s art. He does have lots of drawings in his room, but then he doesn’t really draw anything for Martino? It feels like Niccolò is more of an arts and crafts kind of person, at least to me. Anyway I like that (aside from the red string of fate, which never got a follow up of any kind) the stuff Niccolò makes for Martino all reference Last Man on Earth, the TV show they bond over, in one way or another. The show is really not what I would call epic romance material, which I feel works for them tbh!

Eliott - My thing with both Eliott’s furry thing and Polaris, is that both seem really cute, but ultimately like… they didn’t mine either thing for all it was worth, I guess I would put it. Also, in comparison to other Evens, Eliott’s thing is almost developed (Eliott is after all a fictional character, not a real person) in order to elicit maximum cooing from its audience. Like, no one would say the illuminati boners or Last Man on Earth are objectively cute, not out of context! (And I’m far from a Skam Italia fan, I’m just saying.) But the hedgehog and the raccoon and the cat are all drawn in a very cute style. It feels a little too saccharine sweet for a 18-year old. However, Maxence not looking like a 18-year old might also play a part in my hesitance, because as a 18-year old I legit drew a full on comic about me and my then crush as superheroes fighting against our teachers in order to conquer college admittance tests together. (Like I said, Even and I have some shit in common lol.) And I drew my crush as a cat because he looked like a cat to me. So where the hell do I get off criticizing Eliott, y’know? As for Polaris, it’s like… Okay, so one is afraid of the light and one is afraid of the dark, and they meet and kiss right outside the cave, what else? It’s like, it’s cute and romantic, right, but not very developed as a season long motif.

David - I mean, do I have to say it? I love David and everything about him. I love that he has different art styles and uses different tools, it’s very realistic for someone his age still trying to find what his specific thing is. I love his sketches and his collages and the fact that he has a vampire persona that he draws in thicker lines. I love that he didn’t initially have an insta, and that he only got it because Sara and Leonie needled him about it, and I love that he didn’t post selfies or pictures of himself until he went through his character development. I love that his vampire persona crap is only for Matteo and he doesn’t post those cartoons on his very serious, very aesthetic insta. I love that his vampire persona looks similar to the Magdalene Hanke-Basfeld illustrations for the Angela Sommer-Bodenburg “The Little Vampire” book series. (I have no idea whether it’s intentional/an homage or just me seeing things where I wanna see them, but I loooove it.) I love that his first posts on insta really just seem kind of random (aside from the bird taking flight ofc) and like they don’t have a connection to the s3 storyline, it’s as if David really existed and made art and had ideas and thoughts before he met Matteo. I get such a kick of David’s sense of humor, like he seems kind of angry at the cliche of being barefoot on the beach and having a good time (ZUM KOTZEN!!!). Lol he’s just so delightful. I love that he can’t post a goddamn pic or video without a filter, oh no that’s simply not him!!!!1 And let me tell you about the time he made a highlights folder and named it Nights on Earth, I almost lost it on twitter I had such a great time. Anyway, David’s art and insta really scream that he’s a bit of a pretentious snob who corrects people on proper terminology and will only make cute things for the person he cares about the mostest AND NO ONE ELSE. PERIODT!

Joana - I’m a bit torn about Joana because I’m not into her more anime-esque stuff, but at the same time, god, if that isn’t me. I learned to draw by watching anime and trying to emulate the style, and because I’ve never really taken lessons, my cartoons just scream anime. I’m a bit embarrassed about it, because weeaboos and what not, and that extends to Joana as well lol. Before I revisited the Evens’ stuff for this ask, I had this idea in my mind that Joana’s art is a bit unrealistic because it seems too polished and professional for her character, but really, that’s just the piece that she in character made for the hospital/the BDP project. The stuff on the show and on her insta is actually believable as doodles or pieces she can put a bit more effort into, but aren’t like, art gallery-ready. I like that Joana started posting black and white doodles from graph paper notebooks (ftr this is the kind of notebooks most Spanish students use, lined or blank paper notebooks not so much), and started adding colors and creating more complex pieces as her relationship with Cris progressed. I think it says so much about Joana that the cartoons that represent her are always in some kind of pain, physical or emotional, but the cartoons that represent Cris (including the toads) are always cute, always happy, always desirable. Like, be more in love pls. I love that Joana is a bit of an edgelord, and uses a lot of imagery related to arrows, knives, tears/blood drops. That’s so accurate of girls like her. I love that the season banner has an actual to god vulva on it. Compared to other Evens, Joana seems more focused on drawing than anything else, so maybe that makes her video for Cris’ birthday not plausible, but on the other hand, I feel like Croana shippers could’ve used more cuteness in week 10, so you know what? Imma take that video, copypasta of “Gutten som ikke klarte å holde pusten under vann” as it is. I hope that Joana keeps posting art in s3 and s4, and so we get to see how her style develops. ✨

Sander - I haven’t really watched wtFOCK.

#skam #druck #skam españa #skam italia #skam france #ask #Anonymous #brain vomit

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pengychan · 6 years ago

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 11

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: On one hand I'm sorry for the delay of this chapter, but on the other hand I got to post an Easter-centric chapter on Good Friday and I'm not that sorry. So, uh, happy Easter? Art is by Dara and @senoraluna!

***

“Why is the dog here?”

“Because Miguel wanted to help and he follows Miguel everywhere.”

“We’re in a church!”

“This is an attic.”

“Of a church!”

“Look, it’s not like we let the dog do his business in the chapel,” Ernesto pointed out. Padre Juan made a face that he supposed meant he was conceding the point, and made sure to stay several steps away from the dog, who was sniffing enthusiastically the floor, only to sneeze out clouds of dust. That place was going to need a serious clean-up, Ernesto thought, gaze pausing on the table on the far end. He could see some empty basins, and bottles. “Not fond on dogs?”

“Not especially,” the gringo said a bit pointedly, walking up to the table. “They’re boisterous, unhygienic, and they carry--” he trailed off, stilling. “Good God, a Brownie!”

“A what?”

“An Eastman Kodak Brownie!”

“Can you go back to speaking Spanish?”

Padre Juan turned, and Ernesto was so startled by his expression - he was grinning like a child, he really was - that at first he didn’t notice the aluminium box he was holding. “This camera,” the gringo said, holding it up. It caused Miguel, who was still struggling to contain Dante, to light up.

“Oh! Yes, that’s Padre Edmundo’s camera! Everyone was curious about it because it doesn’t have a tripod like his old one.”

“It’s far better than I was expecting. This will make everything much easier,” Padre Juan said. He looked down at it, wiping the dust off it with his sleeve. “I had a camera much like this, Father bought it as a gift when I turned--” he trailed off suddenly, and his gaze turned oddly blank. It was such a stark contrast to his unexpected giddiness it made something in Ernesto’s stomach clench. Beside him, Miguel looked confused.

“So, uh. These are commonplace in the States?” Ernesto asked, not really caring to know but wanting to say something to snap him out of it. Luckily, it worked: the question seemed to shake Padre Juan out of whatever thoughts crossed his mind. He nodded, the smile back on his face.

“Yes, quite. These were a huge commercial success - it’s the No. 2 Brownie, see? An improvement on the original I used to have, that one was made of cardboard with artificial leather. Still, it served me well - astonishing in its simplicity. It uses a simple meniscus lens, the shutter is integrated-- see? And the viewfinder! My old one did not--”

“I think we get the picture,” Ernesto, who knew precisely nothing about cameras aside from the fact you’re supposed to pose in front of them, cut him off. It seemed a better thing to say than ‘it’s all Greek to me and I really don’t care’.

“What do you need to get it to work?” Miguel asked.

The gingo looked around. “Film-- number 120, I believe. Kodak produces specific film for each specific camera. Hopefully there will be some of that around here, too. Not much point in having a camera you have no film for. I am amazed to see one of these here.”

“We don’t live on the moon, you know,” Ernesto grumbled, but he was still too taken aback by the absolute glee on the gringo’s face to be too annoyed. He hadn’t seen him that excited over anything before. And really, a weirdly excited Father John was easier to deal with than the sanctimonious ass he generally was. So, no complaints.

For now.

***

“Run this by me again - we’re supposed to pose and look holy for the gringo.”

“Sister Sofía! Padre Ju-- John has a name and you’ll be using it! Have you learned nothi--”

“... Did you almost call him Juan, Madre?”

“A-absolutely not! I have enough respect--”

“He keeps calling you Mother Gretchen.”

The remark caused Madre Gregoria’s wrinkled face to twist for a moment in the darkest scowl Imelda had ever seen on her - and that was saying… a lot. “Well, he’s a priest and--”

“An insufferable ass,” Padre Ernesto supplied, causing the old bruja to nod.

“Yes, accurate.”

Héctor smiled a little. Behind la Madre Superiora, several nuns covered their mouths to hide a smirk, or coughed. “Really now, Madre?”

A shrug. “Well, he is the parish priest. Who am to argue his judgment?”

Padre Ernesto laughed. “Your trust moves me. To answer So-- Sister Sofía’s question, yes. He thinks some photographs would help convince… whoever there is to convince that we’re really deserving of some support. Which we need. Like, a lot. No objections there, right?”

No, of course, none at all; Imelda wasn’t surprised. Their situation was not yet desperate - donations had helped them buy some more food - but it was serious, and they needed funds to ensure a steady supply of food until… well, until harvest, at least. Or until that war was over.

“So, he’s going to take pictures during Mass?”

“Among other things, yes. So, let’s all act like good Catholics and--”

“We are good Catholics,” Imelda said, maybe a bit more pointedly than she should have, and entirely ignored the glare from the Mother Superior. Padre Ernesto, however, didn’t seem fazed. Considering that their first proper introduction had happened while they both turned up at a guy’s place to beat the crap out of him, Imelda would have been surprised if he were.

“Yes, of course, but you know how the gringo is. Let’s keep him happy.”

“He’s impossible to make happy,” Gustavo muttered sourly from his corner. It was the only contribution he’d given to the meeting up to that point, and Imelda barely held back from rolling her eyes. She noticed that Héctor’s own eyes twitched upwards for a moment before turning to her, sharing with her an exasperated look. Look who’s talking.

“This is still worth a try,” Padre Ernesto was saying, his voice calm but devoid of the usual warmth. “Let’s pose for nice pictures, so that he can argue for us and get us the money.”

“You mean charity,” Héctor said, causing Padre Ernesto to raise an eyebrow.

“Was that such an important distinction to make?”

“Makes us sound better.”

“... Point taken. We need charity, so let’s all behave and watch--”

“I’m not gonna watch my mouth,” Chicharrón loudly informed them all, despite having never been spoken to once. The old gravedigger seemed entirely unaffected by the looks he got from all nuns present, herself, and Héctor. He shrugged, leaning back on his seat, peg leg stretched before him. Imelda sort of liked him, but right there and then she’d have happily strangled him with a rosary. “Words aren’t going to show on photos, no?”

“... Fair enough,” Padre Ernesto replied. It was the voice of a man who’d decided to pick his battles, and that the one at hand was not worth fighting. “Not to worry though, I don’t think he will want to photograph you specifica--"

“Padre Ernesto should be in the photos,” la Madre Superiora spoke up suddenly. As everyone fell quiet and turned slowly to look at her, she had the good grace to look embarrassed and shrugged. “Well, he’s… appealing.”

“He is,” the Delgado window - who was mainly there due to the fact telling her anything was the quickest way to make sure the entire village would know it by dusk - nodded in agreement.

As all nuns suddenly looked down as though very interested in their shoes, some of them coughing again, Imelda shot a quick glance to her left. Sofía was staring at the Mother Superior like she’d never seen her before, while Padre Ernesto looked unfazed. If anything, he seemed flattered: the smile that followed was much more of a grin.

“Well, as the parish priest, I suppose that cannot be helped,” he said. “He will want to take pictures of the children at Mass, so make sure all those in your care look at their best.”

“Well, not too much at their best,” Héctor muttered. “Last thing we need is for some Bishop in the States to decide we don’t look like we’re in enough trouble to get the money.”

“Charity,” Padre Ernesto corrected him, elbowing his side with a grin. “Makes us sound better, I think you said.”

Héctor laughed, and it was… nice to hear. All their meetings had been about such serious matters lately, Imelda had found she missed his laugh. “Right. Charity.”

“Also, he will take pictures of the Palm Sunday procession tomorrow, so you better be the best Jesus you can be,” Padre Ernesto added, and Héctor smiled.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Get ready to do the same for el Vía Crucis, too.”

Héctor’s smile faded in a confused look. “... What? Who decided I’m going to--”

Padre Ernesto waved his hand, putting an arm over his shoulders. “I did, just now. I’m sure you’ll do great. Can someone ask Prospero to get to work with the cross?”

“I already did, Padre,” Gustavo said magnanimously, and grinned in Héctor’s direction. “I told him to make it as heavy as the one our Lord had to carry,” he added, gaining himself a blank look from Héctor. It took all of Imelda’s self-control not to grab her crucifix and hurl it to his face.

“Oh, how generous,” Héctor said drily. Gustavo shrugged.

“For realism.”

“Of course.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Padre Ernesto said, smiling at Gustavo as he let go of Héctor’s shoulders. “Great thinking. You should be given a part, too.”

That caused Gustavo’s own smirk to waver. “A-ah, that would be kind of you, but--”

“Oh, I insist! You earned it, after all. You’ll be Simon of Cyrene, helping out Lord carry the heavy cross,” he added, and Héctor had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh; Imelda could see that even from a distance. She almost smirked herself… until Padre Ernesto spoke again. “And Ime-- Sister Gisela, you’ll be Verónica.”

Santa Verónica, the woman who wiped Jesus’ face clean on his way to crucifixion. The thought made her falter a little - it seemed something too… too intimate to be doing. As she opened her mouth to protest, she didn’t notice Héctor’s foot suddenly landing on Padre Ernesto’s, causing him smile to become forced. “I’m… touched, but maybe someone else-- la Madre Superiora--”

“Ay, la Madre Superiora should be Holy Mary, I’d say,” he cut her off, and tilted his head towards Madre Gregoria, whose cheeks were quickly reddening.

“Oh-- that would be-- a honor, but--”

“No buts, you’d be amazing,” Padre Ernesto replied with a wave of his hand and a wide, charming smile. Imelda could distinctly see Sofía rolling her eyes. “The other Sisters can be the women of Jerusalem. Would that be all good with you?”

As the sisters in questions nodded - several of them glancing in Imelda’s direction with knowing smirks and making her wish to kill Padre Ernesto, all of them and herself in quick succession - Padre Ernesto smiled.

“All settled, then,” he exclaimed. “Just act at your best starting tomorrow, and Padre Ju-- John will immortalize it. Any questions?” “Juanita doesn’t like cameras,” Chicharrón declared.

It took Padre Ernesto a clear effort not to roll his eyes. “We won’t involve your rooster more than strictly necessary - just make it crow three times before el Vía Crucis starts, for drama. Anything else? No? Wonderful. Now go and spread the word. And most of all, smile for the camera.”

***

“Are you ready or not?”

“Yes, yes. Just… give me a minute.”

“It’s an old donkey, Héctor. Are you seriously afraid to climb on a donkey?”

“It’s not that, it’s… Ceci did a great job on this tunic, but it doesn’t help and the wig keeps getti-”

“Por Dios, just get on this damn burro!”

“Hey! Careful how you speak to Jesus!” Héctor grumbled, finally sitting on the saddle. He wasn’t a good rider, be it on a donkey or a horse, and it sure wouldn’t kill Gustavo to be a bit more patient. As a response, Gustavo scoffed.

“You’re just playing a part, cabrón.”

“Do you kiss you mamá with that mouth?” Héctor snapped back, only to of course regret it the second it left his mouth, as Gustavo’s frame stiffened. He remembered suddenly of all the times, when they’d been kids, when Gustavo had repeated over and over that he was not an orphan like them, that his mamá was alive and would be back for him soon, any day now, any day now.

Mierda.

“I-- lo siento. I didn’t mean--”

“Just get going,” Gustavo snapped, and suddenly smacked the rear of the donkey, which bolted forward. All right, it didn’t quite bolt, but it set out at a quicker pace than Héctor would have liked, heading towards the main road where, he knew, all of Santa Cecilia was waiting with palm branches… and, in Padre Juan’s case, with a camera.

Make us look good, Padre Ernesto had said, but it was easier said than done, clinging as he was to a trotting donkey. Maybe if he pulled just a little on the bridles, he could make it slow down before he made the entrance and--

“Woof! Woof!”

“Wha-- Dante?” Under Héctor’s stunned gaze, Miguel’s dog appeared - seemingly out of thin air - in front of the donkey, who abruptly slowed down, clearly taken aback by the dog walking ahead of it, head turned back to Héctor rather than towards the path ahead. With a sigh of relief, Héctor smiled.

“Gracias,” he called out. He straightened himself on the saddle, made sure the long wig was still in place, and headed down the main road and into the town.

***

The whole arrangement was… picturesque, John had to admit.

People stood on both sides of the road, waving blessed palm branches, dressed up in their best clothes - which were… quite colorful, but he could allow that. After all, Jesus’ arrival to Jerusalem was a day of celebration; he would talk to Father Ernest about having people wear something slightly more subdued during the Via Crucis procession on Good Friday, later.

For now, he would take pictures.

“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Father Ernest said, his voice smug as it could be. Normally, John would have reminded that pride is the root of all other deadly sins-- but right now, he was too focused on capturing what was happening before his eyes. Father Edmund had left behind a good amount of film, but it wasn’t infinite, so he had to make each shot count.

The parishioners with the palm branches - the people of Jerusalem celebrating Jesus’ arrival in their holy city, less than a week before turning on him, choosing the life of a criminal over his and sending him to his death. Click.

Brother Hector - a slightly unconvincing Jesus, though no for lack of trying - waving at the crowd as his donkey kept going, over the palm branches thrown in its path, towards the main square and then the church. Click.

“Maybe he should have cried.”

“... What?” Father Ernest blinked. “Why?”

“In the Gospel according to Luke-- never mind. The other three didn’t mention it, anyway.”

John moved along the road, taking more pictures - a child on his father’s shoulders holding up a branch, a little girl throwing hers right before the donkey, a woman crossing herself, the twin boys who had organised everything smiling so widely, Mich-- Miguel with them; there was chatter and cheering and laughed, none of which the camera could capture.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

By the time they reached the parish, John was smiling, holding tightly onto the camera. He took another shot as Brother Hector dismounted, the church in the background; a couple more as Father Ernesto joined him, smiled, patted his shoulder. Another one as they smiled at the children from the orphanage, crouching to take something - flowers? - from a few of the little girls. They both looked so at ease, making the children laugh, and John took more pictures.

Click. Click.

Father Ernest laughed at something a boy had said, and he turned towards him, the smile still on his face. He looked positively delighted, and John’s finger froze on the shutter, heart leaping in his throat. To his relief - and a pang of something that wasn’t relief at all - Father Ernest’s eyes moved to his left, where Miguel was holding up a basket full of donations. He hadn’t been smiling at him, after all. His heart sank from his throat down to his stomach. What he felt now was not quite lust, but something similar and yet different, and even more terrifying.

Focus, focus, focus. A few more pictures, just a few more. Do your duty.

He took several more pictures, trying to keep himself from turning the camera towards Father Ernest - but of course, when he developed them in the attic, he found he appeared in most of the shots. He told himself that was normal - he was the parish priest, he was there, that couldn’t be helped. He could almost convince himself of that, really. Just almost.

That day’s photos developed, John forced himself to tear his gaze away. He excused himself from dinner and went to his room, to deal with his affliction in the only way he knew.

***

“All right, we’re good to go.”

“We look nothing like women of Jerusalem,” Imelda muttered, adjusting her headdress. Of course they couldn’t change in different clothing - as nuns, they had to keep wearing their robes - which made including them in the Via Crucis procession especially stupid.

“Well, neither will anyone else,” Sofía reasoned, and handed her a piece of linen with a smile. “Here you go, Verónica. Make sure to wipe our Lord’s face nicely.”

Imelda took the linen with a scoff and a suggestion as to where to put it that was unbecoming of a novice, or any kind of lady in the first place. Sofía just grinned.

“With Lent almost over with, I’m really hoping to have Antonia see to that.”

“You’re the worst nun I have ever met.”

“And I want to keep the title, which is why I’ve been trying to get you out of here since day one.”

Wait, what? “You have some nerve, trying to imply I’d somehow be worse--”

“Assuming you’d be better? That’s pride.”

“That is common sense!” Imelda snapped, only to get an angelic smile and a pat on the hand.

“Temper, novice. A good nun holds her temper,” she said, all sweetness and light. Madre Gregoria’s voice was the only thing that kept Imelda from using the linen cloth to strangle her.

“Let’s get going, everyone-- you chattered enough! Silence is virtue!”

“Yes, Holy Mary,” Sofía muttered with a roll of her eyes, and Imelda felt like strangling her a little less. Maybe she’d settle for a smack, later, away from witnesses. Right now, she would just focus on the procession and getting that nonsense over with.

She really hoped the gringo would get them some funding from his church in the United States as he said he would, because it was the only reason why she put up with any of it.

***

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all.”

“What kind of Jesus can’t endure a bit flagellation?”

“The kind that’s just pretending to be Jesus, Cheech. And that’s unnecessary, anyway. No one’s gonna see a thing until I step out.”

“Was trying to get you into the character,” Chicharrón muttered, but there was a smirk on his face when he left the sacristy, leaving him standing there with the cross - it was really heavy, dammit - across his shoulder. Of course he was smirking, Héctor thought, adjusting the crown of thorns - not real thorns, thank God, which was what he’d have gotten if Gustavo had a say in it. Why had he let himself be talked into it?

“You’re looking good,” Padre Ernesto muttered, and grinned, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Jesus Christ, heading off to steal hearts.”

“That’s… not exactly what this procession is about,” Héctor pointed out, only to be ignored.

“Now, when you come across Verónica, make sure to look as tired and suffering as you can. And put those eyelashes to work. Don’t make my perfect casting go to waste.”

“Hijo de puta.”

“What?”

“... Praise the Lord,” Héctor muttered. Padre Ernesto laughed.

“That’s just what I thought you’d said.”

***

This is so stupid.

The thought kept circling in Imelda’s head as her hands clenched on the linen cloth she was supposed to use to dry Héctor’s face. Jesus’ face, really - that was how she should think of it. For as long as the procession went, Héctor was meant to be symbolically represent the son of God, so it wasn’t his face she’d be wiping, not really. In a way, it made sense.

… Except that it didn’t, who was she kidding? She got stuck into that stupid role because Padre Ernesto didn’t know any better - she refused to consider he had known about the implications because he was the parish priest, por Dios, for all his eccentricities he wouldn’t do a such thing - and now she would have to wipe Héctor’s face.

Which wasn’t supposed to be a big deal at all, but it was and she rather resented that.

This is ridiculous. It will take a moment. I’ll do it, and it will be over with.

The cheering went up, and Imelda looked down the road to see that Héctor was staggering forward, rather good at feigning exhaustion despite the fact he wasn’t carrying the cross: that was currently being dragged by Gustavo, as the angriest Simon of Cyrene Imelda had ever witnessed. Despite everything, it made her smirk a little.

Serves him right.

Of course, all too soon he had done his part and he quite literally dropped the wooden cross right back on Héctor. He staggered - Imelda suspected it wasn’t an act at all now - and kept walking, dragging the cross… until, of course, he paused before her.

He looked… awful, really: his exhaustion hadn’t been an act. Panting, all sweaty and wig askew, with hair stuck to his face and neck, he sure looked the part of the suffering man condemned to death. Nothing especially pleasant to look at, and yet…

… And yet.

Héctor looked back at her, and he seemed to freeze for a moment. There was nothing unusual about her appearance, she was sure, but his eyes were wide and fixed, jaw slack like he was looking at something incredible. He looked mesmerized-- something in her stomach twisted-- oh God, she had to do something.

Imelda leaned forward and went to wipe his face - gently, carefully. To her relief, his eyes closed a moment. One more moment of that gaze, and… she didn’t know what she’d do or say, and she she was glad she didn’t have to find out. When he opened his eyes to look at her again, he looked oddly lost - then he recoiled when Imelda sharply tilted her head - go ahead.

He staggered away, wavering a little more than he had before. She watched him go on for a time, dragging the cross. Some distance ahead were the other sisters, as the women of Jerusalem, but Imelda refused to look their way, keeping her gaze fixed on the cross. Any moment now he would have the second fall, then… then… wasn’t he supposed to fall about now, before reaching her sisters?

“Fall, Héctor,” she heard Miguel muttering, perfectly audible somewhere the left. “You must fall!”

Something that looked suspiciously like Chicharrón’s peg leg shot shead from somewhere in the crowd, hitting Héctor behind a knee and causing him to finally fall for the second time. Only a couple more stations, and then he would get to the point where Jesus would stripped of his clothes aaand no, no, she had to turn her thoughts to something else entirely just about now.

Imelda looked down at the linen cloth in her hands, face aflame and all to aware of several pairs of eyes fixed on her.

***

“Everything hurts.”

“I think you did great.”

“Everything hurts everywhere. I was not supposed to fall off the cross. ”

“But you absolutely nailed it the second time. Heh, nailed, get i--”

“Suffering is the meaning of the Good Friday, Brother Héctor. Certainly your pain is nothing compared to what our Lord went through.”

Padre Juan’s voice seemed to lower the temperature in the chapel by several degrees, causing Héctor to still, hand halfway to his aching back, and Ernesto to roll his eyes. Whatever magic finding that camera had worked on the gringo, it clearly had ran its course: he was even more standoffish than usual, lately, and ate his meals in his room rather than joining them.

He spoke little with anyone, and with him even less; he was stiff even in the way he stood, and when he sat he hardly even touched the backrest. It made Ernesto wonder what exactly had crawled up the guy’s ass and died, but he decided to try being civil.

“Taken good pictures?” he asked.

A sharp nod. “Quite,” was the curt reply. No more details, no giddy talk about the photos he’d taken and how good the camera was. “No, I’d like to use this chapel for its purpose and pray.”

Héctor and Ernesto glanced at each other with one clear, shared thought - the hell is wrong with him now? - and it was Héctor to try again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us--”

“You’re welcome to join me in prayer, if you can be bothered,” Padre Juan snapped, kneeling. He did so slowly and stiffly, and maybe Ernesto should have wondered, but he did not: he was just too annoyed. Padre Culo Blanco could be an ass all he wanted: Ernesto was done worrying for him. He had no idea when or why he’d even started worrying in the first place.

“Maybe later,” he muttered, and turned to talk out of the chapel, gesturing for Héctor to follow him so that they could talk more about the very obvious look he and Imelda had exchanged during the procession.

Neither of them noticed the way Father John’s features twisted in a pained grimace as he braced his elbows, leaned his forehead on his joined hands, and prayed in silence.

***

“You know, you were close enough to kiss.”

“I am not hearing this.”

“I’m sure you thought of it.”

“I did not!”

“You were turning red, Imelda.”

Oh, damn her. She couldn’t deny that, could she? “... I wasn’t thinking of kissing him,” she finally muttered. After all, it was not a lie. She’d been thinking of him nearly naked.

Far from discouraged, Sofía raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what were you imagining?”

“None of your business. Are we done now? We have priorities here,” Imelda snapped, putting some more rolls of clean bandages and disinfectant - she could even get her hand on some morphine, in case someone needed to dull the pain - in what had been a fruit crate long ago.

“Yes, yes, the medical supplies. Viva la Revolución. We can still talk while we do this.”

Imelda groaned. “And do we absolutely have to?”

Sofía grinned. “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, we do.”

***

“This is awfully unnecessary.”

“First time seeing la quema de Judas?”

“The-- the hanging and burning of some puppet is-- unbecoming of such a solemn occasion!”

“I’m pretty sure they do that somewhere in Europe, too. Feliz Sabado de Gloria.”

“That doesn’t make it appropriate!”

“Look, we’re burning Judas. We’ve got more than a few reasons to be sort of pissed at Judas.”

“That thing doesn’t even look like him.”

“... What, you knew him personally now?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Padre Juan grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring at the scene before him. The effigy of Judas was hanging high, on a rope stretched between two houses at the opposite sides of the plaza. Truth be told, it looked an awful lot like Victoriano Huerta; it was clear to everyone as it was clear to the gringo, but of course none of them said as much aloud.

Plus, at least they hadn’t made him white as someone had suggested only half-jokingly at one point. Ernesto felt the gringo had no reason to complain there. “Not taking any pictures?” he asked, lightly elbowing him as he kept watching the crowd all around the effigy parting to allow Miguel to walk up to it, head held high and all solemn-eyed, holding a burning torch.

Padre Juan scoffed, stepping aside. “I’m supposed to try making the lot of you look virtuous.”

“Burning evil is virtuous. I think. The Church did that a lot.”

“Dark and ignorant times,” was the sour reply. “Evil is to be vanquished from our lives each day, every day. There is no need nor point to make a… a spectacle out of it.”

Ernesto rolled his eyes and turned to retort, but words died in his mouth when he noticed one of Padre Juan’s hands had slipped under his sleeve where, he knew, this fingers were now running over a thin raised scar. His mouth was pulled in a tight line, skin even paler than usual; Ernesto paid no mind to that. Only minutes later, he’d wish he had.

I tried to raise my arm to shield myself of the rightful punishment. They did the right thing.

“... Well, you know. It’s a bit of a distraction for what’s going on,” he muttered in the end.

“Comfort should be sought in prayer, not with these-- fetishes,” he pointed out stiffly, but he let the matter drop. Not that Ernesto would have heard him either way, because the next moment two very familiar voices reached him.

“Hola, Padre!”

“Like our Judas?”

Ernesto glanced down at Imelda’s brothers, and grinned. “Love it,” he said. It was true: he liked the idea of watching the face of the bastard who’d had him drafted in that damn army go up in flames. He liked it a lot. “Padre Juan here was just saying how impressed he is,” he added. The gringo stiffened, but the boys paid him no mind.

“Thank you for letting us put fireworks in the effigy!”

“Ah, you’re wel--” Ernesto trailed off, brain finally catching up. By his side, Padre Juan looked extremely alarmed. “Wait-- I didn’t give you permission to stuff fireworks in it!”

The boys gave him two wide, identical grins.

“But you didn’t tell us not to.”

“Ah. Mierda.”

“Father Ernest! Langua--”

The rest of the tirade never happened, because Miguel had set fire to the effigy of Judas and that was it. A loud crackling noise, followed my whistles and smoke, caused the crowd in the plaza to back away from the effigy - but none of them seemed scared, or even particularly surprised, which Ernesto supposed could be put down to the fact most of them knew what to expect from the twins.

Flames enveloped the effigy, and more bangs rang out, greeted with cheers and laughter. Judas, aflame, rocked on one side and then the other before yet another bang caused it to jolt; the rope holding it up gave in, and the remains fell on the ground, jolting with each subsequent crackle to roaring laughter - including Ernesto’s own.

“That was great!” Miguel exclaimed, seemingly having popped by him out of nowhere after setting Judas on fire and dropping the torch. “Wait, where is Dante? Aw, I think he got scared…”

“There was-- nothing great about it!” Padre Juan snapped. People around them were already rolling their eyes and muttering to one another, bright smiles fading. “That was an awfully irresponsible and-- and blasphemous--”

All right, enough. He wasn’t going to let him sour the mood for everyone, so Ernesto forced himself to smile. “Hah! Come on, it was funny. Lighten up,” he laughed, and slapped a hand on his back.

John screamed.

It was unexpected, and loud enough to make everyone fall into a stunned silence. Ernesto stepped back, struggling to understand what the hell had just happened, just as the gringo took a staggering step forward and then sank on his knees, trying and failing to hold back something that sounded much like a sob. His skin, already even paler than usual, was now chalk white; he wheezed like all air had been used up for his cry.

“Pad-- Father John?”

“What is it?”

“Is he all right?”

“Come on, it was just a pat!”

“Is he pretending?”

“He’s got to be, it was nothing!”

“What is it with gringos…”

“Ju-- John?” Ernesto called out, still taken aback, and crouched. Father John Johnson was hunched over as though in immense pain - eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched and face reddened. It was alarming as it was, but seeing tears escaping the corner of his eyes made it worse. “What is it? That wasn’t me, I didn’t-- can you stand up, or…?”

“Make way,” someone spoke, and suddenly Sofía was there, crouching next to him. “What did you do?” she hissed.

Ernesto blinked. “Nothing! You saw it, it was just a--”

“I'm not talking to you,” she cut him off, giving Padre Juan an exasperated look before glancing back, at the crowd around them. Miguel and the twins looked completely lost, and a few men were moving closer, Héctor first of all.

“What happened? Is he ill?” he asked, eyes shifting to Ernesto like he thought he had an explanation. And he didn’t… but someone else did, or so it sounded like.

“It's nothing serious,” Sofía replied. “Call doctor Sanchez to the parish, we’ll take it from here.”

“N-no, I don’t need--” Padre Juan mumbled, but no one bothered to listen. Sofía glanced at Ernesto, who nodded and grabbed the gringo’s arm, passing over his shoulders before he stood. The idea was to help him walk, but he was so limp he pretty much had to carry him.

Only once they got to the parish, with no one else around and Padre Juan seemingly semi-conscious, did he speak again. “So, what is the deal with him? You sound like you know what the hell is going on and I’d really appreciate being filled in, because--”

Sofía sighed. “I think this idiota whipped himself raw.”

“What??”

“Explains the shriek when you gave him a pat. Don’t ask why, I have no clue whatsoever,” she added, entirely unaware that Ernesto did, in fact, have a clue. More than just a clue, really.

I need penance, he’d said. Prayer is not enough, he’d said.

“Crazy gringo,” he muttered under his breath as he carried him inside, hoping he hadn’t fucked himself up too badly.

***

“Not a bad place to be, huh? God, I was never in Veracruz before and I already love it.”

“Mph.”

“Oh, come on. It’s much better than marching under the sun all day. Getting stationed to Veracruz is the best thing that happened to any of us since this damn war started.”

“It’s the best thing that happened to me since your wife, Sergio!”

“Shut up, cabrón! At least I have a wife!”

“And who knows who else has her now!”

There was laughter, a couple of glasses thrown on a background of drunken singing. It made Santiago scoff, and he finished his own glass, sitting on the stone steps a little outside the cantina where half of his battalion spent much of their time, drinking and boasting and doing little else. He stared down towards the harbor and the sea, a thoughtful frown on his face.

Discipline had never been all that great, with so many of his comrades having been picked up from the streets or out of prisons; however, it was quickly getting out of hand now that they were there - supposedly to defend Veracruz in case the Constitutional Army decided to attack.

What a joke. Most of the men here couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag.

Not that anyone really expected to fight, with Carranza’s forces far enough not to be an imminent threat; by all accounts, they had little to nothing to worry about, and yet… and yet.

“A peso for your thoughts,” Nando spoke somewhere behind him, and then he was sitting on the steps by him, a shot glass in each hand. He handed one to him. “As long as it’s not something on how we should be down south looking for de la Cruz, in which case I don’t want to hear it.”

Santiago let out another scoff, but he did accept the glass. “I’m thinking a bunch of children in a wooden cart could overpower us if they show up right now with all men drunk.”

“Oh, come now. They’re away from their families and celebrating Easter, and no one is coming.”

“We’re getting too comfortable.”

“And you’re too uptight. Come on, drink-- ah, look, midnight! Feliz Domingo de Pascua.”

They toasted, drank, and Santiago made an effort enjoy the uneventful Easter in Veracruz as much as he could, trying not to think of of how wrong it was, not having Beto there to enjoy the relative peace with him.

And trying to ignore the gut feeling that it wouldn’t last.

***

[Back to Part 10]

[On to Part 12]

***

A bit of extra art by Dara:

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

25 notes · View notes

mermaidsirennikita · 6 years ago

Note

the tudors, twq, twp, tsp and reign rank them from best to worst and explain why

Best: Reign.

Easily. I know, it’s a teen soap opera and it’s dumb as hell with all these random fashion house 21st century clothes and magic and THE DARKNESS and Bash out in the woods.... killing people.... And it did have one unforgivable storyline that almost ruined the show for me. But Reign knew what it was. It never tried to sell its story as the truth. It actually had fairly complex female characters in Mary, Catherine, and to an extent towards the end even Elizabeth. I appreciate that the show went there with them doing shitty things... But you could tell that the writers loved them and didn’t want to “punish” them, as the PG adaptations always do. There was a real love behind Reign, lol, and I also think that the fantastic chemistry between Mary and Catherine, as well as Mary and Francis and Catherine and Francis, kept the show so memorable.

2. The Tudors.

Mainly for the actresses? Mainly for the actresses. I will always love Natalie Dormer’s Anne Boleyn and Maria Doyle Kennedy’s Catherine of Aragon. Despite the inaccuracies of the show, those two got the spirit of the women really well imo, especially in season 2. Maria’s Catherine had that dignity and self-righteous belief, to the point that she played the game she wanted vs. perhaps the the game that would have given her the best results. It’s that self-belief that can only be found in a true religious zealot who has a hell of a lot of belief in her own (corrupt) family. And while Anne Boleyn was a bit of a cipher vamp in the first season... Ugh, her arc is so good in the second season. Her highs, her lows, her desperation--it all played so true without making her this overly perfect heroine. I also really liked Tamzin Merchant’s Katherine Howard (oh poor baby) and the other wives were well-played too, even if I didn’t love the writing. Can’t forget Sarah Bolger’s Mary either! So good.

So like... This show was always fucking inconsistent, sometimes borderline insensitive, but like. The musical cues were great. I did love that shot of Henry eating a swan in an episode with a swan motif that represented his intense evil and the fact that he could only get a new mate by killing the old one. I do like that this show really did make me feel like Henry was an EVIL MOTHERFUCKER after a certain point. Like. Yes. There would still be moments of “lmao Henry” or even “Henry is kinda awesome riiiight” (no). But the end of season 2 played him up to be so VILE (I remember watching the scene of him acting disgusted by his miscarried fetal child with Anne, like it was some dead bird, with my parents back in the day, and they both were like okay fuck this dude forever he’s a monster). I appreciate that. I do think The Tudors was far less sympathetic to its protagonist than, say, The Borgias was with Rodrigo, and I prefer that kind of take. I also love Cromwell. I don’t think JRM was particularly well-cast, but he had some funny moments and he tried his best with old Henry.... it wasn’t right for him and his acting choices are always kinda bizarre to me, but they worked better here than they do on most other things I see with him? It’s a mixed bag, but there are really brilliant moment.

3. The White Queen

Not a good show. Not good. But! There were good performances. Rebecca Ferguson was good, Amanda Hale brought that fanatical aspect of Maggie B. out while also being kinda hilarious, James Frain (who was also a standout on The Tudors) is always a good medieval villain, and I really really do like Aneurin’s Richard III, even though his edit was confusing.

Also, out of all of the PG adaptations I think that this one at least sorta did the most with the witchcraft shit without just being like “THE CURSE!!!!11″. Like. If you’re going to lean into witchcraft, just do it. And I know this is controversial--I do not think Elizabeth of York had an affair with her uncle. But I also don’t really care if a show as dumb as the PG series goes for that aspect if it’s well done. It’s not well done here. BUT IT IS FUCKING HILARIOUS. Let us remember that I once had a url referencing Richard’s creepy uncle status on this fucking show.

“ELIZABETH... you’ve changed”. You saw her like a month ago bro.

“If I bed my niece--IF I MAKE THEM THINK I’M BEDDING MY NIECE” a line on this show.

And I will always fondly remember the outrage when people were like “he’s not really doing it Anne Neville and Richard for life” (never mind that Anne Neville is basically a blank page historically, and was used on this show as a flat character everyone could project everything onto, with a flat romance to boot) but then the Starz edit came out months later and it turned out THEY FUCKED IN A TENT. Oh how smug I was. Fond memories.

4. The White Princess.

Pros: Elizabeth of York and Henry VII are so well played!!! Jasper Tudor swanning about always reliable with the LADIESSSS, Michelle did her best with Maggie B. God bless her.

But this was also where they began the trend of the heroines of previous series being evil in the new series. And the illogical turn of acting like Elizabeth of York was wrong to take her brother out when he was literally threatening the lives of her husband and her sons. The Perkin Warbeck thing was Bad. The rape was Bad and basically has to be ignored in order for you to enjoy the series at all.

5 (the worst) The Spanish Princess.

So. The previous shows could always, even when the shit hit the fan, rely on Performance. Adelaide, Toby, and Michelle in Reign; Natalie and Maria on The Tudors, then later Sarah and Tamzin et al.; Rebecca and Amanda, etc in TWQ; Jodie and Michelle, etc in TWP. Now. There are good actors in the Spanish Princess. I do like older Henry and Lizzie.

But Charlotte just cannot fucking do this shit. The chick who plays Juana cannot do this shit. The streeeeetches made to make Catherine of Aragon seem like she has it coming later? The fucking REEEEACHES re: Henry VIII in every sense? No thanks. And it isn’t even hot, because Henry looks young EVEN THO HE’S WAY OLDER THAN HE WOULD BE IRL GROSS GROSS GROSS.

A mess.

#Anonymous

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letterboxd · 6 years ago

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Bonjour.

“Jodorowsky gives Refn a tarot reading at the start of every potential project, helping the Danish filmmaker decide whether or not he’ll do it and if so, what form it should take.”

Letterboxd correspondent Doug Dillaman reports from Toute la Mémoire du Monde, the International Festival of Restored Films, held in Paris this past month.

Every day in Paris can seem like a film festival, with a clutch of cinemas devoted to retrospective screenings from John Cassavettes to John Carpenter to John Ford (plus dozens of directors whose names aren’t John, of course). No surprise that when La Cinémathèque Française, Paris’s crown jewel of film history, hosts a festival dedicated to retrospective and restored cinema, it goes all out.

Toute la Mémoire du Monde occurs over five days, but that’s the only thing that’s small about it, with over 100 films on offer spread over several venues across town. There’s also a parrain du festival, a celebrated guest of honor. This year: Nicolas Winding Refn, presenting some of his own films, some films he loves, and a selection of films from his streaming site byNWR. Other guests included directors Jerzy Skolimowski and James Ivory, cinematographer Stephen Goldblatt, and several film historians.

The festival screens films every film fan knows (Alien, Philadelphia, The Shining), films that are under the radar but holy grails to dedicated cineastes (Andy Warhol’s Chelsea Girls, Francis Ford Coppola’s One From The Heart) and films so little-seen that they were met with a blank stare: Les Mouettes (Maurice Mariaud, 1917, which at the time of writing had been logged exactly zero times on Letterboxd); Le Marchand de Poison aka Big Jim Garrity (George Fitzmaurice, 1916, which is not in our database but is mentioned in this list of silents), and Herbert Kline’s 1940 documentary Lights Out In Europe. Only a couple dozen die-hard cineastes showed up for those vintage picks, but when it came to the guest of honor, Paris turned out in force.

Nicholas Winding Refn (right) directs Ryan Gosling on the set of ‘Drive’.

Refn. We chose Drive as our selection from Refn’s retro programme (as the Pusher films, which your correspondent is yet to see, didn’t cater to English speakers). Refn introduced the sold-out screening in English, in the Salle Henri Langlois (the largest of the Cinematheque’s three screens) with his story of meeting Ryan Gosling (who had the rights to Drive and was searching for a director) while he was trying to put together a spy movie with Harrison Ford and simultaneously coming down with a flu, so high on cold medication.

Letterboxd would like to report that we asked a thoughtful and insightful question on behalf of our readers, but, in what seemed like a noble move, he only took questions from women. This corrective seemed progressive… until he invited the winner of the best question on stage at the end to receive a prize, which was—drumroll please—the opportunity to touch his hand. “This is the softest hand you will ever touch,” he intoned. Weird. Drive: still great, and hearing it loud in a cinema with proper surround really underscores Refn’s fantastic ear for detail.

His selection of influential films (mostly predictably violent genre fare—alas, he revealed during his Q&A, the Cinematheque didn’t allow him to include Sixteen Candles) included one big title I’d never seen, John Huston’s Fat City, featuring a young Jeff Bridges as an up-and-coming boxer and Stacy Keach as the over-the-hill counterpart.

Fat City turns out to be the first film Refn remembers seeing (a well loved 35mm print complete with burned-in French subtitles). He marginally spoiled his upcoming 13-hour Amazon streaming series, Too Old To Die Young, by revealing that he and director of photography Darius Khondji were both fans of Fat City and decided to steal the ending for their series. (It’s not really a spoiler, as Fat City ends on a marvellously ambiguous note. And never mind the name; for anyone who loves boxing films or American 70s cinema, Fat City is up there with the best in either category.)

Garrett Brown (left) explains the Steadicam.

Brown. Another 70s American gem screening at the festival was Hal Ashby’s biography of Woody Guthrie, Bound For Glory, hosted by one particularly legendary guest: Garrett Brown, inventor of the Steadicam. With several films featuring his invention dotted across the program, including Marathon Man, The Shining, and Philadelphia, I chose this film in part because I recently saw Hal, last year’s documentary on the director, and discovered that Bound for Glory contained the very first Steadicam shot. (It’s a common misconception that The Shining holds this honor; one courageux French audience member interrupted Brown’s opening to attempt to correct him on this point.)

If you haven’t seen the Steadicam shot that opens Bound For Glory, it’s astonishing—a three-minute take that begins on a crane, descends through a crowd, follows David Carradine through that crowd, and then back. It’s the sort of shot that helped win Haskell Wexler an Oscar for cinematography (not to discount his work on the rest of the film, obviously).

Anyway, if you can ever see Brown speak, do so. He’s a garrulous man, generous and proud at the same time, and his masterclass was the highlight of the weekend. Over an hour and a half, he chronicled how he moved from folk singer to industrial filmmaker to inventor to being the man responsible for some of cinema’s most iconic shots. I’ve included some of his stories in this list of Brown’s picks for most iconic Steadicam shots.

It’s interesting to note that Brown isn’t a fan of long takes for the sake of them, often highlighting how they can be used more effectively edited with other shots. He’s also not a fan of handheld. In his opinion, Children of Men’s famous handheld work unnecessarily calls attention to itself and suggests the presence of a person, taking away the immediacy from the characters.

Alejandro Jodorowsky (right) with Refn (center).

Jodorowsky. The weekend closed out with an in-person appearance by one of my cinematic heroes. I’ve loved Alejandro Jodorowsky ever since I had The Holy Mountain dropped on my brain during the wee hours of a 24-hour movie marathon, and when I learned that Refn was programming El Topo with Jodorowsky as his guest, I had to go (even though I’d understand next-to-none of the Spanish-language dialogue… with French subtitles).

I’d noted earlier in the week that Jodorowsky was thanked in the credits of Drive; ever since that film, Jodorowsky gives Refn a tarot reading at the start of every potential project, helping the Danish filmmaker decide whether or not he’ll do the film and if so, what form it should take.

Stories like that do nothing to reduce Jodorowsky’s mystical reputation, but wearing an aged sweater while standing next to the suit-wearing Refn, he seemed charmingly down-to-Earth, making fun of Refn’s capitalist ways and discussing his recently completed new movie, Psychomagic. At 90 years old, he shows few signs of diminishing.

Refn says he made Jodorowsky promise he’d be around to 150 so they can be friends when he’s 100. We wouldn’t rule it out.

French director Agnès Varda (1928–2019).

Varda. Letterboxd would like to take this moment to note the passing of celebrated French filmmaker Agnès Varda. If you are in or near Paris on Tuesday 2 April, La Cinémathèque Française will host a tribute to her life and career from 11:00am (her funeral will take place the same day, at Cimetière du Montparnasse, at 2:00pm). French speakers will enjoy this Varda masterclass, filmed just last year.

Repose en paix, Agnès.

Hot tip № 1: If you’re going to Paris to see movies, the Latin Quarter is the place to stay, with several of its most devoted repertory cinemas clustered together. Hot tip № 2: Check out this evolving list of chronological French cinema.

#cinémathèque française #toute la mémoire du monde #nwr #nicholas winding refn #alejandro jodorowsky #steadicam #garrett brown #agnès varda #letterboxd

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