#his inability to grapple with pacing.

[astramachina]

no. no absolutely not. "this name that has stumped every scholar ever is actually the name of an island in Scandinavia and somehow nobody caught that" cut the shit. you're devising a way to lower the speed of light to one-tenth of its capacity and yet a Norwegian word stumped all your collective asses i am going to rip out someone's throat.

[chaoticgremlinbrainspace]

why I think dick greyson having ADHD would be neat

adhd is a complex disorder that has a multitude of symptoms that present differently in each person, along with there being 3 types there's also commorbidies that can add onto and or obscure the adhd or the other disorder itself, and with this information I think it would be neat to apply this to dick Greyson in a way that stays as in character as a person who barely remembers canon can do.  also I think his adhd would change as it often does to be more subtle as an adult (adult adhd) vs his adhd in childhood and teen years. Hyperactivity: hyperactivity isn't just physical it can also be mental too, racing thoughts and all that, some people say their thoughts run slow instead of fast. I think as a kid dick was probably pretty physically active(and still is lmao) which is one of the recommendations for helping with adhd symptoms, exercise. this would fit bc this dude is an acrobat, so he has an outlet for excessive energy right there. that and ive noted that a lot of people have dick constantly moving. there's also the thing of excessive physical movement, so the whole dick likes to do ten thousand backflips on patrol could link back to that lol.this could also go into stimming, leg bounces, finger/foot tapping, pacing, rubbing things like shirts in repetitive motions etc. this could also go with his inherent chattiness, as this is also a symptom of adhd. along with an inability to be quiet and speaking not when its appropriate or out of turn, blurting things out too, I will say a lot of theses types of symptoms can be explained as “batman training helps mask this shit so hard by like either giving a routine to follow/massive Anxiety that forces him not too on the job”. he would probably Experience a lot of edginess and restlessness in adulthood especially as the hyperactivity can often morph into an underlying sorta energy, maybe it runs under the skin like something alive that wants out, who knows. there's also the lack of a sense of danger and risk taking, and having little to no regaurd for personal safety pr the safety of others. I think this could fit, like what's more risk taking than being a superhero? and the lack of safety for others is another “batman training” moment because you bet your ass other people’s safety was drilled into child dick. and while im not sure bc I know canon about as well as I know what's under the couch, but I think you could work the lack of personal safety in pretty well, as from what ive seen this dude is prone to taking hits for other people(not like one hundred percent confident my memory is dog shit💀) and his whole life style could be in part to the risk taking, not all of it because I also know he wants to help people but it started out as wanting to murder kill a guy, lol. anyway my guy is out here swinging around the city heights with a grappling hook and years of acrobatting. there is another symptom of acting without thinking, and I think this one could be explained in a child--->adult sense. as a kid he was more prone too it, but like I said and probably will keep saying batman training and tbh I think the impulsivity that he would keep a clamp on during his nightjob would probably be more in his day time ventures, not to say I dont think dick wouldn't ever act impulsively as rightwing in fact it probably does happen, here's where I think a thick cocktail of Anxiety caused by adhd and batman training out tag team and have him wildly compensate for that shit. that and I think it would be interesting if rightwing acted a bit impulsive from time to time and had to plan around that on the fly, god knows iv’e had too. there's also extreme impatience, which again bad memory strikes again and I personally have little knowledge on this dudes patience, it might have to be another thing hes just gotten better at with age(like having strategies to help with shit) INATTENTIVE: having a short attention span, or being easily distracted, being unable to stick to tedious or boring tasks, seeming forgetful, losing things, constantly changing the task, being unable to listen and carry out instructions, making careless mistakes, having difficulty organizing and prioritizing tasks, all fall under the “batman training/Anxiety is a bitch” category where I am pretty confident that dick is shown to be able to do a lot of these things, well I bring you  combination of “he has a system for this shit” and “hyperfixation”, I think he could definitely still be an outstanding leader with adhd, he would just need a shit more discipline to run it well, because he would have to work around these symptoms in particular which you can its just tiring. and as such I think he would exhibit these symptoms more in his day time life, I just think it would help make for a greater contrast between dick Greyson and nightwing which would help him with his identity security, after all who would suspect dick Greyson is nighwing if nightwing seems so much more on top of the ball than dick? he would have to be super organized for that though which he could pull off with a lot of effort. there's also continually starting new tasks before finishing others, which I feel like, crime is never really over?? so its more like one big task with little task bits with more task bits. honestly nightwing with adhd seeming super on top of things in comparison to dick would be funny to me sorta like an adhd power fantasy gbdfhsnkj. anyway.  OTHER SHIT PEOPLE DONT REALLY TALK ABOUT BUT SUCKS ASS ANYWAY: emotional deregulation!!! wooo!!! impaired ability to regulate emotions and responses to situations which can cause them to be extreme and ill fitting of the situation, like getting really fucking angry! getting fucking despondent! Absolute heart break over something that in hindsight wasn't as bad as you thought fuck man it still sucks! I think this would be another it was way worse in childhood thing for dick, like anger issues and shit, especially as a teen when not only are hormones fucking you up so is the fall out with batman lmao. the dysregulation really fucks with like, what someone can take im saying dick Greyson with adhd could be a more sensitive person. which again I think would be neat bc as he grows up he would have to find work arounds and shit, that or the only shit that really hits is from friends and family, he doesn't give a flying fuck other wise. this is were I bring up RSD the fucking asshole of adhd related shit. Rejecton sensitive dysphoria where upon perceived failure or rejection there's severe emotional damage, it can even feel physical, like a stab through the chest. I think this shit would definitely feed into a positive feed back loop of being angry and hurt at people, and probably sucked extra shit when he fought with bruce (my timeline is a bit fucked ok?) and a lot of times to cope with this people fall under being a people pleaser, or just giving up on people entirely, maybe a combo of the two. there's also mood swings and inability to Control frustration and anger. I feel like this shit would be really hard during teenage years due to events for dick lol. ALSO if he has gone undiagnosed through adulthood he would probably also be suffering from shit like depression, low self esteem, and frustration and irritation. once again additude to the rescue with a handy little bit about untreated adult adhd,  “Adults who have ADHD but do not know it are at much higher risk than the general population for serious problems. Mood disorders, extreme sadness, and anxiety often occur when ADHD goes undiagnosed. Even if these conditions are are treated, the underlying problem, if left untreated, leads to other problems.” undiagnosed adhd is serious especially if you dont get help, you can just end up feeling like a piece of shit who can do anything. that being said I don’t know if dick would ever end up diagnosed with adhd as a kid? adhd is easy to misdiagnose as it has a lot of overlapping symptoms with other disorders, and is highly compatible with serval. I honestly dont have the tightest grasp on Alfred and Bruces characters to know if they would even think of ever getting dick checked for that, I dont mean to assume or anything but they dont really seem like the types to think of mental disorders, I personally feel like it would be a bit of a “oh hes just like that” and a “they dont know what they dont know situation” but a case could be made for dick getting a diagnosis at a younger age, because Batman to my understanding is very open to possibilities. he also just doesn't really strike me as the kind guy who would realize anything is weird about his kid unless it was pointed out? bc tbh I feel like dick would be on that gifted kid grindset which makes it even harder to pick up on the adhd bc your “too smart” to have it which is bullshit by the way. adhd and intelligence are not connected, you an be the smartest kid ever and you would still have adhd. tbh all this shit is working towards the “dick is a workaholic” thing because its a lot of work, and hyper focus would in fact enable this greatly as he would be able go for hours on end with out stopping. that and all the compensation hes doing lol.   here's a list of symptoms I got off of additudemag.com because I know ive missed some. Short attention span, especially for non-preferred tasks Hyperactivity, which may be physical, verbal, and/or emotional Impulsivity, which may manifest as recklessness Fidgeting or restlessness Disorganization and difficulty prioritizing tasks Poor time management and time blindness Frequent mood swings and emotional dysregulation Forgetfulness and poor working memory Trouble multitasking and executive dysfunctionInability to control anger or frustration Trouble completing tasks and frequent procrastination Distractibillity Difficulty awaiting turn MASKING: I 100% believe this guy would mask like hell especially as nightwing, make that masking literal! Probably through a potent mixture of Anxiety, batman training tm, mirroring other people, suppressing stims and impulsivity, stuff like that, and I think the night time masking would make his day time attempts at masking sloppy, because that shit is draining and it would also be really convenient if he had an easy way to distance himself from his nightwing persona. he probably did this as a kid and it got worse(sorry im a sucker for angst but also he probably did to fit in more at school and stuff)  HERES A GOOD ARTICALE ON COMORBIDIES AND ADHD BY ADDITUIDE ONCE AGAIN: https://www.additudemag.com/when-its-not-just-adhd/ I fully believe dick Greyson would get hit with the multi mental disorders, not only from shit hes seen superheroing but bc adhd and people with adhd are more likely to have depression and Anxiety(partly because of Social pressures and some in part to comorbidity)  CONCLUSION BECAUSE ITS GETTING LATE AND IM RUNNING OUT OF STEAM ON THIS LONG ASS POST: I think dick Greyson with adhd would be neat as it could open more avenues to explore with his character, and I like the head canon anyway.   DISCLAIMER I AM NOT A QUALIFIED PRACTICER THIS IS ALL INFORMATION I HAVE GOTTEN FROM MY DOCTOR AND ONLINE RESOURCES SUCH AS  https://www.additudemag.com/ . THAT AND I DO NOT PERSONALLY KNOW DICK GREYSON AND ALL HIS ITERATIONS FROM THE LONG ASS COMIC BOOK RUN, I JUST THINK HE IS NEAT AND I WILL BE TAKING A LOT OF THIS STUFF FROM THINGS I’VE ABSORBED FROM HERE, OR MY MEMORIES OF YOUNG JUSTICE THIS IS NOT THE END ALL BE ALL I AM JUST ONE PERSON WHO HAS THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS ABOUT A FICTIONAL CHARACTER WHO CAN CHANGE AND GROW OVER TIME, IF SOMETHING ISN'T RIGHT SORRY LOL IM ALSO JUST DOING THIS FOR FUN

[finnpoerebelscum]

FALLOUT - Chapter 13

Chapters Posted: 13 of 18

Rating: T+

Warnings: Canon-typical violence & fighting/blood/gore/graphic descriptions of injury/angst/hurt/comfort/Multiple POVs

Characters/Pairings: Poe Dameron/Finn, Karé Kun, Iolo Arana, BB-8, OCs.

Summary: Still reeling in the aftermath of Crait, Poe Dameron and Finn are sent to a secret Resistance base tucked away on Lothal to serve as acting generals. Their numbers dwindled to barely a handful, and with General Organa’s order grounding all surviving Resistance personnel to heal and regroup, morale is at an all time low. Poe grapples with his inability to sit still; the First Order looms, an ever-encroaching threat to what remains of the Outer Rim’s free space; intimate feelings grow impossible to ignore and a shocking return promises devastating consequences not only for those stationed on Lothal, but for the Resistance and galaxy at large. 

A/N: An AU adventure, a side-quest of sorts, to account for some of the time between TLJ and ROS. Stormpilot centric. Canon up until the end of TLJ (but does not take into account Resistance Reborn or the Finn/Rose arc).

Thank you to anyone who has read, liked, and/or reblogged! I am so grateful for you and your time.

Masterlist

CHAPTER 13

A faint rustling jolted Finn from his numbness. 

He strained his ears against the whistle of the wind. 

Murmurs. The crunch of stone under boots, in different rhythms.

Someone was approaching. Several someones. 

Finn carefully slid out from underneath Poe and snatched up both their blasters. The hole created by the missing engine had a jagged outline, allowing him some concealment while he strained to see out into the rocky landscape. 

The crunching of feet was louder; faster. They were running now. Finn leveled both blasters at the open space, thighs and calves prickling with thousands of little needles from the adrenaline rush. 

Three figures shot out from a dense cluster of trees to his right, glow rods in hand. His blasters hummed to life. 

“Poe! Finn!” Karé’s voice sliced through the quiet. 

Finn almost dropped the blasters as he stumbled out of the G-9 toward the voice. Karé burst into a run when she saw him and threw her arms around his neck. Iolo followed, looking haggard and limping, but alert. The third individual hung back several paces, clad in long robes the sandy color of Garel’s surface. The lekku told Finn he was a Twi’lek. 

Something stilled in the air. A moment passed between them that left Finn unsteady but soothed, and somehow certain the robed man meant no harm. 

“You’re okay!” Karé held him out at arm’s length. Then she turned to beckon the Twi’Lek forward. “This is Ira Nyx. He helped us after the crash.” 

“Where’s Poe?” Iolo asked. 

The tightness in Finn’s throat strangled any attempt at speaking, but even so… He couldn’t bring himself to form the words. He pressed his fist to his lips to stifle the sob that welled up.

“No…” Karé whispered. She and Iolo followed after him as he headed back into the G-9. Miraculously, Poe was still breathing when Finn rejoined his side, but it took him several, terrible moments to find the faint traces of it. Karé knelt down next to them. Iolo dropped his head into his hands. 

“There was nothing I could do,” Finn heard himself tell them, but the numbness was setting in again, blurring everything around the edges. Karé grabbed his hand and squeezed. The nearing inevitable hung like a coming storm in the air between them, suffocating and inescapable. 

“Your friend is dying.” Ira Nyx’s deep but gentle voice filled the G-9’s cabin. 

Iolo glared at him. 

Karé turned to the Twi’Lek. “Please. Help him.”

A rustle of fabric, and Ira crouched down beside Finn. The light thrown by the glow rods made him seem even taller, enveloping them all in his mountainous shadow. Long, blue fingers pried Poe’s hand from Finn’s grasp. Finn struggled until Karé grabbed his hands tightly in hers. Though her eyes gleamed with tears, she was inexplicably calm, given this stranger looming beside them. 

Ira reached down and ripped Poe’s destroyed shirt the rest of the way open. Then, more delicately, the bandages. The grooved, sinuous gash was now almost indistinguishable from the bloody tatters of his shirt. Ira splayed over his hand directly on top of the tacky red mess.  

The cold in the cramped cabin rushed out, replaced by an eerie, warm stillness. Finn’s ears roared in the utter absence of sound that followed. 

The shredded skin under Ira’s hand moved. Iolo swallowed audibly. Finn was welded in place, unable to wrench his eyes away as the jagged edges of flesh crawled to meet, knitting back together fiber by fiber. Sweat built in little beads at Ira’s brows as he worked. 

As suddenly as it had left, the freezing cold swept back into the cabin. With the remnants of Poe’s shirt, Ira wiped away fresh blood to reveal a shiny, pinkish seam of recently healed flesh. Then, Poe dragged in a lungful of air. 

* * *

Finn lost track of time as he sat at the little wooden table in Ira Nyx’s home, eyes glued to Poe’s sleeping form on the makeshift cot in the corner, to the steady rise and fall of his chest. Finn counted the breaths, over and over, until his eyes burned, his shoulders and back ached from the prolonged focus. It could have been minutes, or hours later, when he felt rather than heard the old Twi’Lek enter the room. He moved to stand, but a broad wave of Ira’s arm invited him to stay seated. He took the chair opposite Finn. 

“You have many questions.” Ira found Finn’s gaze. The yellow eyes bored through him—not just through him—into him. Finn squirmed under the intrusion. 

The room was stifling hot. With the fire blazing away in the hearth, Ira and Poe, and Iolo and Karé in the corner… This house was too small. He needed to get out—

A hand on his dissipated the suffocating feeling and he relaxed a fraction. 

“In time, you will learn not to fear it, but rather to embrace it.”

Finn shook his head. “I’m not like you. I don’t have it. You know… the Force.”

Ira chuckled, eyes alight with something Finn couldn't read. He gave Finn’s hand a pat. “We are all connected by it. It is in all of us. The difference is in those who may wield it.”

“Okay, well I can’t do that.”

“You can. Or your… friend would be dead.”

Finn wiped a hand across his brow. “I didn’t even know what I was doing.”

“You didn’t have to. The bond that connects you was strong enough. But it will not always happen this way. It will take practice. Hard work.”

“You mean this is something I can learn to control?”

“In a manner of speaking. You can purify your connection to it through training. And therefore, yes, wield it.”

A knot, tensely coiled in the depths of Finn’s chest—a heaviness he’d grown so used to, that he believed was an inescapable, intrinsic part of him—came undone, and fell away. This… anchor that had been out of reach until now—here it was. Just like the night he made a beeline past reconditioning and sprung Poe from his cell on the Finalizer. Or when he’d felt Poe before he’d seen him, on the flight-deck at D’Qar, that unmistakable vibration telling him Poe was alive and near. The market, Kemi, knowing something was seriously wrong. All of those moments, and countless others, woven together in a tangled mess in his core, unfurled until they were weightless. 

“Can you teach me?” 

Ira gave him a sad smile. “I have not been a teacher in a very long time. Besides, I believe my time here is soon coming to a close.”

Before Finn could question him further, Poe stirred. “Finn?” 

Finn nearly knocked over his chair getting to his side. “Hey! Hey.” He squeezed Poe’s hand in his. 

Poe’s dark curls stuck to his sweaty forehead. He flicked his eyes to Ira. “I’m gonna go with you knowing there’s someone behind you… So, who’s that?”

“Ira Nyx. He helped heal you.”

Poe and Ira held each other’s gaze. “Thought I was a goner there for a second. Thank you.”

“Poe Dameron.”

Poe pushed himself up on one elbow. “Yeah?”

“It is good to finally meet you.”

[themovieblogonline]

Harold and the Purple Crayon Review: Seriously Lacking Imagination

Harold and the Purple Crayon, directed by Carlos Saldanha in his live-action feature debut, attempts to blend the whimsical world of Crockett Johnson’s beloved 1955 children’s book with a more mature, modern storyline. Unfortunately, this blend of live-action and animation often feels like a miscalculation rather than a seamless extension of Harold’s imaginative adventures. With a star-studded cast including Zachary Levi, Lil Rel Howery, and Zooey Deschanel, the film has moments of charm, but its disjointed narrative and lack of emotional depth ultimately make it a disappointing film. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WojIv-PVYm8 The story follows an older Harold who, still wielding his magical purple crayon, decides to leave the pages of his book in search of his missing father, whom he believes is the narrator known as "old man." While this premise offers a compelling setup filled with potential, the execution falls short. The film's plot, which sees Harold navigating the real world with the help of Moose (now a human) and a young boy named Mel, quickly becomes a muddled series of events that lack a clear emotional anchor. Inconsistent Tone: One of the film’s major weaknesses is its inability to maintain a consistent tone. At times, it strives to capture the lighthearted innocence of a children’s story, while other moments aim for a more mature, introspective narrative. This tonal inconsistency results in a film that feels caught between being a nostalgic trip for adults who grew up with the book and an overly complicated tale for the younger audience it seems intended for. This disconnect is particularly evident in the character of Harold himself. While Zachary Levi’s performance brings a certain charm to the character, Harold’s journey through the real world feels less like a hero’s quest and more like a series of random encounters that never quite build into a cohesive story. Ambitious Visuals Visually, the film is ambitious, with some impressive animated sequences that capture the whimsical style of the original book. The blending of animation with live-action is well done in certain scenes, particularly when Harold uses his crayon to draw fantastical elements into reality. The film shines when it leans into the creative potential of the crayon, crafting visually engaging and imaginative moments that pay homage to Johnson’s work. The vibrant, hand-drawn animation style that punctuates the film does capture a sense of wonder, but these moments are fleeting and often overshadowed by a story that feels overstuffed and underdeveloped. Supporting Cast: The supporting cast, including Lil Rel Howery as Moose and Jemaine Clement as the quirky librarian Gary Natwick, provide some comedic relief, but their characters feel one-dimensional. Moose, who is transformed into a human for much of the film, acts as a sidekick to Harold but lacks the depth and personality needed to make him a memorable companion. Jemaine Clement’s Gary starts off as an amusing, eccentric character, but his sudden shift into the antagonist role feels forced and underexplored, reducing what could have been an interesting character arc into a caricature of a villain. Another significant misstep is the character of Terri, played by Zooey Deschanel. While Deschanel’s natural charisma shines through, her role as the struggling pianist and mother feels underwritten and disconnected from the main narrative. The subplot involving her desire to pursue music is introduced but never fully realized, leaving her character arc feeling incomplete. Her relationship with Harold and Moose is underdeveloped, and her transformation from a skeptical bystander to a supportive ally feels rushed and unearned. Pacing and Humor: The film also grapples with pacing issues, as it oscillates between frenetic action sequences and slower, more reflective moments that drag the narrative down. Scenes meant to evoke emotional weight, such as Harold’s realization about his father’s identity, are undercut by a lack of buildup and payoff, making them feel hollow rather than heartwarming. The film’s attempt to tackle themes of loss, creativity, and self-discovery gets muddled amidst its chaotic plot, leaving audiences unsure of the film’s core message. Additionally, the film struggles with its use of humor, often relying on slapstick and overly juvenile gags that feel at odds with the story’s more serious undertones. The comedic moments involving Moose and Porcupine, who joins the adventure later, are particularly hit-or-miss, often feeling more like filler than genuine character development. While some jokes land, many feel out of place, disrupting the narrative flow and further highlighting the film’s struggle to find a consistent tone. A Strong Child Actor: One of the few bright spots is the character of Mel, played by Benjamin Bottani, who brings a youthful energy to the film. Mel’s bond with Harold adds a layer of innocence and nostalgia that briefly elevates the story. Their interactions, though limited, provide some of the film’s more heartfelt moments, but even these are not enough to compensate for the overall lack of emotional resonance. Overall: Ultimately, Harold and the Purple Crayon is a film that suffers from an identity crisis. Its attempts to honor the whimsical spirit of the original book are overshadowed by a convoluted plot, inconsistent tone, and characters that feel more like plot devices than fully realized individuals. While it boasts some visually striking sequences and moments of genuine creativity, these glimpses of magic are not enough to sustain the film’s bloated narrative. For fans of the original book, this film may serve as a nostalgic curiosity, but it fails to capture the simple, heartfelt magic that made Harold’s adventures so endearing. For newcomers, it’s a confusing and uneven journey that never quite finds its footing. In the end, Harold and the Purple Crayon feels like a sketch of a movie that, much like its protagonist’s drawings, never fully comes to life. Read the full article

[to-the-stars8]

Can you do a reader x Jason Todd where the reader doesn’t answer Jason’s texts for hours and he enlists the batboys to find her because he’s freaking out

Here you go my lovely! I hope you like it! <3

“Jay, I think you’re overreacting,” Dick said into the phone.

Jason was pacing the warehouse floor, groaning at his brother's inability just to try and understand what he was saying. It wasn’t like you to just not respond to texts without telling him you would be away for a little while before. He would just swing by your apartment because Jason had enough common sense to know that, sometimes, things just happened. But it had been hours, which had felt like forever to him. And, he couldn’t check on you in person since he was two cities away.

“Dick, please, just go check on her,” He sighed when he heard voices in the background, knowing that his brothers would tease him about this later. 

Dick relented, knowing full well that you were more than fine, but, for his brother’s sake and love, he would do it. Not without help, though. Hanging up the phone, Nightwing turned to his two younger brothers who were lounging around on other parts of the roof. It was a slow night luckily, so they would have time to check in on you. 

“Let’s go, kiddos,” Dick said, stepping out onto the roof ledge and getting his grappling hook ready. 

Tim, bored out of his mind, was the first to follow him. “Where are we going?”

Filling them in on the conversation with Jason, the two of them hopped from rooftop to rooftop toward your apartment. Damian didn’t seem to mind, he liked hanging out with you. You seemed to actually listen to his rants about his brothers and the things he was interested in. Tim, on the other hand, was more agitated at Jason for being too overprotective. 

“If it wasn’t so slow out tonight I’d be annoyed,” Tim said. “Don’t get me wrong, I like his girlfriend, but does anyone else think that…”

“Yes, Tim, but we love Jason so we’re going to do this for him,” Dick stated, a bit over it already. “Who knows, we might get cookies out of it.”

“I have a feeling that’s the real reason you accepted his offer,” Damian observed, narrowing his eyes. 

Dick didn’t respond as he swung down onto your fire escape landing, waiting for the two little Robins to follow behind. When they did, the three of them slowly crept in, noting how everything was dark. 

You weren’t home, but that didn’t stop them from looking around. Tim checked your cupboards to see if you were hiding in there, or that was the excuse he used when stealing a bag of chips. Damian actually did what he was supposed to and checked for any signs of foul play. 

Nothing was out of the ordinary. It just seemed like you weren’t home, but that left one worrying question; where were you? Dick could already feel Jason’s anxiety crawling through the phone when he would have to call him to give an update. Just as he was pulling out his phone to ask where you could be, the door clicked. 

The three of them perked up at the sound before silently retreating into the shadows. They watched the door open and then you walked through, thanking your friend as you did for walking to your door before closing it behind you. Smiling, you hurried to the couch to put down your shopping bags. 

“Oh, thank goodness you’re alive,” Tim said as he hopped over your couch next to you. 

You shrieked before hitting him in the face with a small shopping bag. Dick and Damian, stepping out of their hiding spots, laughed. All the while you relaxed back onto the couch after the heart attack the three of them gave you. 

“What the fuck are you guys doing here?” You said, not amused in the slightest. 

Tim shrugged as he poked his head into one of the bags. “Jason hadn’t heard from you in a few hours so he sent us over.”

When you looked to Dick he only nodded. Sighing, you took the bag Tim was looking into before reaching for your phone to text your boyfriend. Sending him a picture of Dick, you put it back down onto the table. 

“My phone was on silent the whole time I was shopping with my friend,” You stated. In this case, shit did happen, and you only forgot to text him that you couldn’t be reached for a while.

“Get anything for us?” Dick teased. 

You smiled at him. “Actually, I did!”

“Really?” Tim said excitedly, peering into another bag. 

You reached into it before pulling your hand out, flipping them both off, giggling while doing so. Dick returned the gesture while Tim only mumbled something about you being perfect for Jason since you both had juvenile humor. 

Laughing at their reactions, you ruffled Damian’s hair as you made your way to the kitchen. “I did actually get you guys something, but you have to help me put it together.”

“Cookies?” Dick asked hopefully.

You leaned out of the kitchen, grinning. “Fuck yeah. Come help me with them so we can send pictures to Jason so he’s not worried anymore.”

The three of them hurriedly joined you, now kind of glad it was a slow night and your phone was silent. As you baked the three of you collectively sent pictures to Jason. Some of the photos were of you and his brothers, others of the delicious, gooey cookies. 

Jason stood in the middle of the warehouse, one hand on his hip, the other holding the phone, jealous out of his fucking mind. He was glad you were okay and even more excited that you all seemed to be getting along, but, damn, he wished he were there. Jason shoved his phone into his pocket as Black Mask arrived, ready to get this shit show over with so he could hurry home for whatever was left of the cookies. And to you of course. 

[man-reading]

‘What Belongs to You,’ by Garth Greenwell

In a controversial 1999 New Yorker review of Alan Hollinghurst’s novel “The Spell,” John Updike summed up a common prejudice about gay stories: namely, that they have nothing to interest straight readers.

Updike, the author of the sex romp “Couples” (among other sexually frank novels), complained that Hollinghurst’s “relentlessly gay” fiction bored him because in gay stories “nothing is at stake but self-gratification.” In contrast, stories with heterosexual characters “involve perpetuation of the species and the ancient, sacralized structures of the family.”

Essentially, Updike is asking: What’s the big deal? It’s just sex.

Garth Greenwell’s masterly debut ­novel, “What Belongs to You,” provides a ringing answer to Updike’s willfully dense question. The book is set in contemporary Bulgaria, still struggling to move on from its Communist past. Here, gay desire remains a cultural taboo, so that expressing one of the most basic of human emotions is quite a big deal, with plenty at stake ­beyond “self-gratification.”

Because the novel opens with a man cruising for sex in a public bathroom, some readers may initially be tempted to write off “What Belongs to You” as gay fiction. The cruising man in question, Greenwell’s unnamed narrator, resembles the author: a gay American poet teaching abroad at a college in Sofia.

Looking for sex and maybe companionship in a land where gays find one another in the shadows, the narrator encounters a small-time hustler named Mitko. Their relationship begins as sexual, then turns to something more mysterious, fraught and destabilizing to them both.

It’s a compliment to Greenwell’s writing that the vividly written sex scenes are the least compelling aspect of this wonderful book, which is divided into three sections. The first section, “Mitko,” was published as a stand-alone novella in 2011. It follows the two main characters as they go through the initial paces of their unequal relationship, complicated by the relative financial privilege of the narrator and the elusive personality of the charismatic Mitko. A 21st-century answer to Christopher Isherwood’s shabbily charming ­Sally Bowles, Mitko veers between attracting as many male admirers as possible, in person and online, and then plaintively professing a desire to “live a normal life.”

Despite this dynamic character and Greenwell’s dexterous prose, the plot of “Mitko” feels slightly thin. Readers may want to pull an Updike and tell the narrator: Hey, it’s just sex. What’s the big deal?

The resounding answer comes in the next section, “A Grave,” in which Greenwell powerfully expands the book’s scope. Sparked by news of his estranged father’s impending death, the narrator recounts several evocative vignettes of his own youthful attempts to grapple with his sexual identity in red-state Kentucky.

Taken in succession, these two sections expose the process of gay shame: how a traditional upbringing conditions a sweet, innocent kid to link desire with humiliation and hiding, and then how that kid transforms into a man addicted to that connection. Why would any contemporary American gay man in his right mind move to of all places Bulgaria? Perhaps in this case because it reminds the book’s hero of his old Kentucky home.

In the novel’s final section, “Pox,” the narrator has overcome some of his internal hurdles and formed a healthier relationship with a man from Portugal called R. At the same time, he can’t quite let go of Mitko — or is it that Mitko will not let go of him? Greenwell poignantly evokes the narrator’s inability to resist the draw of Mitko’s erratic neediness. Much (but not all) of the sexual charge of their relationship has dissipated for the narrator, yet a mysterious feeling of responsibility for Mitko’s increasingly grim fate remains.

Greenwell is one of several contemporary writers working in an “all over” prose style, similar to that of a Jackson Pollock abstract expressionist painting, in which all compositional details seem to be given equal weight. (Other current all-over practitioners include the literary darlings — and presumed heterosexuals — Ben Lerner and Karl Ove Knausgaard.) In these works, even the stories themselves seem barely shaped, merely lifted from the authors’ lives and flung directly onto the page like paint on a Pollock canvas.

Though this style has roots in the works of European writers like W. G. Sebald, Thomas Bernhard and (further back) Marcel Proust, its recent resurgence feels born out of a new and different impulse, perhaps an eerie echo of the relentless, formless “I, I, I” of social media.

Yet Greenwell’s writing stands out from that of his “all over” contemporaries, whose language sometimes slides into blandness or cliché. By contrast, Greenwell takes more consistent care with his finely wrought words and sentences. His prose regularly delivers dazzling treasures:

“How helpless desire is outside its little theater of heat.”

“Three long walkways extended from the beach into the sea, branching out at their ends into three separate promenades, like the arms, it seemed to me, of a snowflake as drawn by a child.”

“At the very moment we come into full consciousness of ourselves what we experience is leave-taking and a loss we seek the rest of our lives to restore.”

And he is equally memorable on up-to-the-minute concerns like online communication — on, for instance, the “symbols and abbreviations of Internet chat that make such language seem so much like a process of decay.”

While other writers use the all-over style somewhat indiscriminately, lavishing the same degree of attention on descriptions of morning coffee or a joint as on Big Thoughts about art or mortality, Greenwell has an instinctual feel for sharpening his focus at key moments to create depth of feeling. For instance, in the bravura opening to “A Grave,” the narrator’s reaction to learning that his father is dying becomes an object lesson in suffusing description of setting with a character’s emotions.

Perhaps for readers who share Updike’s point of view on the subject, the fact of Greenwell’s narrator’s gayness makes his story less “universal” — as if the job of fiction were to act as a mirror, rather than a lens that can introduce readers to characters of all stripes. Yet, objectively speaking, the hazards of being gay for Greenwell’s characters make their plot at least as dramatic as (say) that of Knausgaard’s socially awkward teenager trying to sneak alcohol into a party in Book 1 of “My Struggle,” or Lerner’s expatriate poet adrift on a haze of hash in “Leaving the Atocha Station” — or either of these writer-protagonists’ vainglorious preoccupations with their literary reputations. In Greenwell’s book, the stakes are higher.

It’s a shame, then, that “What Belongs to You” is burdened with such a vague and unmemorable title. And the emphasis on Bulgaria’s history and culture could have been stronger, to help solidify its choice as backdrop. Likewise, even if the country’s thematic role is clear, it might have been nice from a straightforward narrative perspective to understand more about how the protagonist ended up there. Of course, an amiable laxness with story structure is a hazard of the all-over style — at first, the pace lags — but in a short book like this, a little slowness is not fatal. None of these quibbles are. “What Belongs to You” is a rich, important debut, an instant classic to be savored by all lovers of serious fiction because of, not despite, its subject: a gay man’s endeavor to fathom his own heart.

WHAT BELONGS TO YOU

By Garth Greenwell

194 pp. Farrar, Straus & Giroux. $23.

[disgruntledspacedad]

in defense of Din’s subdued reaction to losing the kid...

gif by @quantam-widow

I know we were all thinking it. We got a 2 second reaction shot to the destruction of the Razor Crest (may she forever rest in peace), but then, Grogu gets taken, and... nothing?

What the fuck, Din? we all protest. That’s your baby on that ship! Don’t you care? Scream, curse, kick a rock, cry, make a fist, something!!

I will acknowledge that so far, the show has been excellent with giving us emotional payoff, am I right? I mean, just today we got Din laughing, twice. Twice in a row. I honestly never thought we’d see that. There have been so many excellent, precious soft!Din moments this season, and they all feel deliciously earned.

So, from a meta POV, I guess I’m saying that I have faith in the writers to get it right, and in Pedro to deliver. Duh.

In universe, though, I think it’s fair to point out the obvious - that Din is a pretty reserved guy. He’s much more of a thinker than a feeler. He’s used to keeping things bottled up, and I would even argue that his life often depends on his ability to dissociate from his emotions. Din’s entire journey so far has been about how one little baby yodito shakes his worldview to its very foundations. He’s getting there, but it’s a slow process. 

And also, consider this - we haven’t seen Din alone yet, not since Grogu was taken. For a guy who lives a guarded life literally encased in fucking armor, any display of emotion is going to be carefully protected until he’s in private.

But anyway, Din is detached, rational, a little emotionally constipated, and definitely comfortable in a stressful situation. A true ISTP if you ask me (yeah, I know you didn’t, but whatever). Often, it seems that these cool headed, logical types who have never ruffled a feather over anything in their lives are the least adept at handling genuine fear. In other words, when panic does strike, it strikes them hard. 

And guys, Din was definitely panicking during this episode. 

He’s clearly unsettled from the jump - that outburst of “dank farrik!” in the cockpit sells it, and his distress only becomes more obvious from there. Talking out loud, trying to convince himself that the best thing for Grogu is for him to be trained as a Jedi. Reminding himself of the creed. His overt caution as they approach the seeing stone. His impatience, “Are you seeing anything??”

Then there’s the effects of long term stress. Sure, a bounty hunter in the outer rim doesn’t exactly live an easy life, but Din is definitely used to the drama being on his terms. Compare Din’s body language in the opening scene of season one to when Boba confronts him in chapter fourteen. You can just feel the anxiety, the weariness, the frustration. Din has been on the run for months now, constantly looking over his shoulder, sleeping with one eye open. Notice how he even startles at Fennec’s voice? Season one Din would never have given that much away, regardless of the situation. Long term stress has clearly taken a toll on him.

So we have unsettled, stressed out Din in an emotionally charged situation. He’s exhausted, he’s scared, he’s desperate. This scenario is a recipe for even the most level-headed of adrenaline junkies to loose their cool, and that’s exactly what happens to Din. He panics, and he makes some pretty big fuckups because of it. Leaving Grogu unprotected, twice. Trying three different times to break through that “force field,” even when he knew he couldn’t. Dropping that jetpack and then just forgetting about it (I know we were all screaming about that one, or at least, I was).

So, fear is a positive feedback loop. Those neurotransmitters that do us good in a bad situation - raising heart rate, narrowing focus, shunting blood to the muscles - can also be detrimental if we get too high of a dose - tachypnea and tachycardia, inability to think critically and see the big picture, lack of blood and oxygen to the brain. Epinephrine, in particular, even inhibits the laying down of new memory pathways. In other words, stress leads to poor performance, and poor performance leads to more stress, which leads to... you get the idea.

Then, in the middle of all this chaos, they fucking blast the Razor Crest.

More epinephrine, more cortisol, more stress. 

By the end of it all, Din is a fucking shitstorm of stress hormones and pent up emotions. Notice how he seems to be on autopilot in the immediate aftermath, robotically scanning the ashes of the Crest for anything that might be left intact. Notice how empty his voice is when he says, “the child is gone.” This is a dead man walking. Din has nothing left. His whole life has just gone up in smoke, and he can do nothing about it. 

Guys, Din is holding onto his sanity by a fucking thread in this scene. “The child is gone,” he says, like he’s reminding himself, grounding himself in his shitty reality. He’s stunned. 

And helpless. There’s literally nothing he can do for Grogu. He has no ship, no credits, no resources, nothing to bargain with, nothing to offer. Din literally cannot allow himself the luxury of feelings right now. He’s just got to focus on surviving this very shitty day.

Then, Boba Fett upholds his end of the deal, and suddenly, Din has something to hold onto. An ally, a badass friend, some hope. I don’t think Boba shows Din that chain code in order to verify his claim on the armor - he’s already wearing it, for godssake. I think Boba shows him the code in order to catch Din’s attention - hey friend, I know you’re hurting, but I’m a man of my word. When I make a vow, I keep it. Let’s regroup and go find your kid.

And Din would totally latch onto that. A fighting chance? Din fucking leaps at it. There’s a job to do. A kid to save. All of those stress hormones are going to keep on stewing, because Din has never really come down from his adrenaline high. 

It’s like this in real life, too. There isn’t time to be afraid. There isn’t time to be sad, or second-guess, or say, oh how terrible, or wonder what if it doesn’t work? There’s just you and the job, and if you are the only thing standing between life and death, you will put everything else aside and do what you have to do, for as long as you have to do it.

And that’s where Din is at this moment. He’s running on the fumes of his adrenaline, all tempered focus, all strategy and no bullshit.

Emotional shock, my therapist buddy calls it. Apparently, it’s normal. Expected, even.

But guys, the fallout of this kind of crazy ass adrenaline high is insanely intense. I’m talking collapse to the floor, legs won't hold you, trembling, crying so hard you sling snot, shuddering breaths, stare dead-eyed and spent at the ceiling because you’re just too wiped out to even sleep kind of intense. 

And then, after the breakdown comes the angst. The detailed thinking. The oh god, what if this had happened, or, should I have done that instead? It seems like every emotion that gets put on the back burner in the moment comes back to bite you with twofold intensity when all is said and done. 

In other words, Din is definitely going to feels some things .A lot of very intense things. A reckoning is coming, my dudes. Trust me. It’s just not quite here yet.

That being said, here’s what I can expect from Din going forward:

Just like he’s is slow to acknowledge his growing parental feelings for Grogu, I think Din’s going to be slow at processing his grief at Grogu’s loss. In the next episode, he’s got plenty to distract him - getting together his hit team to take back the kid and coordinating an attack on the empire. 

However, I do think we’ll get a slow moment with Din, probably sometime at the beginning of next week’s episode if the pattern holds. I doubt it’s the full-blown breakdown that we’re all needing, but I’m willing to bet money that we’ll see Din grappling with the fact that his kid is gone. I also think that badass beskar murder machine Din from chapter three will resurface. Stress and desperation make us do irrational things, and anger is one of the stages of grief that Din will inevitably have to work through (I think he’s flickering between denial and bargaining for now).

But then, after Din gets Grogu back? I think that’s we’ll have our big, dearly earned emotional payoff. 

For one thing, Din won’t be able to deny his feelings anymore. He wants to keep this kid, it’s so very obvious. Losing him just forces it all to the forefront. 

And then the relief/joy/regret/guilt that Din is going to feel once he’s got Grogu back? Not to mention the physical exhaustion? All of the fear/terror/angst/grief that he ignored in favor of just going pedal to the metal, guns blazing, get the kid or die trying? That shit’s going to crash into him with all the subtly of a fucking tsunami. I guarantee you, we’re going to get some sort of confession, or adoption vow, or face revel, or other sort of profound softness from Dad!Din in the falling action of this season (At least, I hope we get it at the end this season but I wouldn’t put it past them to kick it into the premier of season three, just for pacing reasons, but then again, I obviously have trust issues).

Personally, I would love to see Din grappling with the long-term fallout of losing Grogu - night terrors, guilt, paranoia, etc. That’s probably the stuff of fanfiction - mandalorians don't have nightmares on screen, surely - but still, some lingering effects Grogu’s kidnapping would be realistic, and I would absolutely live for it.

[eddieeatsass]

♡♡♡ hi! if you have the time, just a short lil' something of fluffy teen stenbrough? ♡♡♡

Ask and you shall receive! <3 ---------------------------------

For as long as Stan can remember, Bill has always been his right hand man.

Of course Eddie and Richie were important to him too, and once Ben, Beverly, and eventually Mike came along, they became just as integral to Stan’s life. But Bill had always been his best best friend.

That's why when things began to shift between them, it just felt natural.

Stan barely noticed the change when Bill began to sit closer during movies, or linger his touches when they were playing board games. They were subtle differences that would have gone completely unnoticed if it weren't for the way Stan's skin would light up every time Bill brushed against him.

The stutter that had gotten progressively better over time seemed to come back with a fury, but only when Bill spoke to Stan. The other Losers picked up on it, but were too polite to say anything. All except for Richie, of course, who had to draw attention to Bill's new inability to string more than two words together whenever Stan was around. It made them both blush and earned Richie a smack from Bev.

Stan had been aware of his growing feelings for Bill for a couple years now. It was hard not to fall for the guy who made everything seem so simple. Life wasn't quite as daunting when Bill was around, and Stan was addicted to the ease with which he carried himself.

Stan knew nothing was actually easy for Bill. They'd spent countless nights sat up in bed, pulling their phone cords taught as they spoke in hushed tones for hours on end. Night time seemed to bring with it a sense of safety that allowed them to spill their inner most secrets to one another. Stan would wager he knew Bill better than his own family by this point, so he could say with honesty that he knew Bill didn't have it easy.

And yet, somehow, Bill managed to make everything seem manageable. Stan wasn't afraid when he was around.

So, despite his still kept secret that he was actually terrified of fireworks, he’d agreed to attend Bill’s 4th of July get-together.

This would be the Losers first 4th of July spent together. They were finally at the age where their parents allowed them to spend holidays with their friends instead of their families, and they’d taken advantage of that ten-fold.

Bill had organized for them to meet up at the Quarry where they’d have a perfect view of the fireworks from the top of the cliff, which he had decorated with blankets, little lanterns, and a cooler filled with drinks and snacks ready for consumption.

It made Stan wonder what lengths Bill would go to for a date, if this was what he did merely for his friends.

"D-d-do you want something t-to drink?" Bill asked, settling in beside Stan and disrupting him from his spiraling thoughts.

"Yes please, Billiam! Watcha got in that magic cooler of yours?" Richie chimed in from the other side of Stan.

"I wasn't asking you, trashmouth." Bill pouted but opening the cooler regardless. "Here." He grabbed a root beer and stretched his arm across Stan, handing the can to Richie aggressively.

"Geez, no need to be so violent about it." Richie mumbled, popping the tab on the can and taking a generous swig.

"I brought grape s-s-soda, i-i-if that's still your f-favorite." Bill looked back to Stan shyly, his eyes reflecting the stars and making Stan all but swoon right before him.

Stan could do nothing but nod, struck silent. Bill passed him a can and he let his fingers linger on Bill’s for a moment longer than necessary, allowing himself to indulge in the flutter in his stomach.

Time moved like molasses when Stan was around Bill, unable to focus properly on what was going on around him. Richie told a joke and Stan smiled at Bill’s laugh, Mike pulled out his radio and Stan listened to Bill humming along; the rest of the world was merely background to Bill’s show.

That was, until a loud boom perforated Stan’s eardrums and time suddenly sped up like it was being fast-forwarded at a nauseating pace. Stan remembered exactly why they were there, having long since forgotten his reluctance to attend tonight’s activities at the first sign of Bill.

The Losers cheered up at the sky as if the fireworks could hear them, and began settling down in preparation to watch the show.

Stan couldn’t sit still, his nerves alight in a completely different way than when Bill ignited them. He longed for that invigorating feeling to come back and replace the nervous energy that had washed over him, for Bill to make things simple like he always did.

And as if on queue, there he was, leaning into Stan’s space and commanding attention.

“You ok-k-kay?”

Stan thought about lying, but he’d never been able to lie to Bill, and he wasn’t gonna start now.

“No.” Stan admitted quietly, peering down at his hands which he was wringing together in his lap. “I’m scared of fireworks.” He said it quietly enough for only Bill to hear, wincing as another loud boom punctuated the end of his sentence as if to prove his point.

“Why didn’t you t-t-tell me?” Bill moved closer, their thighs pressing together and offering Stan a momentary distraction. “I w-wouldn’t have made you c-c-come.”

Stan knew that. In fact, he’d grappled with the idea of telling Bill all week, but in his love-sick mind he’d convinced himself that the opportunity to spend time with Bill was worth the discomfort.

And he was right, but that didn’t make it any easier as fireworks began to roll out in a steady pattern.

“Do you want to l-leave?” Bill asked, having to lean in closer to be heard over the rumbling above.

Stan suppressed a shiver as Bill’s lips grazed the shell of his ear. He shook his head stubbornly, screwing his eyes shut to try and center himself.

That’s when he felt warm fingers snaking themselves in between his clasped hands, weaving through Stan’s own fingers and connecting them. His heart was beating erratically, and only partially because of the anxiety bursting above him.

“I’ve got you.” Bill managed to whisper in his ear between explosions, no stutter present to break up the sentiment. He squeezed Stan’s hand and Stan’s heart squeezed in response.

And just like that, Stan’s anxiety began to ebb away. Not completely, he still jumped every time there was an especially loud explosion, but he was able to let it melt into the background once again, his main focus returning to Bill.

Because Bill made things simple.

[pressedinthepages]

Chapter 4: Fractures

Summary: After being found, questions are asked and painful pasts come to light.

Series Masterlist

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382063/chapters/59742352

Words: 2537

Tags: @whitewolfandthefox  (Add yourself to my taglist here!)

Warnings: none that i can really think of, pretty tame chapter

A/N: Got another flashback here folks, as well as finally confronting some demons that have been chasing Reader for a while.

    The fire crackles and spits, warming the air around you. The darkness of night is accompanied by a chill in the air, but neither you nor the guest at your camp pays it any mind. Eskel has been quiet as you both ate, wordlessly regarding you over the light of the fire.  

    “So…” you say, breaking the silence. You don’t want to start with anything too heavy, so you settle on “what’s the deal with the goat?”

    Eskel’s face visibly lightens, his tense expression melting into something much softer, like ice caps melting in the sea. He looks into the shadows at the edge of the camp where the animals are resting. His stallion stands beside your mare, both of them nodding off in the still evening. Eskel’s goat is at the horses’ feet, curled up and tucked in on herself, sound asleep.

    “I was passing through a little farming village about a year ago,” Eskel says, his voice carrying low on the breeze. “I didn’t even end up taking a job in that town, but as I was leaving she jumped the fence of her enclosure and ran up to me. She was a tiny little thing, probably the runt in her litter. I tried to just keep walking, but she kept screaming at me.” You smile at the picture, fully able to imagine it based on your experiences with the goat earlier that day. 

    “I turned around and walked back to her farm,” he continues, “and I opened the gate to try and get her back in there. She was just a stubborn then as she is now, and she wouldn’t budge. She dug her hooves in and gave me this look, gods she reminded me so much of Lambert,” he laughed. 

    You think back to when, about a year before you left Kaer Morhen, Eskel, Geralt, and you had been tasked with teaching Lambert the most efficient method to deal with a water hag. It turned out to be much easier said than done. Lambert had been no more than fourteen at the time, his eyes still hazel in the noon sun. 

...

Lambert was wailing on a dummy by the wall of the courtyard, beating the ever-loving shit out of the damn thing. The three of you were trying to get him to listen to your advice, but it was like speaking to a wall. The little brat had decided that since he had killed one whole drowner he could take on whatever decided to come after him.

    “Gods, I don’t know why we even try!” Geralt had exclaimed, finally reaching the end of his already very short patience. He stormed off, silver hair flipping into his eyes as he purposefully stomped up the steps towards the keep. 

    Eskel’s patience was wearing thin as well, you had noticed. He was always good at hiding his frustrations, but you had known him long enough to see through his cover. You remember placing a hand on his shoulder and nodding at the stoop surrounding the training area, silently telling him to sit down and let the master work. 

    Unfortunately, you still had yet to master Axii, and even if you had, you wouldn’t feel comfortable using it on someone for many years. So, you settled on a much older method, one that transcended time and magic.

    “Hey, I bet that you can’t beat me in a sword fight,” you had called, unsheathing the steel sword as you did.

    Lambert stopped his incessant swinging and turned, more than a little bit of arrogance shining in his eyes. Even though he was younger and less experienced, he had already been taller and broader than you. He tilted his head and you began circling each other around the courtyard. 

    “Hmmm...and what will I get when I win?” he had asked, already holding his sword in a solid guard across his chest. 

    “If you win, I’ll do your dish duty for a month,” you replied, and you had known that you had him hooked. Lambert hated dish duty more than almost anything else, grumbling and bitching the whole time. 

    “But,” you continued, his eyes narrowing, “if I win, you’ll let me come on the hunt for the hag with you.”

    He stopped, his body reeking of sudden confusion. Even Eskel, who had been only halfway paying attention, perked up at your words, neither of them sure of why you wanted that for your prize. Lambert’s body shifted, his sword falling lower to his waist.

    You smiled and quickly threw a hand out, casting Aard and sending Lambert flying backward, almost knocking Eskel off of the ledge. You ran forward and lept, sword held high. Lambert had barely had time to roll out of the way, and you spent the next hour chasing him around the courtyard. 

    The next day, you had set off on the hunt, happy with the rules you had set for your victorious hunt. You had tied a bit of fabric around Lambert’s mouth and told him that if he took it off, he’d be doing your dish duty for the next year. During the long trek to the hag’s lair, you spoke at great length about any and every bit of information you had about water hags, reveling in the chance to get him to listen without pulling your hair out.

…

    “I almost even named her Lil’ Lambert, you know.” Eskel’s words bring your attention back to him, and you see the little smirk on his face on catching you daydreaming. “But, I figured Lambert wouldn’t be thrilled with being compared to a goat, so I just call her Lil’ Bleater instead.”

    “Because…?” You chuckle, teasing the immense creativity the man in front of you had when naming his goat.

He avoids your gaze, well aware of the hole he has dug himself into. “Because..she...she bleats.”

You snort, and you feel real, true laughter rising from your stomach. It’s been longer than you can remember since you last laughed so easily, but it makes sense, you think, that Eskel would be the one to remind you of just how good it feels.

As the laughter dies down, the silence settles back around you, stifling in its quiet. You’ve always been content in silence, but now, it is as if the air is holding its breath, waiting for you to have the inevitable, painful conversation. 

Eskel clears his throat, also visibly uncomfortable. You can hear his heartbeat underneath the sound of the fire, slow and steady as he breathes. His fingers intertwine with one another, grappling with the thoughts that are loudly spinning around his mind.

“You wander these woods often, or did something specific bring you here?” finally asks, teasing lilting his voice at the edges. You look up at him and smirk before nodding, explaining the harpy contract that you were set to begin hunting in the morning.

“Damn it, I was going after that one too. Different town, sits over the hill…” Eskel’s words drift off, glancing up at you as he debates asking a further question. You’ve always been impatient, so you ask instead.

“Need a hand? We can take care of the nest easily between the two of us, and there should be plenty of harpies for us to each grab a trophy from to use as proof,” you ponder, fiddling with the hem of your tunic at your leg. “Once it’s done, we can go back to the respective towns and both claim the rewards, and then set off on the Path again.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw set in an unmistakable gesture of conflict. Before you can wonder what may have annoyed him, you hear him mumble from across the fire.

“Yeah, I suppose that would be the best plan.”

Your heart breaks a little, a feeling that you haven’t really known in years. You wish that you could have more time with him, but you know that Witchers aren’t meant to linger together, the Path of the wolf is one trekked alone.

Eskel runs a hand through his hair, the dark locks fluttering back around his golden eyes as he raises his gaze to you once more. You see the fire behind it, flashing hurt and anger and confusion.

“What the hell happened? Why haven’t you found any of us, or come back?” He exclaims, jumping to his feet and pacing around the fire. You sigh, hugging your arms around your chest. You knew that he’d ask that, but you loathed the idea of going back through all of that pain and fear. 

“Eskel,” you start, lowering your gaze to the fire, it being somehow less intense that looking into his eyes. “It was never about you, or the others. It was me, and my shit, my own inability to control my cowardice.”

Eskel stops, turning to you and staying silent, allowing you the time you need to put together your thoughts before speaking.

“Once we left and got a taste of the world, I realized how much fear had been ingrained in those walls. I was scared to go back there, to have to feel the memory of the Trials and the constant panic of not being perfect.” Your voice breaks a little, but you continue on, now unable to stop the torrent of emotions that had been held back for so long. You suddenly realize that it’s not that you haven’t been feeling for the past thirty years, but that you have just been pushing those feelings down further and further, and the moment Eskel came along he undid the lid and everything came spilling out.

“I just wandered for a few years, and by the time I had kind of made peace with what we went through at Kaer Morhen, I heard about the attack.” You look up at him and he is wearing a grimace, flinching slightly at the memory. “I was so ashamed, I should’ve been there, I shouldn’t even be alive.

A tear falls down your cheek as you fall silent. You see Eskel’s boots move, coming to rest on the ground beside yours. He sits beside you on the log and wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you to his broad chest. You sink into him, finding comfort in the scent of him and his grip grounding you in the present.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of” he rumbles, his voice low and soothing. “Gods, I have so many mixed feelings about that place. But it’s the only home I’ve known, and I’ve been given the chance to decide whether I want it to be a place of refuge, or one that smothers me.”

You know that he has a point, but you still can’t bring yourself to go back. “There’s something else. I’ve made peace with the past, or at least as much as I can.” You sit up, Eskel’s arms still sitting at your sides. You’re reminded of the night before the Trial, and the kiss that you shared but never actually talked about after. 

“There’s this mage, and he’s been hunting and killing women for years,” you explain, Eskel’s brow furrowing with worry. “Allegedly, all of them were born during an eclipse, causing them to have certain...properties. I’m not sure exactly what, but the Day of the Black Sun is infamous. People are terrified of them, and this mage apparently thinks that these women are set to end the world as we know it.”

“What does all of this have to do with you?” Eskel asks, and you can’t help but fear how he will react when you tell him the truth.

“I...I’m one of them. I was born on that day, I saw it in one of the visions from the Trial,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his once more. “I’ve tried to stay low, stay safe, but...What if I am the end? I’ve already been turned into this...this monster...who knows what else I could become?”

Eskel fits a finger below your chin and pulls you back to him, his eyes searching yours as you see the tension in his brow relax.

“You listen closely, please,” he states, his tone serious as he continues. “You are not, and have never been, some monster. I don’t care what anyone has said over the years, I have learned that we alone control what we are. It doesn’t matter what others have done to you or think of you, it only matters what you choose to believe in spite of that.”

You swallow, your emotions slowly closing themselves back into the little box in your head. You don’t really know how to feel, having never really considered Eskel’s line of reasoning. 

“You know, when you didn’t come back to Kaer Morhen that first winter, I worried constantly. In the spring, I convinced Geralt to help me look for you.” You turn back to the fire, once more ashamed of causing him concern. “We looked for the whole year, only taking enough contracts to get by. We’d hear whispers of you every now and then, but you’d be long gone every time. I’d still get Geralt to help when he could after that, but his Path was pulling him in lots of directions. Lambert even helped for a bit when he left the keep, but he got so frustrated with the lack of results that he didn’t last very long.”

“And then, after the attack, all we heard was silence. Everywhere we went, there was never any sign of you.” The tears flow freely down your cheeks, he’d actually looked for you? Tried to find you? “The others mourned you along with the rest, thinking that you had been killed. I figured that they were probably right, but a part of me just knew that you were still alive. I’ve never really stopped looking, and when I saw you in the forest, gods, I thought you were just some hallucination, taunting me with your presence.”

“But you were actually there, alive, right in front of me,” his voice shakes before he clears his throat. “I can’t let go, not now. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe, even if I have to hunt down that mage and end him my own damn self.”

You look back to him and see the promise behind his eyes, and you wonder what your life could have been like if you’d found him sooner. You nod, not trusting yourself to reopen your chest of emotions that has buried itself back into your heart.

“We should rest, we’ll have a long day tomorrow,” you say, your words soft and edged with an empty sadness. Eskel sighs before standing to move away, but your hand catches his and pulls him back down. You can’t say it yet, but you can’t let go now either.

You rest your head on Eskel’s shoulder and feel his arm wrap around your waist, holding you steady. The sounds of the forest and the beat of the strong heart beneath you lull you into deep relaxation, your eyes fluttering shut and your consciousness slipping from your grasp.

[phroyd]

Five months after the novel coronavirus was first detected in the United States, a record surge in new cases is the clearest sign yet of the country’s historic failure to control the virus — exposing a crisis in governance extending from the Oval Office to state capitals to city councils.

President Trump — who has repeatedly downplayed the virus, sidelined experts and misled Americans about its dangers and potential cures — now finds his presidency wracked by an inability to shepherd the country through its worst public health calamity in a century. The dysfunction that has long characterized Trump’s White House has been particularly ill-suited for a viral outbreak that requires precision, focus and steady leadership, according to public health experts, administration officials and lawmakers from both parties.

As case numbers began rising again, Trump has held rallies defying public health guidelines, mused about slowing down testing for the virus, criticized people wearing masks and embraced the racially offensive “kung flu” nickname for a disease that has killed at least 123,000 Americans.

A similarly garbled message for the country has also been put forward by the president’s top aides and other senior administration officials, who contradict one another on a daily basis. On Friday, Vice President Pence used the first White House coronavirus task force briefing in almost two months to praise Trump’s handling of the virus and cast aside concerns about a record spike in new infections.

“We have made a truly remarkable progress in moving our nation forward,” Pence said, a few minutes after announcing that more than 2.5 million Americans had contracted the coronavirus. “We’ve all seen the encouraging news as we open up America again.”

Later Friday, the United States recorded more than 40,000 new coronavirus cases — its largest one-day total.

It was the latest example of whiplash from the Trump administration, which has struggled to put forward a consistent message about the pandemic. While public health experts urge caution and preventive measures such as mask-wearing and social distancing, Trump, Pence and other top aides repeatedly flout their advice, leaving confused Americans struggling to determine who to believe.

“They’re creating a cognitive dissonance in the country,” one former senior administration official said. “It’s more than them being asleep at the wheel. They’re confusing people at this point when we need to be united.”

This portrait of a nation in crisis — and its failure to contain an epic pandemic — is based on interviews with 47 administration officials, lawmakers at the national and state level, congressional staff, federal and local health officials, public health experts and other current and former officials involved in the bungled and confused response.

America’s position as the world’s leader in coronavirus cases and deaths is in large part the result of human error, and the still-rising caseload stands as a stark reminder of the blunders that have characterized the national response. Trump’s actions, and his position in the Oval Office, make him a central figure in any assessment of the country’s handling of the outbreak.

As the White House task force scaled back its meetings and stopped its public briefings in May and June, Trump seized the national spotlight and used it to shift the country’s focus from the virus to an economic comeback he branded the “TRANSITION TO GREATNESS.”

Trump’s public mentions of the coronavirus declined by two-thirds between April and early June. When he did discuss the pandemic, it was often to float misinformation about treatments, masks and testing — science-defying views that have been embraced by his supporters and top Republican lawmakers.

The White House has blocked Anthony S. Fauci, the nation’s top infectious-disease expert and director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, from some appearances that he has requested to do in recent weeks, according to two people familiar with the matter. White House aides have argued that television interviewers often try to goad Fauci into criticizing the president or the administration’s approach, and that Fauci is not always good about “staying on message,” in the words of a senior administration official. Aides did allow Fauci to appear on CNN recently for a town hall, the official said.

White House officials have battled for weeks over whether to hold the public coronavirus briefing, with some arguing to instead focus on other issues, such as the economy.

As local officials struggled to enforce stay-at-home orders and other restrictions, the virus continued to circulate throughout a country riven by partisan politics and devoid of a national public health strategy, said Max Skidmore, a political scientist at the University of Missouri at Kansas City and author of a book on presidential leadership during health crises.

“We’re the only country in the world that has politicized the approach to a pandemic,” he said.

Now, covid-19, the disease caused by the coronavirus, is advancing at an accelerated pace in the United States, even as other countries reopen their economies after getting their outbreaks under control. European diplomats are poised to approve an agreement that will reopen the European Union to travel from many countries but not American tourists, because the coronavirus is still raging in the United States.

In contrast, states from Arizona to Florida are pausing or reversing their attempts to reopen their economies.

The new peak in cases — coming so quickly after the first and with just months to go before a presidential election and an impending flu season — has alarmed public health experts and the president’s political allies.

“These epidemics are going to be hard to get under control,” said Scott Gottlieb, the former commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration and an informal adviser to the Trump administration. He said he expects deaths to soon climb to more than 1,000 per day again. “It’s going to continue to spread until you do something to intervene. I’m not sure we are taking enough forceful action to break the trend right now.”

The president has dramatically scaled back the number of coronavirus meetings on his schedule in recent weeks, instead holding long meetings on polling and endorsements, his reelection campaign, the planned Republican National Convention in Jacksonville, Fla., the economy and other topics, according to two advisers, who, like others, spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss internal deliberations.

While Pence continues to convene weekly calls with governors to discuss coronavirus testing, supplies and other issues, Trump no longer participates, the advisers said. Trump now receives his updates on the coronavirus effort from Pence, officials said.

Trump’s intense focus on his campaign comes as he has been sliding in public polling and trailing Democratic rival Joe Biden, who is winning support from voters who disapprove of the president’s handling of the pandemic and the accompanying economic recession. Some Republican officials have tried to advise the president to focus more intently on managing the public health crisis at hand, arguing that doing so would help his political standing — and theirs — while also speeding along the economic recovery.

But Trump has shown little indication that he plans to re-engage on shepherding a national coronavirus response in the wake of surging cases. He has expressed frustration to aides that he was criticized for a lack of adequate testing and is now not being given enough credit for the 500,000 daily tests that are currently being conducted, officials said. Trump has repeatedly claimed that the caseload is only going up because of the increasing number of tests, and he has openly discussed reducing testing.

“The number of ChinaVirus cases goes up, because of GREAT TESTING, while the number of deaths (mortality rate), goes way down,” Trump wrote Thursday on Twitter.

In several states, where hospitalizations and positivity rates are sharply increasing, Trump’s words offer little comfort to governors trying to figure out how to respond to a burgeoning crisis.

Some states are still struggling to procure testing kits and supplies for the kits, including swabs, and have pleaded for the federal government to play a larger role in coordinating purchases, resolving supply shortages and distributing the tests. Doctors and health-care facilities are still grappling with shortages of personal protective equipment (PPE), including private doctors’ offices that cannot perform routine procedures safely because they do not have the necessary equipment, according to the American Medical Association.

“It is not clear to us how the administration has distributed PPE across the country during the pandemic, but having a single national coordinated strategy would help ensure that states, hospitals, physician offices and other facilities have a single, centralized authority to work through to acquire essential PPE,” said American Medical Association President Susan R. Bailey.

Politicization of the pandemic has left many Republican governors to choose between staying a doomed public health course while touting economic recovery or acting on recommendations from public health experts who Trump has dismissed.

Young people are driving a spike in coronavirus infections, officials say

In Florida, Gov. Ron DeSantis (R) has resisted calls for a statewide mask mandate, even as Florida’s cases jumped by 62 percent from its previous high of 5,511 on Wednesday to a new high of 8,942 on Friday. His argument, made publicly as recently as Thursday, is that not all parts of the state are experiencing the same level of outbreak, and therefore they should not be subject to a one-size-fits-all approach. The state announced Friday that all bars must shut down on-site consumption, three weeks after they reopened.

In Arizona, public health experts and local officials largely credit lobbying efforts by mayors for pushing Gov. Doug Ducey (R) to reverse his position and allow cities to implement mask requirements as they saw fit.

Kristen Pogreba-Brown, an epidemiologist at the University of Arizona, said she found it “disgusting” to watch politics penetrate considerations about public health precautions. She pointed in particular to issues of testing following the president’s erroneous suggestion that increased testing is to blame for the scope of the outbreak.

“The fact that we don’t have a federal testing program is pretty embarrassing, frankly,” she said, noting that her university is developing its own in-house testing system, because “we don’t have faith people can go out and get tested in the community.”

More than five months after the first test for the coronavirus was conducted in the United States, testing equipment is still being doled out based on which states manage to get federal officials on the phone to press their case. After a recent weekend that saw demand for testing outstrip capacity, the governor’s office in Arizona placed a call to the White House and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, said Daniel Ruiz, Ducey’s chief operating officer. Within 24 hours, they had secured expedited access to a rapid Roche testing machine, he said.

Some states are banding together to issue quarantine orders against visitors from regions with rising cases, further highlighting the lack of a federal standard. Conspiracy theories about masks, vaccines and social distancing have abounded, threatening to stymie local leaders’ attempts to enforce public health guidelines.

Trump’s willingness to ignore ordinances on masks and large crowds has added to the sense of confusion, public health experts said.

“Any time there is politicization of an infectious-disease response, it makes it much harder to intervene,” said Amesh Adalja, an infectious-disease expert at the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security. People are “less likely to actually listen to public health authorities on what are the best actions to take and how to take them because they think that everything has been politicized in that there is no truth — it’s truth from Democrats or Republicans, rather than the truth,” Adalja said.

As support for masks grows, so does the political risk in not wearing them

The White House has played a central role in undermining the kind of clear and consistent messaging experts say is necessary to mount a successful public health response to a viral outbreak, current and former administration officials said.

Top aides to Pence, including his chief of staff, Marc Short, have grown increasingly skeptical of public health officials within the administration, believing they have been wrong too many times about mitigation techniques and transmission of the virus, according to three officials familiar with the matter. Short has increasingly disagreed with public health experts in coronavirus meetings, these people said.

Trump has undermined Fauci and other health experts repeatedly, publicly dismissing their views about reopening schools, professional sports and other aspects of public life.

While Fauci has been sidelined from briefing Trump and appearing on television, economic advisers such as trade adviser Peter Navarro and Larry Kudlow, director of the National Economic Council, have been given a more prominent public role. They have often used the platform to provide false assurances that the recent surges are under control.

“We’re going to have hot spots. No question. We have it now,” Kudlow said Thursday. “And, you know, Texas and parts of the South, the Carolinas, Arizona. We just have to live with that.”

Others without a background in public health, including Trump’s son-in-law, Jared Kushner, have played an outsized role in guiding the federal response. Just last month, Kushner told others involved in the response that the virus was essentially under control and that there would be no second wave, a former administration official said.

White House officials, including Kushner, Deborah Birx, coordinator of the administration’s coronavirus response, and acting chief of staff Mark Meadows met Thursday to discuss what the administration should be doing to contend with the spike in cases, a White House official said. The plan is for Birx to visit the hardest-hit states to collect more information, and for officials to redirect the therapeutic drug remdesivir to states that are surging.

The official said that Birx and Fauci are also likely to do more regional TV interviews in places where cases are surging.

The White House is also expected to record public service announcements in Spanish about the coronavirus in an attempt to reach the Hispanic community, which has been hit particularly hard by the virus. A senior White House official said top administration officials have regularly offered assistance to officials in Texas, Florida, Arizona and other states. Two administration officials said there will probably be more briefings for reporters, though many are likely to be off-camera.

The partisanship that has come to surround mask-wearing was on stark display on Capitol Hill on Friday, as House Majority Whip James E. Clyburn (D-S.C.) convened a hearing of the select subcommittee on the coronavirus crisis.

Clyburn and the other committee Democrats attended wearing masks, while the committee’s Republican members were maskless, which led to angry exchanges.

Rep. Jamie B. Raskin (D-Md.) accused Republican members who were maskless of provoking “terror and fear in your colleagues and perhaps your staff.”

Republicans, several of whom had worn masks into the hearing room before taking them off, contended that they could practice social distancing safely while seated maskless at the dais.

“We are six feet apart. We don’t need a mask,” said Rep. Mark Green (R-Tenn.), who is a physician.

Publicly, GOP lawmakers remain largely supportive of Trump’s handling of the pandemic, declining to put any blame on him or the federal response for the upward trend in infections. They generally say the decision-making responsibility now lies with state governments, and that individual citizens bear the onus for responsible behavior to hold down infections.

The CDC is sending teams to states experiencing outbreaks, rather than following the usual policy of waiting for states to ask for help. The agency has sent nearly 150 people out to about 20 states, a federal official said, including California, Arizona, Texas and Florida. It has about three dozen more staffers awaiting deployment to hot spots to provide technical assistance, epidemiological support, surveillance and contact tracing, the official said.

While Trump has attacked some Democratic governors for their handling of the virus, its recent spread in Republican-led states such as Texas, Florida, Arizona, South Carolina and Oklahoma has complicated the politics around the president’s response.

Officials in some states that have contained much of the virus’s spread have called on Republican leaders in other states to take drastic measures to get control of the disease.

“As painful as it is, you’ve got to overdo it in terms of the aggressiveness in which you shut things down,” New Jersey Gov. Phil Murphy (D) said in an interview.

While several Republican governors resisted shutdown efforts during the spring, some have begun to warn their residents that they are hardly immune.

Thomas Dobbs, Mississippi’s top health officer, told residents recently to be prepared for a lack of a hospital bed if they crash their cars or a lack of ventilators if they suffer a heart attack.

“If we’re not careful,” he said, “Mississippi will look like New York.”

Phroyd

[orderofthefanfic]

It’s All Over But The Laughing

Summary: Gotham was a trash heap of destitution and neglect. The rich barely even saw those less wealthy worth enough to step on and any who suffered were helpless. Arthur Fleck was no exception. Suffering from a disorder that left him ostracized from his world, even in the smallest of places, it felt as if no one even saw him. Until he met you. A similar case of loneliness and despair, it was never a case of whether you were seen, but of whether you were heard. Despite your gigs as a cheap singer, the words of your heart were never understood, with a stutter that frightened you from saying your mind and a world that silenced you from showing your truth. The day you met Arthur Fleck was the day your life changed forever.

Pilot

It wasn't completely unusual for people to linger in the halls of the social office, but her face, Arthur hadn't seen before. He slowed his pace, out of curiosity, most of all, and studied the stranger's nervous form. She sat in one of the decrepit chairs in the main hall, left as a makeshift waiting room despite the lack of people who even came to this office, shaking her knee as her hands, clasped tightly, bounced atop it. Her eyes scanned the room frequently, in Arthur’s favor, stopping just short of where he stood to observe, and a sickened look enrobed her aura. With a harsher bounce of her leg, she pushed a breath of air through her pursed lips, flattening her back against the chair and leaning her head back to face the ceiling. He intended to move on from watching her when one of the other psychiatrists in the building made their way towards her. At their approaching footsteps, she shot her head up, an anxious grimace playing on her face.

“(Y?N)? What are you still doing here?” The doctor looked to her watch, furrowing her brow, “Our sessions been over for 20 minutes.”

“Dr. Setler!,” The girl, who Arthur now overheard as (Y/N), began to wring her hands roughly, “I-I don’t...d-didn’t,”

She stopped suddenly, scrunching her nose and huffing a burst of air with a twitch of her head. He thought she was just stammering, her nerves getting to her, but as she continued to speak, he realized she struggled through multiple words, stopping almost entirely in between some, and continuously scrunching her face as she grappled through her sentences.

“I th-thought we had an extended session today and I didn’t get your call it was sh..compressed. I was going to wait until my ride arrived.”

Setler raised her brow, a tight-lipped smile flashed towards the girl that seemed in the least bit forced, “That’s going to be quite some time, yes?”

“Well, yes,” When she finally stuttered out her answer, she spilled out with a slight panic, “I’d rather just wait, I don’t truly want to call.”

Her mouth hung open as if to say more, but the doctor waved dismissively in her face, placing a hand on her back and leading her, quite reluctantly, to the public phone in the foyer, “Nonsense, Remember we talked about practicing with phone calls? You’ll only get better. Waiting here all day is obscene.”

She attempted desperately to disagree, but between her struggles to speak and dismission of Setler, she was unwillingly shoved to the device, and a receiver was thrust into her trembling hand.

With a rough pat on her back, Dr. Setler gave a short wave goodbye and took off down the hall. Arthur was not one to enjoy eavesdropping. He knew, and it was ingrained in him, that it was rude, but even with his consciousness scolding him as he stayed out of suspicion and listened, he was unable to stop. She stood blankly for a few moments before she slowly began to spin in the numbers, swaying on her feet as she unknowingly sealed her fate with each rotation. Although he couldn’t hear the speaker on the other side, he gathered enough.

The conversation looked painful to be involved in, the girl’s already debilitating stutter exemplified over the phone, and the stress that seemed to be gripping her was tightening with every word. In summary, she was behind on her paycheck, thus placing her behind on her already reduced-price medications. The man on the other end, who she’d addressed as her uncle, was audible even from where Arthur stood, although his words were indistinguishable, his distaste was crystal-clear.

“No meds, no roof.”

A persnickety individual, he seemed set on his personal philosophy that if she wasn't on whatever medications she was prescribed, instantly, she wasn't mentally sound or safe to be in his home. The ideal made Arthur sick.

At some point, the girl had half resulted to begging, pushing the phone tightly to her cheek and clenching her fist until her knuckles turned white. Her uncle was highly impatient with her stutter and as the conversation pressed on, she, too, was becoming increasingly frustrated with her inability to converse concisely. Within the limited range of the phone cord, (Y/N) paced and screamed internally. After desperate convincing, she managed to buy herself a day, 24 hours to pack up whatever life she had in her uncle's apartment and leave it behind. Part of her was relieved, the other was still preoccupied with finding a new apartment.

When the death buzz of an empty phone line stung in her ear, she finally gave up on trying to hold whatever was left of her together. Tears sprang to her eyes the second the receiver touched the hook and her palms rubbed her face angrily. Stumbling and shuffling to the seat in the hall, she slumped heavily into the worn and flaking leather. Her face was covered by her hands, muffling her weary cries, and a frown took over Arthur's own expression.

A moment or two passed, the otherwise quiet hall echoing with her sadness, before Arthur finally forced himself to stop creeping on the poor girl and at least do something . And so, Arthur Fleck did what Arthur Fleck wanted to do most: make somebody laugh.

He approached her slowly, his light footfalls rising only slightly above her sobs and cautiously lowered himself into the seat next to her. She stiffened but remained otherwise unchanged. He placed an immense amount of will power into keeping his own self calm, hoping a fit of painful laughter wouldn't rip through him. An awkward second passed, and when he thought about how uncomfortable his silent presence probably felt, the joke he'd been balancing on his tongue jumped out.

"Why are poor people so confused?"

Although she didn't verbalize her acknowledgment of him, he sensed a loosening of her hands as he cries quieted ever so with curiosity. She was unnerved, she wouldn't deny that, but she couldn't ignore what he'd just say out of the mere oddness of the question. Unknowing of its humorous intention, she stayed unmoving and waited.

Whether it was with good or poor judgement, Arthur nudged her shoulder as he delivered the punch line, "Because they don't make any cents."

Nothing. At first, there was absolutely nothing, then what to him sounded like harder sobbing, and then finally, a sound he was all too familiar with (maybe just not from others), laughter. Sad and bitter laughter at first, but soon it morphed into soft but genuine chuckling. Her palms began to rub her face with a pitied groan, her head shaking in self-disbelief and she assertively wiped the fallen tears from underneath her red eyes.

"Th-That's the worst joke I've ever heard," Arthur's heart plummeted, "I love it."

She finally turned to look at him, a weak smile tugging at her lips, and something deep in him glowed.

"Well, I'd hoped you would." He returned the grin, shifting in his seat as she took a few steadier breaths.

It was evident she was apprehensive about speaking, something Arthur understood, although perhaps from a different perspective. Her eyes darted quickly to the brown paper bag in his hand, her ears honing in on the unmistakable sounds of pills, and she seemed almost to relax more at the realization he was a fellow patient at the office.

An awkward silence grew quickly between them but he rubbed his palms on his knees and confided, "I didn't mean to listen in, but I overheard you don't have a ride and you're nervous about taking the subway alone. If you want, I take the subway all the time, I wouldn't mind joining you, if it would make you feel better."

He felt like he may have been rambling, pulling back as he pressed his lips together. She was staring at him silently, a strange look on her features and Arthur began to panic that he may have said the wrong thing. Or maybe he sat the wrong way, or did the wrong thi-

"I'd r-re..verily appreciate that." She tripped out, her head nodding softly as her eyes seemed to gleam. "Seriously, it would mean a lot."

His lips twitched upwards again and he sighed in relief, rising from his seat as he extended his hand towards her.

"My name is Arthur."

Her hand, still trembling, slipped gently into his, contradicting the firm grip and sharp shake she gave him.

Nodding, she flashed her teeth at him genuinely, "(Y/N)."

(A/N): Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. I watched this movie opening day and I have not stopped thinking or talking about it since. It was stunning and I just fell in love with the characterization of Arthur. Joaquin did a phenomenal job and everything about the film was beautiful. Also! I have never written a character with a stutter and I, unfortunately, do not personally know anyone who does that I can ask and get advice from. I tried to do research and watch video examples of how a stutter affects someone, the types of stuttering, and what it sounds like, but as someone who does not have a stutter and doesn't see it in person, I may not portray it as well as I'd like. I would love any feedback or advice you can give me on how I do or should depict stuttering and if there are any inaccuracies or over (or under) exaggerations, please let me know! I love to hear your feedback and comments!

[iambloop]

Monkey Bars

I could never jump across monkey bars as a kid.

My lanky arms allowed me to get across to the second bar without letting the first one go. The trouble was getting to the third one. I could not establish a firm grip on the third bar while holding on to the second - at best, I could brush my fingers against it, the metal burning hot after an afternoon under the summer sun. To get across, I had to take a leap of faith. I’d have to swing, and then, I’d have to let go. There would be a moment between holding on to bar two and grappling bar three, a moment when I would be doing neither of those two things. In that moment, there would be a small chance that I would not make it across, that the metal would slip away from my clammy hands. No, I have never been able to deal with that kind of uncertainty.

The playground is empty this morning. The metal is glistening under the sun, reflecting the morning dew resting on the rusty swings - yellow, red, pink, green, the preschool colour palette with patches of grey where the paint has worn off, and elsewhere, mounds of rust. The weather isn’t particularly chilly but a thin jacket would’ve been nice. I feel my ankles tugging at my calves - cramping from the cold, cramping from the thought of cramping, cramping in anticipation of the gruelling marathon (my first) that they will be running later today.

I started running a few years ago, when I was in college. Avi had suggested it - he was annoyed at the sound of my feet pacing around the house all day. He’d ask me why I kept walking around, and I told him, I couldn’t sit and think. We started with a “eh, okay, let’s give it a shot”, and eventually,  we started to enjoy running. So much so that on the weekends, we’d drive to this quiet part of the city and run west on a narrow trail cutting across this dense forest. The trail led to a barren flatland - barren, except for the odd patch of grass here and there, and flat, except for an arrangement of boulders. Provided that the rocks weren’t too hot from the day’s sun, we would climb the boulders and sit at the top. There was the city airport, before which there was a highway, and just before that, the barren flatland with the set of boulders, and on top of them, Avi and I. We would spend those evenings being distant witnesses to the drama of cars scrambling across the highway and the screeching cry of aeroplane engines.

How do you answer when somebody asks, “What are you thinking about?”

The good thing about Avi is that he doesn’t ask those questions. I think he wants to know though.

The bad thing about Avi is that he’s particular, to the point of being obsessive. The good thing is that he’s not one to lose his temper. So when I walk back home with white eggs instead of brown, I expect him to skip eggs and just eat a cheese sandwich.

Instead, he throws a fit about it.

The good thing about Avi is that he’s predictable. The bad part is that despite this, I cannot be certain about his emotional response to the wrong kind of eggs. What nobody tells you about living with another person is that it’s a lot like being married - sometimes, you fight about things that don’t matter because of your inability to fight about things that matter. In this way, Avi reminds me of my mother - after all, they’re the same zodiac sign, born 31 years, 11 months and 8 days apart.

My greatest fear is to end up exactly like my parents. Living with Avi can be a gay recreation of that nightmare.

But the nightmare is not complete yet. When the horror is external, at the very least you can run from it, but how do you run from mirrors? They’re everywhere. My reflection carries a trace of my father - we share a bald spot on the left side of our foreheads and a paunch that’s popping right out (in my defense, I’m not fat - I just have bad posture). Some nights, when I’m doing the dishes after dinner, I feel like carving my nose out of my face and replacing it with the soap soaked sponge - maybe then I’d look less like him. But I talk like him, my mother says. Can I wash his words off my tongue?

Now I taste toothpaste.

When Avi is screaming at me about the eggs, I think about bubble blowers. I imagine our apartment is filled with pink bubbles, bubbles that fall to the ground and rub against the marble. Bubbles and foam that collect in my mouth. Bubbles and foam are choking me now.

Spit.

When Avi is screaming at me about the eggs, my mind is unable to connect eggs and anger - it feels like this is about something more. I think he’s been unhappy, but I’m not really sure. His mother came to live with us for a week last year when we were having a bad phase, and she left her copy of this book about love languages. I read it.

I found out that Avi’s love language is quality time. The last time he seemed really happy was a couple of weeks ago, when we drove down to the bakery and ate croissants there rather than getting them packed for home - he says there’s something about the aroma of the place that makes him feel warm and nostalgic. I really like going there too, but that’s because of this cute girl who works there.

When he stops screaming, I suggest a trip to the bakery. He looks at me silently.

Is he even there anymore? Absence can coexist with physical proximity. My father taught me that.

The thing about living with someone is that eventually, their silence becomes interpretable.

But I’ve always liked the quiet. And so, really, this is an annoyance - it’s not true silence if the tension is palpable. I’d much rather he get it all out at once, but he’s not like that at all. The outburst is a temporary crack in the veneer of his composure - forgotten quickly, instantly, just leaving behind a trace of frustration in the room, like the aroma of burnt sugar that makes my nose all itchy. I feel a sneeze tickling my nasal passage, but it just won’t come out. I wish I could sneeze at will - it’s such a satisfying release.

Instead, I massage my calves and eat a banana.

⁓

Initially, when I started running, it would feel like I was choking on air. The body adapts quickly though. Running is not a mechanically complex task - in essence, you are just putting one foot ahead of the other, one monkey bar after another. But it takes more than just crude stamina to run a marathon - you need a pace that can last the distance. The pace decides not just your movement but your breath too. Too slow or too fast, and running stops being fun. There’s no constant answer to the question of pace either - it has to adapt with the gradient, the weather, and the mood. That adjustment process becomes natural after a certain amount of practice. It is sufficiently natural to me now, so when I hear “go” at the marathon, I start hopping. Within a minute, I’m gliding across the asphalt.

What is the relationship between the mind and the body? It’s impossible for me to sit and think.

At the 7th kilometre mark, I see someone throwing up. Marathons are not for everyone.

This one time, I tried to swing across the second bar to the third one. I fell. I didn’t try after that.

At the 11th kilometre mark, I am more sweat than skin.

I have this memory from my childhood. On winter mornings, my father would drive me to school. It used to be so cold, we’d wrap our hands in gloves, rubbing and blowing to keep them warm. On the route, we would spot an old man. His face was wrinkled, like a raisin - he was significantly old, maybe older than me and my dad put together. He’d be running in just a vest and shorts, with beads of sweat trickling down his face, all trickling across different paths, all headed for his vest.

Maybe one could make salt from his flesh on those winter mornings.

Maybe one could make salt from my flesh right now.

The relationship between the mind and the body is a codependent one.

At the 19th kilometre mark, the sky is no longer blue - it has morphed into a shade of yellow and orange, with the sun resting on the horizon, bleeding streaks of crimson. At this point, I am no longer running. I am my 15 year old self on a beach.

The water is warm from the summer day, and the waves strike against my chest, rising to my chin, then falling back down. I am my 15 year old self, floating in the warm salty ocean of sweat while looking at the most beautiful sunset that I have ever seen. I hear my mother’s terrified shrill cry. She’s standing at the shore, ordering me to not go deeper into the ocean. She doesn’t know how to swim, but I do.

I am my 5 year old self, jumping across monkey bars. I hear the same shrill cry as the metal slips away from my hands. Pothole. I nearly stumble onto the asphalt. I hear the same shrill cry. Fear is my inheritance. Can I abandon it now?

At the 23rd kilometre mark, I feel a strong impulse to leave everything behind and run away.

At the 27th kilometre mark, I am sliding downhill. The sun has set and my sweat has dried. I spread my arms across, and now, I am a bird. I stretch my palm wide - my fingers slice through the breeze, breathing life into the folds of my hands.

The relationship between the mind and the body is a symbiotic one. The thing about running is that it’s the only time when my mind and my body are in sync with each other.

At the 31st kilometre mark, I am wondering why I have never spoken to the girl who works at the bakery.

At the 34th kilometre mark, I am thinking about Avi.

The thing about monkey bars is that there are two ways to get across. You can jump all the way through or climb the top and crawl. My problem is that neither of those work for me.

Sometimes, when Avi talks to me, I get the feeling that we are not speaking the same language. Of course, syntactically and for all meaningful purposes, we speak the same language, but is that sufficient to say it is the same language, when we don’t even understand each other?

Sometimes, I feel like I’m still living with my parents.

You can prepare for every aspect of a marathon except what comes after the 36th kilometre mark.

At the 36th kilometre mark, I am thirsty and 5 minutes past the last water stop on the circuit.

Each metre beyond the 36th kilometre mark is a needle piercing through the rubber sole of my running shoes.

Is feeling thirsty the same as needing water? The ascetic must say no. The runner must say no.

Is feeling thirsty the same as needing water? I am my 14 year old self, my cupped hands pressed against my lips as my mother pours jal into my palm. I was raised on a diet of positive affirmations, of new age spirituality mixed with ancient religion. I am my 14 year old self, a witness to my mother’s pretense - “everything is okay”, she murmurs under her breath.

Sometimes, I feel that she is telling me lies that she does not believe.

Where is the line between instinct and intellect? I know I mustn’t drink more water, but my body is begging for it now. The problem with lines is that I don’t know where to draw them - now I am my 17 year old self watching my mother pace around the house. “Nothing is okay”, she says. Has it ever been okay?

The difficult part is acknowledging that okay and not-okay are not mutually exclusive states of being. The problem is the illusion of danger doesn’t look very different from danger itself.

Is feeling thirsty the same as needing water? The reason I run but don’t pray is because running doesn’t pretend to ascribe greater meaning to deprivation and suffering - it’s just a way of getting across. Marathons don’t pretend to end at the doorstep of some divine reward.

The last thing you want when you’re soaked in sweat is for a pigeon to shit on you. Then you run your hand through your hair and feel something sticky inside it.

The greatest hurdle of a marathon is the 36th kilometre mark. It is your parched throat begging for water. Everything new is uncomfortable, unfamiliar, unknown, uncertain. Everything new is a needle piercing through the rubber sole of my running shoes.

The thing about pain is that it cannot be ignored.

The thing about running marathons is that pain must be ignored.

But what is pain? Pain is a signal in your head. From an evolutionary perspective, pain facilitates survival, but to run a marathon, I have to numb the signal out. I have to ignore it, go on despite it. This requires training. You cannot run a marathon without this. All training is an unlearning of natural instinct.

There is a loud ugly man inside my head, I murmur to myself.

The loud ugly man wants things a certain way - easy, comfortable, familiar, certain.

When I deviate from that, the loud ugly man makes my heart race and my head spin.

The loud ugly man is my father’s absence.

The loud ugly man is my mother’s cry.

The 36th kilometre is my enlightenment. “Everything is okay”, I murmur to myself.

Running is not so different from jumping across monkey bars. Once you figure out how to get from the second to the third, the rest comes naturally. Somewhere between the 36th kilometre mark and the end, I tell myself I’m going to go back to those monkey bars and try to do them all the way this time. Then I remember, that’s not possible anymore - now, my folded feet touch the ground.

⁓

Latch on.

Rubbing my eyes, I gag from the stench of human flesh marinated in salt. I really should’ve showered before sleeping. The fridge has a fresh stock of brown eggs, and the living room has a trail of blood droplets that encircle the sofa.

“I cut myself while clipping my nose hair.”

Swing.

I sit down next to Avi while he’s pressing the ice-wrapped-in-cloth against his nose. His eyes look glassy, like he’s holding in a sneeze. I hope he doesn’t sneeze blood on me.

“Do you want to go to the bakery aaj shaam ko?”

“Chalo.”

— (Artwork by Aditi Gupta)

[finnpoerebelscum]

FALLOUT - Chapter 9

Chapters Posted: 9 of 18

Rating: T+

Warnings: Canon-typical violence & fighting/blood/gore/graphic descriptions of injury & death (no major character death)/angst/hurt/comfort

Characters/Pairings: Poe Dameron/Finn, Karé Kun, Iolo Arana, BB-8, OCs.

Summary: Still reeling in the aftermath of Crait, Poe Dameron and Finn are sent to a secret Resistance base tucked away on Lothal to serve as acting generals. Their numbers dwindled to barely a handful, and with General Organa’s order grounding all surviving Resistance personnel to heal and regroup, morale is at an all time low. Poe grapples with his inability to sit still; the First Order looms, an ever-encroaching threat to what remains of the Outer Rim’s free space; intimate feelings grow impossible to ignore and a shocking return promises devastating consequences not only for those stationed on Lothal, but for the Resistance and galaxy at large. 

A/N: An AU adventure, a side-quest of sorts, to account for some of the time between TLJ and ROS. Stormpilot centric. Canon up until the end of TLJ (but does not take into account Resistance Reborn or the Finn/Rose arc).

Masterlist

CHAPTER 9

The swirl of vertigo and deafening ring was all there was for a long time; a never ending spiral Kemi was trapped in. But, slowly, mercifully, it did end, ebbing away and waking her other senses. 

A familiar, wet-earth scent filled her nose. She risked cracking an eye. Above her, damp permacrete ceiling with exposed, rusty piping. 

The tunnels. 

Her body ached in the places it pressed against the taut nylon of a cot. Dozens of cots lined the walls of the room and each was filled. None of the bodies moved save for their chests, in a silent, rhythmic rise and fall of breath. So many beings, all in various states of distress, some inevitably close to death… The copper tang of blood overpowered the earthy dampness, the lines and lines of unmoving, broken bodies pressing in on her. 

Kemi staggered to her feet and took off running. She could navigate these tunnels with her eyes closed and still avoid every crack, every hole, every notch in the hard-packed dirt. She ran as deep as the tunnels went, till she knew the entire forest was gone overheard, making way for endless miles of open fields. 

The passageway curved abruptly upward, and the symmetrical placement of torches every few paces was gone. Here, the tunnel stopped in a complete deadend wall of dirt. But above her, a dark square loomed, outlined by the daylight beyond. 

She reached up and shoved, lifting the trap door an inch. Long grass blew in a gentle breeze, growing out of the sandy ground. Her eye caught the green of a spine tree a few paces away, but the plains were otherwise empty. She flipped the door fully open and hopped out. To her right, far away, stretched the forest. Something glinted in the afternoon sunlight through the branches. 

The scream of engines pierced the air, and Kemi flicked her attention to the sky.  Three Star Destroyers cast black shadows over the wheaten landscape like death clouds. Dozens of TIEs and trooper transports detached in a steady stream, diving toward the ground. She whirled back to the forest and her brain finally pieced together the sparkle through the trees. 

Shiny, black durasteel. 

First Order transports. 

A pod-like ship she’d never seen before burst from behind the mountain face to the south of town and rocketed up into the air. Another ship followed, a strange, asymmetrical craft with a long rudder and one skinny wing jutting out of the side. Pummeled by the wind and leaking a trail of smoke, it flitted up into the clouds after the pod. 

Resistance ships—had to be. What was left of them. 

The TIEs locked onto their targets, streaking towards the little ships at a speed Kemi could barely track with her eyes. They didn’t stand a chance. The pod, then the other ship cleared the atmosphere, the TIEs in dogged pursuit until they too disappeared and she was left staring at an empty patch of sky.

Cuts on her lip and face pulsing with the rush of blood, she pounded back down the tunnel. Ahead of her a rounded intersection opened up, connecting various tunnel paths. Repurposed as a meeting point, several heads turned in her direction when she skidded to a stop, hands on her knees, lungs burning from the exertion. 

“Kemi?” Dr. Bexon’s voice above her, the accompanying hand on her back. “What’s going on?”

Kemi straightened, chest still heaving. “They’re here.”

A terrified murmur coursed through the crowd. 

“Hush now. Move. I said move!” Mayor Greer elbowed his way through the anxious throng. His robes, even sullied as they were, stood out starkly against the filth of the tunnels. 

He puffed his chest out. Dr. Bexon sighed loud enough for him to hear. He ignored her. “What did you say, girl?”

“It’s Kemi.” She turned her head to spit a glob of blood into the dirt. It landed by the mayor’s feet. If possible, his face soured more. 

“Kemi…” With visible effort, he twisted his mouth into a tight smile. “Please continue.”

“Stormtroopers. An army of them just landed.”

* * *

“Get to the hangar!” 

As the group flung themselves into the hangar bay, Poe glimpsed several lines of F-11Ds aimed directly at them. Smoking red bolts shredded the air as they ran, rows and rows of destroyed T-70s, shuttles and pods blurring past. 

The explosion had wiped out the entire fleet. 

Right now, they were just running towards the thirty kilometer drop into the canyon at the end of the flight deck… 

“Over there!” Iolo shouted above the cacophony. 

In a corner, closest to the end of the hangar, were two blessedly intact ships. A relic of a G-9 Rigger light freighter tipped on its side, and a converted B-wing Mark II cockpit, detached from its transport. At Poe’s heels, BB8 whooped triumphantly. 

The force of the detonation had hitched the pod up against the G-9’s single wing, but they were otherwise unscathed. 

The blaster fire rose to an ear-splitting symphony, peppering the flightdeck all around them. Lines of troopers filled the mouth of the hangar bay, illuminating the cavernous space with a blazing red strobe. The group dove to cover behind two destroyed X-wings nearby. 

“Karé, Iolo and BeebeeAte. You take the pod. Finn, with me in the G-9.”

“No way!” Karé shouted back. “The G-9’s not looking good.” 

“We don’t have time for this—get in the pod!”

The light freighter complained and shuddered as Karé maneuvered the weight of the pod off. Poe revved it to life once freed and it screamed in protest, ancient engine spluttering. 

“Come on, baby…” Poe jimmyed the flightstick upwards as he flicked on the take off sequence. 

Next to him, Finn fastened his four-point harness in the co-pilot’s seat. “You sure about this?”

“It’s the only option we’ve got.”

“You gave them the pod because it’ll be easier to pilot and—”

“I can fly anything.” 

Poe slammed the flightstick forward and they were off, blaster fire pelting them from all sides as they barreled toward the drop off at the end of the permacrete strip. 

The pod zipped up out of the hangar ahead and disappeared from view. 

The G-9 quaked and convulsed, and for a horrible second Poe thought this was it. Then it smoothed out and he shot them up out of the hangar into the canyon right on the pod’s tail.

The hulking black arrowheads looming above Kothal didn’t come as a surprise, but the sight of them shot a fresh jolt of adrenaline through Poe. An unmistakable, high-pitched shrill vibrated around them. 

Finn gripped the armrests of the co-pilot seat. “We’ve got company.” 

Through the transparisteel viewport, four TIE fighters screeched up to level with them. 

Poe flicked the blaster cannons into activation. Alarms blared in triad tones and a warning flitted across the ship’s nav computer. 

“Okay. So, no guns. Try the shields.”

Finn flicked the switches. It worked. Less than ideal, but it would have to do on its own until they were out of here. 

Poe commed in to the pod. “We have to jump now.” 

The G-9 faltered momentarily, dropping Poe’s stomach through the floor of the ship with it. Next to him, Finn growled, restraints creaking as he gripped them hard. 

“What’s the closest jump?”

“BeeBeeAte—Garel. Minutes.” Karé said.

“Garel?” Iolo interjected. “That’s the first place they’ll check!”

“We ain’t making it any further. Not looking to disintegrate in the middle of the hyperlane.”

“Initiating jump sequence.”

The howl of TIEs behind them sharpened. 

Poe slammed the command into the nav computer, then everything outside the cockpit melted into light. 

The journey really did last minutes, three at most, and neither Finn nor Poe spoke, staring straight ahead through the transparisteel at the whirl of blue and white that enveloped the ship. The blare of critical failure alarms, rivaled only by the scream of the ship’s very structure, rose to ear-shattering levels the closer they got to their drop.

“Here goes nothing,” Poe said, more to himself than to Finn. They dropped out of hyperspace. A great tremor coursed through the ship. Then it stilled. 

Iolo and Karé’s pod waited for them, suspended in the eerie, amethyst gloom of Garel’s looming form.

“You made it.” Iolo’s voice filled their cockpit. 

“Don’t get too excited.” 

The closer they got to Garel’s atmosphere, the more Poe fought to maintain control of the ship as the G-9 shuddered, rattling his brain in his skull. 

Then, one by one, every system zapped out.

Soon, the whole ship was dark and silent, Garel’s rapidly approaching surface the only light illuminating the cockpit. 

The full mass of gravity greedily swallowed the G-9, wind roaring, engulfing them in a tailspin that threw them directly into the path of Iolo and Karé’s pod.

[themovieblogonline]

Harold and the Purple Crayon Review: Seriously Lacking Imagination

Harold and the Purple Crayon, directed by Carlos Saldanha in his live-action feature debut, attempts to blend the whimsical world of Crockett Johnson’s beloved 1955 children’s book with a more mature, modern storyline. Unfortunately, this blend of live-action and animation often feels like a miscalculation rather than a seamless extension of Harold’s imaginative adventures. With a star-studded cast including Zachary Levi, Lil Rel Howery, and Zooey Deschanel, the film has moments of charm, but its disjointed narrative and lack of emotional depth ultimately make it a disappointing film. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WojIv-PVYm8 The story follows an older Harold who, still wielding his magical purple crayon, decides to leave the pages of his book in search of his missing father, whom he believes is the narrator known as "old man." While this premise offers a compelling setup filled with potential, the execution falls short. The film's plot, which sees Harold navigating the real world with the help of Moose (now a human) and a young boy named Mel, quickly becomes a muddled series of events that lack a clear emotional anchor. Inconsistent Tone: One of the film’s major weaknesses is its inability to maintain a consistent tone. At times, it strives to capture the lighthearted innocence of a children’s story, while other moments aim for a more mature, introspective narrative. This tonal inconsistency results in a film that feels caught between being a nostalgic trip for adults who grew up with the book and an overly complicated tale for the younger audience it seems intended for. This disconnect is particularly evident in the character of Harold himself. While Zachary Levi’s performance brings a certain charm to the character, Harold’s journey through the real world feels less like a hero’s quest and more like a series of random encounters that never quite build into a cohesive story. Ambitious Visuals Visually, the film is ambitious, with some impressive animated sequences that capture the whimsical style of the original book. The blending of animation with live-action is well done in certain scenes, particularly when Harold uses his crayon to draw fantastical elements into reality. The film shines when it leans into the creative potential of the crayon, crafting visually engaging and imaginative moments that pay homage to Johnson’s work. The vibrant, hand-drawn animation style that punctuates the film does capture a sense of wonder, but these moments are fleeting and often overshadowed by a story that feels overstuffed and underdeveloped. Supporting Cast: The supporting cast, including Lil Rel Howery as Moose and Jemaine Clement as the quirky librarian Gary Natwick, provide some comedic relief, but their characters feel one-dimensional. Moose, who is transformed into a human for much of the film, acts as a sidekick to Harold but lacks the depth and personality needed to make him a memorable companion. Jemaine Clement’s Gary starts off as an amusing, eccentric character, but his sudden shift into the antagonist role feels forced and underexplored, reducing what could have been an interesting character arc into a caricature of a villain. Another significant misstep is the character of Terri, played by Zooey Deschanel. While Deschanel’s natural charisma shines through, her role as the struggling pianist and mother feels underwritten and disconnected from the main narrative. The subplot involving her desire to pursue music is introduced but never fully realized, leaving her character arc feeling incomplete. Her relationship with Harold and Moose is underdeveloped, and her transformation from a skeptical bystander to a supportive ally feels rushed and unearned. Pacing and Humor: The film also grapples with pacing issues, as it oscillates between frenetic action sequences and slower, more reflective moments that drag the narrative down. Scenes meant to evoke emotional weight, such as Harold’s realization about his father’s identity, are undercut by a lack of buildup and payoff, making them feel hollow rather than heartwarming. The film’s attempt to tackle themes of loss, creativity, and self-discovery gets muddled amidst its chaotic plot, leaving audiences unsure of the film’s core message. Additionally, the film struggles with its use of humor, often relying on slapstick and overly juvenile gags that feel at odds with the story’s more serious undertones. The comedic moments involving Moose and Porcupine, who joins the adventure later, are particularly hit-or-miss, often feeling more like filler than genuine character development. While some jokes land, many feel out of place, disrupting the narrative flow and further highlighting the film’s struggle to find a consistent tone. A Strong Child Actor: One of the few bright spots is the character of Mel, played by Benjamin Bottani, who brings a youthful energy to the film. Mel’s bond with Harold adds a layer of innocence and nostalgia that briefly elevates the story. Their interactions, though limited, provide some of the film’s more heartfelt moments, but even these are not enough to compensate for the overall lack of emotional resonance. Overall: Ultimately, Harold and the Purple Crayon is a film that suffers from an identity crisis. Its attempts to honor the whimsical spirit of the original book are overshadowed by a convoluted plot, inconsistent tone, and characters that feel more like plot devices than fully realized individuals. While it boasts some visually striking sequences and moments of genuine creativity, these glimpses of magic are not enough to sustain the film’s bloated narrative. For fans of the original book, this film may serve as a nostalgic curiosity, but it fails to capture the simple, heartfelt magic that made Harold’s adventures so endearing. For newcomers, it’s a confusing and uneven journey that never quite finds its footing. In the end, Harold and the Purple Crayon feels like a sketch of a movie that, much like its protagonist’s drawings, never fully comes to life. Read the full article

[bcthetruth]

Mythical Matchup: Conor vs Khabib

Originally written in August 3, 2018 for Combat Docket

It has been a long time coming but the UFC lightweight championship bout between newly crowned champion Khabib Nurmagomedov and Conor McGregor is finally upon us. The highly anticipated contest was expected to happen on multiple occasions while McGregor held the title, but for one reason or another, it never came to fruition. Now the two once in a lifetime athletes are set to fight at UFC 229 in Las Vegas. It is rare we get a title matchup with so many different variables that can lead to victory or defeat for both competitors. Here I will explore what both incredibly gifted lightweight fighters will need to do and avoid to emerge victorious on October 6.

In the clip above you see Khabib getting blasted with a straight left from Michael Johnson as he moves in. Like McGregor, Johnson is a southpaw fighter so this is the same situation Khabib will find himself in when he shares a cage with the brash Irishman at UFC 229. Khabib’s nonstop pressure breaks his opponents more often than not. With that said, McGregor is great fighting off the back foot and countering fighters who move forward, which could work against Khabib aswell. The power, accuracy, and killer instinct of Conor McGregor gives him a better chance to finish Khabib than Michael Johnson had should he land a strike like the one in the gif below:

Every fight starts on the feet and It would be an understatement to say that this heavily favors former lightweight and featherweight champion Conor McGregor. While current undisputed lightweight champion Khabib Nurmagomedov possesses a highly underrated striking attack, trying to kickbox with McGregor would be a fatal mistake. Offensively Khabib is known as a grappler, but he can be very unpredictable. He has a solid uppercut that he landed numerous times against Michael Johnson at UFC 205. Defensively Khabib uses a stance similar to that of Floyd Mayweather with his left typically protecting the lower body and his right protecting the head. While this works for him sometimes, he is no Floyd Mayweather and shots get through often enough to leave him in trouble against superior strikers.

This straight left by Conor McGregor started a sequence that would end tough Philadelphia native Eddie Alvarez in the second round. This fight is a great example for the contest with Khabib Nurmagomedov. Like Alvarez, the Russian powerhouse has a tendency to rush in with his strikes and rarely move backward as he looks to eventually get a takedown off of any little mistake made. However, this isn’t all bad news for the undefeated champion. While moving forward and looking for big punches didn’t bode well for former lightweight king Eddie Alvarez, it did help him initiate the clinch, where Khabib Nurmagomedov is absolutely dominant.

The clip above shows Alvarez rushing in and getting clipped by a punch, however, he ended up with a clinch up against the octagon cage. While Conor was able to effectively defend against anything Alvarez wanted to do in the clinch, he faces a whole new animal when he steps into the cage with Khabib Nurmagomedov. Sure, Khabib can get traditional takedowns by shooting from the outside. However, the clinch game is really his bread and butter and if Khabib can successfully initiate a clinch the way Alvarez did it is safe to say McGregor will be unable to stop him from getting the fight to the mat and negating any chance for McGregor to land one of his devastating knockout punches.

As you see above when Khabib gets Michael Johnson against the fence he ties Johnson’s right leg up with his left leg and launches him to his left side before securing the top position with a trip. This is just one of the many tricks that Nurmagomedov can use to get an opponent down while inside the clinch. The sambo and wrestling specialist possesses a multitude of trips and slams that form a very technical clinch game that has been nearly impossible to stop in his 26-fight career. It is safe to assume that Michael Johnson is a better wrestler than Conor McGregor and he had absolutely nothing for Khabib in that department.

If this fight ends up on the mat then the general consensus is that Conor McGregor will be done. While this isn’t necessarily true for the Irishman, Nurmagomedov is a special talent on the ground. Contrary to popular belief, Conor McGregor isn’t terrible on the mat like some would suggest. When fresh he was able to sweep a very talented BJJ black belt in Nate Diaz. In some ways, Khabib’s advantage on the ground is similar to Conor’s advantage on the feet. Khabib Nurmagomedov is not a bad striker despite what you may hear, but if he strikes with Conor McGregor he is likely to end the fight sleeping on the mat. Similarly, if Conor McGregor ends up on his back, he is in all likelihood going to end up catching a severe beating and losing either by TKO or submission.

A smaller, less powerful wrestler in Chad Mendes was able to take McGregor down and pound on him for the better part of five minutes whilst on short notice. To his credit, McGregor was able to survive that beating and end a tired Chad Mendes in the second round with accurate and powerful punches and kicks. This fight showed that on his back Conor McGregor can not only be controlled but he can also be thoroughly pounded at the same time. Unfortunately for Chad, his inability to keep that pace saw him too tired to repeat that performance in the next round and allowed McGregor to secure what was at the time his biggest career win. Khabib Nurmagomedov, on the other hand, has a phenomenal cardiovascular ability.

The impeccable ground attack of Nurmagomedov is relentless. He put a nonstop, hellacious beating on Johnson at UFC 200 by easily outwrestling him and smashing him from dominant positions. It is difficult to believe that Conor McGregor will be able to accomplish on the mat or in the clinch what Rafael Dos Anjos and Michael Johnson couldn’t. Khabib was able to thoroughly out grapple accomplished grapplers and he did so with relative ease barely breaking a sweat and talking to UFC president Dana White in between rounds as well as his opponents during rounds.

This fight is the classic striker vs. grappler matchup taken to a whole new level. Conor has shown an uncanny ability to out strike great strikers and end his fights in incredible fashion. Khabib has been able to dominate wrestlers in wrestling and jiu-jitsu practitioners on the mat. Whats makes this fight so interesting is the fact that these two are the absolute best at what they do making for what is truly one of the most intriguing fights ever made. When these two finally do share the cage at UFC 229 it will come down to execution. Both men have shown a great ability to implement their game against every opponent they have faced, and now they will have to do it once again, but this time against each other.

X-Factor

Both of these men have something that make them special. Aside from being able to outstrike his opponents, Conor McGregor has devastating knockout power in his hands. This is his clear X-Factor when he fights. His confidence comes from knowing that even when he is losing he doesn’t need much more than a few carefully chosen shots to win a fight. You can see it after his tough first round with Chad Mendes. Instead of being frustrated, McGregor laughs in his face and smiles all the way back to his stool. It speaks to his confidence in his fight finishing ability, and so does his 86% knockout ratio.

The X-Factor for Khabib Nurmagomedov has to be his strength. It is all anybody seems to talk about when they train with him. Current light heavyweight and heavyweight champion Daniel Cormier even marvels at the sheer strength of Nurmagomedov. I guess wrestling bear cubs as a child really does have its perks. When he fights his otherworldly strength is apparent, as you see him manhandling fighters who are generally difficult to bully. His ability to throw around high-level wrestlers and hold down high-level grapplers shows an uncanny level of dominance that is has thus far been proven difficult to overcome for anybody who stands across from him.

Conor McGregor vs. Khabib Nurmagomedov is easily one of the most intriguing fights in MMA history. Two guys who are so dominant in one aspect of the game creates a true 50/50 gamble. If Conor can successfully use his footwork, speed, timing, and accuracy to find the mark with his devastating left hand then he will leave with another dramatic, career-defining win. If Khabib manages to secure the clinch position he will take this fight to the mat, and if Khabib gets the fight down his relentless attack, outstanding cardio, and unparalleled grappling will see him walk away from UFC 229 the victor. On October 6 the Irish Lion and Russian Bear will enter the UFC octagon for their long-awaited battle in Las Vegas in a fight that could be the biggest fight the UFC has ever put together.

[honorborn-a-blog]

𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈'𝐌 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐍 ✫

𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄'𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐓 𝐊𝐑𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐎𝐍.   they were ones irrefutably tethered to him, interwoven in each and every strand of dna coursing beneath sun-kissed flesh. no matter how desperately such capabilities were to be fully embraced in days long afore, it’d come leisurely, with every step he took into adulthood. in time he’d learned of their profitable   impact   on his home, on earth. he’d come to accept that there was more meaning in his pursuits when his powers were involved.  

humanly-paced cellular regeneration was void from the scope of kal-el’s cognizance, for he didn’t experience it in its inherent capacity. his molecular make-up was almost of entirely dissimilar components to those of   man   ⎯⎯⎯   reinforced and enhanced to those he walked amongst since the very day he’d stepped upon their terrain. it was merely one of the many reasons he’d taken it upon himself to be a guardian who   soars   in broad daylight, to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. his strength, the extraterrestrial constituents rippling within his veins were reminders of the life he was intended to live ⎯⎯⎯ of the souls he was destined to spare from the   grapples   of malice.

still, the gravity of such acquiescent duties didn’t arise on their lonesome. lives suffered for the sake of his survival   ⎯⎯⎯   the lives of his creators, his parents. but, lara and jor-el were far from perishing in vain, he would bring a figurative honour to the house of el   ;   he would instill a blooming pride into the now   stalled   heart of jonathan kent’s spirit. even if the rise of their name, the ascent of his ever unyielding devotion to mankind, was to be fulfilled in the wake of his regrettable   downfall.

the uncharted agony was akin to a literal dagger piercing directly through man’s breastbone, grinding past cartilage and osseous matter, only this one was fabricated with the essence of his personalized   poison.   kryptonite stripped him to the   breaches of mortality,   spreading throughout his abdomen at an infeasible speed, cyan-clad torso bowed beneath the burden of his frailty. it hadn’t sunk to the depths of rupturing vital organs, but the breaking of skin alone was enough to bring him to his knees.

sightless hues dropped to the coarse gravel beneath aching knees, the hand devoid of tremors hovering above the jaggedly carved crystal that now curled into the earth below. luckily, the dampened soil relatively cooled his overheating flesh, flashes of martha’s smile, jonathan’s ever laborious hands, jor-el, lois, all flickering behind obscured eyelids. they were the causation behind his perpetual efforts, and they fueled his inability to surrender. the thought of them   ⎯⎯⎯   the recollections of his fortunate path thus far fleetingly   recharging   his failing frame. the thought of family snapped his head back, enraged hues darting skyward whilst he mustered up the vestiges of his lingering vitality, physique instantly, and with grave amounts of effort, ejecting off of the ground. not once did he allow his soaring body to break traction, not once did he consider ceasing   ⎯⎯⎯   for if he did, he was uncertain he’d able to   restart.   heavy lids fluttered to a close once more as he propelled through the sky, body blindly guided by the gravitational pull that the sun’s photonucleic effect expelled.

                    you can save all of them.

𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃   within his mind, a mantra endlessly looping until he escaped earth’s atmosphere, body catapulting as closely to the sun as his will could ever allow. however, once he arrived   (   albeit at a tremulous halt   ),   kal levitated in place. he was utterly pacified by the   quietude   this solitude offered, besieged by a vast sea of celestial bodies and solar energy. it was a leisure progression the way he felt revitalization percolate every inch of his body, commencing at the tips of frigid digits and indomitably traveling admits the rush of blood in his veins   ⎯⎯⎯   swelling   the deflated brawn of his breast.

an ever constant strength that had been thieved by kryptonite gradually returned, the steel-like muscle pounding furiously behind his ribcage intensifying and further aiding the exchange of priorly hindered health. in that instance, moderately outstretched arms flexed with rightfully reinstated vigor, fingers curling into tight, intransigent fists whilst his spine straightened and faced the earth he’d departed. in that instance, he knew what he was to do.

gleaming, cerulean irises snapped open on their own volition, a brief   flare   of heat overcoming his vision before it promptly receded within the grasps of his control. though his intent initially stemmed far from ending the nefarious being wreaking havoc on the world he called home, now he knew there was no other option. not for him, not for the warranty of their safety.

                    so, superman’s body shot towards the awaiting world below. with that, he   flew.